Free The Prince’s Bride by Julianne MacLean Page A

will bequeath to my nephew, Pierre.”
    “Why me?” Nicholas rubbed the back of his neck while the answer to that question was
     already filtering uncomfortably into his brain.
    “Because the man you knew to be your father—King Frederick of Petersbourg—was not
     your real father. I must tell you now that that man is me. ”
    A sudden coldness swirled in Nicholas’s head as he stared speechless at the marquis.
     “No,” he said firmly. “I do not believe that to be so.” He rose from his chair and
     stood, then set down his glass and started for the door.
    “Please come back,” d’Entremont pleaded. “You must give me an opportunity to explain.
     Do you not want to know the truth?”
    Nicholas halted with a tight grip on the doorknob while his gut churned with sickening
     anger over all that he had endured these past few days.
    And now this …
    Nevertheless, he let go of the knob and turned around to face the dying marquis, while
     the wind and the rain outside beat more violently upon the glass.
    *   *   *
    It had been more than an hour since Nicholas was taken to the library. Véronique waited
     impatiently in her chamber until at last, a knock sounded at the door. In a rush of
     movement, she leaped out of her chair and hurried to answer it.
    “Who’s there?” she asked, in case it was Pierre.
    “It’s Nicholas.”
    She pressed her hand to her breastbone and let out a breath of relief as she opened
     the door.
    There stood Nicholas alone—unharmed and alive—in the corridor.
    Her euphoria vanished, however, when she saw the look in his eyes. His brow was furrowed,
     and he was running a hand through his hair, as if he were lost and uncertain which
     direction to turn.
    “What happened?” she asked.
    He leaned in to see Gabrielle rising from her chair before the fire, peering at him
     curiously. “I must speak with you,” he said to Véronique. “Alone.”
    She immediately turned to her sister. “Will you excuse us?”
    “Of course,” Gabby replied, and sat back down.
    Véronique followed Nicholas into the corridor and closed the door behind her.
    “Come this way,” he said, taking her by the hand.
    His touch sent a current of energy through her body, and she found herself focusing
     all her attention on the snug, warm grip of his hand upon hers.
    She was grateful that he was alive.
    They came to the room where he had been held captive, and he led her inside. She noticed
     that the servants had been there, for the bed was made and a fire was burning in the
     hearth.
    Nicholas let go of her hand and moved to the mantel. He found matches and lit five
     candles on a candelabra on the desk. The room brightened while the wind howled through
     the eaves outside.
    Véronique hugged her arms about herself and shivered.
    “Are you cold?” he asked.
    “I am fine,” she replied. She was eager to learn what had occurred in the library
     with Lord d’Entremont.
    Somehow he knew she was lying about not being cold, for he glanced at the freshly
     made bed and reached for a wool coverlet that was draped over the footboard. He brought
     it to Véronique and wrapped it around her shoulders. “Is that better?”
    “Yes, thank you.”
    Their eyes held for a moment. Her body grew warm, but not because of the coverlet.
     The heat was something else—a tingling brush of desire.
    She was deeply attracted to this man—that was obvious—but she realized suddenly that
     it was so much more than that. She truly, genuinely cared for his welfare, perhaps
     because she felt responsible for bringing him here.
    “Are you all right?” she asked.
    “I am not sure.” He turned away and sank into the chair before the fire.
    Véronique followed and sat down across from him. “What did he say to you?”
    Slouching low, Nicholas rested his temple on a finger. “I doubt you’ll believe it.
     I certainly didn’t. Not at first, but now…” He sat in silence, then leaned forward
     until their foreheads