The Pregnant Princess

She lifted her face to his, studying his thick-lashed eyes through the mask, the clean line of his jaw and the slight curve of chiseled lips. His gaze held hers, demanding her answer, and, as suddenly as that, she knew this was the man with whom she wanted to spend the rest of her life. She’d lifted herself on tiptoe and brazenly brushed her lips over his, then reached back and unlinked his hands from behind her back.

“Just let me visit the powder room,” she said. “I’ll meet you on the terrace.”

But as she turned away, he caught her by the wrist and lifted a big hand to her face, caressing the soft flesh along her cheek with one long finger. “Don’t be long,” he said in a deep voice that sent shivers of excitement racing through her, and her body contracted in an uncontrollable sexual response.

Turning her head, she kissed his finger as she slipped away. “I won’t be,” she promised.

And she wasn’t. It took her mere moments to locate Serena, flirting cheerfully and shamelessly with a crowd of young men, and she unapologetically drew her aside. “Cover for me tonight. I met someone.”

“Who?” Serena’s green eyes went wide with anticipation.

But Elizabeth shook her head. “I’ll tell you tomorrow. Just cover for me, okay?”

“Okay.”

Since they’d been children, the two of them had shared a longing for freedom from the ever-present bodyguards who shadowed their every move. Alexandra, immersed in correctness, and dear, quiet Katherine never seemed to mind the oppressive atmosphere, but she had longed for freedom, as had Serena. It had been a great game to elude the guards, and often, one of them would murmur, “Cover for me,” just before committing some daring vanishing act, invariably sending the guards into frantic scurrying which the hidden sister watched with glee.

It wasn’t particularly difficult to shake her observers. The royal bodyguards took their work seriously, but they were no match for a young woman who’d had years of practice in evading them.

Slipping out a side door into the garden, she approached the terrace from the lawn, her heart thumping heavily as she recognized her handsome dance partner standing on the other side of the low stone wall of the terrace.

“Hello, there,” she murmured.

He turned, immediately picking her out of the darkness and strolling to the edge of the wall. “Hello, beautiful,” he said. And in one powerful, lightning-swift move, he vaulted over the wall and dropped to the ground beside her.

She pressed a startled hand to her mouth, then released a nervous laugh. “Some people use the steps,” she pointed out, gesturing to the marble stairs at the center of the terrace.

“But you weren’t near the stairs,” he replied in a perfectly reasonable voice.

She smiled. “No, I wasn’t, was I?”

He cupped her elbow, drawing her away from the lights of the terrace and into the dim evening coolness of the gardens. “I thought perhaps you weren’t coming.”

She caught her breath in dismay, turning to face him and clutching his arm. It suddenly seemed vitally important to reassure him. “I’m sorry. It took longer than I expected. You see, I had to—”

But her words were stilled when he gently placed one large finger against her lips. “Hush. It doesn’t matter.”

His gaze held hers as he slowly, without any hurry or fumbling, placed his hands at her waist and drew her closer. She found she was holding her breath as his mouth drew nearer and nearer. “I’ve been wanting to do this all evening,” he murmured. His lips were a heartbeat away now, and she found she was holding her breath as she leaned forward the scant distance that separated them and allowed his lips to meet hers.

It was heaven, was all she could think. His mouth was warm and tender, competently molding hers as he gathered her closer. Suddenly, within the space of a second, a flashfire raced through her system as desire spread. She sank against him, and instantly his arms tightened, his mouth grew firmer, less tentative and more demanding. He kissed her as though she were the only thing in his entire world, his tongue invading her mouth in a basic, primitive rhythm that grew stronger, more insistent and demanding until she locked her arms around his shoulders, straining against him as he plundered her lips.

He groaned, deep in his throat, and one hand slid down her back to her bottom, sliding around and over the tender flesh, tracing the crease of her buttocks with one long finger, then clasping her firmly in his hand and lifting her strongly against him. She gasped against his mouth as she felt his hard body pressing into her, the blatant surging against her soft belly and the driving need his shifting hips communicated. She realized her hips were moving, too, slipping back and forth against him as her body sought relief from the need racing through her.

His mouth blazed a trail down her throat, pressing a string of stinging kisses to her collarbone and firmly sliding down over her heated flesh until his face was pressed into the full swell of her breasts. He turned his head, and she jumped as a hot breath seared her tender flesh, and then his mouth began to move again. Her head fell back as he brushed over one straining nipple, suckling her through the thin fabric of her gown, and she moaned, twisting against him, her hands coming up to clutch at his hair, combing restlessly through the black silk strands.

He lifted his head, and he was breathing heavily, harsh gasps for air. “Where can we go?”

His voice was so deep and guttural, it was nearly a growl, and her feminine nature recognized the primitive possession in the sound, her body drawing into a nearly painful knot of need. “The—the garden house,” she said breathlessly. “Down this path—oh!”

Before she could complete the sentence, he had lifted her into his arms, his head coming down again, his lips slanting over hers in a complete claim that it never occurred to her to resist. She might not know his name, but her body recognized his. And as he began to stride down the path, she relaxed in his arms and gave herself to the embrace that should have felt strange but only felt…right, as if finally, after twenty-seven years of waiting, she’d found what she hadn’t even known she’d been waiting for.

Two

On the dot of seven, Rafe knocked on the door of the Royal Princess of Wynborough’s suite. Almost immediately, the double doors swung inward, as if Elizabeth had been waiting on the other side.

Elizabeth. She’d been nameless for five months now. Her real name was going to take some getting used to.

Her eyes widened, and he knew she must be contrasting the image he’d presented yesterday in his work clothes with the charcoal suit he donned now. She shouldn’t be that surprised—she’d seen him in a tux.

For that matter, he thought with a surge of grim humor, she’d seen him wearing a whole lot less.

“Good evening,” she said, stepping back and waving a hand in invitation for him to enter. “Please come in.”

“Thank you, Your Highness.” He gave the title the faintest emphasis and was gratified to see a blush climb her neck as he stepped into the room.

She was dressed simply, in a pretty, lightweight dress in a silky fabric that swirled loosely around her body and draped over the full swells of her breasts, drawing his eye as he passed her. His body sat up and took notice as he remembered the soft mounds that had filled his hands a few months ago…. He mentally shook himself, annoyed that he was letting his sex drive get the better of his good judgment again. Just like the first time he’d seen her.

The Children’s Fund Ball was an annual masquerade event, and he still didn’t know what had possessed him to attend. Once he’d seen this woman, though, he’d ceased to wonder. He and his mysterious lady had complied with the ball’s unspoken rule, not identifying themselves. Still, he was almost positive his paramour had been one of the princesses. Her demeanor had been refined, almost archaically elegant compared to the brash American women whom he’d seen throw themselves at a man. Even compared to other women at the ball, British royals as well as those of his native isle, she’d seemed exceptionally genteel.

If she were one of the princesses, that would make sense. He’d never even met one of them, despite his own royal status. Granted, they were all several years younger than he, and he’d been away at school most of his life before he’d escaped Thortonburg, but rumor had it that King Phillip employed the tightest security to keep his remaining family safe.

Rafe supposed that if his infant son had been kidnapped and presumably killed, he’d be overprotective with his other children, too. Yes, given all those factors, he’d been nearly positive that his lady fair had been one of King Phillip’s four beautiful daughters.

“Could I offer you a drink?” She had moved across the room behind him and now stood behind the small breakfast bar.

“Please.” He walked to the bar and hooked one foot around a stool, drawing it to him and propping himself on the edge of the seat with his feet splayed. “Nice place.”

“Yes. It’s very comfortable.”

“I guess you wouldn’t know what it’s like to live somewhere that wasn’t.”

Her eyes flickered to his for an instant. “I’ve never had the opportunity to find out,” she said in a neutral tone. Busying herself for a moment, she laid a napkin on the bar and set a highball glass in front of him.

He stared at the drink for a minute. “How do you know what I drink?”

The color that had begun to subside began to climb her neck again. “If you’d prefer another drink, that’s fine. This is what you were drinking…the last time.”

“This is fine.” Abruptly, he picked up the drink and took a quick gulp. When she’d first seen him yesterday in the restaurant, there had been warm, intimate welcome in the depths of her green eyes until he’d scared it away. Today, the same wide eyes held only wariness. Her hair was a beautiful copper, shiny as a new American penny. Tonight she wore it down, curling softly around her shoulders and framing her heart-shaped face.

He recognized that face. Now that he knew who she was, he felt like an idiot for doubting his instincts before. It could almost have been her mother’s face at a younger age, except for a slight dimple in her chin, courtesy of her father, the king.

The king.

Anger began to rise again and he ruthlessly pushed it back and shut the door on it. He intended to have his questions answered this evening.

Elizabeth continued to hover behind the bar. She had made herself a drink as well, though he’d seen her put nothing in it but cranberry juice. She gestured to the center of the room, where a coffee table surrounded by several chairs and love seats held a silver tray full of canapés. “Shall we sit down?”

He rose from the stool and gestured for her to precede him. “Certainly.”

Her gaze flew to his, then whisked away again, and he saw her swallow. Then she stepped from behind the bar and quickly walked to one of the chairs, sinking down and demurely crossing her legs at the ankle while she fussed with the loose folds of her oversize dress.

Rafe followed her, taking a seat at an angle to hers and accepting the plate she offered him. He’d worked all day and had only gotten home in time to shower and change before heading over to the hotel, and he was starving. As he filled his plate with a selection of the hors d’ouevres, he glanced at her. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

She gave a single nervous shake of her head. “I’m not particularly hungry. You go ahead.”

“If you’re sure.” This rigid courtesy was getting to him already. One more of the reasons he didn’t intend to return to Thortonburg.

She only nodded.

There was an uncomfortable silence for a few moments. Judging from the way she fidgeted, it bothered her a lot more than it did him. He applied himself to his food until his plate was empty, but he held up a hand in refusal when she offered him a second helping.

“No thanks, this will hold me for the moment.”

A faint smile crossed her face. “As you wish.” She studied him curiously. “You’re very American, aren’t you?”

He supposed she meant the slang expression, because he knew his voice still carried the clipped accents of his homeland. “This is my home now,” was all he said.

“This country appeals to you so much more than Thortonburg?” she asked softly.

“When I was younger, anyplace that didn’t have my father in it was appealing,” he said with grim self-mockery. “Now…yes, I like it here. It’s warm, it’s sunny almost all the time—you certainly can’t say that for the North Atlantic.” Only a short distance off the coast of the United Kingdom, the country of his birth was frequently rainy, cloudy and chilly. On its good days.

“No.” Again, a small smile played around her lips. “You certainly can’t.”

He watched her lips curve, aware of the flare of sexual attraction deep in his gut. She was every bit as beautiful as he remembered, and every bit as seductive. His good humor faded.

“Why did you seduce me?” he asked bluntly.

Her green eyes widened and her head snapped up as if he’d struck her. Her face went white, then vivid color filled every centimeter of her fair complexion. “I didn’t seduce you!”

He considered that. “Okay. I’ll give you that. It was definitely a two-sided deal, as I recall.”

For a moment, she simply stared at him silently and he watched, fascinated, as a deep rosy hue flushed her cheeks. Finally, in the same neutral voice she’d used a minute ago, she said, “Why ever would I want to seduce you?”

“Does the word betrothal ring any bells?”

She had a bewildered look on her face as she shook her head. “But I’m not betrothed to anyone.”

He snorted. “Do we have to continue this little game of make-believe? Okay, so it didn’t have to be you. My father isn’t particular as long as the union occurs. You know full well one of you will marry the future Grand Duke one day. You were trying to get a jump on your sisters, weren’t you? After all, if you can’t have a king, a grand duke is the next best thing.”

“You think I’d marry for a title?” She gaped at him for a moment, ignoring the rest of his heavy-handed sarcasm. “My father never arranged a marriage in his life. I don’t know why you believe he would do something like that.”

“Maybe because my father’s been telling me since I was four years old that I would marry one of the princesses one day?”

“We’ll marry whomever we want, your father’s wishes aside.”

“Umm-hmm.” It was a skeptical sound.

“There was no arrangement of any kind!” she insisted. “Anyway, my eldest sister is already married. She married a rancher from right here in Arizona. They’re expecting their first child—”

“I don’t give a bloody damn if they’re expecting ten children,” he said through his teeth.

Her eyes widened again and though she didn’t actually move, he had the impression she’d reared back out of his reach.

“You’re…what? Second eldest?” he asked.

She nodded. “Third, actually. My brother was—is—the eldest. Katherine and Serena are younger than I am.”

Why had Elizabeth been steered his way instead of one of her sisters? It was a puzzle that he couldn’t find the right pieces for, and he didn’t like unfinished puzzles. But for now, he set it aside. “My father and your father must have gotten their heads together since I left the country,” he said. “And you were the sacrificial lamb. I wonder how the King decided which daughter to send. A roll of dice? A flipped coin?”

“I told you my father would never arrange a marriage for me,” she insisted, and her voice was agitated. “There is no scheme.”

“Not anymore there isn’t,” he said, not caring how cold and implacable he sounded. “You might have been a virgin, and you might even have been the hottest sex I’ve ever had, but I’m still not falling for it. Go home and tell your daddy I’m not marrying you.”

The color that had infused her cheeks drained away. For a minute, he thought she was going to cry. Then she drew a deep breath. “I’ll tell my father nothing of the sort.” She leaped to her feet and stomped across the room, yanking open the door of the suite. “He didn’t plot for us to meet or marry, and if you think I’m trying to trap you into matrimony you couldn’t be more wrong. You may leave, sir, and don’t come back. I plan to forget we ever met.” Grandly, she flung her arm wide to encourage him to leave.

About to take her up on the invitation, Rafe rose from the chair—and stopped in his tracks, all thoughts of leaving forgotten. His eyes narrowed in disbelief.

She was pregnant.

Shock ripped through him as the silhouette of the princess was outlined through her thin dress against the light flowing in from the hall…the light that clearly showed the bulge of pregnancy beneath the flowing style he’d assumed was merely fashionable. Her outflung arm pulled the garment tight across her midsection, making it impossible to miss her condition.

Temporarily struck dumb, Rafe stalked across the room toward her.

Elizabeth must have recognized the bone-deep rage tearing through him, because she backed up until the wall beside the door stopped her retreat.

He didn’t hesitate until he was practically standing on her toes, the protrusion of her belly only inches from his body and her wide, fear-filled eyes gazing up at him defensively.

“You…little…bitch,” he ground out. “So that’s what this surprise reunion is all about. You’ve got a bun in the oven and let me guess…” He paused and allowed a mocking grin to slide across his face. “I’m supposed to believe it’s mine.”

She gasped. When her hands came up and shoved hard at his stomach, he was surprised enough that he let her push him back a step or two. Again, she was flushing that bright red that only a redhead could manage, her whole body shaking. Her face looked shattered, and he thought she was going to cry, but when she spoke, her voice trembled with rage. “It is your child,” she said. “My sister Serena thought it was only fair that you know.”

Her words rocked him to the core, but he managed to cover his reaction with a sneer. “And you expect me to believe that? Do I really look like that big a sucker?” He crossed his arms and his own rising anger made his voice rough. “That could be anybody’s baby.”

Her eyes darkened, dulled, and she swayed. Alarmed, he reached out to steady her, but she backed away from him so quickly that she nearly fell over a chair. She slapped his hand away.

“As you so kindly reminded me, I was a virgin.” Her voice was low and unsteady, and her body shook from head to toe. He had a moment’s instinctive concern for her condition, but before he could think of anything to say that might calm her a little, she whipped around and ran across the suite to a far door, entering it and slamming the door so hard the frame shook.

Considering she’d caught him by surprise, he reacted quickly, sprinting after her. But she’d had just enough of a start that by the time he reached for the doorknob, he heard the distinct metallic click of a lock and then the final hammering sound of a deadbolt being thrown into place.

“Elizabeth!” he roared, rattling the knob. “Come out here!”

There was no answer, but through the door he could hear the sound of water running in the bathroom. And then another sound. Weeping. He rested his fists against the door, fighting the urge to batter it down. Frustration and fury mounted as the feeling of being trapped rose within him. Any sympathy that her crying had aroused died as echoes of his childhood swamped him. He’d sworn he would never have a child, would never do to a child what had been done to him. Never.

He gave the door a hefty kick with the flat of his foot. “Nobody makes my life plans for me!” he shouted through the door before he spun on his heel. “Not my father, and not you!”

His mood was only marginally better at nine the next morning. He had tossed and turned half the bloody night. This morning, his eyes felt gritty and he was drinking industrial-strength coffee in an effort to revive the brain cells that were comatose from lack of sleep.

But there were a few brain cells that were alive and well. With no effort at all, he could recall the look on Elizabeth’s face when he’d told her that the baby she carried could belong to anyone.

She’d been shattered.

He felt like pond scum. He might not have any intention of marrying the girl, but he wasn’t a total jerk. He knew, as sure as he knew his own name, that she’d never had another lover. Before him, impossible. After him… If she’d been a bedhopper, she wouldn’t still have been a virgin when he had met her. He wasn’t sure how old she was, but he knew she had to be in her mid-twenties. Definitely not promiscuous.

And her baby was his.

My sister Serena thought it was only fair that you know.

What in bloody hell did that mean? That Elizabeth wouldn’t have told him otherwise?

He might not want it, might be furious about this whole bloody mess, but he wasn’t a man who walked away from his responsibilities. He’d fathered a child, and he’d support it. She’d waited, damn her, far too long for abortion to be an option. He’d counted in his head during the endless nighttime hours, and he figured she was about five months along now.

Abortion. In his heart, he knew he couldn’t let her do that, anyway. It certainly would have been the easy way out, but the solution gave him a sick feeling. Together, he and Elizabeth Wyndham had created a life, and he didn’t believe either of them had the right to end it.

No. Biologically, he was going to be a father, though he had no intention of getting involved in this child’s life. He wondered if Elizabeth had considered adoption. As far as he was concerned, that would be the best thing all around, but somehow, he doubted his redheaded lover would see it that way. Nor would the royal family, come to think of it.

Oh, well. If she wanted to raise the kid, he couldn’t stop her. And he certainly wouldn’t have any trouble supporting it financially. Even though he’d refused to use any of his family’s money, except that from his grandmother’s trust, he’d managed to build quite a respectable business for himself here in the States. Regardless of the hidebound, ambitious schemer he had the misfortune to call his father.

Hell. He wasn’t going to get any more sleep, and he knew he couldn’t work until he’d straightened things out with Elizabeth. Dumping the coffee in the sink, he grabbed his car keys and headed for the garage.

Twenty-five minutes later, he stood in the suite where he’d been only last night, clinging to his temper by a thin thread while the personal assistant provided to Elizabeth during her hotel stay spread her hands helplessly. “I’m sorry, Mr. Thorton, but the princess insisted. I didn’t think it was wise for her to rent a car for herself, but there was simply no stopping her.”

“How many were in her party?”

“Her party? Oh, no one else, sir. She was alone.”

She hadn’t even taken a driver or a bodyguard? The vague tingle of apprehension that had hovered since he’d learned the princess had left the hotel that morning became a full-fledged itch. “What about her bodyguard?”

“She didn’t bring one, sir.”

Rafe swore, a string of curses that clearly shocked the young woman before him. “Where did she go?”

“I don’t know, sir. She was meeting a man, I believe. All she told me was that she planned to be back by the dinner hour.”

Dinner hour. In Wynborough, that could easily mean eight or nine in the evening. No way was he waiting that long to be sure she was all right. With the hotel employee to vouch for him, it was an easy task to get the concierge to supply him with Elizabeth’s intended destination and to get a description of the vehicle she was driving.

Driving! As sheltered as her life had been, he would bet she’d rarely, if ever, driven herself anywhere in her whole life.

Not to mention the little fact that Americans drove on the other side of the road from what she was accustomed at home.