Capturing the Crown Bundle

Chapter 3

Something burning…smoke. Sydney tossed her head restlessly, sure she was dreaming, but wondering why she hurt so badly.

Experimentally, she moved. And groaned. She ached, she hurt and she felt as if she’d been pummeled senseless by an angry giant with a hard fist.

Her baby! Opening her eyes, she found she was lying on craggy rocks, too close to the gently lapping waves for comfort. Smoke billowed from a cluster of trees nearby, and she smelled the acrid scent of aviation gas.

Jet fuel.

She was soaked, as though she’d been in the water and somehow made her way to the shore. Since she had no conscious memory of doing so, she was lucky she hadn’t drowned.

Lifting her head, she winced as pain lanced through her. She touched her aching shoulder. Her hand came away sticky with blood. Blinking, she stared at her red fingers, and bit back a sob. What on earth…?

A piece of metal looked as though it had been stabbed into the ground nearby.

The plane crash!

Though it hurt, she turned her head again, toward the smoke, looking for Chase. Was he there, near the fire?

“Chase?” She tried to yell, but her voice would only croak. She had to get up, get over there, and see if she could help rescue him or Franco and Dell.

Swallowing, wincing as even that small movement hurt, Sydney told herself she had to get up, move away from the ever-encroaching waves and find Chase.

She couldn’t make her body move. She lifted her head, trying to see the rest of her, to ascertain whether she’d been injured worse than she knew. Apart from her aching head and stiff neck, and the now-throbbing cut on her side, she felt no other actual pains.

Then why couldn’t she push herself to her feet?

A small explosion rocked the beach. More smoke billowed out from behind the row of trees. The jet, most likely. She should be glad she’d been thrown farther away.

Thrown. All at once, the staggering truth of what had happened hit her. Miraculously, she’d survived a plane crash.

So far.

She refused to think anything negative. She was alive. That counted for a lot. From the looks of things, it appeared she might be the only one who had survived. She and the tiny, precious life growing inside her. She could only pray her unborn child was all right. At least she had no cuts on her abdomen, no aches or bloodstains to indicate she’d miscarried.

Her baby had to be all right. More than anything, she prayed her unborn child had not been injured.

She finally struggled to her feet. Standing, weaving, she licked her lip and tasted blood and salt and sweat. Thirsty, so thirsty. She swayed, her vision blurry, and then forced herself to focus. Focus. Live.

A blur moved toward her, moving fast in the blinding sunlight. An animal? No, a man. Running toward her. Shielding her eyes against the sun, she squinted as she tried to make him out.

Chase? Her heart rate tripled. Could it be? She rubbed her blurry eyes and again attempted to focus. Yes, Chase. Moving toward her. Whole. Unhurt.

Glancing down at herself, she winced at her bloody, torn blouse. She swayed again, dropping to her knees. Damn, her head hurt. She might be injured there, too.

“Sydney!” Chase. Blinking, she lifted her head and attempted a feeble wave.

He ran toward her. His lips moved, but she couldn’t understand his words. She stared at him, resisting the urge to reach out her hand and sob in relief. He’d made it through the crash in even better shape than she. Except for a still-bleeding, jagged cut on his leg, he appeared to be unhurt.

Good. Then maybe he could help her, until rescue arrived.

Her last conscious memory was of Chase scooping her up in his strong arms.

When the plane went down, damned if Chase’s first thought wasn’t for the woman. Maybe it was the part of him that would always be a bodyguard, but he’d known he needed to shelter her, protect her and keep her safe, even if it took his own life to do so.

Then everything went black as they’d hit.

When he’d come to in the midst of the smoking wreckage, smelling jet fuel and feeling the searing heat of the fire, Sydney was nowhere to be found. He’d known he had to get out of there before the whole thing blew, but first, he’d looked for the others.

Franco and Dell were dead. After swiftly ascertaining there was no hope for them, Chase knew he didn’t have time to drag their bodies from the smoldering wreckage. He needed to get out quickly, aware an explosion was imminent.

He saw no sign of Sydney.

He crawled from the battered jet and, after looking around once more, Chase took off at a run. He made it a hundred yards before the thing exploded, knocking him to the sand.

On all fours, he said a quick prayer for the two dead men. Then he stood and brushed dirt and gravel from his legs. Most of his cuts and scratches appeared to be minor. One wound on his knee bled but he felt no pain.

He began by searching the immediate area around the wreckage. They’d come down in a hilly area, clipping the tops of the massive trees before crashing near the rocky beach.

Sydney—or her body—had to be here somewhere. They’d been strapped in together. How they’d been separated in the final moments, he couldn’t begin to speculate.

She wasn’t anywhere near the wreckage. Next, he expanded the search area, more and more worried when he still couldn’t locate her. The forest area was thick and wild; still he searched through the dense foliage with no luck. While searching, he came across a spring-fed pond and noted its location. A source of drinkable water would be vital to their survival if they weren’t rescued quickly.

As he ranged the perimeter of the woods, pushing aside thorns and vines and undergrowth, he drew closer and closer to the rocky shoreline. As he began to scan the rocks near the water, he heard a hoarse cry up the beach.

There—past the larger boulders, too close to the gently pounding surf, Sydney! When she attempted to rise and sank back down to all fours, his heart stuttered.

“I’m coming!” he yelled, taking off at a run toward the ocean. When he reached her, she tried again to stand.

Bleeding from her wounds and weak, she fainted in his arms.

But she was alive. That was all that mattered.

Carrying her back to the shade of the forest, he lowered her gently to a pile of leaves. Lifting her torn blouse, he ran his hands over her, searching for broken bones and finding none. If she had internal injuries, that would be another matter and much more difficult to detect.

She moaned, shifting fitfully. She had a nasty cut on her shoulder, another on the back of her head, though it looked worse than it was due to the way head wounds bled.

If she had a concussion, which seemed highly likely, he couldn’t let her remain unconscious.

“Sydney, wake up.”

No response.

Chase heaved a sigh and lifted her to her feet. Her deep-blue eyes opened, cloudy with confusion.

“Come on, we’ve got to walk.” Still bearing the brunt of her weight, he half dragged, half carried her into the forest, toward the pond he’d found earlier. If he could get Sydney there, they could wash off the blood, making it easier to judge the true extent of her wounds.

“Walk?” She shook her head, trying to drop back to the ground. She would have succeeded, but he kept his arm around her waist. “No. I want to sleep.”

“No can do.” He let her lean on him while they pressed through the undergrowth, and he did a rapid assessment of the situation.

Plane down, two survivors. No working radio; at least, the one in the jet had blown with it. His cell phone had disappeared in the crash—with his luck it had fallen into the ocean. And, though they’d filed a flight plan when they’d left Silvershire, he didn’t know if the storm had taken them off course or how far.

They were on some sort of island. Though small, it appeared hospitable. The place was most likely some rich bastard’s private getaway, though the area where the plane had gone down didn’t appear cultivated. Chase resolved to explore it later, especially if rescue took some time.

All their hope would be on the jet’s emergency beacon. Even if it had been damaged or destroyed in the fire, a signal should have already gone out to lead rescuers to them.

Or the bad guys, assuming they had someone on the inside.

They had to be extremely careful.

Chase cursed again. He felt as though he was once again in Special Forces, on some kind of covert mission, rather than the head of Silvershire’s Department of Public Relations. More than anything, he wanted a working cell phone. He needed to get in touch with the office and fill them in.

He could only imagine the public relations nightmare going on back home. Since Reginald had died, he’d bet things had gone to hell in a handbasket. With so much going on, Chase needed to be back in Silvershire now.

He lived for his work. Except for the brief derailment when he’d thought he’d fallen in love with Kayla Bright, he’d focused his entire life on his job. Always had, always would.

Now, stranded on an island with the one woman the press would be salivating over, he’d been rendered virtually useless. Public relations was difficult to manage when one had no contact with the public.

As he thought of the press, circling like sharks in search of a meal, he realized he’d now become a potential story. Once the reporters realized he and the beautiful woman who carried the prince’s son were lost together, they’d be fabricating the stories as fast as the papers could print them.

Christ. Carrington would be furious; he might even feel betrayed. After what had happened with Kayla…Chase shuddered. He’d thought he’d loved her enough to ask her to become his wife. When she’d tricked him into believing another man’s baby was his and then jilted him publicly, his own personal anguish had been splashed all over the papers. His infatuation with Kayla had nearly cost him his job once. Only Carrington’s interference had saved him and his tattered reputation.

Never again.

This situation had too many common denominators.

Such publicity, even if unwarranted, was exactly the kind of derailment Chase’s career didn’t need.

He shook his head. Silvershire—and his job—seemed thousands of miles away. Now, stuck for God knows how long on this deserted island, staying alive took precedence over anything else.

Sydney stumbled and nearly fell. The wound on her neck had started bleeding again. Her expensive outfit, torn and dirty and bloodstained, was ruined. Since she had nothing else to wear, all he could do was see what parts of it were salvageable. Either that, or else she’d have to run around using leaves to cover herself, like Eve outside the Garden of Eden. A sudden mental image of Sydney, her sleek curves glistening in the sunlight, nearly had him staggering.

Luckily, he was able to regain his balance.

Finally, they reached the pond. At the edge of the water, he stopped. Sydney looked up at him, her dazed expression telling him she might be going into shock.

“Are you all right?” he asked, his tone gentle.

She licked her lips and tried twice before finally answering. “I think so.”

“We’re going to get into the water here and get cleaned up. I’ll hold on to you, I promise.” He took the first step forward, pleased when she moved with him.

The first step took them in up to her waist.

She gasped and began shivering. “Cold!”

“Not really.” He knew he had to hurry, because victims of shock had to be kept warm. “Hold still and let me clean you off.”

Teeth chattering, she did as he asked. He told himself as he swept his hands over her wet skin, that his touch was impersonal. Nevertheless, his hands on the curve of her hips, her flat belly, felt as if they were touching forbidden fruit. When he accidentally brushed her full breasts and felt her nipples hard against his palm, his body responded, despite the cool water temperature.

He concentrated on cleaning her up and ignored his libido’s bad timing.

“I need you to put your head under the water,” he said. “Do you want me to dunk you or can you do it yourself?”

Though she still shivered violently, when she looked at him he saw her gaze had cleared. “I can do it, if you hold on to me.”

At his nod, she gulped air and dropped under. When she resurfaced, slicking her hair back from her face, his breath caught in his throat. Damned if she didn’t look like some primitive nymph, sleek skin gleaming in the dappled sunlight. The shreds of her wet clothing clung to her body and outlined every hollow, every curve.

He was so hard he hurt.

Self-directed anger made him gruff. “Good enough.” Helping her up onto the bank, he tried to ignore the way his hand cupped her rounded bottom. Once he was certain she’d be okay, he dived under himself, swimming with powerful strokes to the middle of the pond. Here, he trod water, reminding himself to come back later and explore the depth.

As soon as he had his body under control again, he emerged. Sydney sat, huddled into a wet ball, shivering.

“Let’s get you back into the sunlight to warm you.”

Docilely, she allowed him to lead her back to the beach area, where he sat her on a huge boulder in full sun.

Now, he needed to see what he could do to make them shelter.

A large side section of the jet had landed on the rocky beach. It would make a decent roof, much better than any primitive thatch thing he might attempt to construct from leaves and sticks.

He grabbed the section of metal and started dragging it toward the trees. It was heavier than he’d realized.

As he moved it inch by inch, dragging it over rocky ground, he wondered how long they’d have to wait until rescue arrived. He refused to consider the possibility that someone else might get here first.

Sydney opened her eyes to find Chase watching her closely, his hazel gaze unreadable. She licked her lips and he handed her a tin cup of water. “The cup is left from what remains of the jet’s galley. I found several of them—and a spring-fed pond—near the interior of this island.”

She sipped gratefully, her throat still raw. “My baby…”

He looked away, obviously ill at ease. Instead of answering a question that could not be answered, he tried to distract her. “I found your purse, too.” He held up the black Fendi. “Remarkably intact. Not even a scratch.”

Throat aching, chest tight, she nodded. She really didn’t care about the purse, other than being glad to have her passport. She had more important matters to think about. Until she could get to a hospital, she had no idea if her baby was all right. “How long have I been out?”

“You drifted in and out all of last night. I’ve been keeping watch. When you finally fell into a real sleep, I slept some. Now it’s morning.” Again he glanced at his wrist, then gave a wry smile. “Though I don’t know the exact time. Your watch is gone, too.”

“That’s okay.” She sat up, waiting for dizziness and felt absurdly pleased when the earth didn’t spin. They were in some kind of small shelter, made of bits and pieces of the crashed jet. He’d piled sticks and branches near one side, no doubt for when they needed to build a fire. “Where are the pilots?”

“They’re both dead. When the cockpit exploded, they burned.” A shadow crossed Chase’s rugged face. He had a good five-o’clock-shadow going, which had the effect of making him look even more dangerously masculine. He was so beautiful, looking at him made her chest hurt.

Sydney shook her head. She’d survived a plane crash, minor injuries, and felt like her insides had been scrambled. Had the bump on her head permanently addled her wits? She focused instead on his words, remembering the blond man who’d flown the jet. “I’m sorry.”

Chase looked away. “I wanted to bury them, but I couldn’t get them out in time.” His low voice was tight, controlled, but she thought she could detect an undercurrent of grief.

Wincing, she nodded. “How long before someone comes for us?”

Chase raised his head and met her gaze again. “I don’t know. The jet’s radio was broken. My cell phone’s gone. I have no way to contact anyone. All I can hope is the plane’s emergency beacon did its job.”

Still woozy, she pushed to her feet, waving him away when he tried to steady her. “We can stand up in here.” The shelter he’d improvised for them was nothing short of amazing. He’d anchored pieces of metal from the jet between three trees, using the middle one as a brace. It looked, she thought, quite sturdy, considering.

He saw her looking and shrugged. “It’ll do until we’re rescued.”

She seized on his words, allowing them to give her hope. “I’m sure it will,” she told him. “Provided rescue comes soon.”

She stepped out from under the shelter to brilliant sunshine. Shading her eyes with her hand, she glanced toward the beach, noting the way the sun reflected off the sea. “So we have water, but what about food? Would it be too much to hope some food survived the crash?”

“A few packets of crackers. That’s it. But I’ve seen some small game in the woods. And of course, there are fish.”

“Can you hunt?”

He gave her a supremely male look of arrogance. “Of course I can hunt. I fish, too. We won’t starve, if it comes to that.” He coughed. “But my cooking is abysmal.”

“Cooking’s no problem. I can cook.” Pushing her hair back from her face, she busied herself organizing the wood in a neat stack. “That is, if you can figure out a way to make a fire.”

“You can cook?”

“Yes.” She raised her head to look at him. “Why do you sound so surprised?”

“I don’t know. Maybe Naessa is different than Silvershire. I would have thought you had your own army of chefs, ready to make whatever exotic dish you fancied.”

“Not in my household. I live alone, and like it that way.”

“Hmmm.” The sound he made told her he didn’t believe her. “I watch the news, read the papers. You grew up with every luxury money can buy. Your run with the elite upper crust.”

“That was college.” She smiled, trying to pretend she cherished the memory. “We’ve lost touch since then.” The truth of the matter was, none of the wealthy friends who’d permitted her to hang with them could relate to her life now. Playing cello for the symphony was, as one jet-setting type had put it, boring. Endless practices and performances left no time for partying.

“Still,” he persisted. “Your mother is in the news quite often. You grew up with chefs, maids and butlers. I find it surprising you know how to cook.”

“Even cooks get a day or two off. My mother liked to keep me busy. Until she packed me off to boarding school, I was my mother’s personal chef.” The instant she’d finished speaking, she realized what she’d said. More than she’d revealed to anyone about her childhood, ever. Including Reginald. Especially Reginald.

So why now? Why Chase, who was still a virtual stranger?

He cocked his head, regarding her with a speculative look. “Still, you’re quite wealthy. You mentioned a trust fund earlier. Did your father set you up with that?”

Common knowledge, especially for someone in public relations. “Yes.”

“But according to the press, you and your father aren’t close.”

“True.” She dipped her chin. “The trust fund is the only thing my sire ever did for me. He has other children, by his wife. I don’t know them.”

“You never refer to him as father, always sire. Why?”

“He never was a father to me.”

“Yet you’re still his child, still the daughter of a prince. You must have something in common.”

“Illegitimate daughter.” She tried to keep the bitterness from her voice. “There’s a big difference. Actually, I’ve never even met the man.”

Then, because talking about it still hurt, even after all these years, she took a hesitant step forward. When her legs held, she tried another. Gaining confidence, she moved out from under their shelter and crashed off through the underbrush into the shadowy forest.

“Where are you going?” he called after her.

“To gather more firewood.” She tossed the lie over her shoulder.

After a moment, Chase followed. “Sydney, I—”

“Seriously, I’d rather be alone. Shouldn’t you be fishing or hunting or something?”

He came up alongside her, moving so swiftly and quietly he startled her. He grabbed her arm. Annoyed, she stopped and glared up at him. He’d moved so fast she hadn’t been able to avoid him. His face was in shadow, making it difficult to read his expression.

“You’re right. I should be fishing or hunting.” But he made no move to go.

Absurdly, she wanted to hurl herself into his arms and let him hold her while she cried. She looked at him, tried to speak, and found herself sobbing.

He made the move to gather her close. “Shh.”

Stiffly, she let him hold her while she cried. Would being in a man’s arms always be her salvation? She wasn’t her mother.

At that thought, she pushed herself away from him. But he wouldn’t let her go.

“It’s all right. We’ve survived a plane crash. I know you’re worried about your baby.” His voice sounded calm, but she could hear his pounding heartbeat under her ear. His chest rose and fell with each breath, and she realized his arousal mirrored her own dawning awareness of him as a man.