The Princess Is Pregnant! Read online

  “I went to sleep. I’m sorry,” she began in confusion.

  “We all need a break once in a while, even a royal princess,” he told her, his voice deeper than usual.

  His hand slid beneath the sleeve of her knit summer top and caressed the bare skin of her shoulder. To her dismay, both breasts reacted, jutting visibly against the material in hard little points that begged for attention.

  Lifting his other hand, he swept over them in a gentle foray, the smile changing subtly while his cool gaze grew warmer. She felt his passion rise, a hard rod against her thigh, and experienced an answer deep within her own body.

  The wildness, like the call of the sea, stirred in her, that strange, aching desire for something more of life than what was offered. It ripped through her defenses and shredded her common sense.

  His, too, she thought and watched in fascination as he turned them, pinning her against the back of the bench and sought her mouth.

  “Kiss me,” he demanded in a low growl. “I’ve waited too long for this.”

  She tried to shake her head, to deny the need, but his mouth was there, against hers, hot and firm and demanding.

  The turmoil inside would not be confined. She kissed him back as if caught in the fury of a fierce storm, her mouth as greedy as his, her desire as great.

  He cradled her head on his arm, their legs intertwined on the length of the bench. He pressed against her, seeking and finding a greater intimacy as their flesh melded instinctively, one made for the other.

  “Ohh,” she said as he moved against her, almost covering her now, his body stroking hers so that pleasure flowed from that point of contact to every tingling nerve.

  “Sing for me, sweet selky,” he murmured, his eyes hot on hers when he lifted his head slightly to gaze into her eyes.

  There was something deep and mysterious and dangerous in those blue depths. It was like being adrift in a stormy sea, lost to everything but him and his touch.

  Just where she wanted to be.

  Closing her eyes, she writhed against him, drawing a gasp from his parted lips. He found her mouth again and delved deeply there, increasing the pounding of her blood until it echoed in her ears like the plangent sound of the sea far below them.

  “You make me want to be wild,” she told him, running her hands under his tunic and finding the silk shirt he wore. She tugged at the material.

  He lifted his torso and sucked in his stomach so that the silk easily came free of his slacks.

  “Heavenly,” she said, “to touch you like this. Like that night—”

  She stopped, not sure if she should bring up that memory. It seemed so impossibly long ago. Or like a dream that had never happened.

  Only she had the developing child to prove it did.

  Opening her eyes, she gazed at him, unsure of what they were doing, or why.

  “It’s okay,” he whispered, bending to her, touching her with the sweetest kisses from his lips, so soft and tender and yet hungry and filled with desire.

  Catching his head in her hands, she stared into his eyes. “How can it be?”

  “We’ll work it all out,” he promised.

  With a deft twist, he unfastened the row of tiny buttons that closed the front of her top so that he could push it aside. He stroked the satiny material of her bra before running the tips of his fingers over the burgeoning flesh. A half smile touched his mouth when he spied the closure. He unsnapped it.

  A rush of fresh desire rose in her as the breeze caressed lightly over her breast. He kissed the tip before taking it into his mouth and circling it with his tongue.

  Her breath caught, her chest lifted, and she pressed eagerly up to him, wanting more…all that he could give her…all that was hers to give him…

  “Yes, come to me,” he whispered hoarsely. “This is where you belong. With me.”

  His movements against her increased in a rhythmic fashion that fed the fire between them. Wantonly she pressed his thigh between hers and still wanted more.

  “I need…I’m about to…Jean-Paul, please,” she whispered back, desperate for his complete touch.

  He kissed her in a hot, wild torrent of male need, all over her face and throat, murmuring lovely, wicked things as they sought satisfaction.

  “Beautiful selky,” he said. “My lovely sea wife. I didn’t think you existed.”

  She rose to meet his downward thrust and wished the clothing that separated their bodies would disappear. She knew this interlude was foolish, dangerous even, but she wanted him…wanted him…

  With a gasp, she realized he’d shifted again. His long powerful fingers slipped under her top and quickly unfastened the snap and zipper at her waist.

  “We can’t,” she reminded him softly, desperately.

  “Not everything,” he agreed, “but this much…”

  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 res
ponsible.”

  “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 realizing 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 ba
ll 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.

  Chapter Six

  After 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.