Her Royal Baby (2 page)

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 branch 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.

And with that knowledge came the first ghastly wash of pain. Her little sister…

Lara had wanted nothing to do with her for years. Lara and their mother lived in a world of their own that Tammy had nothing to do with, but for the first years of Lara's life it had been Tammy who'd cared, who'd acted as a surrogate mother as far as a child could, because their own mother hadn't known what was involved in the job of mothering. Before Lara was born Tammy had nothing. When Lara had become old enough to join forces with their mother she had nothing again. But for that short sweet while…

Lara was five years younger than Tammy. Twenty-two.

Lara was dead?

A vision of the little girl she'd loved and cuddled through her childhood lurched into her mind, and with it came a pain that was well nigh unbearable. The colour washed from her face and she put a hand on her branch to steady herself.

‘Come down,' Marc said strongly, and Tammy took a deep breath and came to a decision. There was no going back. She had to face it.

She swung her legs over the branch, adjusted the harness and slid down.

She came down too fast.

Tammy had been abseiling up and down trees since she was a child. She could do it in her sleep. But now… She was almost past thinking and her hands slipped as she adjusted the rope. She came down faster than she should have—not fast enough to hurt herself, but fast enough for Marc to step in urgently to catch her, to steady her and to take her weight as she hit the ground.

Which left her standing right against him, his hands on her shoulders to balance her, her slight body being supported by his stronger one.

Strong…

Strong described him absolutely, she thought. His whole body was rock-solid. Tammy was five feet six and slightly built, diminutive in the presence of this much larger man. He'd caught her and held her without apparent effort, and now he was staring down at her with the first trace of concern in his face.

‘Are you okay?'

She thought about it. Okay? Okay was a long way from how she felt right now. His hands were gripping her shoulders and she had an almost overpowering compulsion to place her face on his chest and burst into tears.

No. She hadn't cried for as long as she could remember and she wasn't about to start now.

‘I'm fine.' But her voice wobbled.

‘You truly didn't know your sister was dead?'

She concentrated fiercely on the row of medals pinned to his chest. She even counted them. Six. The fabric of his suit was a fine worsted wool, she thought. Nice. She could bury her face in his chest—hide from the pain that was threatening to overwhelm her.

‘You didn't know?' he said gently as he put her away
from him, still holding her but forcing her to look up at him. His fingers were under her chin, cupping her face to meet his eyes.

A girl could drown in those eyes. A girl might want to. Anything but face this scorching, ghastly pain.

‘I…my sister and I have been…apart for ever,' she whispered. ‘We don't…'

‘I see.' He didn't. His voice said he was totally confused, and Tammy made a Herculean effort to make her voice work.

‘My sister and I didn't get on.'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘Don't be.' She let herself stay motionless for one more long moment, as if drawing strength from the warmth and size of him. Then she hauled herself bleakly together and pulled away. He released her, but the way he did it was curious. It was almost as if he was reluctant to let her go.

Questions. She had to ask questions. She needed to know—but she didn't want to.

She must.

‘You said…she died in a skiing accident?'

‘Yes.' His face was still calm. She was standing two feet back from him, gazing up into his eyes as if trying to read him. Trying to find some sort of comfort in his calmness.

‘H…how?'

‘They took out a bobsled.' His face tightened for a minute, as if in anger. ‘They took it on a black run—a run for experienced skiers only. Bobsledding in those conditions is madness. I'm afraid…I'm afraid they'd been drinking.'

The knot of pain in Tammy's stomach tightened. Oh, you fool, she thought bleakly. Lara, you fool. It took an almost overpowering effort of will to go on. ‘So…' It was so hard to speak. It was as if her voice didn't belong to her. ‘She…Lara was married to your cousin?'

‘Yes.'

‘And your cousin died, too?'

‘Jean-Paul died, yes.'

She couldn't see what he was thinking. His face was still impassive. Was there pain there? She couldn't tell.

‘I'm sorry.'

‘I guess we're both sorry.'

He had a nice voice, she thought dispassionately. Deep and rumbly. It was tinged with what sounded almost like a French accent, but it was very slight. He'd been well schooled in English.

She wasn't supposed to be thinking about this man's voice. Or maybe she was still using thoughts to distract herself.

Lara was dead.

What else had he said? They had a baby?

‘I can't believe that you don't know about this.' Marc's voice was suddenly rough, tinged again with anger. ‘That your mother didn't tell you.'

‘My mother knows?'

‘Of course your mother knows. I flew her to Broitenburg for the funeral. They were buried with a State funeral last month.'

Her mother would have enjoyed that, Tammy thought inconsequentially, going off on another tangent as her mind darted back and forth, trying to avoid pain. She thought of Isobelle Dexter de Bier as a grieving mother at a royal funeral. Isobelle would have done it brilliantly. She could almost guess what her mother would have worn. It would have been something lacy and black and extremely elegant. She'd have worn a veil, and there'd have been a wispy handkerchief dabbing at eyes that welled with tears that were never allowed to fall.

‘Was…was she alone?'

‘Your stepfather came with her.'

Oh, of course. Which stepfather was this? Tammy bit her
lip, anger welling. Isobelle didn't bother to marry her lovers any more, which was just as well. Tammy's mother had been up to husband number four when Lara was born.

Lara was dead?

Lara was buried.

And there'd been a funeral. She should have been there, she thought bleakly. She should have been there as she'd been there for Lara since birth. Of all the things her mother had done to her, maybe this was the worst. To bury Lara with only her mother…

‘You were fond of your sister?' Marc didn't understand. He was staring at her with the same confusion she was feeling—maybe even more so.

‘Once,' she said brusquely. ‘A long time ago.'

‘You've completely lost contact?'

‘Yes.'

‘And with your mother?'

‘Do you think my mother would admit she has a daughter who was a tree surgeon? That she has a daughter who looks like
this
?'

His calm gaze raked her from the toes up, but his face stayed impassive and his voice stayed gravely calm. She couldn't tell what he was thinking. ‘I can't say,' he told her. ‘Maybe not.'

Maybe definitely. ‘Look, I think I need time to take this in.' She was glaring at him now. Maybe her anger was misdirected, but she needed space to come to terms with what she'd learned. ‘Have you got a card or something to tell me where I can contact you? I need…'

She hesitated, but she knew what she needed. To be alone. She'd learned early that solitude was the only solution to pain. It didn't stop anything, but alone she could haul her features back into control, adjust the mask and get herself ready to face the world again. ‘Can you just leave me be? Contact me tomorrow if you must. But for now…'

‘I'm sorry, but I can't do that.'

‘Why not?'

‘I need to be back in Sydney tonight, and then I'm leaving for Broitenburg immediately,' Marc told her. ‘I've brought the release papers with me. You need to sign them. Then I'll take Henry back to Broitenburg and let you have all the solitude you want.'

H
E HADN'T
expected this. Marc hadn't known what to expect of Lara's sister but it certainly wasn't the woman standing before him.

She looked bereft, he thought, and he accepted that she really hadn't known about her sister's death. Which led him to Isobelle. Their mother.

What sort of mother would not tell one daughter about another's death?

It wasn't any of his business, he told himself savagely. His job was to get the papers signed and get out of here. Heaven knew a trip to Australia at this time was a luxury he couldn't afford. Jean-Paul's death had left a huge mess at home. He needed to collect the child and go.

He just needed the signature, but, judging by the look of devastation on the face of the girl before him, it was going to be tricky.

Maybe he could just push the papers in front of her and say
sign
. Maybe she would. She looked so shocked he could push her right over and she wouldn't fight back.

He shouldn't do it—he should give her time—but it was his country he was fighting for. Henry's country. Henry's inheritance.

And his own freedom.

‘I need you to sign,' he repeated, this time more gently, and he motioned to the car. ‘I have the papers here.'

‘What papers?'

‘The release papers.'

‘I still don't understand what you're talking about.' She was standing as if she'd been turned to stone. Her face was
totally devoid of colour and he thought she looked as if she was about to topple over. She looked sick.

He made an involuntary gesture of comfort, holding out a hand—and then he pulled it away. What was he thinking of? He needed as little contact here as possible. He couldn't possibly comfort this woman.

‘I need the release papers to allow me to take Henry back to Broitenburg.'

She thought about that. ‘Lara did have a child?'

‘Yes.'

‘I didn't know.' She looked up at him, her eyes bleak with shock. ‘I didn't know anything about a baby.' It was a despairing wail. ‘Surely if she'd had a child she would have contacted me. If she was in trouble…'

‘Your sister wasn't in trouble,' Marc told her. ‘She married Jean-Paul and she had everything she'd ever wanted. A royal marriage. Servants. Luxury you can't begin to imagine.'

‘She never would have wanted a child.'

Marc nodded. That fitted with what he knew of Lara, but there was an explanation. ‘Jean-Paul needed an heir,' he told her. ‘He was Crown Prince of Broitenburg. He wouldn't have married Lara if she hadn't been prepared to give him a child.'

Tammy thought about that, too, and it almost made sense. Maybe with Lara's warped sense of values marrying royalty would be worth the cost of having a child. She knew her mother and Lara so well. She knew the way they thought. Money and status were everything. For Lara to be a royal bride… Yes. It was a price Lara might well have been prepared to pay.

‘So she had a child? Henry?'

‘Yes.'

‘But you said Henry was here. In Australia. In Sydney.'

‘Lara sent him back to Australia about four months ago.'

‘Why?'

‘Does it matter?'

‘Yes, it does matter.' Anger and sadness were surging back and forth, and now anger won. ‘You tell me my sister married and had a baby, and was royal, and is now dead. You tell me you want the baby. And when I ask questions you say “Does it matter?”' Her eyes narrowed. ‘Why are you here? Obviously my mother didn't think it was worth telling me of my sister's death. And my sister didn't bother to tell me of her marriage or the birth of her child. So why are you here now? What are you demanding that I sign? What does all this have to do with me?'

Marc took a deep breath. He didn't want this. He just needed a signature and then he'd leave. He had enough complications without this, and, looking at her face, he knew a complication was looming right now.

‘Your sister named you as Henry's legal guardian in the event of her death,' he told her. ‘If Henry was still in Broitenburg it wouldn't matter, but because he's here your Department of Foreign Affairs say I can't take him out of Australia without your permission.'

It was all too much. Tammy stared at Marc for a long, long moment and then silently slipped her harness from her shoulders. She lifted a radio handset from her belt.

She didn't look at Marc.

‘Doug?' she said into the radio, and Marc thought back to the foreman he'd met down the road, organising the rest of the team—two young women and an older man. That'd be Doug, then. ‘The people in the big car who were looking for me?' she was saying. ‘They've told me that my sister and her husband have been killed and their baby—my nephew—is alone in Sydney. Can I leave my gear here and have you pick it up? I'm going to Sydney and I need to leave now.'

There was a crackle of static, and then a man's voice raised in concern.

‘Yeah, I know it's the pits,' Tammy said bleakly. ‘But I've got to go, Doug. No, I don't know how long I'll be away. As long as it takes. Put Lucy onto the tree I'm working on now. She has the skills. But for now… I'll be in touch.'

Then she laid the handset on the ground with her harness. She lifted a backpack that was lying nearby and heaved it over her shoulder. It was an action that spoke of decision.

‘You're going back to Sydney now?' she asked, still with that curious detachment.

‘Yes, but—'

‘But nothing,' she told him. ‘Take me with you.'

‘Take you to Sydney?'

‘Yes.'

‘Why?'

‘It's obvious, isn't it?' she snapped. ‘You tell me I have a nephew and I'm his guardian—'

‘He doesn't need you.'

That was blunt. She paused and bit her lip. ‘So he has someone who loves him?' she demanded, and it was his turn to pause.

‘He has people—a nanny who's caring for him—and once I have him back to Broitenburg I'll employ someone thoroughly competent.'

Competent. The word hung between both of them and Marc immediately knew that it wasn't enough.

‘That's not what I asked,' she said.

He knew what she meant but was helpless to offer more. ‘I…'

‘Why on earth did Lara send him home?'

‘I don't know,' he admitted honestly. ‘It seemed odd to me. But Jean-Paul and Lara were in Paris four months ago. Then they were in Italy and Switzerland. I've seen neither
of them since just after the child was born. It wasn't until after their death that I knew the child had been sent to Australia.'

The child…

That was a mistake. The brief description was chilling, even to him, and it made everything suddenly worse. Bleaker. Marc thought about it and amended it. ‘Henry,' he said gently, and Tammy flushed.

‘Yeah. Henry.
The child.
How old did you say he is?'

‘Ten months.'

‘And he's heir to some royal thing?'

‘Yes.'

‘And so you want to take him back to Broitenburg so he can be looked after by nannies in the lap of luxury until he's old enough to be king?'

‘Prince,' Marc corrected her. ‘Broitenburg is a principality.'

‘Prince, then. Whatever,' she said distractedly. ‘It makes no difference. Are you married?'

‘What?'

‘You heard. Are you married?'

‘No. I…'

‘So who gets to play mother to Henry?'

‘I told you. He'll have nannies. The best.'

‘But as legal guardian I get to decide whether he goes or not.'

She'd cornered him. He hadn't wanted to admit it. Get her signature and get the child. At home it had seemed easy.

‘If you refuse to let him return to Broitenburg I'll apply for custody myself,' he said stiffly.

‘You do that. You're going home tomorrow, did you say? Good luck getting legal custody by then.'

He took a deep breath, trying to control his temper. There'd been no one near the child for months and now
this! ‘Until five minutes ago you didn't know of the child's existence. You can't want him.'

‘So why do
you
want him?'

‘He's part of the Broitenburg royal family. A very important part. He has to come home.'

‘But maybe he's my family, too,' Tammy muttered. She swung open the front passenger door of the limousine and tossed her pack on the floor. Then she climbed in after it, sat down against the luxurious leather and stared straight ahead, refusing to look back at Marc. ‘Maybe he needs me. As I see it, it's up to me to decide. So, are you going to take me to Sydney or are you planning on making me catch a bus? Either way, I'm signing nothing until I've seen him—and maybe not even then.'

 

It was an incredibly strained journey.

How could she just pick up her pack and leave? Marc wondered. Most women—all the women he'd ever met—would have taken hours to prepare. Hours to decide. But Tammy appeared to have everything she needed in the battered pack at her feet and wanted nothing else.

‘I have a tent, a sleeping bag, a toothbrush and enough food and water for twenty-four hours,' she told him when he enquired how she could just leave her work and make the journey to Sydney without further fuss. ‘We were planning to camp out tonight.'

‘So now you're planning on camping somewhere in Sydney's parks?' he asked, and she glowered, and went right on staring straight ahead.

‘I'll get a hotel. You needn't worry about me. Just show me where my nephew is and I'll look after myself. I'm not asking any favours from you.'

He was right up there with all the people who'd failed to tell her of her sister's death and the existence of her nephew, he thought grimly. Her loathing sounded clearly through the
tight-clenched words. He was useful as a tool for getting her to see her nephew—nothing more.

So how the hell was he to get her to sign release papers?

It'd have to be money, he thought, as he sat back beside Charles and the big car nosed its way towards Sydney. She looked as if she didn't have a penny to spare. Her sister had married for money. Money would no doubt buy Henry for him.

He had to play it right, though. He had to give her time to settle. If he offered money right at this minute she might throw it back at him just to spite him.

No. Let her see the baby—tell her how much it cost to pay for decent childcare—give her time to realise how impossible it was for her to keep the child in Australia…

Could he do that in one night?

He must, he thought.
He must.

He had to get home! The problems Jean-Paul had left were massive. If he wasn't careful the entire monarchy would crumble. That would be okay if there was a decent government to take its place, but Jean-Paul had been running the country like a miniature despot for years, milking it for every penny he could. He'd manipulated the parliament so that politicians were paid peanuts, and if you paid peanuts you got monkeys. There had to be major political reform, and the only way to do that was to ensure the continuity of the royal line.

Which meant getting Henry home.

But it was so complicated. He hadn't realised Lara had registered Henry's birth in Australia. He hadn't thought Lara would have had so much gumption. The knowledge had shocked him. But Henry now held dual citizenship. The Australian authorities wouldn't let him leave without Tammy's say-so, so what was supposed to have been a flying visit to collect his small relative was turning into a nightmare.

‘Tell me who's looking after him?' Tammy asked from the front seat, and he had to force himself to think about his response.

‘A nanny.'

‘I know what she is. Tell me about her.'

‘I'm sorry, but…'

‘You don't know?'

‘She's an Australian girl,' Marc said reluctantly, knowing that what he was saying wouldn't reflect well on any of them. ‘I employed her through an agency after the woman who came here with your mother left.'

‘My mother!'

‘Lara sent Henry back here when your mother last visited her. I gather your mother saw them in Paris, when Henry was about six months old. When your mother came back to Australia Lara asked her to bring Henry with her.'

‘My mother…' Tammy swung around to stare at him in incredulity. ‘My mother would never agree to look after a baby.'

‘No.' They agreed about that. Marc thought about what he knew of Isobelle and his lip curled in contempt. ‘Henry came with a nanny from Broitenburg. Your mother installed them in an expensive hotel in Sydney—which Lara was supposed to pay for—and left them. Then it seems the nanny wasn't paid. She'd been given a return flight to Broitenburg, so she left. The first I heard of it was last week. Your mother had assured me at the funeral that Henry was being cared for in Australia, and I assumed…I assumed he was with your family. The assumption was stupid. The next thing I heard was a message from your department of Social Services to say Henry had been abandoned. I managed to employ an Australian nanny through an agency here, set them back up in a hotel, and came as soon as I could.'

There was a sharp intake of angry breath, and then more silence.

What was she thinking? Marc thought, but he knew what he'd be thinking if it was him receiving this news. He knew what he had thought when he'd received the phone call from Australia saying Henry had been abandoned.

He'd been stunned.

He'd known Isobelle had taken the little boy back to Australia, and he'd assumed that she'd had his care in hand. But his phone call to Lara's mother had elicited exactly nothing.

‘The child's arrangements have nothing to do with me,' Isobelle had told him when he'd finally tracked her down. She was somewhere in Texas with her latest man, recovering miraculously from her daughter's death and obviously far too busy to be concerned with her grandson's welfare. ‘Yes, the child and the nanny Lara employed came back with me four months ago, and I last saw them in Sydney. I assumed Jean-Paul and Lara had left the girl well provided for. It's no fault of mine if the wretched girl's done a bunk.'