The Prince's Scandalous Wedding Vow

Breathe, breathe, breathe.

Live, live, live.

Just when she was sure her efforts were pointless, his chest lifted—not much, but it moved, and it was enough to give her hope. Determined, Jo breathed into his mouth, those two strong breaths, and this time she felt air exhale from his lips and saw a definite rise and fall of his chest. His breath was rough and raspy, but it was a breath. It wasn’t her imagination. He was alive.

Her eyes stung with tears. Her hands began to shake as she shoved her long, wet hair behind her ears, overwhelmed and exhausted. The sheer enormity of it all hit her, and she sat back on her heels, shoulders sagging. She’d saved him. But now what? What was she to do with him?

Her adrenaline faded, and she began trembling in earnest, wiped out. She didn’t know how she’d managed any of it. She was a good swimmer, a strong swimmer, but it was a miracle she’d been able to find him and pull him to the shore. He needed medical help, and she had no way to call for assistance. Her radio was broken. Her dad would be bringing a new one when he returned, but that wasn’t for days. Ordinarily, she wouldn’t mind being cut off—she’d gone weeks before without communication—but this was different.

Her brow creased as she glanced out toward the sea, the mouth of the cove empty, the moonlight reflecting brightly on the water, the only sign of the yacht a distant glow of yellow light on the horizon.

How did no one notice that he’d gone overboard? How could they go without him?

Gently, she stroked his hair back from his brow, only then noting the blood matting the thick hair at his temple. He was injured, and from the nasty gash on his forehead, he’d been injured before he’d fallen—or been pushed—overboard.

She’d heard raised voices. She’d heard a fight. It was what had drawn her attention—that and the hum of the yacht engine. From the mark on his brow it looked as if someone had struck him. Why?

* * *

He blinked, trying to focus. His head hurt. Pain radiated through him. He struggled to sit but the world tilted and swam around him. He blinked again, not understanding why everything was so blurry. It was almost as if he was underwater and yet, through the haze, he saw a woman leaning over him, her face above his, her expression worried.

He struggled to place her. How did he know her? Did he know her?

The effort to think was too much. He gave up trying to focus and closed his eyes, sinking back into oblivion.

Pain woke him again.

A heavy, brutal pounding in his head made him stir, his eyes slowly, carefully opening, trying to minimize the ache in his head.

It was day, either early or late he didn’t know because the light was soft, diffused.

A woman was moving around the room. She wore a loose white dress, the gauzy fabric fluttering around her bare legs. She paused at the small square window, her brow creasing as she gazed out. Her hair was long and straight, falling almost to her waist.

For a moment he wondered if she was an angel. For a moment he wondered if he had died and gone to heaven. Not that he deserved to go to heaven. Strange thought, but true. He struggled to rise but immediately felt nauseous.

Biting back a curse, he slowly sank back against the pillow, realizing he wasn’t dead—or at least, he wasn’t in heaven. He couldn’t be, not if he hurt this much.

His muffled groan must have reached the angel girl, as she turned in her white dress, the delicate fabric floating behind her as she moved toward him, so young, so beautiful he was certain she wasn’t real.

Perhaps he was feverish. Perhaps he was hallucinating, because as she knelt next to him, the sun’s rays seemed to narrow and cast a glow around her, highlighting her long golden-brown hair, her smooth brow, and the high, elegant cheekbones above her full lips.

Maybe hell was filled with angelic beauties.

* * *

He was finally coming to. Josephine moved forward, crouching at his side. “Hello,” she said in English, before it struck her that it was unlikely English was his native language. Most of the conversation she’d heard on the beach had been French, while others had spoken Italian. “How are you?” she asked in French.

He blinked and struggled to focus, his eyes a brilliant blue, contrasting with his long, dense black lashes.

She tried Italian next. “How do you feel?”

His brow tightened. He grimaced, responding in Italian. “Tu chei sei?”Who are you?

“Josephine,” she answered, as he slowly reached up to touch his head, where a crust had formed on his cut. “Careful,” she added in Italian. “You’ve been injured. It’s finally stopped bleeding.”

“What happened?”

“You went over the side of your yacht.”

“A yacht?” he repeated in Italian.

“Yes. You were with friends.”

“Dove sono?” he murmured, his voice a deep rasp. Where am I?

“Khronos. A small island off Anafi,” she answered.

“I don’t know it.”

“Anafi is very small. No one knows Anafi, and Khronos is even smaller. It’s privately held, a research site for the International Volcanic Research Foundation—” She broke off as she realized he wasn’t listening, or at least, he wasn’t processing what she was saying, his features tight with pain. “Do you hurt right now?”

He nodded once. “My head,” he gritted.

She reached out to place a palm against his brow. He was cooler now, thank goodness. “You were running a fever last night, but I think it’s gone now.” She drew her hand back, studying him. “I’d like to see if you can manage some water, and if you can, then we’ll try some soup—”

“I’m not hungry. I just want something for the pain.”

“I have tablets that should help with the headache, but I think you should eat first. Otherwise I’m worried it’ll upset your stomach.”

He looked at her as if he didn’t understand, or perhaps he didn’t believe her, because his blue eyes were narrowing and his mouth firmed, emphasizing his strong jaw, now shadowed with a dark stubble.

He’d been striking from afar, but up close he was absolutely devastating, his black hair and brows such a contrast to his startlingly blue eyes. His features were mature and chiseled. Faint creases fanned from his eyes.

As his gaze met hers and held, her pulse jumped. “It’s been almost a full day since I pulled you out of the sea—”

“How?” he interrupted.

“How?” she repeated.

“How did I get here?”

“Your boat. Your yacht—”

“I don’t understand this yacht.” The wrinkles in his forehead deepened. He struggled into a sitting position, wincing and cursing under his breath. His hand lifted to his temple, where the wound was beginning to bleed again. “When was I on one?”

“The past few days. Probably the past week or more.” She sat back on her haunches, studying him. “Do you not remember?”

He shook his head.