A Royal Affair by John Wiltshire Read Free Book Online Page B

floor, where no doubt some poor servant would eventually pick it up for him. I apologized and began to withdraw. He came closer. His chest was broad and flared out from a lean waist, the skin unblemished except for a prominent scar grazing his ribs and running down under the waistband of his leather breeches. He must have seen the direction of my gaze. I hoped he took it for professional interest.
    “The last war.”
    “War?” I coughed, oddly disturbed, and looked up—reluctantly, if truth were told.
    He was smiling and wobbled his hand. “Skirmish.” Another wobble. “Raid.” Then he laughed outright. “I was stabbed in an alehouse brawl, but I prefer the war version.”
    “More medals?”
    Still laughing, those incredible teeth making the look irresistible, he said apologetically, “I don’t really need medals; I’m head of the army: General His Royal Highness the Prince Christian. I sort of got given all the medals to start with.”
    “Maybe a real war would be less dangerous, then, than visiting the wrong kind of taverns? Someone did good work stitching it.” He seemed amused by my eyes’ disobedience in continually returning to his abdomen. But it was extremely interesting—from a professional point of view—to see how the scar bisected the ridges of muscle, bouncing off them. It begged to be touched—again, in a professional way only, of course. Touching, fortunately, I did manage to resist. “So, we have adjoining rooms?”
    He nodded and smirked. “Life in a royal palace can be like walking on rocks that are covered by seaweed. Sometimes, a steadying arm is welcome. I hope I have not overstepped some… professional line you would have preferred to draw.”
    “No, Aleksey, you have not overstepped anything, and I would be more than grateful for your… steadying arm … whenever you think it appropriate.” With that rejoinder I left him. If he was playing games with me, then I was more than willing and able to play him back. He was master of his own little universe; this I could see quite clearly. He was beautiful, charming, intelligent, a royal prince, and, as he had so adroitly managed to inform me, head of an army, with all the attendant power and influence that gave him. But I was equally intelligent, and I could be charming when I cared to be. I had also spent my more than thirty years learning one or two things that he (a cosseted infant in my eyes) could not possibly guess at. I didn’t think war had been declared between us, more like cards dealt and the rules of the game yet to be agreed upon. I was good at cards too. We would see.
    I confess that I needed some time and space to recover from Aleksey, even at this very early stage of our relationship. My respite was merely a walk back down to the stables to ensure that Xavier was being properly cared for. He was; he was stabled with the royal horses. He would never be the same again. Perhaps he was thinking the same about me.
    Very soon after leaving the stables, I was accosted by a young boy who declared himself to be my new page. When I raised my eyebrows at this title, he corrected himself to servant and heaved his shoulders theatrically. I smiled and beckoned for him to follow me. “What is your name?”
    “Stephen, sir.”
    “What was your job before you became my… page?”
    He grinned and came up to walk alongside me, against protocol I am sure but welcome nonetheless. “I didn’t have one, really. I’m the bastard.”
    “I’m sorry?”
    “I’m Prince Peter’s bastard. He was His Majesty’s oldest brother, but he’s dead now—my father, not His Majesty. His Royal Highness Prince Aleksey thought I would like you.”
    “You mean I would like you.” He was confusing me.
    He frowned, apparently as confused as I. “No, ’Sey said I’d like you and that you’d be good for me.”
    “You’re my servant, but I’m supposed to be good for you?”
    He grinned. “ Pageboy . We’ve agreed on that. Are you hungry? I