The Princess is Pregnant! Read Free

moonlight and rapture.
    Foolish, foolish Megan, the Ice Princess scolded.
    “Not your name,” he corrected. “The real you. Ah, yes, the Quiet One.”
    She tensed at the nickname, but he said nothing more, only watched her from eyes hooded by thick lashes, the lean planes of his face harsh and forbidding. She shivered.
    He stood, then quickly threw out the anchor and furled the sail. He went into the hold. In another minute, soft music swelled into the darkness. He returned and held out his arms in invitation to dance.
    The first time they’d danced had been at Meredith’s birthday ball. Jean-Paul had politely danced with all the royals, starting with the birthday girl,then the queen and finally her. Anastasia had attended the dinner, then been sent to bed, but Megan had been allowed to stay. Those moments in his arms had seemed filled with magic.
    This evening was to be a seduction, she realized. That was what he had decided she wanted. He, with his vast knowledge of many women, knew nothing of her. Looking at the challenge in his eyes, she was tempted, so very tempted.
    But this night wasn’t for her. She shook her head.
    “No?” he mocked.
    “I want to be alone,” she said, turning his earlier statement on him and allowing no emotion to show on her face. Rising, she made her way to the bow and stood watching the luminous rush of shallow waves to the beach.
    Disappointment raged through her, although she wasn’t shocked. She didn’t know what she’d expected from her impulsive action, but it hadn’t been this blatant invitation to pleasure, given without words or tender feelings, an intimate meeting of strangers, as it were.
    The engine throbbed to life under her feet. Slowly he turned the ketch until they were safely away from the rocky shore. He was returning her to the marina.
    She wasn’t surprised, she wasn’t even hurt, but she did regret her rashness in following him.
    With the sail up, they tacked against the windonce more, sailing westward rather than eastward toward the port.
    Turning, she studied him at the helm, his touch sure and experienced as he guided them out to sea. She wondered if he headed for Gibraltar and the vast ocean beyond. They would sail to the new world…or perhaps all the way home. His or hers?
    The island principality of Drogheda was twenty-six miles from her father’s kingdom of Penwyck. Jean-Paul’s uncle was the ruling prince, his father a powerful duke. Jean-Paul, as heir apparent, had been named Earl of Silvershire at twenty-one, much as the future king of England was vested as Prince of Wales when he came of age.
    An earl was a suitable husband for a royal princess.
    The idea shocked and excited and saddened her. If they married, it would be an official marriage, a merger between two ancient enemies who had tried to conquer each other since the time of Arthur Pendragon and his knights.
    She faced the wind and let it blow the silvery webs of longing from her heart. She would never marry. It wasn’t in the cards.
    “The sea is getting rough,” Jean-Paul called to her. “Come astern now. Grab a life preserver from the locker.”
    She reluctantly did as told and rejoined him at the helm. He had removed his tuxedo jacket, shoesand socks, she saw. His shirt was open to the waist. He’d rolled the cuffs up and out of his way.
    He motioned for her to sit, then dropped a rain slicker over her head and arranged its folds to cover her evening gown. His glance at her feet reminded her of the silver sandals she wore. She kicked them off and tossed them down the hatch into the hold.
    He grinned and secured the hatch against the squall that was coming up. “I know a place,” he said, as if to reassure her he knew what he was doing.
    She nodded.
    Just as rain and the first rough wave broke over the bow, he turned the sailing yacht toward a long sea wall, scooted around its end and into a protected cove.
    In the sudden stillness, Megan felt her heart pound. Her mouth went dry.