flock of princesses.
With a cynical movement of his hard mouth, Kelt wondered if their grandmother would have any luck marrying her heir off to one.
He suspected not. Gerd might be constrained by centuries of tradition, but he’d choose his own wife.
And once that was done there would be children to seal the succession again. He frowned, thinking of a Carathian tradition that had complicated the existence of Carathian rulers. It had surfaced again—very inconveniently—just before the ceremonies. Someone had resurrected the ancient tale of the second child, the true chosen one, and in the mountains, where the people clung to past beliefs, a groundswell of rebellion was fomenting.
Fortunately he’d spent very little time in Carathia since his childhood, so his presence was no direct threat to Gerd’s rule. But he didn’t like what was coming in from his brother’s informants and his own.
Instead of a simple case of someone fomenting mischief, the rumours were beginning to seem like the first step to a carefully organised plan to produce disorder in Carathia, and so gain control of over half of the world’s most valuable mineral, one used extensively in electronics.
The woman in his arms sighed, and snuggled even closer, turning her face into his neck. Her skin no longer burned and she’d stopped shivering.
He registered that the distant throb of the music had stopped, and glanced at the clock on top of the chest of drawers. He’d been holding her for just over an hour. Whatever the medication was, it worked miraculously fast.
He responded with involuntary appreciation to her faint, drifting scent—erotic, arousing—and the feel of her, lax and quiescent against him as though after lovemaking. Cursing his unruly body and its instant reaction, he moved her so that he could see her face.
Yes, she was certainly on the mend. The flush had faded, and she was breathing normally.
A moment later beads of perspiration broke out through her skin. Astoundingly fast, the fine cotton of her dress was soaked, the fabric clinging like a second skin, highlighting the elegant bowl of her hips, the gentle swell of her breasts, the vulnerable length of her throat and the long, sleek lines of her thighs.
Desire flamed through him, an urgent hunger that disgusted him.
He eased her off his lap and onto the bed. Once more she made a soft noise of protest, reaching out for him before her hand fell laxly onto the cover and she seemed to slip into a deeper sleep.
Frowning, he stood and surveyed her. He couldn’t leave her like that—it would do her no good for her to sleep in saturated clothes.
So what the hell was he to do next?
The next morning, a little shaky but free from fever, Hani blessed modern medications and wondered who her rescuer—so very judgemental—had been. Kelt Gillan…
An unusual name for an unusual man. She could vaguely remember him picking her up, but after that was a blank, though with an odd little shiver she thought she’d never forget his voice, so cold and unsympathetic as he’d—what?
Ordered her to do something. Oh yes, of course. Swallow the pills. She gave a weak smile and lifted herself up on her elbow to check the time.
And realised she was in one of the loose cotton shifts she wore at night.
‘How—?’ she said aloud, a frown pleating her forehead. She sat up, and stared around the room. The dress she’d worn to the party was draped over the chair beside the wardrobe.
Colour burned her skin and she pressed her hands over her eyes. Her rescuer—whoever he was—must have not only stayed with her until the fever broke, but also changed her wet clothes.
Well, she was grateful, she decided sturdily. He’d done what was necessary, and although she cringed at the thought of him seeing and handling her almost naked body, it was obscurely comforting that he’d cared for her.
But for the rest of that day his angular, handsome face was never far from her mind, and with it came a reckless, potent thrill. Trying to reason it into submission didn’t work. Instead of her wondering why she reacted so powerfully to the stranger when any other man’s closeness repulsed her, the thought of his touch summoned treacherously tantalising thoughts.
Dim recollections of strong arms and a warmth that almost kept at bay the icy grip of the fever made her flush, a heat that faded when into her head popped another vagrant memory—the contempt in his tone when he’d asked her if she was drunk or drugged.
Although she’d never see him again, so she didn’t care a bit what he thought of her…
CHAPTER TWO
THREE weeks later and several thousand kilometres further south, standing on a deck that overlooked a sweep of sand and a cooler Pacific Ocean than she was accustomed to, Hani scanned the faces of the five children in front of her. Though they ranged from a dark-haired, dark-eyed, copper-skinned beauty of about fourteen to a blond little boy slathered with so much sunscreen that his white skin glistened, their features showed they were closely related.
What would it be like to have a family—children of her own?
Her heart twisted and she repressed the thought. Not going to happen, ever.
It was the small blond boy who asked, ‘What’s your name?’
‘Hannah,’ she said automatically.
Her accent must have confused them, because the older girl said, ‘Honey? That’s a nice name.’
And the little boy nodded. ‘Your skin’s the same colour as honey. Is that why your mum called you that?’
In Tukuulu she’d been Hannah; she liked Honey better. Stifling the hard-won caution that told her it might also confuse anyone too curious, she said cheerfully, ‘Actually, it’s Hannah, but you can call me Honey if you want to. Now I’ve told you my name, you’d better tell me yours.’
They all blurted them out together, of course, but six years of teaching infants had instilled a few skills and she soon sorted them out. Hani asked the older girl, ‘Kura, where do you live?’
‘At Kiwinui,’ she said importantly, clearly expecting everyone to know where Kiwinui was. When she realised it meant nothing to Hani, she added, ‘It’s in the next bay, but we’re allowed to walk over the hill and come down here to play if we ask nicely. So we’re asking.’
It would take a harder heart than Hani’s to withstand the impact of five pairs of expectant eyes. ‘I need to know first how good you are at swimming.’
‘We’re not going to swim because we have to have a grown-up with us when we do that,’ Kura told her. ‘Mum said so, and The Duke told us off when he caught us only paddling here, and the water only came up to our ankles.’
The Duke? Her tone invested the nickname with capitals and indicated that nobody messed with the man, whoever he was.
Curious, Hani asked, ‘Who is the duke?’
They looked almost shocked. Kura explained, ‘That’s like being a prince or something. His nan wears a crown and
