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“And the first?” Alec asked.
“Protect the princess.”
* * *
Night had fallen and Trace was exhausted as he made the rounds of the estate. The day had been even more hectic than he’d expected, mostly due to the fact that the princess wasn’t what he’d expected. In addition to the dispute over the bedrooms, she’d taken immediate exception to Trace’s insistence that she be guarded every time she stepped out of the house.
He’d caught her walking out that very afternoon, cool as you please, dressed for riding and heading for the stables—her horses had been shipped by sea and rail and had arrived the week before—and Trace had taken her to task. That had started a battle royal, which he’d won only by invoking the name of the princess’s brother. “You may ride,” he’d told her in no uncertain terms, “but not alone. Period. End of discussion.”
That hadn’t been the end of the discussion, not by a long shot. But when Trace had finally told her the orders weren’t his, they were the king’s, she had stopped arguing instantly. I’ll have to remember that for the future, he told himself now with a wry smile. He wasn’t sure whether it was the king or the brother she was deferring to, but either way he’d discovered the magic word. “In the future, Princess, let me know when you want to ride,” he’d told her, “and I’ll make sure one of us is prepared to ride with you.”
Unfortunately, when he’d raised the issue with Alec and Liam, he had a rude awakening. “Sorry, McKinnon,” Alec had said with regret. “We don’t ride.”
That just left him to accompany the princess, and he foresaw a curtailment of his free time if she insisted on riding on the days he wasn’t officially working. He didn’t think she would be amenable to riding only three days a week, and not even the same three days each week at that.
Then there had been the issue of meals. He, Alec and Liam all had rooms in the estate’s guest house, which came complete with an adequate kitchen and a well-stocked pantry. Trace had planned to fend for himself at mealtimes, and had assumed Alec and Liam would do the same. But the princess had other ideas.
“That is silly,” she’d told him. “There is a perfectly good meal already prepared, and will be every night. My chefs are Le Cordon Bleu trained—artistes—and they would be insulted to think you prefer to eat your own cooking instead of theirs.”
When Trace had tried to explain that the hired help didn’t expect to share her table, her green eyes had flashed. “I do not eat in solitary splendor,” she’d told him firmly. “There are many in my household who eat with me.” He’d given in with as good grace as he could muster, not wanting another battle, but then he’d realized she’d actually done them a favor. Their presence at her table would be the perfect opportunity to listen to the conversations between the princess and the rest of her household, whether spoken in English or Zakharan.
Then, when they were all at the dinner table, he’d noticed she wasn’t eating. Not much, anyway. She’d passed on several dishes that were offered to her, settling for a plain piece of bread without butter and a dish of custard. She hadn’t made a big deal out of it, and no one else in her household had seemed to think it worthy of comment, but he’d noticed. And wondered. It wasn’t until he was wandering through the kitchen after dinner and overheard her cooks—chefs—he’d reminded himself, talking to each other in voluble French about that very same custard that he learned why.
Motion sickness.
Why hadn’t it occurred to him before? He’d been concerned when she first appeared in the plane’s doorway, had suspected something was wrong, but then had let himself be distracted by her peremptory demand that her Zakharian bodyguard let her go. Maybe that even explained her curt response to the man’s offer of help. Maybe she hadn’t meant to be so cold, but was just feeling out of sorts the way anyone might when they were sick.
The princess was full of contradictions. Maybe that’s why he felt so tired—he never knew what to expect. Guarding her had become an impossible mission already, and it was only the first day—things could easily get worse. Trace murmured to himself, “‘Your mission, Jim, should you choose to accept it,’” using a phrase Mission Impossible had made famous, making the impossible seem possible. Then he laughed ruefully. If they could accomplish impossible missions, so could he—he’d done it before, hadn’t he? All he needed was a little cooperation from the princess.
