The Royal Wedding Collection. Robyn Donald
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she’d left for the Pacific Gemma had wept a little and promised to visit. Abby hadn’t expected her to; Palaweyo was a poor atoll, only the bounty of its huge lagoon saving it from third-world status, and few tourists came within a thousand miles. But months later Gemma had arrived, tense and oddly desperate, and during the long hot nights she’d confided a few details of her passionate affair with a gangly, laconic Australian mountain-climber, and his heroic death. Before she’d had time to grieve, she’d discovered that she was pregnant.
Eerily, as though he could read her thoughts, Caelan said, ‘I believe Michael’s father was another Michael—Moncrieff, the mountaineer who died rescuing stranded climbers on Mount Everest.’
Stunned, Abby swallowed. ‘Yes,’ she said thinly.
‘A decent man, but not her usual sort. Didn’t it occur to you that his relatives might have wanted to have contact with their grandchild?’
‘Gemma said he had none; he’d grown up in care.’
Something about Caelan’s nod made her realise that he knew this. Of course he’d have had Gemma’s lover investigated. Suddenly loathing him and everything he stood for, she finished curtly, ‘Gemma said he was genuine gold all through.’
Surprisingly Caelan didn’t dig further. ‘Why does Michael call you Abby? It would have been less obvious if he’d called you his mother.’
‘But I’m not his mother,’ she said quietly. ‘He knows his parents are dead. He doesn’t know what that means, of course, but he’s entitled to know who he is.’
‘But not about his mother’s family.’
The lash of his sarcasm flicked across her skin like a whip; she was glad when he eased the car to a stop beside the sleek executive plane.
Once in the aircraft, with Michael asleep in the luxurious bedroom, and the prince going through papers in a leather-upholstered armchair that somehow didn’t look incongruous with a seat belt, Abby stared through a window until the sky began to turn grey towards the east. Thoughts churned in her mind, going over and over old ground while she tried to work out how she could have avoided this.
In the end she gave up; against the prince’s iron-clad determination she had no defence.
The stark volcanic landscape of the central North Island unrolled beneath the plane as the sun tinted the distant clouds a radiant pink that swiftly turned to gold.
Foolish to let an everyday miracle lift her heart, yet she wondered if the sunrise was some sort of omen, a pointer of hope. Perhaps she and the prince could work together for Michael’s sake; perhaps Caelan could find it in his cold heart to learn to love a small child.
And perhaps not, she thought grimly, but staying with Michael was all she asked at the moment.
As though her thoughts had woken him, she saw Michael peep cautiously through the door of the bedroom. He beamed at her before turning to examine his uncle.
Caelan had noticed, of course; he put his papers down and said, ‘Good morning, Michael.’
For a moment Michael looked apprehensive, but he was a friendly child and he essayed a tentative grin. Abby’s breath locked in her throat; she watched the formidable assurance of Caelan’s expression relax into a rare, compelling smile.
Deep inside her something twisted, and a pang of excitement—hot and feverish and piercing—seized her so fiercely she almost gasped under its impact.
‘Do you want to go to the bathroom?’ his uncle asked.
Michael thought for a moment, then nodded. ‘Yes. With Abby.’
‘Of course.’ An ice-blue, enigmatic gaze roamed Abby’s face. ‘When you’ve finished, breakfast will be ready.’
Eyes wide and incredulous, Michael stared around the plane and demanded, ‘Where are we, Abby?’
‘We’re in an aeroplane, darling, up in the sky.’ Warily conscious of Caelan’s presence, Abby tried to resurrect her brisk common sense. ‘When you’ve been to the bathroom you can look out of the window and you’ll see the sea a long way underneath us.’
Bubbling with excitement, Michael shot questions at her on the way to the bathroom and all the way back, falling silent only when he at last saw the sea, a gleaming bow against the craggy bulk of the land.
Caelan said, ‘Everything you packed into your car is on the plane; I thought it best for him to have as many familiar things around him as possible.’
‘Thank you,’ she said in a stilted voice.
‘It was nothing.’
And indeed, for him, it wasn’t. All he had to do was command, and people hurried to do his bidding. Travelling with the prince was nothing like the normal hassle; leg-room wasn’t a problem and luggage didn’t need to be monitored. Money made things easy in so many ways, and of course his heritage meant that he took such things for granted.
But he had considered Michael’s feelings; it seemed a good omen. Fortified by that hopeful thought, Abby leaned back in the seat, remembering how startled she’d been when she’d discovered that he and Gemma were distant cousins of the ruler of Dacia.
Gemma had said, ‘One of these days I’ll take you to see the crown jewels there. They’re a magnificent collection of the world’s most perfect emeralds.’ She’d peered into Abby’s face and then sat back, pronouncing, ‘In fact, some are exactly the same colour as your eyes. And you’d like the Bagaton cousins. The men are totally, over-the-top gorgeous, and there’s a Kiwi connection too. Several—including Prince Luka, the reigning monarch—have married New Zealanders.’
Don’t go there! Abby commanded, relieved when Caelan interrupted her memories.
‘If you agree, your car can be sold today.’
Her lips tightened. Resentment at being taken over, forced into a situation she couldn’t escape, scraped across her nerves. ‘I suppose so,’ she said colourlessly.
‘Yes or no?’
‘Yes,’ she said between her teeth, and leaned away to point out another, smaller plane beneath them to Michael.
Who crowed with delight before turning a radiant face to the prince to shout, ‘Uncle Caelan, look!’
Caelan got to his feet and bent over them to look through the window; Abby caught a faint, masculine scent, and a merciless sexual awareness dazzled her. Her body tightened and her head swam.
Fortunately he straightened up almost immediately, looking down at her with burnished silver-blue eyes, unreadable and hard. ‘Breakfast should be ready. I’ll go and see.’
Her breath hissed out as he walked to the back of the plane, his lithe gait a challenge in itself. No wonder he turned up frequently in the gossip columns; he packed a powerful physical charge that overrode all the cautious warnings of her mind.
But at least Gemma had told her what he was—utterly intolerant, quick to judge and incapable of trust. And she’d found out for herself that he was able to effortlessly control his sexual appetite.
It took all of her powers of persuasion to coax Michael back into his seat and buckle him in; his vigorous objections were only halted by the appearance of a middle-aged stewardess carrying a tray. Entranced by this, and the promise of fruit to follow, he settled down to demolish a boiled egg with his usual gusto.
Too strung-up to eat, Abby refused anything apart from a cup of coffee. But it arrived accompanied by thin, crisp toast and several little pots containing a variety of spreads.
‘Mr Bagaton said you should have something,’ the stewardess explained with a smile.
Abby quelled a frisson of foolish pleasure. His thoughtfulness warmed some small part of her she’d thought permanently frozen.
She looked up as he came back down