Her Royal Husband (16 page)

Pure and undiluted magic.

Never before had his eyes locked with another’s like this, never before had he felt the subtle pull of energy shivering in the air between two bodies. He drew her a little closer, put his hand on the small of her back and felt the warmth, the mystical force of her radiating to him.

He felt her find his rhythm at the exact moment he found hers.

They didn’t dance, so much as they floated. Mortals danced. They became something more. Winged. Free. They had found their way to a place beyond words, beyond misunderstandings, beyond human failings and frailties. Finally, they had found their way.

Everything that had passed before this moment in time faded to utter insignificance. Everything that would come after was illuminated in a soft light, the future and all its promise dancing with them.

Love shimmered and played in the air around them. It soared on wings made stronger for the fact they had been singed.

Owen became aware of an odd quality of silence in the ballroom. Always, above the strains of the music were other sounds: chatter, laughter, waiters clinking glasses, chairs being shuffled. He was not sure he had ever heard an opening dance this silent. The music, the
sound of her gown swishing across the floor and their hearts beating. Nothing more.

They swept around the floor, her following his lead perfectly, effortlessly, gracefully, and it was as if the world belonged to just the two of them. Finally, they were perfectly in step, perfectly in tune.

The music of the first dance ended, and after a long space, far away he heard the sound of applause, but even that did not come into his world.

The words poured back, the words his soul needed to speak.

“I needed to ask you something,” he said, his mouth near her ear, smelling the sweet smell at the curve of her neck.

She pulled back from him slightly, scanned his face.

His voice caught in his throat. “I need to ask you two things,” he corrected himself.

She nodded. He could feel she had stopped breathing against him.

“I need,” he whispered in her ear, “to ask your forgiveness.”

She stood very still. She looked straight into his eyes. He could see every pain he had ever caused her there, and for a moment her pain felt like it would rip out his very heart.

And then the miracle happened. She reached up, and touched his cheek with the palm of her hand, and it was a gesture of such exquisite tenderness. And as she looked at him, the pain faded from her eyes and was replaced with a lustrous and miraculous light that was like nothing he had ever seen, ever. The stars coming out would be shamed by it, the sun in the morning was not so pure as was the light in her eyes.

A single tear trickled down her cheek.

“Of course I forgive you, Owen,” she said, her voice raspy with emotion. And then she smiled, radiant, tried to wipe away the tear. He caught her hand, and kissed the tear from her cheek.

It tasted pure and sweet and free of bitterness.

“And the second question,” he said huskily—

“Your attention, please. Everyone. Your attention.”

Annoyed at this interruption to the most important moment of his entire life, Owen had no option but to turn to the podium. Her hand slipped into his and her shoulder rested against his chest.

“Prince Broderick of Penwyck.”

The crowd clapped politely, but Owen eyed his uncle warily. Broderick seemed to be delighting in all the pomp and circumstance. Like his nephew, he was dressed very formally. Owen noted his uncle looked unusually happy.

Or on closer inspection, perhaps happy was the wrong word, but definitely pleased with himself. Sly. Smug.

Owen shot a look at his mother. She, too, looked on guard as Broderick took the microphone.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” Broderick said, “and especially a good evening to you, Your Royal Highness Prince Owen, whose safe return from peril is the cause for this celebration tonight.”

Owen acknowledged his uncle’s bow with a slight inclination of his head.

“I wanted to take this opportunity to commend our Royal Elite Team,” Broderick went on smoothly, “for their quick action in finding our prince and returning him, unharmed and safely to us.”

The applause was deafening.

Broderick held up his hands, obviously enjoying the limelight.

Owen wished he did not feel such dislike for his uncle. It was the system that had created this man. And if he and Dylan were not careful, the same system would do this to one of them.

“Naturally,” Broderick said sadly, “a nation holds its breath when the heir apparent goes missing.”

He cleared his throat, shook off the sadness with dramatic flair, and smiled. “But what if it wasn’t really the heir apparent who had gone missing?”

All chatter ceased, every rustling of gowns, every clinking of glasses, and then a whisper of confusion swelled within the crowd.

“I have a confession to make,” Broderick said, and Owen felt his unease grow.

What on earth was his uncle up to?

“Twenty-three years ago, twins were born to our wonderful king, Morgan, my brother, and his beautiful wife, Marissa. But it was me, always cognizant of the danger surrounding heirs to the throne, who thought perhaps I could serve my country best by putting the new princes out of harm’s way.”

Owen felt mesmerized, as if he was watching a snake being charmed out of a basket. He was able to pull his eyes away from Broderick only long enough to look at his mother.

She looked very pale.

Broderick’s smile deepened, and he dropped his bombshell. “I switched the twins at birth.”

A gasp went up from the crowd. Owen might have laughed at his uncle’s absurdity had he not seen the effect Broderick’s words had on his mother. Owen was not sure he had ever seen her look anything but composed. At the moment, Queen Marissa looked distinctly shaken.

“The true heir to the throne, will not be our Prince Owen, who is in fact, by birth not a prince at all, as all of Penwyck has believed. Nor will our future king be his happily wandering brother, Dylan.”

By birth not a prince at all.
Owen registered the words, but felt oddly unmoved by them.

“The true heir to the throne of Penwyck will indeed be one of Morgan and Marissa’s twin sons, but not the boys we have watched grow to young manhood. The true heirs to Penwyck were raised, thanks to me, in complete safety and comfort by a very wealthy family in America.”

For a moment, there was stunned silence, and then the hall dissolved into chaos, as people all began to talk at once.

Owen felt Jordan’s fingers dig into his arm where she had been holding him. He glanced down at her, and saw her eyes wide on his face, disbelieving. He scanned her features, and a small smile tugged at his lips.

She was worried, not that he might not be a prince, but about him and how he might be reacting to not being a prince.

He, on the other hand, was worried about his mother. Or the woman he had always thought was his mother. Perhaps only he would have noticed how she flinched back from Broderick’s words, but already he could see she was composing herself.

She got to her feet, regal and serene, and as soon as she stood, silence once again fell over the hall. She looked every inch the queen, tall and imperious. She wore a small and tasteful tiara tonight, and a brocaded gown.

Every eye was on her as she made her way gracefully to the microphone. She didn’t walk to it, she swept to
it, the most powerful woman in Penwyck. Broderick was dwarfed by her power and he seemed to know it, shrinking back from the microphone.

“My dearest brother-in-law,” she said with great and grave dignity, “I would fear you had been in the sun too long, but since the hot days of summer are over, perhaps it is the influence of those soap operas you like to while away your afternoons watching that have caused you to make this very strange and very disturbing announcement.”

A nervous laugh swept the hall, and Broderick’s color became very unbecoming as Marissa looked at him steadily, until finally he looked away.

Owen was far less interested in Broderick than the queen. Ah, she was handling herself beautifully, as always, but still he could tell something in Broderick’s announcement had touched a nerve in her that she was being very careful not to let others see.

“Though I have no doubt,” she said, her voice smooth and soothing and unperturbed, “that one of the sons I have raised will one day wear the crown of his father—”

Again, Owen heard what others might not hear. His mother had not named him as the certain successor to his father. Her eyes met his, held and then skittered away, and he was sure he had not misinterpreted her action.

“—I will, of course, investigate this claim that Broderick has made, just as I would any that was so disruptive to our family and indeed to all the people of Penwyck. I will have a special meeting of the Royal Elite Team tonight, and we will decide on a course of action. I’m sure, that within weeks, I will be able to confirm,
with proof, who the heirs to the throne of Penwyck really are.

“Naturally, Prince Broderick,” the queen looked over her shoulder at her brother-in-law, but still addressed the crowd, “I would have much preferred you bring such a serious matter to me privately, but I understand we each have our own style of dealing with things.”

Her reprimand, her implication that Broderick’s handling of this sensitive matter had been tasteless and crass caused another nervous little twitter of laughter to sweep the crowd.

Broderick looked absolutely apoplectic, his face flushed, his features twisted into a fury that reminded Owen that his uncle could be dangerous.

The tension in the room was now palpable. Owen could see enormous damage was going to be done to Penwyck if people were allowed to leave the ball on this note. Rumors would spread. Gossip would catch fire. It would be as if the monarchy, the leadership, of the country was unstable.

Broderick had done a great deal of damage in a few short seconds. The entire economy of the country could be pulled down if too much credence was given to the startling announcements of this evening.

Patting Jordan’s arm, Owen pulled away from her, and made his way quickly through the crowd. The crowd parted before him, and he sensed the anxiety in the room, the need for leadership.

Owen leapt onto the stage from the floor.

He bowed to his mother, extended his hand to Broderick, though there was no missing the reluctance with which he accepted it, nor the malice in his eyes.

And then he turned to the crowd, and looked at their worried faces. He smiled, and he felt the energy in the
room shift imperceptibly. He held the smile, met eyes, was rewarded when people smiled back.

Then he took the microphone.

Keeping his tone deliberately light, he said, “I wasn’t told this would be a surprise party, but thank you, Broderick, that was quite a surprise.”

A ripple of appreciative laughter followed this statement.

“My mother has promised to get to the bottom of this,” Owen continued, “and we all know my mother. We can place our absolute faith in her to untangle this web, as we have placed our absolute faith in her so many other times here on Penwyck.”

He had come to stand right beside her right shoulder, presenting a united front. He met her eyes. Her mouth was smiling, but her eyes were pleading. For what?

Perhaps it was because he had just made its acquaintance so recently that he recognized it so readily. Forgiveness.

He had a feeling this might not end the way anyone thought it was going to. But tonight his only public duty was damage control.

And of course his very private one was to ask Jordan the second question.

“My understanding,” Owen said, “was that this was a party celebrating my safe return.” He paused, and looked at each of his limbs slowly, patted his chest, and said, “As I thought, I am still safely returned!”

The laughter was relieved now.

“So let the band strike up, and let us dance and celebrate. Tomorrow is soon enough to deal with the problems of the world.”

He signaled the band leader, who immediately struck up an upbeat tune. He blessed his sisters for knowing
exactly what to do. They tugged partners onto the dance floor, and in moments the whole floor was crowded with people.

He made his way through them, and bowed to Jordan, who was looking at him with sparkling eyes.

“Have I told you recently, that I think you are magnificent?” she asked him.

“Recently? You’ve never told me that.”

“Oh, but I have.”

He actually felt himself blush. “I have a second question to ask you,” he said. The music stopped.

He noticed the crowd was still restive, and he held up his hand. With no microphone this time, he asked for the attention of the crowd and got it.

“I need to say something else tonight and it is this—kings and queens and princes and princesses come, and they go. Kingdoms rise and then they fade. All my life I have been obedient to my duty, and to you, the people of Penwyck.

“But tonight I am also going to be obedient to my heart. Over time, and history will bear me out on this, only one thing remains.

“And that is love.”

He faced Jordan. She had her hands up, framing her lovely face. Her eyes were wide. He took her hand, and then he dropped on one knee before her. He looked up at her, into her eyes, and in front of all these witnesses, he proclaimed himself.

He said, “Jordan Ashbury you are my world. I do not know what the future holds, nor does any man, though we sometimes allow ourselves that illusion.

“If you are not at my side I could be a king, but without you I would be poorer than any pauper.

“But if you say yes to spending your life at my side,
I could well be a pauper, but I will feel richer than the richest of kings.

“Jordan, will you walk through the days of my life at my side? Will you put your hand in mine? Will you allow me the great privilege of being the father to all your children? Jordan Ashbury, will you be my wife?”

She tugged at his hands, and he stood, and looking down at her, he saw the answer in her eyes before she spoke the word.