Rich, Ruthless and Secretly Royal Page 2

  Kelt eased her back onto the pillow and slipped the sandals from her slender, high-arched feet. She wasn’t wearing tights, and her dress was loose enough to be comfortable.

  To his surprise she made a soft protesting noise. One hand came up and groped for him, then fell onto the sheet, the long, elegant fingers loosening as another bout of shivering shook her slim body with such rigour that Kelt turned away and headed for the door. She needed help, and she needed it right now.

  He’d almost got to the outer door when he heard a sound from the room behind him. Turning in mid-stride, Kelt made it back in half the time.

  Hannah Court had fallen out of the bed, her slim body twisting as guttural little moans escaped through her clenched teeth.

  What sort of fever took hold so quickly?

  When he picked her up she immediately turned into him, unconsciously seeking—what? Comfort?

  ‘Hannah, it’s all right, I’ll get a doctor for you as soon as I can,’ he told her, softening and lowering his voice as though she were a child.

  ‘Hani,’ she whispered, dragging out the syllables.

  Honey? A play on Hannah, a pet name perhaps? She certainly had skin like honey—even feverish it glowed, delicate and satin-smooth.

  His arms tightened around her yielding body and he sat on the side of the bed, surprised when the close embrace seemed to soothe her restlessness. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the intense, dramatic shivers began to ease.

  But when he went to lie her down she clutched weakly at him. ‘Stay,’ she mumbled so thickly it was difficult to make out the words. ‘Stay. Please…Raf…’ The word died away into an indeterminate mumble.

  Rafe? A lover? Surprised and irritated by a fierce twist of what couldn’t possibly be jealousy, Kelt said, ‘It’s all right, I won’t let you go.’

  That seemed to soothe her. She lay quiescent, her breathing becoming more regular.

  Kelt looked down at her lovely face. His brother Gerd would laugh if he could see him now. This small, stark room couldn’t have been a bigger contrast to the pomp of the ceremony he’d just attended in Carathia, when their grandmother had presented Gerd, their next ruler, to the people of the small, mountainous country on the Adriatic.

  His brother had always known that one day he’d rule the Carathians, and Kelt had always been devoutly thankful the fishbowl existence of monarchy wasn’t his fate. His mouth tightened. His own title of Prince Kelt, Duke of Vamili, had been confirmed too. And that should put an end to the grumblings of discontent amongst some of the less educated country people.

  Last year their grandmother, the Grand Duchess of Carathia, had come down with a bout of pneumonia. She’d recovered, but she’d called Gerd back to Carathia, intent on sealing the succession of the exceedingly wealthy little country. The ceremonies had gone off magnificently with the world’s royalty and many of its leaders in attendance.

  As well as a 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 when she dies his brother will be a duke too and he’ll live in a big stone castle on a hill.’ She turned and pointed to the headland behind them. ‘He lives up there behind the pohutukawa trees.’

  The Duke’s brother, or The Duke? Hani repressed a smile. ‘I’m happy for you to play here. Just come and tell me when you’re going home again.’

  With a whoop they set off, except for the small blond boy, whose name was Jamie. ‘Why have you got green eyes?’ he asked, staring at her.

  ‘Because my mother had green eyes.’ Hani repressed a familiar pang of pain. She and her brother had both inherited those eyes; every time she looked in the mirror she thought of Rafiq.

  Surely she should be reconciled to never seeing him again by now!

  Jamie nodded. ‘They’re nice. Why are you staying here?’

  ‘I’m on holiday.’ The day after her last attack of fever the principal had told her that if she didn’t take up the offer to go to New Zealand—‘long enough to get this fever out of your system’—the charity that ran the school couldn’t accept responsibility for her welfare. Her air fares would be paid, and the beach house where she’d convalesce was rent-free.

  Without exactly stating that they’d terminate her employment if she didn’t go, he’d implied it so strongly she’d been persuaded to reluctantly leave the safety of Tukuulu.

  Curiosity satisfied, Jamie said nonchalantly, ‘See you later,’ and scampered off to join the others.

  Hani sat back down in the comfortable wicker chair on the deck. Airy and casually luxurious, the beach house was surprisingly big, with glass doors in every room opening out onto a wide wooden deck that overlooked the cove. Her landlord, an elderly man, had met her flight the previous night and driven her here to what he’d called a bach.

  Remembering his very English accent, she smiled. No doubt those cut-glass vowels were why the children had decided he must be some sort of aristocrat.

  After introducing himself very formally as Arthur Wellington, he’d said, ‘The refrigerator and the pantry have been stocked with staples. If you need anything else, do ring the number on the calendar beside the telephone.’

  Hani thanked him for that, but realised now that she’d missed telling him how much she appreciated being given the opportunity to stay here.

  She’d do that when she paid him for the groceries he’d supplied.

  On a long, soft sigh she took her gaze away from the children long enough to examine the cove. Sand like amber suede curved against the kingfisher expanse of water. Squinting against the bright sky, Hani eyed the headland where the landlord lived. Its steep slopes were hidden by more of the dark-leafed trees that lined the beach, their massive limbs swooping down over the sand.

  A formal house to match her landlord’s formal manner? She hoped not. It would look incongruous in this pristinely beautiful scene.

  Loud shrieks from the beach dragged her attention back to the game taking place in front of the bach, one that involved much yelling, more laughter, and some frenzied racing around. For the first time in months she felt a stirring of energy.

  Smiling, checking that little Jamie didn’t get too close to the water, she failed to notice an intruder until he was almost at the cottage. The soft clink of harness alerting her, she swivelled around and saw a horse—a fine bay, strong enough to take its tall, powerfully built rider without effort.

  Her startled gaze took in the rider. He sat easily on his mount—but that wasn’t why her pulses revved into overdrive.

  For a second—just long enough to terrify and delight her—he reminded her of her brother. Rafiq had the same coiled grace of strength and litheness, the same relaxed control of his mount.

  The same air of authority.

  Then she recalled when she’d seen this man before, and an odd, baseless panic froze the breath in her throat. In spite of the bout of fever she’d been suffering when she met him on Tukuulu, those hard-hewn features and hooded eyes were sharply etched into her memory.

  As was the feel of his arms around her…And the knowledge that he’d stripped her saturated clothes from her and somehow managed to get her into the loose shift she wore at night.

  What the hell was he doing here?

  He swung down, looped the reins over a fencepost and opened the gate to come towards her. Subliminally intimidated by the arrogant angle of his head and the smooth, lethal grace of his stride, Hani forced herself to her feet, stiffening her spine and her knees.

  Although tall for a woman, she couldn’t match him. Her chin came up; unsmiling, breath locking in her throat, she watched him approach while a feverish awareness lifted the invisible hairs on the back of her neck.

  He was—well, gorgeous was the only word she could come up with. Except that gorgeous made her think of male models, and this man looked like no male model she’d ever seen. That effortless, inborn air of command hardened his already bold features into an intimidating mask of force and power, emphasised by a cold steel-blue gaze and a thinning of his subtly sensuous mouth.

  He was handsome enough to make any woman’s heart shake—even one as frozen as hers—but something uncompromising and formidable about him set off alarms in every nerve.

  He had to be The Duke. A swift stab of apprehension screwed her nerves even tighter. Felipe, the man she’d once thought she loved, had called himself a French count.

  It was stupid of her, but the children’s innocent misconception seemed somehow ominous.

  Hani knew she should be relieved when he looked at her with a total lack of male interest. Scarily, she wasn’t.

  OK, so the last thing she wanted was a man to see her as a sexual being, but…On Tukuulu he’d noticed her as a woman; now he looked at her with complete indifference.

  And that stung.

  Trying to keep this meeting on a sensible basis, she said warily, ‘Hello. I didn’t realise that you owned this place. Thank you so much for letting me stay here.’

  ‘I hoped to see you looking a bit better,’ he said curtly.

  ‘I am much better.’ Yes, her voice was fine—crisp, just as cool and impersonal as his, a far cry from her slurred tone that night at the ceremony. Meeting his merciless survey with an assumption of confidence, sh
e hid her uncertainty with a shrug. ‘Another thing I have to thank you for is your rescue of me.’

  One black brow lifted. ‘It was nothing; I happened to be the closest person around.’

  Heat tinged her skin. Trying to sound professional and assured, she said crisply, ‘It was very kind of you. I don’t remember much—’ only the sound of his voice, calm and reassuring, and the wonderful comfort of his arms when he’d held her until the shivering stopped ‘—but I know I didn’t change myself.’

  His eyes narrowed slightly. ‘Once the fever had broken I went back to the school dance floor, but everyone had gone by then. It didn’t seem a good idea for you to sleep in wet clothes, so I removed your dress.’ In a coldly formidable tone, he finished, ‘I behaved as a brother might have.’

  Colour burned into her skin. Hoping her words mingled the right blend of gratitude and distance, she said, ‘Yes—well, I thought as much.’ And then, changing the subject without finesse, ‘Thanks again for being generous enough to let me stay in this lovely place.’

  ‘You’ve thanked me enough,’ he said a little curtly, adding with a faint smile, ‘I went to school with your principal. When he asked if his teachers could use this bach I agreed. It’s not used very often, and it seems a waste to have it sit here empty. You’re the third teacher to come here, and I expect there will be others.’

  So that was the connection. And he was making sure she didn’t think she was special.

  She said with cool assurance, ‘I’m grateful. But to make things very clear, I was neither drunk nor drugged that night in Tukuulu.’

  One straight black brow lifted. ‘I wondered if you’d remember that. I’m sorry for jumping to conclusions—it didn’t take me long to realise you were ill.’

  For some reason she wasn’t prepared to explore, she didn’t want his apology. ‘I sent you a letter thanking you for your help.’

  ‘Yes, your principal passed it on.’

  He hadn’t answered. Well, for heaven’s sake, she hadn’t expected him to.

  Without inflection, he said, ‘I’m glad I was there when you needed someone. I’m Kelt Crysander-Gillan—although I don’t use the first part of my surname—and I live just up the hill.’