An Officer and a Princess (5 page)

Isabel knew there were people in Edenbourg who wanted to destroy the monarchy, but she'd never heard of a group called the Patriots before. She made a mental note to have Ben do some research on the group.

“Who doesn't hate the Stanburys?” Adam replied, an odd fervent light in his eyes. “They're the haves and we're the have nots in this country. It's too bad somebody doesn't kidnap all of them, every damn Stanbury on earth.” Adam slammed his fist down on the table, as if to punctuate his sentence.

Both Isabel and Willie jumped at the punctuation.

“I'm going to get a breath of air.” Adam jerked out of his chair and disappeared out the front door.

“Your old man has a bit of temper in him,” Willie observed.

Isabel shrugged. “He has a few hot buttons. The Stanburys just happen to be one of them.”

“And why is that?” For just a moment Willie appeared stone-cold sober.

“At one time he wanted to work for the palace,” Isabel ad-libbed. “But, they told him he wasn't the right material, that he wasn't good enough. It's been a festering sore ever since.”

She desperately hoped the story sounded plausible and reminded herself to tell Adam what she'd just told Willie. “I spoke to Shane a couple of weeks before he was killed and he mentioned somebody named Pam. Was she the tall blonde that was at the cemetery this morning?”

“Yeah, that was Pam.” Willie gazed mournfully at his empty glass, then looked back at Isabel. “Shane was that gal's heart. His death near killed her.”

“I'd like to talk with her. You know, extend my condolences. Do you know where I can find her?” Isabel held her breath.

Willie shrugged. “I know she's got a place close to here, but I don't know exactly where it is.”

Isabel swallowed her disappointment. Willie twirled his empty glass and she gestured Bart for a
refill. She'd ply Willie all night with drinks if it might get her some more information.

“Before Shane got himself killed, him and Pam spent most evenings here. I imagine eventually she'll come in,” Willie said.

Eventually wasn't quick enough, Isabel thought in frustration. If her father had suffered a stroke as Meagan had said, then he needed medical attention sooner rather than later.

The rest of the evening continued to be a study in frustration. Adam rejoined Isabel and Willie and, as the hours passed, Willie introduced them to many of the tavern's regulars, but no more information about the Patriots, Shane or Pam was forthcoming.

By eight that night, Isabel had a headache from the noise and smoke and excused herself to go back to their room. Adam remained behind and she hoped desperately that on his own he could gain some clues as to where the king might be being held.

In the room, Isabel took a long, hot shower, shedding the smell of the tavern down the drain. She towel-dried, pulled on her silk nightgown and matching robe, then sat down on the edge of the bed, exhausted by the roller-coaster events of the day.

She hadn't expected everything to be quite so difficult. She'd hoped vital information would fall
quickly into her lap and this whole undercover operation would be finished within a week.

Now she realized that information wasn't going to just fall into her lap. They would have to meet the right people, ask the right questions and hope for more than just a little luck.

She also hadn't considered how difficult it would be sharing intimate space with Adam. They had spent less than twenty-four hours together and already they had kissed twice. Granted, the first kiss had been necessary to establish their charade. And she suspected the second kiss had been a gesture of pity on Adam's part.

She'd been crying, half-hysterical, and he'd merely kissed her to comfort her. Even knowing the reasons for the kisses didn't negate the sweeping emotions that coursed through her when she thought of them. The truth was, she liked kissing Adam; she liked kissing him far more than she should.

She shoved these thoughts aside, disturbed that he could fill her head when she should be thinking about finding her father.

The phone on the nightstand caught her attention. She should call her mother. Since her father's kidnapping, few days went by that Isabel didn't speak to her mother.

She'd just dialed the number that would ring
Queen Josephine's private quarters when Adam returned to the room.

“I'm calling my mother,” she explained.

He nodded. “I'm going to take a shower.” He disappeared into the bathroom at the same time Queen Josephine answered the phone.

“Mother,” Isabel said.

“Isabel…where are you? I called you today and was told you've gone into seclusion. I've been worried.”

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to worry you. Has there been any news?” Isabel heard the sound of the shower running in the bathroom and tried to shove away the picture her mind attempted to produce…a picture of a wet, naked Adam.

“No…nothing.” Queen Josephine's voice was heavy with despair. “Edward isn't doing very well. I don't know what's wrong with him, perhaps the stress of taking on the throne, but he looks quite ill.”

“How's Dominique?” Isabel asked, hoping to change the subject to something more pleasant. Isabel's sister Dominique's six-month pregnancy was a source of great happiness not only to Isabel and her mother, but to Stanbury supporters around the country.

“She's doing just fine.” Josephine released an audible sigh. “Isabel, I haven't forgotten that you
haven't answered my original question. Where exactly are you?”

Isabel was vaguely aware of the shower water turning off in the bathroom as she considered what to tell her mother. “Don't ask,” she finally replied. “Mama, I can't just sit in my office and wait for others to find father.”

“You aren't doing anything foolish, are you?”

Isabel looked up as Adam came out of the bathroom. He was clad only in a pair of athletic shorts and brought with him the scent of clean maleness. “Of course not,” Isabel answered, unsurprised to find her mouth suddenly dry.

Had there ever been a chest so broad, so wonderfully sprinkled with just the right amount of hair and sharply defined with muscle? Isabel tore her gaze from Adam as he dropped into the chair.

“Isabel…don't get in over your head,” Queen Josephine warned.

“I won't,” Isabel replied, but she knew it was a lie. She was in over her head…way over her head where Adam Sinclair was concerned.

 

After Queen Josephine said goodbye to her eldest daughter, she moved to one of her bedroom windows. The view from this particular window was supposed to inspire peace and tranquility. The courtyard was filled with stone statues, flowers and
an impressive fountain, but the view hadn't inspired peace or tranquility for her in the past three months.

“Michael, where are you?” she whispered.

“You must hang on. You must be strong so you can return to me.”

The news that Michael had possibly suffered a stroke while in captivity had shot waves of panic and desolation through Josephine.

She moved away from the window, her heart heavier than it had ever been. Sinking into a plush chair, her head was filled with thoughts of the man she had married thirty-three years before.

She'd only been twenty-one when she'd married him. Their marriage had been a loveless match, a political alliance between her country of Wynborough and Michael's homeland of Edenbourg. She'd met Michael on the day of her marriage to him, and had pledged her life to his for the sake of her country, and for the children she would eventually bear.

On the surface, the marriage had been a success. She and Michael had come to an understanding. He stayed busy running the country and she had her charity work and her friends. It had been a comfortable life.

Then, on the day of Michael's granddaughter's christening, Michael had disappeared. In the days that followed, Josephine had been shocked to discover the profound depth, the utter, all-encompassing love she felt for her husband.

She couldn't believe that fate would be so cruel as to open her heart to her love for Michael when it might be too late to share it with him, when she might never get the opportunity to tell him just how much she loved him.

A knock sounded at her door. “Come in,” she said.

Edward Stanbury, her husband's brother, entered the room.

Josephine hadn't seen him since the day before and hoped she hid her shock at his appearance.

Since taking on the crown, Edward had aged years. His blue eyes were dull, his skin pasty white. His gray hair was limp and he appeared to have lost weight, giving him a gaunt, sick appearance.

“Is there news?” Josephine asked, rising from her chair.

He shook his head and waved her back down. “I'm afraid not. I just came by to see how you were doing.” He leaned against the back of the chair directly across from where she sat.

“I think the real question should be how are you doing? Edward, you don't look well.”

“I must confess, I'm not feeling very well. Perhaps I've caught a bug of some sort. Or maybe it's stress.” He smiled ruefully. “After all my divorces, I thought I knew all there was to know about stress, but nothing prepared me for ruling a country.” He hesitated a moment, then continued. “I'm thinking
of stepping down, Josephine. I'm really not feeling well.”

Josephine's mind raced, her first thought what was best for the country. If Edward relinquished the crown, then his eldest son, Luke, would be next in line. “Of course, you must do what you think best,” she replied, although her heart cried out in anguish.

It should be Michael on the throne, and if not Michael, then his son, Nicholas. But, Michael was missing, and Nicholas was in hiding so everyone in the country would think him dead.

“I haven't decided yet.” He frowned, looking far older than his fifty-five years. “There are so many things to consider. If only…” he allowed his voice to trail off.

Josephine could guess where his thoughts were going. “Yes, if only we could find Michael,” she said, surprised to feel the burn of tears behind her eyes.

“Well, I'll see you tomorrow?” Edward said, as if he sensed her need to be alone.

“Yes.”

With a nod, Edward turned and left.

Michael. Michael. Michael. Her heart cried his name in an endless litany of pain and love. Where are you? Why aren't you here with me?

He'd already missed so much. He'd been absent for Dominique's marriage to the King's High Coun
sel, Marcus Kent, and had missed seeing her burgeoning pregnancy. She was already through her second trimester.

Josephine frowned, a sudden thought skittering through her mind. So far Dominique had insisted nobody be told the sex of the baby she carried. Neither Dominique nor Marcus knew.

But, if the baby was a boy, with Michael and Nicholas absent, then the baby was the true heir to the Edenbourg throne. Before Edward stepped down, before Luke could step in as regent, Josephine needed to talk with Dominique.

Of course, the best possible solution was to find Michael alive and well. The tears that had burned behind her eyes now slid down her cheeks as she thought of her husband.

Please, Michael, get home safely. The country needed him. But, more importantly, she needed him.

A
dam sat in the back of the tavern and watched as Isabel made her way toward the bar. It was nearing closing time and Adam was tired and more than a little bit cranky.

For seven nights he'd slept in that infernal chair. And for seven days and nights he watched every man in this place lust after his “wife,” and his own lust for her had grown by the minute.

Tonight she was clad in a black dress no bigger than a handkerchief. Gold chains served as the back of the dress, displaying far too much skin as far as Adam was concerned.

Beneath the chains, her skin looked creamy and smooth, and he knew every man in the pub had entertained the fantasy of touching that skin.
He'd
certainly spent far too much time indulging in sensual fantasies where she was concerned.

For the past seven days he'd seen a side of Isabel he hadn't known she possessed. She'd been good-naturedly flirtatious with the men in the tavern, and part of her allure was the fact that she seemed so genuinely unaware of her allure.

Adam frowned irritably. He certainly wasn't unaware of her allure. Her scent wrapped around him at night like a warm, sensual blanket and he was beginning to learn the little habits that made her unique.

She was cranky in the mornings, but always cheerful by the end of her first cup of coffee. She liked croissants, not toast and butter, and never jelly.

Her lower lip trembled when she was trying to hide her emotions and she always uttered a soft little sigh just before she fell into deep sleep.

For all intent and purposes, Adam had all the intimate knowledge of her that a husband would have…except he hadn't made love to her. And he suspected that's why he was feeling cranky.

Of course, he preferred to think that his crabbiness came from the fact that they hadn't gained any information in the last seven days. He preferred to believe that it was work-related frustration that gnawed at his insides and not the sufferings of sexual deprivation.

His gaze narrowed as Blake Hariman walked in. The big man with the tattooed arms scanned the room, his gaze lingering on Isabel, then moving to meet Adam's gaze. The two men held eye contact for only a long moment, then Blake broke the stare and headed back toward the billiard tables.

Adam frowned thoughtfully. He had the feeling Blake was sizing him up, but for what, Adam had no idea. Every night the two men had sat across the bar from one another, and every night Adam had felt Blake's watchful gaze on him.

He once again looked at Isabel, who was making her way back to their table clutching two drinks in her hands. As usual, her hair was puffed all out in a punky style, and her full lips were ruby-red with lipstick.

“Better drink up for strength,” she said as she sat down next to him. “It's going to be a long night for you.”

He knew she was referring to the fact that Bart, the owner and bartender of the place, had given Adam the job of cleaning up after hours.

The pay was cash under the table and a discount on their room. Although Isabel and Adam needed neither, it was part of the facade they wanted to maintain.

“Yeah, just think of me when you're all snuggled in bed and I'm down here slaving to keep you in cheap, tacky outfits,” he said.

She laughed. “At least these cheap, tacky outfits of mine keep me blending in with the female patrons of this place.”

“I suppose,” he replied, his irritation rising once again. As far as he was concerned, there was no way she blended in. Throughout the past week women had come and gone from the bar, but none of them had been as pretty, as sexy or as compelling as Isabel.

“I'm beginning to think this whole scheme is nothing but a waste of our time.” He scowled into his drink.

“That's not true.” She leaned into him, her body warmth raising his internal temperature substantially. “We've learned about the Patriots, and we didn't know anything about them before this.”

“We still don't know anything about them,” Adam whispered in return. “Ben hasn't been able to find any information on them, and we sure as hell don't know if they had anything to do with your father's kidnapping.”

His tone was sharp and she flinched beneath the rancor in it. Instantly he was sorry. He drew a deep breath and raked a hand through his hair, steadying himself. “I apologize. I didn't mean to yell at you. Dammit, I'm just getting frustrated.”

“I know. So am I.” She placed a hand on his shoulder, only serving to make matters worse.

He wondered vaguely why she couldn't sense his
simmer, smell the scent of an imminent explosion. It was growing more and more difficult to think of anything other than how badly he wanted to taste her mouth again, how much he wanted to touch her.

He eased himself away from her, grateful that she dropped her hand and straightened in her chair, taking her heat, her scent and her nearness away.

They sat side by side until closing time, sipping their drinks and playing the roles they had undertaken as Bella and Adam Wilcox.

When the bar closed, Isabel went upstairs and Adam began the task of cleaning the tables. Bart had left him alone with the instructions to clean the tables, wash any dirty glasses and sweep the floor.

Adam set to work, dreading the time when he would go upstairs to the room where Isabel slept and conform his body to what had become a torture device…that damnable lumpy chair.

He'd slept on hammocks, on the ground and on hard narrow cots, but nothing had kept sleep at bay like that chair. He wondered vaguely if his nightly restlessness was due to the lumpy stuffing of the chair or the fact that Isabel was so near, wearing that sexy lilac nightgown and a scent that drove him half wild.

How much longer could he do it? How much longer could he be tormented by Isabel and this mock marriage without overstepping the boundaries of propriety? How long could he be strong enough
not to follow through on his enormous desire for her?

He'd finished with the tables and dishes and was sweeping up the floors when he heard a key in the front door. He turned, tensed and was surprised to see Blake Hariman walk in.

The big man filled the doorway and Adam eyed him warily, wondering what was going on. Was this some sort of a set-up? As Adam watched, Blake closed the door and re-locked it behind him.

Adam said nothing, but adrenaline pumped through him as he realized he should be prepared for anything. Blake walked across the room and around the back of the bar. “Buy you a drink?” he asked and placed two shot glasses and a bottle of whiskey on the bar.

“I never turn down a free drink.” Adam leaned his broom against the wall and walked over to the bar, still prepared for whatever might occur.

Although Blake was big, Adam felt confident if it came to a physical altercation, Adam could take him down…unless the man had a gun, or a knife.

He watched as Blake poured two liberal shots. He picked up one as Blake picked up the other. “To your health,” Blake said.

“And to yours,” Adam replied. Adam threw back the drink, the whiskey burning all the way down his throat and to his stomach. “Does Bart know you help yourself to his alcohol?”

For the first time, Blake grinned. It was not a particularly pleasant gesture, as it didn't reach the cold darkness of his eyes. “Bart knows what I tell him. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“Well, I appreciate the drink.” Adam started back toward his broom but paused when Hariman called his name.

“Wilcox. I hear through the grapevine that you aren't much of a Stanbury supporter. Did I hear right?”

Adam kept his features schooled carefully in neutrality.

“Maybe so…maybe not, depends on who is asking and why they want to know.”

Blake poured himself another shot and shrugged. “Just curious is all. There's some who think maybe it's time for some changes.”

“Depends on who's making the changes,” Adam answered carefully. He felt as if they were speaking in some sort of code and they had both lost the keys to exactly how the code worked.

Adrenaline still pumped through him, although he no longer anticipated a physical battle of any kind. However, he was aware that the mental game being played was every bit as dangerous as a fistfight or brawl.

“I got some friends who would like to see some changes made,” Blake said, his dark gaze speculative as it lingered on Adam.

“Yeah, and I've got some friends who want to be millionaires, so what's your point?” Adam asked with more than a touch of impatience.

“Look, I got work to do here.” He walked over and grabbed his broom.

“Maybe my friends are actively doing things to impel change.”

“So, what's that got to do with me?”

Blake shrugged his massive shoulders. “Just thought you'd like to meet some of them some time.”

“Maybe,” Adam replied and began to brush his broom across the floor. “As far as I'm concerned a man can't have too many friends.” Adam felt the weight of Blake's gaze on him, but he didn't look up from the floor.

“I'll see if I can set something up.” Blake drank the second shot then put the bottle away. Adam watched him surreptitiously, surprised to see him wash their glasses then put them away.

As Adam continued to push the broom across the floor, Blake walked to the front door. “I'll be in touch,” he said, then disappeared out into the night.

Adam didn't stop sweeping until the floor was completely clean, but as he swept, his mind whirled with questions. Who, exactly, were Blake Hariman's friends? The Patriots? Or another subversive lunatic group with the desire to destroy the monarchy?

Had he just taken the first step on a journey that would lead him to the kidnapped king? Or was he on the first leg of a merry wild-goose chase that would eat up valuable time?

When he was finished with the floor, he took the stairs two at a time to the third floor, unable to staunch the flow of optimism that rushed through him.

Although he had no rational reason to think so, he couldn't help but believe that tonight's strange conversation with Blake Hariman might just be the break they had been waiting for.

He'd intended to tell Isabel the new development the moment he entered their room, but one look at her sleeping form and he didn't have the heart to wake her. Morning was soon enough to tell her the news.

Instead, he took a brief, hot shower, pulled on a pair of shorts, then left the bathroom. He stood just at the foot of the chair, then looked once again at Isabel.

She slept soundly, her breathing deep and regular. Weariness tugged at Adam's bones and he stared long and hard at the empty side of the bed.

They were two adults. She was practically engaged to another man. Surely they could share the bed for a night or two without any dire consequences.

Before giving himself a chance to think twice, he
eased down into the over-soft bed, every muscle in his body thanking him for his choice.

He was asleep almost before he closed his eyes.

 

Isabel was dreaming. Oh, and what a dream it was. She was dreaming of the warmth of a body spooned around the back of hers, a strong male arm thrown over her shoulder. It was the sweetest of dreams because she could decide whose body was so close to hers, whose arm was around her. And she wanted it to be Adam's body, Adam's arm.

She snuggled deeper into the dream and came fully awake. Her heart instantly worked overtime as she realized it wasn't a dream at all. It was very, very real.

Adam was in bed with her and the soft mattress had allowed their bodies to roll together in the middle of the mattress. Had he come to the bed because he was tired of sleeping in the chair, or because of his desire for her?

She didn't move, was almost afraid to continue breathing. She didn't want to wake him, didn't want to end the moment of intimate closeness.

Closing her eyes once again, she breathed in the scent of him, wishing she could turn over and he would awaken and make love to her.

Her cheeks burned at the thought and her heart raced a little faster. She hadn't made love to any
man, but she knew with certainty that making love to Adam Sinclair would be a beautiful experience.

She frowned, thinking of the future her father had mapped out for her. King Michael had already made his wishes for his eldest daughter well known. He wanted her to marry Sebastian Lansbury, settle into the role of traditional wife and have lots of royal babies to continue the lineage.

But Isabel's brother Nicholas had already had one child, sweet little LeAnn. Surely he and his wife, Rebecca, would have more children…a son that would one day be the crown prince. And if they didn't have a son, it was possible Dominique's child would be a boy to continue the Stanbury lineage on the throne.

Eventually Isabel wanted children, but she didn't want to have them with Sebastian Lansbury. She certainly didn't want to marry Sebastian.

What she wanted was to remain here, in bed with Adam, forever. She could gladly spend a lifetime gazing into his fascinating gray eyes, wrapped in the warmth of his arms.

But she knew their present physical closeness wasn't due to any magic of love, but rather to the reality of physics. The mattress was soft, it was only natural their bodies had rolled together in the night.

It would be nice to believe that, out of want and need, Adam had reached for her in his sleep, but
she knew better than to fall into that particular fantasy.

In fact, she knew better than to linger in this sleepy embrace, knowing there was no truth in it. Funny how that thought created an odd ache in the bottom of her heart.

The moment she moved, he awakened and rolled away from her as if she were on fire and he feared spontaneous combustion.

“Good morning,” she said, hoping her face didn't radiate her dismay at how quickly he'd withdrawn from her.

“‘Morning,” he returned.

“I see you decided to get smart and make use of the bed.”