The Prince's Bride. Lisa Laurel Kaye
wanting to live with the specter of might-have-been, took a leap of faith. “There’s something I have to say to you, Erik,” she said, and swallowed once before baring her soul. I’ve never felt this way before. But I’ve had feelings for you—from afar—for a long time. And now it felt like something…happened between us, there in the ballroom.”
“We shared a dance, Julie.”
“There was more to it than that.”
“Yes, there certainly was,” he said, frustration roughening his voice. He turned to face her. “There was the fact that the dance was at a royal ball, in a castle. There was the fact that you are very young and are no doubt inclined to see romance lurking around every corner, anyway. There was the fact that I am an older man, five years older than you, and a prince to boot.”
She couldn’t help smiling. “I may be younger than you are, but there’s no need to insult me. I know what I feel, and it’s not because of any of those things.”
“I’m not only older, I’m also more experienced than you are, Julie. Listen to me,” he said earnestly, as if trying to convince himself. “Take away those rather unusual circumstances, and you’ll realize, as I do, that it was just an ordinary dance.”
He didn’t convince her; rather, his denial made her more sure that she was right. She shook her head. “I don’t think so. I believe that it was much more. And I think that you believe it, too.”
“I don’t, and I’ll prove it to you,” he said, pulling her into his arms. This time it was not a charming request, but a hoarse command. “Dance with me.”
His gruffness made her hopes soar, but he remained completely self-possessed, holding her at arm’s length in an excruciatingly proper dance position. She knew what he was trying to do. There was no ballroom here, just the looming shadows of trees behind them and the endless dark expanse of the ocean in front of them. There was no sparkling light from crystal chandeliers, just the milky darkness of a night lit by a half moon. There was no sweet throatiness of an orchestra’s music, just eerie wisps of melody carried their way by the restless, chilly breeze.
But none of that mattered, any more than Julie’s inexperience did. Instinctively she closed the gap between them, her body coming into full contact with his. She was rewarded by the sizzle of a connection, and felt his arms gather her closer. The spark took hold, becoming a fire that warmed their embrace. She felt the power of its heat as surely as she felt the thrill of being held against him.
“Do you believe there’s more now?” she asked softly.
During the long silence that followed, they abandoned all pretense of dancing and stood poised, eyes locked, connected in body and in something more. The amber flame she saw deep in his eyes told her that she was right, that he did feel what she felt. She looked up at him, willing him to go that one step further and tell her with the kind of kiss that sealed destinies.
“You do believe, Erik,” she whispered urgently. “I know you do.”
With her words she saw the burning intensity in his eyes flicker and disappear. And then he kissed her—on the top of the head. He took a step backward, breaking all contact between them.
“I believe,” he said evenly, “that it’s time I got you back to the ballroom. I have neglected my duty long enough.”
And with that her leap of faith ended with a heartrending crash. Keeping her head high, silently fighting back tears, Julie let him escort her back to the ball. And then she walked away, through the crowded ballroom and out the front door of the castle once again, wondering why her handsome prince didn’t know that fairy tales were supposed to have happy endings.
Erik Anders turned his back on the hospital bed to look out the window, not that he noticed the view of Boston spread out before him. He was taking a moment to remind himself that the man lying in the bed behind him was King Ivar, ruler of Isle Anders, a man to whom deference was due even when he wasn’t lying in recovery from heart surgery.
He had to remind himself because, at that moment, His Majesty the king was acting like your basic, garden variety, stubbornly infuriating father. His father.
“I await your answer,” came the king’s commanding voice from behind him.
Prince Erik turned back and took his seat at his father’s bedside. On the other side of the bed sat his younger brother, Whit, who looked both amused and relieved that Erik had drawn their father’s fire this time.
“Your Majesty, perhaps this is not the best time to discuss this.” Erik’s voice kept its customary calm. The king’s doctor had made it clear to him and his brother that although their father was making progress in his recovery, they had to make every effort to keep him from feeling stress of any kind.
The king, who did not take to coddling, gave Erik a smoldering look. “You, my elder son, are the crown prince of Isle Anders. Destiny has chosen you to succeed me to the throne,” he said. “I place great trust in you, and never have you let me down. Never have you shirked a duty. Until now.”
Erik counted to ten in his native language and then in English before answering. “With all due respect, sire, I am not shirking this duty, either. I am well aware that the laws of tradition dictate that the crown prince of Isle Anders must take a bride before being crowned king, and I stand ready to uphold that requirement.”
“You are thirty years old. Just when do you plan to fulfill your duty?” the king demanded.
“Before my coronation, which I hope will not take place for a good many years.”
“I am getting older,” the king warned. “I just had major surgery.”
“From which your doctor expects you will make a fine recovery,” Erik stated calmly. “All you need to do is rest.”
“I can’t rest easy until I know the succession is secure.”
“It will be.” Erik reminded himself that his father was only thinking about the country they both loved. Isle Anders wasn’t big, but it was beautiful, a jewel of an island in the deep blue waters of the North Atlantic, not far from Iceland. During the short summer it glowed with the dark green fire of an emerald; in winter it sparkled with the icy brilliance of a diamond. It was icier than Greenland, greener than Iceland, and its people were as gutsy and strong as the Vikings who had first populated it. The Anders family, which had acquired its wealth independent of its position, had ruled the island with pride for countless years with the approval of the citizens they served. The way Erik looked at it, he had been born into the privilege of doing a job he loved, and he would do nothing to jeopardize that. Like his father, Erik Anders took his duty to Isle Anders very seriously.
“Without a marriage, there can be no heir to the throne,” the king pointed out.
“I assure you, sire—” Erik began.
“I am not assured!” Fire flashed from behind the king’s blue eyes. “I know that there is no shortage of admiring women around you, but I am also well aware that you don’t give any of them the slightest chance to win your affection. And as for him—” The king threw a glance of reproof at Whit, who had such a reputation as a ladies’ man that the press had dubbed him the Prince of Hearts. “Where does this leave me? With one son who refuses to fall in love and another who falls in love every other week!” he said, his voice echoing off the walls of the room.
Then, as quickly as it had arisen, the fire in the king’s eyes died. He sank back heavily against his pillows, his face ashen, just as his doctor entered the room.
“You two, out of here!” the doctor ordered sharply. Both princes jumped to the command. All three men knew that in the matter of the king’s health, the doctor’s status as a medical man outranked the princes’ royalty.
Out