Her Royal Baby

by Marion Lennox

  Her Royal Baby

  Marion Lennox

  Rita Awards

  The Prince Regent, Marc, and feisty Australian, Tammy, clash over her orphaned nephew who will one day be Crown Prince…

  Marion Lennox

  Her Royal Baby

  © 2003

  CHAPTER ONE

  TAMMY was up a tree when royalty arrived.

  Royalty might be unusual, but being up a tree wasn’t. Tamsin Dexter spent half her life up trees. She was one of Australia’s youngest and brightest tree surgeons, and Tammy’s passion was propagating, treating or, as a last resort, felling trees and planting new ones to take their place.

  Employed by the Australian National Parks Service, Tammy was as usual, working in the remote bushland that she loved so much. She was part of a team, but today she was working happily and successfully alone.

  She had nothing to do with royalty.

  But someone was under her tree right now and he certainly looked like royalty. Or maybe he was a duke. Or maybe he wasn’t royalty. Could he be an admiral or something?

  Maybe she didn’t know, she conceded. Tammy’s working knowledge of royalty, dukes and admirals was strictly limited. Were admirals as young as this? Maybe not.

  What the stranger was wearing probably wasn’t an admiral’s uniform, she decided as she checked him out more closely. He was dressed in a sleek, expensively cut suit, embellished with rows of braid, medals and tassels. He’d arrived in a gleaming limousine, which was now parked under the tree she was working on, and a uniformed chauffeur remained in the driving seat.

  Someone else was climbing out of the car now. The second man was older, and wore no braid or medals, but he still looked like some sort of official.

  Which of the pair looked more out of place? Tammy couldn’t decide. Royalty or official? It didn’t matter, but she knew who looked the most interesting.

  Royalty. Definitely royalty.

  The man she’d decided was royalty was tall. He was well over six feet, she thought, though it was tricky to judge from so far above him. He was immaculately groomed with jet black hair, thickly waved and raked back. His hair looked carefully arranged to suit the official status of his uniform, but perhaps ungroomed it would be the sort of tousled thatch that Tammy infinitely preferred in her men.

  Her men?

  She grinned at the direction her thoughts were taking. That was a laugh. Her men. Her men were a figment of her imagination.

  Figment or not, this man looked great. Wonderful. He was strongly built and had a sort of chiselled look about him: like one of Rodin’s statues. His bone structure was superb-intensely, wonderfully masculine.

  What else? Some things were obvious. He certainly wasn’t the sort who lived in the bush. Even without the royal regalia, he looked the type who’d be at home drinking café latte, or sipping wine in trendy city bars, with a sleek little Lamborghini parked nearby.

  She knew the type, and it wasn’t her type at all. Cheap tea boiled on a campfire with a few eucalyptus leaves thrown in for flavour was more Tammy’s style.

  So, what on earth were these two men and their chauffeur doing here? She swung lazily back in her harness and considered.

  The bureaucrat was about fifty-twenty years or so older than the royalty-type-and he was podgy. He was wearing a dark suit and his shirt had a too-tight collar. In comparison the younger man looked smooth, intelligent and sophisticated.

  What a pair! In combination they looked almost absurd. Here they were, in the middle of the Australian bush, and they were dressed as if they were expecting a royal reception. And to receive them there was only Tammy, swinging thirty feet above their heads.

  What did they want?

  ‘Miss Dexter?’ the bureaucrat called, and Tammy frowned. Miss Dexter? That was her. What were this lot doing looking for her?

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ the royalty guy was saying. ‘The sort of woman I’m looking for wouldn’t be working in a place like this.’

  Tammy thought about that and agreed wholeheartedly. How many Miss Dexters were there in the world? Thousands, she decided. These guys had wandered off a movie set and needed directions to find their way home.

  ‘Miss Dexter?’ the bureaucrat called again, this time more urgently.

  But still Tammy didn’t respond. She stared down at the men below, and as she did she felt her insides give an unfamiliar lurch. Maybe it was a premonition. Maybe they weren’t in the wrong place at all.

  Maybe they spelled trouble.

  ‘Miss Dexter?’ the bureaucrat called again, in a tone that said that this was his last try, and she took a deep breath.

  ‘I’m up here. What can I do for you?’

  The voice from above his head made Marc start.

  The foreman down the road had told him Tamsin Dexter was working in this clearing and he’d reacted with disbelief. What on earth was one of Lara’s family doing working in a place like this? He’d been wondering that pretty much constantly for the last twenty-four hours, when the private investigator he’d hired had told him where he could find her.

  ‘I’ve found your Tamsin Dexter. She’s twenty-seven, she’s single, and she’s working as a tree surgeon with the Australian National Parks Service. She’s currently working in the National Park behind Bundanoon. Bundanoon’s on the Canberra-Sydney Highway, so if you take an hour or so after the Canberra reception you could find her.’

  The private investigator had come with excellent credentials, but Marc had reacted with incredulity. How could a tree surgeon be sister to a woman such as Lara? It didn’t make sense. It must be the wrong Tamsin Dexter, he’d decided, and he’d sworn in vexation at the potential waste of time. He needed to work fast.

  But the government reception in Canberra had been unavoidable. As Broitenburg’s Head of State, Marc would step on too many toes if he visited Australia and refused it. So…If he had to attend it wouldn’t hurt to detour through Bundanoon and see if he could find the woman.

  Now he stared upward, and it was as much as he could do not to gasp out loud.

  Tamsin was slim and wiry and…tough, he decided. Or maybe ‘serviceable’ was the best way to describe her. She was dressed in workmanlike khaki overalls and ancient leather boots. The boots were the closest thing to him, swinging back and forth above his head. They were battered and torn, and the laces had been repaired with knot after knot.

  What else? She was young and obviously superbly fit. Her riot of jet-black curls was caught back with a piece of twine. Curls spread out to tangle glossily around her shoulders. They looked as if they hadn’t seen a brush for a week. Though that might be unfair. If he was hanging where she was maybe his hair would look tousled as well.

  He forced his gaze to move on, assessing the whole package. Her skin was tanned and clear…weathered, almost. Wide, clear eyes gazed calmly down at him and he found himself wondering what colour they were. Brown, like her sister’s? He couldn’t tell from here.

  But what he could see was a perfect likeness of Lara. Hell, even the similarity made his gut clench in anger.

  The detective had been right. This was the Tamsin Dexter he’d been looking for. He’d found her.

  ‘Can I help you?’ She was looking down at them as if they were the odd ones out-which, considering their clothes, wasn’t surprising. She was still swinging from her harness, reluctant to come down unless it was really necessary.

  It was necessary.

  ‘I need you,’ he told her.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You’re Tamsin Dexter?’

  ‘Yep.’ Still she made no sign of descent. Her attitude said she had work to do and they were interfering with it.

  ‘Miss Dexter, this is His Royal Highness, Marc, Prince Regent of Broitenburg,�
�� Charles interrupted, tugging his collar in anxiety. He wasn’t comfortable in this situation and it showed. ‘Could you please come down?’

  What would the ramifications of being rude to royalty be? The two men watched as she clearly thought about it and decided her best option was to swing a while longer.

  ‘Hi,’ she said at last to Marc-the good-looking one-and then she looked across to Charles. The podgy one with the sweaty collar. ‘If your friend’s a prince, who are you?’

  ‘I’m Charles Debourier. I’m ambassador to-’

  ‘Don’t tell me. Let me guess. Ambassador to Broitenburg?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And Broitenburg is…um…somewhere in Europe?’ She grinned, a wide, white smile that was so totally different from Lara’s careful painted smile that Marc caught his breath at the sight of it.

  What was he thinking? She was too much like Lara to interest him, he told himself savagely, and he didn’t have time to waste thinking about women. Especially this one.

  ‘You don’t know where Broitenburg is?’ Charles demanded, and the woman’s smile widened. She had a huge advantage over them-thirty feet, in fact.

  ‘I’ve never been much interested in geography,’ she told them. ‘And I left school at fifteen.’

  Great. She was Lara’s sister and illiterate besides. Marc’s feelings of dismay intensified.

  ‘Broitenburg’s bordered by Austria on one side and Germany on the other,’ Charles was saying, but Tammy was clearly unimpressed.

  ‘Oh, right. Come to think of it, I have heard of it. It’s small, huh?’

  ‘It’s an important country in its own right,’ Charles snapped.

  ‘I guess it must be, to send an ambassador to Australia.’ She grinned again. ‘Well, it was nice to met you, Your Highness and Your Ambassadorship, and it was good of you to drop by, but I have a job to do before dusk.’

  ‘I told you,’ Marc said stiffly. ‘I need you.’

  She’d been preparing to climb again, but she stopped at that. ‘Why? Do you have trees in Broitenburg?’

  ‘Yes, but…’

  ‘I’m not interested in job offers.’

  She sounded as if she was serious, Marc thought incredulously. She sounded as if she seriously thought he’d travelled all the way to Australia and come to find her in this outlandish place, dressed in this ridiculous rig, to ask her to look after some trees?

  He hated it. He hated this ornate, over-the-top uniform. He hated Charles’s damned ostentatious car and his chauffeur. He hated royalty.

  And the only way to get rid of it was via this chit of a girl.

  ‘I’m not offering you a job,’ he told her stiffly, and she stared.

  ‘Then why…?’

  ‘I’m here to ask you to sign some release papers,’ Marc told her. ‘So I can take your nephew back to Broitenburg where he belongs.’

  Silence.

  The silence went on for so long that it became clear there was lots going on behind it. This was no void, for want of anything to say. This was a respite, where all could get their heads around what had been said.

  Tammy had hauled herself up onto a branch and now she sat stock still, staring down as Marc stared back up at her.

  She was accustomed to people hunting for her with job offers-which was crazy, as she didn’t intend to leave Australia ever again-but this was crazier still.

  Charles discovered there were ants crawling over one of his shoes, and started shifting from foot to foot. He glanced up at Tammy and then at Marc before returning his gaze to the ants. Annoyed, or maybe to block out the silence, he started stomping on them.

  His action gave Tammy more breathing space. ‘Excuse me, but those ants are protected,’ Tammy said at last, almost conversationally, as though the previous words had not been said at all. ‘You’re in a National Park. The ants here have more rights than you do.’

  Charles swore and shifted sideways. Onto more ants. He swore again, and cast an uncertain glance at Marc, and then, when Marc didn’t speak, he shrugged and headed for the car. He’d done his job. He hadn’t taken on an ambassadorship to stand under trees being bitten by ants.

  ‘I said, I want to take your nephew-’ Marc said at last, and Tammy interrupted.

  ‘I know what you said. But I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  Marc nodded. He’d expected as much. There’d been no wish to come to her sister’s funeral. There’d been no contact made with the child. If it wasn’t for the immigration authorities he could pick the little boy up and take him back to his country right now. She probably didn’t even admit responsibility for him. At the thought of Henry’s neglect, he felt his face darken with anger.

  ‘If you’d been in contact they would have told you I’d requested he be returned, but they need your consent.’

  ‘Um…’ She was regarding him as if he was slightly off balance. ‘Who are they?’

  ‘The child’s nanny and the immigration authorities,’ he snapped, and now he could control himself no longer. ‘You can’t object. You’ve shown yourself to be the world’s worst custodian. If I hadn’t been paying the nanny’s salary he’d be in foster care right now. You and your sister and your mother…you should be locked up, the three of you. Of all the uncaring-’

  He caught himself. Anger would achieve nothing, he told himself grimly. This woman didn’t want the child. It was enough that she signed the papers and he could be done with the entire mess. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said stiffly. ‘But your sister’s dead, your mother doesn’t give a damn, and apparently neither do you. All I want is the release papers. You sign them for me, I’ll take Henry back to Broitenburg, and you’ll never see him again.’

  Her look of confusion was absolute. ‘Henry?’

  Hadn’t she even bothered to remember the little boy’s name? Marc thought back to the bereft little boy he’d left in Sydney and felt his anger rising all over again.

  ‘Your nephew.’

  ‘I don’t have a nephew.’

  That took him aback. He stared up at her. ‘Of course you do.’

  ‘There’s no of course about it. You must have mistaken me for someone else. I only have one sister-Lara-who I haven’t seen for years. That’s the way we like it. Last time I saw Lara she was attached to a millionaire up on the Gold Coast, and if you’re asking me if she has children I’d say you’d have to be joking. Lara would no sooner risk losing her gorgeous figure through childbearing than she would fly. Now, if you don’t mind…’

  It was absurd, Marc thought. The whole scenario was absurd. She was lifting a drill and any minute now she’d turn it on, drowning out his words with her noise.

  But she’d said her sister’s name. Lara. It confirmed what he had already been sure of. This woman was Lara’s sister.

  But what had she said? She hadn’t seen her for years? The anger faded. Dear God, then she didn’t know.

  ‘Lara Dexter was your sister?’

  ‘Is,’ she snapped, and he heard the sudden surge of fear behind her irritation.

  He took a deep breath. He hadn’t expected this. What the hell was the mother playing at? If she really hadn’t been told… He stared up at the girl in the tree and thought, where on earth did he go from here?

  There was nowhere to go but forward. There was no easy way to say what had to be said.

  ‘Miss Dexter, I’m sorry, but your sister was married to my cousin. They were married three years ago. Jean-Paul and Lara were killed at a ski resort in Italy five weeks back. They have a child, Henry, who’s currently living in Sydney. He’s being cared for by a nanny whose wages I’ve been paying, but his care…his care is less than satisfactory. He’s ten months old. I’m here to ask your permission to take him back to Broitenburg.’

  Tammy’s world stopped right there.

  She froze. The drill in her hands seemed suddenly a stupid thing to be holding, and she stared at it as if she didn’t know what it was.

  She had a makeshift bench set up on the br
anch she was sitting on. Carefully she laid the drill down and stared at it some more.

  Lara was…dead?

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ she whispered, still not looking at the man below. She was concentrating on the drill, as if working out its function was the most important thing in the world. There was a part of her that didn’t want to move forward from this moment.

  Thirty seconds ago this stranger hadn’t said any of this. That was where she wanted to be. Back in time.

  Lara…dead?

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and something inside her snapped.

  ‘I’m sorry too,’ she flung at him. ‘I’m sorry about this whole damned mess. I don’t believe any of it. You come here, in your outlandish, stupid costume, like you’re a king or something-which I don’t believe-with your stupid chauffeured car and your tame politician, and you stomp my ants and interfere with my work and tell me Lara is dead…’

  ‘Lara is dead.’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘Will you come down?’

  ‘No.’ She made to pick the drill up again, but his voice cut through her confusion and her rage.

  ‘Miss Dexter, you need to face this. Your sister is dead. Will you come down from the tree, please?’

  She flinched-and she thought about it.

  For about three minutes she simply sat on her branch and stared down at him. He stared back, his face calm and compassionate.

  It was a good face, she thought inconsequentially, and maybe that was another way of avoiding acceptance of what he’d just said. Kind. Strong. Determined. His eyes were calm and sure, promising that he spoke the truth.

  She could accept or reject what he was telling her. His eyes said that the truth was here for the taking.

  The minutes ticked on, and he had the sense to let her alone. To allow her time to believe. His face stayed impassive.

  His eyes never wavered.

  And finally she faced the inevitable. She believed him, she decided at last. Dreadfully, she believed him. Despite the incongruity of the situation-despite the craziness of what he was wearing and what he was saying-what he was telling her was the truth.