Cara Colter - His Convenient Royal Bride

She remembered Kettle’s confidence that she would be sensible. But not stiff and uninviting, even if it was self-protective. And suddenly she didn’t feel like living up to Kettle’s stodgy expectation of her.

“Mad, angry or mad, crazy?” Maddie asked him, returning his smile tentatively. It was an indicator of how serious everything in her life had become that she considered engaging in this banter and returning his smile living dangerously.

“Obviously, neither,” he said, saluting her with his coffee cup.

Was he flirting? With her? That certainly upped the chances of the mad, crazy. Especially if she engaged with him. Of course, she wouldn’t engage!

Or any other romantic nonsense. Though she suddenly felt a need not just to defy Kettle’s impressions of her, but to have a moment of lightness.

“And do you live up to your name?” she asked him.

He raised an eyebrow at her.

“Do you ward?”

“Ward, protect?” he asked her. “Or ward, admit to the hospital?”

They shared a small ripple of laughter, that appreciation that comes when you come across someone who thinks somewhat the same way you do. Their eyes met, and a spark, like an ember escaped from a bonfire, leaped between them.

Maddie reminded herself that one spark, even that small, could burn down a whole forest. She’d had her moment, Maddie told herself, clinging to the sensibility Kettle was relying on her for.

“Ward off pesky waitresses, I hope,” Lancaster said darkly, and then before she could take it personally, “Where’s your friend?”

“Her uncle needed her in the kitchen.”

“Locked her up,” Lancaster muttered with approval. He took a scone off the plate and scowled at it. “Is this a flavor?”

“Yes, it has a hint of orange in it.”

“There’s no flavors in scones,” Lancaster said firmly. “Do you have cream?”

“Cream? For the coffee? Of course. I’ll go get it.”

“No, for the scones. Cornish cream?”

“Sorry, I—”

“Too much to hope for.” He took a gigantic bite. And then, to Maddie’s satisfaction, he sighed and closed his eyes. “That’s good. Even without cream. Try it,” he insisted to Ward.

Ward picked up the other scone and took a bite. Even that small gesture spoke of refinement. There was that ultrasexy smile again. “You owe somebody an apology,” he told Lancaster. “Not only edible, but possibly the best scone this side of the Atlantic.”

“Any side of the Atlantic.” Lancaster finished the scone in two bites and eyed Ward’s hungrily.

“Who made these?” Ward asked, polishing it off.

“I did.”

“You did not. You’ve got to have a Celt hiding in that kitchen.” Again, Ward was teasing her, as if he sensed she took life altogether too seriously.

Maybe it was weakness to engage, and to want to engage, but what the heck? The men would eat their breakfast and be gone. They might come back, or she might see them in the street and wave, but it was hardly posting banns at the local church. After the concert tomorrow night, they would disappear, never to be seen again.

Unless they bought one of the old miner’s cottages. Unless they fell in love with Mountain Bend.

She did not want to be thinking of falling in love, in any of its many guises, anywhere in the vicinity of the very appealing Ward!

“It’s an old family recipe,” Maddie supplied. “My grandmother was English. And she pronounced it scone, as in cone.”

“Two strikes,” Lancaster muttered.

“Both entirely forgivable,” Ward said. “Do you think I could bother you for another for my hungry friend?”

Maddie brought back a plate of scones and Ward asked, “So it was you who was going to have a shop in New York City?”

“If I was, it was a long way in the future. Anyway, New York City is in my past now.” She needed to move on. She had just lectured Sophie about professionalism. There was no fraternizing with the customers!

She stood there, paralyzed.

“We visited briefly, before we went to California,” Ward volunteered. “This seems preferable to me, the little piece of America everyone knows exists, but that is hard to find. I work in community-based economies. I’d be interested to learn more about your town.”

She cocked her head at him. His intelligence and genuine interest was pulling at her. He was definitely a man she would love to sit down and have a conversation with.

And of course she was not going to give in to that temptation!

“I’d love to talk to you,” she said, and unfortunately, she meant it. “Maybe we’ll get together sometime.”

That part she did not mean at all!

“Can I get you something else?” she said quickly, a reminder to all involved what kind of relationship this was.

“Tea would be wonderful.”

She brought tea and more scones to their table, but thankfully it was opening time, so she could not linger. There was a surprising number of people coming into the café. The town appeared to be benefiting already from people arriving for tomorrow’s concert.

Was it possible this was going to work?

She didn’t have time to contemplate it for long. Her life became a whirlwind as Sophie remained in the kitchen. Kettle delivered the two men breakfast, but Maddie did not interact with them again until it was time to take their money at the till.

“You know how to make tea, too,” Ward said. “That’s a rare gift in this country!”

A small thing, not worthy of a blush, and yet there she was, blushing over tea! Or maybe it was the fact that his hand had brushed hers, and she had felt the jolt of his pure presence, the same way she had when his finger had rested, ever so briefly, on the pendant at her neck.

“That English granny again,” she said.

“Somehow the last thing I think of when I look at you is an English granny,” he said, his voice a sexy rasp. Then he looked faintly taken aback, as if he had said something wildly inappropriate. He recovered quickly, though.

“I hope we do have a chance to talk about your town’s transition,” Ward said. He said it as if he was talking to someone whose opinion he would respect. She glanced at him. Small talk.

“Me, too,” she said with bright insincerity. “Enjoy your stay here.”

Then she snapped the cash register shut and whirled away from them, feeling somehow as if she had escaped some unknowable danger.

Why would such a feeling, the feeling of a near miss on a road named Catastrophe, be tinged with regret?

* * *

“That was a good breakfast,” Lancaster said, as they exited the coffee shop. “You’ve got to give it to Yanks. They know how to eat. The scones were a surprise of the best possible sort.”

“Are you saying barracks food doesn’t appeal?”

“No, Your Highness.”

Both men looked around, but no one was within hearing.

“Sorry, sir, lifetime habits are hard to break.”

They came to the car and Ward regarded it appreciatively. “Do you want to drive, Major Lancaster?” He glanced around. “You’re right about lifetime habits.”

“I was hoping for an opportunity. Where to?”

“I feel, after California and New York, I just need to stretch my legs and have some space. What about those hot pools we heard about?”

“The hotel clerk told us they were in the middle of the wilderness,” Lancaster said, appalled.

“That part of America interests me.”

“I think this is bear country,” Lancaster said doubtfully, the quandary written on his face. How to keep the Prince safest?

“I’m prepared to live dangerously.”

“I was afraid of that.” Lancaster looked less than pleased, for he was a man born into the station of guarding the royal family of the Isle of Havenhurst, and he sniffed out—and avoided—situations that might place the Prince in danger, but he also knew an order when he heard it.