by Laurie Paige
“We went riding on the moors this morning,” Amira told her, stating what was becoming obvious.
Megan had never felt so much the interloper as the earl and her sister and Amira discussed the merits of several horses in the royal stables. They disagreed on the abilities of the new stallion Anastasia had acquired, although Jean-Paul was impressed by the animal’s bloodlines.
Listening to the debate, Megan realized that her younger sister was much more suited to Jean-Paul than she was. Anastasia was cheerfully holding her own in the argument over what made an excellent mount. Jean-Paul was quick-witted and animated as he gestured with his fork, driving home a point on the stallion’s temperament.
Catching Meredith’s gaze on her, Megan raised her eyebrows in question, but her older sister merely shook her head slightly. Megan went on the alert. Meredith knew something the other sisters didn’t.
A chill of foreboding seeped down Megan’s backbone. She disliked secrets and intrigues and all the hoopla that attended life in a palace.
Life in a fishbowl, she corrected and had to smile at the hopeless fantasies that lived in her heart. It was time to get past those.
Slender but strong fingers touched her arm. “Won’t you join us, Your Royal Highness?” Jean-Paul teased.
Gazing into his blue eyes, she saw lazy humor there and the smoldering embers of desire, carefully banked but ready to erupt at an instant’s notice, given the time and the privacy needed. An answering flame leaped in her.
Why? Why did he want her this way?
“Of course,” she said smoothly, keeping track of the topic under discussion as she’d learned she must do, no matter what other thoughts ran through her mind. Inattention was not tolerated in a royal.
“Perhaps you’ll tell us of the alliance you seek with Penwyck?” Meredith suggested to their guest.
A pang hit Megan directly in the heart. Her quick glance at Jean-Paul caught the wariness that ran through his eyes before he smiled blandly.
“An alliance?” he questioned, an evasive tactic that Megan saw at once.
“Between Drogheda and Penwyck,” Meredith continued, seemingly unaware of how her question affected him. “In a private communiqué from Prince Bernier, he asked that you be extended all courtesies due his emissary and said that you spoke for him. The king has asked me to represent Penwyck in discussions with you.”
Megan gasped, then cleared her throat to conceal her shock. Jean-Paul was here for his country, not her!
She stared at her plate and envisioned herself locked in ice while flaming arrows struck all around her and fizzled out. Nothing could touch her, nothing.
Repeating that phrase, she listened to Jean-Paul’s answer to Meredith.
“Penwyck sends their most formidable opponent,” he said with a nod of respect toward Meredith. “I’d best be on my toes so I don’t pledge Drogheda to Penwyck.”
“What type of alliance?” Anastasia asked while Amira took in every word.
Megan saw intense interest in all three of the other girls’ faces. This was sure to be talked about when they were alone, with much speculation on her relationship with Jean-Paul.
Her spirits did a nosedive. How foolish she’d been to imagine that he came only for her. He’d probably dreaded having to meet her face-to-face since he’d already guessed her news. If only she could turn back time and cancel that one foolish impulse.
“A military one, perhaps.”
“Like that with Majorco?” she demanded.
He shrugged, giving away nothing. “An open trade agreement would also be useful to both countries.”
Her younger sister gazed from him to Megan and back. An impish gleam appeared in her eyes. “As would a royal marriage, Jean-Paul of Silvershire?”
His laser stare subdued the irrepressible Anastasia. “My marriage…” He paused and cast Megan a level gaze. “My marriage will have nothing to do with international treaties or agreements. Not being a royal heir, I may marry where I please.”
Meredith intervened, her voice cool, direct and protective of her younger siblings. “And does it please you to choose a Penwyck?”
“Perhaps,” he at once replied, just as coolly. “We shall have to wait and see, won’t we?”
The arch of his black eyebrows mocked the sisters as he lifted his wineglass to Meredith, then sipped the rich red liquid. Amira kept her thoughts to herself as she observed the play between the earl and the royals. Megan suspected the younger woman would report the conversation to her mother, who would then inform the queen.
Megan swallowed the last of the sherbet that had been served for the fourth course. She had eaten with difficulty, aware of Jean-Paul’s dynamic presence at the table. Now she felt nauseated.
Rising, she said, “Excuse me. I have other duties.” She left the room before the footman could open the door for her and rushed to her own quarters.
“I must rest a few minutes,” she told Candy. “Are my clothes ready for the reception?”
“Yes, everything is as you planned.”
The girl unfolded a silk chenille throw and laid it over her as Megan relaxed on the chaise in her bedroom.
“Leave me now,” she ordered. “Come back in an hour to help me change.”
“Yes, Highness.” Candy disappeared like a shadow.
Megan sighed. She’d never spoken sharply to the maid. But then she’d never felt so upset. For several seconds she gave in to resentment and a bafflement of other emotions.
It did no good to rant over circumstances, she reminded herself sternly. Nor to feel jealousy.
There, she’d said the hateful word.
Closing her eyes, she sighed tiredly. She was jealous. Of Amira, who walked with the earl on the moors and entertained him with her knowledge of flowers. Of her own sister, Anastasia, who could hold her own in a discussion of good horseflesh. Of Meredith and her connections within the political framework of Penwyck.
Her older sister had questioned Jean-Paul in order to warn her that his intentions might not be so honorable as she’d thought. Megan pressed her fingertips to her forehead where a headache had started.
The almost silent opening and closing of the bedroom door alerted her to another’s presence. She glared at her erstwhile lover.
“It isn’t as you think,” he said in his quiet, soothing voice.
She scoffed at the statement. “What do you know or care what I think?”
He stopped by the chaise and stared down at her, his eyes a mystery of shadows and thoughts she couldn’t read. “I came because of you, because of the note you sent. Prince Bernier, learning of my trip, asked me to take over for his ambassador, who had taken ill suddenly. What could I say to my sovereign but that I’d be delighted to speak to King Morgan in his place?”
“Of course,” she said coolly. “One can expect nothing less from a loyal subject.”
He laughed softly and with irony. “I knew you would understand, Princess.” Sitting on the side of the chaise and forcing her to move aside, he lifted a lock of her hair. “But my selky is angry with me. She’s the one I hope to please.”
Megan opened her eyes wide at the tender murmur, her heart melting at the tone as she studied him.
His gaze disclosed nothing but watchful wariness. She was reminded of how well she’d seen him play the diplomatic game during their week in Monte Carlo. Disgusted with her eager hopes, she put them aside and accepted the truth.
“Was the marriage bond a quicker way to an alliance, Jean-Paul Augustuve of Silvershire?” she asked boldly.
“I didn’t plan that night, selky,” he reminded her softly, still toying with her hair.
“You didn’t send me away…after you had second thoughts.”
“And realized the potential of such a union?” His tone scorned her argument. “A marriage of convenience has never interested me, Your Highness. But neither has leaving a trail of illegitimate offspring behind me.”
His hand settled on her abdomen, sending shaf
ts of warmth curling through her.
“Don’t force my hand on this,” he warned. “I can be ruthless.”
“I don’t doubt that,” she told him, then was surprised at the retort and the fact that she felt no fear from his threat. She smiled, surprising him this time.
“You find this amusing?”
She nodded. “There is a certain irony. The rake ready to do the honorable, the maid refusing.”
“Are you sure you’re saying no?” He bent to her mouth, his eyes delving deeply into hers. “I could ply you with passion until your head spins, then you may change your mind about an alliance between us.”
She stiffened at his words. “I will not be used for political reasons. Nor will my child.” She laid a hand protectively over the babe, pushing his hand aside.
“Sometimes we are blown by winds we cannot change,” he told her in prophetic tones, as if he brooded on some fact known only to himself. He grinned suddenly, which had the curious effect of making him look young and carefree. “Sometimes the winds may even be fortuitous.”
He kissed her gently then, and she responded before she could stop herself. With a solemn gaze, he helped her to her feet.
“Come,” he said, the mischievous grin still lingering on his mouth. “I will escort you to your next appointment and show you what an excellent consort I will make. Candy,” he called, giving her no time for reply. “Help your mistress with her dress.” He backed toward the door. “Else I will be tempted to do so, and we may never make the meeting with the Americans.”
Flushed, Megan changed to fresh clothing and worried about seeing Jean-Paul again rather than what she should say to the American senator who wanted to discuss European trade and global warming.
Megan led her group to the palace steps. Standing on the topmost, she told them about the structure. “The main part of the palace, used for public functions and government business, was constructed four hundred years ago by Utherio, a powerful duke from a neighboring island.”
“I thought a castle would have a moat and drawbridge,” the senator’s teenage daughter commented.
“It doesn’t have battlements as he intended this only as a summer home. He’d conquered most of the tribal people, and with the fast sea currents here, he felt no need for more protection. Through treachery, his younger brother, Gunther, Earl of Penwyckshire, took the throne and finished the consolidation of the country, then named it Penwyck for himself. I dare not say more. Gunther was my ancestor…and his ghost is said to haunt the attics.”
The group laughed appreciatively at the quip.
“Please come inside the main hall. Its size, large even by today’s standards, was a marvel at the time. It’s used as a ballroom on special occasions, such as a royal birthday or wedding, also for coronations and other matters of state.”
Turning, she nearly stumbled as a wave of nausea rolled over her. A hand was there to steady her. “Thank you,” she murmured to Jean-Paul, who’d insisted on staying by her side from the moment she’d greeted her country’s guests at the town hall.
“You’re welcome, Your Royal Highness.”
He spoke the proper address loud enough for the Americans to hear. They called her “Princess” most of the time, as if she were a pet, but she didn’t mind. They were candid and openly interested in her country and friendly in a natural, casual way. She liked that.
Standing in the middle of the reception-ballroom, she explained its construction and where each type of stone had been quarried and how it was transported.
“Let me show you the royal throne,” she told them. “My brothers and sisters and I would take turns playing the king or queen and anointing the others as great knights. We gave quite stirring speeches on each other’s valor and cunning.”
The throne room was a small locked room near the king’s audience chamber and contained only the massive throne of the realm. Decorated in purple velvet and inset with gold, silver and myriad precious gems, including diamonds that rivaled those of England’s royal treasury, it was worth a king’s ransom in treasure.
“The throne is moved into the main room on special occasions of state. It was last used to vest the twins, one of whom will inherit the throne, each as a Prince of the Realm, an official title. They, too, are addressed as ‘Your Royal Highness’ while the king and queen are spoken to as ‘Your Majesty.’ After my father’s coronation, he mounted the three steps and took his rightful place as Morgan, King of Penwyck. At affairs of state, my mother occupies a smaller chair placed beside the throne. It’s said Utherio had the throne built as a monument to himself, but only Gunther ever got to sit on it. So perhaps he was the rightful king, after all.” She smiled wryly.
Megan answered more questions from the group, all of whom had become rather solemn as they gazed at the throne, which was, she had to admit, huge and impressive.
“The steps leading to the first floor, uh, the second floor,” she corrected, recalling the Americans referred to the ground floor as the first one, “have interesting stories—”
She broke off abruptly as nausea rushed over her again, causing a sheen of perspiration to break out over her entire body. Gritting her teeth, she led the way to the broad marble steps and ushered the group to the top.
“Here, Gunther—the kings often fought in their own battles in those days—defended his palace from invaders from Drogheda, a neighboring island country. It’s said he slew fifty knights while standing right here, taking them on two at a time. A priest wrote the actual record, which was that he and two of his dukes did take on more than twenty-five foes, and destroyed them, thus saving the kingdom.” She gestured toward Jean-Paul. “The Earl of Silvershire reputedly led the Droghedans that day.”
Jean-Paul executed a perfect little bow in acknowledgment of her gibe. “My ancestor,” he told the group with a charming smile. “We conquer by means other than force nowadays.”
This last was said with a meaningful glance at her, delighting their tour group with the possibility of a romance. The teenager looked at Megan with envy evident in her heavily mascaraed eyes.
Megan managed a lame smile and continued with her duties. She still had afternoon tea to get through. “The offices of the Privy Council, elected advisors to the king, are up here. We also have one of the most modern security departments in the world.”
As she turned to lead the way past the modern offices to a reception room where tea would be served, a sudden case of dizziness caused the palace to whirl. She held on to the railing to prevent a fall, then felt herself going over the balcony to the ballroom below.
Rough hands stopped the downward motion as her dress was grabbed and yanked backward. Then she was lifted off her feet and into a pair of strong arms.
“Take over,” Jean-Paul said to the diplomat who accompanied them. “She’ll be all right,” he assured the concerned Americans. “Just too many activities and too much sun this morning. Excuse us.”
He carried Megan to an elevator and whisked her to the basement of the building. There he hurried down the underground passage that led to the royal residence. In her chamber, he placed Megan on the bed and tossed the pillow aside so her head was flat.
“I’m okay,” she protested, but her pulse was thready and her breathing shallow.
“Take deep breaths,” he told her while he began on the long row of tiny buttons running the length of her dress.
“Your Highness!” Candy exclaimed, coming into the room and seeing them, shock on her face
“Get out,” he said. “I’ll handle this.”
“But what has happened?” the maid asked, perplexed.
“She had a slight dizzy spell, no doubt from doing too many official duties today.”
“I grew nauseated,” Megan interjected, her voice stronger. “Perhaps it was the fish from lunch.”
“Yes, most likely,” he agreed to keep the young maid from leaping to conclusions. He had no idea if Megan confided in the girl, but doubted it. “Go,” he told the d
ithering maid. “I’ll take care of her. We have things to discuss. I wish her to plan a garden for me.”
Wide-eyed, Candy nodded and flew from the room, probably to inform the other servants of this strange occurrence. Jean-Paul sighed gustily.
“We must put an end to this,” he told Megan. “Word is bound to get out. I’d prefer to talk to your father before that happens.”
“Mmm,” Megan said desperately, and clamped a hand over her mouth.
He looked around and spied a wastepaper can. Setting it beside the bed, he held her head while she endured a paroxysm of dry heaves. At last she lay back wearily, her eyes closed, her face pale as mare’s milk.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, guilt cutting all the way to his soul. “I should have been careful with you. I don’t know what happened to my common sense.”
“A strange, wild night,” she murmured, as if that explained everything.
“Aye, wild it was, selky.” He got a damp cloth from the bathroom, noting its precise neatness and lack of clutter. After sponging her face, he folded the cloth and laid it across her forehead and over her eyes. “Sleep. I think you need the rest.”
“Who will awaken me with a magic kiss?”
His heart gave a hitch at the whimsical smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth. He suppressed the need to kiss her into wakefulness.
“I will,” he vowed. “No other.”
Pushing the washcloth aside and opening her eyes a sexy slit, she observed him for a long moment. Then she closed her eyes and, in a moment, slipped into sleep.
The turmoil he’d felt upon realizing she was fainting stirred once more. He admitted the terror he’d experienced when she’d nearly pitched head-first over the balcony. Watching her sleep, other emotions roiled in him.
Tenderness, vast and perplexing because it made him feel unknown emotions someplace deep inside and he didn’t know why. Need, its nature unknown to him because it wasn’t physical, yet desire was part of it. And last was the hunger, part of the need, yet a separate thing, that made him want to sweep her up and ride off to a secret place in an enchanted forest, there to stay with her, make love with her…and to laugh and explore and delight in each other and their secret world.
