Kristi Gold - A Royal Wager

At times, he longed to walk among the villagers as an ordinary man, stop by the bakery and pick up his second-favorite indulgence—in terms of food—éclairs. At times, he craved putting on his old college sweatshirt and jeans to join in a game of rugby with the local team. At times, he wished he had never been born into royalty.

“This town is incredible, Your Highness.”

The soft lilt of Kate’s voice brought his attention back to her, brought to mind more of Marc’s recollections of their time together. He remembered being enamored of its quiet charm—a southern accent, she had once told him. But he had never viewed her as more than a friend. And somewhat of a savior. Had it not been for her, he might never have finished that first grueling year at Harvard.

She pointed out the window. “What’s that building over there?”

Against his better judgment, Marc moved to the seat beside her, maintaining a somewhat comfortable distance. “That is St. Simone Cathedral. My parents were married there.”

She turned her incredible green eyes on his. “It’s beautiful, all that stained glass.”

“I tend to take the village for granted,” he told her, striving for casual conversation when what he wanted to do with his mouth had nothing to do with talking.

“I guess that’s understandable,” she said. “Beauty is easy to overlook if you face it on a daily basis.”

When she turned back to the window, Marc decided she was very beautiful as well. He supposed many would view her as merely cute, with her upturned nose, graced with a slight spattering of freckles, her rounded face, not the more striking, sharper features common among what some considered the world’s greatest beauties. But her large eyes—a near match in color to the pines blanketing the Pyrenees—and her chestnut hair falling about her shoulders, were very pleasing attributes, in his opinion.

Although he tried to tear his gaze away from her, Marc found himself taking another visual excursion. The tailored lavender silk suit she wore fit her to prime perfection, showcasing a pair of elegant legs that would garner any man’s attention. She was relatively small—small hands, small feet and best he could tell, not endowed with ample curves or breasts. But he’d always believed that some of the best things in life came in small parcels. He imagined Kate was no exception.

Even though he shouldn’t, he saw her as attractive woman that he would like to know much better. Perhaps eventually in the tangle of warm satin sheets—not in the cold confines of a college laboratory. But that was impossible.

As much as the man in Marc desired Kate Milner, the king that he had become prevented him from acting on that desire. He must remain strong in light of his need to be taken seriously as his country’s leader.

Still, it would be very easy to press the button on the console, raise the windowed partition separating them from the driver and Nicholas, and allow some privacy away from prying eyes.

A fantasy assaulted him then, sharp as shattered glass—images of sliding his mouth up her delicate throat, working his way to her lips and engaging her in a provocative kiss. In his mind, Kate would be receptive to his affections, encouraging him onward as he slipped his hand beneath the hem of her skirt, moving up, up until he touched her, first through damp silk, then beneath the barrier so he could experience her heat. He would tempt her with his fingers, tantalize her with his mouth and endeavor to make her moan, make her want him inside her. He would gladly comply without regard to who he was or where he was. Without consideration of the consequences. He would make love to her until they were both sated, if only temporarily…

The vehicle came to an abrupt halt, effectively splintering the images but not the results of Marc’s journey into a wicked fantasy. He was hard as slate below his belt and could do nothing to hide his predicament short of grabbing a handful of ice from the built-in bar and shoving it into his lap. He only hoped that Kate would not notice before he had a chance to compose himself, and that his dress coat would amply conceal his sins once they exited the car.

Marc straightened his shoulders and assumed his royal demeanor while continuing to battle a strong desire for Kate Milner that made absolutely no sense. He wrote the libidinous stirrings off to a lengthy celibacy—a situation born out of necessity due to his brother’s tragic death that had thrust Marc into the role of reluctant ruler.

He adjusted his tie, tugged at his collar and sent Kate a polite smile. “It seems we have reached our destination.” And not a moment too soon. Otherwise, he might have forgotten who he was and what he lacked—a life he could call his own. A life that had no room for courting women, stealing kisses and touches or forbidden fantasies.

Seeming not to notice his discomfort, Kate glanced out the window at the simple two-story building. “It’s a very nice hospital.”

Marc detected a hint of disappointment in her tone, aiding somewhat in his body’s return to decency. “It’s very small and admittedly somewhat lacking in modern equipment. But I’m determined to remedy that soon.”

Health care was of the utmost importance, not only to Marc but also to his people. Doriana needed better facilities, more doctors. Had the hospital been modernized, Philippe might still be alive, and Marc would still be feeding his wanderlust instead of attempting to prove himself.

Kate offered an understanding smile. “These things take time.”

Marc couldn’t agree more, but he felt as if he were running out of time.

When Nicholas opened the door, Marc took Kate’s hand and helped her from the car. Her slender fingers cradled in his palm spurred another random fantasy that involved another pleasurable touch. How could he continue to be around her and still maintain control?

On sheer willpower alone.

But after Kate slid from the limo and his hand came to rest on her lower back, contacting the delicate dip of her spine encased in silk, Marc’s willpower went the way of the wind, replaced by an instantaneous shock to his senses—one that he had to disregard in order to save face.

He focused on the substantial crowd that had gathered, held at bay by a contingent of bodyguards. As always, he was forced to play the royal role with a regal facade and an official smile. Kate paused at his side when he stopped to shake the hands of a few subjects. The crowd voiced their pleasure with applause and several women pointed, but not at him. They were pointing at Kate, whispering behind their hands.

Marc realized all too late that they mistakenly believed Kate to be his current paramour, understandable since he again had his palm firmly planted on her back.

Marc took a much-needed step away from Kate, but not before he was joined by Dr. Jonathan Renault—resident hospital irritant—who had worked his way through the chaos.

“Good day, Your Majesty,” Renault said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Marc did not trust the man, and even less so when Renault blatantly assessed Kate from forehead to toes. “Good day, Dr. Renault,” he said with strained civility.

When Marc tried to usher Kate away, Renault stopped him cold by saying, “ Je voudrais faire la connaissance de votre nouvelle petite amie .”

Petite amie . A direct intimation that Kate was Marc’s mistress. And to add to his total lack of propriety, he’d had the nerve to request an introduction.

In another time, in another place, Marc would have gladly punished the bastard with a slam of a fist into Renault’s prominent jaw. But Marc’s title prevented what would be considered a crude, common act. Crude, yes. Common, yes. Unjustified? Not in Marc’s opinion.