The Princess Is Pregnant!

by Laurie Paige

  Megan clasped her hands and stared at them until her heart stopped bouncing off her rib cage. “That was kind.”

  A hand under her chin lifted her face to his. His eyes searched hers. “I’m not particularly kind,” he said, almost as if he warned her not to expect it of him, “but I care for what is mine.”

  “What arrogance,” she chided, but she couldn’t help the smile that lingered on her lips.

  “I know.” He wasn’t at all humble about it. “But I thought it best to let you know the facts straight away.”

  “I’m a modern woman. I will not be owned.”

  “Pledged, not owned,” he conceded. “As I am pledged to you. The queen has declared us betrothed.”

  Megan was astounded. “She did? When?”

  “Last night. To the doctor. The man is incredibly stubborn.”

  She had to bite her lip to keep from laughing at this observation from her betrothed.

  Jean-Paul continued with his grievance. “He refused to let me stay with you during the night, but he says you are much improved this morning. The fever is gone.” He laid a hand on her forehead and nodded as if satisfied.

  His concern warmed her. The last feverish aches of the night vanished and she was comforted by his touch.

  “Such magic,” she whispered, taking his hand and holding it clasped between hers against her breast.

  “Magic, yes, sweet selky.” He kissed her lightly on the lips, his eyes growing darker as her breath caught with longing. “Ours will not be a cold marriage.”

  “Have you known those that were?”

  “We both have read of famous marriages that didn’t last. Ours might be doubly difficult because of duty to our countries. What will your father expect?”

  “I have no idea,” she had to admit. “I’ve not spoken to him the past month for any length of time on private matters, other than the evening we told him of the child.”

  “Nor have I.” Jean-Paul frowned in concentration. “I saw your parents in the garden yesterday, though. Both appeared to be in good spirits. The king flirted with the queen.”

  “Father?”

  Jean-Paul nodded and gave her a sexy look. “He was quite romantic. He plucked a rose, kissed it, then held it to her lips. I think he might have kissed her, given a bit more time. Too bad Duke Logan chose that moment to interrupt with some message of national importance.”

  Megan felt feverish again as she gazed into her lover’s eyes and saw the hunger.

  “Were I with my queen,” he continued on a husky note, “I would leave orders that no one should disturb us for less than a national crisis or else he might lose his head.”

  The head nurse entered the room. “Excuse me,” she said without being the least interested in whether they did.

  “Or she, as the case may be,” Jean-Paul added under his breath.

  Megan smothered a giggle as he flashed her a wicked grin and moved out of the way.

  “More blood?” Megan asked as the woman drew a vial of it. “What, are we feeding a family of vampires?”

  The nurse smiled at that. “The doctor wants the lab to check this morning’s results again. You seem to have a remarkable ability to recover.”

  “From what?” Jean-Paul asked.

  “The virus,” was all the closemouthed Dora would say.

  “Do they know what kind of virus?” Megan held a cotton swab over the wound when the nurse indicated she should. “One of those twenty-four-hour things?”

  “Something like that,” Nurse Dora agreed and left.

  “What a motormouth,” Jean-Paul commented. “Hard to get her to stop yakking, isn’t it?”

  Megan laughed as he made a wry face. “I really feel much, much better. The doctor thinks the baby isn’t harmed, especially since I threw the virus off so fast.”

  “A selky isn’t very bothered by human things.”

  Sobering, she thought of the moments he’d referred to her as the mythical creature. “Is there a storm?”

  “No. The sun is shining.”

  She nodded. “I wish we could go back…”

  He took her hand and kissed the spot where she’d been punctured. “To the lodge? We will. I promise.”

  Believing him, she snuggled against the pillow and fell into a restful sleep. Each time she awoke during the day, Jean-Paul was there, either reading a magazine or napping in an easy chair. It was very comforting. She would tell Owen that she was happy with the betrothal. Tomorrow. For now, the headache was returning to the front of her skull, but merely as a low throb that didn’t interfere with her dreams of a glorious future.

  It was nearing midnight when Jean-Paul finally left Megan’s side to go to his room and get some sleep. First he wanted to talk to Dr. Waltham.

  Odd, the man never seemed to sleep but was at the infirmary constantly. Was Megan’s condition more serious than he had been led to believe?

  The bossy head nurse had her back to him when he walked by her station and into the antechamber to the doctor’s office. He stopped upon hearing a familiar voice.

  “What are you saying?” the man demanded.

  “Just what I said,” the doctor replied, giving no ground to his irritable visitor.

  “Then she couldn’t have the virus.”

  Jean-Paul recognized the voice. Admiral Monteque, the elusive head of the Royal Navy, advisor to the king and Privy Council. He’d met with the man two more times in an effort to pin down the admiral’s thoughts on Drogheda joining the military alliance of the islands.

  “I assure you she does.”

  “But she’s recovering?” Monteque’s disbelief was palpable. “You must be mistaken.”

  “We’ve checked and rechecked. The princess appears to be overcoming the virus on her own. I see no need to start any other treatment, not at her present rate of recovery.”

  “Does this mean she is producing antibodies against the virus?” another man asked.

  Sir Selywyn, the royal secretary, was with the other two men. Interesting.

  “Yes, that would have to be the case,” said the doctor.

  Sir Selywyn spoke again. “Can you extract the antibodies from her blood?”

  “First we would have to isolate and culture them. A person’s blood carries antibodies to every microbe encountered during a lifetime. It isn’t easy to find the right one.”

  Jean-Paul eavesdropped shamelessly on the trio as they discussed Megan’s progress. He breathed a sigh of relief that she was on the road to health.

  “The king—”

  “Enough,” snapped Monteque before the doctor could finish his thought.

  “The king will be pleased at his daughter’s progress,” Sir Selywyn commented. He appeared at the doorway. “His lordship, the Earl of Silvershire,” he murmured in an amused tone. “Join us. We were just discussing the princess’s case. You know she is recovering?”

  Jean-Paul entered the doctor’s office. “Yes. I’m relieved. Have you told the queen?”

  This little dig was aimed at the doctor, who had promised to keep them informed. The man looked a bit guilty but not at all repentant.

  “I shall speak to her,” Selywyn said. “I’m on my way for an audience now.”

  Jean-Paul made no comment, but he noted the man had access to the royal presence at…fifteen minutes before midnight, he saw by the clock on the doctor’s desk. Why were so many astir in the palace at such an hour?

  “Will you walk with me to the family quarters?” Selywyn asked him.

  Jean-Paul nodded and went with the secretary after they bade the other two men good-night.

  “You were good to stay with the princess,” Selywyn told him as they climbed the stairs rather than taking the elevator from the underground infirmary. “The queen commented upon it. She was pleased.”

  “I was concerned for Megan. We are to be wed.”

  “So I understand. Congratulations. I have known Her Royal Highness since childhood and have watched her grow into a fine young wo
man.”

  “How long have you been secretary to the king?”

  “Ten years, lacking three months.”

  Jean-Paul thought it was indicative of the man’s nature to quote the precise time rather than rounding it off as most people would.

  “How did you attain the position?”

  Selywyn cast him an assessing perusal, then smiled dryly. “My father, before he retired, was a member of the Privy Council, elected by the township of Sterling. I had always intended to go into the king’s service, either in the diplomatic corps or in the royal household. I became an aide on the king’s staff. When the old secretary retired, he recommended me to the king.”

  “You serve very well, from all reports,” Jean-Paul said and meant it. The man was known for his loyalty to the royal family and to Penwyck.

  Selywyn merely inclined his head. “I’m glad you and the princess have decided on the marriage.”

  “You approve?”

  “Indeed. She has chosen you, and I have never doubted her judgment.”

  Jean-Paul smiled. “It’s good to have a friend close to the king. I fear he considers the union questionable.”

  They arrived outside the queen’s private quarters. “Take care that the princess knows your heart,” the secretary advised. “It would ease her mind over the future, I think. She is the Quiet One, but her feelings are no less deep for not expressing them as openly as others.”

  “I know.” Jean-Paul bade the man good-night and went to his own rooms. It was a long time before he fell asleep as he mulled over all the nuances in the conversations he’d heard that day. His last thought was of Megan and the relief he’d felt upon knowing she was getting well.

  That put him in a much better frame of mind, and so he slept, his dreams of open seas filled with mythical creatures such as mermaids and sad-eyed selkies who wouldn’t hold still for his touch…

  Jean-Paul was awakened early on Tuesday morning by the shrill ringing of the coded cell phone.

  “What is going on?” his uncle, Prince Bernier of Drogheda, demanded.

  “Good morning, Uncle,” Jean-Paul said, sitting up and glancing at the clock. Seven-thirty. He hit the alarm before it could go off just as a soft knock sounded on the door. “Come in,” he called.

  A footman entered, bringing a tray with coffee and the breakfast as he’d requested the previous night. He dismissed the servant.

  “I’m sorry. What was your question?” he asked the prince.

  “The papers are full of the great romance between you and Megan of Penwyck. Your father confirms that marriage is in the works. A Sir Selywyn contacted our foreign minister about the contract yesterday. Why am I the last to know?”

  Jean-Paul poured a cup of coffee while he apologized. He took a sip and gazed at the cover over his breakfast plate. He was famished this morning. “The tabloids deal in speculation. We’ve only recently decided on marriage.”

  “Why was I not informed the minute it became a possibility?” the prince demanded imperiously. “We must consider the implications and decide what we shall demand in the marriage contract.”

  Jean-Paul suppressed a spurt of anger. “Megan and I have some problems to work out.”

  “Is it true she expects a child?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yours?”

  “Yes.” Jean-Paul couldn’t prevent the warning note in the word. He would not have Megan disparaged.

  His uncle hesitated, then laughed. “You aren’t usually so hotheaded. It must be love.”

  At the silence that followed, Jean-Paul knew the prince expected a reply. “Naturally there are feelings. Neither the princess nor I want a state marriage. This is private—”

  “Nonsense,” the prince interrupted. “This is perfect, just perfect. Hmm, this is the last Tuesday of the month, too late to try for a June wedding. I don’t suppose we could have the wedding in Drogheda?”

  “I hardly think so.”

  “No, Penwyck wouldn’t stand for that,” his uncle agreed, obviously not noticing the frost in his nephew’s tone. The prince chuckled. “But they can’t refuse the alliance after the marriage, either. Good thinking there.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t take credit,” Jean-Paul said dryly. “The thought didn’t enter my mind. Nor yours. You didn’t ask me to be your emissary until after the ambassador fell ill.”

  “All worked out for the best. Fate is on our side in this,” the prince declared with all the lofty assurance of a monarch used to being obeyed.

  Jean-Paul glanced upward, seeking patience, and said nothing.

  “I will make her a magnificent gift. What do you think of the heirloom emeralds?”

  Jean-Paul was startled. “Those are usually reserved for the bride of the reigning prince.”

  “I have no son,” the prince reminded him. “I can hardly give them to my daughter’s husband. As a wedding gift to both of you, I am thinking of the Warwyck estate. A Penwyck ancestor built it when he thought he had Drogheda conquered. He never got to live in it.” Prince Bernier chuckled in gleeful satisfaction.

  “That would be more than generous, Uncle. I promise to call you the moment we have a firm date.”

  “What should we expect as a dowry?”

  Resentment flared in Jean-Paul. “I don’t expect anything, but I’m sure the ministers from each country will work it out to the satisfaction of everyone involved.”

  The prince gave him several instructions on the wedding and the agreement, which he only half listened to. When they hung up, Jean-Paul ate his breakfast while his thoughts churned within him.

  The rebel in him wanted to thumb his nose at protocol. No wonder Megan didn’t want to marry. It wasn’t the union of a male and female, but of two countries, each seeking an advantage over the other through the bridal contract. For a moment, he actually contemplated sailing away with Megan and marrying in some foreign land where no one knew them.

  As if they could.

  He considered how his life had changed in two short weeks. It had been two weeks ago yesterday that he’d gotten Megan’s request for a meeting. He’d immediately put aside everything to come to her. Two weeks. Now he was nearly a married man. In less than seven months he would be a father.

  Smiling at the twists of fate, he finished the meal, showered, then went to see his bride. The nurse barred his way. “The princess isn’t feeling well,” she told him.

  “What has happened?”

  The woman hesitated, then said, “The fever is up again. The doctor is with her.”

  Jean-Paul deftly stepped around the nurse. “I’ll speak with him.”

  Ignoring her angry huff, he went into the isolation wing of the infirmary. Megan was alone and sleeping soundly. Jean-Paul looked up and down the hallway.

  The doctor came out of the room opposite hers. He started upon seeing Jean-Paul, then came forward with a weary smile. He pressed a finger over his lips and pulled Megan’s door closed. “I don’t want her disturbed.”

  “She’s worse?”

  “A relapse. These things happen.”

  Jean-Paul gestured across the hall. “Who is in the other room?”

  “No one,” the doctor said quickly.

  “I think you lie.” Jean-Paul started toward the door.

  The doctor caught his arm. “It is no one important. A minor clerk in the foreign office who took sick after returning home to visit his parents.”

  “He has the same illness as Megan?”

  Dr. Waltham nodded, his gaze on Megan’s door. “Her fever is my fault. I asked that she arrange a seminar. When she came down here to check the arrangements with me, she must have contracted the virus…”

  When he trailed off, Jean-Paul demanded, “How?”

  “That is what has us baffled. The carrier is usually a mosquito, although it’s possible to transmit encephalitis through a fly or other biting bug.”

  Jean-Paul stiffened with shock. “She has viral encephalitis? Isn’t that usually fatal?”
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  “Not if it’s put into remission before somnolence occurs. We have medicines. I hesitate to use them because of the child.”

  A chill settled along Jean-Paul’s spine like the cold hand of death.

  “She’s strong, more than we ever imagined,” Waltham said in assuring tones. “She’s holding her own.”

  “But?” Jean-Paul demanded, sensing there was more.

  “The child might not be so lucky. At this early stage of development, if the placenta is breached, the virus can harm the fetus.”

  “In what manner?”

  Waltham sighed grimly. “Brain damage. Malformations of body systems. Deformity.”

  “God,” Jean-Paul muttered, and rubbed a hand over his face as despair such as he’d never known raged through him.

  “You must be prepared,” Waltham continued. “Megan doesn’t know yet. You must help her through this. Perhaps it would be better—”

  Jean-Paul waited, but the doctor said nothing more, only looked at him with sadness in his eyes. “An abortion?” Jean-Paul asked.

  Waltham nodded. “First we can check the fetus by sonogram and perhaps tell if there’s any harm.”

  Undefined feelings congealed into a painful mass in Jean-Paul’s chest. “I want to stay with her…to be with her when she wakes.”

  The doctor nodded, looking too tired to argue.

  Jean-Paul slipped quietly into her room and stood looking at her flushed face. She was so still, lying there as if life had already left her.

  All the moments they’d spent together flashed through his mind. Megan at seventeen, her face glowing, their walk along the cove, the depths he’d sensed in her even then. Her picture in the paper at twenty-two, a university senior in Art and History, with a minor in the Humanities, graduating with honors.

  Megan at twenty-seven, delivering a speech before an international body of diplomats and world-class businessmen, competent and intelligent.

  And finally that last night of the trade conference, when she had come to him…

  Those moments, the delight and wonder of her, mingled with the present and his fears for her and the child they had made that night. Realization gathered in him, a heavy ball of self-knowledge that ripped pride and arrogance to shreds and left his heart open and raw.