Wedded for His Royal Duty Read online

  She held his gaze. “So do I.”

  “You know, we could raise an entire family before your dad decides to retire.”

  She laughed. “Yes. We could.”

  “We will raise your country’s next king, but you’ll spend years grooming him because you’ll be the best ruler your country has ever seen.”

  Her heart speeded up, expanded in her chest, blossomed with life it had never had before. “God knows I’ll try.”

  He held out his hand to her. “Do you have an apartment in the city?”

  “I do.”

  “Too bad because my dad booked me an entire floor in a lavish hotel on Fifth Avenue. Right by the theatre district. Or if you feel like flying, my family owns a casino in Vegas.”

  She couldn’t quite take the hand he offered. She wanted to believe it was real. Did believe in some ways. But it all felt too wonderful. Too perfect. So she laughed. “We can play blackjack.”

  “We could, but there are other more important things I think we need to do first. Like the one thing we know makes this marriage real. Permanent.”

  He wanted to make love. Her body shimmied with need. Her heart wanted to burst with anticipation.

  But this was huge. Her destiny if he decided it was a mistake or couldn’t handle the craziness of her life.

  He smiled. “Take my hand. We’ll make it. I swear.”

  She glanced at his hand and back to his face. He was serious.

  Everything inside her stilled. She’d been waiting for her prince since she was four, and now here he was, promising what she really wanted. Love. Real love. Total love.

  She placed her hand in his. He closed his fingers around it and squeezed. “We’re going to have such fun.”

  “I know.”

  She felt a shift. A knowing. The years of being a sheltered princess ended and in their place came a real life, a life where she had someone with whom she could be totally honest and somebody who could be honest with her.

  He led her to a coatrack where he grabbed a black wool coat and hat. After he slipped into the coat, he kissed her again. “I say we go back to my floor of the hotel, make this a real marriage and then spend our real honeymoon in Vegas.”

  She nodded.

  “After that, it’s six months of the year in the country house in Xaviera and six months in your cold but snuggly country.”

  “What about the cats?”

  “We’ll keep Angela on staff. Put her in charge of everything.”

  She tilted her head in amazement. “I sort of already did.”

  “Then we’re set to visit a few times a year. Maybe do a fund-raiser.”

  As they walked from the back room to the shop floor, she laughed and waved goodbye to Angela, who stared after them as Alex led her out into the world, out into the real life that could be anything they wanted.

  Because he had a crown and she had a crown, but right now they had each other and that was all they needed.

  * * * * *

  Keep reading for an excerpt from HIS CINDERELLA HEIRESS by Marion Lennox.

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  His Cinderella Heiress

  by Marion Lennox

  CHAPTER ONE

  A WOMAN WAS stuck in his bog.

  Actually, Finn Conaill wasn’t sure if this land was part of the estate, but even if this wasn’t the property of the new Lord of Glenconaill he could hardly ignore a woman stuck in mud to her thighs.

  He pulled off the road, making sure the ground he steered onto was solid.

  A motorbike was parked nearby and he assumed it belonged to the woman who was stuck. To the unwary, the bike was on ground that looked like a solid grass verge. She’d been lucky. The wheels had only sunk a couple of inches.

  She’d not been so lucky herself. She was a hundred yards from the road, and she looked stuck fast.

  ‘Stay still,’ he called.

  ‘Struggling makes me sink deeper.’ Her voice sounded wobbly and tired.

  ‘Then don’t struggle.’

  Of all the idiot tourists... She could have been here all night, he thought, as he picked his way carefully across to her. This road was a little used shortcut across one of County Galway’s vast bogs. The land was a sweep of sodden grasses, dotted with steel-coloured washes of ice-cold water. In the distance he could see the faint outline of Castle Glenconaill, its vast stone walls seemingly merging into the mountains behind it. There’d been a few tough sheep on the road from the village, but here there was nothing.

  There was therefore no one but Finn to help.

  ‘Can you come faster?’ she called and he could hear panic.

  ‘Only if you want us both stuck. You’re in no danger. I’m coming as fast as I can.’

  Though he wouldn’t mind coming faster. He’d told the housekeeper at the castle he’d arrive mid-afternoon and he was late already.

  He spent considerable time away from his farm now, researching farming methods, investigating innovative ideas, so he had the staff to take care of the day-to-day farming. He’d been prepared to leave early this morning, with his manager more than ready to take over.

  But then Maeve had arrived from Dublin, glamorous, in designer clothes and a low-slung sports car. She looked a million light years away from the woman who’d torn around the farm with him as a kid—who once upon a time he was sure he wanted to spend his life with. After a year apart—she’d asked for twelve months ‘to discover myself before we marry’—what she’d told him this morning had only confirmed what he already knew. Their relationship was over, but she’d been in tears and he owed her enough to listen.

  And then, on top of everything else, there’d been trouble lambing. He’d bottle-fed Sadie from birth, she was an integral part of a tiny flock of sheep he was starting to build, and he hadn’t had the heart to leave until she was safely delivered.

  Finally he’d tugged on clean trousers, a decent shirt and serviceable boots, and there was an end to his preparation for inheriting title and castle. If the castle didn’t approve, he’d decided, it could find itself another lord.

  And now he was about to get muddy, which wasn’t very lordly either.

  At least he knew enough of
bogland to move slowly, and not get into trouble himself. He knew innocuous grassland often overlaid mud and running water. It could give way at any moment. The only way to tread safely was to look for rocks that were big enough to have withstood centuries of sodden land sucking them down.

  After that initial panicked call, the woman was now silent and still, watching him come. The ground around her was a mire, churned. The bog wasn’t so dangerous that it’d suck her down like quicksand, but it was thick and claggy so, once she’d sunk past her knees, to take one step after another back to dry land would have proved impossible.

  He was concentrating on his feet and she was concentrating on watching him. Which he appreciated. He had no intention of ending up stuck too.

  When he was six feet away he stopped. From here the ground was a churned mess. A man needed to think before going further.

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ she said.

  He nodded, still assessing.

  She sounded Australian, he thought, and she was young, or youngish, maybe in her mid to late twenties. Her body was lithe, neat and trim. She had short cropped, burnt-red curls. Wide green eyes were framed by long dark lashes. Her face was spattered with freckles and smeared with mud; eyeliner and mascara were smudged down her face. She had a couple of piercings in one ear and four in the other.

  She was wearing full biker gear, black, black and black, and she was gazing up at him almost defiantly. Her thanks had seemed forced—like I know I’ve been stupid but I defy you to tell me I am.

  His lips twitched a little. He could tell her anything he liked—she was in no position to argue.

  ‘You decided to take a stroll?’ he asked, taking time to assess the ground around her.

  ‘I read about this place on the Internet.’ Still he could hear the defiance. Plus the accent. With those drawn-out vowels, she had to be Australian. ‘It said this district was famous for its quaking bogs but they weren’t dangerous. I asked in the village and the guy I asked said the same. He said if you found a soft part, you could jump up and down and it bounced. So I did.’

  His brows lifted. ‘Until it gave way?’

  ‘The Internet didn’t say anything about sinking. Neither did the guy I asked.’

  ‘I’d imagine whoever you asked assumed you’d be with someone. This place is safe enough if you’re with a friend who can tug you out before you get stuck.’

  ‘I was on my bike. He knew I was alone.’

  ‘Then he’d be trying to be helpful.’ Finn was looking at the churned-up mud around her, figuring how stuck she truly was. ‘He wouldn’t be wanting to disappoint you. Folk around here are like that.’

  ‘Very helpful!’ She glowered some more. ‘Stupid bog.’

  ‘It’s a bit hard to sue a bog, though,’ he said gently. ‘Meanwhile, I’ll fetch planks from the truck. There’s no way I’ll get you out otherwise. I’ve no wish to be joining you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said again, and once more it was as if the words were forced out of her. She was independent, he thought. And feisty. He could see anger and frustration—and also fury that she was dependent on his help.

  She was also cold. He could hear it in the quaver in her voice, and by the shudders and chattering teeth she was trying to disguise. Cold and scared? But she wasn’t letting on.

  ‘Hold on then,’ he said. ‘I’ll not be long. Don’t go anywhere.’

  She clamped her lips tight and he just knew the effort it was taking her not to swear.

  * * *

  To say Jo Conaill was feeling stupid would be an understatement. Jo—Josephine on her birth certificate but nowhere else—was feeling as if the ground had been pulled from under her. Which maybe it had.

  Of all the dumb things to do...

  She’d landed in Dublin two nights ago, spent twenty-four hours fighting off jet lag after the flight from Sydney, then hired a bike and set off.

  It was the first time she’d ever been out of Australia and she was in Ireland. Ireland! She didn’t feel the least bit Irish, but her surname was Irish and every time she looked in the mirror she felt Irish. Her name and her looks were her only connection to this place, but then, Jo had very few connections to anything. Or anyone.

  She was kind of excited to be here.

  She’d read about this place before she came—of course she had. Ireland’s bogs were legion. They were massive, mysterious graveyards of ancient forests, holding treasures from thousands of years ago. On the Internet they’d seemed rain-swept, misty and beautiful.

  On her lunch break, working as a waitress in a busy café on Sydney Harbour, she’d watched a You Tube clip of a couple walking across a bog just like this. They’d been jumping up and down, making each other bounce on the spongy surface.

  Jumping on the bogs of Galway. She’d thought maybe she could.

  And here she was. The map had shown her this road, describing the country as a magnificent example of undisturbed bog. The weather had been perfect. The bog looked amazing, stretching almost to the horizon on either side of her bike. Spongy. Bouncy. And she wasn’t stupid. She had stopped to ask a local and she’d been reassured.

  So she’d jumped, just a little at first and then venturing further from the road to get a better bounce. And then the surface had given way and she’d sunk to her knees. She’d struggled for half an hour until she was stuck to her thighs. Then she’d resigned herself to sit like a dummy and wait for rescue.

  So here she was, totally dependent on a guy who had the temerity to laugh. Okay, he hadn’t laughed out loud but she’d seen his lips twitch. She knew a laugh when she saw one.

  At least he seemed...solid. Built for rescuing women from bogs? He was large, six-two or -three, muscular, lean and tanned, with a strongly boned face. He was wearing moleskin trousers and a khaki shirt, open-necked, his sleeves rolled above the elbows to reveal brawny arms.

  He was actually, decidedly gorgeous, she conceded. Definitely eye candy. In a different situation she might even have paused to enjoy. He had the weathered face and arms of a farmer. His hair was a deep brown with just a hint of copper—a nod to the same Irish heritage she had? It was wavy but cropped short and serviceable. His deep green eyes had crease lines at the edges—from exposure to weather?

  Or from laughter.

  Probably from laughter, she decided. His eyes were laughing now.

  Eye candy or not, she was practically gritting her chattering teeth as she waited for him. She was totally dependent on a stranger. She, Jo Conaill, who was dependent on nobody.

  He was heading back, carrying a couple of short planks, moving faster now he’d assessed the ground. His boots were heavy and serviceable. Stained from years of work on the land?

  ‘I have a bull who keeps getting himself bogged near the water troughs,’ he said idly, almost as if he was talking to himself and not her. ‘If these planks can get Horace out, they’ll work for you. That is if you don’t weigh more than a couple of hundred pounds.’

  Laughter was making his green eyes glint. His smile, though, was kind.

  She didn’t want kind. She wanted to be out of here.

  ‘Don’t try and move until they’re in place,’ he told her. ‘Horace always messes that up. First sign of the planks and he’s all for digging himself in deeper.’

  ‘You’re comparing me to a bull?’

  He’d stooped to set the planks in place. Now he sat back on his heels and looked at her. Really looked. His gaze raked her, from the top of her dishevelled head to where her leather-clad legs disappeared into the mud.

  The twinkle deepened.

  ‘No,’ he said at last. ‘No, indeed. I’ll not compare you to a bull.’

  And he chuckled.

  If she could, she’d have closed her eyes and drummed her heels. Instead, she had to manage a weak smile. She had t
o wait. She was totally in this man’s hands and she didn’t like it one bit.

  It was her own fault. She’d put herself in a position of dependence and she depended on nobody.

  Except this man.

  ‘So what do they call you?’ He was manoeuvring the planks, checking the ground under them, setting them up so each had a small amount of rock underneath to make them secure. He was working as if he had all the time in the world. As if she did.

  She didn’t. She was late.

  She was late and covered in bog.

  ‘What would who call me?’ she snapped.

  ‘Your Mam and Daddy?’

  As if. ‘Jo,’ she said through gritted teeth.

  ‘Just Jo?’

  ‘Just Jo.’ She glared.

  ‘Then I’m Finn,’ he said, ignoring her glare. ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Just Jo.’ He straightened, putting his weight on the planks, seeing how far they sank. He was acting as if he pulled people out of bogs all the time.

  No. He pulled bulls out of bogs, she thought, and that was what she felt like. A stupid, bog-stuck bovine.

  ‘You’re Australian?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said through gritted teeth, and he nodded as if Australians stuck in bogs were something he might have expected.

  ‘Just admiring the view, were we?’ The laughter was still in his voice, an undercurrent to his rich Irish brogue, and it was a huge effort to stop her teeth from grinding in frustration. Except they were too busy chattering.

  ‘I’m admiring the frogs,’ she managed. ‘There are frogs in here. All sorts.’

  He smiled, still testing the planks, but his smile said he approved of her attempt to join him in humour.

  ‘Fond of frogs?’

  ‘I’ve counted eight since I’ve been stuck.’

  He grinned. ‘I’m thinking that’s better than counting sheep. If you’d nodded off I might not have seen you from the road.’ He stood back, surveyed her, surveyed his planks and then put a boot on each end of the first plank and started walking. The end of the planks were a foot from her. He went about two-thirds along, then stopped and crouched. And held out his hands.