Leah Ashton: His Pregnant Christmas Princess

In many ways her decision should’ve been easy—an easy No, thanks! —because it had been more than the practicalities of her decision that had loomed large for Ana. It had been the context of this ‘gift’ she’d been presented with.

Because when it came down to it, her father had waited until his death to acknowledge her.

And that made her feel incredibly small.

Her father had felt so strongly that he didn’t want to deal with her—that he couldn’t be bothered dealing with her—that he’d left her all alone to deal with this decision herself. He hadn’t even bothered to ask her on his deathbed. He’d waited until he was gone. He’d kept all the answers to the questions Ana hadn’t even known she wanted to ask from her. For ever.

So, yes. Part of her had wanted to tell the ghost of her father to shove his decision to make her a princess up his—

Anyway.

She hadn’t.

She hadn’t because this wasn’t just about her. Her mother had fought for years for the palace to acknowledge Ana’s existence, and she hadn’t done it quietly. She’d paused in her crusade only when Ana had started kindergarten, when she’d been concerned about how Ana might be treated with such a scandal surrounding her. Her mother had always assumed Ana would pursue her father herself when she was older, but to her mother’s surprise—and disappointment—that had never been a consideration for Ana. For Ana it was clear-cut—her father didn’t want her. What was the point?

So when the decision to become a princess had so unexpectedly arisen, Ana’s answer really hadn’t been about what she wanted. It had been about her mother—it had been a public redemption twenty-nine years in the making.

And despite all that had happened since—the way her life had been turned upside down, leading to that moment outside that church—she couldn’t say she regretted her decision.

But it still felt super-strange to be addressed as Your Highness .

The car slowed and turned off the smooth bitumen they’d been travelling on for well over an hour. Its wheels now crunched over gravel, its headlights the only illumination, as there hadn’t been street lights for many kilometres. Tall trees flanked the narrow road—a driveway, maybe?—but as the car took twists and turns and climbed gradually higher Ana saw no clues to her destination.

Which was a good thing, Ana thought. The more secluded, the more private, the more remote the location the palace could find, the better.

Ever since she’d left that church all she’d wanted was to be away. Far away from her terrible decision to accept Petar’s proposal instead of coming to her senses months ago. Or, better yet, coming to her senses when they’d first met, and she’d said yes to a date purely because he’d been gorgeous and charming and it had seemed crazy not to, rather than because she’d felt a spark of attraction.

But now that she was away—whisked off to a mountain in Northern Italy, no less—what did she do ?

The car rolled to a stop.

A modern single-story house constructed mostly of windows sat just above the car, on the slope of a hill. It looked expensive and architecturally designed—the type of house you’d see on one of those fancy home-building TV shows that always go over budget. It was lit by a row of subtle lights that edged the eaves, and a brighter light flooded the entrance and the wooden steps cut into the hill that led to the front door.

There, at the top of the steps, stood a man.

Well, ‘stood’ was being generous. Really, he lounged, with one shoulder propped against the door frame and his long jean-clad legs crossed at the ankle.

He didn’t move as her guards exited the car and opened Ana’s door.

He didn’t even move as Ana herself approached the bottom of the steps. He just stood there— lounged there—and studied her.

It said something about how much her life had changed that Ana noticed he didn’t immediately jump to attention in her presence.

Oddly, it was kind of nice to have someone not clambering to impress her. Not treating her, baselessly, as more special than everybody else.

He did move, though, just before Ana climbed the first step.

He moved effortlessly, fluidly, like an athlete or a—what was it? A panther?

At that ridiculous idea Ana smiled for the first time that day. For the first time in days.

And by the time the man had swiftly descended the steps to greet her she was still smiling.

He met her gaze, taking in her smile. Then, for a moment, he smiled back.

He had a fantastic smile—a smile that made a face that seconds ago she’d subconsciously classified as just nice-looking to become handsome. With his slightly floppy hair, several days’ stubble and rough-hewn cheekbones, he became really handsome, actually.

From nowhere, a blush flooded Ana’s cheeks and an unmistakeable stomach-flipping jolt of attraction took over her body.

Then the man’s smile fell away. In fact, it totally disappeared, as if it had never been there in the first place.

Shame warred with those still un-ignorable tingles that hadn’t gone anywhere. What sort of woman jilts her fiancé at the altar, then has the hots for a total stranger five minutes later?

She straightened her shoulders, suddenly feeling totally aware of the elaborate lacy underwear she’d put on just hours ago for another man. It itched and chafed against her perfidiously heated skin.

Ana’s smile had fallen away now too. The man looked at her with a gaze that was slightly bored, or inconvenienced. It was too dark out here for Ana to make out the colour of his eyes, but they were light. His hair was too. Even in the darkness it contrasted with the black of his coat. He must be blond, or his hair must be the lightest shade of brown.

He was tall too, Ana realised. She was wearing flat-heeled boots, but she was still slightly above average height for a woman, and yet she only came up to his shoulder. He was easily an inch or two over six foot. And broad. His winter clothing added breadth, but those shoulders weren’t just the result of good tailoring.

She sensed him taking in her appearance: her camel-coloured coat, her chequered scarf, her jeans, her boots. And her dishevelled dark brown hair. Her messed-up make-up.

Maybe it was her embarrassment at the state she was in that made her snap a question at him:

‘Who are you?’

He blinked. ‘Žao mi je, ne govorim hrvatski,’ he said carefully, and in a foreign accent.

I’m sorry, I don’t speak Croatian.

Vela Ada’s native language was actually a unique Slavic dialect, but it borrowed heavily from neighbouring Croatia.

Usually she would’ve appreciated the effort to speak her language, but tonight she was just too tired—emotionally and physically exhausted—and too sensitive to the bored judgment she could still see in the man’s gaze.

‘Who…’ she said in English, in the most regal tone she could muster, ‘are…’ a long, pointed pause ‘… you ?’

PRINCESS ANA WAS glaring at him. Her hands were on her hips, her eyes were narrowed and her full lips were in a perfectly straight impatient line.

It was quite late, but Rhys could see well enough in the muted light to acknowledge that Princess Ana was rather more attractive than he’d expected. Oh, he’d known she was pretty—but in person she was just… more . More vivid , somehow. More striking. Striking enough that he’d grinned at her like a moron for who knew how long—until he’d remembered he wasn’t exactly thrilled to have a princess about to move in with him.