by Cara Colter
“And,” Gage added, “if we’re ever in a fight, I’d want you on my side. Busted the bastard’s nose. Good for you, though rather a wasted skill in a bloody monarch, no disrespect intended.”
“None taken,” Owen said. “In fact, if my life wasn’t already mapped out for me, I think I’d rather enjoy being a part of the Royal Elite Team.”
Gage regarded him thoughtfully. “If you ever find yourself in need of a job, come see me first.”
The other men laughed at that, because it was ludicrous, of course, that a crown prince would ever need employment, but Owen registered the message underlying the seemingly light statement. The older man respected him, and given Gage’s history, his reputation for toughness and professionalism, he appreciated it.
“So are you heading up into the hills today, sir?” Everson asked.
Since his return to Penwyck, Owen had been trying to soothe his restless spirit, to come to terms with the discoveries he had made while imprisoned, by exploring the rugged forests of the Penleigh Hills and the jagged peaks of the Aronleigh Mountains. Because the kidnappers had not yet been brought to justice, it was necessary to have security teams with him. He took a certain delight in outdistancing them—in going higher and faster than others could go.
“No, I’m staying here. I’ll be at the palace all day.”
“My men will be relieved to hear that. You’ve been wearing them out by the dozen since you returned,” Everson said with a grin.
“Sorry.”
“Are you kidding? They’re all becoming quite fit, not to mention qualified in mountain and deep-woods training at no cost to the government.”
Owen thought, again, how comfortable he was in these kinds of rooms with these kinds of men.
Had he been born differently, he wondered if he would have been drawn to this line of work, to jobs that offered danger and excitement, that challenged physical and mental strength, that made a man become his best. But maybe that lifestyle was no more conducive to “normal” than the one he had now.
Normal had an almost seductive appeal since his time spent in captivity.
“About that other matter,” the Admiral said, and passed him a slip of paper, “here’s that information you requested.”
Owen unfolded the paper. Whitney Mary Ashbury. Born in Wintergreen, Connecticut, St. Paul’s Hospital, April 15, four years ago. Nine months from those July days when he had frolicked with Jordan.
He had a daughter. A beautiful little girl, with her mother’s blond hair, and his own blue eyes. And if he was a normal man, he would not have missed a second of the miracle of fatherhood. He would have seen Jordan grow round with his child, held her hand during the moment their love burst into the world in such an incredible form.
If he was a normal man, there would have been a little house that they would have picked furniture for together. They would have had a puppy and a barbecue in a backyard surrounded by a white picket fence. He would have had to put the swing set together himself. They would have had a dog that chased a Frisbee and slept under the baby’s carriage when she was out in the yard.
He imagined that being normal—coming home to Jordan.
The thought was so appealing it caused him pain.
He had experienced what it was like to be normal for those few weeks in America. What it was not to be in the spotlight. What it was to hold hands with a girl, and even kiss her publicly, and no flashbulbs went off, no microphones were shoved in his face.
He had known then that a man could make himself insane wishing to be things he was not, wishing to have things he knew he could not have.
But now she was here. He had been given a second chance. He had lain awake last night, thinking how remarkable it was that he had reached the conclusion that giving up Jordan had been the worst mistake of his life, and then by some astonishing coincidence here she was, right on Penwyck, right in the castle.
Of course, as the night had progressed, he had realized it was no coincidence. He had probably been naive to think he was on his own that summer.
Some of these men in this very room might have tailed him through his first love. Watched dispassionately as he had stolen his first kiss, grown bolder, made love to her on a beach that he was sure had been empty. He wondered, now, how he could have been so naive as to think they had just let him go. But he felt angry, too. Invaded. The tender secret he had nurtured inside himself probably documented in a thick dossier somewhere.
Had any of them known about his daughter? Who had they reported to?
It came to him with crystal clarity. His mother.
“Gentlemen,” he said, suddenly not enjoying their company at all anymore, “I hope you’ll excuse me. I have an appointment.”
“Can we schedule another meeting?” the admiral asked.
“If we have to,” Owen agreed, resignedly, and left after setting a future date and promising to call if he remembered anything new, no matter how minute.
His next stop was the kitchen—not the banquet kitchen that was just opened and staffed for special occasions but the regular palace kitchen.
Cookie was in a sour mood, and she glowered at Owen when he came in. Like many cooks, she had a weakness for her own wares, which she packed around on a huge frame.
“They should have asked me to supervise your celebration,” she told him, waving a spoon at him, her curly, gray hair echoing her indignation by springing wildly out from under her hat. “I’m the one that knows all your favorites. That woman down there in the banquet kitchen is a disgrace. I went and had me a look at her operation and you’ve never seen such goings-on. I think she’s using bat wings and eye of newt in those concoctions. If you value your life, don’t eat anything on Saturday night. Not one thing!”
Owen regarded Cookie fondly. She was ancient and had been offered retirement many times. She refused with great hauteur, and ignored the young chefs who were hired to lighten her load. Asking her to cook for a huge crowd at her age would be unthinkable, and she knew it, but loved to protest, anyway.
“Ah, Cookie, the queen is trying to prevent word from getting out that my favorite food is hot dogs roasted to nearly black.”
She looked slightly mollified by that, so Owen continued, “I’ve come to ask a favor, something that’s far more important to me than the celebration on Saturday night.”
The sour expression receded slightly from her face.
“I’ve invited an old acquaintance and her young daughter for afternoon tea in the back garden.” Not a good time to mention Jordan was with the enemy camp. “Do you think you could do something that puts her in a frame of mind to, er, really enjoy herself?”
Cookie’s eyes nearly disappeared in the wrinkles caused by her smile. “Count on me, Your Royal Highness. I know just the thing.”
“I might have mentioned the clown cupcakes to the child,” Owen hinted.
“You did, did you? You haven’t had those since you were nine years old.”
“They made a lasting impression.”
Cookie’s smile deepened. “Clown cupcakes it is. And you leave the rest to me. She’ll enjoy herself. A little aphrodisiac in the tea, perhaps?”
“Cookie!” he said, not letting on exactly how appealing it would be if he could use a potion to overcome Jordan’s prickliness, instead of his own charm, which she had seemed immune to yesterday.
The old cook cackled with fiendish delight, and shooed him out of her kitchen. “The back garden at two, Prince Owen.”
His next stop was his sister, Anastasia’s quarters.
“A tiara? Good grief, Owen, what for?”
“A very small one. For a little girl I’m having tea with this afternoon. She wants to be a princess.”
“Oh, I’ve seen her! Rambunctious little thing, skipping all over the palace, running her nanny ragged. She belongs to that odd catering crew who are doing your banquet, right?”
He tried not to wince at his daughter being described like a member of a gypsy tribe.
“I’ve loved hearing her laughter,” Anastasia said. “This stuffy old place is ready for children, don’t you think?”
“I do think that.”
This earned him a thoughtful look. “You say that as if you’ve actually given it a thought, which I find amazing. Owen, is there something you want to tell me about?”
“I was just thinking of Megan and Jean-Paul,” he said, naming his sister and her new husband, though the truth was he had not been thinking of them at all. “I was thinking how there will be children here again soon.” But even sooner than Megan’s due date, if things went according to his plan.
He realized then, that he wanted to do more than clear the air between himself and Jordan. He wanted to win her over. He wanted the love to reblossom between them. He wanted her to stay. He wanted his child raised here.
But the look on Jordan’s face yesterday when she had marched out of his quarters really didn’t bode well for what he wanted at all. The only time the look on her face had softened was when her eyes came to rest on her daughter.
Maybe if he could win Whitney first…
“A tiara it is. I’ll be back in a minute.” His sister disappeared into her bedroom and came back out momentarily. “Here take this. It’s so lovely and it’s the smallest one I have.”
He looked at the tiara his sister held out to him. It was tiny and beautiful, studded with what looked to be real diamonds.
“Is it valuable?” he asked, suddenly uncertain about what was an appropriate gift for a young girl. Then he reminded himself, it wasn’t any little girl. It was his daughter.
“Well, you don’t want her to flush it down the loo,” his sister smiled, “but really it only has value if it brings joy.”
Next, Owen visited the stables. He was happy to find a fat pony named Tubby was alive and well. Tubby stood only three and a half feet high at the wither. He was nearly as wide as he was high. He had a deep gold coat and a long blond mane that very nearly swept the ground, and a tail that did sweep the ground. Owen took great pleasure in brushing the pony himself, selecting the tack for it, putting on the bridle and saddle.
He had missed so much. Whitney’s birth, choosing a name for her, her first words and her first steps. But he got to give his daughter her first pony ride.
As he became more engrossed in his arrangements for the tea party, Owen was not sure he could remember ever feeling anything like the deep delight that was swelling in him as he planned, as he imagined the look on Whitney’s face, and the look on her mother’s as she saw him demonstrating his caring for his daughter.
It occurred to him that he was happy.
And that he had not been truly happy since he had been escorted home from California five years ago. He had been busy. And productive. He had smiled in all the right places. He had cared about all the right causes. He had done exactly as he was expected to do.
And it had not brought him one moment of feeling like this: quietly glowing, his heart breaking out of the ice that had formed around it.
He went to the back garden next. A wrought iron table and chairs were being set out in the old cobblestone courtyard. He chose a plaid tablecloth and matching pads for the chairs, an arrangement of fall squash in a basket as a centerpiece.
He noticed a young gardener working enthusiastically, and went over and introduced himself as he always did when he came across staff at the castle he did not know.
“Most of the flowers are done for the year, Your Royal Highness,” Ralph explained, shy at Owen’s personal interest. “We had a dreadful early frost. But I’ve brought some buckets of chrysanthemums for fall color, and I’ve been robbing marigolds from all over the grounds and replanting them here. Also, I swiped the fall blooming crocuses from the front beds. I seem to be competing with some nut in the banquet kitchen, but I told her I had priority. I do, don’t I, sir?”
“You certainly do have priority,” Owen said, amused despite the fact the nut might very well be Jordan.
“If you want, I’ll bring some fall leaves, and make a pile over there for the little girl to play in. And I could weave some maple branches over the arbor, so they could enter the garden through a tunnel of red and yellow.”
“How did you know about the little girl?” Owen asked, surprised.
“Her nanny, Trisha, is my friend as well as Cookie’s granddaughter, and so she heard about the cupcakes.”
“So, is the castle abuzz?”
“No, sir. Of course not. When I told Trisha I’d been assigned to work here today, she told me why. That you had special guests. That’s all.”
The guilty way he said, that’s all, made Owen realize it probably wasn’t.
“Thank you for making it so special,” Owen said. “I appreciate it.”
The boy blushed and looked at his toe, obviously debating, then blurted out in a rush, “Trisha, told me your, er, lady friend, isn’t very happy about all this.”
“She isn’t?”
The boy was looking uncomfortable. “Frothing mad is what Trisha said.”
“What else did Trisha say?”
“Well, ah, the lady might try to get out of staying for tea. Might beg off that she’s needed in the kitchen.”
“So why are you going to all this trouble?”
“I guess I thought if I made it really pretty, she wouldn’t be able to resist staying. Kind of like a fairy tale.”
Owen smiled. “Why would you do that for me?”
“Loyalty, sir. But I kind of have this feeling for Trisha, and I tried to think what she would like, what might make her see me differently.” The boy suddenly looked around, obviously aghast at how personal he had gotten with the prince, discussing the pitfalls of unrequited love.
He glanced around. “I’ve forgotten me place,” he mumbled. “I’ll just get back to work now, sir.”
“Would the garden look nice in the evening?”
“Oh, yes sir. It would. You could put some small white lights in amongst the flowers and drape those light nets over the shrubs. It would be extraordinary.”
“Do that for me, as well, then.”
“Yes, Your Royal Highness.”
“At 8:00 p.m,” Owen said softly, “I’ll have Cookie deliver a carafe of hot chocolate and a plate of those chocolate dipped wafers. Would your girl like that?”
“For me?” the boy whispered. “For me and Trisha?”
“No sense having us both strike out after all the work you’ve done.”
“Thank you, Your Royal Highness,” Ralph stammered. “I’ll never forget it.”
“Well,” Owen said with a sigh, looking around the beautiful garden after the boy had departed, “apparently it has no value unless it brings joy.”
Taking a deep breath, he headed for the banquet kitchen. He realized he had made the assumption that winning Jordan back was going to be easy, that she would be as powerless in the face of their shared passion as he felt he was.
Now he could see it was going to be like playing a very difficult game of chess.
Thankfully, Jordan was not in the kitchen.
“Who’s in charge here?” he asked. And he made his deal.
Jordan arrived late and breathless. Owen sat at the table and watched her and Whitney come hand in hand through the arbor.
He noticed, amused, Jordan still underplayed her every asset. Her hair was in a maintenance-free style, she wore no makeup, she was in a dowdy gray slack suit that disguised any curves she might have. He thought he’d seen prison uniforms that were slightly more appealing than the outfit Jordan had on.
And despite that, pure energy crackled in the air around her, just as it had always done. Her eyes snapped blue heated sparks. His mouth went dry when he remembered what it was to have all that energy and all that heat brought to him, willingly.
Her jaw had a familiar stubborn set to it, and he realized he better not hold his breath waiting for the willingly part of it.
His daughter was in a red beret, and a lovel
y white sweater, a plaid skirt and red tights.
He watched with pleasure, as they both stopped under the arbor and looked up, bathed in astonishing color as sunlight filtered through the branches Ralph had put there.
“Welcome,” Owen said gravely, standing.
“Pwince Owen,” Whitney said. Somebody had taught her to curtsey, and he was willing to bet from the look on her mother’s face, it hadn’t been her. The clumsy little curtsey was interrupted as soon as Whitney’s eyes fell on the pony, who was happily munching the pile of leaves Ralph had brought for her. She squealed, prince, protocol and mother all equally disregarded as she broke free and ran over to where Tubby was firmly in the groom’s grasp.
Owen was glad Ralph had warned him, because he would have been bitterly disappointed if he expected Jordan to share his pleasure in his introduction of Whitney to the equine world. Jordan watched her daughter for a moment, allowed herself to glance around the garden, and then straightened her shoulders as though she was doing battle with the devil over her soul.
“I’m sorry,” she said coolly. “I won’t be able to stay. There’s far too much work in the kitchen. I’ve brought Whitney, though, and I can call her nanny if you don’t think you can manage her by yourself.”
He battled the desire to wipe that chilly expression off her face with his lips. Equally coolly he said, “Actually I’ve had a chat with your charming aunt. Meg, isn’t it?”
She nodded warily.
“She was quite happy to relieve you of your duties this afternoon.”
Jordan blinked hard. “Happy to let me have an afternoon off? You couldn’t have met my real Aunt Meg.”
“This high? Plumpish? Um, eccentric?”
Jordan squinted at him. He remembered that look. You haven’t really researched that at all. You’re making it up. “You bought her,” she guessed. “What did it cost you, Blond Boy?”
He thought that might be a good sign, the almost unconscious use of the endearment.
“She traded you for nasturtiums, Blond Girl.”