Roarke's Kingdom

A wrenching coldness drove through her.

He was watching her narrowly. There was no desire in his eyes, nor even the shine of arousal.

Her throat constricted.

What Roarke had done to her had been coldly deliberate. It had to do with domination, not passion. He had shown her, in the most elemental way, that this kingdom and everything in it was his.

“You bastard,” she hissed, and she struck out at him, not with the flat of her hand but with her fist. But he was quicker and his hand clamped around her wrist, hard enough so that she felt the pressure of his fingers on the bones.

She held her ground, her head high, waiting for whatever retaliation he might choose.

“Do you always dance right up to the edge?” he said softly.

Suddenly, a sound drifted through the house, carrying down the staircase and into the dining room. It was a soft sound, and yet it was enough to pierce Jennifer’s heart.

It was a child’s voice.

Her face paled. “A child?” she whispered. “Is there a baby here?”

Roarke stuffed the handkerchief into his pocket. “Constancia?” His voice rose. “Constancia!”

The housekeeper hurried into the dining room with a heavily laden tray in her hand. “I am here, señor.”

“Stay with Miss Hamilton.” He gave Jennifer a quick, cold look. “See to it she eats something.”

The housekeeper nodded. “Ah, sí, she must if she is to get well.”

They were talking about her as if she wasn’t there, Jennifer knew; but it didn’t really matter. Every fiber of her being was centered on that one faint cry.

After Roarke left the room, she looked at Constancia.

“Was that—that was a child, wasn’t it?”

“Sí.”

The answer didn’t register. She was too upset.

“Here?” she said foolishly. “In this house?”

“Certainly.” Constancia smiled sadly as she set down the tray. “Such a pretty little one. The señor has not mentioned her to you?”

Jennifer shook her head. “No. No, he hasn’t.” She hesitated. “Is it—is it his child? Señor Campbell’s, I mean.”

The older woman’s brows rose. “Of course.”

“But—you said he wasn’t married.”

“I said that he had no wife, señorita.”

“I don’t understand.”

The housekeeper sighed dramatically. “Señor Roarke and his wife are divorced.”

Jennifer leaned forward. “What happened?”

The woman’s eyes darted to the door. “I should not talk out of turn,” she said, but her expression was eager as she sank into the chair beside Jennifer. “How could the marriage last?” she whispered, “when that one is so cold, sí? Like ice. No feelings, no love in the heart.”

Jennifer stared at her. “What do you mean?”