Of Royal Blood. Carolyn Zane
she be taken? She certainly did not act the staid, married matron. Her body and her carefree personality betrayed her youth and he judged her to be no more than twenty. Twenty-two at the most.
A perfect complement to his twenty-seven.
Watching her, he felt his world-weary cares begin to seep away. There was something mysterious about this mermaid. She inspired ridiculous thoughts. Flights of fancy he’d given up entertaining long ago. Thoughts of the magic of finding one’s true love.
His heart began to pound and his blood rushed powerfully through his body. He flexed his hands, and watched her move to stand waist-deep at the opposite shore, her back toward him, wet hair tickling her shoulder blades. Hands cupped, she used them as a scoop to douse stray tendrils away from her face.
Then, as if she suddenly sensed that she wasn’t alone, the woman slowly turned to face him, her arms snaking across her bare breasts just before she sank to her shoulders in the water.
“Who is there?” she demanded.
Sebastian stepped forward and their eyes locked for an infinite, supercharged moment before he spoke.
“Perhaps I should be asking you the same question, woman. This is the private property of His Royal Highness, King Philippe. You are breaking the law by stealing one of his horses and swimming in his pond after dark.”
The woman did not seem daunted, and instead smiled. “I’m not afraid of him.”
“Then perhaps you’d consider being afraid of me.”
“And who, pray tell, are you?”
“I am Sebastian LeMarc, a friend of the royal family and, when I have to be, the nude-beach police. Who are you?”
She tossed back her head and sent throaty laughter into the twilight. “You know, Sebastian LeMarc, you should probably join me. To cool that hot head of yours.”
Sebastian stared at this cheeky sprite. Who the devil did she think she was? “If I have to, I’ll come in there after you.”
“Suit yourself. Or not. This is a suit-optional pool.” She giggled, tickled with herself, and Sebastian couldn’t help but smile as she dove beneath the water’s surface, sending a spray of drops into the air.
What was he going to do with this woman? Dragging a slippery porpoise, one that had no intention of being caught no less, out of the water would be a challenge indeed.
She surfaced, this time nearer the waterfall and beckoned to him. “Come on in. The water’s fine.”
“Didn’t your parents ever tell you not to play naked with strangers?”
She laughed. “Yes. But you are not a stranger.”
“You know my name only.”
“I know that my father trusts you.”
“And who would your father be?”
“You really don’t know?”
“If I did, would I have to ask?”
“I am the third daughter of Philippe de Bergeron, King of St. Michel, and owner of this pond.”
Sebastian stared, mouth agape. That was impossible. Marie-Claire de Bergeron was a child! He wracked his brain, attempting to recall her age, but she was certainly no more than twelve or thirteen. He’d never given the king’s young daughters a second thought, as over the years they seemed more occupied with the affairs of dolls and roller skates than with affairs of state. On the odd social occasion that he’d come in contact with the king’s children, he’d been preoccupied. Concerned with the well-being of his date du jour, or the hour’s political topic.
Languidly, she swam toward the beach where he stood and finding purchase on a submerged rock with her toes, allowed her shoulders to protrude from the water.
His eyes dipped to the cleavage she cradled in her arms. Seems he’d lost track of her birthdays. Suddenly guilty at the lascivious direction his thoughts had taken, he took a giant step back.
“Does your father know you are here?”
“Papa is too busy to keep track of me.”
“Every father wants to know that his children are safe. Especially after dark.”
“I am no longer a child,” she argued hotly. “As of yesterday, I am sixteen years old. A royal debutante, of an age to begin dating.”
Sebastian snorted, even as a keen disappointment settled in his gut. Sixteen? She was a child. “You are a royal pain, of an age to be spanked and I’m tempted to be the one to do it. Get out of the water now.”
“Make me.”
Sebastian arched a brow. “You are a brat.”
“And you are a killjoy.”
She aroused myriad emotions within him, and his jaw flexed as he pondered his next move. It was rare that anyone, let alone a teenaged girl, challenged his authority. And strangely, it exhilarated him.
For the longest moment, neither of them spoke. The only sounds were those of the rushing waterfall and the soulful cadence of the cricket’s song. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted. The sun disappeared altogether, leaving the storm clouds on the horizon, silver-plated. The steady plipplop of raindrops turned into an all-out shower, but still neither of them moved. Nor spoke.
At least, not with words.
Even so, they knew that what was passing between them was life-changing, for them both. He waged a battle in his mind, but was far too ethical to take advantage of her foolishness.
You’re too young.
But I won’t always be.
I’ll wait.
Do.
With a nod, Sebastian turned and easily mounted his horse and set off through the trees.
“Get dressed,” he ordered over his shoulder. “I’ll wait for you at the edge of the woods and escort you safely home.”
This time, she did not argue.
Chapter Two
She’d turned twenty-one just yesterday. This Sebastian knew, as he’d etched the date on his brain five long years ago. And now, as the beautiful Marie-Claire de Bergeron descended the stair alone, all eyes in the steadily growing crowd turned to greet this vision with approval and, he noted with a swift glance about, some lechery.
A fierce wave of protectiveness washed over him and he excused himself from a conversation he was having with Lise’s new husband, Wilhelm Rodin, and moved to stand at the bottom of the stairs.
As it had so often in the past, his gaze drew hers and they were locked in a world of their own making. Only now, they both knew she was a full-fledged adult, legal in every way and responsible for her own decisions in this life.
Seeming to sense the moment was perfect, the royal orchestra struck up a rousing waltz and Sebastian held his hand out to Marie-Claire.
“Dance?”
“Oui.”
Bashfully, she extended her hand and he suppressed the grin he felt surging up from his belly. She was such a conundrum. One minute, she was wildly cheering him to victory on the golf course and the next, a blushing innocent, struggling to exude sophistication. Though soft and small, her hand was strong, and she clung to him as he led her through the throng to the dance floor.
When they arrived, a number of couples were already sweeping about the gleaming marble. King Philippe danced with his wife, Queen Celeste; Philippe’s mother, the Dowager Queen Simone danced with the prime minister, Rene Davoine; and a number of court consorts, celebrities and political acquaintances from different countries also whirled across the Russian imported