Royal Protocol Read Online Free PDF Page B

“Right now I’m going to see the queen.”
    It was barely six in the morning when the guard at the entrance to the royal residence rang Gwen’s apartment on the second floor overlooking Castle Cove. Her three rooms, once a nanny’s quarters, were appointed modestly and were quite small, considering the size of the rooms below her. Still, decorated with the comfortable provincial furniture and personal treasures Gwen had brought with her ten years ago, they had proved more than adequate for a young widow with a small child to raise.
    That child was now a twenty-year-old woman, who was presently on holiday with a friend and her family in the Scottish highlands—which was why the telephone rang five times before Gwen snatched it up.
    Amira would have jumped on it by the second ring. With the blow dryer running, Gwen had barely heard it at all.
    “He’s on his way up now?” she asked, tucking the receiver under her chin to snatch up her beige suit skirt. “Where exactly is he?”
    The formal male voice on the other end of the line informed her that Admiral Monteque had just passed through the vestibule and turned into the queen’s hallway. He would be at the doors of the queen’s apartments in less than a minute.
    Gwen’s heart felt as if it were beating out of her chest as she hurried to her wardrobe and stuffed her feet into a pair of taupe leather pumps. The only reason she could imagine him needing to see the queen—and at such an hour—was because something had happened with Prince Owen.
    In her years of service to the queen, Gwen had always preferred two-piece suits because they were neat, comfortable and layers could be added or dispensed with beneath the jacket, depending on the season. There would be no layers today. Grabbing the beige silk jacket that matched her skirt, she shoved her arms into the sleeves, pushed back her freshly dried hair and rushed through the doorway beside her small Italian marble fireplace, zipping her skirt as she hurried down the narrow staircase that led directly to the queen’s drawing room.
    Stepping through the narrow door by Mrs. Ferth’s desk, she closed it behind her and hurried soundlessly across the pale butters and creams of the carpet.
    She was buttoning her jacket over her bra when she reached for the long gold handle and opened the carved door.
    The red-jacketed guard beside it was already at attention. But it was the tall, powerfully built man in the navy uniform who commanded her attention as she stepped back.
    Feeling totally thrown together, she watched the admiral close the door, her anxious eyes seeking his.
    “Is it news of the prince?”
    Harrison opened his mouth and felt his breath snag halfway to his lungs. Her usually restrained hair tumbled around her face and shoulders in a shimmering fall of platinum and honey. The thick, dark lashes of her sapphire eyes were as unadorned as her flawless skin. She smelled of soap, shampoo and fresh powder.
    The combination sent something sharp and hot straight to his groin.
    “I’m afraid not,” he murmured, the tightness gripping his body slipping into his voice.
    An odd sense of regret licked through him as he watched the light of hope slip from her eyes.
    Before he could question it, before he could stand therestaring at her any longer, he pulled the newspaper he carried from beneath his arm. “It’s about the morning paper. Has Her Majesty seen it?”
    Aware of the edge in his voice, Gwen took a step back and blinked at the shaving nick in his chin. “The paper?” she repeated, thinking that little wound terribly human for someone who seemed to have a rock for a heart. “She was up most of the night. Worried about Prince Owen,” she explained, in case that might not have occurred to him. The queen had called her at midnight to come sit with her. Gwen hadn’t gone to bed herself until after two. “I wasn’t even going to order up her tea for at least another hour.”
    He took her response as a no and