Free Royal Protocol by Christine Flynn Page A

moment that ‘tea and diplomacy’ had been an option then, either. I’m sure it all came down to training, instincts and adrenaline. Just as it has on any number of other occasions. So please don’t speak to me as if I have no idea what goes on when men grapple for power.”
    A rumble of thunder sounded in the distance.
    “Your husband?” Harrison asked, hesitating.
    “Major Alexander Corbin.” Alex, she mentally amended, remembering how she had repeatedly asked for more information that first year. She’d inquired politely, through channels, by the rules. Then she’d demanded when her requests had been ignored. They’d paid attention to her then, but they’d sought only to placate her. The official account she’d been given had been miserably inadequate. “He was royal guard.”
    The name seemed familiar to Harrison. At least Gwen thought recognition was why his firm mouth thinned in the moments before droplets turned to a deluge. In the space of a blink, the sky opened. Rain hammered theancient travertine at their feet, bent the heads of the roses and had Gwen whipping the scarf from her neck.
    Harrison swore. Gwen heard him as she turned to see which way was best to run. She’d just lifted her scarf over her head when she spun back toward him and felt herself go still.
    His hand was slipping down the double row of brass buttons on his jacket. It seemed he’d scarcely flicked open the last one when the lapels parted and he shrugged it off.
    She barely caught the impression of a massive chest, a crisp white shirt and precisely knotted black tie before she felt the weight of that jacket around her shoulders.
    His body heat still clung to the lining. That warmth enveloped her an instant before she pulled the finely woven wool over her head and his hand splayed at the small of her back.
    “The colonnade,” he muttered. “It’s closest.”
    The cloudburst blurred the landscape around them, making the distant palace walls appear even farther away and bouncing rain back up to her ankles. As absorbed as she’d been in their discussion, she hadn’t realized how far around the curve they had walked.
    Her slim skirt and heels weren’t conducive to running, but by hiking up her hem Gwen managed to match his long strides as they jogged toward the enclosed walkway with its marble columns, arched windows and vaulted ceiling. By the time he pulled open the nearest door and pushed her inside, her stockings and feet were soaked.
    So was his shirt. She noticed it the instant she lowered his jacket to her shoulders and turned to face him. The fine white cotton clung to his broad shoulders and muscular arms as he lifted his hand, pulled off his beret and slapped it, water flying, against his thigh.
    The heavy beat of boots doing double-time on marble spun them both around. Two guards, their lethal rifles braced and ready, suddenly slammed to a halt.
    “Sir,” they said in unison. Rifle butts hit the floor as they jerked to attention. Both snapped a salute. “Sorry, sir,” the stockier of the two immediately said. “We didn’t…I mean, from back there you did look…without your jacket—We didn’t recognize you, sir,” he finally admitted.
    Security remained at its highest level. Considering that she and Harrison had just burst through a doorway into an area used by the royal family to enter their private quarters, the young men’s response was exactly what it should have been.
    “No apology necessary, Corporal.”
    The soldier’s glance darted to Gwen, then to his superior’s wet shirt.
    “Ma’am,” he said, by way of acknowledgment, but clearly didn’t know if he should address his superior’s…dress.
    “May we do anything for you, sir?” he decided to ask.
    Harrison had followed the guard’s glance. To Gwen’s quiet surprise, he seemed totally unfazed to be all but dripping on the floor.
    “You can call my driver at the main guard gate. I’ll be leaving for the Admiralty in five minutes.”
    The