‘Oh, Ramón…’

‘And there’s no security camera in the smaller kitchen,’ he told her, and she looked up into his face and it was all she could do not to burst into spontaneous combustion.

‘So will you come?’ His eyes dared her.

‘I’m coming.’ Mistress or not, dangerous or not, right now she’d take whatever he wanted to give. Stupid? Who knew? She only knew that there was no way she could walk away from this man this night.

‘Slippers and robe first,’ he suggested and she blinked.

‘Pardon?’

‘Let’s keep it nice past the footman.’ He grinned. ‘And do your belt up really tight. I like a challenge.’

‘Ramón…’

‘Second kitchen, no security camera,’ he said and gave her a gentle push back into her bedroom. ‘Slippers and gown. Respectability’s the thing, my love. All the way down the stairs.’

They were respectable all the way down the stairs. The footman watched them go, his face impassive. When they reached the second kitchen another footman appeared and opened the door for them. He ushered them inside.

‘Would you like the door closed?’ he said deferentially and Ramón nodded.

‘Absolutely. And make sure the Huns stay on that side.’

‘The Huns?’ the man said blankly.

‘You never know what they’re planning,’ Ramón said darkly. ‘If I were you, I’d take a walk around the perimeter of the palace. Warn the troops.’

‘Your Highness…’

‘Just give us a bit of privacy,’ Ramón said, relenting at the look of confusion on the man’s face. ‘Fifty paces from the kitchen door, agreed?’

Finally there was a smile-sort of-pulled back instantly with a gasp as if the man had realized what he was doing and maybe smiling was a hanging offence. Impassive again, he snapped his heels and moved away and Ramón closed the door and leaned on it.

‘This servant thing’s got knobs on it. Three months and they still treat me like a prince.’

‘You are a prince.’

‘Not here,’ he said. ‘Not now. I’m me and you’re you and the kitchen door is closed. And so…’

And so he took her into his arms and he held her so tight the breath was crushed from her body. He held her like a man drowning holding on to a lifeline. He held her and held her and held her, as if there was no way he could ever let her go.

He didn’t kiss her. His head rested on her hair. He held her until her heart beat in synchronisation with his. Until she felt as if her body was merging with his, becoming one. Until she felt as if she was truly loved-that she’d come home.

How long they stayed there she could never afterwards tell-time disappeared. This was their moment. The world was somewhere outside that kitchen door, the servants, Sofía’s words, Perpetua’s warnings, tomorrow, but for now all that mattered was this, her Ramón. Her love.

The kitchen was warm. An old fire-stove sent out a gentle heat. A small grey cat slept in a basket by the hearth. All Jenny had seen of this palace was grandeur, but here in this second kitchen the palace almost seemed a home.

It did feel like home. Ramón was holding her against his heart and she was where she truly belonged.

She knew it was an illusion, and so must he. Maybe that was why he held her for so long, allowing nothing, no words, no movement, to intrude. As if, by holding her, the world could be kept at bay. As if she was something that he must lose, but he’d hold on while he still could.

Finally he kissed her as she needed to be kissed, as she ached to be kissed, and she kissed him back as if he was truly her Ramón and the royal title was nothing but a crazy fantasy locked securely on the other side of the door.

With the Huns, she thought, somewhat deliriously. Reality and the Huns were being kept at bay by powdered, wigged footmen, giving her this time of peace and love and bliss.

She loved this man with all her heart. Maybe what Sofía had said was wrong. Maybe the Perpetua thing was crazy.

The cat stirred, coiling out of her basket, stretching, then stepping daintily out to inspect her food dish. The tiny movement was enough to make them stir, to let a sliver of reality in. But only a sliver.

‘She’s only interested in her food,’ Jenny whispered. ‘Not us.’

‘I don’t blame her. I’m hungry, too.’ Ramón’s voice was husky with passion, but his words were so prosaic that she chuckled. It made it real. Her Prince of the Blood, dressed in medals and tassels and boots that shone like mirrors, was smiling down at her with a smile that spoke of devilry and pure latent sex-and he was hungry.

‘For…for what?’ she managed, and the devilry in his eyes darkened, gleamed, sprang into laughter.

‘I’d take you on the kitchen table, my love,’ he said simply. ‘But I just don’t trust the servants that much.’

‘And we’d shock the cat,’ she whispered and he chuckled.

‘Absolutely.’

He was trying to make his voice normal, Jenny thought. He was trying to make their world somehow normal. In truth, if Ramón carried out his earlier threat to untie the cord of her dressing gown, if he took that to its inevitable conclusion, there was no way she’d deny him. Only sense was prevailing. Sort of.

Where he led, she’d follow, but if he was trying to be prosaic…maybe she could be, too.

‘I could cook in this kitchen,’ she said, eyeing the old range appraisingly, the rows of pots and pans hanging from overhead rails, the massive wooden table, worn and pitted from years of scrubbing.

‘The pantry adjoins both kitchens,’ Ramón said hopefully. ‘I’m sure there’s eggs and bacon in there.’

‘Are you really hungry?’

‘At dinner I had two queens, one duke and three prime ministers within talking range,’ he said. ‘They took turns to address me. It’s very rude for a Crown Prince to eat while being addressed by a Head of State. My Aunt Sofía was watching. If I’d eaten I would have had my knuckles rapped.’

‘She’s a terrifying lady,’ Jenny said and he grinned.

‘I love her to bits,’ he said simply. ‘Like I love you.’

‘Ramón…’

‘Gianetta.’

‘This is…’

‘Just for tonight,’ he said softly and his voice grew bleak. ‘I know this is impossible. After tonight I’ll ask nothing of you, but Gianetta…just for tonight can we be…us?’

His face was grim. There were vast problems here, she knew, and she saw those problems reflected in his eyes. Sofía had said the ghost of his father made this palace hateful, yet Ramón was stuck here.

Can we be us?

Maybe they could go back to where they’ started.

‘Do you want bacon and eggs, or do you want muffins?’ she asked and tried to make her voice prosaic.

‘You could cook muffins here?’ Astonishment lessened the grimness.

‘You have an oven warmed for a cat,’ she said. ‘It seems silly to waste it. It’ll mean you need to wait twenty minutes instead of five minutes for eggs and bacon.’

‘And the smell will go all through the palace,’ he said in satisfaction. ‘There’s an alibi if ever I heard one. We could give a couple to Manuel and Luis.’

‘Manuel and Luis?’

‘Our Hun protectors. They think I’m taunting them if I use their real names, but surely a muffin couldn’t be seen as a taunt.’ His eyes were not leaving hers. He wanted her. He ached for her. His eyes said it all, but he was keeping himself rigidly under control.

‘You think we might find the ingredients?’ he asked, but she was already opening the panty door, doing a visual sweep of the shelves, then checking out the first of three massive refrigerators. As anxious as he to find some way of keeping the sizzle between them under control, and to keep the tension on his face at bay.

‘There’s more ingredients than you can shake a stick at.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Lots of ingredients,’ she said in satisfaction. ‘It seems a shame to abandon bacon entirely. You want bacon and cheese muffins, or double chocolate chip?’

‘Both,’ he said promptly. ‘Especially if I get to lick the chocolate chip bowl.’

‘Done,’ she said and smiled at him and his smile met hers and she thought, whoa I am in such trouble. And then she thought, whatever Sofía said, or Perpetua said, no matter how impossible this is, I’m so deeply in love, there’s no way I’ll ever be able to climb out.

CHAPTER EIGHT

THEY made muffins. Not just half a dozen muffins because: ‘If I’m helping, it’s not such a huge ask to make heaps,’ Ramón declared. ‘We can put them on for breakfast and show the world what my Gianetta can do.’

‘You’ll upset the chefs,’ Jenny warned.

‘If there’s a turf war, you win hands down.’

‘A turf war…’ She was pouring choc chips into her mixture but she hesitated at that. ‘I’m not interested in any turf war. Frankly, this set-up leaves me terrified.’

‘It leaves me terrified.’

‘Yes, but…’

‘But I have no choice,’ he said flatly, finishing the sentence for her. ‘I know that. In the good old days, as Crown Prince I could have simply had my soldiers go out with clubs and drag you to my lair.’

‘And now you give me choices,’ she retorted, trying desperately to keep things light, whisking her muffin mix more briskly than she needed. ‘Just as well. I believe clubbing might create an International Incident.’

‘I miss the good old days,’ he said morosely. He was sitting on the edge of the table, swinging his gorgeous boots, taking taste tests of her mixture. So sexy the kitchen seemed to sizzle. ‘What use is being a prince if I can’t get my woman?’

My woman. She was dreaming, Jenny thought dreamily. She was cooking muffins for her prince.

My woman?

She started spooning her mixture into the pans and Ramón reached over and took the trays and the bowl from her. ‘I can do this,’ he said. ‘If you do something for me.’