Royal Protocol. Christine Flynn
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have expected, but I don’t know how much longer we could have kept up the charade.”
Pierce nodded. “I never liked this. I’ve always felt he was too much of a wild card.”
“We all share that feeling,” Harrison assured them both, “but we had no choice but to play the card we were handed. Our concern now is the effect this news will have on pending negotiations. Nothing must happen to jeopardize either the alliance with Majorco or the alliance with the U.S.”
“No question,” muttered Logan.
Sir Selwyn smoothed his tie. “Absolutely.”
“Pierce.” Harrison paced the length of the table again, his mind totally focused on a new battle plan. “I think it would be most expeditious if you met with Broderick to advise him of his change in status while Selwyn heads off the press. Are you all right with that?”
A sharp nod confirmed that he was.
“Selwyn,” he said to the Royal Secretary, “we need to arrange for the king’s press secretary and staff to meet with Prince Broderick.”
“Consider it done. Do we want cameras? All the trappings?”
The king’s twin would love that.
“Whatever it takes to make it look as if everything is totally under control. As to official statements,” Harrison continued, pacing back the other way, “Prince Broderick needs to assure the kingdom that official business will be conducted as usual. That message needs to be strong enough to assure the citizens of Penwyck that their government is and will remain stable but nonspecific enough to allow us time to track down Prince Owen before his abductors realize the alliance will be signed as planned.” He stopped at the head of the table and turned to face them. “Agreed?”
“Agreed,” they replied in unison.
“Good. In the meantime, I will ask the appropriate ministers to meet with the ambassadors of the United States and Majorco, and assure them that nothing will stand in the way of their alliances.”
“Is that where you’re headed now?” Logan asked.
“No.” A muscle in Harrison’s jaw jerked. “Right now I’m going to see the queen.”
It was barely six in the morning when the guard at the entrance to the royal residence rang Gwen’s apartment on the second floor overlooking Castle Cove. Her three rooms, once a nanny’s quarters, were appointed modestly and were quite small, considering the size of the rooms below her. Still, decorated with the comfortable provincial furniture and personal treasures Gwen had brought with her ten years ago, they had proved more than adequate for a young widow with a small child to raise.
That child was now a twenty-year-old woman, who was presently on holiday with a friend and her family in the Scottish highlands—which was why the telephone rang five times before Gwen snatched it up.
Amira would have jumped on it by the second ring. With the blow dryer running, Gwen had barely heard it at all.
“He’s on his way up now?” she asked, tucking the receiver under her chin to snatch up her beige suit skirt. “Where exactly is he?”
The formal male voice on the other end of the line informed her that Admiral Monteque had just passed through the vestibule and turned into the queen’s hallway. He would be at the doors of the queen’s apartments in less than a minute.
Gwen’s heart felt as if it were beating out of her chest as she hurried to her wardrobe and stuffed her feet into a pair of taupe leather pumps. The only reason she could imagine him needing to see the queen—and at such an hour—was because something had happened with Prince Owen.
In her years of service to the queen, Gwen had always preferred two-piece suits because they were neat, comfortable and layers could be added or dispensed with beneath the jacket, depending on the season. There would be no layers today. Grabbing the beige silk jacket that matched her skirt, she shoved her arms into the sleeves, pushed back her freshly dried hair and rushed through the doorway beside her small Italian marble fireplace, zipping her skirt as she hurried down the narrow staircase that led directly to the queen’s drawing room.
Stepping through the narrow door by Mrs. Ferth’s desk, she closed it behind her and hurried soundlessly across the pale butters and creams of the carpet.
She was buttoning her jacket over her bra when she reached for the long gold handle and opened the carved door.
The red-jacketed guard beside it was already at attention. But it was the tall, powerfully built man in the navy uniform who commanded her attention as she stepped back.
Feeling totally thrown together, she watched the admiral close the door, her anxious eyes seeking his.
“Is it news of the prince?”
Harrison opened his mouth and felt his breath snag halfway to his lungs. Her usually restrained hair tumbled around her face and shoulders in a shimmering fall of platinum and honey. The thick, dark lashes of her sapphire eyes were as unadorned as her flawless skin. She smelled of soap, shampoo and fresh powder.
The combination sent something sharp and hot straight to his groin.
“I’m afraid not,” he murmured, the tightness gripping his body slipping into his voice.
An odd sense of regret licked through him as he watched the light of hope slip from her eyes.
Before he could question it, before he could stand there staring at her any longer, he pulled the newspaper he carried from beneath his arm. “It’s about the morning paper. Has Her Majesty seen it?”
Aware of the edge in his voice, Gwen took a step back and blinked at the shaving nick in his chin. “The paper?” she repeated, thinking that little wound terribly human for someone who seemed to have a rock for a heart. “She was up most of the night. Worried about Prince Owen,” she explained, in case that might not have occurred to him. The queen had called her at midnight to come sit with her. Gwen hadn’t gone to bed herself until after two. “I wasn’t even going to order up her tea for at least another hour.”
He took her response as a no and tried to ignore how soft her mouth looked without the pale-peach lipstick she’d worn yesterday. He’d obviously caught her dressing. Something she hadn’t quite managed to fully accomplish. She was without makeup, which made her look temptingly touchable. She hadn’t had time to restrain her hair, which made her look even more so. She wore no necklace, no earrings—and she’d missed the top button of her jacket.
Trying to ignore the latter, he held out the paper.
She took it from him, looking faintly puzzled at its importance.
When she read the headline, her flawless skin lost a hint of the natural peach that blushed her cheeks.
Utter disbelief washed her delicate features as she looked back up. “Is this true? It can’t be,” she concluded, before he could respond. “How is this possible?”
“The part about Prince Broderick isn’t true,” he assured her, wishing she weren’t standing so close. Standing in front of her as he was, towering over her, he could see a small strip of her champagne-colored bra. The scalloped lace lay taut against the firm swell of her breast. A small bow centered with what looked like a tiny pearl rested at the base of her cleavage. “He isn’t in power. The queen is. As for the rest of it, it’s quite accurate.”
Incredulity and concern turned her voice to nearly a whisper. “The king is in a coma? From what? And why wasn’t Her Majesty notified last night?”
He could practically see the wheels spinning in her mind. But whatever else she was about to say seemed to vanish like woodsmoke in a coastal wind, when he reached over and slipped his fingers beneath the lapel of her jacket to fasten the button himself.
The glimpse of her breast was entirely too tantalizing. But the feel of that soft swell beneath his knuckles nearly made his mind go blank.
His