The Rebel Prince (The Brides Of Bella Lucia #3)

by Raye Morgan

  “Who’s done what?” Emma asked, reaching for her white uniform, anxious to show that she was ready to join in after having been AWOL for so long. She’d had a wonderful long nap and was feeling very much herself again. Dr Will had been to check on her and had been pleased with her condition. So things were looking up.

  “The prince, of course. Prince Sebastian.” The housekeeper put a hand up to smooth down the curls of her dark brown hair. “He’s here, crept in on us unannounced. The level of service for dinner will have to be raised. It won’t just be the duke and the duchess. It will be the prince as well.” She began counting out diners on her fingers. “And the Italian ambassador, so they tell me, along with his wife and sister. The chancellor of the treasury, the minister of defense and his wife. And of course, Romas, the old duke’s son, and…let’s see…”

  “The prince is here?”

  Emma was suddenly nervous. She’d been ready to meet the prince and begin working out menus with him, but when they had told her he wouldn’t arrive until the weekend she’d been disappointed, but secretly a little relieved. That gave her a little more time. And now he was here after all, and she didn’t feel prepared.

  “Yes, he’s here. And us being so shorthanded. So the chef tells me.” The housekeeper looked at Emma speculatively. “I know it’s not what you’re here for but you might as well pitch in. After all, you need to get the lay of the land and see how things are done around here. So…do you mind working with Chef Henri?”

  “No. No, of course not.”

  Emma was amenable but she wondered how Chef Henri would take it. When she’d met the man the night before she’d had the distinct impression he would have liked to see her filleted along with the fish course. Actually, she’d come face to face with a wall of hostility from most of the kitchen staff. It had been evident right away that they greatly resented that she’d been chosen as chef to the coronation over someone home-grown.

  “You look a little tired,” Myrna Luk was saying. “And Dr Will filled me in on your situation. Sure you’re up to this?”

  “Oh, absolutely.”

  Regardless of how she felt, she had to be up to it. After all, this was the housekeeper, the only person on the staff who had actually been nice to her so far, asking for help. If she couldn’t come through for her, she might as well give up and go home.

  “How are you getting on?” Myrna asked, looking her over a bit more closely.

  Emma hesitated, tempted to tell her the truth—that the staff was treating her like a redheaded stepchild. But what, after all, was that going to get her—except more antagonism from them? Anyway, this was her job and she had to take care of it herself.

  “Quite fine, thank you.”

  “Wonderful. Then I’ll tell Chef Henri that you’re willing.”

  “Yes.”

  Willing, surely. But able? That remained to be seen.

  Though she was refreshed from the best sleep she’d had in a week, she still hadn’t gone over what had happened that morning and come to terms with it. That would have to come later. Right now, she needed to find that darn elevator, or maybe some stairs, and get to the kitchen.

  She turned a corner and there it was. The ancient elevator. Sighing with relief, she hurried up and pushed the button. The elevator lumbered toward her with much creaking and clashing of metal against metal, giving her qualms. And then the doors slid open.

  “Oh, no!”

  The reaction slipped out before she could stop it, for there stood the very man she most wanted to avoid seeing again.

  He didn’t look any happier to see her.

  “Well, come on, get on board,” he said gruffly. “I won’t bite.” One eyebrow rose. “Though I might nibble a little,” he added, mostly to amuse himself.

  But she wasn’t paying any attention to what he was saying. She was staring at him, taking in the royal-blue uniform he was wearing, with gold braid and glistening badges decorating the sleeves, epaulettes and upright collar. Ribbons and medals covered the breast of the short, fitted jacket. A gold-encrusted sabre hung at his side. And suddenly it was clear to her who this man really was.

  She gulped wordlessly. Reaching out, he took her elbow and pulled her aboard. The doors slid closed. And finally she found her tongue.

  “You…you’re the prince.”

  He nodded, barely glancing at her. “Yes. Of course.”

  She raised a hand and covered her mouth for a moment. “I should have known.”

  “Of course you should have. I don’t know why you didn’t.” He punched the ground-floor button to get the elevator moving again, then turned to look down at her. “A relatively bright five-year-old child would have tumbled to the truth right away.”

  Her shock faded as her indignation at his tone asserted itself. He might be the prince, but he was still just as annoying as he had been earlier that day.

  “A relatively bright five-year-old child without a bump on the head from a badly thrown water-polo ball, maybe,” she said defensively. She wasn’t feeling woozy any longer and she wasn’t about to let him bully her, no matter how royal he was. “I was unconscious half the time.”

  “And just clueless the other half, I guess,” he said, looking bemused.

  The arrogance of the man was really galling.

  “I suppose you think your ‘royalness’ is so obvious it sort of shimmers around you for all to see?” she challenged. “Or, better yet, oozes from your pores like…like sweat on a hot day?”

  “Something like that,” he acknowledged calmly. “Most people tumble to it pretty quickly. In fact, it’s hard to hide even when I want to avoid dealing with it.”

  “Poor baby,” she said, still resenting his manner. “I guess that works better with injured people who are half asleep.” Looking at him, she felt a strange emotion she couldn’t identify. It was as though she wanted to prove something to him, but she wasn’t sure what. “And anyway, you know you did your best to fool me,” she added.

  His brows knit together as though he really didn’t know what she was talking about. “I didn’t do a thing.”

  “You told me your name was Monty.”

  “It is.” He shrugged. “I have a lot of names. Some of them are too rude to be spoken to my face, I’m sure.” He glanced at her sideways, his hand on the hilt of his sabre. “Perhaps you’re contemplating one of those right now.”

  You bet I am.

  That was what she would like to say. But it suddenly occurred to her that she was supposed to be working for this man. If she wanted to keep the job of coronation chef, maybe she’d better keep her opinions to herself. So she clamped her mouth shut, took a deep breath, and looked away, trying hard to calm down.

  The elevator ground to a halt and the doors slid open laboriously. She moved to step forward, hoping to make her escape, but his hand shot out again and caught her elbow.

  “Wait a minute. You’re a woman,” he said, as though that thought had just presented itself to him.

  “That’s a rare ability for insight you have there, Your Highness,” she snapped before she could stop herself. And then she winced. She was going to have to do better than that if she was going to keep this relationship on an even keel.

  But he was ignoring her dig. Nodding, he stared at her with a speculative gleam in his golden eyes. “I’ve been looking for a woman, but you’ll do.”

  She blanched, stiffening. “I’ll do for what?”

  He made a head gesture in a direction she knew was opposite of where she was going and his grip tightened on her elbow.

  “Come with me,” he said abruptly, making it an order.

  She dug in her heels, thinking fast. She didn’t much like orders. “Wait! I can’t. I have to get to the kitchen.”

  “Not yet. I need you.”

  “You what?” Her breathless gasp of surprise was soft, but she knew he’d heard it.

  “I need you,” he said firmly. “Oh, don’t look so shocked. I’m not planning to throw you into
the hay and have my way with you. I need you for something a bit more mundane than that.”

  She felt color rushing into her cheeks and she silently begged it to stop. Here she was, formless and stodgy in her chef’s whites. No makeup, no stiletto heels. Hardly the picture of the femme fatale he was undoubtedly used to. The likelihood that he would have any carnal interest in her was remote at best. To have him think she was hysterically defending her virtue was humiliating.

  “Well, what if I don’t want to go with you?” she said in hopes of deflecting his attention from her blush.

  “Too bad.”

  “What?”

  Amusement sparkled in his eyes. He was certainly enjoying this. And that only made her more determined to resist him.

  “I’m the prince, remember? And we’re in the castle. My orders take precedence. It’s that old pesky divine rights thing.”

  Her jaw jutted out. Despite her embarrassment, she couldn’t let that pass.

  “Over my free will? Never!”

  Exasperation filled his face.

  “Hey, call out the historians. Someone will write a book about you and your courageous principles.” His eyes glittered sardonically. “But in the meantime, Emma Valentine, you’re coming with me.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  EMMA glared at Sebastian. It wasn’t enough that he was arrogant and bossy—he thought he could mock her principles, too. She’d about had it with this man. Prince or no prince, he had a lesson in manners due him.

  Her half-sister Rachel had warned her about this prince just a few days ago. Emma had been staying with Rachel and her new husband at their French vineyard. As she’d been packing up for her flight to Meridia Rachel had come in and flopped down on the bed.

  “Be careful,” she said. “You know what these young royals are like these days. And I hear this one’s a perfect example of a playboy.”

  “Really?” That wasn’t the first time Emma had heard that, but she didn’t think it was going to affect her work. “I doubt I’ll even meet with him more than once,” she assured her sister.

  Rachel pursed her lips and gazed at her speculatively. “That’s probably for the best,” she said slowly. “It might be just as well if you didn’t get your pretty little head turned.”

  Emma sighed. “Don’t.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Rachel, you know I’ve never been pretty. Competent, yes. Smart. Quick. Good at my job. But never pretty.”

  Rachel stared at her, aghast. “What are you talking about? You’re gorgeous. Emma Valentine, I’ll bet you haven’t looked in a mirror since you were sixteen.”

  Emma raised her head. “I’m looking in the mirror right now.”

  “And you see a lovely woman hidden behind hair that you didn’t bother to brush this morning and a naturally lovely face with no mascara to draw attention to your beautiful blue eyes.”

  “Oh, please. I have no intention of trying to be a seduc-tress here.”

  “I know, but that’s not the point. A little evidence that you might be open to some male attention is all I’m asking for.”

  “But I’m not.”

  Rachel rolled her eyes. “Okay. We’ll talk about this later. After the Meridia gig. The last thing I would want to do would be to encourage a prince to start chasing you.”

  The whole concept had made her laugh. And it was still ridiculous to contemplate. This prince was certainly gorgeous, but he was as arrogant and unpleasant as they came.

  “Listen, mister,” she began, trying to pull away from his grip on her elbow. “The divine rights of kings is all very well. Just don’t forget about noblesse oblige.”

  “Emma, you listen,” he said, giving every sign of a man who’d also come to the end of his patience. “I told you I need a woman’s touch. And you’re that woman.”

  She looked up into his eyes and what she saw there gave her shivers. Was he really that cold-hearted? Or was this just a royal trait?

  “But, I need to get to the kitchen,” she tried, knowing the weakness of her voice was giving away the fact that her stand had weakened, too.

  “Calm down.” His mouth twitched at the corners as he waited a moment for her to breathe evenly again, then he gestured toward his collar where a coil of braid flapped out, flying loose. “I just need a bit of repair work. A little sewing. That’s all.”

  For the first time, she noticed that he held a needle and a long tail of thread in his other hand.

  “I can’t sew,” she said quickly.

  “Liar.” Now he was laughing at her. “If you took cooking classes, I have no doubt a sewing lesson or two lurked in there somewhere. Come on. You’re going to sew this braid back on for me.”

  “But—”

  “Emma, have a heart. I’ve got to get to the reception in the entry hall. They’re waiting for me. And I can’t show up like this.” He paused, and then, with what seemed like a lot of effort, he made himself say, “Please.”

  She bristled, and then slowly relaxed. There was no point in keeping up this resistance when she knew she was going to have to give in eventually anyway. And if all he really wanted was a bit of needlework, the more quickly she got to it, the more quickly she would be back on her way to the kitchen. Besides, she was a sucker for people who said “please”.

  “Oh, all right,” she said, shaking her head in resignation. “I’ll give it a try. But I’m warning you, I’m not very good at it.”

  He nodded and led her into a small room just a few feet away from the elevator. It seemed to be a storage center of sorts, with maps pinned and glued all over the walls and large pieces of luggage stacked on shelves and set about in piles.

  “We’ll be out of the way here,” he said, dropping down to sit on a tall stool and handing her the needle. “Sew like the wind, my sweet, and we’ll be back on our way in no time.”

  She put a knot in the thread rather absently as she looked down at his collar. He’d unbuttoned the top buttons so that it could be pulled to the side a bit. The braid was definitely loose, and somewhat shredded in places, but she knew she could take care of it easily. Still…

  She cleared her throat nervously. “You know, this would be a lot easier to do if you took the jacket off,” she suggested.

  He shook his head. “Can’t do it. You don’t know what it cost me to get into this damn monkey suit in the first place. I’ll never be able to summon the patience to do it again.”

  She sighed. Nothing was ever completely easy, was it? “Hold still, then.”

  Her fingers were shaking. She bit her lip, trying to stop them. If she couldn’t keep steady and the needle slipped…She winced, thinking of it. He’d have her fired for sure.

  Fired! Hah! Killed, more likely.

  She almost laughed aloud and somehow that thought steadied her. Taking a deep breath, she pressed the piece of braid down where it evidently belonged and began her first probe with the needle.

  There. That wasn’t so hard. She took a tiny stitch, then another, and then she was moving along as though she really did know what she was doing. The trick was going to be to keep her mind off the fact that she was doing this for the prince.

  The prince! The man who was going to be King of Meridia. She hadn’t let that fact sink in yet. She couldn’t think about it if she was going to get through this task alive.

  But it wasn’t easy. She had to force herself to ignore the sense of his body heat that wafted up from his open-necked uniform, bringing with it a clean, masculine scent. Her fingers brushed the warm skin of his neck every now and then. And she felt a sensation—a sort of flutter of excitement—every time.

  It was only natural. After all, he was a very attractive man—smooth skin, thick, shiny hair, and the most beautiful ear…Her mouth was dry and she was embarrassed. But, after all, she wouldn’t be human if all that didn’t affect her—just a little.

  And she knew it didn’t mean a thing. He was as self-centered as they came. And, more than that, he was dangerous. She
didn’t want to spell out just exactly what he threatened in her. Better not to think about that. But she’d known enough to shy away from him even before she’d found out he was the prince. She just had to keep that in mind.

  The most ridiculous thing in the world would be to let herself get a crush on this man. But she really didn’t fear that because she wasn’t the type to get caught up in romance. It had never been all that important to her. She’d been too busy becoming the best chef she could be. So she wasn’t really very worried.

  Still, if love was a contagious disease, she ought to get a vaccination. Just recently her half-sisters, the twins, Rebecca and Rachel, had both come down with it. Emma had celebrated Rebecca’s marriage in Wyoming, then stopped to visit Rachel and her new husband, Luc, at their vineyard in France before coming to Meridia.

  It was wonderful that both her older sisters had found love the way they had. But it did exact its own sort of toll on her spirit. She’d never been in love herself—never had time. She was almost thirty. Was it too late for her to find a way to develop the knack for it? If it hadn’t happened in all this time, maybe it never would.

  That was a disturbing thought and, added to the jumble that was now her emotional life—just another thing she didn’t have time to think about.

  The sound of a voice from down the hall made her realize it had been some time since either of them had spoken. It was almost beginning to feel awkward. She tried to think of something to say, but how did you strike up a conversation with a prince?

  Still, this wasn’t just any prince. This was the man who’d knocked her out with a water-polo ball, then sat with her while she’d tried to get him to tell her fairy tales. Surely she could think of something to say to him.

  “So,” she said tentatively, going back over some of her stitches to strengthen the hold, “you’re going to be King. I guess that must be pretty thrilling.”

  Glancing up, he gave her a quizzical look. “I can think of other words for it,” he muttered.

  “Well, I’m thrilled,” she persisted. “This is going to be my first chance to show an international audience what I can do. I only hope I do you proud.”