by Rachel Hauck
“We eat buffet style, sir.”
“I’m used to eating my dinner while standing in a kitchen.” Gus shot a look toward Daffy. She gave him a low smile. “This is rather nice.”
His arrival shifted the atmosphere of the room. Instead of talking in pocket conversations or leaning in as someone told the whole table a story, the staff ate in pleasant silence broken only by a football inquiry or how it was already the first of March and everyone longed for spring.
From his seat, Gus listened, laughed, predicted Dalholm would make it to the FA Cup, and declared the snow was rather refreshing.
“Didn’t see any of this in Florida.”
“I’d take that any day, sir.” This from Miles, the footman, who seemed rather comfortable with the prince.
While working on the dresses, Daffy had put the King Titus out of her mind. Unboxing royal wedding gowns, draping them over dress forms, and inspecting them for repairs was almost calming. But when she thought of what was wrapped on the bottom of her dressing room floor, she felt ill.
Gus finished his dinner rather quickly and left the dining hall. Daffy followed a few minutes later. As she started up the stairs, she heard Cranston bragging about carrying the King Titus down to the Queen’s Library and she lost her battle with anxiety. The nasty beggar had moved in and settled down with a good book.
She’d not sleep a wink if worry lingered. It could be days before the chair was repaired and back in the library—if she and Gus even managed to accomplish such an impossible task. Hearing Cranston boast, she realized she and Gus needed a plan to keep Cranston out of the library.
To meet Gus, Daffy changed into jeans, a warm jumper, and her lined boots. A few minutes before nine, she grabbed her coat and scarf from the dressing room and eyed the corner to make sure the chair was still there. Then she hurried to the royal wing of the castle.
Prince Gus opened the door before she knocked. “This way.” He led her down a side corridor where a single bookshelf sat against the wall. Gus pulled on a dark spine and the shelf snapped open.
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope.” Gus took her hand as they started down a narrow, spiraling staircase.
“What is this?” The stone space was dark and cold, held together by rugged beams.
“The secret passageway, of course. Every castle has one. Didn’t John and I ever show you?”
“I’d have remembered this.”
Didn’t John and I… Gus spoke as if she were one of them. Maybe in his mind, she was, at least when she was a girl. But she was not one of them. Which was why My Life with the Prince had no ending.
Launching from the last step, Gus shoved open a plain, slab door and together they stepped into the falling, twisting snow.
“Blimey, it’s a blizzard.” He kicked through the drifts, cutting a path toward the woods.
“Gus, where’s Hemstead?”
He stopped short. “Blast, I keep forgetting him.”
“Shouldn’t you text him? Tell him to come?”
He shook his head. “Do we want him on this mission? If I’m lucky, he won’t check on me. I told him I was going to turn in early. Besides, I have you to watch my back.”
Did she? He made her sound like an intimate friend, but they barely knew each other as adults.
“Who will watch mine? I don’t even know where we’re going.”
Gus pulled up, turning to her, the white lights of the grounds’ lamps haloing his face. His breath billowed when he spoke.
“I will have your back.” His breath mingled with hers. “You’ve got mine.”
“Are you sure you trust me after Florida?”
Gus stepped back into the shadows and resumed his trek toward the trees. “Are you done throwing that in my face?”
“Almost.”
His warm laugh defied the cold, thin-air night as he led her into the trees on the northern perimeter.
“Wait. Is this your big plan? Hide me in the dark forest? Maybe have your friend Ernst off me and then claim I’m on the lam with the King Titus?”
“You’ve quite an imagination.”
“I blame my father. He was our bedtime storyteller.” She startled and ducked low when something grabbed at her hair.
“Almost there, love.”
The off-hand endearment caused Daffy’s too-easy blush to bloom, but Gus wouldn’t know, thanks to the cover of night. And he’d not meant it, calling her love with such an affectionate tone. Probably didn’t even realize he’d said it. But yet somehow it rested on her, in her, and filled her.
“And this is not the dark forest. It’s just a lump of trees. The forest is a kilometer northwest. Oomph.” Gus stumbled forward, taking Daffy with him. “Careful, something reached up and grabbed me.” He swung around with a growl, his raised hand curled into a claw. “A-hahaha!”
Daffy screamed. Then ran. Blindly. Around trees. Into trees. Through trees. Low hanging limbs clutched at her hair. Ice crystals filled her lungs.
“Daffy, wait.” Laughter chased her. “I was only joking. Daff!”
She broke from the woods into a clearing, tripping over one last snow-covered root, and landed face-first in the snow.
Gus knelt next to her. “Love, are you all right? Daff?” He brought her to her feet, his laugh muffled, but evident. “I am so sorry.”
“No, you’re not.” She popped him in the chest. Hard, too. “You’re laughing.” She turned for the stone wall.
“Come on, that was funny.” He followed, brushing snow from her coat. “I don’t remember you scaring so easily.”
“Well, I do.” She stopped at the gate. “Are we doing this pub thing or not?” Her heart still thumped in her chest. What was he thinking? She punched his arm—just because.
He laughed, gripping his arm as if in pain. Though she was sure he couldn’t feel a thing through his thick jacket. “Are we even now?”
“Maybe.”
Gus opened the gate with a code and closed it behind him. When Daffy moved for the sidewalk, he caught her arm.
“You’re covered in snow.” He drew her closer, dusting off her shoulders, her hair, her nose, her eyes.
Though the dim street light, their gazes tangled. “Daffy, I—” He was hesitant, breathless, but intent. As if he truly had something to say. “I, um, I—” He stepped back. “We…we should go.” He started down the amber-lit street. “Ernst. Waiting.”
“Of course.” He’d been going to kiss her. She knew it. Felt the desire that soaked the air between them.
Falling in step with him, hands in her coat pockets, she sorted her thoughts. Did she want him to kiss her? Yes. She couldn’t deny the truth. But she must remember Thomas. She’d said yes to his proposal. Wore his ring.
She scoffed at the fairytale stories of Dalholm’s magic love spells. That if one wanted to fall in love, one must go to Dalholm. But hadn’t she fallen in love with Thomas here on a ski weekend? She did love him, didn’t she?
Never mind. She’d said yes to his proposal. Thomas was a solid chap. She’d not be untrue to him. Wanting to kiss Gus was not the same as kissing him. Meanwhile, Gus was on a love hiatus. Any dalliance with romance was foolish and shortsighted.
“W-where are we going again?” She braced against the slippery downhill slope of the cobblestone avenue. Mum liked to say the hamlet itself could be part of the Royal Trust. Founded in 1074 by the Duke of Northton, much of the old world charm remained. At least in the Old Hamlet.
“The Belly of the Beast. Just off Wells Line.”
Walking settled her down and her breathing returned to normal. They turned down the narrow lane. “It’s as if we’re in a snow globe.”
“Yes, with the city lights and all the snow.” He stopped short, facing her. “I wanted to kiss you back there.”
His confession shook the snow globe and knocked her off-balance. “What?”
“I forgot myself for a moment. Forgot that you’re engaged. Forgot I’m a confirmed bachelor for now.”<
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“We should be careful. Mindful of our respective boundaries.” Should she confess she wanted him to kiss her? When Gus stepped closer, desire bloomed again. Even through the cold, she could feel his warmth. What she couldn’t feel was Thomas’s ring.
“Agreed. Because Daffy, you’re not a lass a man can kiss and forget. You deserve a bloke who can give you his heart. Not one who only wants one thing.”
She warmed at his compliment. “Do you only want one thing?”
“From you? No. Not from anyone really. Never was one of those lads who could love them and leave them. But I’m alone now. My own commander, sailing through life by myself.”
“Gus, don’t you see what you’re doing? Really?” Daffy risked touching him, placing her hands on his arms. “Letting an American heiress and an uppity Lauchtenland aristocrat dictate your life. You’re letting their decisions define you. Don’t let their choices steer you. Not only are you rejecting a chance at love, you’re rejecting yourself.”
“Rejecting myself? I’m protecting myself.”
“Is that what it is? Sailing alone. Not trusting anyone with your heart, including yourself. Blimey, Gus, be honest. Any girl would be lucky, blessed to have you. Not just because you have a title and a crown. She’d be amazingly blessed by you.” She poked his chest. “The man who lives in here.”
“You don’t hold back, do you?”
“Not when you’re being stupid.”
He stared past her head, his thoughts twisting behind his eyes. Had she gone too far? Said too much? But she’d only spoken the truth. He had to get over himself if he ever wanted a chance at happiness.
“Thank you,” he said, tipping his head toward the bright light at the end of the lane. “Come on. Ernst. Waiting.”
At the last establishment, Gus opened the door and stood aside for Daffy to enter. “Welcome to the Belly of the Beast.”
The pub, with wide plank floors and hefty beams, was fragrant with a wood-burning fireplace. Almost every table was full, but no one looked up when the Lauchtenland prince darkened the doorway.
From behind the bar, a bear of a man with more girth than height leaned on his elbows and nodded as he listened to a skinny chap wearing a woolen ferry cap tell a tale.
Above the mirror, a sign read “Enter the Belly of the Beast with Sword in Hand.”
“What does that mean?” Daffy tugged on Gus’s sleeve and pointed to the sign.
“Whatever Ernst wants. Come on, over here.”
Chapter Eleven
Gus
“Well, Prince.” Ernst looked up from the bloke with the story and came around the bar, his stained apron barely covering his equally stained white shirt and faded black trousers. He’d braided his goatee tonight and Gus noticed when he walked, his feet spilled over the sides of his scuffed and battered leather shoes. “On a night. Beasts face beast.”
The proprietor embraced Gus with no royal reservation. But that was his way. His version of respect. “And this?” He held Daffy by her shoulders. “A blue for the Blue.” His cackle resonated in his chest. “Can’t resist ladies.”
“Ernst, this is Daffy Caron. She’s part of the Royal Trust and setting up a historical wedding gown display at Hadsby. For the wedding ball. Daffy, this is Ernst, proprietor, and if he has a last name, I don’t know it.”
“Ernst of the pub, that’s me.” He pulled Daffy to his chest in an exuberant hug. “Nice to meet.” Clapped his hand on Gus’s back. “Sit. Pints! Fish and chips.”
“We’ve had our dinner—” Daffy raised her voice over the pub’s clamor.
“Don’t waste your words. He won’t listen.” Gus held her chair, then sat next to her, facing the fire.
Should he just pretend he’d not confess what he confessed? What was he thinking? The whole kissing thing? He blamed the snow and the romance of the street lamps. He’d argued with himself as they trekked carefully down Centre Street, told himself to say nothing, then the moment they turned on Wells Line, out it came.
“I wanted to kiss you.”
Worse, he still wanted to kiss her. He gazed down at her ring finger where a respectable diamond proclaimed “Off limits. She belongs to another.”
Having been the chap left at the altar, then left for the man his betrothed still loved, he’d never move in on another lad’s territory. He respected what that ring stood for.
Ernst returned, smiling, very pleased with himself. “Prince and a blue.”
“A blue?” Daffy leaned close.
“A blue.” The old man wiggled his eyebrows. “You. Girl. Love.”
“Ernst, no. She’s a friend.”
“I work for the Royal Trust.” Daffy rushed past Ernst’s presumption despite the soft blush on her cheeks. “Gus believes you can help us with a sensitive project.”
Betsy arrived with two foaming pints. “One and done, okay?” Gus peered up at her. “Listen to me, not your uncle. One pint only.” He turned to Ernst. “I need a carpenter.”
Before Ernst could answer, a couple of the blokes from two tables over moved in to shake his hand.
“Your Royalness. Welcome.”
“Don’t stay away.”
“Good to see you, lads,” Gus said, taking the first man’s hand, then the next.
“Sorry for troubles, sir. Things sort out.”
“Indeed they do. Oh, hello. Dylan, yes, of course I remember you. From the Youth League a few years back. How are you getting on?”
Meanwhile, Ernst excused himself to tend a customer. After a few more pleasantries, the lads trotted off and Gus returned his attention to Daffy.
“I’d forgotten how much I liked the cadence of the locals.” Daffy sipped from her glass, then stretched her hands toward the glow of the fire.
“Before you know it, you’ll be doing it too.”
“I’m not sure I understand the rules.”
“There are no rules. Just say the necessary words and leave the rest.” When she smiled, Gus sank a bit further into her charm.
“Ah, well. You. Popular. Here.”
He laughed. “Less robotic and you’ve got it.” He pointed to the ceiling beams. “Helped install it.”
“Look at you.” Her smile conveyed respect. “But you can’t fix a chair?”
“Ha. A beam is nothing like repairing a chair where no one sees it was broken.”
“Here we are.” The feminine version of Ernst arrived with a large platter of fish and chips. She kissed Gus on the cheek, then Daffy, and hurried away.
“That was Stella, Ernst’s wife.” Gus regarded the overflowing platter. “Do they still think I’m Prince Pudgy?”
“Not if they have eyes.” Daffy selected a small slice of fish. “This smells too good not to try.”
He liked her cloaked compliment. Even approval. She didn’t see him as the fat Gus-Gus prince. Just as a chap who might be worthy of a good woman. He wished he could see life through her eyes.
As he took some fish and chips for his plate, Hemstead texted.
Not again.
“Busted.” He held up the screen for Daffy to see. “What’s he doing, checking on me at nine-thirty? I told him I was going to bed.”
“You know the castle has cameras everywhere outside.”
“Right. I forgot.”
Daffy ate while Gus text-groveled to his protection officer.
Just down at the Belly of the Beast with Daffy Caron. All is well. Home soon.
I’m coming down.
No need. I’ll text when I’m back.
But he knew Hemstead would barge through the pub’s heavy door before he finished his pint.
“Good?” Ernst returned and pulled round a chair. “Well? Whatcha?”
“Right, down to business.” Gus exchanged a look with Daffy. “I’m looking for a craftsman. A furniture maker who’s more an artisan than anything. We have a delicate repair. You know everyone in the Old Hamlet. Does anyone have those ancient carpentry skills? Could you introduce me?”
&
nbsp; “Old Emmanuel. But…” Ernst tugged on his goatee. “Old as Methuselah. Ain’t seen.”
“He’s a carpenter? A craftsman?”
“Best round. But…”
“Is he still alive?”
“Do’no. Lives up mountain. Two peaks above lodge.” Ernst leaned back in his chair and bellowed toward the kitchen. “Stella? Old Emmanuel? Seen him?”
“Goodness.” She matched his bellow. “Eight.”
Ernst sat forward. “Eight years since, Yer Royal. Chance he’s with Almighty.”
“Can you find out? Or do you know of another skilled carpenter? This is very important and detailed work. Work done in the name of Her Majesty.”
Gus typically loved the shorthand gait of the Dalholmian speech. But tonight, he wanted lengthy, clear answers. For Daffy. For the queen.
“Well, well. Everything high tech. Let me see.” He tapped the side of his nose, as if he had some mystical powers. “Word out.”
“What if you can’t find this Emmanuel?” Daffy said. “Do you have any other names?”
Ernst stood, indicating he was done talking. “Another pint?”
“No, thanks. Ernst, when do you think we’ll hear about this chap?”
Ernst pressed his thumb to his ear. “Ring. Tell you.”
Gus jotted down his number and swore the man to secrecy—though he had no doubts. When Ernst walked away, Gus slumped forward, his forearms resting on the worn tabletop. “I’m not too hopeful.”
“To be honest, I’m not either, but he’s our only lead.” Daffy cupped her slender hand around her cold mug. “If we don’t hear anything by the end of the week, we have to tell the Trust.”
Gus shoved a hot, greasy fry in his mouth. “End of the week. We’ll give it until then.”
“Why does Ernst call you Yer Royalness?”
“He also calls me Your Magistrate, Prince Sir, Prince Royalness.” Gus couldn’t hold back a grin. “His way of being my friend, as well as honoring the title to which I was born.”
“Do you ever resent it? Being a royal?”