Laurie Paige - Royal Affair

“An easy task,” he told her.

He leaped to a chair, a table, then the top of the wall. Without testing the support of the trellis, he stepped upon it and climbed upward, careful of the thorny vines. When he was as high as he could go, he leaned out…and out…and out…

For a moment it seemed to her that he hung between earth and air, attached to neither, as the land dropped sharply off the bluff where the resort was built. Then he deftly plucked the rose she’d indicated, leaped back to the wall, then onto the patio and, again kneeling on one foot, presented the prize to her.

When she hesitated, feeling it was too intimate a gift, he stood and moved close. “You cannot refuse,” he said in a low, husky voice, “when I have risked all for it. And for you.”

He removed the thorns from the stem and tucked the pure white rose into the bosom of her blouse.

“That is where it belongs, next to your heart,” he said in the same tone that sent sprinkles of stardust swirling down to the innermost parts of her.

The music began again, and they danced without speaking for a long time. From the town a clock struck the hour, a plangent vibration that echoed in her heart with each peal.

“Midnight,” she whispered.

“Must you leave?”

She shook her head and looked at her feet, half expecting to find glass slippers. He followed her gaze.

His chuckle made her laugh, too. “We are foolish together, but it is fun, yes?”

She nodded. They danced some more, then went inside for a late supper. Over the meal, they talked about everything. Their lives. Their early dreams. Then later ones. Their sorrows. His mother had died two years ago, his father last fall. Max had traveled the world since then, but there had been no escaping the mourning. He had loved them very much.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, taking his hand and pressing it to her cheek. “My parents are divorced, but at least I still have them both. And a stepmother.”

“She doesn’t like you?” His eyes became dangerous.

“Oh, yes. She’s very nice.”

“But?” When she looked at him perplexed, he added, “There’s always more after such faint praise.”

“Well, she’s always been closer to my sister, Katie. Katie’s a year older than I am and my best friend. I’m the baby of the family. They treat me like a pet.”

He laughed at that and playfully patted her head. She snarled and pretended to bite his hand. Then they fell silent and simply observed each other over the flicker of the candle.

“I have a suite,” he finally said. “I will make for you the most delicious dessert. Will you come with me and let me serve you, sweet princess of the rose?”

She nodded.

He stood and took her hand, helping her from the chair, then they drifted up the marble stairs and along a silent corridor until they came to two magnificent doors carved with two lions raised on their hind legs, their forepaws touching as they gazed fiercely at the onlooker.

“Lions rampant,” he said, seeing her interest. “From the royal crest.”

“A crest, like a family crest, dukes and all that?”

“Or a king, yes. The lions depict a battle between two brothers of the same house. After nearly killing each other, they decided to join forces and save the kingdom from outsiders, hence the two lions.”

“Is that what happened in Lantanya?” she asked.

He nodded, then swung open one of the doors, disclosing an opulent room of crystal chandeliers, polished black granite and mirrors softly reflecting the view from every wall. She was speechless. Not even her father’s house was this grand.

“This is magnificent. Who are you?” she asked, knowing she must look like a wide-eyed naif.

“Just a man,” he said, turning her toward him and holding her lightly, carefully in his arms. “One who has been enchanted by moonlight and music…and one very special rose.”

She shivered at the intensity in his voice and looked away as the innate shyness possessed her.

“You are a shy princess,” he murmured.

“Yes. Katie and I are the quiet ones,” she explained, referring to her sibling. “We have two brothers, both older. Trent is CEO of the company. Danny…well, he’s been living in seclusion since too many tragedies took their toll on him.”

“I see.” He took her hand. “Now about that dessert.” Ivy was glad he picked up on the fact that discussing Danny was too personal.

In a kitchen that had more marble and polished granite than a museum, he prepared cherries jubilee. After flipping out the lights and setting the cherries aflame, he spooned the concoction over ice cream and set a large bowl in front of her.

“I can’t possibly eat this much,” she protested.

He handed her a silver spoon with the lion crest and took one for himself. “Not alone perhaps. I shall help.”

With her sitting on one side of a marble counter and him standing on the other, they ate spoonfuls of the dessert when the flames died and gazed at each other, their eyes saying more than the few words they shared. Soon the treat was gone.

When she started to pat her mouth one last time with the linen napkin, he caught her hand, then kissed her with the greatest tenderness she’d ever known.

Underscoring the tenderness was the passion.

She sensed it in him as a great force, a river that ran silently and deep, a part of his being, and she knew instinctively that it was more than desire, although that was there, too.

She gave herself to the kiss and to the passion and the desire…and to him….

M axwell von Husden, Prince Regent of Lantanya, was having a bad day. He’d had a bad week…month…in fact, the whole year had been rotten.

His restless gaze stopped on a vase of roses, white with a coral blush, fresh from the royal gardens.

Except for one night of splendor, he amended his earlier observation. That one night with the rose, as he thought of her to himself in the few moments of privacy he had before falling into an exhausted sleep, had been the one grace note of the summer, a gift he’d never expected. The gods had been kind—

A discreet knock on the door preceded the entrance of his valet. “Ready, Your Highness?” Ned Bartlett asked, looking him over like a mother with a youngster heading for his first day of school.

The man’s ancestors had served the kings of Lantanya, the third longest continuous monarchy in Europe after Britain and the Netherlands, almost as long as the kingdom had existed. And they were as thoroughly English as the British crown.

“Yes.”

Their eyes met in the mirror. Max recognized sympathy in the valet’s familiar gray eyes. Fifteen years older than his own thirty-three years, Bartlett was the only person alive who had witnessed the tears and sorrows of a young prince growing to manhood under the watchful eyes of his parents and the residents of the kingdom. The valet had been his most constant companion from the time he was six.

Taking a deep breath, Max let it out and with it the doubts and pain of what was to come. Today he would pass a life sentence on his uncle, his dead father’s half brother, and on the former minister of state, for high treason.

During the traditional year of mourning after his father’s death, the two men had planned a coup to take over the country before Max was formally crowned at the end of the grieving period. With the deed accomplished, they would then deny him reentry into the country.

Max had unexpectedly returned from eight restless, sorrow-driven months abroad a day before the attempt. That night, hired assassins had broken into his bedroom, planning to kill him.

Only he wasn’t there. He’d been at the resort, sleeping peacefully—his last night of rest in over six weeks—in the arms of the rose. The need to be with her had been stronger than the prickles of his conscience, urging him to return to the palace.