Tangled Up in Princes (Royal Romances Book 1)

Royal Romances, Book One

By Molly Jameson



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Was it the responsibility of the maid of honor to listen to the relentless chatter of the mother of the groom? When she'd first sat down in this spot near the window, she would have said yes, it was. Now, after listening to forty-five minutes of Mrs. Rhys-Cooper boasting about her husband's business successes and their company's portfolio, Carrie MacCallum was starting to have doubts. She was in a castle -- a Scottish castle, for crying out loud! -- yet here she was, pinned in by this overbearing woman and her heavy perfume. Carrie didn't care if it was expensive perfume, there was still too much of it. She coughed delicately into her hand.

"Oh my! I do hope you aren't coming down with something. It would be most dreadful indeed to have puffy eyes and sallow complexion for the photos. I've hired The Vandine Agency, of course. The royal family prefers them, and we were most fortunate to get them. But then, Phillip does have connections. One doesn't like to boast, but I wouldn't be surprised in the slightest if one of the royal family put in an appearance. Naturally, they were sent an invitation. The Prince of Wales himself is a close family friend."

If this woman was any indication as to what wealthy Brits were like, Carrie was certain she could do without meeting an actual royal. An idea struck her. She coughed again, this time with feeling.

"I certainly hope I haven't caught cold," She added in a snort for good measure. "It would be terrible if I passed on some nasty germ to you."

Mrs. Rhys-Cooper, swathed head to toe in white silk, leaped to her feet with an alacrity that belied her age.

"I should mingle. It was quite lovely talking with you."

She hurried off, her designer clutch pressed to her chest.

Finally, Carrie thought as she relaxed.

"Pretentious biddy," she muttered.

The sound of someone snickering came from behind the drapes.

She sat bolt upright, listening, but she heard nothing more. Feeling foolish, she left her seat to peek behind the drapes. She was in a castle after al. Maybe there were some Hogwarts-style portraits hanging around. No portraits, but there was a man there, and if there wasn't a portrait of him somewhere, there should be. He was without a doubt the most gorgeous man she'd ever seen.

"Shh."

He pulled her into the alcove with him. It was a small space, and she was pressed against him. She started to protest, but he put a hand over her mouth.

"I promise I'm not a pervert or a stalker. I'm only hiding from Mrs. Rhys-Cooper. Please, don't give me away," he said in a British accent.

Carrie understood all too well why someone would want to hide from Mrs. Rhys-Cooper, so she nodded her assent.

"Have I your word on that?"

She looked up at him. He looked familiar. With the dim lighting in the alcove, she couldn't place where she'd seen him before. He was probably a friend of Phillip's, her sister's very gorgeous and very British fiancée. She'd probably seen this guy earlier in the day and just couldn't place him now. In answer, she pointed to his hand still over her mouth.

"Right." He removed his hand. "Sorry about that. Desperate times, desperate measures, all that."

She should say something. She was, after all, standing in the alcove of a Scottish castle with a man so beautiful she'd never even dare to dream of him. He was tall, so tall. And broad, the kind of broad that women fantasized about. Wide shoulders, narrow hips. Had she honestly just looked down at his hips?

"Are you quite well, miss? I assumed that fit of coughing was a bit of theatrics on your part, but you do look a bit flushed."

"No, I'm fine."

She forced her gaze to lock on his. That was a mistake. She felt her flush deepening. His face was perfect. Chiseled features, strong chin, patrician nose, and clear blue-green eyes, eyes peering at her with just a trace of amusement.

"I'm just fine."

"It is stiflingly hot in here, is it not?" His mouth quirked up at one corner in a not-quite grin.

"Yes. Definitely hot."

Sweet baby Elvis! Was she flirting? She was flirting. And badly. Because she didn't flirt. Not ever.

"You have a charming accent."

She
had an accent? This guy sounded like Winston Churchill. If Winston Churchill had been hot. So not really like Churchill then. He sounded like--like ... Uh-oh! She knew who he sounded like. Colin Firth. He sounded like Colin Firth. What woman could withstand being flirted with by Mr. Darcy himself?

"You're from the American South. Am I correct?"

"Yes. I'm from Kentucky."

His eyes got wide and he backed up so quickly he knocked his head against the stone wall.

"You're not the bride are you?"

"No. That would be my sister."

"Oh. In that case, would you mind accompanying me on a walk around the grounds? I'm here looking for my brother. Strictly speaking, I'm not on the guest list."

"Are you worried they'll throw you out if you're caught?"

He pulled sunglasses from an inside pocket of his jacket and slid them on.

"I'm afraid that's not at all likely, however, in case I run into a member of the groom's family, your skill at conversational extraction could prove useful." He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. And yeah, she might have given a squeeze. Firm. Sculpted muscles. She always had been jealous of Elizabeth Bennet.

He peeked out from behind the curtain, waited for a beat, then stepped out, towing her along with him. As they crossed the room, he kept his head tilted down toward her, away from the rest of the room. By all appearances he was completely taken with her, oblivious to everything going on in the rest of the room.

He gave an audible sigh of relief when they got outside.

"Thank you."

"I really didn't do anything you need to thank me for."

He patted her hand, still nestled in the crook of his arm.

"Then I thank you for allowing me to be in the company of such a stunningly beautiful woman."

She was not stunningly beautiful. She was no junkyard mongrel and she was probably better than average, but no one would find themselves stunned by her beauty. Still, when he said it, she felt stunningly beautiful. Heat crept up her neck and into her cheeks.

"Too hot out here for you?" he asked. "Or are you really coming down with that cold after all?"

"You're a flirt. A flirt and a charmer."

"I'm not. Not at all. I am disgustingly straight-laced. I never pay women compliments that aren't absolutely true."

She believed him. She shouldn't believe him. Players were players because they were good at playing the game, but that wasn't the vibe she was getting from him. He didn't seem the playing type. With looks like his, he didn't have to be. With little more than a smile and a few compliments, she was feeling herself good and seduced.

She lifted her chin to catch the breeze as it swept away the lingering smell of cloying perfume, replacing it with the crisp, smoky smell of autumn. Together, they walked a cobblestone path dotted with chestnuts. She paused to line herself up with a chestnut centered perfectly on the path. She drew back her foot and kicked with all her might.

"Is that a challenge?" he asked.

"I -- --"

She was not fit for society. That was just all there was to it.

"It's what my brother and sister and I always did when we were kids. Although, I've never kicked a chestnut in four-inch heels before. I don't know what came over me."

"Just a bit of harmless fun. Never apologize for following an impulse. It's something I do all too rarely myself."

"I don't either, ordinarily."

"Then I shall follow your lead and rectify the lack this very moment."

Using the toe of his very expensive shoe, he placed another chestnut in the middle of the path.

"The lady has issued a challenge after all. My honor demands that I prove myself."

It seemed silly to keep her hand tucked into the crook of his arm while he took his shot, so she withdrew her hand, only to have him snag it again. So they stood like that, hand in hand, as he sent the chestnut skittering up the path.

"Hey, yours hit mine. You were aiming for it. No fair!"

"You're a formidable opponent. I'll not apologize for employing all the weapons at my disposal. Shall we continue?"

He tucked her arm once more into his. As they continued on, winding their way along a path that lead them farther from the castle, he toyed with the fringe on her shawl-- a showy, impractical thing knitted from cashmere and a gossamer-thin strand of silvery synthetic yarn. It was a gift from her sister, so she wore it despite its frivolity.

"Your brother, what's his name? Maybe I've seen him."

"Jamie. His name is Jamie."

"That's it? Can't you give me a little more to go on?"

"What about your name? Am I to refer to you only as Sister of the Bride?"

"I'm Carrie MacCallum."

"MacCallum? A Scottish name. Are you Scottish? Any relation to the prior owners of Drummond Castle perhaps?"

"I'm a mutt. Most Americans are. You're right that MacCallum is Scottish, but the rest of me-- there's a little Dutch, a little Irish, a little English, and maybe more than a little Native American tossed in the mix. What about you?"

"Me? No, not a mutt."

That was certainly an odd answer.

"I mean your name. If I'm going to walk any farther away from the castle with you, I should, at least, get your name."

"I'm Edward."

"Just Edward?"

"For now."--he kicked another chestnut--"Well now, that one was an embarrassment."

Each time they passed anyone -- mostly couples enjoying a stroll in the gorgeous autumn night --Edward, lowered his head and led her to a more secluded part of the vast estate. She was starting to get nervous, which always led to what her sister called verbal diarrhea.

"So Edward, huh? Like the vampire." There it was again.

He stopped to look over his shoulder at her. "I beg your pardon? Did you just say vampire?"

"You know,
Twilight
? Edward the vampire."

"Yes, I believe I did hear of you Americans and your fixation with vampires."

"Oh don't give me that. You can hardly call vampires an American thing. The father of the modern vampire, Bram Stoker, was hardly an American."

"True. He was born in Ireland."

"But he spent much of his adult life in England."

"Touché."

He gave her that slow grin again-- the one that could make her toes curl if she'd been able to feel her toes anymore in these shoes.

"All I meant was that Edward, because of the vampire in the books, has become a popular name again. Not for you, of course, you're too old. I mean, you're not too old in general, but you're too old to have been named after him. Edward the vampire, I mean."

If there was any mercy in the universe, a chestnut would fall on her head right now and knock her unconscious. Or better still, it might fall on his head and give him amnesia of the last two minutes. No such luck. They were on a treeless stretch of sidewalk. She looked up into a dusky sky, like violet velvet sprinkled with diamond dust.

He stopped.

"No. That is indeed not the Edward for whom I was named."

His tone was oddly somber for such a lighthearted conversation. She'd have asked him about it but her phone rang.

"It's Amanda. That's my sister. I'm sure there's some tragedy involving linen napkins or place cards that require my urgent attention."

"Where are you?" Amanda demanded, "I've been stuck talking with Phillip's mother for the last twenty minutes. You promised you'd distract her for me."

"I fell on that sword already and I've done my duty. She's going to be your mother-in-law, Amanda. Twenty minutes of listening to her is good practice. And you've still got time to back out of the wedding now that you know what life with Mummyzilla will be like."

Beside her, Edward restrained a laugh. She put a finger to her lips, warning him to stay silent. He mimed zipping his lips, which reminded her that he had the sexiest mouth she'd ever seen. She turned her back to him to continue her conversation.

"I mean it, Carrie, that isn't funny. And Mom is looking for you too, so you better get back here. Where are you anyway?"

"Just getting some air. I'll be there in a minute."

Amanda huffed, "I'll be waiting for you in the terraced garden. Hurry up."

Are you sure she's your older sister and not your mother?" Edward asked after she'd stowed her phone in her ridiculously tiny purse.

"She's neither. She's younger than me."

"Yes, that actually can be worse."

He tucked her arm back into his. As they walked back to the castle, he toyed with the fringe on her shawl, running it through his fingers the way one might do with a lover's hair.

"Your sister, she sounded ..."

"She's bossy. Yeah, I know how it sounded. That's because that's how it is. She's spoiled and bossy, but…"--she shrugged--"she's my sister."

"The demands of family. I understand them all too well. Is that her?"

It was indeed Amanda, pacing back and forth, alternately checking her phone and flipping her hair.

"That's her, the pretty one."

Edward stopped, which drew Carrie to a halt as well. He tipped her chin up to look at him.

"I think it would be more accurate to say that she's one of the pretty ones."

"Wait until we get closer. You'll see."

"Somehow I reckon you're the modest one, actually."

"It's okay. I'm the smart one. And the practical one. And the responsible one. If I had to choose, I'd choose my lot, so I'm fine with not being the pretty one."

His brow furrowed above his sunglasses as he continued to stare at her, a look that was entirely too intense. There was moonlight glinting off his perfect honey-colored hair. She hadn't been the focus of the attentions of a man this gorgeous ever. She found it unsettling. She suddenly had a new respect for Amanda.

"I need to get back. A wedding emergency awaits."

"And only you can save the day with your superhero skills?"

"Shhh," she hissed, "don't blow my cover."--she pulled her hand free so that they wouldn't look quite so chummy as they approached Amanda--"I think the word is superheroine."