Lone Prince: An Accidental Pregnancy Romance (Royally Unexpected Book 7) Read online

  Lone Prince

  An Accidental Pregnancy Romance

  Lilian Monroe

  Contents

  Foreword

  1. Rowan

  2. Rowan

  3. Wolfe

  4. Rowan

  5. Wolfe

  6. Rowan

  7. Wolfe

  8. Rowan

  9. Wolfe

  10. Rowan

  11. Wolfe

  12. Rowan

  13. Wolfe

  14. Rowan

  15. Rowan

  16. Wolfe

  17. Rowan

  18. Wolfe

  19. Rowan

  20. Wolfe

  21. Rowan

  22. Wolfe

  23. Rowan

  24. Rowan

  25. Wolfe

  26. Rowan

  27. Wolfe

  28. Rowan

  29. Wolfe

  30. Rowan

  31. Wolfe

  32. Rowan

  Epilogue

  Ice Queen

  Prologue

  1. Penelope

  Also by Lilian Monroe

  Copyright © 2020 Lilian Monroe All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission from the author except for short quotations used for the purpose of reviews.

  Resemblance to action persons, things living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Mayhem Cover Creations

  Editing by Lawrence Editing

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  1

  Rowan

  My grandmother should be here. She said she’d meet me at the train station, but as I glance around the tiny lobby for the thousandth time, she’s nowhere to be seen.

  My phone isn’t any help. No cell reception. No pay phone either, although there are two little cubby holes where pay phones used to be.

  Helpful.

  Not.

  Grandma did warn me this place was isolated, but as wind howls against the shuttered windows, and a gust of cold air rushes under the doorway, I already know this corner of the Kingdom of Nord is wilder than I expected.

  I grew up in Farcliff, a small kingdom nestled between the United States and Canada. It’s no tropical paradise, but compared to the subarctic Kingdom of Nord, Farcliff is positively balmy.

  Grandma is from Nord. Born and raised. My mother, too, until she had me. Fell in love with a man from Farcliff and followed him south, only to find out he had a whole other family and wanted nothing to do with us. Mom still stayed in Farcliff, though, so that’s where I grew up. Technically, I have Nordish blood running in my veins. I should feel at home here, on some level. Right now, though? I feel very much like an outsider. Like the weather itself is trying to tell me to leave.

  And this particular train station? The last stop on the line?

  Well, let’s just say I should have brought warmer clothes. The Summer Palace rests on the edge of the Arctic Circle, and even at the end of September, it’s freezing up here. Apparently, they call it the Summer Palace because the land is almost uninhabitable in the winter, but for two or three months in the summer, it’s the most beautiful place on the planet.

  I thought I’d be safe at the end of September. The plan was to get in, get the pictures and information I need for work, spend some time with my grandmother, and get out before the winter sets in.

  You could say things aren’t exactly going to plan.

  Nord is currently in the midst of the coldest, stormiest autumn in recorded history. The biggest storm the locals have ever seen is on the way, if I’m to believe what I overheard from other passengers. Even luckier for me, it seems my grandmother has completely forgotten about me.

  It’s not like her. I chew the inside of my lip, trying not to let worry consume me.

  It’ll be fine. She’ll show up and bring me to the palace. Grandma and I will have the place mostly to ourselves, except for a few staff. I won’t have to deal with the rigamarole of a royal prince or princess with all the pomp and ceremony that surround them. Just some quality Rowan-Grandma time, as well as the peace and quiet I need to do my work.

  That is, if I actually make it to the palace. So far, my journey seems to have hit a dead end at the last stop on a long train line.

  I rub my hands over my arms, sucking in a breath of air. No matter how long I stare at the train station entrance, Grandma isn’t walking through it.

  Not exactly the welcome party I thought I’d get. I’m Nord’s new lead architect on the redesign of the Summer Palace. I’ve spent the past year working on this project, dedicating every resource at my own architecture firm to it, and this is my first site visit to put the finishing touches on my design. I wasn’t expecting a red carpet, but they could have at least sent a taxi.

  Sighing, I do another lap of the room.

  Still no Grandma.

  I should have stayed in Farcliff. My architecture practice is well-respected and multi-award-winning. It’s steady, comfortable work, and there’s lots of it. I mostly design houses for the Farcliff elite—of which there are many. My office building also has central heating, a fact that I never quite appreciated as much as I do now.

  But I became an architect to create beautiful, important buildings, and I couldn’t turn this project down. How many architects get to work on a royal palace in a foreign kingdom? How many architects get to make a name for themselves so early in their career?

  The wind bangs against the door, mocking me. My teeth rattle. Does this rickety old station not have any insulation?

  The few passengers that disembarked with me at the station have long since disappeared, tucking their chins in their chests and braving the bitter weather outside. I watched them leave, one by one, waiting for my grandmother to toddle through the door. I kept a thin thread of hope alive, picturing her rosy cheeks and happy smile.

  As my shoulders drop two hours later, I finally resign myself to the fact that she’s not coming.

  It’s out of character for her. Something isn’t right.

  Trying to stifle the panic that threatens to well up inside me, I hug my favorite red peacoat tighter around my body. It won’t be enough to keep out the cold, but it’s all I have.

  Balmy Farcliff, remember? They don’t sell arctic-proof jackets down there. Plus, I was told the weather wasn’t that cold this time of year up here. Google told me a peacoat would be fine.

  Um, yeah. Wrong.

  It’s not even October. I can only imagine how much worse it’ll get once the real winter hits.

  Dragging my small suitcase over to the ticket office window, I bite my lip. A steel roller door has been padlocked over the opening and I haven’t seen anyone come in or out of the office behind it.

  Still, I knock. I’ve done it a dozen times already, but maybe someone’s in there. Maybe they were asleep. Or busy. Or deaf.

  Who am I kidding? It’s hopeless, but I do it anyway.

  Surprise surprise, no one answers.

  A few steps down a dingy hallway, I find a door marked ‘Office’. I pound my fist on it as panic rears higher inside me.

  Nothing.

  I’m alone.

  Sucking in a breath, I squeeze my eyes shut.

  Stay calm, Rowan. There’s an explanation for this. Maybe
she forgot I was arriving today?

  I shake my head. I spoke to her this morning. Grandma wouldn’t forget. She has a better memory than I do, and she’s been managing the Summer Palace for over thirty years. Her mind is sharp. She would’ve sent someone to get me if she couldn’t make it to the station herself.

  Something is wrong. I can feel it in my bones—although that might just be the cold making my skeleton tremble.

  Walking back out to the main station lobby, I take a deep breath. The place looks like it’s about two hundred years old. Thick, stained glass windows are set high in the walls, and crumbling mortar is sandwiched between discolored bricks. The tiled floor has a worn-out strip through the center of the lobby, where passengers have walked from the front door to the platform.

  And most importantly, there’s not another soul in here.

  Just me and my inadequate jacket.

  I could sleep in the train station and wait for the staff to arrive tomorrow morning. That’s probably the safest thing to do, isn’t it? Wait here, where there’s shelter?

  Maybe Grandma just got delayed. Maybe she’s on her way, but the storm outside held her up.

  I should stay.

  But what if she’s just outside? There could be a taxi waiting for me, or a royal vehicle ready to take me to the palace. Or maybe someone outside will be able to help. One of the locals. They could point me in the direction of the palace. Give me a ride. Call a taxi for me. Anything.

  A cold draft snakes around my legs, and I curse myself for wearing a dress. My tights may be thick, but they’re no match for the cold. I thought I’d be in a warm train, then a warm car, then a warm castle. This is my first time in Nord since I was an infant, and my only chance to make a good first impression. Dress to impress, they say.

  Ha.

  Dress to freeze to death, more likely.

  If I stay in the lobby, will I even survive the night? I lift my chin and exhale, watching my breath dissipate in a white puff before me.

  It’s frigid in here.

  I need to find some help.

  Glancing at my phone once more, I lift it up above my head to try to get a signal. Nothing. I open the messaging app to try to sneak a message through to my grandmother, but it bounces back as soon as I hit send.

  When I click out of the message screen, I see the very last message I received while I was on the train. My ex-boyfriend of six months sent me a nasty slew of insults at three o’clock in the morning last night. Drunk, probably.

  Gerry: Don’t expect me to be waiting here when you get back, Rowan. Enjoy Nord. It’s as cold as your fucking heart.

  I read the message for the thousandth time, my fingers squeezing my phone so tight my nail beds turn white. My eyes prickle. For the first time since I left Farcliff, I want to cry.

  Gerry and I were supposed to get married—but then he told me he wanted me to stay at home once we were husband and wife. He told me he expected me to leave my career behind to care for our future children. He expected me to be a housewife.

  Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing wrong with being a housewife. My mother was a single mother who worked hard and also happened to be a damn good homemaker. She was an angel, and she died with no one but me by her side.

  She took care of me like it was her sole purpose in life, and sometimes I wonder if she would’ve been better off without me. After all, I wasn’t anything but a burden to her, from the time I was born to the time she died. She could have moved on if not for me. Maybe even lived longer instead of working herself to death for my sake.

  When she died, I vowed I’d never again be a burden to anyone. I promised myself I’d be able to stand on my own two feet and support myself.

  My work is my life. I started my architecture firm when I was twenty-seven years old, and I’ve spent the last six years working my ass off to make a name for myself. I’m supposed to give that up for Gerry, or some other guy who wants to be the hero who supports me?

  Please.

  I don’t want to do laundry for four hours a day while I wait for my husband to come home. I don’t want to feel like he needs to take care of me—that I’m relying on him for my survival.

  No, I want to sit behind a desk and make my designs come to life. I want to win every architecture award there is to win and leave a legacy when I go.

  Independence, in every sense of the word. That’s what I want. Not that I want to die alone or anything—but I don’t want to feel like I’m dead weight being dragged around by my future partner.

  So when Grandma told me about the redesign of the Summer Palace in Nord, I applied. I didn’t tell Gerry, but why would I? It’s my company. My name on the wall. My initials on the company letterhead.

  It wasn’t until I got the official contract of employment that I told him about the offer.

  Gerry didn’t take it well. He gave me an ultimatum—told me it was the job, or him.

  Didn’t think I’d choose the job. Did he ever really know me?

  That was a year ago, and we struggled along for another six months before calling it quits. I still get the occasional drunk dial, just to remind me that I’m a terrible excuse for a woman.

  As I glance around the deserted train station and hug my jacket closer to my body, I’m starting to miss the warmth of his arms. It was comfortable, at least. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe Gerry was right, and it’s better to stay home and have a gaggle of children.

  Steeling myself against the weather, I head for the lobby doors. Against a gust of wind, I push open the heavy, metal door and step outside.

  It’s worse than I expected.

  Cold air slaps me across the face. My eyes water. It hurts to breathe, like a million icy daggers stabbing my lungs. I duck my head against the wind, sucking in a breath as I flip my collar up to try to protect my face from the cold.

  It doesn’t help. The wind is vicious.

  My heart hammers. I take another step, dragging my suitcase out of the train station and finally lifting my eyes to look at the scene in front of me.

  If it weren’t so cold, it would be beautiful.

  A thick blanket of snow covers everything, from individual tree branches to tall, gothic-inspired streetlights. The roads have been cleared, but the harsh wind carries gusts of snow and ice across the black asphalt. They look like thin sheets of white crystals whipping across the pavement.

  Straight ahead, at the end of a long, black road, is the Summer Palace.

  Against the white backdrop, it looks huge, dark, and imposing. I’ve seen pictures of it, of course. I’ve studied the two tall towers that frame the castle on either side and seen details of the arched doors that lead to the entrance hall.

  But even from this distance, I can tell the palace is bigger and gloomier than I’d anticipated. I shiver.

  At least I don’t need directions.

  Down a street to my right, a car turns a corner and moves out of view, the sound of the engine muffled by the wind and snow.

  Then, a louder noise.

  The lobby door shuts with a bang, carried by a particularly strong gust of wind. A latch clicks, and my panic cranks higher.

  “No!” I stumble to the door, yanking. My fingers feel like wood. They’re not working properly. I claw at the door handle, my fingers sticking to the cold, frosty metal. I peel them away, wincing. If I grab that handle too hard, I’ll lose a layer of skin.

  My heart jumps to my throat. Wrapping my hand in my scarf, I grab the door again. It won’t budge. I pull and pull and pull, trying to pull the door open as tears fall from my eyes and threaten to freeze on my cheeks.

  I’m locked out.

  No, no, no!

  Leaning my forehead on the door, I stifle a sob.

  I’m going to die here. I’ll freeze to death two miles from the castle.

  Where the hell is Grandma?

  This was supposed to be the greatest project in my architecture career. It was supposed to catapult me to international recognition. My crow
ning glory.

  Now?

  I might die before I make it to the front gate.

  Unzipping my suitcase, I reach my stiff, cold fingers inside and dig around for my second hat and scarf. My fingers feel the knitted material of my warmest sweater, curling around it and yanking.

  I pull the clothing out of my suitcase and huddle beside the building to use whatever shelter it’ll provide against the wind.

  Which is not much, by the way. The wind feels like a claw that reaches through my jacket and scrapes sharp nails across my skin.

  Then, with a deep breath, I strip my favorite (useless) red peacoat off, and throw my sweater on over my dress. The wind slaps my skin. I inhale sharply. It hurts to breathe. The air is too cold. It attacks every exposed inch of me, invading my lungs and showing me just how fragile my life really is.

  My jacket goes back on, followed by the scarf and hat, then a second scarf and a pair of gloves.

  It’s slightly better. Still cold, but better.

  Sighing, I try the door one last time. Just in case.

  Nope. Didn’t magically unlock itself.

  This is a type of cold I’ve never felt before. It’s an attack. Like the weather is on the offensive, and I’m caught in a battle I wasn’t prepared to fight.

  My gloves take the worst bite of the wind away as I drag my suitcase down the half-dozen steps and onto the snow-covered sidewalk. I shove my chin into my double scarves, keeping my eyes on the little patch of ground in front of me.