As merely a talking point, she asked over her shoulder, “Are we on schedule?”
When no one answered her, she missed a step. Tristan looked over at her—about to tease her, she thought. But he saw something that stopped him.
“Just a couple minutes off,” Robert finally said.
But it was too late. The flush of heat started in her belly. Not the rush of desire from earlier. No, this was the flames of panic spreading insidiously throughout her body. All the stolen touches and small confidences, the normalcy of a girl meeting a boy, faded away as her heart began to pound. She kept the pace, desperate for an escape from Tristan’s questioning eyes and reassuring hand squeezes. The constant checking ramped up her panic to epic proportions. Her chest tightened, and the first difficult breath to draw got trapped in her lungs.
When they arrived at the dressing room, Millie ushered Ele inside and pushed her into a seat.
“Deep breaths,” Millie said soothingly as she positioned herself in front of Ele. This was a practiced dance now. “We’ll get you fixed up and out of here in no time.”
Ele grappled with the clutches of panic, its smooth tentacles hungry for more of her soul. As she tried to fight against it, she thought of Tristan and his exposure to her. She had no way to know if he would flaunt his knowledge of her weakness to the world. The thought of it threatened to exacerbate her attack. Her breathing grew wearier, and the vise around her chest squeezed. She saw the worry in Millie’s eyes.
“I need for you to breathe,” Millie repeated, trying desperately to maintain the pitch of her voice.
A clamor at the door drew Millie’s gaze away, and even though Ele wanted to know what was happening, her desperation for air won out. Without Millie’s attention, Ele closed her eyes and emptied her mind and tried to concentrate on her breathing.
“Bloody hell,” someone said from the door.
Ele heard more tussling, and her eyes snapped open. As she was distracted, something loosened in her chest. Then, Tristan was on his knees in front of her, his hands cupping her jaw.
“She doesn’t like to be touched,” Millie insisted.
“I got this,” Tristan responded quietly, keeping his eyes locked on Ele. “I had to take out Robert to get in here,” he teased, his voice and gaze cajoling.
He continued talking, his inane chatter dancing around her as she struggled to surface. She watched as he formed words. His mouth, which she remembered tasting of diluted mint and effortless glee, captivated her attention, so she forgot about her struggle to breathe and the cinch around her lungs. Finally, his words began to make sense.
“Good thing I have a strong left foot, and I’m fast. Robert’s shin is probably going to require some ice tonight, and he’ll have a nasty bruise tomorrow.” Tristan kept up the chatter, his thumbs rubbing her cheeks, his voice jaunty, “You couldn’t find some wimpy special forces chap to be your bodyguard, huh? Had to be that brute.”
Ele cracked up. Tristan smiled at her.
“Attagirl,” he encouraged.
“Are you okay, Your Highness?” Millie asked worriedly.
Ele nodded, her gaze never leaving Tristan’s.
He pulled her into him, so her head rested on his collarbone, his hand running lovingly up and down her neck. “Thank fuck,” he whispered.
Her face tucked into Tristan’s neck, Ele relaxed into the safety he provided. When the shudders stopped, relief flooded her. The speed and magnitude of the attack were almost as surprising as Tristan’s ability to calm her. His hands paused in their ministrations, and the sudden horror of what he’d witnessed dawned on her. The threat of exposure was too much. She pulled away from Tristan. He leaned back on his heels, watching her. Ele’s default was practicality, so she wasted no time.
“You can’t post anything about this,” she said.
His eyes narrowed.
“Robert has an NDA you will need to sign.”
She stood up in front of him. The tableau they created, with her standing and him kneeling before her, exemplified their positions. Although she was a little less than stately in her national team training gear and her hair askew, there was no question she was Princess Eleanor in that moment.
“Of course, Your Highness,” he said. His tone belied nothing—not anger, not annoyance, not familiarity.
Tristan jumped to his feet like the athlete he was. He bowed before his princess and stalked to the door.
When it shut behind him, Eleanor held her hand out to Millie. “I need my clothes, and you’ll have to fix my hair. Make sure Juliana is ready. It’s time to go.”
Fifteen minutes later, Princess Eleanor and Princess Juliana, surrounded by their security detail, departed St. Peter’s Training Ground to the cacophony of clicks from the press corps cameras. With the rain beating down upon them and the gray mist following them through the gates, the morning already seemed like a dream to Ele.
4
3 June
Welston House
A light knock preceded the opening of the door, but Ele still fumbled with the iPad she held in her hand. It bounced against the arm of the chair before she could wrangle it behind her back just as Millie slipped into the room. Ele primly placed her hands over her knee as she crossed her ankles, like she was posing for a state portrait. All she needed was a jewel-encrusted tiara to complete the picture.
“I thought we had a couple of minutes before it was time to leave.”
Millie fidgeted, her weight shifting from side to side, proclaiming her nervousness. Ele braced.
“The queen has requested your presence.”
“Now?”
There was nothing wrong with what Ele was doing, but a summons from the queen always had the effect of making her feel like the kid who had been caught stealing the proverbial cookie from the cookie jar. It wasn’t as if there was no love between them. She knew the queen loved her very much—maybe.
She started to stand but remembered the evidence of her moment of weakness and remained poised in the chair. “Is Jamie being summoned too?”
Millie glanced away. “I wouldn’t know.”
Ele let the evasion stand. Millie, much like Charlotte, knew everything. The undercurrent of gossip among the staff members was legendary. The unplugged leak from the queen’s council trickled out to all the royal residences like tributaries of a flooded river.
“Is he in his office?”
“He is.”
“Can you see if he has a moment for me?”
Millie bit her lip and shifted her feet again. “I know you have the iPad. And I know what I’ll see later when I go to wipe the history. You can stop pretending.”
Ele’s spine stiffened briefly before she unfolded her hands and pulled the device from behind her back. She stood and deposited it into Millie’s waiting hands.
“You won’t see much. He’s been especially quiet the last few days.”
“Maybe Sir Nico put out a gag order.”
“Maybe. Doesn’t matter anyway.”
“Of course.”
“I’m going to see Jamie.”
Ele left the room, Millie, and the way-too-tempting iPad behind.
Long ago, this estate had been planned as the ducal home for the next in line to the throne. The tradition still stood. Jamie and Ele had grown up in the house, and after their university stints and Jamie’s time in the Royal Navy, they had found themselves back here. It was not one of the familial homes open to the public, but its proximity to Shuffington Palace meant they had regular access to the seat of government and a bustling city life around them. She both loved and hated the house. The portraits and gilded fixtures, the furniture and sprawling staircases, the endless rooms and glorious ceiling meant it was both a castle—housing the royal family in elegant casings—and a home—trapping them with frightening memories.