Royal Protocol

by Christine Flynn

  She understood the circumstances. She’d just had no practice having an affair. Beyond absolute discretion, she had no idea what the protocol was. There were no manuals or rules that she was aware of, and it wasn’t the sort of thing she could ask her friends about without raising questions that canceled the discretion part.

  She wasn’t even sure what Harrison wanted from her now. He’d threaded his fingers through hers and curled them together between them in the seat, but he hadn’t said a word to her since they’d entered the car.

  Even his glance told her nothing. His focus remained mostly on the back of their driver’s head.

  “We’re past the main gate,” she heard him say to Sir Selwyn, his thumb absently rubbing hers. “I’ll be upstairs in about three minutes.”

  The reassuring warmth of his palm seeped into her. She couldn’t believe how grateful she was for the small contact. Or how relieved she was that he wanted it himself. Hating how vulnerable she felt, determined not to let him know it, she glanced toward the side portico that led to the private residence. As they approached it, she could see Colonel Prescott pacing between two of the large columns waiting for the admiral to arrive. Whatever news he had was apparently too significant to wait.

  The cell phone closed with a quiet click. In the dusky light from the lampposts they passed, Harrison’s rugged features looked carved of granite.

  “You’ll tell me what they found?” she asked, knowing it was more necessary at the moment to focus on what they were doing now, rather than what they had done.

  “I imagine we’ll hear together. Prescott looks like he’s ready to pace out of his skin.”

  “He does seem rather anxious.”

  His eyes glittered on hers as the car came to a stop, his expression unreadable in the shadows. But he said nothing else in the few seconds that passed before he gave her hand a little squeeze and pulled his away.

  His driver had already climbed out and was opening his door.

  Her door swung open an instant later.

  “My lady,” came the greeting from her side.

  Harrison was already at the back of the car. Colonel Prescott stood with his hand extended, waiting to help her.

  “Lady Corbin,” he greeted, polite as always. “I didn’t realize you would be joining us.”

  Smile, she coached herself, and managed a commendable one as she rose to stand beside him.

  “I’d gone to see if there was anything to report to Her Majesty about Prince Owen,” she told him, enormously grateful for the preoccupation that had him barely smiling back. “The admiral kindly allowed me to ride with him when you called.”

  She should have felt more awkward. She was sure she would have, too, if Harrison hadn’t come up her behind just then and flattened his hand against the small of her back.

  “I think she should come with us.” He guided her forward, the gesture appearing more courteous than personal to anyone watching. “It will save having to repeat what she needs to relay to the queen.”

  The colonel seemed to appreciate the logic in that. Falling into step beside her, he also seemed as aware as Harrison was of the others around them. Both men fell silent as they headed past the sentries flanking the French doors under the portico. Another set of guards stood post inside at the arched entry to the long colonnade.

  Gwen was aware of those other ears, too. But she was far more conscious of the proprietary feel of Harrison’s hand as he guided her into the marble-pillared walkway, and a vague sense of loss when he no longer had an excuse to touch her and that reassuring weight fell away.

  “So what did Gage find?” he asked, his voice low.

  Under the echo of their footsteps, Pierce spoke just as quietly. “A handmade weapon. It was wedged between the leg and headboard of the prince’s bed. It’s a five-sided throwing device. We’ve already had it finger-printed.”

  “A throwing device,” Harrison repeated, his brow furrowing. “Like a ninja star?”

  “Exactly.”

  Gwen frowned in incomprehension.

  Harrison must have noticed.

  “It’s basically a couple of inches of metal disc with points or blades that give it a star shape,” he told her. “It’s small, convenient and silent. A master can throw one into the neck of his target from a hundred feet away and you’ll barely see his hand move.”

  Gwen gave a small shudder. Charming, she thought.

  “I’ve only known one man who could do that.” His tone turned forbidding. “He was Royal Guard until he disappeared a couple of years ago.”

  “Gunther Westbury.” Pierce gave a grim nod. “The device had the same inverted W on the end of each spike that was Westbury’s trademark. It also had his prints on it.”

  His name had actually once been Sir Gunther Westbury. Gwen remembered him because his departure had been such a scandal. No one knew why the good and powerful knight had suddenly resigned his commission, returned the sword of his knighthood and deserted his country, but King Morgan had been wounded to the core by his defection, and absolutely furious.

  The thought of such a traitorous action clearly did not please Harrison, either. But finally having a solid lead definitely did. “Given the time he spent in the corps, he would certainly know the layout of the grounds and the routines of the guards. Once it was out that the king was ill, he would have known security would be lighter around the king’s apartments because he wasn’t there. With Prince Dylan gone, that left only Owen in that wing.”

  Pierce had reached the same conclusion. “We figure he didn’t go after him right away, though. We know Westbury had no problem entering the king’s apartments. Since he used the king’s stationery and computer for the ransom note, he would have gone there first, then headed off to get Owen.”

  “Who put up a fight,” Harrison said, continuing the scenario. “That would explain why the weapon was in such an odd place. It isn’t something Westbury would have used at close range, so it must have come off him during the struggle and been kicked under the bed.”

  The golden threads in Harrison’s beret medallion caught the light from the wall sconces as he drew to a halt. On his shoulders the stars of his rank gleamed against navy blue. “Back up to the stationery,” he muttered, suddenly looking troubled. “He would have gone into the king’s apartment and used that to show how vulnerable the royal family is. Do we have any idea how long he was in there?”

  “The man trained for covert ops. He can move like a shadow. It could have been anywhere from minutes to an hour.” Pierce’s voice went flat as he concluded. “I take it you’re thinking the same thing we are.”

  “So what’s being done about it?”

  “The dogs are in there now.”

  “Where are the royals?”

  Pierce’s first thought was obviously for his fiancée. “Meredith is at my flat with her bodyguard. Princess Megan is being guarded at her home with her husband. Princess Ana is with the queen in the queen’s apartment. We ran the dogs through their wing first.”

  Gwen clutched her handbag a little tighter. They had come to a stop not far from the foyer with its wide stairway separating the two wings. The usual red-jacketed soldiers flanked it. As she had listened with growing trepidation to the men’s exchange, she had been vaguely aware of the guards. Only now did she notice two men in army uniforms conversing with each other at the top of the stairway. One leaned over to check the underside of the stairway banister.

  She wasn’t totally sure what was happening. But she was growing more apprehensive than she cared to let on. “Excuse me, Colonel. The dogs you’re speaking of. What exactly are they looking for?”

  The young commander’s glance cut to the man beside her. “Any sort of incendiary device,” Pierce replied at Harrison’s faint nod. “Or anything that might harm a person when he opened a door or drawer or that sort of thing. But the queen’s wing is clear,” he hurried to remind her. “A special team went in right after the dogs.”

  “My room w
as searched, too?”

  “Yes, ma’am. You weren’t available, so we had to go in without you. I assure you, we disturbed as little as possible.”

  She understood the necessity. She was glad they’d done what they had. Still, the thought of booby traps, and strange men going through her private space left her feeling vulnerable in ways far different than she had only minutes ago.

  There were advantages to focusing on obligations. Wondering if that might not be why Harrison devoted his life to the responsibilities he’d chosen to accept, she forced her attention to the queen. If bomb-sniffing canines had been through the royal apartments, there was no doubt in her mind that the queen was wide awake and pacing the nap off the antique carpets in her rooms.

  “Did you speak with Her Majesty?”

  “Sir Selwyn did. About half an hour ago.” The steady beat of footsteps drew Pierce’s glance behind him. After noting the approach of one of the men from the stairs, he turned back to her. “All she’s been told is that we needed to search the wing as a precaution. She and Princess Ana were sitting with the king at the time. They were safe in the tunnel, so we kept them there until the search was completed.”

  And while all that had been going on, Gwen thought, she had been safe in the arms of the man beside her.

  It didn’t occur to her to question that she had felt completely secure when Harrison held her. Something about him had made her feel protected from the moment he’d thrown his jacket over her shoulders and pushed her in from the rain. In his position and in his soul, he was a man of principle. A noble man. A defender to the core of his being. She could trust him with her very life.

  She just couldn’t trust him with her heart.

  “Then, she doesn’t know of the weapon Duke Weston found?” she asked, suddenly aware that she’d actually inched closer to Harrison as Pierce had spoken. “Or, what made you conduct the search?”

  “No, my lady.” Apology entered the younger man’s tone. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment?”

  The captain who’d approached stopped a discreet distance behind him. Turning on his heal, Pierce took a step to see what the problem was, only to turn right back with a frown carved into his face.

  “There’s one more thing,” he said to Harrison. “The weapon has a black sword etched into it. It looks as if Westbury might have joined the Black Knights.” Looking as matter-of-fact as he sounded, he nodded to her, then glanced back at his colleague’s equally impassive expression. “I’ll see you upstairs.”

  To Gwen, Harrison’s implacable features gave away nothing as Pierce and the other officer headed for the wide marble stairway. Like the other morning when he and the others had been informed of the call from the kidnappers, Harrison’s thoughts seemed to remain solely on what needed to be dealt with at that moment.

  What he needed to deal with at that particular moment was her.

  “What should I tell Her Majesty?” she asked, certain from the way he glanced after the men that he was anxious to go. “I’m not sure I understand what’s going on.”

  He wasn’t, either. The information about Westbury was huge. He just needed time to digest it. “Tell her we have reason to believe the prince’s kidnapper was in the palace long enough to have sabotaged certain areas. The princes’ rooms and the king’s apartments in particular. That’s why the dogs were brought in.”

  “She’s going to want to know why that wasn’t done before.”

  “Not if you don’t bring it up.”

  The look she gave him was remarkably level.

  “So why wasn’t it?”

  “Because it first appeared that the kidnapper’s goal was only to take the prince hostage. Since nothing looked disturbed anywhere other than the prince’s room, no one had reason to suspect any other motive.”

  “Except to prove how vulnerable the royal family is by using the king’s personal stationery,” she reminded him. “And maybe,” she speculated, easily accepting his touch when he took her elbow to walk her to the queen’s drawing room, “to prove how good he is himself.”

  “I don’t doubt that.” Letting his thoughts follow her lead, distracted by it, he unconsciously started to slide his hand to her back. Catching himself because there were guards ahead of them, he dropped his hand completely. He hadn’t even realized what he was doing until he was doing it, and he was standing too close to her to make the gesture look casual. “He was known to master everything he took on.”

  Seeing his considering frown, Gwen hesitated.

  “What are you thinking?” she asked, a moment later.

  “That the Knights apparently always dress in black.”

  Her expression mirrored his. “It would be a practical color. Pierce just said he moves like a shadow. Black would just make him less visible.”

  “It’s also the color of the ninja.”

  The information seemed significant enough to Harrison to deepen his concentration. It meant nothing to Gwen. All she knew about ninja was that she’d once bought pajamas with ninja turtles on them for Mrs. Ferth’s grandson’s birthday. The child had apparently been crazy about the militant-looking little reptiles. “And the weapon he uses is theirs, too?”

  They passed the guards, their voices as hushed as their footsteps as they turned into the wide, richly carpeted hallway.

  “I think he might be into the whole philosophy. The ninja practice a form of martial art called ninjitsu. The original form was banned in Japan a few hundred years ago, but back then they were masters with their bodies and with weapons. They were also practiced at using bombs and poisons.”

  Intrigued, disturbed, she searched his profile. His fatigue was still there, but the weariness was gone. The adrenaline of discovery had replaced it. “By poison are you thinking of the encephalitis?”

  Light glinted in his eyes as he glanced at her. “I hadn’t gotten that far,” he admitted, “but that would fit, too. I was thinking more of what this could tell us about the Black Knights. Ninjutsu means the art of stealing in. Another way to put it is espionage.

  “But espionage means to spy or obtain information.” She was lost again. “How does that fit?”

  He didn’t know. He didn’t like that, either. But he was feeling close to something major. If he trusted anything, it was his instincts.

  “I just know it does,” he concluded, and stopped because they were nearly at the guards by the queen’s door.

  “I’m going up to see what else they have.”

  “You’ll let us know if you find out anything else?”

  The play of emotions over her face tugged hard at something deep inside him. He wasn’t going to worry now about what that something was. He wasn’t going to worry, either, about why he was suddenly feeling so cheated by the timing of Pierce’s phone call.

  An hour passed before word came that the king’s wing was secure. A guard brought the news to the drawing room door. There were no other messages, however, and though the news relieved Gwen, the queen and Ana enormously, the information wasn’t enough.

  Within minutes of the young officer’s departure, Ana had said good-night to seek escape in sleep, and Marissa was back to pacing restlessly across the room.

  Within fifteen minutes Gwen was ready to pace with her.

  “Why don’t you go to bed, Marissa? It’s late. I’m sure if they find anything else significant, the admiral will make sure you know first thing in the morning.”

  “I couldn’t sleep if I tried. All I can think about is that people we’ve trusted keep turning on us. And that awful little weapon. I hate thinking of Owen fighting that horrid man. I hate thinking that he’s hurt and no one’s helping him.” She turned, her arms snugged tight around her middle, her voice a raw whisper. “I hate all of this.”

  “Marissa, stop,” Gwen urged, feeling totally helpless. She wished desperately that there was something she could do for her friend. She just had no idea what that something could be. “You’re going to make yourself sick.”

  �
��I am sick.” Tears streamed down the weary woman’s cheeks, silent testimony to pain she no longer knew how to deal with. “I’m sick to death of not knowing what’s happening. I want to know everything those men up there know. I want to know what they’re going to do with the information. I don’t want them to wait until they get all their clues put together or whatever it is they’re doing. I want to know what they’re doing now.”

  Considering the number of people involved in the investigation, it would be nearly impossible to track down what each of them was doing at that particular moment. Gwen didn’t bother mentioning that to the distraught queen, though. As she stepped into her path and touched her arm, she was thinking only that she’d just found a small way to help. “I’m going to get Ana to stay with you until I get back.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “You just said you wanted to know what they’re doing. I’m going upstairs to see what else I can find out.”

  Marissa had only been venting. Gwen knew that. But there was no mistaking the relief that swept the woman’s tear-stained face. “Thank you, Gwen,” she murmured. “But, please, don’t bother Ana. I’m all right. Really.”

  Gwen didn’t believe the queen for a moment. Marissa wasn’t all right and she wouldn’t be until some semblance of normalcy returned to her life. But if she didn’t want her child disturbed, then Gwen would abide by her wishes. There was no point in upsetting her further.

  There was also no point in denying how ambivalent she felt as she hurried toward the one man on all of Penwyck she should be running from. In a matter of days Harrison had turned her small, tidy world entirely upside down. He made her feel emotions she’d somehow buried. He made her want all the things she’d come to believe she could live without. He made her want him.

  For years she’d lived her life through and for her daughter and her queen, and somehow that had always been enough.