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“I feel like a princess,” she giggles.
“You look like a Queen.”
“Flattery will get you a chicken dinner if you’re not careful.”
“That’s my hope, Ms Harding.”
I curl back a piece of hair that has escaped her messy bun, my finger tracing lightly down her cheek.
Her gaze drops to my hand as fireworks go off around us. She bites her bottom lip enticingly.
She is primed, ready for me to brush my lips against hers. The need to kiss her is overwhelming. A craving surges through my body at breakneck speed.
I cup her face gently and move in closer. I couldn’t stop it even if I wanted to now, and I don’t.
Isla tilts her head up, desire darkening her mesmerising green eyes as her lips part.
Leaning down to capture her lips with mine, we suddenly jump apart as the sound of gunfire echoes through the castle.
“Go up to your bedroom and do not come out for anything,” I instruct her, losing the seduction mode and falling straight back into old habits. Reaching under the ornate Edwardian table that sits by the double front doors, I pull out the gun stashed there, one of many secret weapons in this vast castle, and level it at the doors as Isla screams and rushes up the stairs; the tiara still on her head and my heart still beating in sync with hers.
28
ISLA
Racing up the stairs, my heart thundering in my ears, I forgot about the tiara on my head until it slides down, falling over my face. Snatching at it to stop it from dropping on the floor, I burst into my bedroom and silently close the door, locking it and then looking frantically around. Shoving my hand into my hair, I try to steady out my breathing, but I was already breathless from the near-miss kiss with Gideon, and then my Usain Bolt impersonation has tipped me over into gasping and wheezing territory.
Bending over, I rest my hands on my thighs but jump upright again when I hear a loud crash.
“Shit,” I rasp and spin to the door. Throwing the tiara to the bed in aggravation, I move swiftly across to the enormous dresser situated next to the door and try to push it across, but it’s too heavy. It’s ancient and was properly made. This thing probably survived World War One and Two and will outlast us all.
“Fuck,” I grunt and slide down the side, pulling my knees up and hoping whatever gunmen have breached the perimeter don’t find me here.
Of course, that’s ridiculous. They will find me eventually.
Breathing shallowly and going lightheaded but trying to remain as stealthy as possible, I crawl out from behind the dresser and over to the bed. I have three options. Under the bed, in the wardrobe or in the bathtub.
None of them are great.
Rolling under the bed, I realise that everything has gone quiet.
I’m not sure what that means, but Gideon said to stay here.
That’s all well and good in theory, but what if he is injured, or worse, dead? Shouldn’t I go and check on him?
“Don’t be a fool, Isla,” I mutter as the part of my brain that needs to help people in need lights up at the chance to be of assistance. I debate with myself for all of a minute, but it’s no use.
Cursing my stupidity, I roll out from under the bed and get to my knees. Listening intently, I don’t hear anything. Getting to my feet, I creep to the bedroom door and unlock it, cringing at the loud click it makes, which I’ve never noticed before.
Heart pounding, breath coming in ragged pants, I open the massive, solid oak door and peer out.
Isla, get back under the bed, you fucking lunatic.
Nope, I’m here now, and I have to see if Gideon is okay.
You’ll die.
Maybe, but aren’t I going to die anyway?
