She’d admitted that she preferred walking along the shore to being here in the ballroom. Whirling her to the open terrace door, he’d then taken her hand and run with her through the formal gardens to a side gate. “Can you open it?” he’d asked.
“Of course.”
She’d done so and led him through the family gardens to another gate, then down a sloping path along a cliff and thus to the sea. Kicking off their shoes, they’d walked along the strand for more than an hour, speaking only to indicate points of interest—seals sleeping on the breakwater rocks, the beam of a lighthouse keeping watch over the ships that plied the sea at night, palm trees growing along the secluded shore.
“The Gulf current brings warmth to the islands,” he’d said, showing off his knowledge, “else we’d have a climate similar to Canada’s, cold and snowy.”
“I love the cove,” she’d confided. “This was our private place to play and pretend and dream out of sight of the public, especially the news media.”
She’d stopped as if embarrassed at complaining.
“It’s hard having your every move watched, isn’t it?” he’d said to put her at ease. “Sometimes I want to escape, too.” He’d surprised himself at the confession.
“But we can’t. And we shouldn’t dwell on it. Our lives are really very privileged.”
He’d frowned at her prim tone…until he’d looked at her. Her pose belied her words. She faced the sea, her eyes filled with longing so intense it had stunned him, as if something out there beyond his sight beckoned her.
“A selky,” he’d murmured, stroking her hair. “Trapped on shore in a human body. Do you long to return to the sea?”
“Yes,” she’d said, her voice as sad as the call of a lonely gull.
At that moment, he’d wanted to pull her to him, to calm the urge that tugged her toward the sea, but he hadn’t.
Washed in moonlight, her dress white and virginal, her eyes wild with grief for something that could never be, she’d seemed another being, ethereal and dangerous but mesmerizing the way the seal-folk were supposed to be. He’d been afraid to touch her more intimately.
But he’d wanted to, he admitted now with raw candor.
“How serious is it?” Carson Logan, the king’s personal bodyguard, demanded. “When will he come out of it?”
The chief medical officer shook his head. “I can’t predict the future. The king is in a coma. The question may not be when he’ll come out of it but if.”
Admiral Harrison Monteque cursed under his breath. “You think it’s encephalitis? Don’t you know?”
Head of one of the most highly trained intelligence organizations of modern times, the admiral was sharp, cunning and focused, well used to taking command.
The Royal Intelligence Institute, organized by the king to include the best minds in the fields of military, science, medicine, economics and such disciplines, was the envy of other leaders throughout the world. Operating inside this unique structure was the Royal Elite Team—men authorized to act in any emergency that threatened the kingdom or the Royal Family.
Admiral Monteque of the Royal Navy directed the RET. Duke Carson Logan was a member as was Sir Selywyn Estabon, the royal secretary, and Duke Pierceson Prescott. All four glared at the medical chief as if the king’s condition was his fault.
The doctor glared back. “We’re checking the diagnosis with the Center for Disease Control in the United States. This appears to be a rare strain of virus, found only in a limited area of Africa.”
“How would the king contract such a disease?” Duke Prescott demanded.
“How the hell would I know?” the doctor snapped.
Sir Selywyn poured oil on troubled waters. “Please keep us informed the instant there’s any change.”
“Of course,” the doctor replied stiffly. He hesitated, then added, “The body is a miraculous machine. The king could awaken and be right as rain at any moment. I will advise you of any improvement at once.”
Selywyn escorted the doctor to the door of the king’s council chamber, a room constructed so that no sound or electronic signal could escape or penetrate the barriers in its walls.
“We must proceed with all caution,” Logan said after the secretary securely closed the door. “Until we know what is to happen with the king.”
Monteque frowned. “It’s the worst time—”
“Is there a best one?” Selywyn interrupted.
The two men locked gazes, then the admiral shrugged ruefully. “I suppose not. I think we shall have to proceed to Plan B, as we discussed last night.”
“You were serious?” Logan questioned while Preston looked even grimmer.
“Dead serious. I don’t see another choice, and it would be the king’s wishes. Look at the situation. We’re in critical negotiations with the United States on a trade agreement, in talks with Majorco on a military alliance and still have to convince the Ministers of the Exchequer of the wisdom of ratifying the international trade accord reached two months ago in Monaco. We must at least give the appearance of making progress on those fronts.”
Preston spoke up. “The law says if the king becomes incapacitated, the queen takes over as regent until a royal son is crowned. What of her?”
“The queen has never shown much interest in political affairs. The King of Majorco’s contempt for women entering a man’s world is well-known. I suggest we stall, at least until we know what is to become of the king,” Selywyn told them. “Or until one of the royal princes returns to the country and is made king.”
Selywyn was aware of his own fatigue as Monteque rubbed a hand over his face in an unconscious gesture of weariness. None of them had slept for more than a couple of hours at a time since the king’s mysterious ailment had befallen him last Sunday. It was now Thursday, and the military alliance treaty was to be signed in a public ceremony next month.
“It’s a hell of a time for both Owen and Dylan to be out of the country and unavailable,” Monteque continued. “I don’t think we should allow that in the future.”
“They’re young men with minds of their own,” Logan reminded the RET leader. He yawned and stretched. “They won’t be shackled.”
“Aye, the royals are different today than when the king and I were growing up,” Monteque said, referring to the five royal children of King Morgan and Queen Marissa.
“But not, I think, in their hearts,” Selywyn murmured. “I suppose we must get on with the business at hand. When should we put the emergency plan into effect, Admiral?”
Monteque rose. “At once.”
The admiral, along with Preston, left the private chamber. Selywyn turned to his friend, Logan, who was as close to the king as he was. “I wonder if we are about to admit the Trojan horse into the kingdom.”
But Logan’s eyes were closed and his head nodded to one side. Selywyn touched the man’s shoulder.
“Go to your bed, my friend,” he told the king’s bodyguard, who awoke with a start. “We’ll all need our wits about us to see this through to the end.”
Jean-Paul stood on the cliff that overlooked the private lagoon adjoining the grounds of the palace. His request for Megan to meet him had gone unanswered the previous day. Now he was taking matters into his own hands.
He felt certain she would slip down to her favorite place as soon as she had a spare moment, so he’d taken the liberty of going the