The Bridesmaid's Royal Bodyguard

by Liz Fielding

  “She may have asked. I didn’t feel the need to answer,” he replied with the look of a man who never had to explain himself.

  “Again, impressive!” she said, unable to resist a grin.

  Fredric Jensson did not appear to think it was amusing and actually it wasn’t. Her mother would have had time to fine-tune the third degree by now and wouldn’t be so easily put off. Fortunately, she had anticipated the need for a story to cover her meetings with the Count but it was going to need a few tweaks.

  “Since we needed a story to cover your presence in Combe St Philip,” she said, “I thought we could say that Hope and I met you at a party in London. You were planning to visit the Cotswolds on business and Hope invited you to stay at the Hall. She’s in London, up to her eyes in work right now, so you get me as your local guide.”

  He frowned. “Who will be interested?”

  “Are you kidding? Any stranger staying at the Hall will give the village something to talk about. By tomorrow there would have been speculation about you and Hope. Walking into the Three Bells looking for me scuppered that line of gossip. Instead of marrying Hope you’ll be sleeping with me.”

  “An interesting distinction,” he said, “but hardly surprising in view of your enthusiastic welcome.”

  A smile – even half a smile – would have taken the edge off that.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, getting a little tired of his attitude. “Should I have bobbed a curtsey and said, ‘Count Fredrik Jensson, what an honour to meet you?’” The crease made another appearance but she’d given up on the smile. He was doubtless clenching his jaw, irritated that a common village wench was prepared to speak her mind. “I thought this was supposed to be a low-profile visit. You were the one who turned it into something else.”

  There was an endless moment of silence. The only movement was his breath misting the frozen air and Ally, afraid that she’d gone too far, held her own breath.

  “I only use the title on ceremonial occasions –” his icy control was unnerving “– and save your curtsies for their serene highnesses. They will expect it.”

  “Don’t worry,” she replied, “I’ve been practising.” A rare attack of nerves meant that had come out rather more flippantly than she’d intended.

  Count Fredrik’s jaw tightened noticeably.

  “You may think it’s an antiquated formality, Miss Parker, but the San Michele court is governed by strict protocol. When your mother told me that you had a job at the Three Bells, it didn’t occur to me that you would be scrubbing the kitchen floor. You’d better hope their highnesses don’t find out.”

  Her own jaw tightened in response. It wasn’t a glamorous job. She was no longer visiting celebrities in their homes, persuading them to open their hearts and closets for the weekly gratification of Celebrity’s readers, but it was honest work and she wasn’t ashamed of it.

  “What did you think I’d be doing?” she asked. “The Three Bells doesn’t serve breakfast and I don’t usually start on the gin until the sun is over the yard arm.” She gave him back the glacial stare. “Today might yet prove an exception.”

  “Your mother did try very hard to persuade me to wait for you,” he admitted, running a hand over his hair and looking a touch discomforted, “but I misunderstood her motives.”

  She doubted that. A good-looking man turning up out of the blue and asking for her would have given her mother all kinds of ideas. The big white dress, grandchildren ...

  He was fortunate that she hadn’t dragged him in over the threshold by his expensive lapels.

  “When she finally explained that you were working at the Three Bells, I assumed it was as a PR consultant. I had planned to have a cup of coffee while waiting for you.”

  “Oh.”

  “It is what you do?” he pressed.

  “When I’m not scrubbing floors?”

  Stop it ...

  She forced herself to relax, smile.

  “I’m a journalist, not a PR consultant. I’m doing it this once for Hope,” she said. “No one else.”

  Chapter Two

  Count Fredrik Jensson looked confused.

  “To be honest,” she said, “the pub could do with a brand makeover but while Pete would be up for it, Jennifer would rather stick pins in her eyes than give me the job.”

  “Why?”

  Because, Ally thought, her adorable, but clueless mother had bragged endlessly about her job on the international gossip magazine, Celebrity. Who she’d met, where she’d been.

  “It’s a long story.”

  Sacked on the spot for an incident that had made her a laughing stock, unemployable by any gossip magazine, no longer able to pay her portion of the flat share, and with some eye-watering credit card bills that had been manageable when she’d had a regular income, she’d returned home to rethink her career options. Meanwhile she’d taken whatever job was going.

  There had not been much to choose from apart from cleaning at the pub and serving lunch to the tourists at the Old Forge, which had evoked a certain amount of Schadenfreude in all those who’d been forced to listen to her mother for the last couple of years. Jennifer took enormous pleasure in giving her the most menial jobs she could find.

  She’d been grinning and bearing it when Hope had shared the thrilling news that she was marrying San Michele’s Prince Jonas and had rejected the brouhaha of a cathedral wedding and palace reception. She wanted a proper village wedding right here in Combe St Philip, and she wanted her and Flora Deare – the third in their BFF triumvirate – as bridesmaids.

  “But you’re handling the PR side of things for Hope?”

  She glanced at him. “Actually, not so much her – she’s keeping her head down, working in London.” She had his attention now. “Sir Max Kennard, unlike his father, is a quiet, reserved man. He’s agreed to hold the wedding at Hasebury Hall because he feels he owes Hope that, but I imagine even a scaled down ‘ordinary’ royal wedding is pretty much his worst nightmare.” Quite how “ordinary” the wedding would be with a host of royals descending on the village was a moot point. “Hope wants me to protect him from the worst of it.”

  “And you think you can handle that?”

  Good question.

  It might not be a British prince who was marrying the local girl but without a home-grown royal wedding to fill their pages, the media would go overboard for Hope and Jonas. Combe St Philip would be swarming with journalists and television news crews, all of them wanting background on the local girl who was marrying a prince.

  “It’s all about preparation,” she assured him. “I’m working on a press pack.

  A potted history of the village and the Kennard family, a relaxed portrait of Hope, a few lines about how they’d met.” Give them enough to fill their column inches, provide them with good quality pictures and a few quotes and most of them would be satisfied.

  There was, after all, nothing like a royal wedding to sell papers.

  And then there was the village. There was no escaping the fact that Hope’s idiot of a father – having been duped by “friends” into some dodgy financial scheme – had died in prison; not everyone was going to be overjoyed for her.

  Part of her job would be to keep everyone focused on the upside of the royal wedding taking place in Combe St Philip. The huge financial boost from which everyone would benefit. Including Jennifer “sourface” Harmon.

  Meanwhile Fredrik Jensson’s default setting was caution. It went with the job and she didn’t blame him for that. Obviously he’d run a check on everyone involved, knew her history, knew that she’d lost her job. He probably knew to the last penny how much she owed on her credit cards.

  “Hope chose me because she trusts me,” she said. About to add that she would never betray her, she let it go. Nothing she said would convince him that she wasn’t about to sell the royal secrets for hard cash. She just had to get on with the job, be herself and let events prove him wrong. “Our problem now is how to handle the fallout from
what happened back there in the bar.”

  “Fallout?”

  “This is a small village. Your presence will already have been remarked, questions asked. Who are you? Where have you come from? What are you doing here?”

  “It’s none of their business.”

  “Of course not. Which makes it all the more interesting.” She stopped, looked at him. “I suppose if there’s going to be speculation about your presence at Hasebury Hall, it’s better the gossip is about me rather than Hope.”

  He had taken a step beyond her and turned to look at her. “You? Surely you mean us?” He didn’t look thrilled at the prospect.

  Of course she meant ‘us’. If he hadn’t got carried away ... If she hadn’t responded with quite so much enthusiasm ...

  “I’m sorry if it bothers you but it’s what they’ll think anyway, so we might as well use it to our advantage. Maybe, if you think of it as a security measure, it will be easier to bear.” Enough. Before he could say anything else to irritate her, she held out her hand. “We appear to have got off on the wrong foot, Count. Shall we try again? How d’you do, Count Fredrik Jensson. Welcome to Combe St Philip.”

  There was a long moment before he reached out and enveloped her hand in his.

  “Thank you, Miss Parker.”

  It was the moment to let out the breath she was holding but she seemed to have lost control of her breathing in that moment he’d turned and looked at her. She’d been struggling for it ever since he’d kissed her.

  Breathe ...

  Do not think about the kiss.

  “Under the circumstances ...” Her throat was thick and the words came out as little more than a whisper. She cleared it, tried again. “Under the circumstances, I think people will find such formality a little odd,” she finally managed. “My friends call me Ally.” When he didn’t respond, she added, “What do people usually call you?”

  “Sir.”

  The smile froze on her lips.

  “However, if we are going to cause a scandal,” he continued, “Fredrik would be more appropriate.”

  There was nothing in his expression to tell her if he was teasing.

  A car came down the hill and Ally stepped aside without taking her eyes off Fredrik Jensson.

  “Yes ...” She cleared her throat, again, trying hard not to think about what creating a scandal with him would involve. What his hard, calloused hands would feel like against her skin. What his mouth would feel like ... “Fredrik.” His name was little more than a husky puff of frosted air. “I go this way. I’ll, um, catch up with you at the Hall.”

  “That’s just a waste of time.” And he was an impatient man. The thought sent a ripple of anticipation skittering up her spine. “Does your mother make a decent cup of coffee?”

  Decent?

  It was a perfectly ordinary word and she wasn’t in the habit of breaking out in shivery lust at the drop of a hat. At all. Ever. She could flirt with the best of them but found it easy to keep an arm’s length between herself and anyone who wanted to take it further.

  He was waiting for an answer.

  Coffee ...

  She was tempted to tell him that her mother – who prided herself on her crema – used the cheapest instant from the village shop in order to give herself a little breathing space, a moment to recover from the impact of his presence, that kiss, but she couldn’t bring herself to tell such an outrageous lie.

  Hoping that he was a coffee snob she managed a discouraging, “Not bad.”

  “Not bad will do.” Accurately reading her dismay, he came closer to a smile than anything she’d seen so far. “I was a soldier. Hot and strong was the best I could hope for.”

  Hot and strong ...

  He didn’t wait for her answer but set off in the direction of her parents’ cottage, favouring one leg. From everything she’d read, he’d been lucky to keep the other and she suspected the scars were not just the ones left by the mortar shell. Considering what he’d lost it was scarcely any wonder that he was a grouch. A very hot grouch ...

  “Oh, pull yourself together, Ally,” she muttered.

  Handling the local PR for Hope’s royal wedding had given her the chance to reboot her career and she wasn’t about to waste it. She’d researched everyone involved in the circus that would descend on Combe St Philip that summer, and she was determined not to put a foot wrong.

  Count Fredrik Otto Jensson, having aroused her interest with his public exploits, had proved elusive on the personal front.

  His achievements as a mountaineer, his heroics as a soldier, had been well documented but there had been no mention of a wife or family. Even his Scandinavian name was an enigma and the face gazing out of official portraits gave little away.

  Up close and personal it was still unreadable.

  It shouldn’t matter. He wasn’t one of the royals, wouldn’t feature in the wedding diary she was creating for Hope and Jonas. In the flesh, however, he commanded attention and all those blanks were now raising questions that, after years working on a gossip magazine, came so naturally to her.

  Who was Fredrik Jensson? What drove him? What secrets was he keeping locked away behind those cool grey eyes and the hard, straight line of his mouth?

  Realizing that he was alone, Fredrik paused and glanced back. Ally Parker hadn’t moved, but was standing perfectly still, watching him.

  The sun was rising behind her and the fair streaks in her dark plaited hair, ruffled and flying away where she’d pulled off her scarf, were lit up around her head like a halo. An illusion, he knew. Despite a smile that could melt permafrost, it would be a mistake to believe that she was any kind of angel. Her lips had left a warm, velvet-soft imprint on his cold cheek, heated him to the bone with her response to a kiss that should never have happened, but those who worked for gossip magazines had to have hearts of cold, hard stone.

  The smile was simply part of the toolbox: a charm to unlock the secrets of the unwary. As for her lips ...

  Forget her lips; concentrate on what was real.

  The first thing he’d done when he’d learned that she was not just a bridesmaid, but would be handling Hope’s PR here in Combe St Philip as well, was to run a security check on her. The Net had obliged with dozens of pictures of her interviewing award-clutching celebrities; chatting to minor royals at charity balls; always smiling as she teased out those indiscreet sound-bite quotes from those high on success or champagne. That was all over. She was out of a job, in debt ...

  When he’d raised his concerns, Jonas had brushed them aside. Hope had chosen her and that, apparently, was that.

  Since then, she’d managed to conflate her role into creating a souvenir diary of the wedding preparations that would be published to raise funds for a charitable trust to be established in the name of the new Princess.

  She’d asked for access to everyone involved, including the royal family, wanting their thoughts about the wedding, about Hope. While the idea had filled him with horror, he had anticipated a professional, someone with polish and that red-carpet style.

  What he’d got was a woman with her hair tied up in a scarf, without a scrap of make-up, living at home with her parents and working as a cleaner in the village pub.

  It should have been a complete turn-off, but there was a glow about her that the digitized image had only hinted at and, as she’d reached for him, it had wrapped around him like a hug from a cashmere blanket.

  For a moment her smile, her warmth, had immobilized him but then a flash from her green-gold eyes, a demand that he follow her lead, respond to her welcome, had jolted him back to reality. It was an act, a performance for the woman watching from the bar, honed while working for Celebrity, and he’d responded with a kiss that he’d intended to be cold, impersonal. His mistake.

  Which begged the question: what on earth had happened to her? Why was she working as a cleaner? He’d assumed she’d left Celebrity to set up her own PR consultancy but no one would leave a well-paid job without having a
solid business plan or, more importantly, having signed up clients in advance.

  Clearly she hadn’t left voluntarily.

  Forget friendship.

  Alice Parker and Hope Kennard might have been friends since nursery school but he had to ask himself what a woman reduced to cleaning the local pub would do to climb back on the career ladder.

  Realizing that he was waiting, she tucked one of those flyaway strands of hair behind her ear. “Sorry. I was thinking.” Her breath was a series of distracting little puffs of mist that focused his attention on the soft, luscious lips, naturally pink, sweet as sin ...

  “Should I be worried?”

  The smile was back. “Maybe. I’m sure you’ve acquainted yourself with Hope’s father’s fall from grace?”

  He grunted an acknowledgement. Prince Jonas’s choice of bride had not gone down well in the palace. He had no doubt that the delay in announcing the engagement was down to the vain hope of the Crown Princess that Jonas might yet see sense, forget all this love nonsense and marry the daughter of some aristocratic San Michele family.

  Fredrik might be immune to that emotional pitfall, but even he could see it was never going to happen.

  “She had a hard time of it for a while at boarding school,” Ally said, turning to look across the honey stone cottages that lay in a curve beneath them. “And then here in the village.”

  “So why have the wedding here?” he asked. “It would be a great deal easier to hold it in San Michele.”

  “No doubt –” she sounded sympathetic “– but Combe St Philip is her home.” She looked back at him. He was half a head taller than her but in high heels she would be one of those rare women who could look him in the eye. They would be a perfect fit ... “The wedding is an opportunity to put the past behind them, share her joy with people she’s known all her life and have a gloriously old-fashioned village wedding.”

  That was what Jonas had told him when he’d raised objections to this unconventional venue. He wasn’t heir to the throne – the country had had their big royal wedding when his older brother had married. This was Hope’s day and if a village wedding was what the woman he’d chosen to spend his life with wanted, a village wedding was what she would have and the rest of them could go hang.