Free Love is a Stranger by John Wiltshire Page A

slid to one side, revealing a long passage. Ben shook his head. “You’ve got to be kidding. Where are Timmy and George? What will Julian say?”
     
    “I do not understand that ref—”
     
    “Never mind. Where’s this lead?”
     
    “Eventually to the beach. It is how French brandy was smuggled in and possibly in earlier times Roman Catholics out.”
     
    “Fuck me.”
     
    Nikolas began to walk down the passage. “Don’t worry, Benjamin. When we have resolved this minor inconvenience, I have every intention of doing just that.”
     
    The passage came to some stairs and they went down, silent now and focused. Suddenly, Ben heard voices, Arabic. He caught Nikolas’s arm, leant right up to his ear, and whispered, “They’re talking about one of your guests. They think they recognise him but can’t work out where from.”
     
    Nikolas turned and mirrored Ben’s actions, pressing his lips to Ben’s ear. “Benjamin, thank you for that insight, but I speak eight languages fluently. Arabic is one of them.” Their faces were pressed close, the terrorists only feet away behind a layer of stone, but Ben couldn’t have resisted if Satan and all his minions had been there. He caught Nikolas’s face and pressed him to the wall in a searing kiss. Adrenaline pumped through him. He hardened with a stab of desire. Nikolas caught his hair and held on, returning the kiss with equal passion, but then he pulled away and laid one finger on Ben’s lips, either in admonition or promise. Ben lowered his head and nodded in obedience to either. The passage descended once more, this time the steps little more than niches in the wall. They descended for a long time, the voices well behind them now. Then the way was blocked. Nikolas pressed, and a huge wine rack slid smoothly from the wall on pre-prepared tracks. They were in the cellar. Nikolas nodded to another rack.
     
    “Behind that leads to the river. High tide, and it is partially flooded, but it was used for smuggling for centuries.”
     
    “Is it still useable?”
     
    “Yes.”
     
    “I still think—”
     
    “No.” Nikolas turned away from him and glanced up the stairs toward the main house. “We need a diversion. Something to draw their men away.” Suddenly they heard shouting although the words were indistinct. Ben swore.
     
    “They must have discovered you’re missing.”
     
    “And know that you are now here.”
     
    “I have my phone, sir. Why don’t we just call—?”
     
    “No!” Ben was surprised. Nikolas gritted his teeth then said, “We have an important visitor, Benjamin. He must not be compromised.” Ben gave him a blank look. Nikolas winced, but added reluctantly, “A senior Royal.”
     
    “What the fuck! Where’s his protection? Even more reason to call our p—”
     
    “He is here in a private capacity. Very private.”
     
    Ben swore. “I don’t under—”
     
    “Benjamin, he is here to fuck my wife, as he has been for the last ten years we have been married. You talk of shadow dance and pretend, but you are a child to these things. He is…He must not be compromised.”
     
    Ben held his gaze. “This is all a sham? Your marriage?”
     
    Nikolas tore his eyes away. “What would you have me say?”
     
    “The truth?”
     
    “All right. Then here is the truth. I am the shadow dance, Benjamin. I am the cover—for them. I enable all this…” He waved his hands at the house, the respectability, the seclusion. “She is the mistress of the heir to the throne, and I am— Ack, I do not have a word for it in English or Danish. I am sorry.” He appeared humiliated as if admitting fault to Ben was too much for him.
     
    Ben couldn’t have that. He punched Nik lightly in the shoulder. “Try Arabic. I hear they’ve got lots of good words for the likes of you and me.”
     
    Nikolas smiled ruefully and ran his fingers through his hair in his familiar calming gesture. “So, basically, we have a