The Prince’s Outback Bride Read online

  The Prince’s Outback Bride

  Marion Lennox

  The throne of Alp d'Estella lies empty: Prince Regent Max de Gautier travels to the Outback to find the next heir-eight-year-old orphan Marc. Max isn't expecting to be confronted by a feisty woman who is fiercely protective of her adopted family.

  Although Pippa is wary of this dashing prince, she cannot deny Marc his heritage-nor her attraction to Max-so she agrees to spend one month in his royal kingdom.

  Will it be enough to convince Pippa and the kids to stay-and for Max to make her his royal bride?

  Marion Lennox

  The Prince’s Outback Bride

  © 2007

  PROLOGUE

  ‘WE HAVE no choice.’ Princess Charlotte de Gautier watched her son in concern from where she rested on her day-bed. Max was pacing the sitting room overlooking the Champs-Elysées. He’d been pacing for hours.

  ‘We must,’ Charlotte added bleakly. ‘It’s our responsibility.’

  ‘It’s not our responsibility. The royal family of Alp d’Estella has been rotten to the core for generations. We’re well rid of them.’

  ‘They’ve been corrupt,’ Charlotte agreed. ‘But now we have the chance to make amends.’

  ‘Amends? Until Crown Prince Bernard’s death I thought I had nothing to do with them. Our connection was finished. After all they’ve done to you…’

  ‘We’re not making amends to the royal family. We’re making amends to the people of Alp d’Estella.’

  ‘Alp d’Estella’s none of our business.’

  ‘That’s not true, Max. I’m telling you. It’s your birthright.’

  ‘It’s not my birthright,’ he snapped. ‘Regardless of what you say now. It should have been Thiérry’s birthright, but their corruption killed Thiérry as it came close to killing you. As far as anyone knows I’m the illegitimate son of the ex-wife of a dead prince. I can walk away. We both can.’

  Charlotte flinched. She should have braced herself earlier for this. She’d hoped so much that Crown Prince Bernard would have a son, but now he’d died, leaving…Max.

  Since he was fifteen Max had shouldered almost the entire burden of caring for her, and he’d done it brilliantly. But now…She’d tried her hardest to keep her second son out of the royal spot-light-out of the succession-but now it seemed there was no choice but to land at least the regency squarely on Max’s shoulders.

  Max did a few more turns. Finally he paused and stared down into the bustling Paris street. How could his mother ask this of him-or of herself for that matter? He had no doubt as to what this would mean to their lives. To put Charlotte in the limelight again, as the mother of the Prince Regent…

  ‘I do have a responsibility,’ Max said heavily. ‘It’s to you. To no one else.’

  ‘You know that’s not true. You have the fate of a country in your hands.’

  ‘That’s not fair.’

  ‘No,’ Charlotte whispered. ‘Life’s not.’

  He turned then. ‘I’m sorry. Hell, Mama, I didn’t mean…’

  ‘I know you didn’t. But this has to be faced.’

  ‘But you’ve given up so much to keep me out of the succession, and to calmly give in now…’

  ‘I’m not giving in. I admit nothing. I’ll take the secret of your birth to the grave. I shouldn’t have told you, but it seems…so needful that you take on the regency. And it may yet not happen at all. If this child can’t become the new Crown Prince…’

  ‘Then what? Will you want to tell the truth then?’

  ‘No,’ she said bluntly. ‘I will not let you take the Crown.’

  ‘But you’d let an unknown child take it.’

  ‘That’s what I mean,’ she said, almost eagerly. ‘He’s an unknown. With no history of hatred weighing him down…maybe it’s the only chance for our country.’

  ‘Our country?’

  ‘I still think of it as ours,’ she said heavily. ‘I might have been a child bride, but I learned early to love it as my own. I love the people. I love the language. I love everything about it. Except its rulers. That’s why…That’s why I need you to accept the regency. You can help this little prince. I know the politicians. I know the dangers and through you we can protect him. Max, all I know is that we must help him. If you don’t take on the regency then the politicians will take over. Things will get worse rather than better, and that’s surely saying something.’ She hesitated, but it had to be said. ‘The way I see it we have two choices. You accept the regency and we do our best to protect this child and protect the people of Alp d’Estella. Or we walk away and let the country self-destruct.’

  ‘And the third alternative?’ he asked harshly. ‘The truth?’

  ‘No. After all I’ve been through…You don’t want it and I couldn’t bear it.’

  ‘No,’ he agreed. ‘I’m sorry. Of course not.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘But what to do now? You tell me this boy’s an orphan? That doesn’t mean that he’s friendless. Who’s to say whoever’s caring for him will let him take it on?’

  ‘I’ve made initial enquiries. His registered guardian is a family friend-no relation at all. She’s twenty-eight and seems to have been landed with the boy when his parents were killed. This solution provides well for him. She may be delighted to get back to her own life.’

  ‘I guess it’s to provide well for him-to let him take on the Crown at such an age. With you beside him…’

  ‘In the background, Mama. From a distance. I can’t take anything else on, regardless of what you ask.’ Max shoved his hands deep in the pockets of his chinos and, turning, stared once more into the street. Accepting what he’d been thinking for the last hour. ‘Maybe he’ll be the first decent ruler the country’s had for centuries. He can hardly be worse than what’s come before. But you’re right. We can’t let him do it alone. I’ll remain caretaker ruler until this child turns twenty-one.’

  ‘You won’t live there?’

  ‘No. If there wasn’t this family connection stipulation to the regency then I’d never have been approached. But Charles Mevaille’s been here this morning-Charles must have been the last non-corrupt politician in the country before the Levouts made it impossible for him to stay. He’s shown me what desperately needs to be done to get the country working. The law’s convoluted but it seems, no matter who my father was, as half-brother to the last heir I can take on the regency. As Prince Regent I can put those steps into place from here.’

  ‘And the child…’

  ‘We’ll employ a great nanny. I’ll work hard on that, Mama. He’ll be brought up in the castle with everything he could wish for.’

  ‘But…’ Charlotte hugged Hannibal-her part poodle, part mongrel, all friend-as if she needed the comfort of Hannibal’s soft coat. As indeed she did. ‘This is dreadful,’ she whispered. ‘To put a child in this position…’

  ‘He’s an orphan, Mama,’ Max said heavily. ‘I have no idea what his circumstances are in Australia, but you’re right. Once Alp d’Estella’s run well then this may well be a glorious opportunity for him.’

  ‘To be wealthy?’ Charlotte whispered. ‘To be famous? Max, I thought I’d raised you better than that.’

  He turned back to face her then, contrite. ‘Of course you did. But as far as I can see, this child has no family-only a woman who probably doesn’t want to be doing the caring anyway. If she wants to stay with him then we can make it worth her while to come. If she doesn’t, then we’ll scour the land for the world’s best nanny.’

  ‘But you will stay here?’

  ‘I can’t stay in Alp d’Estella. Neither of us can.’

  ‘Neither of us have the courage?’

  ‘M
ama…’

  ‘You’re right,’ she said bleakly. ‘We don’t have the courage, or I surely don’t. Let’s hope this little one can be what we can’t be.’

  ‘We’ll care for him,’ Max assured her.

  ‘From a distance.’

  ‘It’ll be okay.’

  ‘But you will take on the role as Prince Regent?’ She sighed. ‘I’m so sorry, Max. That’s thirteen years of responsibility.’

  ‘As you say, we don’t have a choice. And it could have been much, much worse.’

  ‘If I hadn’t lied…But I won’t go back on it, Max. I won’t.’

  ‘No one’s asking you to,’ he told her, crossing to her day-bed and stooping to kiss her. ‘It’ll be fine.’

  ‘As long as this woman lets the child come.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t she?’

  ‘Maybe she has more sense than I did forty years ago.’

  ‘You were young,’ he told her. ‘Far too young to marry.’

  ‘So how old is old enough to marry?’ she demanded, momentarily distracted.

  ‘Eighty maybe?’ He smiled, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. ‘Or never. Marriage has never seemed anything but a frightful risk. How the hell would you ever know you weren’t being married for your money or your title?’ He shrugged. ‘Enough. Let’s get things moving. We have three short weeks to get things finalised.’

  ‘You’ll go to Australia?’

  ‘I can do it from here.’

  ‘You’ll go to Australia.’ She was suddenly decisive. ‘This is a huge thing we’re asking.’

  ‘We’re relieving this woman of her responsibility.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Charlotte whispered. ‘But we might just find a woman of integrity. A woman who doesn’t think money or a title is an enticement, either for herself or for a child she loves. Now wouldn’t that be a problem?’

  CHAPTER ONE

  A TRUCK had sunk in front of his car.

  Wasn’t Australia supposed to be a sunburned country? Maxsim de Gautier, Prince Regent of Alp d’Estella, had only been in Australia for six hours, but his overwhelming impression was that the country was fast turning into an inland sea.

  But at least he’d found the farm, even though it wasn’t what he’d expected. He’d envisaged a wealthy property, but the surrounding land was rough and stony. The farm gate he’d turned into had a faded sign hanging from the top bar reading ‘Dreamtime’. In the pouring rain and in such surroundings the name sounded almost defiant.

  And now he could drive no further. There was some sort of cattle-grid across the track leading from road to house. The grid had given way and a battered truck was stranded, halfway across.

  That meant he’d have to walk the rest of the way. Or swim.

  He could sit here until the rain stopped.

  It might never stop. The Mercedes he’d hired was luxurious enough but he’d been driving for five hours and flying for twenty-four hours before that, and he didn’t intend to sit here any longer.

  Was there a back entrance to the farm? There must be if this truck was perpetually blocking the entrance. He rechecked the map supplied by the private investigators he’d employed to locate the child, but the map supplied him with one entrance only.

  He’d come too far to let rain come between him and his goal. He’d have to get wet. Dammit, he shouldn’t need to, he thought, his sense of humour reasserting itself. Wasn’t royalty supposed to have minions who’d lie prone in puddles to save their prince from wet feet?

  Where was a good minion when you needed one?

  Nowhere. And he wasn’t royalty, at least not royalty from the right side of the blanket.

  Meanwhile it was a really dumb place to leave a truck. He pushed open the Mercedes door and was met with a deluge. The hire-car contained an umbrella but it was useless in such a torrent. He was soaked before the door was fully open, and the sleet almost blinded him. Nevertheless he turned purposefully towards the house. It was tricky stumbling over the cattle-grid, but he pushed on, glancing sideways into the truck as he passed.

  And stopped. Stunned. It wasn’t empty. The truck was a twoby-two seater and the back windows were fogged. The back seat seemed to be filled but he couldn’t make out what was there. But he could see the front seat. There were six eyes looking out at him-eyes belonging to a woman and a child and a vast brown dog draped over the woman’s knee. He stared in at them and they stared back, seemingly as stunned as he was.

  This must be the Phillippa the investigators had talked of. But she was…different? The photograph he’d seen, found in a hunt of university archives, had been taken ten years ago. He’d studied it before he’d come. She was attractive, he’d decided, but not in the classic sense. The photograph had showed a smattering of freckles. Her burnt-red curls had looked as if they refused to be tamed. She was curvy rather than svelte, and her grin was more infectious than it was classically lovely. She and Gianetta had been at a university ball. The dress she’d been wearing had been simple, but it had had class.

  But now…He recognised the freckles and the dusky red curls, but the face that looked at him was that of a woman who’d left the girl behind. Her face was gaunt, with huge shadows under her eyes. She looked as if she needed to sleep for a long, long time.

  And the boy beside her? He had to be Marc. He was a black-haired, brown-eyed kid, dressed in a too-big red and yellow football guernsey. He looked as if he’d just had a growth spurt, skinny and all arms and legs.

  He looked like Thiérry, Max thought, stunned. He looked like a de Gautier.

  Max dredged up the memory of the report presented to him by the private investigators he’d hired before he came. ‘The boy’s guardian is Phillippa Donohue. They live on the farm in South Western Victoria that was owned by the boy’s parents before they were killed in a car crash four years ago. We’ve done a preliminary check on the woman but there’s not much to report. She qualified as a nurse but she hasn’t practised for four years. Her university records state that her mother died when she was twelve. She went through university on a means-tested scholarship and you don’t get one of those in Australia if there’s any money. As to her circumstances now…We’d need to visit and find out, but it’s a tiny farming community and anyone asking questions is bound to be noticed.’

  So he knew little except this woman, as Marc’s guardian, stood between him and what the people of Alp d’Estella needed.

  He didn’t know where to start.

  She started. She reached over and wound the window a scant inch down so she could talk to him. Any lower and the rain would blast through and make the occupants of the truck as wet as he was.

  ‘Are you out of your mind?’ she demanded. ‘You’ll drown.’

  This was hardly a warm welcome. Maybe she could invite him into the truck, he thought, but only fleetingly for it wasn’t an option. Opening the door would mean they’d all be soaked.

  ‘Where are you headed?’ she asked. She obviously thought he’d stopped to ask directions. As she would. Visitors wouldn’t make it here unless they badly wanted to come, and even then they were likely to miss the place. All he’d seen so far were sodden cows, the cattle-grid in which this truck was stuck, and a battered milkcan that obviously served as a mail box, stuck onto a post beside the gate. Fading lettering painted on the side said ‘D & G Kettering’.

  D & G Kettering. The G would be Gianetta.

  It was four years since Gianetta and her husband had died. He’d have expected the sign to be down by now.

  What was this woman doing here? Hell, the agency had given him so little information. ‘Frankly we can see no reason why Ms Donohue is there,’ they’d said. ‘We suspect the farm must be substantial, giving her financial incentive to stay. We assume, however, that eventually the farm will belong to the boy, so there’s no security in her position. Given her situation, we suspect any approach by you to take responsibility will be welcome.’

  They weren’t right about the farm being substantial. This f
arm looked impoverished.

  He needed to tread carefully while he found out what the agency hadn’t.

  ‘I was searching for the Kettering farm,’ he told her. ‘I’m assuming this is it? Are you Phillippa Donohue?’

  ‘I’m Pippa, yes.’ Her face clouded. ‘Are you from the dairy corporation? You’ve stopped buying our milk. You’ve stopped our payments. What else can you stop?’

  ‘I’m not from the dairy corporation.’

  She stared. ‘Not?’

  ‘I came to see you.’

  ‘No one comes to see me.’

  ‘Well, the child,’ he told her. ‘I’m Marc’s cousin.’

  She looked out at him, astonished. He wasn’t appearing to advantage, he thought, but then, maybe he didn’t need to. He just needed to say what had to be said, organise a plane ticket-or plane tickets if she wanted to come-and leave.

  ‘The children don’t have cousins,’ she said, breaking into his thoughts with a brusqueness that hinted of distrust. ‘Gina and Donald-their parents-were both only children. All the grandparents are dead. There’s a couple of remote relations on their father’s side, but I know them. There’s no one else.’

  But he’d been caught by her first two words. The children, he thought, puzzled. Children? There was only Marc. Wasn’t there?

  ‘I’m a relation on Marc’s mother’s side,’ he said, buying time.

  ‘Gina was my best friend since childhood. Her mother, Alice, was kind to me and I spent lots of time with them. I’ve never met any relations.’

  She sounded so suspicious that he smiled. ‘So you think I’m with the dairy corporation, trying to sneak into your farm with lies about my family background? You think I’d risk drowning to talk to an unknown woman about cows?’

  She stared some more, and slowly the corners of her mouth curved into an answering smile. Suddenly the resemblance to the old photograph was stronger. He saw for the first time why his initial impression from the photograph had been beauty.