of one of the most highly trained intelligence organizations of modern times, the admiral was sharp, cunning and focused, well used to taking command.
The Royal Intelligence Institute, organized by the king to include the best minds in the fields of military, science, medicine, economics and such disciplines, was the envy of other leaders throughout the world. Operating inside this unique structure was the Royal Elite Team—men authorized to act in any emergency that threatened the kingdom or the Royal Family.
Admiral Monteque of the Royal Navy directed the RET. Duke Carson Logan was a member as was Sir Selywyn Estabon, the royal secretary, and Duke Pierceson Prescott. All four glared at the medical chief as if the king’s condition was his fault.
The doctor glared back. “We’re checking the diagnosis with the Center for Disease Control in the United States. This appears to be a rare strain of virus, found only in a limited area of Africa.”
“How would the king contract such a disease?” Duke Prescott demanded.
“How the hell would I know?” the doctor snapped.
Sir Selywyn poured oil on troubled waters. “Please keep us informed the instant there’s any change.”
“Of course,” the doctor replied stiffly. He hesitated, then added, “The body is a miraculous machine. The king could awaken and be right as rain at any moment. I will advise you of any improvement at once.”
Selywyn escorted the doctor to the door of the king’s council chamber, a room constructed so that no sound or electronic signal could escape or penetrate the barriers in its walls.
“We must proceed with all caution,” Logan said after the secretary securely closed the door. “Until we know what is to happen with the king.”
Monteque frowned. “It’s the worst time—”
“Is there a best one?” Selywyn interrupted.
The two men locked gazes, then the admiral shrugged ruefully. “I suppose not. I think we shall have to proceed to Plan B, as we discussed last night.”
“You were serious?” Logan questioned while Preston looked even grimmer.
“Dead serious. I don’t see another choice, and it would be the king’s wishes. Look at the situation. We’re in critical negotiations with the United States on a trade agreement, in talks with Majorco on a military alliance and still have to convince the Ministers of the Exchequer of the wisdom of ratifying the international trade accord reached two months ago in Monaco. We must at least give the appearance of making progress on those fronts.”
Preston spoke up. “The law says if the king becomes incapacitated, the queen takes over as regent until a royal son is crowned. What of her?”
“The queen has never shown much interest in political affairs. The King of Majorco’s contempt for women entering a man’s world is well-known. I suggest we stall, at least until we know what is to become of the king,” Selywyn told them. “Or until one of the royal princes returns to the country and is made king.”
Selywyn was aware of his own fatigue as Monteque rubbed a hand over his face in an unconscious gesture of weariness. None of them had slept for more than a couple of hours at a time since the king’s mysterious ailment had befallen him last Sunday. It was now Thursday, and the military alliance treaty was to be signed in a public ceremony next month.
“It’s a hell of a time for both Owen and Dylan to be out of the country and unavailable,” Monteque continued. “I don’t think we should allow that in the future.”
“They’re young men with minds of their own,” Logan reminded the RET leader. He yawned and stretched. “They won’t be shackled.”
“Aye, the royals are different today than when the king and I were growing up,” Monteque said, referring to the five royal children of King Morgan and Queen Marissa.
“But not, I think, in their hearts,” Selywyn murmured. “I suppose we must get on with the business at hand. When should we put the emergency plan into effect, Admiral?”
Monteque rose. “At once.”
The admiral, along with Preston, left the private chamber. Selywyn turned to his friend, Logan, who was as close to the king as he was. “I wonder if we are about to admit the Trojan horse into the kingdom.”
But Logan’s eyes were closed and his head nodded to one side. Selywyn touched the man’s shoulder.
“Go to your bed, my friend,” he told the king’s bodyguard, who awoke with a start. “We’ll all need our wits about us to see this through to the end.”
Jean-Paul stood on the cliff that overlooked the private lagoon adjoining the grounds of the palace. His request for Megan to meet him had gone unanswered the previous day. Now he was taking matters into his own hands.
He felt certain she would slip down to her favorite place as soon as she had a spare moment, so he’d taken the liberty of going the long way to the shore, approaching the hidden cove along the strand from the northwest and staying well out of sight of the palace walls where he might be spotted by the ever-present surveillance cameras.
Glancing at his watch, he saw it was nearly noon. An early morning fog lingered over the bay. He’d been on the beach since seven, and his disposition was not improving as each minute ticked by.
A lone figure appeared out of the mist.
Ah. A smile tipped the corners of his mouth as he recognized the graceful form of Megan, Royal Princess of Penwyck, making her way down the rocky path along the cliffs. Patience was at last rewarded.
She walked with surefooted skill, a slight woman, no more than five feet, four inches, weighing hardly more than a hundred pounds. Her dark hair curled damply around her shoulders in the mist, its auburn highlights dimmed by the fog. She held a long shawl snugly around her to ward off the chill breeze from the ocean.
He decided not to call out to her until she was on the beach so as not to startle her. A thrum of anticipation beat through him like jungle drums from a distant place. He remembered vividly how she had whispered his name in wonder as he’d caressed her.
During those moments, while the storm surged around them, the wildness of the selky had returned to her eyes. She’d been incredibly passionate, responsive to his every touch, until he, too, had felt the call of the sea in his blood, until his heart had pounded with the fierceness of the storm surge, until he’d thought it would burst from his chest…
The next moment he exclaimed in annoyance as the princess skipped lightly over the rocks in the opposite direction from him rather than walking around the cove as he’d thought she would do. Some instinct cautioned him to silence as she approached the water’s edge.
To his astonishment, she tossed off the long shawl and her sandals. Clad only in a swimsuit, she raced into the chill sea and proceeded to swim out into the bay on the morning tide.
Surprise was replaced by a surge of fear so strong he was rendered motionless for a split second. Then he was on his feet, tossing shoes and clothing aside, and diving into an oncoming wave, determined to haul her back to shore.
She
