Protected by the Prince

The pain in her ribs twisted, intensifying.

‘The prince, too? Surely he doesn’t have to wear khaki?’

‘Alaric? You don’t know—?’

The surprise in Peter’s voice made her swing round to meet his suddenly sombre face.

‘Don’t know what?’

He shrugged and she had the impression he was buying time before answering. The instinct she’d always trusted with her work sent a tiny shiver down her backbone.

‘You mean Alaric is a real soldier, too?’ If Peter was surprised by her use of the prince’s first name he didn’t show it. ‘I thought the uniform might be a perk of position. Like being a royal sponsor rather than a member of the regiment.’

Yet even as Tamsin spoke she recalled her first impression of Alaric. His controlled power and athleticism proclaimed him a man of action, not a tame administrator.

‘Some perk!’ Peter shook his head. ‘He won his commission through talent and hard work. Much good it did him.’

Tamsin put her glass down. ‘What do you mean?’ Peter’s grim expression spiked foreboding through her.

‘There was nothing pretend about our work. Alaric was our commanding officer and a good one, too. But with command comes a sense of responsibility. That can weigh heavily on a man who genuinely cares, especially when things go wrong.’

He half lifted his hand towards his scarred face and Tamsin’s heart squeezed in sympathy. She wished she’d never started this conversation.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I shouldn’t have brought it up.’

He smiled. ‘Because of this?’ He gestured to his face. ‘Don’t be. There are worse things, believe me.’ He looked at the dance floor as Alaric and his partner swung by again. ‘Not all scars are on the outside, you know. At least mine have healed.’

Tamsin’s gaze followed the prince. So handsome, so powerful, standing out effortlessly from every other man here. The focus of so many longing female glances.

Yet Peter hinted at hidden scars. Could he be right?

She thought of the way Alaric’s shadowed eyes belied his easy charm, hinting at dark secrets.

Out of nowhere came the recollection of Alaric’s ashen face after he’d saved that boy from serious burns. The prince’s expression had been stark with pain or shock. He’d frozen rigid, eyes staring blankly as if looking at something distant that horrified yet held him in thrall.

‘Tamsin?’

‘Sorry?’ She turned to find Peter holding out his hand.

‘Would you like to waltz?’

She met his friendly dark eyes and tore her thoughts from the man even now bowing to some aristocratic lady on the other side of the ballroom.

She spent far too much time fretting about Alaric.

‘I’d love to.’

For the next hour she danced with partner after partner, revelling in the exquisite venue, the glamorous crowd, the pleasure of the dance. Resolutely she tried not to notice Alaric dancing with every pretty woman in the room. Finally, pleading exhaustion, she let her partner lead her to a relatively quiet corner for champagne and conversation.

He was an editor from a national newspaper, good looking and full of entertaining stories that made her laugh. Tamsin saw the openly admiring light in his eyes and felt a warm glow inside. Here was one man at least who didn’t look on her as second best!

Plus he was flatteringly interested in her work, suggesting a feature article on the archives and preservation work.

‘May I interrupt?’

At the sound of that deep voice her companion halted in mid-sentence. ‘Your Highness, of course.’

Reluctantly Tamsin turned. She’d told herself she was glad Alaric hadn’t shown her off as his fake companion tonight. She’d wanted to be her own woman, hadn’t she?

Yet his lack of interest stung.

Had he finally decided she wasn’t up to the job?

Piercing indigo eyes met hers and heat sizzled through her, making the hairs on her arms stand up as if he’d brushed fingertips along her bare skin.

She searched for the shadows she’d seen in his gaze once before, the shadows Peter had hinted at, but there was nothing wounded about this man. If anything there was a hint of steel in his stare, a tautness about his mouth. He was commanding, assured, supremely confident.

He bowed. The epitome of royal hauteur from his severely combed hair to his mirror polished shoes.

‘Tamsin, I believe this is our dance.’

She tried to tell herself she didn’t care that he’d come to her at last, but her heart gave a little jump.

‘I’ll be in contact later, Tamsin.’ Her companion smiled and took her wineglass, urging her forward. She had no excuse but to go with Alaric.