Her Royal Baby

I’m not going to let it. I need help, and you’re it.’

‘You’re afraid.’ He said it with a note of discovery in his voice and saw her flinch. But still she met his eyes.

‘Yes,’ she agreed, with only a hint of a tremor in her voice. ‘Yes, I am. But at least I acknowledge it and I’m doing something about it.’

‘By coercing me…’

‘No one’s coercing you but your own heart. You could have walked away from Henry today and left him with Mrs Burchett. What held you back?’

‘You,’ he said explosively, and saw that damned smile peep out again.

‘What? Me?’

‘You are the most infuriating woman…the rudest, pushiest, mostly badly dressed…’

‘Hey!’

‘What?’

‘I’m not badly dressed. I’m dressed just fine for where I belong. Which isn’t here.’

‘You belong here.’

‘No.’

‘You do,’ he told her, goaded beyond endurance. ‘You think just because you speak in that damned Australian accent and swing from trees and carry chainsaws…’

‘That I can’t be royalty? Then I’d be right.’

‘You’d be wrong.’

‘If you want a princess bring back Ingrid. She’s aching-’

‘Damn Ingrid!’

‘Why on earth,’ she said slowly-thoughtfully, even-‘would I want to damn Ingrid?’

Silence. The tension in the room was almost unbearable. It was way past serving time, but Dominic was standing on the other side of the oak doors and he wasn’t entering for worlds. It was far below his dignified standing as royal butler to put his ear against the door, but he did have to wait for a pause in the conversation after all-and if his ear happened to be perilously close…

There was nothing to hear any more. Tammy was gazing up at Marc, her eyes bright with tension and the traces of anger clearly written on her face. And Marc was staring down at her, goaded beyond bearing.

Why would she want to damn Ingrid?

For no reason at all, he thought savagely. Ingrid didn’t come into the equation.

Her eyes were still watching him, bright with enquiry. His hands still gripped her shoulders and held, and she didn’t pull away. Why should she?

Why should she indeed?

And the fine line beyond forbearance and fury was broken. He was only human after all. He was a man…

Once more he pulled her into his arms and kissed her.

CHAPTER TEN

THE line between hate and love was a fine one. If Marc had been asked that morning whether he did either he would have laughed. But now…

He was so out of control he hardly knew what he was doing, and when he hauled her close, when his mouth bent and took hers, it was furious, blind, irrational rage that was pushing him.

It was rage.

Of course it was rage. He wanted to punish her. He wanted to make her see how impossible she was. How impossible her being here was. How crazy was the way he was feeling-that he wanted her-that he ached for her- that his body was screaming in a way he didn’t recognise. When she smiled at him his gut twisted in a savage, searing pain. The scent of her… Her nearness… She was like a lovely creature just out of his reach.

She was so desirable.

Why didn’t she fight him? he wondered in that tiny part of his brain that was capable of such thought. She should kick him and run.

Maybe she should leave. She had no place here. She belonged half a world away, her nephew belonged here with the servants, and he belonged in his own chateau…

No. Nothing was what it seemed. Nothing was happening as it should. His world had tipped and was refusing to right itself. All he knew was the way she felt in his hands-the way her breasts moulded to his chest-the way he wanted her…

He wanted her!

Her lips were opening under his, a rose unfurling from bud, and it was no longer anger he was feeling. The fury was surging out of him to be replaced by an emotion that was even stronger.

He mustn’t!

Dear God, this woman…

She was so sweet. She was so lovely. Her mouth was yielding to his and her hands were clinging to him.

How could she respond? How could she possibly feel what he felt? This yearning, tearing pull…

All his life he’d avoided this, and here, under his hands, was the thing he’d tried so desperately to escape. She was his woman. His! Half of his whole. He’d never known he was incomplete, and yet she fitted to him as though he’d been torn in half at birth and not known. Until now, when she melted with such searing sweetness…

He couldn’t move. He could only hold her and kiss her and feel the surge of change rip his whole being.

Tammy…

And Tammy?

Like Marc she was powerless to stop even if she’d wanted to. Which she didn’t.

How could she stop? She’d never thought anything could be so sweet-so right.

Oh, Marc was all wrong for her. In the sane part of her mind she knew it. But for this moment she knew nothing. There was a whole gamut of emotions surging and she had nothing to compare them with. She felt as if she was surging into another life though the medium of this man’s body.

What had Shakespeare said? ‘A consummation devoutly to be wished.’

A consummation.

That was what this was, she thought dazedly. A consummation. Whether they took it further than this or not made no difference. She was merging into him right now-changing-learning that there was a whole sweet world that had been locked to her until now.

He was a womaniser. That was what her mother called him. Mrs Burchett agreed and she’d seen nothing to dispel the idea. Tomorrow he’d move on. Tomorrow he would no longer hold her like this-not kiss her as he was kissing her. Tomorrow he’d make no claim on her, nor she on him. She knew that.

Tomorrow…tomorrow was for the whole barren future.

But for now there was only him. The feel of him. The wonder. The aching need.

So her lips welcomed him, her hands clung and she felt her body light with fire. He was her man. For this sweet time-for this minute, maybe, if that was all there was-he was her home.

Marc…

‘Marc.’

Somehow she whispered his name. Somehow he drew back, to take a breath and devour her with his eyes before bending his mouth again to hers.

‘Marc.’

It made him pause. The way she whispered it was a caress in itself, and its sweetness threatened to overwhelm him. Her sweetness…her tenderness…

This wasn’t a woman playing on his terms, he thought dazedly. Women like Ingrid-they understood the rules. They used men and were used by them in turn. He needed a society hostess and a partner and they wanted status. When they became too pushy he moved on, but there were no broken hearts. He partnered experienced women who played the game as he expected.