Royal Baby. Trish Morey

had no doubts?

      She’d been so young, barely eighteen at the time and eight years younger than Sienna was now. Surely she must have had doubts, no matter how much she’d thought she’d loved him? Surely she must have wondered if the wanderlust father of her child could ever really change?

      ‘It’s time for your ultrasound.’

      Rafe’s voice intruded into her thoughts, and she blinked, the present world suddenly coming back into sharp focus as she looked up and he filled her vision, instantly kicking new life into her heart rate. How he still had that effect on her when she was basically his prisoner here, she couldn’t understand and didn’t want to analyse. She only knew that the sooner she could put a lid on this inner turmoil she felt whenever he so much as looked at her, the better.

      To him she might only be the vessel that carried his child, and a convenient solution to a problem that threatened the Principality, but there was no way she could consider marriage to a man like Rafe—a prince—in such clinical terms. And yet if she was going to have to go through with this, she needed to be able to.

      A strange fear zipped up her spine. The fact she was even considering marrying Rafe—when had that change in her thinking taken place? And more importantly, why? It was anathema to her—marrying for the sake of a child—and yet she was entertaining the idea as if it were a done deal. Last night again she’d thought about getting help. Why shouldn’t she call the Embassy, and who cared if the calls were monitored? By the time they discovered who she was calling, help could be on its way, and to hell with the fall out. He had no right to keep her here against her will.

      And again she’d shut herself in the library, meaning to call, fully intending to. But she’d only got as far as lifting the receiver. Only pressed it to her ear, before the fingers of her other hand had cut the connection, and she’d slammed the receiver down in frustration.

      What was happening to her?

      Three days she’d been on the island now. Yesterday had been filled with an endless parade of specialists, nutritionists and exercise gurus, and she’d met Carmelina, the dark-haired young beauty who was to ‘manage’ her new wardrobe, and lay out whatever outfits she’d need in readiness for the day’s and evening’s activities. When she’d protested that she’d successfully managed her wardrobe by herself for the best part of twenty years, Rafe had reminded her that soon she would be a princess, dressing for all manner of events, formal and informal, and that she could not be expected to manage a wardrobe the size of a department store.

      And when a fashion consultant arrived, bringing along an entire boutique and three assistants with her and fitted Sienna out in an entire wardrobe in under two hours—and that was only the beginning, she’d assured her, planning on returning with designs made solely for her—Sienna finally believed him.

      Today promised to be more of the same. Was it any wonder she felt numb from all the attention? Once yesterday’s obstetrician had confirmed her pregnancy, this juggernaut that was to be a royal wedding rolled and gained momentum with every minute.

      And she was still only just coming to terms with her pregnancy. Once again this morning, she’d felt nauseous, though it was more a general queasiness this time that had assailed her, a queasiness that paled in comparison to the illness of those first days here. How much had stress and high emotions played a part in that—the fear of meeting Rafe again, her fury at being held against her will and the accusation that she’d kept her pregnancy secret from him—had this all combined to magnify the worst of her pregnancy symptoms tenfold?

      ‘Sienna?’ He put out a hand to her, obviously impatient to see the proof of the child they had conceived together. ‘Come.’

      She regarded it suspiciously. He hadn’t made a move to touch her yesterday, not after he’d discovered she was pregnant and they’d shared that one brief kiss. Out of consideration for her condition? She wondered. It wouldn’t surprise her if he figured he didn’t need to touch her now, his work already done.

      Nevertheless she slipped her fingers into his and let him lead her inside, amazed at how comfortable his grip felt, and how much warmth could be conveyed in the touch of just one hand. It was almost enough to make her forget the litre of water she’d been asked to drink and the knowledge of where that litre of fluid now resided. Almost.

      ‘Are you all right?’ Rafe asked as they ascended the stairs slower than he obviously would have liked.

      ‘I’m fine,’ she retorted, knowing his concern had less to do with her and more to do with the welfare of his unborn child. ‘Just don’t stick a pin in me or I might explode.’ And while his low laugh irritated her, she was still grateful for his support as she made her way up the long sweeping stairway to the first floor.

      The radiographers had set up their equipment in one of the unused rooms not far from her own, turning a bedchamber fit for a queen into a suite filled with the latest in medical technology. She blinked as she took it all in. Never before had she been in the position of having a doctor, let alone specialists, come to her—to ensure privacy, Rafe had told her, and she could understand that, although part of her wondered whether he thought there was a risk she might bolt if she had the chance to visit Velatte City.

      Would she bolt, she wondered as she dutifully changed out of the clothes Rafe’s minions had chosen for her into the robe they’d provided? Nothing of Rafe’s plans to wed her had yet been announced, nobody knew who she was, and in the cover of the harbour city, unknown and unannounced, there was always the chance she’d be able to slip the palace guard and make her way to the port and secure a ticket to somewhere.

      Away from Montvelatte and Rafe, at least she would have a fighting chance of thinking straight. Already her resolve was wavering, her determination not to be steamrolled into a wedding she didn’t want dangerously slipping.

      Which made no sense at all. She knew marriage could falter without love to bind the couple together; her own parents’ marriage had taught her that.

      Although at least her mother had wanted to marry.

      Sienna hadn’t even been asked the question.

      ‘Are you ready?’

      Rafe’s voice broke her from her reverie and she allowed herself a wistful smile. ‘Are you ready?’ was about the most romantic this wedding proposal was going to get.

      Moments later she was on the stretcher draped in towels with her gown raised and her naked abdomen exposed. Soothing voices explained the procedure and assured her everything would be all right before cool jelly tickled as it was spread over her belly. She felt the pressure of the sensor sliding over her skin and for the very first time considered what might happen if something was wrong.

      Sienna hadn’t asked for this baby, hadn’t wanted it or the marriage that Rafe assumed must go hand in hand with its existence. But if something was wrong with the baby, if he wasn’t getting the package deal he was expecting, there was every likelihood he wouldn’t want her any more.

      Just for a moment, just a fraction of a moment, she almost let herself wish for the worst.

      It hit her unexpectedly then, a hitherto unknown maternal guilt that she could be so cruel to her unborn child, tumbling and crashing over her in a wave that had her clamping her eyes tightly shut as she tried to blot out the possibility that something could be wrong. Because none of this was the baby’s fault. She had no right to wish away this brand new speck of life just to solve her own problems. No right at all.

      And suddenly, as the scanner slid across her skin, all that mattered was that her baby was healthy. Whatever else happened to her, it didn’t matter, she would somehow cope.

       But please, God, let her baby be healthy!

      The radiographer seemed to be taking forever, biting her lip as she stared at the screen. She said something in her native Velattian-Italian language mix that had the obstetrician nodding as he studied the emerging pictures. She turned her head to see, but the screen was angled away from her, studied intently by the radiographer by her side and by both