CROWN PRINCE,
PREGNANT BRIDE!
RAYE MORGAN
VALENTINE BRIDE
CHRISTINE RIMMER
CROWN PRINCE,
PREGNANT BRIDE!
RAYE MORGAN
Dear Reader,
For the island nation of Ambria, the time of reckoning is fast approaching. The storm is gathering. Retribution for what was done to the DeAngelis royal family when their country was torn from them is at hand —and Pellea Marallis, promised to the usurper’s heir, knows it very well.
Monte DeAngelis, the Crown Prince, has come back to claim what is his. For most of his life he’s known exactly what that is. Only now does he see that his need has grown. Though he never thought he would let a woman blur the intensity of his determination, Pellea is doing just that. In the grand scheme of things he is afraid he may just ache for her more strongly than he craves revenge.
The more he tries to deny it, and the more Pellea tries to hold him off, the deeper his desire goes —and once he realises she is carrying his child he knows there is no turning back. They make their way through the castle corridors, exploring secret rooms, tricking guards, attending a masked ball and stealing a prized artifact. But when Monte escapes along an ancient passageway Pellea refuses to go with him. She’s torn between her love for Monte and her devotion to her dying father. Will she be caught up in the coming war and pay the ultimate price for her divided loyalties?
Well, you know the drill —you’ll have to read the book to find out!
Hope you enjoy it —all the best,
Raye Morgan
About the Author
RAYE MORGAN has been a nursery school teacher, a travel agent, a clerk and a business editor, but her best job ever has been writing romances —and fostering romance in her own family at the same time. Current score: two boys married, two more to go. Raye has published over seventy romances, and claims to have many more waiting in the wings. She lives in Southern California with her husband and whichever son happens to be staying at home at the moment.
This book is dedicated to Baby Kate
CHAPTER ONE
THOUGH MONTE COULDN’T see her, Pellea Marallis passed so close to the Crown Prince’s hiding place, he easily caught a hint of her intoxicating perfume. That gave him an unexpected jolt. It brought back a panoply of memories, like flipping through the pages of a book—a vision of sunlight shining through a gauzy white dress, silhouetting a slim, beautifully rounded female form, a flashing picture of drops of water cascading like a thousand diamonds onto creamy silken skin, a sense of cool satin sheets and caresses that set his flesh on fire.
He bit down hard on his lower lip to stop the wave of sensuality that threatened to wash over him. He wasn’t here to renew the romance. He was here to kidnap her. And he wasn’t about to let that beguiling man-woman thing get in the way this time.
She passed close again and he could hear the rustle of her long skirt as it brushed against the wall he was leaning on. She was pacing back and forth in her courtyard, a garden retreat built right into this side of the castle, giving her a small lush forest where she spent most of her time. The surrounding rooms—a huge closet filled with clothes and a small sitting room, a neighboring compact office stacked to the ceiling with books, a sumptuously decorated bedroom—each opened onto the courtyard with French doors, making her living space a mixture of indoors and outdoors in an enchanting maze of exciting colors and provocative scents.
She was living like a princess.
Did he resent it all? Of course. How could he not?
But this was not the side of the castle where his family had lived before the overthrow of their royal rule. That area had been burned the night his parents were murdered by the Granvillis, the thugs who still ruled Ambria, this small island country that had once been home to his family. He understood that part of the castle was only now being renovated, twenty-five years later.
And that he resented.
But Pellea had nothing to do with the way his family had been robbed of their birthright. He had no intention of holding her accountable. Her father was another matter. His long-time status as the Grand Counselor to the Granvillis was what gave Pellea the right to live in this luxury—and his treachery twenty-five years ago was considered a subject of dusty history.
Not to Monte. But that was a matter for another time.
He hadn’t seen her yet. He’d slipped into the dressing room as soon as he’d emerged from the secret passageway. And now he was just biding his time before he revealed his presence.
He was taking this slowly, because no matter what he’d told himself, she affected him in ways no other woman ever had. In fact, she’d been known to send his restraint reeling, and he knew he had to take this at a cautious pace if he didn’t want things to spin out of control again.
He heard her voice and his head rose. Listening hard, he tried to figure out if she had someone with her. No. She was talking on her mobile, and when she turned in his direction, he could just make out what she was saying.
“Seed pearls of course. And little pink rosebuds. I think that ought to do it.”
He wasn’t really listening to the words. Just the sound of her had him mesmerized. He’d never noticed before how appealing her voice was, just as an instrument. He hadn’t heard it for some time, and it caught the ear the way a lilting acoustic guitar solo might, each note crisp, crystal clear and sweet in a way that touched the soul.
As she talked, he listened to the sound and smiled. He wanted to see her and the need was growing in him.
But to do that, he would have to move to a riskier position so that he could see out through the open French doors. Though he’d slipped easily into her huge dressing room, he needed to move to a niche beside a tall wardrobe where he could see everything without being seen himself. Carefully, he made his move.
And there she was. His heart was thudding so hard, he could barely breathe.
The thing about Pellea, and part of the reason she so completely captivated him, was that she seemed to embody a sense of royal command even though there wasn’t a royal bone in her body. She was classically beautiful, like a Greek statue, only slimmer, like an angel in a Renaissance painting, only earthier, like a dancer drawn by Toulouse-Lautrec, only more graceful, like a thirties-era film star, only more mysteriously luminescent. She was all a woman could be and still be of this earth.
Barely.
To a casual glance, she looked like a normal woman. Her face was exceptionally pretty, but there were others with dark eyes as almond-shaped, with long, lustrous lashes that seemed to sweep the air. Her hair floated about her face like a misty cloud of spun gold and her form was trim and nicely rounded. Her lips were red and full and inviting. Perfection.
But there were others who had much the same advantages. Others had caught his eye through the years, but not many had filled his mind and touched off the sense of longing that she had.
There was something more to Pellea, something in the dignity with which she held herself, an inner fire that burned behind a certain sadness in her eyes, an inner drive, a sense of purpose, that set her apart. She could be playful as a kitten one minute, then smoldering with a provocative allure, and just as suddenly, aflame with righteous anger.
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