Rich, Ruthless and Secretly Royal. Robyn Donald

mouth came to rest against his heart, and through the fine cotton of his shirt he could feel the pressure of her lips against his skin.

      Grimly, he tried to ignore his body’s consuming response to the accidental kiss.

      Guessing that the open door in the far wall probably led to a bedroom, he strode towards it. Through the opening, one comprehensive glance took in an ancient institutional bed. A rickety lamp on the chest of drawers beside it seemed to be the only illumination.

      He eased her down onto the coverlet, then switched on the lamp. Hannah Court gave a soft, sobbing sigh.

      His first instinct was to call a doctor, but she opened her eyes—great eyes, darkly lashed, and yes, they were green.

      Even glazed and unseeing, they were alluring.

      ‘Pills.’ Her voice was high and thin, and she frowned, her eyes enormous in her hectically flushed face. ‘T-top drawer…’

      Kelt’s expression lightened a fraction when he saw a bottle of tablets; although he didn’t recognise the name of the drug, the dose was clearly set out, headed rather quaintly For the Fever.

      He said harshly, ‘I’ll get you some water.’

      When he came back her eyes were closed again beneath her pleated brows. She’d turned away from the light, rucking up her skirt around her hips to reveal long, elegant legs. Setting his jaw against a swift stab of desire, Kelt jerked the fabric down to cover her.

      ‘Hannah.’ Deliberately he made his tone hard and commanding.

      Still lost in that region of pain and fever, she didn’t answer, but her lashes flickered. Kelt sat down on the side of the bed, shook out the right number of pills, and repeated her name. This time there was no response at all.

      He laid the back of his hand against her forehead. Her skin was burning. Perhaps he should call a doctor instead of trying to get the medication inside her.

      Medication first, he decided, then he’d get a doctor. ‘Open your mouth, Hannah,’ he ordered.

      After a few seconds she obeyed. He put the pills onto her tongue and said in the same peremptory tone, ‘Here’s the water. Drink up.’

      Her body moved reflexively, but she did as she was told, greedily gulping down the water and swallowing the pills without any problems.

      She even managed to sigh, ‘OK—soon…’

      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,