bed filled almost all the available space. The bed wasn’t prepared for instant seduction, she saw and was glad.
She helped him spread sheets and tuck them in. The air had grown chill, so he added a comforter. Then he turned to her, placed his hands on the fastening at his waistband and waited for her consent.
In that instant she knew she could never say he gave her no choice. The decision was hers. She turned her back to him and lifted her hair out of the way.
He slid the zipper of her dress down, then helped her step out of the gown. He slipped out of his tux pants and laid the items neatly over the only chair.
In a moment they were undressed. He held the comforter up and let her climb in the bed. He clicked on a soft light and closed the door to the galley, then joined her, his arms enclosing her after he pulled the comforter over them. It was like being in a cocoon of warmth and safety.
The storm reached the cove and rocked the boat, sometimes gently, sometimes vigorously. The rain lashed the sea and all that floated upon it. But nothing penetrated the sweet wonder of their lovemaking.
Before they slept, he rose to turn off the light. For a few seconds, he stared down at her, his gaze fathoms deep, his thoughts unreadable as some emotion moved within his eyes and was gone.
Words rose to her lips, but she didn’t say them. She wasn’t sure what was allowed between lovers.
“Rest,” he said gently, and kissed her eyes closed.
She let sleep take her as she rested secure in his arms. He’d been gentle, this sweet lover. For the moment, the yearning that had plagued her soul was quiet.
Chapter Two
Jean-Paul Augustuve, nineteenth Earl of Silvershire, zipped the final closure on the backpack.
“That’s it,” he said to his friend, Arnie Stanhope, who was also the expedition leader.
He and Arnie had been students together at Oxford and later at the University of Montana, where they’d studied archaeology. They were searching for remains of an ancient civilization here in the mountains of Silvershire.
Last month, a local shepherd had unearthed a burial chamber thought to be over fifteen thousand years old. Inside the mass grave site had been evidence of a ceremonial burial with food, weapons and other artifacts to aid the deceased in their afterlife. The discovery had tantalized scientists with the possibilities of finding a whole village and gaining insights into early man’s way of life.
“When do you think you’ll be back?” Arnie asked, running a hand through his hair, which was receding rapidly, giving him an oddly cherubic look with his round, smooth face and innocent expression.
Arnie, Jean-Paul had concluded long ago, was not of this world. Intensely involved in his exploration and research, he never noticed petty things about people, never lied or tried to impress anyone, was never impressed by a title or wealth. Arnie was just Arnie. Which was why Jean-Paul considered the scientist one of his best friends.
“I have no idea. When duty calls, I merely answer,” he said with a rueful grin and shrug. He hoisted the backpack. “I’ll be in touch.”
“Are you sure you don’t want a couple of men with you? It’s a long trek out of the mountains.”
“I’ll be fine,” Jean-Paul assured his friend. “Good luck with the dig.”
They shook hands, and Jean-Paul left the campsite. Heading down the steep trail, he thought of the curious note tucked safely into his wallet. A ripple of some emotion he couldn’t define ran over him.
Megan. Princess Megan Penelope Penwyck. The Quiet One. The sweet lover who had delighted him with her innocent passion. She’d been a virgin. That discovery had surprised him as much as the excited report of the shepherd on the ancient burial mound.
Her responsiveness had set him on fire, so much so he’d made love to her three times before morning came. They had both been silent on the voyage back to Monte Carlo.
For the first time in his life, he hadn’t been able to summon glib conversation to ease the transition from the intimacy of the night to the casualness and eventual parting that came with the sunrise.
After the return to the hotel, he hadn’t seen her again. She’d left for Penwyck the same day, slipping from the hotel without a word. He’d sent flowers to her home, but no note had answered the gift. He’d assumed the lady hadn’t wanted a repeat of the night before.
His mood introspective, he paused on a summit that opened on a view of the castle and grounds several miles away from where he’d grown to manhood. He’d been caught up in state affairs, then the scheduled archaeological dig, for the past two months. There’d been no time to pursue the matter between him and the elusive princess from Penwyck.
The note he’d received yesterday had reminded him of her—concise and to the point. She’d requested a meeting with him at his earliest convenience.
That was it. No explanation, no references to the past, no accusations, just the polite note penned in her own clear, precise handwriting.
However, it didn’t take a genius to realize her request was dated eight weeks and one day after their night together.
Since their lovemaking had been totally unplanned, he hadn’t had protection with him. However, he couldn’t say he’d never thought of the possibility of a child. He had…and had ignored the precautions he always took when it came to involvement. Or entrapment.
As one touted by the tabloids as a Top Ten eligible bachelor, he was very careful about whom he dated and how involved their relationship became. Women with their own highly successful careers were sophisticated and just as leery of tying themselves down as he was.
A royal princess like Megan would have been taught from the cradle to be wary of the unexpected or impulsive. So how did either of them explain that one foolish but magical night they’d shared?
Unexpected and undefined emotion rushed over him. He studied it for a moment, then shrugged. Whatever would be, would be. C’est la vie.
The trip down the mountain took all of Tuesday and half of Wednesday. He had time to do a lot of soul-searching. Impending fatherhood didn’t dismay him, he found.
It came to him that he was already thinking of it as a sure thing. If so, his parents would be pleased. He had recently turned thirty, and they had given him several broad hints that it was time he, an only child, settled down and produced the required heir to Silvershire.
Perhaps he would surprise them with news of coming nuptials, he thought sardonically, entering the manse that served as the seat of his father’s dukedom and which he would inherit one day. But not soon, he hoped.
He loved and admired his parents. Once he’d even assumed a passionate love would come to him as it had to them. Their marriage had been impulsive and had enraged his grandfather, the old duke. But it had worked out well.
Running up the stairs to his quarters, he knew word of his arrival—and his plans for immediate departure—would soon spread from the staff to the present duke. Hmm, what would he say about where he was going?
Tell the truth? He could
