LITMIR.BIZ

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A ripple of some emotion he couldn’t define ran over him.

      Megan. Princess Megan Penelope Penwyck. The Quiet One. The sweet lover who had delighted him with her innocent passion. She’d been a virgin. That discovery had surprised him as much as the excited report of the shepherd on the ancient burial mound.

      Her responsiveness had set him on fire, so much so he’d made love to her three times before morning came. They had both been silent on the voyage back to Monte Carlo.

      For the first time in his life, he hadn’t been able to summon glib conversation to ease the transition from the intimacy of the night to the casualness and eventual parting that came with the sunrise.

      After the return to the hotel, he hadn’t seen her again. She’d left for Penwyck the same day, slipping from the hotel without a word. He’d sent flowers to her home, but no note had answered the gift. He’d assumed the lady hadn’t wanted a repeat of the night before.

      His mood introspective, he paused on a summit that opened on a view of the castle and grounds several miles away from where he’d grown to manhood. He’d been caught up in state affairs, then the scheduled archaeological dig, for the past two months. There’d been no time to pursue the matter between him and the elusive princess from Penwyck.

      The note he’d received yesterday had reminded him of her—concise and to the point. She’d requested a meeting with him at his earliest convenience.

      That was it. No explanation, no references to the past, no accusations, just the polite note penned in her own clear, precise handwriting.

      However, it didn’t take a genius to realize her request was dated eight weeks and one day after their night together.

      Since their lovemaking had been totally unplanned, he hadn’t had protection with him. However, he couldn’t say he’d never thought of the possibility of a child. He had…and had ignored the precautions he always took when it came to involvement. Or entrapment.

      As one touted by the tabloids as a Top Ten eligible bachelor, he was very careful about whom he dated and how involved their relationship became. Women with their own highly successful careers were sophisticated and just as leery of tying themselves down as he was.

      A royal princess like Megan would have been taught from the cradle to be wary of the unexpected or impulsive. So how did either of them explain that one foolish but magical night they’d shared?

      Unexpected and undefined emotion rushed over him. He studied it for a moment, then shrugged. Whatever would be, would be. C’est la vie.

      The trip down the mountain took all of Tuesday and half of Wednesday. He had time to do a lot of soul-searching. Impending fatherhood didn’t dismay him, he found.

      It came to him that he was already thinking of it as a sure thing. If so, his parents would be pleased. He had recently turned thirty, and they had given him several broad hints that it was time he, an only child, settled down and produced the required heir to Silvershire.

      Perhaps he would surprise them with news of coming nuptials, he thought sardonically, entering the manse that served as the seat of his father’s dukedom and which he would inherit one day. But not soon, he hoped.

      He loved and admired his parents. Once he’d even assumed a passionate love would come to him as it had to them. Their marriage had been impulsive and had enraged his grandfather, the old duke. But it had worked out well.

      Running up the stairs to his quarters, he knew word of his arrival—and his plans for immediate departure—would soon spread from the staff to the present duke. Hmm, what would he say about where he was going?

      Tell the truth? He could be wrong about the child. Maybe the princess wanted to continue where they’d left off.

      His body stirred to rigid life at the thought. He grimaced as he stripped, showered and changed into more formal clothing for the expected meeting with the duke and duchess. If he told his parents what he suspected, they would most likely have a marriage arranged for him before he could sail across the twenty-six miles to Penwyck and consult with the princess.

      Heading down the steps, he decided it was better to keep his thoughts to himself, at least for now.

      “Jean-Paul,” his mother said, pausing in the hall and smiling up at him.

      She was French and spoke English with an enchanting accent. Her hair and eyes were dark, her form petite. Daughter of a vintner with more family pride than money, she and his father had met in Monte Carlo, taken one look at each other and run off to Africa for a month before returning home to face the music.

      Quickly descending the stairs, he suppressed thoughts of the strange but rapturous night when he’d also fled civilization and found his own magic land…

      “Mother,” he said, bending to kiss her on each cheek when he reached the marble entry hall. His heart gave a hitch of emotion as he smiled down at her.

      “And what are you doing home? You found what you sought?” she demanded in her feisty-as-a-sparrow way.

      For a second he considered confessing all, but realized he didn’t really know anything.

      “Something came up.” He dropped an arm around her shoulders. “You look marvelous. Is that a new outfit?”

      She slapped him on the arm. “You are not to distract me with fashion, which I, of course, adore. What is this something that has come up? Or should a mother not ask?”

      He grinned. “Don’t ask.”

      “Then go greet your father in the library while I have another place set for lunch.”

      She waltzed away, looking much younger than her years, and again his insides were tugged by unexpected emotion. He hurried toward the room his father used as an office and a family gathering place before meals.

      He thought about asking his sire how he’d felt upon meeting the dainty Frenchwoman who had so taken his fancy and apparently his heart at their first glance.

      But that might lead to other questions, and he had no answers, none at all….

      “The king isn’t available,” the king’s secretary said.

      Jean-Paul suppressed a frown of irritation. “Prince Bernier was assured King Morgan would see his emissary without delay.”

      The secretary’s pale, ascetic countenance didn’t alter a fraction as he apologized again but offered no explanation for the postponement.

      “When may I expect an audience?” Jean-Paul demanded.

      This time a flicker of emotion narrowed the cool gaze. Sir Selywyn spread his hands in an artful gesture that indicated his helplessness to set a date. “I will contact you,” he promised. “Are your quarters satisfactory?”

      Jean-Paul considered the royal secretary about as helpless as a viper on a hot rock, but there was no point in pressing further. He’d been given quite adequate guest quarters in the royal palace, so he nodded, then left the office when Selywyn escorted him to the door, an obvious invitation to depart.

      Standing in the great hall, used as a reception chamber and sometimes as a ballroom, Jean-Paul contemplated his next move. He’d done his duty for his liege, Prince Bernier of Drogheda, who’d asked him to fill in for the ambassador to Penwyck who’d taken ill. Now he’d have to wait on the whim of King Morgan for an appointment. Such were the affairs of state.

      That left him free to pursue his prime reason for coming to Penwyck.

      Megan.

      He’d seen her as a young girl just entering the flower of womanhood in this very chamber at her sister’s birthday ball. Ten years ago. Megan had been seventeen. He’d been twenty and much more worldly than the young girl he’d waltzed about the room.

      His parents had insisted he attend the ball. They’d had an eye toward an alliance even then and had hoped he and Princess Meredith might form a

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