Capturing the Crown Bundle

Her answer floored them all. “My guess is thirty years ago. At the hospital right after the queen gave birth.”

For the first time in days, color rose to the king’s cheeks. “What are you talking about?” he demanded heatedly. “That isn’t possible.”

“I’m afraid that it is,” Dr. Burnett said calmly. “That it has to be. There is no other explanation.”

The calmer she sounded the more agitated Weston grew. “No other explanation for what?”

The medical examiner took a deep breath and began. “Your Majesty, as a matter of course, a blood panel and tox screen were performed on the sample of blood I took from the dead man.”

“My son,” Weston interjected sternly.

She nodded politely and went on. “For whatever reason, someone in the lab accidentally did blood typing, as well. The man on my autopsy table had type O negative blood. You and your late queen were both AB positive. There is no way that man in my clinic is a product of a union between you and the queen.”

“Someone made a mistake,” Weston insisted.

“No mistake, Your Majesty. I ran the second test myself.” Dr. Burnett looked to Russell and Amelia for support before turning her attention back to the king. She remained unshakable in her conviction of the findings. “I have no idea why this was done or who was behind it, that’s not my job. What I do know is that the man I performed an autopsy on wasn’t your natural son and that if there was a switch—”

Russell cut in, as the full import of what the medical examiner was saying hit him, “Then the Prince of Silvershire is still out there somewhere.”

“I have a son? Another son?” Weston looked like a man shell-shocked as the question dribbled from his lips in slow motion, just the same way his gaze drifted from the doctor to Russell. It was clear that he didn’t know whether to be overjoyed or shattered by the news.

“No, not another son,” the medical examiner corrected. “Your only son. I don’t know who the man on my autopsy table actually is or was, but the fact remains that he couldn’t have been your son.”

“You’re right,” Amelia cut in, trying to come to grips with what the doctor had just told them. “If a switch was made, it had to have been done in the hospital. Most likely as soon as the newborn baby was taken from the queen to be cleaned up.”

It all sounded so far-fetched, so unreal. “Why? Who?” Weston cried, stunned. He looked at Russell, wanting something logical to hold on to. Feeling like a man who had just been given hope and had his soul condemned at the same time, with the very same words.

The real prince was still alive. This meant that he couldn’t take the crown, Russell realized. The thought brought with it a wave of energy that filled his heart. He didn’t have to be king, didn’t have to suffer through the kind of life that was examined and reexamined on a daily basis. The relief he felt was incredible.

“We don’t know why or who yet,” Russell told him, “but we are going to find out.” He looked at the sovereign. “I promise you that, Your Majesty. We’ll find out who he is and why he was taken. And why we haven’t heard anything about it until now.”

It would seem to him that if there was a royal abduction, whoever had done it would have tried to take advantage of the situation. Yet in thirty years, there hadn’t been a single word about it. Not a demand for ransom or even a hint that it was done. Why?

He couldn’t shake the feeling that something dire was about to happen.

Reginald’s poisoning took on a different perspective. Perhaps it hadn’t been done for some personal wrong. Perhaps poisoning the prince had been the first step in the present reign’s undoing.

“Your Majesty?” Amelia prodded when the king made no reply. She slanted a glance toward Russell, concerned about the monarch’s state of health. “Would you like to lie down?”

Very slowly, Weston turned his head toward her, as if unable to move his eyes independently. “I—I—”

He couldn’t go on, couldn’t force any more words from his lips. There was no air with which to move them. His heart was hammering too hard for him to catch his breath. What there was of it was quickly fading from him. And his head, his head was doing very strange things. Lights were winking in and out, blurring his vision, making him see things out of his past. Things that were not there.

A baby. His wife. Both appeared to him in flashes and then were gone. And all the while, there was this pounding in his brain. A pounding that grew ever louder.

Weston’s knees gave way, failing him.

Like a crumpled doll, the king collapsed. He would have hit the floor had Russell’s reflexes not been so keen. He grabbed the monarch just before the latter hit the floor.

Propping him up, Russell looked at the king. “Your Majesty, can you hear me?” Russell cried. Weston’s eyes rolled back in his head.

Dr. Burnett was at his side immediately. “Bring him in here!” she ordered, leading the way into the clinic. Russell picked the unconscious man up in his arms and followed her. Amelia was right beside him.

An alarm was sounded. Instantly, there were technicians and equipment materializing from all over the fully stocked clinic. Russell placed the king down on the gurney that had been brought over, then stepped back. Amelia shadowed his movements, her eyes never leaving the king’s crumpled body.

“Is he—?” She couldn’t get herself to finish the question.

“He’s still alive,” Russell told her.

The staff did what they could. The defibrillator paddles were not necessary. The king’s heart went on beating, but despite all their best efforts, the king remained unconscious.

Maybe it was better that way, Russell thought, watching as the king was taken to a private room. Everything that had happened in the last few minutes had been too much for the monarch to process. The man needed his rest. His body needed to fight its way back to health. To grow strong enough to handle the adverse situation it found itself in.

“Inform whoever needs to be told that the king is staying here tonight,” Dr. Burnett told Russell.

“Do you think a hospital might be better for him?” Amelia suggested.

“The king has been fighting off the effects of the flu,” the doctor told her. “We’re running some tests, but perhaps all he needs is a little rest. We can tell more in the morning.”

Russell nodded. In the meantime, he thought, he had answers to find and a potential king to track down.

“We’re not going to Gastonia just yet,” he told Amelia.

Gastonia’s princess threaded her fingers through her husband’s as the doctor drew a curtain around the king’s bed. They would be going home soon enough, she promised herself. Right now, Russell needed to be here. Needed to stand by his king and help him. His sense of duty and responsibility were among the things she loved about him.

“I know,” she murmured. Her tone told him he had her full support.

A man could not ask for more. Not even if he were a king.

The Princess's Secret Scandal

By Karen Whiddon

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 1

“Are you sure she’s—?” Chase Savage broke off, stifling a curse.

A horn honked. Traffic inched slowly forward. He pressed the cell phone against his ear with one hand, keeping the other on the steering wheel while he negotiated the heavy downtown Silverton traffic.

“Yes, of course.” His caller chuckled. “Isn’t it obvious?”

Though he hated to do so, especially to his boss, as head of the royal publicity department Chase felt he must point out the obvious. “She’s avoiding the reporters.”

The all-important press. Couldn’t live with them, couldn’t live without them.

His Grace, Russell Southgate, III, Duke of Carrington, and Chase’s employer, made a rude sound. “For now. She’s holding out. You know how the game is played. You’ve dealt with her kind before.”

Chase sighed. At the ripe age of twenty-nine, he really had seen it all. There seemed to be an endless supply of royal groupies and hangers-on, all wanting something for nothing. Some craved sex, most sought money or a slight slice of fame. Royal fame. Which he knew could often be a royal pain in the ass.

“Are you certain Reginald didn’t—” Chase began.

“His Highness might be difficult, but he’s still next in line for the throne. And this is not just any groupie. Even if she is from the wrong side of the blanket, she’s still daughter to Prince Kerwin of Naessa. You know that.”

“She doesn’t move in the usual circles. I’ve never met her.”

“I know.” Carrington sighed again. “Maybe that’s what intrigued Reginald. Who knows? Though Reginald is denying everything this time, his mistake could have an enormous impact. Not just Silvershire is affected. The woman says she’s pregnant, for God’s sake. If this is not handled properly, the situation could become a political disaster.” The Duke muttered a particularly un-royal curse, making Chase grin. Unlike most of the royals he spent his time protecting, when Carrington let down his guard, he could be a regular guy. Almost.

“Get to her before she talks to the press. The damage she could do…” Chase could hear the other man shudder, even over the phone line.

“So you want me to ‘handle’ her?” As a huge, blue SUV cut him off, Chase lay on his horn. “How?”

“With style and class, as usual. Offer her money to take her child and disappear. You can do it, the way only you know how. I have confidence you’ll do splendidly, as usual.”

The rare compliment, coming from Carrington, told Chase more than anything how important this was. In the six years since Chase had moved up the ranks from royal bodyguard to publicist, Carrington had been a good employer and a fair boss. He’d been instrumental in Chase’s career, taking an interest in the younger man and helping him navigate the sometime intricate maze that comprised royal life.

Effortlessly and tirelessly making the royals look good had earned Chase a promotion to head of public relations. The Wizard of PR, his staff called him. He sort of liked the name.

“I’m on my way to the Hotel Royale now.” Chase consulted his watch, a Rolex, which had been an expensive holiday gift Prince Reginald had given half the palace staff. “I should be there in, oh, thirty minutes or less.”

Traffic slowed to a stop, forcing Chase to hit his brakes, hard. Rush hour sucked. Most times he managed to avoid the snarl of cars by working late at the palace. Not today. Today he had to hightail it over to the plush hotel in downtown Silverton and intercept this woman before she checked out. Best to confront her in her room, to make the offer in private. Timing was everything in his business.

“You’ll handle this.” It wasn’t a question. Carrington rarely asked. He expected or demanded. And what he wanted, he got.

“Yes, I’ll handle it. Never fear.” Chase closed his cell phone and turned up the volume on the radio. He’d downloaded and burned a new CD of classic American rock last night. Aerosmith blasted over the speakers, making him grin. Stuck in traffic was as good a time as any to enjoy his favorite tunes.

He saw no need to plot a strategy—groupies were groupies. Once he started talking money to this woman, he anticipated a quick resolution.

Reaching the hotel, he eschewed the valet parking and drove into the parking garage himself. With the ever-vigilant press always on the lookout for a story, he didn’t want to risk being seen.

The Hotel Royale had a back entrance and he used it now. Carrington had given him the woman’s room number, so he took the service elevator to the sixth floor. He encountered no one, not even hotel staff. Shifts were changing, and he anticipated another ten or fifteen minutes of privacy.

Moving silently on the plush carpeting, he found her room and shook his head. Her door was ajar, the deadbolt turned out to keep the heavy door from closing. Since maids often did this when cleaning the rooms, he wondered if he’d arrived too late.

Pulling the door open, he saw he was not. With her back to him, a slender woman with shoulder-length, cinnamon-colored hair was loading clothes into an open suitcase she’d placed on the bed.

“Not much of a princess,” he drawled. “Where’s your entourage? Sydney Conner, I presume?”

Her head snapped up. When she met his gaze, he felt an involuntary tightening low in his gut. Damn. She was heart-stoppingly gorgeous. He’d expected that. They all were.

But this woman was no flashy blonde, Prince Reginald’s usual type. Her wealth of thick, silky hair framed a delicate, oval face. With her generous mouth, high cheekbones, and dark blue eyes, she had a serene, quiet sort of beauty, not at all what Chase would have expected from one of Prince Reginald’s lovers.

Instant desire—fierce, intense, savage—made him draw a harsh, ragged breath.

Staring at him with wide eyes, she reached for the phone. Calling hotel security, no doubt.

“Wait.” He held up his ID. “I’m with the palace.”

Her full lips thinned. “Let me see.”

He tossed it, surprised when she caught the laminated badge with one elegant, perfectly manicured hand. After she ascertained he really was whom he’d said he was, she replaced the phone in the cradle and narrowed her amazing eyes.

“I locked my door. How did you get in here?”

He gave her a slow smile, his PR smile. “Actually, your door was open. Rather careless, don’t you think?”

That caught her off guard. Glancing at the door, she blinked, then frowned. “What can I do for you, Mr….” She studied the badge again, her lush lips curving in a rueful smile. “Savage? I’m on my way out, so this will have to be quick.”

Again when she looked at him, he felt that punch to the gut. This time, a flare of anger lanced through his lust.

She was good, he admitted grudgingly. Her every movement was elegant, sensual. Her appearance, from the cut of her expensive, designer clothing to the pampered, creamy glow of her skin, spoke of wealth and breeding. Not your usual palace hanger-on at all.

But then, she was a princess.

“Where are you going?”

“That’s none of your business,” she told him, matching his cool tone. “Since I have little to do with the royal family of Silvershire these days, I don’t understand why you’re here. What do you want?”

He flashed her a hard look, belatedly remembering at the last moment to soften it with another smile. “As you saw from my ID, I’m with the royal publicity department. His Grace, the Duke of Carrington, sent me.”

She stared, her emotions flashing across her mobile face, hope, disbelief and a tentative joy chief among them. She read the badge one last time before handing it back to him.

“Reginald spoke to the duke?” she asked. “He told him about our baby?”

Hearing the raw emotion in her voice, Chase felt a flash of pity. The look she gave him told him she’d seen and hated both that and the fact she’d let her guard down enough to show her feelings to a total stranger.

Chase narrowed his eyes. “I wasn’t informed how Lord Carrington learned of your claim.”

“But Reginald—” She bit her lip.

“Reginald what?”

One hand instinctively went to her belly. Protective. He noted this and filed it away for future reference. “What do you and/or Lord Carrington want with me?”

She was sleek and beautiful and sexy as hell. Chase could think of a thousand ways to answer that question, though he’d say none of them. He had a job to do.

He lifted his briefcase. “I’ve been authorized to offer you—”

The window exploded in a shower of glass.

“Get down!” He leapt at her.

Too stunned to react when he pushed her down, Sydney fell heavily, the man on top of her. Panicked, terrified the fall had hurt her unborn child, she fought to get up.

“Stay down,” he snarled. “That was a gunshot.”

“A gunshot? Why would someone shoot at me?”

When he looked at her, she saw a different man. Gone was the affable, smiling stranger. This man wore a grim face, a hard face, the kind of face she’d seen on her mother’s bodyguards, hired mercenaries for the most part. Dangerous men who played by their own set of rules.

“Who are you, really?” She whispered, still cradling her abdomen. “You might be in public relations now, but I’m thinking you might have another job title, as well.”

He looked away, climbing off her, still keeping low to the ground.

Another shot rang out, taking out what was left of the window.

He cursed. “That window—what’s it face?”

Confused, she shook her head. “I’m not sure. I’m on the sixth floor. No view. All that’s out there is the roof of one of the lower buildings.” Then she realized what that meant. If she were to climb out her window, she’d be able to step without much discomfort onto the other roof.

The shooter was that close! She had to protect her baby.

“We’ve got to get out of here.” He grabbed her hand, yanking her to her feet. “Stay low and follow me.”

He started for the door.

She grabbed her purse. “I need my passport.”

“Come on.” Once they reached the hall, he turned left.

“The elevator’s that way.” She pointed right.

“We’re taking the stairs. Hurry.”

They hustled all the way down. Their footsteps clattered on the metal edges, echoing in the narrow stairway.

“Let’s go, through here.” Tone low and urgent, he shepherded her out a door marked as an emergency exit, instantly setting off the hotel alarm. “Good, a distraction,” he shouted over the clanging bell and whirring siren.

Outside, momentarily disoriented, Sydney stumbled, squinting into the bright sunlight. He gave her arm another tug, urging her on, past the line of parked cars on the curb.

“My cello.” She suddenly remembered her beloved instrument. “I can’t leave it. Go back and get it, please?”

“No. I’ll buy you another.”

“You don’t understand. It’s a Stradivarius, one of only sixty left in the world.” She attempted in vain to pull herself free, knowing she personally couldn’t go back after it. She had to protect her baby at all costs, even if that meant she lost Lady Swister, her cello. “Please,” she repeated. “It will only take a moment.”

Grim-faced, he stared, sending a chill of foreboding up her spine. “You want me to risk my life for an instrument?”

“A three-million-dollar instrument. Please.” She gestured again. “We’ve obviously lost the shooter.”

“For now.” A muscle worked in his jaw. “How the hell did you get a three-million-dollar cello?”

“Reginald gave it to me. I—”

They both heard the sharp report of another shot. Seemingly at the same time, the side window of the car behind them shattered.

“Go. Now!” Not hesitating, he yanked her after him.

They took off at a run, across the deserted street and into a narrow alley.

“But my cello…!”

“Forget the cello. This way.”

“My rental car’s closer.” She pointed at the cute red Gaston Mini, parked near the corner. “Right there.” Fishing the remote out of her purse, she punched the unlock button.

A second later, the car exploded.

The force of the blast knocked them both to the ground.

An instant and then Chase yanked her to her feet. Dazed, she could only stare at the roaring inferno that, seconds before, had been her car.

“Are you all right?”

She blinked, looked down at her torn slacks and bloody knees. “I…I think so.”

Sirens drowned out even the still-clanging hotel alarm. Any minute now, police, ambulance and fire trucks should careen around the corner.

“Good.” He tugged at her arm. “Come on then. Run!”

Another gunshot, uncomfortably close, took out another windshield.

“Come on.”

They took off running. Several glances over her shoulder and she still couldn’t see the gunman, or anyone in pursuit.

Still, she had to protect her baby.

“Don’t look back. Just run!” He led her left, then right and left again into a concrete parking garage. Their footsteps echoed as they ran toward a low-slung, black Mercedes.

By the time he bundled her into the car, she was out of breath and panting. Another quick look assured her they hadn’t been followed. “So far so good.”

“They found your room and anticipated the door we’d exit,” he muttered. “It’s only a matter of time until they find us. We’re not waiting around until they do.”

Starting the engine without sparing her a second glance, he shoved the gearshift into reverse, backing so fast his tires squealed. Then he gunned the car forward. The powerful motor roared as they shot into the street. They careened around the corner, barreling toward the main thoroughfare.

Suddenly, she felt every cut, every bruise. Worse than that, her lower back hurt. Alarm flared through her. Had she injured her baby? Sydney cradled her abdomen, trying to regain her breath, her mind whirling.

“What?” Now he looked at her, his hazel eyes missing nothing. “Are you hurt?”

“No. Yes. I—I don’t know.” She bit her lip, both hands covering her still-flat abdomen. “I’m pregnant. I’m worried about my baby.”

“You don’t look pregnant.” One hand on the steering wheel, he issued this observation in a bland, bored tone, as if he dealt every day with shootouts and chases. For all she knew, maybe he did.

“I’m barely eight weeks.” Stiffening, she refused to look at him again, glancing out the window as she finally took notice of her surroundings. They were heading away from downtown, toward the Silvershire International Airport. “Look, Mr. Savage…”

“Call me Chase.”

She ignored him. “Mr. Savage. Where are we going?”

Instead of answering, he gave her another hard look. “Any idea who was shooting at you? And why?”

“No. I think it’s more likely we got caught in the middle of someone else’s troubles.”

“Troubles?”

She waved her hand. “You know. Gang war or something. We were in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Princess—”

“My name is Sydney.”

“Sydney, then. They shot at you. No one else. You. Your car exploded. Of course this was aimed at you.”

Lifting her chin, she considered his words. He was right. “Why? Why would anyone want to harm me?”

Keeping an eye on the rearview mirror, he took the exit that led to the airport. “You claim to be carrying the crown prince’s child. You know there’s a political firestorm going on now with those democracy advocates. That’d put you right in the middle of it.”

“True. But Reginald and I aren’t married. My baby is no threat to anyone.”

“Yet,” he said.

“Ever.” Closing her mouth before she said too much more, Sydney caught sight of the Welcome to Silvershire International Airport sign. “Where are you taking me? Why the airport?”

For the first time since appearing in her doorway, he looked surprised. As though she should have known. “The royal jet is waiting.”

“The royal jet?” A tentative spark of hope filled her. “Has he asked you to bring me to him?”

“Who?”

Impatient, she shifted in her seat. “Reginald, of course. My baby’s father. Are you taking me to see him?”

There was no pity in the hard glance he shot her now.

“No,” he said. Nothing more.

But then, what else could he say? Reginald had made it plain he didn’t want her or the unplanned baby she carried. She’d even learned he’d gotten engaged to a beautiful princess from Gastonia. He’d moved quickly, proving his words of love had been nothing but lies.