The Bridesmaid's Royal Bodyguard

by Liz Fielding

  He groaned as her lips enclosed the only thinking part of him and she smiled like a kitten being offered a bowl of cream.

  She was driving him crazy and she knew it. He wanted to seize her, bury himself in her, make her his in every possible way but she’d made it plain that she was in charge.

  Right now she could have whatever she wanted ...

  It had been her choice to stay but he had no sense that she’d forgiven him, that this was not only her pleasure but his punishment for not trusting her. Punishment suggested the possibility of redemption and, clutching the sheet he was lying on to stop himself from reaching for her, he lay back and he took it until later, much later, she stopped torturing him and invited him to the party.

  They had breakfast in bed, then lunch until somewhere in the middle of the afternoon she stepped out of the shower they’d shared and instead of heading back to bed she wrapped a towel around herself and dried her hair.

  He leaned against the bathroom door watching her concentrate as she used brush and dryer to smooth it into dark silken strands that floated around her naked shoulders.

  “Thank you.” She looked up at him. “For staying.”

  She gave the tiniest of shrugs. “It was my pleasure,” she said as if it was all about sex, about a modern young woman taking casual pleasure, but there was a touch of colour in her cheekbones. “When are the royal party arriving?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Shouldn’t you be there?”

  “I was needed here. Can we have dinner tonight?”

  “Not tonight. We all thought Celina seemed a bit isolated. She didn’t want to come to the hen party but we wanted to include her so we’re having a picnic in the grounds of Hasebury Hall.”

  “That’s thoughtful. Tomorrow?”

  “Won’t you be busy?”

  “Captain Lukas is handling close protection this weekend.”

  “Okay ... Well, I’ll be busy in the morning, but there’s a cricket match in the afternoon. The Earl’s team are playing Combe St Philip. It’s a local fixture going back to the eighteenth century.”

  “Cricket?”

  “National game. Two teams, eleven on each side. The team who makes the most runs wins.”

  “I thought football was your national game.”

  “We play that in the winter.”

  “Right.”

  “Dad will be umpiring for the village team and there will be afternoon tea.”

  He grinned. “Tea?”

  “It’s traditional,” she said, but she was grinning now, too. “Cucumber sandwiches, scones, strawberries, cake. The pub will be open for those who prefer a beer with their Victoria sandwich.”

  “Then cricket it is.”

  He ran her home, parking in the Three Bells car park so that he could walk her to her door. “This isn’t necessary,” she protested.

  “Yes, it is.” He took her arm and when she opened the front door, he didn’t stand on the doorstep saying he’d see her tomorrow, but followed her in.

  “Fredrik ...” Ally’s mother greeted him with the caution of a mother whose daughter has been brought home by a man she’s undoubtedly spent the night with. “How lovely to see you again.”

  “Hello, Debbie.” She blushed with pleasure, turning as her husband came in from the kitchen. “I don’t think you’ve met my husband. George, this is Count Fredrik Jensson.”

  “Just Fredrik. Mr Parker.” He offered his hand. “Good to finally meet you. I’m looking forward to the cricket match tomorrow.”

  Ally covered a splutter with a cough.

  George Parker paused for a moment to look him in the eye, weigh him up before he took his hand with a nod that seemed to signal acceptance.

  “Can I get you a cup of coffee, Fredrik?” Debbie asked.

  “That would be most welcome. Perhaps we could use your dining room table? Ally wants to take some photographs of these before I take them to Westonbury Court and lock them away in the gun room.”

  “What have you got there?” George asked.

  “Surveillance devices, Dad,” Ally said. “Fredrik found them and stayed at the spa to take care of us last night.”

  “That dreadful man Pike?” her mother asked.

  “It seems likely.”

  “Then we’ll have cake to sweeten our mouths.”

  Fredrik grinned. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  Ally raised an eyebrow at him, but she wasn’t the only one who knew how to charm the birds from the trees.

  An hour later, she walked him to the Market Cross. “What was all that about?”

  “Did you know,” he said, “that Prince Charming, disguised as his valet, had met Cinderella long before the ball?” he said. “Gathering wood in the forest, wearing nothing but rags. That was when he fell in love with her.”

  “Is this your way of breaking it to me that you have a rubber glove fixation?”

  “It’s my way of telling you that I’m not looking for a princess, but someone with the courage to take on whatever life throws at her, principles that never waver.” He didn’t wait for her to respond. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow at twelve. If I’m going to spend an entire afternoon watching a game I know nothing about I am going to need lunch first.”

  “Okay, spill,” Hope demanded.

  The sun had set, twilight was deepening and Hope, Flora and Celina were already stretched out in front of the gothic cottage, a picturesque folly built by a Victorian Kennard.

  It was stone, with little arched windows and smothered with pink roses and tiny, solar-powered lights. They’d chosen the spot for their picnic because it had been Hope and Ally’s secret hangout when they were teens, their special place, and today they wanted to share it with Flora and Celina.

  “Spill?”

  “I’ve been trying to get hold of you most of the day. What happened last night?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Fredrik was exhausted,” she said. “Asleep before I’d brushed my teeth.”

  “You have got to be kidding.”

  Celina, eyebrows raised, said, “You spent the night with Fredrik? I thought you weren’t ...” She stopped, clearly embarrassed. “I saw him the other evening,” she admitted. “He looked upset and when I asked him what was wrong he told me he’d made a mess of things.”

  “He did, but he’s making a serious effort to redeem himself.”

  “So you’re good?” Celina asked.

  “We’re working on it,” she said. “We’re having lunch tomorrow and then he’s spending the afternoon at the cricket market.”

  “Ally!” Flora exclaimed, opening a second bottle of Prosecco. “I am fairly certain that the Court of Human Rights considers that cruel and unusual punishment for anyone who hasn’t been brought up playing the game.”

  “I did tell him that forgiveness might require his bloody heart on a plate,” Celina said.

  Ally joined in the laughter but she was only half there as she listened while Celina, becoming more relaxed under the influence of Flora’s home-made pizza and good wine, told them about how she’d met Jack, his heroics in rescuing her from a man who didn’t understand the meaning of the word ‘no’. But when Flora and Hope responded with the story of her own incident in the car park Ally said, “I talked to him.”

  “Who?” Hope asked.

  “That boy in the car park. Well, man. A few weeks ago.”

  “Ally!”

  “That first night, when Fredrik walked me home, something spooked me and I told him what had happened.”

  Flora was about to say something, but Hope put out a hand and stopped her. “Go on.”

  “I realized then that I was still emotionally crippled by that moment. That, if I didn’t do something about it, I always would be.”

  “What happened, Ally? When you saw him?”

  “He cried ...” She sighed. “Not everything is the way it seems. Sometimes we’re so blocked by what has happened, or what we th
ought happened, that we can’t see the truth.”

  Like Fredrik with his mother. Like his response to the diary page in Celebrity ... She realized that everyone was staring at her.

  “Is there any more of that Prosecco?”

  Later, after they’d waved Celina off, Hope said, “Can you spare an hour tomorrow, Ally? There’s something I want to ask you.”

  “There’s nothing wrong?”

  “No, no ... It’s not about the wedding. It’s about the charity.”

  “Of course. About ten?”

  She nodded and Flora said, “I’ll walk you home.”

  “No,” she said. “No need. I’m fine.”

  She hugged them both and then, as she walked home, she took out her phone and, about to text Fredrik, she called him instead.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “I had a drink with Nico and Jack then got called out because someone was spotted in the woods at Westonbury Court.”

  “A poacher?”

  “A courting couple.”

  “Oh dear. Awkward.”

  “I could have done without it. Did you have a good time?”

  “Yes, thanks. I’m walking home now. On my own.”

  “Ally –”

  “I’m fine,” she said. “I’m only calling because Mum’s cooking roast beef tomorrow and it’ll be a lot better than anything we’ll get in a pub.”

  “Are you asking me to have lunch with your family?”

  “Only if you want to.”

  There was a pause as he thought about it and she panicked. It was too much, too soon ...

  “I ... yes. Thank you. I’d love to come.”

  “You still have to go to the cricket match afterwards,” she warned, in an effort to downplay the importance of such an invitation.

  “I’ve been reading up on it. I have some of the fielding terms – silly mid-off, cover point, slip – but what the heck is a googly? And the Duckworth Lewis system?”

  She just laughed. “I’m home now. See you tomorrow.”

  She was grinning as she rang off. It was impossible not to love a man who was trying so hard. Foolish, a heartbreaker for sure, but impossible.

  Fredrik drove into Ayesborough on Sunday morning and bought good red wine to go with the beef and a box of candied fruit and flowers for Debbie Parker. He turned up on Ally’s doorstep on the dot of twelve.

  George answered the door, took the wine and waved him through to the kitchen where a pink-faced Debbie was basting a good-looking piece of beef and Ally was mixing something with an electric hand whisk. “Don’t come any nearer,” she warned, fending him off one-handed as he got nearer. “You’ll get splattered.”

  George, having opened the wine and set it on the side to breathe, said, “Leave them to it. It’s opening time.”

  Fredrik glanced at Ally, who just grinned and said, “It’s traditional.”

  He half expected to be grilled about his intentions, but instead they played darts, drank a rich, nutty local ale and walked back to the cottage discussing the likelihood of rain making a mess of the wedding.

  Lunch was, as Ally had promised, a treat. Rare beef, golden roast potatoes, a towering pillow of Yorkshire pudding and creamed horseradish hot enough to make your eyes water.

  Conversation was mostly Debbie talking about the wedding but Ally caught his eye from time to time and he had a vision of Sundays like this stretching into the future. A family sitting around a table, relaxed, content, with Ally there when he looked up, smiling at him.

  There were strawberries from the garden, served with clotted cream and crisp, sugary little pastries to follow and then coffee.

  “Debbie, that was wonderful,” he said. “Can I do anything to help?”

  “No, dear. You all go off to the match. I’ll come along later.”

  “If you’re sure ...”

  Ally gave him a quick nod. “Mum is a bit OCD about her kitchen,” she said, as they followed George down to the village green. “She allows me to help with the cooking, but no one else is capable of cleaning up to her standard.”

  “But –”

  “She’s happy.”

  “Are you happy?”

  She looked momentarily disconcerted and for once there was no quick comeback. Then she said, “That depends on who wins this match.” She looked across at the centre of the pitch. “It looks like we’ve won the toss.”

  “Which means?”

  “We get to choose whether to bat or field first. It looks as if we’re batting.”

  “Is that good?”

  “We’ll get the best of the wicket. Of course if it rains –”

  He looked up, hopefully.

  She laughed. “It’s not going to rain,” she said, catching his hand and pulling him towards a couple of empty deckchairs but before they reached them his phone rang. “Did you get someone to ring and rescue you? Your chum Celina, perhaps?”

  He held the phone up so that she could see it was Prince Carlo calling and then walked away.

  Ally sighed but was quickly joined by a group of locals wanting the latest gossip on the wedding, until things started to hot up on the field and their attention shifted. Fredrik caught her eye, gave an apologetic shrug. Just like dating a cop, she thought, but left him to get on with whatever crisis had blown up, turning at a shout of dismay as their opening bat was dismissed for a duck.

  “Out for duck? What the heck does that mean?”

  She turned at the American accent and her heart did a little bounce. “It means he didn’t score. At all,” she said, offering him her hand. “Jack Masterson. How d’you do?”

  “Ally Parker, right? Nico pointed you out.”

  “He’s here? Lock up the local maidens!”

  “I understand you’re a journalist. I thought maybe you’d like a chat?”

  For a moment she didn’t think she’d heard that right. “You’re offering me an interview?”

  “South Face are going on tour after the wedding but there are going to be changes.”

  “Oh ...” She turned as Fredrik reappeared at her side, phone nowhere to be seen and took her hand. “Have you met Fredrik Jensson?” she asked.

  Jack nodded, acknowledging him. “We ran into one another in the pub last night. He said that if I wanted to talk to the press you’re a journalist who can be trusted.”

  Fredrik had said that? Unable to look at him, she laced her fingers through his.

  Forgiven. Totally forgiven.

  “When do you think you’ll have a moment?”

  “The TV people are setting up tomorrow, Jack. I need to be at the church to make sure they stick to what Hope and Jonas have agreed. Maybe Tuesday?”

  They fixed a time, chatted for a few minutes and then she tugged Fredrik away.

  “Where are we going?”

  “You set me up to interview Jack Masterson. You are totally excused from cricket,” she said.

  “You’re a fan?” he asked, glaring back over his shoulder to where Jack was chatting to some of the villagers.

  “I had a poster of him on my bedroom wall. The moody one, all shadows and black leather,” she said, unable to resist teasing him a little. “I still have it somewhere.”

  He muttered something under his breath and she laughed. “I’m not a star-struck teenager any more, Fredrik.”

  “It’s not only teenagers –”

  She stopped. “I’m not a teenager,” she repeated and because for some words the moment came and if you didn’t say them you’d regret it. Always. “I’m a woman. And I’m in love.” No, that wasn’t enough. “I’m in love with you.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Fredrik had taken another step but he spun round to face her.

  The arctic grey eyes of that first morning had warmed to molten silver, the poker face had become so familiar that she could read every nuance of emotion; right now it was concern and she reached out, cradled his cheek in her palm, wanting to reassure him.

  “I expect
nothing, demand nothing. I just wanted you to know.”

  “Ally –”

  “Alice ...” Her throat hurt in the way it did when you were about to cry and her voice was hoarse with emotion as she said, “My name is Alice.”

  He seemed lost for words. Not sure if it was in a good way or it was all simply too much, she took a step back. “It doesn’t mean ... I don’t expect ...” she said again, stumbling over the words, afraid that she had broken something too new to be tested. But then he said it.

  “Alice ...” A song, a prayer, something more that she’d never heard in those two syllables before. “My own dear, lovely Alice. You can expect, demand of me anything ...”

  And stepping after her he took her in his arms and kissed her. No longer an exploration of the new, not a passionate prelude to sex but two people recognizing in each other a new beginning. Setting out on a journey and, as they broke apart, they both said –

  “I have something to tell you ...”

  “I have something to tell you ...”

  “You first,” Fredrik said.

  “Hope needs someone to create the public face of her charity, do the PR, show the world what’s needed, what Hope for Children is doing. She’s asked me if I’d like the job.”

  “And would you?”

  “It’s about as special as it gets. Telling the world what’s happening, making a difference. There’ll be two offices. One here at Hasebury Hall but the other will be in San Michele. In the palace. But you know that ...” She broke off. “Jonas has already asked you to head it up.”

  “Are you saying that if I wasn’t happy with that you’d turn down your dream job?”

  She’d have to. She couldn’t see him every day and not be with him.

  “What were you going to say?” she asked.

  “That it’s not a problem. I’ve reached a point in my life where I want to do more with my life than haul Nico out of nightclubs, chase trespassers out of the castle grounds –”

  “Save hen parties from prying reporters?”

  He grinned. “That mission was a one-off and it came with benefits.”

  She gave him a shove with her shoulder and he put his arm around her, drew her close. “Behave,” he said. “This is important.”