The Pregnant Princess Page 15

  The moment the words hit the quiet night air, he wished he could get them back. Erase them and go on, blissfully unaware. A chill crawled up his back, though he didn’t know why, and he felt a slow, inexorable change imbue the very air around them with dread. Moving deliberately, he sat up and looked down at her.

  “Why?” he demanded again.

  She hesitated. Pushing herself to a sitting position also, she scooted back a little, moving away from him. She linked her fingers together in her lap, looked down at them, and sighed. The sound carried a distinct note of resignation. “Your father started to tell you, but he was interrupted. There’s been a great deal of discussion in recent years, in light of Wynborough’s current lack of male heirs to the crown, as to how to proceed when the time comes.”

  “That’s great. But it doesn’t affect us.”

  “Well, actually, it might.” She moved back even farther as if she wanted to be out of his reach. “Two months ago a new proviso to the law was enacted.”

  “What kind of proviso?” He had a sick feeling jittering around in his stomach, and abruptly he recalled the vehement tone in his father’s voice when they’d spoken of living in Phoenix. Unable to sit for another minute, he sprang from the bed, snatching a pair of sweatpants from the bedpost and stuffing his legs into them. “I’m waiting,” he barked when she didn’t respond.

  “A proviso to ensure that the Wyndham line continues,” she said in a low voice. “Since there is no eldest son to inherit, the eldest grandson will be the one to ascend the throne when my father…isn’t the king anymore.”

  “The eldest grandson?” he repeated cautiously.

  She nodded, apprehension clearly visible. “No matter which princess is his mother, the eldest grandson will be the next king.”

  He was incredulous. Fury rose as he realized fully what her words meant. There was a distinct possibility that his child, were it a son, would be the heir to the throne of Wynborough. “I can’t believe this!” His voice was tight with the rage erupting inside him. “You know how I feel about this whole royalty thing and now you tell me if we have a son, he might be the next king?”

  “Rafe, I didn’t plan this,” she said, a note of pleading entering her voice. “I certainly didn’t intend to get pregnant the first time we met. And I didn’t intend to marry you, remember?”

  “You still expect me to believe that?” He was too angry to care about the words he hurled at her. “You knew who I was at the ball that night. Our fathers didn’t have as much to do with this as I’d thought, did they?”

  “That’s not true! I had no idea who you were—”

  “Sure. And pigs fly, Princess.”

  “I told you my father would never arrange a marriage for me. He doesn’t believe in such an archaic custom.”

  “Maybe not, but he didn’t mind sacrificing a virgin daughter for the good of the Crown, did he?”

  She gasped. Tears were swimming in her eyes and as he watched, one fat drop slipped down her cheek. And still he went on, every suspicion he’d ever harbored erupting in a raging river of fury.

  “I was right all along, wasn’t I? You nearly had me fooled. But now your real agenda’s been exposed. If you can’t be the king—which you can’t, being a female—then be the next best thing. Elizabeth, the Queen Mother. And I’m the perfect catch. Heir to the Grand Duchy of Thortonburg. If I were to inherit the title. I bet it was one hell of a shock when you found out I’m just plain old Rafe Thorton and intend to remain that way!”

  The tears were pouring down her face now. “That’s not what happened!” she screamed at him. She came off the bed in a rush, dragging the sheet around her to conceal her nakedness. As if he gave a damn. “I didn’t know who you were when we met. I didn’t even make the connection to Thortonburg when I found your card.” She was shaking with rage, and he had a sudden moment of concern for the baby she carried.

  “Eliz—”

  “I loved you,” she said, dashing the tears from her cheeks with one hand. “All I ever wanted was to marry you and have a family. Here in America or any other place you chose. That stupid title doesn’t appeal to me any more than it does to you,” she said fiercely.

  “Right. And when were you planning to share this little ‘proviso’ with me?” He crossed his arms over his chest. “You knew about this months ago, no doubt. These kinds of laws aren’t passed overnight. Were you afraid one of your sisters was going to beat you to the prize?” His heart was pounding so hard, he could feel it hammering against his wrist where it pressed against his skin and he felt as if his head was going to explode. How could she have done this to him? Easily. You were just the means to the end, buddy.

  “I was waiting until the baby was born to tell you,” she said in answer to his original question. Her voice was flat and dull. “I knew how you’d react. But if it’s a girl, there would be no reason for concern. Alexandra’s already expecting her first baby and my other two sisters recently married—I have every hope that one of them will produce the heir instead of me.”

  “Every hope,” he repeated tightly.

  “Every hope,” she enunciated. “But you have such a phobia about your ties to the crown that it won’t really matter even if it is a girl, will it, Rafe? Even if this baby is a daughter, you’re still going to be stuck with a royal connection that’s only one step away from the King. And you’ll blame me for that for the rest of my life. I’ll never be able to change my blood to something less blue. And you know what?” She stormed across the room until she was right in his face and he could see the deep, open wound he’d torn in her heart reflected in her eyes. “I wouldn’t even if I could. I love my family. They’re not my enemies, and I won’t pretend to be somebody I’m not, even for you.” She stopped and took a deep breath that hitched twice before she regained control. “You can forget this marriage. I’m going back to Wynborough to be with people who love me the way I am.”

  Her words stunned him. She stomped out the door and down the hall to the other end, where the room she’d slept in before still held most of her things. He heard the door slam violently and he knew there would be no talking to her the rest of the night.

  You can forget this marriage.

  She couldn’t back out! She’d said she would marry him.

  Forget this marriage.

  He felt himself begin to shake as he fully grasped what those words meant. She wasn’t going to marry him. His child would not be born legitimate. His child would be raised on a separate continent from its own father with a mother who didn’t want to have anything more to do with him. But worse, much worse, was the loss of the love he’d come to depend on. She’d said she was leaving, going back to Wynborough. She was leaving him.

  He hadn’t anticipated that when he’d accused her of wanting his title. What woman was going to stand and let a man shout at her, accuse her of all kinds of things, scoff at her honesty?

  The sick feeling in his stomach returned full-force and he had to grope for the edge of the bed. He’d been wrong. He had to have been. No one had schemed to push her into his arms. Otherwise, she’d never be giving up the chance at marriage. He’d half assumed, stupidly, that she was only playing hard-to-get when she’d refused him before.

  But she hadn’t been. He could see that now. It was so clear. All she’d wanted from him was love. Not legitimacy for her child, not a “second-best” title for a woman who couldn’t wear the crown. Just love. She’d refused to marry him repeatedly because she’d loved him and had no hope of the feeling being returned.

  He dropped his head into his hands and squeezed his skull between his palms. How blind could a man be?

  Oh, God, he’d been so stupid. He’d taken her love and trampled it beneath both feet, with less than no regard for her feelings. He’d been so steeped in his own bitter memories that even after his family had made a legitimate attempt at reconciliation he was still determined to punish someone.

  And he’d taken it out on Elizabeth. He’d sensed he
r love for him before she’d confessed it, and he’d been so confident that her heart would be his forever that he hadn’t realized how easily hearts can be broken.

  He’d just ground hers into dust.

  Could he repair the damage? The sick feeling told him it wouldn’t be easy. But he had to try.

  Rising, he walked slowly down the hall to her suite and knocked on the door. But as he’d expected, she didn’t answer. He listened carefully, but she wasn’t sobbing—at least, not loudly enough for him to hear. With a weariness deeper than anything he’d ever felt before, he slid down the door into a sitting position and prepared to wait. When she opened that door, he intended to be there.

  No matter how long it took.

  Because she was the bottom line. Elizabeth was what mattered most to him. If she wouldn’t forgive him, if she didn’t love him anymore, he didn’t know what he’d do.

  Dawn came a few hours later and he still didn’t hear her. Good. She must have fallen back asleep. God knew how— he hadn’t been remotely tempted to close his eyes.

  By eight he was tired of sitting. She rarely ever slept this late. He straightened from the cramped position in which he’d been sitting and stood, then knocked on the door. Not hard enough to make her think he was still angry, but firmly enough that she couldn’t sleep through it.

  Not a peep.

  Fifteen minutes later he was getting worried. She still hadn’t made any sound at all and his imagination was starting to rev into overdrive, quickening his pulse and shortening his breath.

  “Elizabeth! Open this door. I only want to talk to you.” He paused.

  No answer. Oh, God, was she hurt? Lying on the bathroom floor unconscious? Those tiles were so slippery….

  “Either you open it now or I break it down.” That was an idle threat. He’d designed the house himself. There was no way anyone could kick in one of these doors.

  Keeping an ear tuned for her, he hurried to his tool closet and got a few items, then returned and began taking the door off its hinges. One way or another, she was going to talk to him.

  Finally, the door came free and he set it to one side, then rushed into the room. She wasn’t there. Heart pounding, he checked the adjoining bath but she wasn’t there, either.

  Then he noticed the French doors leading to the pool terrace. The deadbolt was unlocked as was the lock on the doorknob. As he started across the room, something white and out of place on the bed’s forest-green quilt caught his eye.

  Snatching up the note, he scanned its contents.

  Rafe

  I will contact you when the baby is born. Please inform your family of the change in plans.

  HRH Elizabeth, Princess of Wynborough.

  Nine

  The sunlight hurt her eyes even through the dark glasses she wore.

  As the driver of the rental car she’d hired sped along the highway toward Catalina, Elizabeth wished for the tenth time that she was allowed to take a painkiller for the headache that was pounding behind her eyes.

  When she extracted the sheet of paper from her purse, her hands were shaking and abruptly she clasped them together in her lap, squeezing tightly enough that her knuckles turned white. She had to get herself under control before she reached Catalina, or Sam Flynn would think she was crazy.

  Sam Flynn was likely to think she was crazy, anyway. After all, how many people knocked on your door and explained that you might be a long-lost prince?

  She should be more excited about this venture. It was quite likely that she would be meeting her older brother for the first time in her life in less than an hour.

  But nothing seemed exciting to her after the events of last night.

  She swallowed and told herself to think of something— anything—else. But over and over again, like a scratched CD that kept skipping back to the same spot, she heard Rafe’s voice in her head: You knew who I was at the ball that night… Heir to the Grand Duchy of Thortonburg.

  The pain battered her skull. Dear God, how could he have believed that of her? She was right to break it off. He would never be able to get past his doubts, never be able to work through the anger he still felt at his father and his family for trying to make him into something he wasn’t.

  She recalled the look she’d seen on the Grand Duke’s face the day they’d gone to visit. Victor Thorton was a man who loved his son…a man who would have to live the rest of his life knowing he had driven away his own child with his demands and his untruths. But Rafe would never fully understand that. Because he would never choose to allow himself to believe it.

  Her eyes began to sting again, though she would swear there couldn’t be any more tears left to fall. Last night she’d called a taxi and quietly left the house through her terrace door as soon as she could dress. Getting over the fence around the property hadn’t been as easy as it might have been normally, but she’d managed it and then checked into a motel for what was left of the night. She’d cried endlessly into a pillow and risen at dawn to stare vacantly at the television until a decent hour arrived and she could place a call to Catalina.

  Sam Flynn had been noncommittal on the telephone, but he’d agreed to meet with her. So after a hasty shower she’d rented this car, complete with driver this time. She would accomplish what she and her sisters had really come to the States to do—find their brother—and then she’d go home.

  To Wynborough.

  Even if Wynborough didn’t feel like “home” anymore, it was a better place than most to raise her child… Rafe’s child. Her breath caught, and she turned the sob into a cough. She’d already alarmed the driver once when he’d looked in the mirror and seen the tears flowing down her cheeks. So now she wore the dark glasses and told herself to buck up, quit sniffling. After all, she was a princess. She had an obligation to present herself well in public.

  Samuel N. Flynn was an attorney-at-law, according to the listing in the telephone book. Since it was a Tuesday morning, she’d called his office and been lucky enough to find him in.

  Now, as the car pulled to a stop in front of the sign announcing Flynn’s business, situated in a professional building, she stepped out and mentally closed the door on all thoughts other than the task at hand.

  A receptionist sat busily working at a keyboard in the waiting room. Elizabeth announced herself simply as she had on the phone, as Elizabeth Wyndham, and the woman disappeared down a long hallway. A moment later, she reappeared and invited Elizabeth to follow her.

  The attorney sat behind an enormous desk which held a small assortment of objets d’art and a larger collection of neat stacks of files in rows across the top of the desk. He rose when she entered and courteously came around the desk to shake her hand and offer her a seat as the receptionist retreated to her post.

  “Miss Wyndham. A pleasure to meet you. Now tell me how I can help you with this ‘urgent matter’ you mentioned on the phone this morning.” Sam Flynn had thick, wavy brown hair and a strong jaw with a dimple in his cheek. A good-looking man in a rough, tough way that went with the broad shoulders beneath his conventional white shirt. But it was his eyes that caught her attention. Piercing, blue and compelling, they reminded her of Rafe’s eyes, and she felt her composure falter as Rafe’s beloved features appeared in her mind once more.

  “Ah, Mr. Flynn, thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

  “Sam, please, Miss Wyndham.” He leaned forward to look pointedly at her ring finger, grinning mischievously. “It is Miss, isn’t it?”

  “Um, actually, it’s Princess.” She was wearing an unrevealing pantsuit this morning and the handsome attorney must not have noticed her pregnancy. But she found herself completely unable to respond to his lighthearted flirtation; the comment only made her want to burst into tears again. “My father is King Phillip of Wynborough.”

  “Good God.” Sam Flynn looked mildly thunderstruck. He assessed her expression. “You aren’t kidding, are you?” Then his face sobered and he leaned back against the edge of his d
esk, crossing his ankles and folding muscular arms over his chest in a manner that made her fear for the seams at the shoulders of his shirt. “Now you’ve really got me curious. What’s going on?”

  “Are you the Samuel N. Flynn who was once at The Sunshine Home for Children in Hope?”

  He nodded, his eyes alive with interest. “One and the same.”

  “What does the N. stand for?”

  He grinned again. “No-middle-name. I was dumped at the home without a middle name and they listed it on my records the same way. Hence, my N.”

  “Mr. Fl—Sam, you may remember that years ago I had a brother who was kidnapped as a child.”

  “Presumed dead.” He shook his head. “I was just a baby then, but I’ve read about it. Must have been a horrible time for your parents.”

  “It was. The thing is, you are exactly the same age as my brother. Until recently we believed he was dead. But new evidence led us to The Sunshine Home, where my brother is believed to have been brought a few weeks after the kidnapping.”

  “I see.” Sam spoke slowly and she could see why he was a lawyer. His mind worked at top speed. “And you think there’s a chance I’m your brother.”

  “There’s a chance,” she agreed.

  “Nah.” He unfolded his arms and boosted himself to sit on the desk, long legs dangling. “You’re too gorgeous to be related to me.”

  “When my brother disappeared, he had dark hair and blue eyes. We know he was big for his age. He looked a great deal like pictures of my father at the same age and he probably still would today.” She fumbled to open her bag and pulled out two sheets of paper, unfolding them and smoothing out the creases. She passed the first one to him. “This is a picture of my father at age thirty, the age my brother would be today.”

  “The age I am.” Sam studied the copy. “It’s possible. Although I don’t see any great resemblance.”

  “It’s hard to tell from a photograph.” She studied him, thinking that he could indeed be James. So why wasn’t she more excited? Wasn’t this what she’d come to the States for?