The Royal Wedding Collection. Robyn Donald
he’d soon get bored with the antics of a three-year-old.
Her heart clenched painfully. Even if he couldn’t be the sort of father a child needed, she’d be there to provide love and understanding for Michael, and to fight for him whenever it became necessary.
Yet self-protection forced her to search for a less dangerous compromise. ‘I still think it would be easier for us all if Michael and I had our own place. You could see him whenever you want to.’
But even as she said the words she knew they weren’t going to change Caelan’s mind.
‘You’ll live with me, so I can keep a close watch on you. From now on, wherever Michael goes, either I—or someone I employ—will be half a step behind.’ He spoke with the cold, raw impact of a punch in the face, his tone implacable.
‘All right,’ she said at last, the acrid taste of defeat in her mouth. She had no room to manoeuvre, and he knew it. Apprehension shivered through her, setting her nerves jumping.
‘Then let’s go,’ he said without expression. ‘Do you want me to carry the child out to the car?’
‘No,’ she said too quickly.
Ignoring her, he strode out of the room and opened the front door, giving crisp, low-voiced orders to whoever had driven the car up to the cottage.
Abby walked back into Michael’s room, but once there she fixed her gaze painfully on his beloved face. Even when Caelan came back in she didn’t move.
He interrupted her darting thoughts with an impatient command. ‘Forget the past—it’s not relevant—and think of Michael’s well-being; at the moment he needs both of us—me for the security which, believe it or not, Gemma would have considered to be just as important as the love you dispense.’ After a tense pause he drawled, ‘Or is it too big a sacrifice for you to make for him?’
‘Damn you,’ she whispered, torn on the rack of her ambivalence, disillusion and pain warring with the ignominy of her own helplessness.
A sobbing sigh from the bed broke the thick web of tension between them. Nerves taut and brittle as spun toffee, she sat down on the edge when Michael rubbed his eyes and began to hiccup.
‘Hush, darling, it’s all right,’ she crooned, lifting his solid, warm body against her. ‘Did you have a bad dream?’
He murmured something and clung, cuddling into her, so utterly dear that her heart clenched in a tight, hard ball.
Abby kissed his tousled hair and pressed her cheek against it, looking across to where Caelan stood.
Michael must have sensed that someone else was in the room too; he turned his head, his eyes growing larger as he examined Caelan. Sobs dying, he said, ‘Abby?’
‘Hello, Michael, I’m your Uncle Caelan, and you’re coming to live with me.’ Caelan’s voice was deep and cool and utterly confident.
His nephew stared at him, clutching Abby tighter. ‘And Abby too?’ he said uncertainly.
Caelan looked at Abby. ‘Tell him,’ he commanded.
She dragged in a deep breath, praying fiercely that this was the right thing for Michael. ‘Of course, darling,’ she said simply. ‘You know I’ll always be with you.’
Michael looked up at her, brows drawing together in a frown that reminded her eerily of the man with them.
‘Give him to me,’ Caelan ordered.
When she hesitated, he said curtly, ‘I’m not a monster, Abby.’
But she handed Michael over with huge reluctance. Carrying the small boy easily, his uncle strode out of the room; swiftly Abby scooped up blankets and Michael’s stuffed elephant and the fire engine she’d made of wooden blocks and followed, panting slightly by the time she reached the big, waiting car.
Caelan was stooping, his voice level and reassuring as he lowered Michael into a child seat in the back. Another man stood some distance away—possibly the one who’d kept her under surveillance. A sudden shiver of foreboding tightened her skin.
She didn’t understand power at all, whereas Caelan Bagaton reeked of it. Very little of that inherent authority came from the title he rarely used and his heritage; if he’d been born plain Caelan Smith he’d have made his way in the world. He was a winner.
As soon as the restraints on the car seat were clipped home Michael peered anxiously at Abby, who hovered in the crisp air.
‘Sit beside him,’ Caelan ordered, straightening up so that she could drape the blankets around the child. ‘Give me your car keys first—’
‘Why?’
‘I assume the bag on the sofa isn’t the sum total of your belongings?’
‘No, but—’
He frowned, explaining with surprising patience, ‘We’ll transfer the rest of your luggage from your car to this one. Then someone will drive yours to Auckland.’
Feeling foolish, she muttered, ‘I was going to sell it in Christchurch,’ and rooted for the keys in her bag. She dropped them into his outstretched hand, noting that he wasn’t looking at her; his gaze was fixed on Michael.
She took Michael’s warm little hand and coaxed, ‘Go back to sleep, darling.’
Caelan stepped back and turned away. As she got in beside Michael and tucked the blankets around him more securely she was aware of the prince’s deep voice giving concise orders. The boot was opened, the bags put in and it slammed shut again, before the silence was punctuated by the sound of her car door closing. Its engine coughed into life and headlights probed the darkness as it turned down the drive in front of them.
Caelan slid in behind the wheel of the hire car. Turning so that he could see her, he said negligently, ‘Try to stay awake until we get to Queenstown. You can sleep on the plane; there’s a bed in it as well as a cot for Michael.’
In the dark cocoon that was the interior of the car she thought his eyes lingered on her face for a second before he turned back and the engine purred into life.
Hot blood stung her skin. What had she done, letting herself be ambushed and captured like this? The prince took no prisoners; what did he have in mind for her?
A tiredness more than physical, a weariness of the spirit, chilled her from the bones out. While Michael slid back into the sleep of the very young and secure, she stayed wide-eyed and tense until the luxurious car drove into the airport at Queenstown.
But he didn’t drive towards the darkened terminal building. ‘Where are we going?’ she asked.
‘There’s a private plane waiting on the runway.’
Well, of course, she thought wearily. As well as being cousin to the ruler of a principality, Caelan Bagaton was a tycoon, a billionaire, rich enough to afford his own country as well as a private jet.
Oh, you fool, she thought painfully, you’re so far out of your depth here you might as well drown now and get it over and done with.
They’d met when Gemma had almost run her over in one of Auckland’s summer storms, and, although her car was a miracle of design that Abby knew she’d never be able to aspire to, Gemma had insisted on taking her home.
Their friendship had ripened rapidly; they’d gone clubbing together and spent other nights talking and listening to music; Gemma had invited her up to the beach house, although she had said, ‘But Caelan won’t be there.’
Abby’s brows shot up. ‘So?’
‘Oh, just that quite a few of the girls I know try to use me to get to him. And even my friends fall in love with him and then get their hearts broken. He’s a big, bad wolf, my brother.’
Well, he’d turned up at the beach, and Abby had found out for herself the truth of that assessment! Fortunately