The Prince's Heir. Sally Carleen
it in a comforting, protective gesture, and an unexpected, inexplicable spear of envy shot through Stephan’s chest.
Ridiculous. He was tired from the long trip, worn out already, though negotiations had barely begun. He was a member of the ruling family of Castile. They neither had nor could they afford to have pointless emotions.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I assumed you’d know about Lawrence’s death. That was presumptuous of me. What makes for big news in our country likely doesn’t merit a mention on the back page of the paper in your country.”
“How did he die?” Mandy asked, her voice suddenly much softer than when she’d squared off against him a few moments ago.
“In an automobile crash. It happened two months ago.”
“I’m sorry. He seemed to be a good person.”
“Yes, he was. He would have been a good king.”
“But now he’s gone and you’ve come to take his son.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe he told you about Josh. He went to so much trouble to be certain your family would never find out.”
Stephan returned to his chair and sat across the table from her. “Lawrence didn’t tell us. The Taggarts were traveling in Europe when they saw the story. They contacted me.”
“Alena’s parents? Why would they do that?” Her eyes hardened to green ice and her lips tightened. “Oh, never mind. I can guess. They saw his picture and realized who Lawrence is. Was. Discovering that the father of their daughter’s illegitimate child was a prince suddenly makes that child socially acceptable, even desirable.”
Stephan considered Mandy’s words. He’d always suspected the Taggarts might have had a hidden agenda in telling him...that it hadn’t been just a case of “doing their duty.” He hadn’t liked their smarmy attitudes and had hoped their story about Lawrence fathering a child would prove to be a fabrication, but it hadn’t.
Rita Crawford set a glass of iced tea in front of Mandy, then took her seat at one end of the table. She was shorter than her daughter, and her hair was smooth and blond instead of wild and red, her eyes a tranquil blue. Yet even at a glance it was obvious the two were related. They both held their heads at that same proud angle that stopped short of being arrogant. Rita’s eyes held the same fires as her daughter’s, though Rita’s were subdued, a lesson probably learned through experiences Mandy hadn’t yet been through.
Vera Crawford, Mandy’s grandmother, was a tiny woman with snow-white hair and a regal bearing that made her seem taller. Her eyes were a softer green than Mandy’s, and she had a quiet, dignified beauty that transcended her years.
When Lawrence had first come to America to attend graduate school in Dallas, he’d regaled Stephan with stories of how different American women were, how independent... especially Texas women. They were, he’d said, all fluff and beauty and fragility on the outside, smiling and friendly, but their spines were tempered steel No women in the world were prettier and none were tougher.
Now, flanked by three of them, Stephan truly understood his brother’s words for the first time.
Mandy’s grandmother. gave her hand a final pat. “Don’t worry, baby. Everything’s going to be all right.” She turned her attention to Stephan. “Now that Mandy’s home, let’s get on with things, Mr. Reynard, and discuss our options.”
There was only one option as far as he was concerned, but in the interest of diplomacy Stephan complied, anyway. He folded his hands on the smooth wood of the table, carefully avoiding the glass of cooled tea dripping condensation onto the table. When Rita Crawford had offered him tea, he’d expected it to be properly hot. Lawrence had failed to mention this peculiarity of Americans. Although, in this stifling heat, he could understand why they’d want their beverages cold.
“Shortly after Lawrence’s death, my father received a letter from Raymond and Jean Taggart. According to this letter, they’d been traveling abroad when they saw my brother’s picture in a newspaper and recognized him as their deceased daughter’s lover, the father of her child. Naturally my father assumed it was a hoax, but he sent an investigator to check out the story and discovered evidence that Lawrence had indeed been involved with their daughter.”
“Lawrence and Alena loved each other very much,” Mandy confirmed quietly. “But of course he couldn’t marry a commoner.” Her voice rose slightly and she spat out the final word.
“Lawrence was the heir to the throne of his country. He had certain duties.”
“I know all about that garbage. Alena told me. And those duties didn’t include making any of his own choices or falling in love, but he did both of those things in spite of his family.”
And look what came of his defying his duty, Stephan thought, but he refrained from saying it. Obviously Mandy Crawford approved of such rebellion.
“And Joshua is the result,” he said instead.
“My son,” she said firmly. “Everything about his adoption is totally legal. When he was born—” She bit her lush lower lip, and a film of moisture sprang to her eyes. To his amazement, Stephan felt a sudden wash of grief as if Mandy’s emotions were so strong they reached from her all the way inside him.
She cleared her throat and continued. “I presume the Taggarts told you that Alena died giving birth to Josh. They were there when she said she wanted me to raise her son. Lawrence was there, too. Of course, the Taggarts didn’t know he was a prince. Alena and I were the only ones who knew that. She told everyone else he was a poet. He was, you know. That’s what he really wanted to do, not go back and spend his life in a fishbowl, doing and feeling only what your rules of royalty permitted him to do and feel.”
“I know all about his hobby of writing poetry. My brother and I were very close.” Stephan studied his clasped hands. Not all that close, evidently. Not close enough for Lawrence to tell him about Alena or Joshua. “He was instructed to keep his identity a secret. The idea was for him to attend your schools and study your culture without anyone realizing who he was. That was the only way he could hope to truly learn things. The poetry was a part of that disguise.”
Mandy shook her head. “The poetry was part of Lawrence, the part that Alena fell in love with. Anyway, orders from the king or whatever had nothing to do with why Lawrence kept his identity secret from Alena’s parents. The Taggarts may live in a million-dollar house in Dallas, excuse me, Highland Park—that’s much more prestigious, you know—but they both grew up right here in Willoughby. They were dirt poor until Alena’s father hit it big wildcatting—”
“Wildcatting?” Stephan had an image of a man fighting with a wildcat. He’d heard some men wrestled alligators in America. Anything was possible over here.
“Oil wells. He made a bundle in oil, then invested it in the computer business. That’s when they really hit it big. They moved to Dallas when Alena was thirteen, and they’ve been trying to break into society ever since. If they’d known Lawrence was a prince, they’d have gone totally bonkers, bragged to the world, conspired to somehow get their daughter married to him, and when she died, they’d have kept Joshua or given him to you. Whichever, neither Alena nor Lawrence wanted that for their son.”
Stephan thought of the rough-cut couple he’d met, of their eager, obsequious attitudes and knew Mandy was right about them.
“Since they didn’t know about Lawrence,” she continued, “Alena’s parents were only too happy to sign the adoption papers giving complete custody to me. It’s all legal.”
“But Lawrence didn’t sign any adoption papers.”
Her jaw tightened. “No. Alena didn’t put his name on the birth certificate. It was something they both agreed on. Neither of them wanted to take any chances that their son would ever be discovered and have to live the way Lawrence had to live.”
Stephan’s mouth went suddenly dry. He reached for the glass of tea and sipped some of it. It didn’t