“I’m not often accused of being polite.”
“Please. You are beyond polite, and we both know it.”
The thoughts circling in his head weren’t in the same universe as polite. “Why did you blow off George earlier? He looked a broken man when you came out here.”
“Why did you tear yourself away from Juliet’s charms?”
“Obvious as they are,” he added smoothly.
She let out a short, breathy laugh that sent a charge straight down his spine. In defense, he lifted his champagne glass and drank. Given a choice, he’d far prefer beer. “Are you avoiding the answer?” Holding onto the glass, he balanced it on the wall.
“George is a very nice man,” she said smoothly. “Why are you here, Colonel?”
“The music inside was giving me a headache, and I wanted a smoke.”
“You don’t smoke.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I remember when you quit.”
“Oh, yes. During the memorable summer of your tenth year when you were busy surrounding yourself with your royal attitude.”
“The memorable summer of your seventeenth,” she countered. “When you were busy surrounding yourself with teenage girls endowed with charms easily as obvious as dear Juliet’s.”
Did he detect pique in her tone? He drank a little more champagne, figuring it was wishful thinking on his part.
“So, I don’t smoke,” he admitted. He had, briefly, but his poor mother had been so scandalized, he hadn’t had the heart to keep up the habit.
Again, he caught that sidelong look from her. He wondered if she knew the effect that kind of look had on a man. Probably. She was smooth, intelligent and well past the age of consent. Which did not mean that standing there in the moonlight with her was not one of the most foolish indulgences ever.
She finished her champagne and turned a little. Facing him. “Truthfully, I was standing here thinking about something Owen said. About all the unfamiliar faces here.”
Pierce had noticed that, as well. And done his share of wondering. Speculating. Though it was a royal wedding, it was not a state occasion, and the guest list had not gone through some of the channels it otherwise would have. He hadn’t seen the list himself until last week when it was submitted to Royal Intelligence. At that point, his men and women had kicked their diligence into high gear to insure the safety of everyone who came to the wedding.
It was what they did. Protecting Penwyck, its citizens, its interests, its ruling house.
It’s what Pierce did, as well. And had been doing for more of his life than not. More than that, it was what he was.
“Your new brother-in-law contributed to the guest list,” he said. “As did his parents and uncle, undoubtedly. The King and Queen had their lists, as well. Guests they wanted to include for whatever reason. Not every face would be recognizable under those circumstances.”
“And you’re one of them. Well—” she lifted a slender, long-fingered hand “—you’re not unfamiliar, but you’re certainly not a face we often see at the palace.”
“It’s an important event.”
“The other events in which we are involved are not?”
“We?”
She gestured gracefully. “We. The family. You do tend to avoid us, you know. Why is that, I wonder?”
He was, first and foremost, a military man. Yet he’d walked blindly into that mine field. Diversion, he thought. “Dance with me.”
Her lips parted softly. “I believe we covered that.”
“Not exactly.” He left his glass on the wide ledge next to hers and took her hand. It was undoubtedly only surprise that let her step so easily away from the stone wall and into his arms. The music was softer out here. Still audible. But it was barely a background to the sound of the breeze through the leaves of the trees surrounding the estate, the distant lap of the sea against Castle Cove. And the music was fairly inaudible when his senses were suddenly, achingly aware of the cadence of Meredith’s breath, the soft scrape of shoe against stone and brick as they swayed.
“You’re trembling.”
“It’s chilly out here with the breeze.”
She lied, he thought. It was a balmy, breezy night. And he was burning up, holding her. Though there was more space between them than decorum demanded. His fingers barely grazed the fabric covering the small of her back, and her fingertips barely touched his shoulder. Where their other hands linked, however, a flame burned between their palms. Hot. Enticing.
Impossible.
“You ought to go inside,” he said. “If you’re chilly.”
“Yes.”
Yet she made no move to do so. In fact, as one song melded into the next, the distance between them lessened. Until Pierce eventually realized that his arms were definitely full of warm, sweet-smelling woman. That they’d shuffled and swayed themselves into the rear corner of the terrace. Where light barely reached, where the salty scent of sea was nearly a tang on their lips.
Her hair smelled of orange blossoms, he thought, and he felt like a drowning man. His palm flattened against her spine, and he felt her long, slow intake of breath that pressed her breasts against his chest. Her hand glided, measuring, over his shoulder to his collar. Her fingertips grazed his neck below his ear. His nape. Her forehead found the perfect resting place below his jaw. Heart to heart. Curve to angle.
She was royal by birth. She was the daughter of his King.
He had no business holding her the way he was. No business wanting to imprint his body on hers and hers on his. Not with the secrets he was keeping from her.
“Mer—Your Royal Highness.” His jaw was aching again. Hell. Every part of him ached.
“Would you mind?” She leaned back, swaying a little. Making him wonder, all of a sudden, just how much champagne she’d consumed. “My shoes. They’re so tight.”
A moment later, she was several inches shorter. Obviously, she’d stepped out of her high heels. And she’d kicked them with her foot until they tumbled against each other, stopped only by the wall.
It wasn’t his shoes that were tight, he thought with grim humor as she linked her hands behind his neck and nestled against him. “That’s better,” she sighed, sounding tired. “You dance well, Colonel.”
He was doing little other than holding her against him. “You should go to bed.”
Her lashes lifted, and she looked at him. He wished there were more illumination so he could tell if her eyes were glazed with champagne or drowsy with desire. Either was inappropriate to take advantage of, and he knew it.
“I don’t think I’m the spoiled brat I was at ten. Or seventeen,” she said, lucidly enough, “who needs to be sent to bed.”
At seventeen, she’d been a burgeoning young woman, just beginning to grasp the feminine power she could wield over others. A power that was now in full bloom.
Apparently, though he was nearly at a standstill, she, without her too-tight shoes, felt rather more like dancing. Swaying hypnotically. He clamped his hands on her waist. Her hips. She was tormenting him, and she probably didn’t even know it. Despite his torment, he knew there were guests inside the ballroom who were dancing far more closely, far more uninhibitedly.
“You weren’t a brat,” he said.
“But I