Of Royal Blood. Carolyn Zane

together.

      And they’d known it that night, five years ago.

      Sebastian held Marie-Claire’s face in both hands and pulled his mouth away from hers, a fraction. “What are we going to do?”

      “Marie-Claire!”

      “We’ve been found out.” Sebastian kissed her hard, then took a step back.

      Marie-Claire groaned. “My sister, Ariane. Do you think if we ignore her, she’ll go away?”

      “Likely not. She sounds upset.”

      Marie-Claire bristled. “I don’t know why. I’m old enough to take care of myself. No doubt she saw us and wants to remind me to appear disinterested.”

      Sebastian grinned. “She’s too late.”

      “We could run,” she suggested hopefully.

      “Your skirts are too heavy. I’d have to carry you on my back. It would slow me down, but we might stand a chance if we bolt for it now.”

      Marie-Claire giggled.

      “Marie-Claire! Marie-Claire! Come quickly! It’s Papa! He’s collapsed!”

      Chapter Three

      Six months later

      It was wonderful to be home.

      Marie-Claire had just finished unpacking and moved from her closet to her bedroom window to study the familiar view. It was incredibly warm for March and flowers were blooming early this year. Down below, a veritable army of gardeners swarmed over the de Bergeron Palace’s grounds. Mowers roared, clippers hummed and the sweet scent of freshly shorn grass filled the air.

      Marie-Claire swallowed against the ever-present lump in her throat. Spring was Papa’s favorite time of the year. He’d liked to say it was a time for new beginnings. She stared, unseeing, at the fountain where she and Sebastian had last danced together. She hoped Papa was right. She was finally ready to put the shattered pieces of her life into the dustbin and take a stab at starting over again.

      The small country of St. Michel was only just now beginning to recover from the shock of King Philippe’s unexpected death. But Marie-Claire doubted that she’d ever fully mend from the mortal wound to her heart. Her heavy sigh fogged the windowpane.

      Thank God for Sebastian.

      During the much-publicized funeral, and in the frenzied days that followed, he’d been a rock. Though he battled his own grief—for Philippe had been like a father to him since Sebastian’s own father had passed away when he was a boy—he was protective and solicitous of Marie-Claire. The tragedy had only strengthened their special bond and she loved him more than ever.

      Even so, the overwhelming memories of her father seemed to haunt her healing process. She was an orphan now. Granted, she was a full-grown orphan, with the money, power and prestige that came of being born into royalty, but nonetheless, she felt cut adrift on an ocean of grief. That she’d been a favorite of her father’s only made her anguish that much more acute.

      A deep depression had absconded with Marie-Claire’s usual carefree nature and left her weepy, exhausted and not caring if she lived or died. She’d known she wouldn’t be fit company for anyone, let alone Sebastian, until she spent some healing time with her maternal grandmother, Tatiana. And so, a week after her father was laid to rest and she’d fulfilled all of her social duties as a member of a grieving monarchy, Marie-Claire listlessly packed her bags and headed off to Denmark to find comfort in the bosom of her mother’s side of the family.

      The last time she’d seen Sebastian was the day he’d taken her to the airport and kissed her good-bye. It had been an emotional kiss, fraught with promises and hope and sorrow and the terrible knowledge that separation, just as they’d finally come together, would be hard.

      And it had been.

      Marie-Claire was sure they could have paid much of St. Michel’s national debt with what she and Sebastian had spent in phone charges. But it was worth it to hear his soothing voice. To hear news of home. To know that he still cared.

      Tatiana had helped her through the worst of her struggles, talking late into the night, drying her tears, telling her stories of her papa’s pride when she’d been born and giving her the benefit of years of living. She was a very wise woman. And for such a tiny thing, she was a tough old broad. Tatiana didn’t have time to baby Marie-Claire and after a month, put her to work as a volunteer in a children’s hospital in hopes of helping her to see that the rain fell on the just and the unjust.

      It worked.

      Immediately, Marie-Claire fell in love with the children and in her effort to comfort, was comforted. There was nothing like the sweet feeling of little arms around her neck to soothe her own emotional injuries and before long Marie-Claire had a new life motto and with a gentle push, Tatiana nudged her out of the nest.

      “Life is too short to waste even a minute,” Marie-Claire murmured against her windowpane. Off in the distance, Le cheval du roi came into focus and a sudden burst of happiness that she hadn’t felt for half a year filled her breast. “Too short, indeedy.” She turned away from the window, rushed to the phone and dialed.

      “Hello, Sebastian? I’m home.”

      Sebastian pocketed his cell phone and, for the first time in ages, his smile was real. Marie-Claire was home. In less than an hour, he’d see her. Hold her. Kiss her. It had been an eternity. These last six months had seemed to drag on longer than the previous five years combined. Yes, waiting for Marie-Claire to grow up had sorely tested his patience, but once he knew the rapture of her kiss, staying away had been hell.

      More than once he’d been tempted to barge in on old Tatiana and take what was his, but he knew Marie-Claire needed time. Truth was, he did, too.

      Philippe’s death had been a shock. Worse, for some reason, than when he’d been a little boy and lost his own father. For as far back as either family could remember, the LeMarcs and the de Bergerons had been close. And Philippe had always been good with Sebastian, possibly seeing him as the son he’d always longed for, Philippe had been a patient mentor, a listening ear, and a model of manliness.

      Sebastian missed him. Nearly as much as he’d missed Marie-Claire.

      Sebastian reached for his jacket as his mother swept into the over-decorated and cluttered parlor of her sprawling country estate.

      “You’re leaving? But you just got here.” Claudette’s face fell as she watched her only son shrug into his jacket and re-knot his tie.

      “I’m sorry, Mère. The royal family has requested my presence at lunch today.”

      “Well, it’s about time.” Claudette bristled. She gave her short, wavy and, still dark at fifty-two, brown hair a smoothing pat and pursed her lips in dismay at her attire. “This will never do. I’ll just be a moment.”

      “Mère,” Sebastian said, suppressing a smile.

      Claudette stopped in her tracks and without turning around, heaved a heavy sigh. “I’m not invited. Oh. Well. I see.” She waved an airy hand and settled upon a settee as if she had no cares.

      But Sebastian could tell she was hurt. Claudette had always been overly enamored with anything that smacked of aristocracy. The fact that she’d been slipping in the St. Michel social ranks since her influential husband had died was not lost on her. A lunch at the palace would surely boost her weight with her cronies down at the club.