The Princess is Pregnant! (6 page)

His voice trailed away into little kisses against her ear as his hand touched her intimately, finding the dew of passion she couldn’t hide.

“Take all you want,” he murmured urgently. “Take from me.”

He absorbed the little cry she made when he rubbed sensuously against her and then deeply inside her, finding all the sensitive places of her body. She did the same for him, caressing the hard ridge with both hands until the world receded, drowned by the surging sea that lifted them higher and higher, then dumped them, gasping and stunned by the force, upon a distant shore.

“By the heavens, selky, but you come close to unmanning me,” he said, collapsing against her, breathing hard.

Megan closed her eyes and wondered how, after
knowing him and this pleasure, she could ever return to her real life, the one that didn’t include a rebel earl from another land.

“Princess Megan! Princess Megan! You must come. The queen wishes to see you.”

The voice of her maid also seemed to come from some far place.

“We’ll go together,” Jean-Paul said, rising and helping her to her feet. He straightened his clothing while she did the same.

Before they left the leafy bower, he lifted her chin and looked into her eyes. “Aye,” he whispered. “It must be marriage for us.”

It must be marriage…

The words echoed through Megan’s thoughts as she hurried to the queen’s chambers. Lady Gwendolyn opened the door to her and dropped a tiny curtsy. “Megan, do come in. The queen is in her parlor—”

“Eating bread and honey?” Megan quipped as she and her siblings used to do, teasing their parents.

The lady-in-waiting grinned. “Yes. I suppose that means the king is in his counting house, counting out his money.”

“See if there’s a maid in the garden hanging out clothes,” the queen joined in when they entered her sitting room, “and warn her to keep an eye on her nose.”

Her mother looked at her own nose, which caused her eyes to cross. Megan laughed as she recalled days when nursery rhymes had filled the royal children’s heads.

The queen nodded to Lady Gwendolyn, who closed the parlor door, leaving them alone. “How are you feeling?”

Megan went to the window and looked toward the wall surrounding the palace. She could see the trees that shaded the alcove, but not the bench. “Fine,” she said, and felt self-conscious heat rise to her cheeks.

“No morning sickness?”

“No. Some. It isn’t terribly bad.”

“That’s good. Have you and Jean-Paul come to any agreement?”

Megan shook her head.

“Dearest, please sit down,” the queen requested. “I don’t like speaking to your back.”

“I’m sorry.” Megan sat on the Queen Anne sofa with its Chinese brocade print.

“You and he must come to terms soon,” the queen continued. “If word got out before your father is informed, he would not be pleased.”

“An understatement,” Megan said, trying to smile but failing miserably.

“Well, he won’t have you boiled in oil or beheaded,” her mother assured her. “He’ll hold Jean-Paul responsible.”

“No, no,” Megan protested. “It wasn’t his fault.
I was the one who followed him, who asked that he take me sailing that night. He didn’t want me along, but then he relented.”

The queen’s gaze shifted to the view of the sea outside the windows. Megan was silent as her mother looked pensive.

A soft knock at the door interrupted the moment. Lady Gwendolyn entered at the queen’s call. “The Earl of Silvershire,” she announced. “He insists upon seeing you.”

“Send him in.” The queen rose. “Jean-Paul, how lovely to see you.”

His glance swept the room, landing briefly on Megan before he went to the queen and bowed over her hand. “Your Majesty,” he murmured in his magical, lyrical voice.

Megan sighed, the weight of the past two months squarely on her shoulders. The price seemed high for one impulsive moment.

“You wished to see me?” the queen prodded. “Alone, or shall Megan stay?”

“It’s for her that I came. I didn’t want her facing parental wrath alone. Have you spoken to the king?”

Marissa frowned and shook her head. “The king is extremely busy at present. It isn’t the time for family affairs.” She trailed her fingers over a large book lying on a table, then indicated the sofa next to Megan. “Please be seated, and we’ll discuss your situation.”

Megan grimaced at the word.
Situation.
It made the night seem less than magical, and that would be the way the press and the public would view it. “I don’t think there’s anything to discuss.”

Jean-Paul laid an arm on the sofa behind her. “We must decide what is to be done.”

“Jean-Paul is correct in this,” her mother said gently.

“I won’t be forced into marriage,” Megan told them, sounding stubborn and childish. “Neither will I force anyone into it.”

“If I had followed at once when you left Monte Carlo, would you feel differently?” Jean-Paul surprised her by asking, leaning close so that his scent enveloped her.

“But you didn’t,” she reminded him.

“I had several meetings already scheduled. I did send flowers. Did you get them?”

She nodded, unable to stop the furious blush that set her face afire.

The queen spoke up. “If you do not marry, then we must make other arrangements.”

“My grandparents would love for Megan to come to them,” Jean-Paul said. He smiled at Megan. “My grandmother will spoil you. She is mad for babies. My grandfather will start a cradle that will take years to finish.”

Megan’s mouth dropped open. “You have told them?”

“No, but I know them.”

The affection in his voice touched Megan. Until she remembered that she’d had to send for him to impart her news. He hadn’t come to her. There was no love between them, only passion. As those moments in the alcove proved.

“I would prefer marriage and the mantle of my name for my child,” Jean-Paul continued. “For a royal such as yourself, it is the only way. Neither would I have my son’s right to inherit questioned.”

“You would want this child to be your heir?” the queen asked, her manner assessing as she studied him.

“Of course.”

The queen smiled. Megan caught the glance that passed between the two, as if some accord had been reached.

“It may be a girl,” she said, hoping it was.

He merely nodded. “Then my daughter would inherit. We must think of the good of the child.” He looked directly at Megan.

Standing abruptly, she paced the perfectly appointed sitting room. “I think of nothing else. Concern for its welfare is with me day and night.” She faced the window and watched a cargo ship push against the horizon, seemingly alone on the vast sea. The strangest feeling of loneliness washed over her. “If we marry, how long would it last?”

His quick footsteps warned her of his approach. Turning, she almost cringed in the face of his fury.

“No marriage,” he said in a low rage, “has a
chance if you go into it with that attitude.” He took a visible breath, released it.

She, too, sighed. Once she had dreamed of a storybook romance and marriage. Reality was very different.

“Fate has extracted a high price for one moment’s folly,” she murmured. Her foolishness had pulled him into the maelstrom, too. He had proved himself an honorable man, willing to take responsibility for what, in all honesty, had been her fault. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Truly I am.”

He changed in an instant from anger to that cool distance he maintained with the world. “Then you regret what happened?”

She could read nothing from his tone. “Yes. I never meant…it was only the one night I wanted…”

His gaze delved into hers, harsh and dangerous. “I see,” he said, then spun and walked out.

The sudden silence after the slam of the parlor door hummed with strange portents, as if the gods smiled in wicked glee at the havoc they’d caused.

No, it was her own reckless action that had caused this mess. Megan pressed shaking fingers to her forehead. If only she could call back that night…

Her heart pounded in protest. If she’d never known the bliss of his arms, she would have gone through life vaguely longing for more but never re
alizing what it was. That night had given her a glimpse of what heaven could be.

If two people shared life as they shared their passion. If their dreams intertwined into one seamless whole. If they loved each other—

“Come,” the queen said, placing an arm around Megan’s shoulders. “You should rest before dinner, but first, there are things we need to discuss.”

Seated on the sofa again, her mother beside her, Megan listened attentively, her own problems necessarily put aside in the face of duty.

“You must fill in for me on Monday at a street performance by the Theater Guild, then greet a group of American dignitaries, one of them a senator on a junket for his committee, and show them the palace. Gwendolyn said your schedule was clear.”

“Yes, I was keeping my days relatively free in case the king called for my report on the trade conference.”

The queen again looked thoughtful. “The king’s time seems to be taken up with something…well, it must be important. I am filling in for him at a meeting with the Ministers of the Exchequer on Tuesday. You must attend, too, since you attended the trade conference.”

“Does Father wish to press for ratification of the accord?”

“So Selywyn says.” Her mother’s smile was
rueful, but amused. “The king doesn’t deign to speak with me on it.”

“Nor me. He has never rescheduled our meeting for an in-depth discussion. In fact, I haven’t seen him at all this past week.”

Her mother glanced at a book lying on the sofa table. “I’ve spoken to him but once myself. Neither has he answered my invitation to dine privately in my chambers.”

Here was a new worry to add to her own, Megan surmised. Were her parents not getting along? Her father had to put his duties first, of course, but he’d also taken time for his family, special moments when he’d suddenly appear, rush them all from the palace on a secret tryst to go swimming in the cove, or riding over the hills on the moor ponies, or simply to picnic under the oak trees in the garden.

She’d loved those moments with her family. They all had. It had made all the other responsibilities of being a royal bearable. She’d thought her own marriage would be like that. Duties, yes, but special moments, too.

A tender nostalgia rose in her. Those had been a child’s dreams, based on a child’s sense of reality. It had never been real.

Neither had the night with Jean-Paul. She’d been swept up in a great adventure, romantic and exciting…and as substantial as the selkies of folklore.

Laying a hand over her stomach, she knew it was time to put fantasy behind her and think only of the
coming child. What dreams would the little one entertain? And what would be the reality he or she had to face?

Megan had no crystal ball to see into the future. Would a marriage between unwilling parents be best? She’d read that children paid little or no attention to strife between their parents as long as they felt, or assumed, the marriage was secure, but that divorce could be traumatic.

“Perhaps it’s best not to bother the king at present,” she said to her mother.

“Perhaps.”

Megan summoned a confident smile. “I’ll go nap now. Will I see you at dinner?”

Queen Marissa shook her head. “I have a state dinner. It’s most inconvenient.”

They laughed in mutual understanding at that. Their convenience was of no concern in the affairs of state.

And even less in the affairs of the heart, Megan decided later that night as she prepared for bed.

A
fter a quiet Sunday, Monday was the most hectic day of Megan’s schedule. She attended a special performance of the Theater Guild in Sterling, the island’s largest city, up the coast from Marlestone. Returning to the palace shortly after twelve, she hurried to the private dining room.

Laughter brought her to a halt on the threshold. Her two sisters were there, along with Amira and Jean-Paul.

The footman, also smiling, was serving the main course. “Your Royal Highness,” he greeted her, setting down the silver serving tray and hurrying to hold her chair.

“Megan, do be seated,” admonished Meredith,
taking the senior role. “We’ve had the soup, Cook’s delicious minestrone. Shall we wait on the fish until you’ve finished the first course?”

“No, please don’t.” She smiled at the footman and avoided Jean-Paul’s eyes. “I’ll have the fish, too.”

“Certainly, Your Royal Highness.” As if he’d been expecting her to appear late, the footman set a plate at her place along with the others.

“So what did you think of him?” Anastasia demanded, returning to the topic of conversation.

“The stallion is intelligent. Also cunning. Watch that he doesn’t take the bit from you,” Jean-Paul advised.

“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 shafts 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—”