Royal Protocol (6 page)

Given the way the day had gone so far, Gwen would have bet her favorite flannel nightshirt—the one embroidered with So Much Chocolate, So Little Time—that he was headed for the king’s office. Since that was where she was forced to go herself when the royal press secretary took the podium to answer the clamor of questions and Sir Selwyn escorted the queen back through the door,
she braced herself for a confrontation the moment she stepped inside.

The Fates must have decided she needed a break. Within moments Sir Selwyn and the queen’s bodyguards were sweeping them back to the royal residence by way of the secret tunnel the royal family used to avoid the public, protecting Her Majesty from any member of the press who may have slipped past security that was now as tight as her Great Aunt Gwendolyn’s whale-bone corset.

The relief she felt over avoiding an immediate encounter was painfully short-lived. Within five minutes of the queen retiring to her room, Sir Selwyn departing and Mrs. Ferth leaving for lunch now that the worst of the frenetic activity was over, Gwen remembered the request the queen had made of her earlier that morning.

If she was going to find out why the dinner couldn’t be canceled, she was going to have to speak to Harrison whether she liked the idea or not.

Looking at the phone on Mrs. Ferth’s desk as if it were about to turn into a snake, she tried to think of something—anything—else she needed to do at that particular moment that might possibly be more important. Since the prince’s welfare might well be directly affected by the ultimate decision, other than donating an organ, nothing came close.

She inched toward the desk, reminding herself as she did that she was accustomed to obtaining information for her queen. Because of the various connections she had made in the diplomatic circles she’d grown up in and friends she’d made at the Royal Intelligence Institute, she was actually very good at getting information, too.

She just really didn’t want to talk to Harrison Monteque. She couldn’t remember any man who disturbed her as much as he did. There was no man in recent mem
ory, either, who had caused her nerves to knot when he touched her. Granted, that touch had been incredibly intimate, but that only troubled her more. Not because of the embarrassment she’d felt. Because of the disturbing jolt of desire.

She could only imagine one reason she would react like that to a man she didn’t really like.

Years of abstinence.

Telling herself she was going to get out more when this was all over, she took a determined breath and reached for the phone. With any luck she wouldn’t be able to reach him now, anyway.

“He’s expecting your call,” the incredibly efficient-sounding woman announced the moment Gwen identified herself. “Please hold while I put you through.”

So much for leaving a message, Gwen thought, and heard Harrison’s rich voice rumble through her within a second of the connecting click on the line.

From the hollow noise in the background it sounded as if she’d been connected to a cell phone.

“What happened?”

She met his demand with utter calm. “Nothing happened,” she replied, undoubtedly annoying him by stating the obvious. “Her Majesty needs more information.”

She could swear the beat of silence sounded impatient. But she understood that there wasn’t much they could say over the phone without risk of their call being intercepted.

“Meet me in the east rose garden in half an hour.”

She told him she would. What she really had wanted to say was that he could have at least said please.

T
he abundance of gardens within the palace walls were a testament to the skills of the architect who had designed them over four hundred years ago and Old Pierre. Old Pierre was the royal gardener. He had been for as long as anyone could remember, and was about as old as the dirt he lovingly fertilized, weeded and raked. Gwen wasn’t even sure what the old Frenchman’s last name was. He was simply Old Pierre, and the gardens he tended with the care of a lover bore every imaginable shade of flower.

It was a fair indication of her preoccupation that Gwen barely noticed the profusion of geraniums lining the wide travertine walk leading to a huge, five-tiered fountain. A sliver of sun peeked from the heavy gray clouds, teasing everyone with hints of its golden rays and a faint glimpse of blue sky. A morning shower had left leaves glistening.
Dew-like droplets made the yew maze to her right glow like emeralds.

She was hardly aware of any of it. Wanting only to get her meeting with Harrison over with, she simply put one foot in front of the other, promising herself with each step that she wouldn’t let the man get to her, and followed the path to the myriad blooms of stark-white, shell-pink and blood-red roses.

This was where Harrison had said to meet him. Ordered, actually. But he wasn’t there. In the vast open space, she saw no one other than a guard near a wall of the queen’s residence and another beyond the circle of the bubbling fountain. The path there split to lead to the government offices where the press conference had been held, or to the formal gardens.

It struck her as odd that Harrison would have chosen the gently curving pathways of the rose garden. The formal one with its tortured topiaries, sharp triangular beds and geometric precision would have suited his personality so much better.

The damp sea breeze pushed the clouds closer together. Through the light wool of her suit jacket, she rubbed her upper arms against the chill and stopped near a cement bench with gargoyles for feet to glance at her watch. He had said half an hour. That had been precisely thirty-one minutes ago.

She should have thrown on a coat, she thought. Would have had she thought she’d be outside for long. If it started to rain, she was leaving. He would just have to meet her somewhere inside.

Bolstered by that decision, she glanced back toward the distant royal offices, wondering from which direction he would come. When a minute passed, then five more, and he hadn’t come from any direction at all, she began
to wonder if she’d heard him correctly, if, perhaps, he’d said the west rose garden, instead.

She hated to admit how much the man rattled her. It wasn’t like her to get such a detail confused. Details were what she did for a living. But even as that small doubt surfaced, she heard the purposeful thud of heavy footsteps behind her.

She didn’t want to be impressed when she turned to see him approach. She didn’t want his shoulders to look so wide beneath the epaulets and gold stars on his jacket, or his stride to be so commanding. It would have helped, too, she thought watching his piercing eyes pin hers from beneath his navy beret, if he’d seemed a little less sure of himself as he stopped in front of her and took her arm.

“I’m sorry I kept you waiting,” he murmured, his manner edgy, his tone amazingly civil. “It will be better if we walk while we talk.” The pressure of his fingers increased ever so slightly as he turned her toward the rose garden paths. With a glance toward the guards in the distance, to the roof lines, the gardens surrounding them, he deliberately slowed his pace to a stroll. “I’m not sure that the bugs around here are friendly.”

Her first thought was that Old Pierre wouldn’t allow any bugs that weren’t. Her second was that Harrison wasn’t talking about insects.

“Now,” he continued, crushed shells crunching beneath their feet as he guided her between long islands of crimson Damask roses, “you said Her Majesty needs more information. What sort of information does she want?”

Harrison glanced toward the woman walking quietly beside him. Gwen looked infinitely different from when he’d first encountered her a few short hours ago, far more polished, far more restrained. He remembered thinking
how composed she had looked at the conference, her cool blond beauty as exquisite as cameo, but cool nonetheless.

With her hair tumbling to her shoulders that morning and her eyes filled with confusion at his touch, he’d found her nearly irresistible.

Quite deliberately he released his hold and dropped his hand. He didn’t want to think of how soft her skin had felt to him—or to wonder why he’d felt so compelled to touch her again just now. He just wanted to get through this meeting without doing anything that would make her go cold on him again. The RET needed her right now.

Her soft voice matched his confidential tone. “It is her opinion that canceling the dinner will send a message to whoever has the prince that their demand is being met, and that will keep him safe until your men can find him. She needs to know why you believe the prince will be in more danger if the dinner is canceled.”

“I thought that was your opinion.”

It is, Gwen thought. “Her Majesty shares it.”

He expected a touch of defense. He heard none. With her focus on the ground as they walked, he could see none in her profile, either.

She had crossed her arms over her jacket. The position looked vaguely protective to him, though he supposed she could simply be warding off the damp chill. Feeling guarded himself, determined not to show it, he pulled his glance from the button he’d buttoned himself and the scarf hiding her silken skin and clasped his hands behind his back.

“Then, please tell Her Majesty we need that dinner to proceed in order to gain information. We need to figure out who is trying to sabotage our alliances,” he explained, beginning to suspect that she had more influence than he’d realized with the queen. “If the captors think
their demands are being met…which is possible if the dinner is canceled,” he agreed, “then, they will have no reason to communicate with us.

“If we present a front of business as usual…especially by making it a point to mention our alliance with Majorco,” he emphasized, since that was the one thing the queen had not done, “it will appear that Penwyck isn’t taking the threat seriously. If they believe that, they’ll be forced to warn us again of their intentions. Every contact gives us more clues as to who and where they are. It’s six days until the signing,” he concluded over their rhythmic footsteps. “Since the prince is all they have to bargain with, he should be safe until then.”

From beyond the distant palace wall, Gwen could hear the surf pounding the sheer cliff face. All around them, birds chirped and flitted from dew-drenched flower to damp shrub. The brisk sea air was scented with every imaginable nuance of rose.

She should have felt utterly peaceful here. Usually she did. But nothing was as usual at the moment. Not even remotely close.

Should
wasn’t a very strong assurance to take back to a worried mother. “Do you have any idea who has the prince?”

He hesitated. “I can’t tell you that.”

“I’m asking for the queen.”

“I realize that,” he replied with remarkable patience. “But your security clearance isn’t high enough for me to give you that information.”

“It’s high enough to have access to the royal family and their residence,” she pointed out, certain he’d choke if he had any idea of the things she’d overhead over the years.

“But not high enough to be included in a military investigation.”

“So you’re saying you don’t know?”

“I’m not admitting or denying anything.”

When it came to rules and regulations, he played by the book. She didn’t doubt that for a moment.

Not that it mattered. The hint of rebellion her parents had dutifully suppressed in her as a child tended to reassert itself whenever she was faced with a person who dealt in absolutes. With one glaring exception in her youth, her rebellions tended to be subtle, though, and inevitably designed to find a way around a rule.

“Have you called my father? Ambassador Worthington,” she reminded him when he frowned. “Our ambassador to the United States?”

“I know who he is.” He even knew the distinguished diplomat was her father, now that she’d reminded him of it, anyway. “Why would I call him?”

“To help you negotiate with whoever has the prince.”

“I never said I knew who had him,” he reminded her right back.

“Well, if you did know,” she countered, wondering what other approach to take, “he might be able to get him back for you more quickly.”

Harrison came to a halt. The sun drifted behind a cloud as he did, snapping off the glints of silver and gold in her untouchably restrained hair. Even as the clouds closed, a few drops of rain leaked out. One clung like a tiny diamond between two strands near her crown. Another darkened a spot on her shoulder. Intent as she seemed on her mission, she didn’t seem to notice that it had begun to sprinkle.

His eyes narrowed. “I can’t decide if you’re being naive, desperate or devious.”

“I am not naive,” she assured him, calmly meeting his glance. “And, yes, I’m feeling a little desperate right now because there is a young man out there who is caught up in something that is none of his own doing. He’s in danger and I fear for him for that. As for devious,” she concluded, her voice still low, “I am no more so than you.”

Something faintly dangerous flashed in his eyes. “I’m doing my job.”

“So am I.”

“Then keep in mind as part of your job that Penwyck does not negotiate with subversives. Ever. When you do, you give them power.”

“They already have power. They have the prince.”

She had a point. He wasn’t about to concede it, however. “They have power,” he said grimly, “only if we concede that their collateral has value.”

Disbelief lowered her voice to an appalled rush of air. “Of course it has value. Their ‘collateral’ is a human life.”

“It’s a royal human life,” he emphasized, “which makes it worth even more. But only if we let them know we perceive them as a threat.”

“You don’t think that Prince Owen perceives them as one?”

Droplets spotted her jacket, landed on his cheek. He stepped closer, too caught up in her failure to comprehend logistics to care that the rain was falling faster. She clearly couldn’t separate her sympathies from strategy. But then, she was an ambassador’s daughter, the sort of woman who’d been schooled in manners, diplomacy and social grace. Now she lived her life tucked away in the palace, working for a woman who was protected and coddled and undoubtedly as blissfully unaware as her lady-
in-waiting of the delicate maneuverings that went on in their government nearly every single day.

“We don’t yet know who we’re dealing with,” he admitted, refusing to waste any more time playing games with her. He didn’t care, either, that he had her back up again. There was something he needed to make sure she—and the queen—understood. “Even if we did, this is a military operation. Not a diplomatic one. You’re not to talk to your father about this. Neither he nor anyone else is to know what these people are demanding.” He kept his tone deliberately even. The warning was only in his eyes. “Is that clear?”

Her chin edged up. “It was clear when you mentioned it yesterday morning.”

He had no idea why her cool poise never failed to push his buttons. “As for talking it out nicely,” he continued, determined to make that coolness crack, “that isn’t even an option. I’m sure it must seem to a woman like you that there is a more civilized way to handle people who refuse to play nice, but I assure you, tea and diplomacy have no place in this scenario. Orders will be given to do whatever is necessary to protect the integrity of the Crown.”

It was as obvious as the hard edge sharpening his voice that he thought her utterly clueless about what went on in his world.

Despite the knot his chauvinistic attitude put in her stomach, her tone remained deceptively, impressively calm.

“Admiral Monteque,” she said, using the distance of formality like a shield. She felt safer behind it, far less vulnerable. She always had. “I would appreciate it if you would stop talking to me as if I am the leak your men
can’t seem to find. I have no intention of saying anything to my father or anyone else about what is going on.

“You also don’t need to remind me of the lengths to which the military will go to get its job done,” she continued, the knot growing tighter. “I was an officer’s wife for eleven years. My husband did whatever was necessary to protect the Crown. He gave his life doing it.”

For a moment the only sound to be heard was the faint tick of raindrops on leaves. Even the birds had quieted, taking refuge under eaves and passageways.

Gwen barely noticed.

“I never did understand what happened that night,” she admitted, thinking of how little men like him had told her of the events that had led to her husband’s death. “But I don’t believe for a single moment that ‘tea and diplomacy’ had been an option then, either. I’m sure it all came down to training, instincts and adrenaline. Just as it has on any number of other occasions. So please don’t speak to me as if I have no idea what goes on when men grapple for power.”

A rumble of thunder sounded in the distance.

“Your husband?” Harrison asked, hesitating.

“Major Alexander Corbin.” Alex, she mentally amended, remembering how she had repeatedly asked for more information that first year. She’d inquired politely, through channels, by the rules. Then she’d demanded when her requests had been ignored. They’d paid attention to her then, but they’d sought only to placate her. The official account she’d been given had been miserably inadequate. “He was royal guard.”

The name seemed familiar to Harrison. At least Gwen thought recognition was why his firm mouth thinned in the moments before droplets turned to a deluge. In the space of a blink, the sky opened. Rain hammered the
ancient travertine at their feet, bent the heads of the roses and had Gwen whipping the scarf from her neck.

Harrison swore. Gwen heard him as she turned to see which way was best to run. She’d just lifted her scarf over her head when she spun back toward him and felt herself go still.