I’m not the least bit interested in a relationship. I’m not saying never-that’d be extreme, and I might want to stick my toe in the water in later life. But not for at least five years. I want freedom. Absolute freedom.’
‘Just so I know,’ he said.
‘Yes.’
‘For my information.’
‘Yes.’
‘So no hitting on anyone, then?’
‘You can hit on anyone you like. Just not me.’
‘But we are getting married, right?’
‘Yes, but that’s got nothing to do with the rest of it. I’m sorry,’ she said, suddenly contrite. ‘I’m sure you don’t have the slightest intention of showing interest in me, so I sound really dumb and really gauche, and totally out of order. So I’ll shut up.’
‘Um…right.’
So what was that all about-the chemistry between them, the way she felt in his arms?
Was she feeling this too-almost overwhelmed?
Maybe it was a good thing to bring it out in the open, he thought cautiously. He didn’t want relationships either.
Did he?
They danced on, but they were now no longer alone. The cameraman had finished, and the makeshift dance- floor was filling as other couples joined them. The last of the light had faded, but lamps had been hung in the trees, making the setting incredibly beautiful-the warmth of the late-spring night, the rippling of the river, the moon rising over the cliffs.
Incredibly romantic.
He should dance with someone else, he thought as they danced on. It was a bad thing only to dance with Rose. It went against everything she’d just warned him about. But she felt so…
So indescribable.
It was okay to dance with her, he told himself almost fiercely. She hadn’t suggested changing partners. She wasn’t wanting a relationship, so he could relax. He could marry her with no fear that she’d cling, and he could hold her right now, just as he was doing, without her fearing that he was making a move. He could savour the soft, yielding curves of her body. He could smell the citrusy fragrance of her hair.
He could…lose himself?
But he didn’t. Of course he didn’t. This was a weird interlude before reality raised its ugly head again-and here it was. Reality in the form of sirens, many sirens, the gentle lamplight overpowered by a score-maybe a hundred- vehicle lights.
Motorbikes and cars. A convoy.
Armed men.
The music and the dancing stopped. The men went swiftly to their horses, and the women ushered their children behind them, back to their individual modes of transport. Moving into protection mode.
A chauffeur climbed out of the leading car-a magnificent Rolls Royce-and ushered out its occupants. A man in a severe army-uniform. And a woman.
Julianna. There was enough about her to tell him this was Rose’s sister, but where Rose looked what she was-a country vet-Julianna was a blonde beauty, a city sophisticate.
Rose was still held loosely in his arms. They were standing in the midst of the abandoned dance area. He felt her stiffen as Julianna appeared.
‘It’s Julianna,’ she confirmed for his benefit only. ‘I’d guess this must be Jacques.’
The big guns. The opposition.
‘Let’s do this optimistically,’ he murmured into her hair. ‘This is your sister. Go and tell her how exciting all this is. Don’t pre-empt trouble by expecting it.’
But trouble was already with them. ‘Julianna,’ Rose said, smiling, taking his advice and moving forward with her hands outstretched in greeting. She was forcing a warmth Nick knew she was far from feeling.
Julianna didn’t smile. The woman was magnificently groomed, in cream linen-trousers, a cream silk-blouse mostly hidden by a luxurious fur jacket, and with magnificently groomed blonde hair caught into an elegant chignon. As Rose approached her, Julianna held out exquisitely manicured hands-not in welcome, but as if to ward her off.
‘You’re not welcome,’ she said flatly, and Nick thought she sounded worried. Frightened, even. ‘I don’t want you here.’
‘Erhard said we’re very welcome,’ Rose said, forcing her voice to stay light. ‘He said this country is in trouble and Nick and I can help.’
‘This is none of your business,’ Julianna snapped. ‘Our father didn’t want you here, and neither do I. Jacques says you’ve entered the country illegally.’
‘We entered this country on the royal jet.’
‘Which was appropriated by unprivileged persons,’ Julianna snapped. ‘Jacques says you need to go back where you came from.’
‘And me?’ Nick asked, and stepped forward to hold Rose gently by the arm in a gesture that was as protective as it was proprietary.
Jacques moved then, holding his wife’s arm in a similar gesture to Nick’s, but where Nick’s hold was gentle there was a hint of underlying violence in Jacques’ grip. He was a big man who looked accustomed to getting his own way, both within his own household and without.
‘Enough,’ Jacques said roughly. ‘The succession is already decided, and any attempt by you to come here is seen as an attempt to undermine the throne. We tried to stop the flight, but Erhard…’He shrugged. ‘No matter. His authority is at an end. My people will hold you in protective custody until we can arrange for your deportation.’
There was a shocked hush. The crowd drew a little bit closer, as if to better see what was happening. Two couples facing off-a big man in a uniform designed to intimidate, and his beautifully manicured wife. And Nick, without a tie, in the driver’s borrowed jacket, flushed from dancing. Rose in her faded jeans and a soft cotton shirt that was thread-bare from too many washes. Her hair escaping from her braid. A princess?
Deportation…
‘You have no right to hold us in protective custody,’ Nick said lightly, but with a hint of underlying strength. ‘My papers are in order, as are those of Rose. There’s no reason to hold us.’
‘Hey, maybe it’s just my sister’s way of being polite,’ Rose said, standing so close to him she seemed to be using his body as support. ‘Julianna,’ she said, forcing her voice to stay light. ‘It’s great to see you. Julianna’s my sister,’ she told the assemblage, as if she was proud of the fact. ‘Does protective custody mean you’re promising to look after us, Julianna?’
‘I…’ Julianna looked astounded. ‘You…’
‘You’re taking us to the palace?’ Rose asked.
‘Would protective custody mean a palace?’ Nick asked.
‘It might,’ Rose said. ‘Protection doesn’t mean dungeons.’
‘There’s dungeons in the palace,’ someone called.
‘Your sister surely wouldn’t put us in a dungeon?’ Nick said, forcing his words to sound lightly amused. ‘That’s hardly a family thing.’
‘We’re not a very close family,’ Rose said, sounding dubious.
‘Look, failing to send Christmas cards hardly deserves dungeons,’ Nick said. ‘Does it, Julianna?’
‘I’m the Princess Julianna,’ Julianna said, but she sounded worried.
‘And I’m going to be your brother-in-law,’ Nick said, sounding astonished. ‘Surely we don’t have to be formal in the family? You don’t want to call your sister Princess Rose-Anitra, do you? Which you’d have to if we wanted to be formal, as she’s just as much a princess as you are. Maybe even more as she’s the Crown Princess.’
Whatever Julianna and Jacques had expected, it wasn’t this. The conversation included the crowd. There were cameras, and the journalist was taking furious notes. The journalist was backing into the crowd as she wrote, and the crowd was closing in around her, cutting her off from sight.
The photographer was still shooting, and there were a few other cameras in view as well. This was being
