Courted: Gowns & Crowns, Book 1 (28 page)

“I take it you don’t approve?” Em asked, drawing his attention back from Nicki. “I think she looks amazing.”

“So does a third of the room. The third whose attention she doesn’t want, trust me. She doesn’t exactly
blend
.”

Em choked out a laugh, drawing the curious gazes of the couples nearest them. Stefan didn’t have the reputation of providing much comic relief. “Blending is not high on Nicki’s list, no. But you’ll be finished with us after tonight, right? Kristos told me that they had increased the castle staff to deal with the ‘influx of Americans.’ Were you caught in that net as well?”

“With four of you, you’ll agree that the net needed to be cast fairly wide. All the way up to Theodopolis Papalia’s mountain home. I trust you found it comfortable?”

Her gaze shifted to him. Of course he would know that was where they’d spent the night. Dimitri had been there, and he’d been in communication with the castle. But how much did Stefan actually
know
know?

Em didn’t want to think about that too much. “Will you help Kristos with his work now? Or do you still report to the king?” She wrinkled her brow. “Or is it the Council?”

“The king,” he said summarily. “And, to a lesser degree, the queen and crown prince, should he have need of me.”

“I wouldn’t trust that crown prince guy. He’s always been a pain in the ass.” Em’s heart did a tight little flip as Stefan turned her again, both of them breaking apart as Kristos stood there, alone. “May I cut in?”

Stefan bowed to him, his face a mask once more, betraying neither approval nor censure. Then Kristos was in front of her, his hands firm on hers, his grip steady as he turned her in his embrace. She could feel the wave of interest perk through the room, and she frowned at him. “I didn’t think I was a candidate for your dance card.”

“Given the givens, I should think you would merit multiple dances, if only to keep everyone guessing.” Kristos’s words were light, but his eyes were intent. “You are beautiful, Emmaline. You’ve never looked lovelier.”

“Oh.” Em slanted her glance away, knowing that her blush betrayed her anyway. She looked back and tried for bravado. “And you look very dashing. Even if this is totally weird that you have to do this.”

“Weird.” The way he said the word made her think she’d overstepped, but before she could backtrack, he shook his head. “One of the sessions I sat through earlier today centered on the wartime truces that have been signed by Garronia throughout its history, from present time all the way back to the ancient world. Some of the agreements struck along the way…
those
were weird. This is merely a random, distant echo.”

He gazed around the room then, his face set in an expression of relaxed camaraderie that probably was very effective if you weren’t standing right next to him. At length, he sighed. “But, yes, it definitely is still very…odd.”

Em laughed, and Kristos seemed to relax further, and she suddenly got an image of what it would be like to be partnered with this man for more than a dance. To be the one who could bring a smile to his face when the cares of his work wore him down, to be the one who supported him and his position without even being in the room, simply by pursuing her own projects and initiatives. To be the one who loved him with all her heart and soul.

Idly, she wondered which of the young women would end up catching his eye. Despite yesterday’s Mean Girls Social, as she and the others had started calling it, there were a few women who’d seemed genuinely nice after the dust settled. Those women were here tonight as well, looking impossibly perfect. So were they the front runners in the Crown’s estimation? Was “nice” important to being a princess bride? Or was it more about beauty, or refinement, or education, or being able to speak six languages?

And why did she care so much?

“Where are you heading after you leave our shores?” Kristos asked, though his words seemed oddly stilted. “France? Farther north?”

“Tuscany,” she said. “Some vineyard owned by friends of Lauren’s father. She really does have the best connections.”

“It’s safe?”

She flashed a surprised look at him. “What do you mean, is it safe? Of course it’s safe.”

His lips pressed together in a thin line. “You should have an escort until you are settled there.”

“We’ll be fine. And your men are needed here.” She tried to return levity to the conversation. “They’ve got a new crown prince to protect, after all.”

She’d said the wrong thing again. Kristos glanced away from her and muttered something in Garronois, but she didn’t need to know the language to understand it was a curse. She tightened her hold on his arms, forcing him to look back at her. “I know you’re not sure about this—that there are things you wish you could change about why and how you’re here today. But you
are
here. And it’s not such a bad place to be.”

“Spoken by the woman who’s about to leave.”

His words were a sharp rebuke, but Em pressed on. “You’ve been preparing for this since you were a little boy.”

“I’ve been preparing for the military. Which is where I should be.”

“No.” Em’s quiet certainty made him look at her, really look at her, and the unexpected pain in his eyes almost made her stop. But she knew the words she needed to speak, what he needed to hear. “That’s not true. You’ve been getting ready to serve your country, yes, to make sure every rock, tree, and blade of grass is safe, just as you said. But there are infinitely more ways to do that than by running around the forest with infrared goggles. Your fighting may be across tables instead of battlegrounds, and your truces might be struck with everyone wearing suits instead of uniforms, but what is the difference, really? Aren’t you still doing everything you can to make sure your country stays safe? Is that such a sacrifice to you, that the manner of your service has to change to meet the needs of the people?”

“The people want things that are ridiculous.”

“I know,” Em said gently. “Like traditions. And continuity. And the security of knowing that, despite everything else that’s changing all around them, a few things in their lives are going to remain the same.” She squeezed his arm again, hearing her own words on a different level, one much closer to home. “They want a leader who respects that. Your father does, and now, you can too.”

He glanced at her again, and something had changed in his face. His eyes seemed almost desperate now, his expression stark, and Em felt the fire of their attraction surge between them then, the need to fling herself against him so strong, so immediate, that she pulled up short—as did he. Kristos took a step back, then bowed to her, offering his arm, his words painfully clipped.

“I think we both could use a drink,” he said. “Allow me?”

Kristos felt a darkness rising up to clutch at his throat and willed himself to walk steadily to the edge of the room. His entire world seemed to be crashing around his shoulders. When he’d stepped out to dance with Emmaline, he’d had a speech prepared. But everything she said, everything she did seemed to indicate that she’d already made peace with the idea of leaving him and Garronia behind.

And why wouldn’t she? He’d met her, what, three days ago? He hadn’t read her file—though everyone assumed he had—but he’d learned enough about her just by being around her to know that she had a life filled with obligations, hopes, and aspirations that had nothing to do with him. She needed to take care of her parents and, as soon as she was able, return to making music.

Music
. He’d forced himself to compartmentalize that tiny shred of knowledge about her, to push away the wellspring of pain that had somehow opened up inside him at the thought of letting her go.

He’d only heard her play one composition, and yet what did the choice of a favorite melody say about a person? In that one brief piece of music was fifteen years—probably twenty years or more, actually—of practice, of failures and success, hours bent over a scrap of wood when others were out doing whatever children did in America. He’d been forced to endure his own rounds of musical training for a few excruciating years before his parents had relented. Ari had stayed with it longer, but he’d also had no taste for the tedium of the day-after-day practice that was required to excel. Far easier for them both to escape the music room and take on the world.

But not easier for Emmaline. She’d stayed the course, done the work. As she would with her own parents. He could see that in her eyes. As she was counseling him to do now. His grand, half-formed plans of suggesting something entirely different for them now seemed stupid, immature. He wanted her, God knew he wanted her—but he couldn’t have her. Not anymore. She’d accepted that, so why couldn’t he?

“Kristos.” Emmaline’s quiet words drew him back, and he realized they were at the refreshment table laden with the delicacies of Garronia. A quick review of the dance floor showed him his parents engaged in animated discussions at the other end of the wide space, Stefan scowling in yet another corner, and Dimitri—well, Dimitri would be wherever his hot blonde was, whether she wanted him to be or not. Kristos considered officially assigning his friend to the woman for the rest of her visit here. Surely there was a viable reason to justify that.

“You’re smiling again. That’s a good start.” Em had freed her hand from his grasp and now offered Kristos a small glass of clear alcohol. “This is
tsipouro
, right?” she asked. She sniffed it. “I tried this the other night. It really didn’t seem that strong.”

“It sneaks up on you.” Kristos took the glass from her and held it tightly, reveling in the bite of cold from its chilled surface. He toasted her, and she looked relieved. Then her expression faltered slightly when he downed his drink in one gulp.

“I think a lot would sneak up on me if I drank it so fast.”

“Then I pray that you should never need to.”

As Emmaline blinked her surprise at him, the music changed, becoming a traditional reel. The men crowded the floor, dragging the women into the center, even a laughing Lauren, Nicki, and Fran.

“Should you join them?”

“I don’t know this dance, fortunately,” Kristos said, but more to the point, his father wasn’t joining in the frolic. Instead, he had pulled aside the queen and seemed to be talking with her intently, more than willing to ignore the crowd.

And what was good for the king…
Another burst of hope had him turning to Emmaline. Perhaps he was just making this too hard. Perhaps he would just ask the question and let her make her response. He owed her that. He owed himself that.

“Do me a favor?”

“Of course.” Em sat set down her glass and nodded, her gaze following his to the far door. “Oh. You want me to leave?”

He almost kissed her right then. His dear Emmaline, always assuming the worst. “No. I want you to go out that door and down the hallway to your right, until you find a room that isn’t full of people. Hopefully, that won’t take you too long. And then I want you to wait for me.”

“But—”

“It’s a favor, remember?”

He watched Emmaline maneuver through the crowd with delicate grace, quickly swallowed up by the throng. For once, all eyes were not on him but on the wild dancing at the center of the room, and after watching the dance himself for a few more minutes, he turned to the door opposite where he had directed Emmaline. If anyone noticed him leaving, they’d note that he’d left alone.

Not that he gave a damn if they noticed or not.

Kristos broke into the coolness of the hallway a few moments later, his strides quick and purposeful. He nodded to the guards who were positioned along the corridor, both grateful and irritated to see them at the ready. When he found Emmaline, he experienced the same mix of emotions. She was alone, yes. But she was in the conference room that had started this odyssey this week, with its wall of flickering news feeds. She turned when he entered the room, her face intent with concern.

“What is it, Kristos? What’s wrong?”

Kristos cut her off in three short strides and gathered her close. His mouth came down on hers, and, with a startled gasp that was almost a cry, Emmaline threw her arms around him, her hands clinging to his shoulders as her lips parted and she pressed close. In that kiss, he tasted desire and resolve and pain and regret, and something more, something he wanted to spend far longer than the next five minutes learning about.

He broke away and sighed as she drew in a deep gulp of breath, the two of them clinging to each other in the reflected light of the screens. “What was that for?” she asked, her voice shaky.

“Does it need to be for something?” He lifted his hands to her hair, grateful that she didn’t have it slicked back into some impossible-to-touch hairstyle as he buried his fingers in it. He kissed her brows, her cheeks, then returned again to her lips, as if he was drinking from a cup that would too quickly be taken away. She curled her fingers around his hands, her entire body trembling, not unlike the way she had when they’d first met.

When he lifted his face, though, his heart gave another hard lurch. “Ah, no,
koukla mou
. I didn’t mean to make you cry. “