The Disgraced Princess (8 page)

After one glance at his face she looked away. The angular features were stark and honed, formidable, but, oddly enough, not angry. He probably looked like this when he was faced with a constitutional problem.

Her breath hurt in her starved lungs when she took a rapid breath.

In a voice so aloof it made her shiver, he said, ‘Do you have the tablets with you?'

‘No,' she said miserably. ‘They're in the bathroom at the villa.' She hadn't gone back in there after he'd come for her, and she hadn't thought of taking one because she was so ridiculously,
stupidly
happy at the prospect of a whole day with him…

‘So there's a reasonably good chance that you're completely unprotected.'

‘I don't know, but there's a warning about using other protection if you miss one…' Her voice trailed away as he stood up and walked across to the porthole, staring out as though—as though he couldn't bear to look at her.

Then and there, Rosie made up her mind that if she was pregnant she would love their baby enough for two.

‘It's just five days since I took the first one,' she said bleakly. ‘I didn't—I didn't know that—'

‘You didn't realise men could make love while they were asleep,' he said in a level voice that told her nothing.

She pushed her wildly curling hair back from her hot face. His earlier words echoed in her mind like doom-bringers.
No protection.

‘No,' she admitted in a muted voice.

‘So now you do know. Anyway, it wasn't your fault.'

But it was. She'd touched him, caressed him…

He said, ‘There is something—the morning-after Pill.'

No!

Appalled, she gazed at his arrogant features, so controlled she couldn't read anything but an in flexible decisiveness when he went on harshly, ‘I would prefer not to go that way, but I realise the decision is yours to make.'

‘I don't…I know it seems silly, but I can't help but feel it's…' Rosie floundered, then said on a jagged indrawn breath, ‘I don't want to do that. Do your pharmacies here sell test kits?'

‘I'll get one sent from the capital,' he said curtly. ‘It will be more discreet.'

‘I'm so sorry.'

‘Why?' He gave her a tight smile. ‘For giving me the best sex I've ever had?'

Pink-cheeked, she accused, ‘You said you were asleep!'

‘Not for long,' he said drily, his face relaxing as he surveyed her. ‘But I could no more have stopped than I can fly. We'd better get dressed.'

Once back at the villa he said, ‘Go and take that pill now.'

Heart sinking, she hurried inside and swallowed the wretched thing, closing her eyes to the warning on the packet. For long seconds she stood in the bathroom, one hand pressed to her heart, and then she straightened her shoulders and walked back to help Gerd tidy the yacht. While he coiled ropes she made the bed, biting her lip when all evidence of their wild mating had been erased.

They walked back together, tension tightening between them like in visible cords.

Keep it light, she warned herself. But no, her wilful heart had to wildly complicate an already tangled situation. And now this…

He broke into her sombre thoughts. ‘Would you like to go out to dinner?'

No, she wanted to go into her bedroom and howl like a banshee. Instead, she nodded and said sedately, ‘That would be lovely, thank you.'

But that night they didn't make love. Rosie understood; she too didn't want to risk anything until she knew the result of her madness. Yet she found herself dreaming of babies, of losing something precious and irretrievable,
waking a couple of times in the darkness with tears running down her cheeks.

The parcel from the pharmacist was scheduled to arrive after lunch the next day—a day with a sullen sun behind a bank of cloud, followed by rain scudding in across the sea.

Over a late break fast Gerd said, ‘I have papers to deal with. Will you be all right?'

Rosie lifted her brows. ‘Of course I will,' she said solemnly. ‘I need to give myself a manicure.'

‘And that will take all morning?'

Rosie smiled. ‘No,' she admitted. ‘Gerd, don't worry about me—I'm able to entertain myself.'

To her surprise he picked up her hands and examined them. ‘They look perfect as they are,' he said, adding with a narrow smile, ‘and on my skin they feel…exquisite. And so very creative.'

He laughed at the fiery colour across her cheekbones, and carried her hands to his mouth, kissing each palm. ‘I hope you don't plan to paint your nails black.'

‘Black doesn't suit me,' she said promptly. Her need for him was a sharp pain, and his kisses sent the familiar quiver of delight through her. She went on, ‘Besides, my mother always says that when you're on holiday clear polish is the only appropriate shade.'

In the end she did give herself a manicure. She'd just reassured herself that the polish had dried when her cellphone rang.

Startled, she lifted it. ‘Hello?'

As though her words that morning had conjured her mother, Eva said tartly, ‘You might have let me know where you were.'

‘You have my number.' What had caused this unusual call?

‘Yes, well, I've been busy, and there's been no need.' Eva paused to give weight to her next words. ‘Until I picked up the paper this morning. Do you realise you're all over the newspapers of most of the world?'

‘What?'

‘You heard,' Eva told her. ‘Surely you didn't think you could go off with Gerd and not have the paparazzi come along too? They've been waiting with bated breath for him to announce his engagement to Princess Serina, so photos of you together are particularly juicy.'

Rosie realised she was shaking, her fingers clenched around the telephone. ‘But there haven't been any photographers—'

‘Oh, yes, there have,' her mother interrupted. ‘At least one's got a photo of you gazing dreamily up at Gerd—and sold it to every newspaper in New Zealand, it seems. According to a friend in London, the papers there are on to it too. Oh, they're careful to say you're a cousin of Gerd's, but that photo is pretty damning.'

Sick apprehension chilled Rosie. ‘Damn,' she whispered.

Her mother said acidly, ‘I hope you're not pinning any hopes on marrying him.'

‘Of course I'm not.'

‘Well, that's something, I suppose.' Eva paused, but when Rosie didn't speak she went on in irritation, ‘Honestly, Rosemary, what are you
thinking
? I know you've always had a yen for him, but he's more or less engaged to that princess, and she's not going to be happy
that he's spending a dirty week with you before their betrothal goes official.'

Rosie bit her lip. She wasn't going to tell her mother that Gerd had promised her there was no relationship between him and the oh-so-suitable princess. ‘Thanks for telling me,' she said levelly. ‘I'd better go now.'

And let Gerd know. She felt sick, besmirched as she left the room to do just that. But she met him halfway to the room he called the study and realised he'd already found out. His brows were drawn together in a forbidding frown, and his beautiful mouth was a thin, straight line.

When she opened her mouth he held up a hand. ‘We need to talk.'

‘My mother's just rung,' she said quietly.

His face darkened further. ‘What did she have to say?'

Briefly she enlightened him.

He bit off words in Carathian, and said, ‘I've heard from my chief minister.'

‘Is it so bad? I mean—you've had relationships before and you're not…'

Her voice trailed away as her mother's words echoed in her ears.
Just been about to announce his engagement…

Had he lied to her? No, she thought, torn by anger and despair. Surely not. Not Gerd.

But he said curtly, ‘There's more to this than headlines.' He looked around the wide hall. ‘Come into the study; it's going to take some explaining.'

In his office—a large room, half-office, half-sitting
room, with a massive sofa in front of a fireplace at one end—he showed her the photograph on his computer screen. Frowning, she peered at it.

Clearly taken from some distance with a telephoto lens, it showed her and Gerd standing together. He had his arm around her shoulders, and she was laughing up at him. Thank heavens her shorts and shirt were discreet and not at all sexy, she thought, relieved for a second until that sick apprehension kicked back in.

Because she was looking at Gerd with her heart in her eyes.

‘Where—? Oh, of course,' she said, realising it had been taken at the temple of Aphrodite.

‘He—or she—must have been in the clump of trees on the next headland,' Gerd said without inflection.

Biting her lip, she straightened up. ‘It's not too bad. I mean, I'm just laughing, and that's just a casual hug…' Her voice trailed away.

His brows lifted. ‘No one looking at that could fail to see that we're lovers.'

Rosie took a deep breath. We
are
lovers, he'd said. Well, it was true—or had been until she'd lost her head on the yacht.

‘All right, but I'm still missing something here. Why is this a disaster?'

‘It's not a disaster,' he returned, so coolly detached she could have hit him. ‘It's a complication. Come and sit down.'

Once on that wide sofa, she looked at him, her heart clamping. He leaned against the stones of the fireplace and said without preamble, ‘Do you know anything about Carathia's legend of the second son?'

‘Yes.' Astonished, she stared at him. What on earth had an ancient legend got to do with that photograph? ‘Well, not much, really, only enough to know that there is a legend that caused you problems. It surfaced when your grand mother confirmed you as her heir—some idiots wanted Kelt instead because the legend says that if there are disasters and hardship it's because the wrong son is ruling the country, and the only thing to do is depose the current Grand Duke and put his sibling on the throne.'

His mouth thinned. ‘And several hundred people died because of it.'

Rosie nodded. ‘Yes, I remember. It was horrible, but what does it have to do with us?'

‘Bear with me,' he told her austerely. ‘A thousand years ago Carathia was ruled by my ancestor.'

‘The Greek mercenary—the one who saved Carathia from being overrun?'

He shook his head. ‘No, the Norseman who arrived here via Russia. His oldest son inherited the throne; unfortunately for him plague struck, and then they were invaded by a horde from Asia. They were still fighting them off when this area was hit by a tidal wave caused by an earthquake in the eastern Mediterranean. The ruler was deemed unlucky, and the people rebelled, forcing him from the throne and installing his younger brother in his place.'

‘And that's what this legend is based on?'

‘Not entirely. As soon as the brother ascended the throne the horde withdrew, the plague died away and no further tidal waves have ever hit this coast. However, after his death the son who ascended to the throne had to face another war.'

‘So they got rid of him and in stalled his younger brother?' Rosie guessed.

‘Exactly. Who fought a triumphant war against the invaders and beat them decisively, and had a long and glorious reign. That's when the legend took root, mainly amongst the people in the mountains, who'd suffered greatly from war and plague. As you can imagine, this has caused endless turmoil down through the centuries; only rulers with no siblings felt safe on the throne. Even my grand mother had to fight a rebellion fomented by her younger sister.'

‘Is that why Kelt's always lived in New Zealand?'

He looked at her almost approvingly. ‘Yes. Of course, he's a born and bred Kiwi, and the last thing he wants is to rule Carathia.'

‘So that's all right, then.' But it wasn't, she could tell from his expression. He looked—for bid ding. ‘I don't see what any of this has to do with me.'

With us…

Except that there was no
us
.

‘Ever since then there has been a considerable amount of pressure on me to marry and provide heirs for the throne. I've been advised that it's probably the best way to make sure of a peaceful reign.'

Rosie fought to breathe, to be able to speak sensibly. She looked out of the window and realised that while she'd been in the study the clouds had been whisked away and the sun was shining outside. It seemed cruelly fateful.

‘Go on,' Rosie said, bracing herself. He was going to tell her he'd lied, that he planned to marry the princess and produce those heirs to satisfy his people.

His smile was humourless. ‘Those photographs have caused a furore in Carathia. No, they haven't been published there, but people have seen them on television beamed in from the surrounding countries.'

‘But—you've had—I mean, there have been other relationships,' she said uncertainly. Nothing about the princess, but her relief was brief and followed by even more doubt.

He shrugged. ‘Carathians are conservative—they didn't see my other women as fit candidates for Grand Duchess.'

And neither was she. Rosie's emotions see-sawed again into bitter darkness.

It had to be the princess…

‘I'll leave Carathia today, then—that should stop any gossip.' Intent only on getting out of there with some pitiful scraps of pride intact, she got to her feet.

Ignoring her statement, he said uncompromisingly, ‘The situation is complicated by the fact that you and I are connected, if not directly related. The Carathians have a history of cousin marriage.'

‘But we're not really cousins!' She stopped, because something wasn't right. Searching his face, she could discern nothing beyond a formidably in flexible determination.