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“When do you think you’ll be back?” Arnie asked, running a hand through his hair, which was receding rapidly, giving him an oddly cherubic look with his round, smooth face and innocent expression.
Arnie, Jean-Paul had concluded long ago, was not of this world. Intensely involved in his exploration and research, he never noticed petty things about people, never lied or tried to impress anyone, was never impressed by a title or wealth. Arnie was just Arnie. Which was why Jean-Paul considered the scientist one of his best friends.
“I have no idea. When duty calls, I merely answer,” he said with a rueful grin and shrug. He hoisted the backpack. “I’ll be in touch.”
“Are you sure you don’t want a couple of men with you? It’s a long trek out of the mountains.”
“I’ll be fine,” Jean-Paul assured his friend. “Good luck with the dig.”
They shook hands, and Jean-Paul left the campsite. Heading down the steep trail, he thought of the curious note tucked safely into his wallet. A ripple of some emotion he couldn’t define ran over him.
Megan. Princess Megan Penelope Penwyck. The Quiet One. The sweet lover who had delighted him with her innocent passion. She’d been a virgin. That discovery had surprised him as much as the excited report of the shepherd on the ancient burial mound.
Her responsiveness had set him on fire, so much so he’d made love to her three times before morning came. They had both been silent on the voyage back to Monte Carlo.
For the first time in his life, he hadn’t been able to summon glib conversation to ease the transition from the intimacy of the night to the casualness and eventual parting that came with the sunrise.
After the return to the hotel, he hadn’t seen her again. She’d left for Penwyck the same day, slipping from the hotel without a word. He’d sent flowers to her home, but no note had answered the gift. He’d assumed the lady hadn’t wanted a repeat of the night before.
His mood introspective, he paused on a summit that opened on a view of the castle and grounds several miles away from where he’d grown to manhood. He’d been caught up in state affairs, then the scheduled archaeological dig, for the past two months. There’d been no time to pursue the matter between him and the elusive princess from Penwyck.
The note he’d received yesterday had reminded him of her—concise and to the point. She’d requested a meeting with him at his earliest convenience.
That was it. No explanation, no references to the past, no accusations, just the polite note penned in her own clear, precise handwriting.
However, it didn’t take a genius to realize her request was dated eight weeks and one day after their night together.
Since their lovemaking had been totally unplanned, he hadn’t had protection with him. However, he couldn’t say he’d never thought of the possibility of a child. He had…and had ignored the precautions he always took when it came to involvement. Or entrapment.
As one touted by the tabloids as a Top Ten eligible bachelor, he was very careful about whom he dated and how involved their relationship became. Women with their own highly successful careers were sophisticated and just as leery of tying themselves down as he was.
A royal princess like Megan would have been taught from the cradle to be wary of the unexpected or impulsive. So how did either of them explain that one foolish but magical night they’d shared?
Unexpected and undefined emotion rushed over him. He studied it for a moment, then shrugged. Whatever would be, would be. C’est la vie.
The trip down the mountain took all of Tuesday and half of Wednesday. He had time to do a lot of soul-searching. Impending fatherhood didn’t dismay him, he found.
It came to him that he was already thinking of it as a sure thing. If so, his parents would be pleased. He had recently turned thirty, and they had given him several broad hints that it was time he, an only child, settled down and produced the required heir to Silvershire.
Perhaps he would surprise them with news of coming nuptials, he thought sardonically, entering the manse that served as the seat of his father’s dukedom and which he would inherit one day. But not soon, he hoped.
He loved and admired his parents. Once he’d even assumed a passionate love would come to him as it had to them. Their marriage had been impulsive and had enraged his grandfather, the old duke. But it had worked out well.
Running up the stairs to his quarters, he knew word of his arrival—and his plans for immediate departure—would soon spread from the staff to the present duke. Hmm, what would he say about where he was going?
Tell the truth? He could be wrong about the child. Maybe the princess wanted to continue where they’d left off.
His body stirred to rigid life at the thought. He grimaced as he stripped, showered and changed into more formal clothing for the expected meeting with the duke and duchess. If he told his parents what he suspected, they would most likely have a marriage arranged for him before he could sail across the twenty-six miles to Penwyck and consult with the princess.
Heading down the steps, he decided it was better to keep his thoughts to himself, at least for now.
“Jean-Paul,” his mother said, pausing in the hall and smiling up at him.
She was French and spoke English with an enchanting accent. Her hair and eyes were dark, her form petite. Daughter of a vintner with more family pride than money, she and his father had met in Monte Carlo, taken one look at each other and run off to Africa for a month before returning home to face the music.
Quickly descending the stairs, he suppressed thoughts of the strange but rapturous night when he’d also fled civilization and found his own magic land…
“Mother,” he said, bending to kiss her on each cheek when he reached the marble entry hall. His heart gave a hitch of emotion as he smiled down at her.
“And what are you doing home? You found what you sought?” she demanded in her feisty-as-a-sparrow way.
For a second he considered confessing all, but realized he didn’t really know anything.
“Something came up.” He dropped an arm around her shoulders. “You look marvelous. Is that a new outfit?”
She slapped him on the arm. “You are not to distract me with fashion, which I, of course, adore. What is this something that has come up? Or should a mother not ask?”
He grinned. “Don’t ask.”
“Then go greet your father in the library while I have another place set for lunch.”
She waltzed away, looking much younger than her years, and again his insides were tugged by unexpected emotion. He hurried toward the room his father used as an office and a family gathering place before meals.
He thought about asking his sire how he’d felt upon meeting the dainty Frenchwoman who had so taken his fancy and apparently his heart at their first glance.
But that might lead to other questions, and he had no answers, none at all….
“The king isn’t available,” the king’s secretary said.
Jean-Paul suppressed a frown of irritation. “Prince Bernier was assured King Morgan would see his emissary without delay.”
The secretary’s pale, ascetic countenance didn’t alter a fraction as he apologized again but offered no explanation for the postponement.
“When may I expect an audience?” Jean-Paul demanded.
This time a flicker of emotion narrowed the cool gaze. Sir Selywyn spread his hands in an artful gesture that indicated his helplessness to set a date. “I will contact you,” he promised. “Are your quarters satisfactory?”
Jean-Paul considered the royal secretary about as helpless as a viper on a hot rock, but there was no point in pressing further. He’d been given quite adequate guest quarters in the royal palace, so he nodded, then left the office when Selywyn escorted him to the door, an obvious invitation to depart.
Standing in the great hall, used as a reception chamber and sometimes as a ballroom, Jean-Paul contemplated his next move. He’d done his duty for his liege, Prince Bernier of Drogheda, who’d asked him to fill in for the ambassador to Penwyck who’d taken ill. Now he’d have to wait on the whim of King Morgan for an appointment. Such were the affairs of state.
That left him free to pursue his prime reason for coming to Penwyck.
Megan.
He’d seen her as a young girl just entering the flower of womanhood in this very chamber at her sister’s birthday ball. Ten years ago. Megan had been seventeen. He’d been twenty and much more worldly than the young girl he’d waltzed about the room.
His parents had insisted he attend the ball. They’d had an eye toward an alliance even then and had hoped he and Princess Meredith might form a tendresse for each other. He’d seen through their obvious ploy and kept his distance from the birthday princess.
There’d been no harm in flirting with the younger sister, though. Megan with the sun-kissed face and intriguing tan line on her throat that disappeared between her breasts, he recalled, then frowned at the heat that ran through his loins.
She’d admitted that she preferred walking along the shore to being here in the ballroom. Whirling her to the open terrace door, he’d then taken her hand and run with her through the formal gardens to a side gate. “Can you open it?” he’d asked.
“Of course.”
She’d done so and led him through the family gardens to another gate, then down a sloping path along a cliff and thus to the sea. Kicking off their shoes, they’d walked along the strand for more than an hour, speaking only to indicate points of interest—seals sleeping on the breakwater rocks, the beam of a lighthouse keeping watch over the ships that plied the sea at night, palm trees growing along the secluded shore.
“The Gulf current brings warmth to the islands,” he’d said, showing off his knowledge, “else we’d have a climate similar to Canada’s, cold and snowy.”
“I love the cove,” she’d confided. “This was our private place to play and pretend and dream out of sight of the public, especially the news media.”
She’d stopped as if embarrassed at complaining.
“It’s hard having your every move watched, isn’t it?” he’d said to put her at ease. “Sometimes I want to escape, too.” He’d surprised himself at the confession.
“But we can’t. And we shouldn’t dwell on it. Our lives are really very privileged.”
He’d frowned at her prim tone…until he’d looked at her. Her pose belied her words. She faced the sea, her eyes filled with longing so intense it had stunned him, as if something out there beyond his sight beckoned her.
“A selky,” he’d murmured, stroking her hair. “Trapped on shore in a human body. Do you long to return to the sea?”
“Yes,” she’d said, her voice as sad as the call of a lonely gull.
At that moment, he’d wanted to pull her to him, to calm the urge that tugged her toward the sea, but he hadn’t.
Washed in moonlight, her dress white and virginal, her eyes wild with grief for something that could never be, she’d seemed another being, ethereal and dangerous but mesmerizing the way the seal-folk were supposed to be. He’d been afraid to touch her more intimately.
But he’d wanted to, he admitted now with raw candor.
“How serious is it?” Carson Logan, the king’s personal bodyguard, demanded. “When will he come out of it?”
The chief medical officer shook his head. “I can’t predict the future. The king is in a coma. The question may not be when he’ll come out of it but if.”
Admiral Harrison Monteque cursed under his breath. “You think it’s encephalitis? Don’t you know?”
Head of one of the most highly trained intelligence organizations of modern times, the admiral was sharp, cunning and focused, well used to taking command.
The Royal Intelligence Institute, organized by the king to include the best minds in the fields of military, science, medicine, economics and such disciplines, was the envy of other leaders throughout the world. Operating inside this unique structure was the Royal Elite Team—men authorized to act in any emergency that threatened the kingdom or the Royal Family.
Admiral Monteque of the Royal Navy directed the RET. Duke Carson Logan was a member as was Sir Selywyn Estabon, the royal secretary, and Duke Pierceson Prescott. All four glared at the medical chief as if the king’s condition was his fault.
The doctor glared back. “We’re checking the diagnosis with the Center for Disease Control in the United States. This appears to be a rare strain of virus, found only in a limited area of Africa.”
“How would the king contract such a disease?” Duke Prescott demanded.
“How the hell would I know?” the doctor snapped.
Sir Selywyn poured oil on troubled waters. “Please keep us informed the instant there’s any change.”
“Of course,” the doctor replied stiffly. He hesitated, then added, “The body is a miraculous machine. The king could awaken and be right as rain at any moment. I will advise you of any improvement at once.”
Selywyn escorted the doctor to the door of the king’s council chamber, a room constructed so that no sound or electronic signal could escape or penetrate the barriers in its walls.
“We must proceed with all caution,” Logan said after the secretary securely closed the door. “Until we know what is to happen with the king.”
Monteque frowned. “It’s the worst time—”
“Is there a best one?” Selywyn interrupted.
The two men locked gazes, then the admiral shrugged ruefully. “I suppose not. I think we shall have to proceed to Plan B, as we discussed last night.”
“You were serious?” Logan questioned while Preston looked even grimmer.
“Dead serious. I don’t see another choice, and it would be the king’s wishes. Look at the situation. We’re in critical negotiations with the United States on a trade agreement, in talks with Majorco on a military alliance and still have to convince the Ministers of the Exchequer of the wisdom of ratifying the international trade accord reached two months ago in Monaco. We must at least give the appearance of making progress on those fronts.”
Preston spoke up. “The law says if the king becomes incapacitated, the queen takes over as regent until a royal son is crowned. What of her?”
“The queen has never shown much interest in political affairs. The King of Majorco’s contempt for women entering a man’s world is well-known. I suggest we stall, at least until we know what is to become of the king,” Selywyn told them. “Or until one of the royal princes returns to the country and is made king.”
Selywyn was aware of his own fatigue as Monteque rubbed a hand over his face in an unconscious gesture of weariness. None of them had slept for more than a couple of hours at a time since the king’s mysterious ailment had befallen him last Sunday. It was now Thursday, and the military alliance treaty was to be signed in a public ceremony next month.
“It’s a hell of a time for both Owen and Dylan to be out of the country and unavailable,” Monteque continued. “I don’t think we should allow that in the future.”
“They’re young men with minds of their own,” Logan reminded the RET leader. He yawned and stretched. “They won’t be shackled.”
“Aye, the royals are different today than when the king and I were growing up,” Monteque said, referring to the five royal children of King Morgan and Queen Marissa.
“But not, I think, in their hearts,” Selywyn murmured. “I suppose we must get on with the business at hand. When should we put the emergency plan into effect, Admiral?”
Monteque rose. “At once.”
The admiral, along with Preston, left the private chamber. Selywyn turned to his friend, Logan, who was as close to the king as he was. “I wonder if we are about to admit the Trojan horse into the kingdom.”
But Logan’s eyes were closed and his head nodded to one side. Selywyn touched the man’s shoulder.
“Go to your bed, my friend,” he told the king’s bodyguard, who awoke with a start. “We’ll all need our wits about us to see this through to the end.”
Jean-Paul stood on the cliff that overlooked the private lagoon adjoining the grounds of the palace. His request for Megan to meet him had gone unanswered the previous day. Now he was taking matters into his own hands.
He felt certain she would slip down to her favorite place as soon as she had a spare moment, so he’d taken the liberty of going the long way to the shore, approaching the hidden cove along the strand from the northwest and staying well out of sight of the palace walls where he might be spotted by the ever-present surveillance cameras.
Glancing at his watch, he saw it was nearly noon. An early morning fog lingered over the bay. He’d been on the beach since seven, and his disposition was not improving as each minute ticked by.
A lone figure appeared out of the mist.
Ah. A smile tipped the corners of his mouth as he recognized the graceful form of Megan, Royal Princess of Penwyck, making her way down the rocky path along the cliffs. Patience was at last rewarded.
She walked with surefooted skill, a slight woman, no more than five feet, four inches, weighing hardly more than a hundred pounds. Her dark hair curled damply around her shoulders in the mist, its auburn highlights dimmed by the fog. She held a long shawl snugly around her to ward off the chill breeze from the ocean.
