Royals: Wed To The Prince: By Royal Command / The Princess and the Outlaw / The Prince's Secret Bride
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Then he kissed her—not a swift, parting kiss, nor a clumsy, unsubtle expression of lust. His mouth took hers in complete mastery, replacing every fear with poignant delight and a swift, fierce longing that lodged in her heart.
And because she didn’t know whether he’d survive, whether she’d ever see him again, she kissed him back with everything she had to give.
Too soon, he released her with an odd half-smile to scribble a name on a piece of paper. ‘My agent on Valanu,’ he said, handing it to her. ‘Get in touch with him straight away and show him the papers Josef’s making out now—he’ll find you a place to stay. You have no money?’
‘No,’ she said wretchedly, feeling empty and oddly weepy.
He wrenched a wallet from his pocket and took out the notes in it. ‘This will cover your costs for tonight.’ He handed them over, adding with wry humour, ‘And there’s enough there to buy you another sarong from the market.’
‘Your shirt!’
One hand clenched around the notes and his ring, she began to jerk his T-shirt upwards, but he said, ‘Keep it on. It gives you that authentic refugee look.’
She hesitated, then let the material fall. ‘What will you wear?’
‘I will lend him one of mine,’ Josef said sombrely.
Guy’s intent, uncompromising scrutiny drowned her in tawny fire. ‘I’ll contact you as soon as I can.’
‘P-promises,’ she said, sudden tears blinding her.
He laughed and picked up her free hand, kissing the back and then the palm, folding her fingers over to keep the kiss there. ‘I always keep my promises.’ It sounded like a vow.
‘Come, ma’am,’ Josef said earnestly. ‘The plane is ready.’
‘Go now,’ Guy said, and strode out into the darkness without a backward glance.
An hour later, as the engines droned above the dark, empty ocean, Lauren twisted the gold signet ring on her finger, and wondered what was happening back on Sant’Rosa.
‘Keep him safe,’ she whispered.
And with the stars swallowed up by the moon’s light, and the white circle of Valanu’s biggest atoll on the horizon, she tried to forget that somewhere behind her a stranger, a man she had only met that day, might be fighting for his life.
And tried very hard to convince herself that she hadn’t fallen in love in three short hours.
The ceiling fan whirred, wafting a sluggish wave of clammy air over Lauren’s head. Gathering her dignity, she said, ‘So I can’t leave Valanu yet.’
Regretfully the immigration official shook his head. ‘I am afraid not,’ he agreed. ‘It is complicated, you see. You came here without papers; we let you in as a favour because you are married to a man who has a good name in this place.’ He tapped the file on his desk. ‘But it is taking longer than we expected to get replacement papers from Britain, and until then you cannot leave Valanu because our only air link to the outside world is Sant’Rosa, and they say they will not allow you to land there without a passport.’
‘My parents said my passport had been sent by courier two days ago.’
They had had variations on the same conversation for the past six afternoons. Tension plucked Lauren’s nerves, but screaming wouldn’t achieve anything. Everyone had been utterly polite, very helpful—and determined to stick to the rules.
Guy had been right. With no British consulate, all official matters had to go through the distant island nation that ruled Valanu, so she was stuck on this lovely, isolated atoll until proof of her identity and citizenship arrived.
Guy’s agent might have been able to speed things up, but he’d flown to Singapore the day before she’d arrived on Valanu and wasn’t expected back for several more days.
Fortunately the clerk at Valanu’s airport who’d converted Guy’s notes to the local currency had asked her where she was staying. When she’d admitted she had nowhere, he’d recommended his cousin’s place, and half an hour later she’d rented a one-room bungalow standing on a coral platform in a tangle of foliage and sweet-smelling flowers.
She pasted a smile to her face and got to her feet. ‘Thank you very much for all your help.’
‘I’m sorry I can’t make things happen more quickly for you, but I hope you are enjoying our little island.’ He paused, before saying carefully, ‘It is a possibility that if you spoke to one of the journalists trying to get to Sant’Rosa, they might be able to help you contact your family in England.’
God, no! Lauren had been carefully avoiding them for the past few days. Not that she was interesting to the media, except for the fact that she was Marc Corbett’s half-sister, and Marc was a player on the world stage. She didn’t want anyone poking around in the past and discovering the secret of her mother’s long-ago affair with Marc’s father. Apart from humiliating her mother, any publication of that indiscretion would stress her father, whose health was precarious.
She held out her hand. ‘I’m enjoying my time on Valanu, and you’ve been most kind,’ she told the official truthfully. ‘I’m just worried about what’s happening on Sant’Rosa.’
Sombre-faced, he shook her hand. ‘Yes,’ he said heavily. ‘War is a terrible thing, and it is so sad to see the Sant’Rosans suffering again. However, if what we are hearing is correct, the invaders are already being pushed back beyond the border and their ringleader is dead.’
Rumour or truth? ‘I hope so,’ she said in a flat voice.
Slowly, because the late-afternoon sun beat down with unmitigated ferocity, she walked to her bungalow. Once in its blessed coolness, she poured a glass of water from the jug in the tiny refrigerator and stood slowly sipping it in the minuscule kitchen.
Beneath the high, thatched roof, a huge bed draped in mosquito netting dominated the room; although Lauren slept with only a sheet over her, the coverlet was a work of art, brilliantly quilted in a pattern of hibiscus flowers. With a table and chairs, the only other furniture was a wardrobe that held Guy’s shirt—washed and pressed and awaiting his arrival—and the spare sarong she’d bought the morning after she’d been decanted from the plane.
During the day the woven mats that made the walls were rolled up so that sea breezes cooled the building; at night, they provided privacy.
Spartan, she thought, draining the glass with relief, but clean and comfortable; more importantly, it was cheap. The call she’d made to her parents in England had used so much of Guy’s money that she’d had to watch every penny, haggling for fish and fruit in the market. With funds from home apparently wending their way via outer space, she’d soon be forced to borrow from Guy’s agent when he returned from Singapore.
Apart from her daily trek to report to the immigration officer, she swam, prepared meals and chatted to her landlady’s teenage daughters, trying to satisfy their curiosity about life outside their idyllic island. Unfortunately, such a lazy life gave her too much time to imagine Guy Bagaton dead…
Even though death was no respecter of persons, it was impossible to imagine all that vibrant power cut down by a bullet—or worse.
‘He’ll be fine,’ she said aloud. She had the oddest feeling that if he died she’d know.
‘You don’t even know him,’ she scoffed, and went down to the lagoon to swim off the dust and the sweat of the walk home.
The water lapped against her like liquid silk, soothing and lukewarm, but a blood-red sky to the west heralded the sunset, turning her white skin copper as she strolled back along the beach. It seemed ominous, a bad omen.
‘Grow up,’ she chided, slipping off her sandals at the door. ‘You are not superstitious.’
Once inside she showered and washed her salt-laden hair before changing into her other sarong, a splashy print of gorgeous, improbably coloured frangipani blooms. Thanks to the landlady’s daughters, she now knew three ways of tying the garment. This time she settled for a simple knot above her breasts before sitting on the side of the bed to comb her hair. As the teeth smoothed through each strand, a feather of awareness stroked along her skin.
Several times she looked around, but the tangle of growth that surrounded the bungalow was empty of prying eyes. Anyway, it wasn’t the sort of sensation that whispered of danger. More a feeling of languorous expectancy, as though something good was going to happen…
‘Perhaps your new passport will arrive tomorrow,’ she murmured, looking down at her clenched hand; because she wasn’t married, she’d taken to wearing Guy’s signet ring on her middle finger. It was still too big, but it didn’t slip off.
It was made of heavy gold, and the engraving almost worn away; not for the first time, she turned her hand in the red light of the dying sun, trying to make out its form. Some sort of crest, she thought—a bird? Were those wings? The outline danced in the smoky light and she blinked hard to clear her sight, but had to give up again.
Whatever, he clearly valued it, so when she finally got off Valanu she’d leave it with the agent.
Driven by restlessness, she let down the woven sides of the room and loosened the knot on her sarong, walking out onto the coral platform to enjoy the cooler air of evening on her bare shoulders and arms. A yawn took her by surprise.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ a familiar voice enquired from behind.
CHAPTER FOUR
ONE hand holding back her heartbeats, Lauren swung around. A large dark silhouette against the violent crimson of the sky, Guy Bagaton stood a few feet away.
Relief and incandescent joy rioted through her, shocking her with their intensity.
Guy demanded, ‘Why aren’t you staying at the resort?’
‘I didn’t have enough money,’ she told him, fighting to keep her voice level. Although he stood about ten feet away, his awareness rested like a blade against her sensitised skin. ‘Your agent is in Singapore—he’s expected back tomorrow.’
Guy said something that made her brows shoot up. ‘So what have you been using for money? The amount I gave you wouldn’t have kept you for a week.’
‘It has,’ she said.
Then her eyes adjusted to the rapidly fading light, and she gasped and raced towards him. ‘What happened?’
He ignored the bandage around his upper arm. ‘It’s nothing—a crease from a bullet,’ he said curtly. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m fine.’ Brows drawn together, she examined him closely.
He was still villainously unshaven, his autocratic features were more deeply carved, and something in his eyes—a kind of bitter determination, as though he’d kept going through events that no one should ever see—had dimmed his tremendous vitality.
Empathy twisted her heart into a hard knot in her chest. No man should look like that. ‘How did you know I was here?’
He sent her a stabbing glance. ‘It took me a while. In the end I called in a favour from someone who works in the immigration service.’ He looked around. ‘This is no place for you.’
‘Has a doctor looked at that bullet crease?’
‘Yes. She jabbed me and provided me with antibiotics. It’s barely a scratch.’ He held out a plastic bag and, when Lauren automatically took it without stopping her anxious scrutiny of his face, commented drily, ‘You can open it. Your passport is in there.’
‘My passport!’ Hastily she pulled the bag open and saw the familiar cover. She looked up again sharply. ‘Did you go back to the resort?’
His lashes drooped. ‘Briefly. It had been looted, but they hadn’t been able to get into the safe.’
The hairs on the back of Lauren’s neck lifted. ‘How—was everybody all right?’
‘There was no one there, but as far as I know, the staff survived.’ He finished, ‘The passport’s intact and unblemished.’
Gratefully she said, ‘Thank you so much. It was terribly kind of you to take the trouble.’
Yet all she could think was that it meant she could now leave Valanu—when he had just arrived. A dangerously heady enchantment wrapped her with silken energy.
Lust, she thought, yet knew she was wrong. At the beginning, yes—it had been stark, undiluted animal attraction—but now she knew much more about Guy Bagaton, and that physical chemistry had transmuted into something she didn’t dare examine. He had saved her from what could have been her death; she wished she could help him with the cocktail of emotions simmering beneath his granite façade.
She put her passport on the table, its familiar formality incongruous amongst the scarlet taffeta of a cluster of hibiscus flowers. ‘Come in—no, let’s sit outside; it’s slightly cooler.’
True, but it was also less intimate. Babbling slightly, she continued, ‘You look as though you could do with a drink—a previous guest left behind a couple of cans of beer if you want some. They’re still in the fridge.’
He said on a harsh half-laugh, ‘You’re a woman out of every man’s fantasy.’
A rill of pleasure ran through her, hotly disturbing. Getting a can, she said lightly, ‘Because I offered you a beer? You’ve got remarkably low standards if that’s all a woman has to do.’
He took it from her, broke the seal, and drank half the contents in one swallow. Lauren busied herself pouring a long glass of tangy fruit juice before turning to find him watching her with a narrow-eyed intensity that almost sent her swaying into his arms.
‘Nothing like a can of beer after a few days’ fighting in the jungle,’ he said after a second so taut she could feel its impact twanging along her nerves.
Lauren let her breath go on a noiseless sigh. ‘Let’s sit on the terrace.’
He sank into one of the chairs with a sigh that hinted of bone-deep weariness. ‘Did you have any problems getting into Valanu?’
‘At first they didn’t want to let me off the plane.’ She drank the juice, taste buds purring at its acidic tang, every sense honed and on tiptoe. ‘The fake marriage papers—and the pilot—persuaded them to relent. He stayed long enough to convince them that I was truly married to you.’
‘Beachcombers are a damned nuisance in the Pacific. Without tough policies for keeping them out, the islands would have freeloaders from all over the world preying on the locals. Who have little enough for themselves, most of the time.’
‘Your name did the trick.’ She wanted very much to know what had happened on Sant’Rosa, but instinct warned her not to probe. ‘And you can’t believe how grateful I am to you for thinking of it. I walked past the prison the other day, and you were right, it didn’t look like a place I’d enjoy staying in.’ Remembering how he’d tried to put her off going up to the village in the mountains, she finished with a hint of humour, ‘I’ll bet the cockroaches there are truly outstanding specimens.’
‘No toenail is safe,’ he agreed gravely and swallowed another mouthful of beer. The warm light of the lamp emphasised the lines engraved down his cheeks and the dark fans of the lashes hiding his eyes.
Fighting a disturbing urge to cradle his head against her breasts, Lauren averted her gaze to a sky so deeply black it was like staring into the heart of darkness. Stars began to wink into life, huge, impersonal, the pure air cutting the familiar cheerful twinkle.
Pitching her words just above the soft murmur of the waves, she asked, ‘How long are you here for?’
The silence stretched so long she thought he’d gone to sleep.
Finally, in a voice completely without emotion, he said, ‘It’s over; there’s a bit of mopping up still to do, but the preacher’s followers have slunk back to their villages and the invaders have either been killed or fled back across the border. Sant’Rosan forces are in control.’
Not exactly an answer. ‘It must have been bad,’ she ventured.
He lifted the can and took another deep swallow of its contents. ‘Bad enough,’ he said flatly. ‘About eighty people died—mostly villagers who got in the way. Crops destroyed and villages burned down, the bodies of dead children—the usual aftermath of war.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said inadequately, her heart contracting.
‘Why? It wasn’t your fault.’
After a short silence she drawled, ‘Are you looking for someone to blame?’
His quiet, mirthless laugh chilled her. He drained the rest of his beer, then stood up. ‘Probably,’ he said roughly. ‘I’d better go; I’m in no fit state to discuss life and its unfairness with a gently brought-up Englishwoman.’
‘Have you a place to go to?’ She was teetering on the brink of something that would change her life, but she couldn’t let him take his memories back to an impersonal hotel room.
‘I’ll get a room at the resort,’ he said indifferently.
‘And face a pack of ravening journalists who haven’t been able to get anywhere near the fighting?’ she returned, keeping her tone light. ‘Although if the fighting’s over, I suppose they’ve all left for Sant’Rosa. When did you eat last?’
He didn’t answer straight away, and she suspected that her question had startled him. It had startled her too.
His broad shoulders lifted. ‘God knows.’
‘I’ll get you something.’ She got to her feet, strangely unsurprised to realise she’d made a decision—one, she thought with a flare of panic, that was totally unlike her. But her voice remained steady when she added, ‘And while I’m doing that, why don’t you have a shower?’
He didn’t move. Although her eyes were attuned to the night, she couldn’t see enough of his face to discern any expression, but his stance and his silence were intimidating.
Not so intimidating as his voice. Deep and raw, almost menacing, it sent a cold sliver of sensation down her spine. ‘Not a good idea, Lauren.’
The darkness wasn’t a barrier to him. When she flinched in humiliation, he cupped a lean hand around her chin. Applying the slightest pressure, he said without apology, ‘I’m not fit company. I probably need to get drunk.’
His hand was warm, the long fingers rough as though he’d been working hard, the strength of it palpable against her skin. She said crisply, ‘Then you’d regret it less tomorrow if you start out clean, and with some food in your stomach.’
‘Indeed, a woman out of every man’s fantasy,’ he said in a voice like rough velvet.
His thumb stroked across her lips in a caress that melted her bones so that when he dropped his hand she had to grab the back of her chair.
But there was nothing caressing in the gaze that held hers. It was hot and dark and devouring; it reached into the hidden depths of thoughts and emotions she’d never recognised, never experienced before, and made her face them. ‘But I’m not staying unless you’re sure.’
Sure that she wanted to be with him? Utterly. Sure that she was ready for what might happen? No, but certain that if she sent him to the resort she’d regret it. ‘I’m sure.’
He nodded and stepped back, letting her go first into the bungalow. Lauren switched on the light at the door, and opened the wardrobe door to hand him the shirt he’d lent her so many days ago. Tawny eyes quizzical, he took it.
But when she drew the ring from her finger, his gaze darkened. Her finger felt cold, abandoned, but her hand didn’t shake as she held out the gold trinket. ‘Thank you.’
‘Is that what your offer is? Gratitude for getting your passport? Or for getting you out of Sant’Rosa?’ His tone was softly aggressive, and he watched her so narrowly she felt that her every thought was being catalogued by that keen mind.
‘No,’ she said.
Guy slid the ring onto his little finger and went into the bathroom.
He stayed for so long that Lauren, preparing a meal of fish and salad in the kitchen, wondered whether he was indulging in a ritual of cleaning war’s filthy detritus from his body.
It wouldn’t be so easy or so quick to rid his mind of the horrendous images.
She listened to the soft swish of the tiny waves brushing the sand a few feet away and tried to sort out her emotions. Send him off to the resort, common sense urged. Now—before it’s too late.
But it was too late. He’d issued a challenge and she’d accepted it. Beneath Guy’s tight control she sensed a darkly primitive hunger; remember the traditional recreation of the warrior, she thought—banishing unbearable memories in the pleasure of a woman’s body.
But she didn’t fear him; instinct told her that he wouldn’t hurt her. And she wanted him with a heated desperation that fogged her mind, turning the unthinkable into the inevitable.
Oh, she could blame the heat and danger of the tropics—the perfume floating on the moist air, a sultry, sinful fragrance breathed out from the hearts of the crimson flowers on the vine wreathing the terrace. But the tropics hadn’t produced the smouldering intensity that sent the blood singing through her veins.
Her teeth gnawed her lip as she went on with the dinner preparations. She wanted Guy, but even more important than that, she suspected that tonight he needed her.
When he emerged, clad in the clean shirt and his trousers, she was sitting on the terrace with the second can of beer and a plate of sliced fruit. She didn’t hear him come up behind her, but some instinct switched her gaze from the geckos creeping ever closer to the lamp, intent on picking off the moths that danced in dazzled swirls around the dangerous, alluring light.
Her heart blocked her throat. He’d shaved, and in the soft light he was beautiful, the boldly carved framework of his face a miraculous, exotic blend of Mediterranean machismo and the northern-European angularity that nagged at her memory.
‘That food looks good.’ His voice was cool and noncommittal.
He didn’t fall on it like a starving man, but by the time he’d told her of the situation in Sant’Rosa he’d almost cleared the platter.
When he finished she observed, ‘So the Republic was behind it. Are they likely to try again?’
‘I don’t think so. They lost too many men.’
She said quietly, ‘And if they don’t know by now that they can’t ignore world opinion, they will once the Press gets there.’
‘I’m surprised that a local fracas, however bloody and determined, was interesting enough to attract the attention of foreign correspondents.’ His tone was satiric. ‘There can’t be much happening in the rest of the world.’
‘A meeting of heads of state has just finished in Australia.’ She looked up as a plane flew overhead.
‘Ah, so that’s it,’ Guy said sardonically. ‘And Sant’Rosa is an interesting detour on the way home. As for waking the world up to what’s happening here—it’ll be relegated to obscurity once the next flashpoint explodes.’
Unfortunately he was right. She said, ‘I’d like to be sure that the hotel staff on Sant’Rosa survived. And how did the village in the mountains fare? It was right in the thick of things, surely?’
‘No. As far as I know they didn’t come off any worse than any other village. You’re not going back,’ Guy responded in a flat, lethal tone.
A cold shiver scudded down her spine. ‘But—’
‘No buts,’ he said implacably. ‘You won’t be allowed anywhere near the South Coast. It’s still a sensitive area. Civilians and sightseers—even well-intentioned ones—are nothing but a damned nuisance in a post-war zone unless they’ve got skills to help the victims.’
‘Are you going back?’ She held her breath until he answered.
‘Yes.’
Something about his intonation and the formidable expression made her say, ‘Why? What skills do you have to help?’
His left brow rose, as mocking as the smile that curved his mouth. ‘I have contacts—I know who to apply to for the kind of aid that’s needed, and I can act as go-between.’
An odd, aching foreboding clutched her with a cold grip. Ignoring it, she got to her feet and said, ‘Dinner’s ready. I’ll go and get it.’
Over the meal Lauren set herself to switch Guy’s mind away from the horrors of the past few days. She filled him in on the latest headlines, culled from the newspaper stand outside the immigration office, then skimmed over a couple of juicy financial scandals and the spectacularly spicy meltdown of a singer’s marriage.
He knew what she was doing, but he went along with her and by the end of the meal he was laughing and the lines of tension scoring his lean face were slightly less deep.