Cordinas Crown Jewel (20 page)

“We’re particularly proud of our rose garden. There are more than fifty varieties represented, including the climbing specimens trained on the fifteen arbors in what is called
La Promenade de Rose.
The less formal beds at the far edges add charm, I think, to elegance.”

“I don’t give a hang about the roses.”

“Very well, we’ll continue on to the walled garden. It’s a particularly lovely spot where—”

“Let’s just cut it out.” He took her arm, pulled her around.

“I have not given you leave to touch me, sir.”

“Tell that to somebody who hasn’t seen you naked.”

Her color came up—fire under cream—but her voice remained cold. “Nor do I care to be reminded of my previous poor judgment.”

“Is that what it comes down to, poor judgment on your part?”

“You’re the one who ended it.”

“You’re the one who took off.”

“You told me to go!”

“Like you ever listened to a damn thing I said. If you’d been honest with me from the beginning—”

“You dare?” Incensed, she yanked her arm free. “Honesty,
Lord
Delaney?”

He had the grace to flush. “That has nothing to do with anything. I didn’t tell you I had chicken pox when I was ten, either, and it’s just as relevant.”

“Your title is hardly a rash.”

“It’s just a title, something I inherited from my father. It doesn’t—”

“Ah! Titles, lineages, don’t count when they’re yours, only when their mine. You asinine jerk.”

“Just watch it. Just watch it,” he ordered. “It’s not the same, and you know it. I don’t think of myself that way. I don’t use the damn thing, and don’t remember it’s there half the time. I don’t live in a palace and—”

“Neither do I! I live on a farm! This is my uncle’s home. You say you don’t think of your title half the time. I have no choice but to think of mine every day—with every public move, and most private ones. I wanted time, a little time to live as you live, to have what you take for granted. Freedom. So I took it,” she said passionately. “Right or wrong, I took what I needed because I was afraid I might …”

“Afraid of what?”

“It doesn’t matter now. It’s no longer an issue. We’ll consider it bad luck all around that I ended up where I ended up during that storm.”

She drew herself in. “Now, I won’t embarrass my uncle or the rest of my family by arguing with one of his guests, however insufferable. While you’re here, I suggest we do our best to stay out of each other’s way.” She turned her back on him. “I have nothing more to say to you.”

“Some hospitality—Cordinian style.”

Shocked to the bone, she whirled back. “My mother—” she nearly choked. “My mother offered you and your family an invitation to our country, to her brother’s home. You will receive every courtesy—publicly—from my family and from me. In private …” What hissed through her teeth was an insult more usually heard in a French gutter than a palace garden. Del only raised his eyebrows.

“Nice mouth, Your Highness.”

“And now, there is nothing more to be said between us.”

“I’ve got plenty to say to you, sister.”

His tone, the term, made sentimental tears want to rise in her throat. Turning her back on him, she did what she could to force them back. “Sir, you are dismissed.”

“Oh, stuff a sock in it.” Out of patience, he spun her back around. Then froze when he saw the sparkle of tears. “What are you doing? Stop that. If you think you’re going to pull out the waterworks to make me feel like a heel, think again.”

He took a deliberate step back from her as he searched his pockets. “Look, God. I don’t have a handkerchief, so snuffle it back.”

“Go away.” She was no less appalled than he when a tear spilled over. “Go inside, go back to America, or go to hell. But go away.”

“Camilla.” Undone, he stepped toward her again.

“Your Highness.” Formal in company, and avidly curious, Marian stepped onto the garden path. “I beg your pardon, but Miss Lattimer has arrived. She’s been shown to her rooms.”

“Sarah?” Surprised, Del stared at Camilla. “You invited Sarah to the palace.”

“Yes. I’ll be right in, Marian. Thank you. If you’d please show Lord Delaney to his rooms, or anywhere else he’d like to go? Please excuse me, My Lord.”

“My Lord?” Marian studied him carefully when Camilla walked quickly away. She was torn between wanting to level him for hurting her dearest friend, and sighing with sympathy over the misery so plain on his
face. “May I show you the rest of the gardens?”

“No, thanks. Unless you’ve got a handy pond or fountain I can soak my head in.”

Marian only smiled. “I’m sure we can accommodate you.”

*  *  *

He wondered if he’d be doing everyone a favor if he did leave. His mother would be furious, his father baffled. And they would both be embarrassed, but Camilla would, obviously, be relieved.

And he wouldn’t have to see her, look at her and try not to remember how she’d looked wearing jeans and a T-shirt while she fried up eggs. Not that she looked anything like that now.

She was polished and sparkling and elegant as the diamonds he’d seen winking at her ears. And just, he tried to convince himself, as cold.

But it occurred to him that he couldn’t let her chase him off—the way he’d chased her. He’d stay, if for no other reason than to prove to her what spine was.

It wasn’t hard not to get in her way. The palace was a far cry from a five-room cabin in the Vermont woods.

And he couldn’t claim not to be enjoying himself, on some level. He liked her brothers, her cousins. It was like watching a pack of handsome, elegant wolves run just short of wild.

As an only child, he’d never been exposed to big, boisterous families. Which, he soon discovered, was what they were under the titles and polish. A family. Closely knit enough that he had trouble remembering who was sibling, who was cousin.

Several of them talked him into going down to the stables—and a hell of a horse palace it was. The minute they discovered he could ride, he was mounted up.

That was how he met Alexander, Cordina’s ruler, and his brother, Prince Bennett, Camilla’s uncles. And her father, Reeve MacGee.

“Sir.” One of the young men—he thought it was Dorian—grinned and made formal introductions.

Del shifted in the saddle. He’d been taught, of course, but months—years—passed without him needing the protocol. He didn’t like having to dig it up—and cared less for the sensation of being dissected by three pair of coolly measuring eyes.

“Welcome to Cordina, Lord Brigston,” Alex said in a smooth, faintly aloof voice. “And my home.”

“Thank you, sir.” Del managed what passed for a bow while mounted on a skittish horse.

“We’re pleased to have you, and to repay you in some way for the hospitality you showed my niece.” There was a subtle and keen edge under the courtesy. Alex made certain of it.

“That horse wants a run,” Bennett said because he felt a tug of sympathy. Poor bastard, he thought. Outnumbered. “You look like you can handle him.”

Del felt the quick slice of Alex’s words—like a nick from a honed fencing sword. He preferred shifting his gaze to the more friendly brother. “He’s a beauty.”

“We’ll let you enjoy your ride. I’d be interested to speak with you regarding your work,” Alexander added. “As it’s become so much a passion of Princess Camilla’s.”

“At your convenience, sir.”

Alex nodded, then continued to walk his mount toward the stables. After a glance of some pity, Bennett followed behind him. Reeve turned his mount until he was side by side with Del.

“You,” he said, pointing at his sons, his nephews. “Take off.” Then, turning to Del, he continued, “It’s time you and I had a little chat,” as the echo of hooves faded in the race up the hill. “I’m wondering if you can come up with a good reason why I shouldn’t just snap your neck.”

Well, Del thought, at least there was no need for protocol and politics now. The man looked like he could give the neck-snapping a good shot. He was fit, broad-shouldered, and his hands appeared to be rough and ready.

And he looked to Del more like a soldier than any farmer he’d ever come across.

“I doubt it,” Del decided. “You want to do it here, or somewhere more secluded where you can dump me in a shallow grave?”

Reeve’s smile was thin. “Let’s take a ride. You make a habit out of taking stray young women into your
house, Caine?”

“No. She was the first. I can promise she’ll be the last.”

The day was warm, but breezy. Del hated the fact that he was sweating. The man had eyes like lasers.

“You want me to believe you took her in out of the goodness of your heart. You had no idea who she was—even though her face is plastered on magazine covers, in newspapers, on television screens all over the world. You had no intention of exploiting her, of using her influence for your own gain. Or of trading off the press with stories about how you took her to bed.”

“Just a damn minute.” Del reined to a stop, and now it was his gaze that bored heat. “I don’t use women. I sure as hell couldn’t have used her if I’d tried because she’d have kicked me in the teeth for it. I don’t have time for gossip magazines or television, and I wasn’t expecting to find some runaway princess stranded on the side of the road in a storm. She said she was low on funds so I gave her a place to stay and a job. I didn’t ask her a lot of questions or pay much attention.”

“Well, enough attention, apparently, to take her to bed.”

“That’s right. And that’s nobody’s business but ours. You want to kick my ass over that, you go ahead. But you start accusing me of taking what we had between us and turning it into some cheap splash for the media, I’m kicking yours right back.”

Right answer, Reeve thought. Exactly right. He shifted in the saddle. The boy had guts, he decided, pleased. But that was no reason not to torture him. “What are your intentions toward my daughter?”

The angry flush faded until Del was sheet pale. “My—my—What?”

“You heard the question, son. Roll your tongue back in your mouth and answer it.”

“I don’t have any. She won’t even speak to me. I’m staying out of her way.”

“Just when I was beginning to think you weren’t a complete jackass after all.” Reeve swung his mount around again. “Give that horse a good gallop,” he advised. “And don’t fall off and break your stiff neck.”

As he rode back to the stables, Reeve thought the conversation might not have been precisely what his wife had meant when she’d asked him to have a man-to-man talk with Del. But it had certainly been satisfying.

*  *  *

Camilla would have enjoyed a good gallop herself. But the ladies’ tea required her attention and her presence. As the weather was fine, the party was spread over the south terrace and the rose garden so that guests could enjoy the views of the Mediterranean and the fragrance of flowers.

Her aunt had opted for casual elegance so the pretty tables were covered with warm peach cloths and set with glass dishes of deep cobalt. More flowers, cheerful tropical blooms, spilled out of shallow bowls while white-coated staff poured flutes of champagne as well as cups of tea. Each lady was presented with a silver compact etched with the royal seal.

A harpist plucked strings quietly in the shade of an arbor tumbled with white roses.

Her aunt Eve, Camilla thought, knew how to set her stage.

Women in floaty dresses wandered the garden or gathered in groups. Knowing her duty, Camilla moved through the guests while she nursed a single glass of champagne. She smiled, exchanged pleasantries, chatted, and shoved all thoughts of Del into a corner of her mind, then ruthlessly locked it.

“I’ve barely had a moment with you.” Eve slid an arm through Camilla’s and drew her aside.

She was a small woman with a lovely tumble of raven hair that provided an exquisite frame for her diamond-shaped face. Her eyes, a deep and bold blue, sparkled as she nudged Camilla toward the terrace wall.

“Not enough time now,” she said in a voice that still carried a hint of her native Texas drawl, “but later I want to hear about your adventure. Every little detail.”

“Mother’s already told you.”

“Of course.” With a laugh, Eve kissed Camilla’s cheek. Gabriella had done more than tell her—she had enlisted Eve’s help in the matter of prying and poking. “But that’s secondhand information. I like going to the source.”

“I’ve been waiting for Uncle Alex to call me out on the carpet.”

Eve lifted an eyebrow. “That worries you?”

“I hate upsetting him.”

“If I worried about that, I’d spend my life biting my nails.” Lips pursed, Eve glanced at her perfect manicure. “Nope. He has to be what he is,” she added more soberly, and looked out to the sea that lay blue against the edges of her adopted country. “So much responsibility. He was born for it—and bred for it. As you’ve been, honey. But he trusts you—completely. And he’s very interested in your young man.”

“He’s not my young man.”

“Ah. Well.” She remembered, very well, when she’d tried to convince herself Alex, heir to Cordina, wasn’t hers. “Let’s say he’s interested in Lord Delaney’s work—and your interest in that work.”

“Aunt Chris was a tremendous help,” Camilla added, glancing over toward Eve’s older sister. She wasn’t technically Camilla’s aunt, but their family was a very inclusive one.

“Nothing she likes better than a good campaign. That comes from marrying the Gentleman from Texas. The senator was very pleased to discuss the Bardville Research Project with his associates in Florida.”

“After Aunt Chris talked him into it, and I’m very grateful to her. She looks wonderful, by the way.”

“Like a newlywed,” Eve agreed. “After five years of marriage. She always said she was holding out for the perfect man. I’m glad she found him. Whether it takes fifty years or five minutes,” she said, giving Camilla’s hand a quick squeeze, “when it’s right, you know it. And when you know it and you’re smart, you don’t take no for an answer. Something like that is worth fighting for. Well, back to work.”

Camilla stopped by the tables, found a precious three minutes to speak with her young cousin Marissa. She watched her sister, Adrienne, sit and with apparently good cheer, talk with an elderly Italian countess who was deaf as a post.