Page 2 of Reckless in Ruins

Walking the field helps me regain my focus. I’m grateful for the battering wind sweeping over the cliffs, knocking the nonsense and silliness out of me.

Skelside Ruins is a two-thousand-year-old fortress that pre-dates the influence of mainland Europe on this tiny island country. It is one of a few ancient sites in Gravenland that bears no mark from the centuries of rule from England, France, Germany, the Netherlands. Today, it’s little more than a maze of stone staircases, a few damaged walls, a turret, and a sprawling stone foundation. As I sweep the grounds, I begin to feel restored. The connection to my ancestors girds me up. I am proud to serve a monarchy that aims to preserve this site for future generations.

It doesn’t look like much, but Skelside Ruins was once one of many imposing structures that marked the territory of ancient tribes. Millennia of chieftains and warriors fought bloody battles on this hill, long before the Vikings and the Normans invaded.

Ensuring everything is ready for the queen’s appearance here this morning doesn’t take me long. The media area is cordoned off, keeping nosy reporters from damaging the precious remaining structures. I have two men at that location. A few members of the general public—mostly those whose work is related to historic preservation—have been invited to attend the ceremony. I have one man at that station for crowd control. The queen will soon arrive and I’ll escort her personally to the podium on the site that is thought to be the site of a former great hall. Or an inner courtyard; the debate amongst archeologists continues.

Luckily that’s not my job to know. I just have to ensure safety.

When I’m sure all is ready for the public’s arrival, I take a moment to appreciate the view of the North Sea from the top of the turret.

The weather has taken its toll on this structure, and it seems that keeping random people away is the least of the queen’s worries.

In fact, it’s questionable whether I should even be up here myself, as the stone ledge of the round turret is hardly safe for the average tourist. I’m about to finish my security sweep before anyone spots me up here, when I hear footsteps on the winding staircase below.

Shit! I’m caught.

Instinctively I turn to the noise. No one is supposed to arrive for another ten minutes.

My hand goes to my sidearm and I barrel down the steps, intent on scaring the shit out of whoever this might be. A reporter? A wayward citizen? Yet another tourist bent on stealing something from a sacred site? I’m not having any of it.

I fly around the corner and smack head on into a short, black-caped woman, who lets out a shriek of surprise. She loses her footing on the mossy steps, and, on instinct, I lunge.

Pinning her to the stone wall, my shouting echoes in this dank space. “This is a restricted area. You are detained by the order of Her Majesty the Queen. What is your name?”

The black-caped woman lifts her head, and the weak sunlight bleeding in through the gap in the stones catches on long, dark lashes and red lips.

The same red lips that haunt my dreams every damn night.

2

Sable

I try to be silent as I follow Uther up the winding staircase.

Silence is a tall order, especially when the man I’m stalking—er, following—flashes muscled thighs as he marches up ahead of me.

The curse of a traditional black kilt. The strong legs are out there on display every day, his movements giving the barest hint at the soft hairs on his thick legs.

Every sighting of Uther’s knees turns my insides to jelly.

Captain Uther Nancarrow is perfect in every way. And what do I do with perfection? I must create. I need to dress him. I swear, I’m not trying to be creepy, but tailor’s measuring tape does give a girl an excuse to get good and close.

And now I’m face to face with the queen’s chief security officer, who pins me against the damp, ancient stones.

Oh dear. I didn’t think this through. I didn’t think any of this through.

I can hardly breathe. And not because Uther’s forearm, from elbow to wrist, presses against the length of my collarbone. The air catches in my throat in reaction to how absolutely lethal this man is up close.

I’ve admired him from a distance for so long.

Ever since I was promoted to the job as official stylist for the palace, I’ve been utterly fascinated by the tall, dark, silent man and the way he attends to the queen’s every need with care and unwavering devotion. It’s like watching someone sweetly hover around a beloved grandmother. He fascinates me because, for one thing, not even the queen’s own children fuss over their mother this way. Likewise, Queen Hilde’s attitude towards her children resembles that of a captain steering a ship full of undisciplined sailors who need constant reminders of duties and decorum.

But with Uther, she’s different.

I don’t know what it is about him, but watching him with her does something to me. The way he fetches her handbag, walks next to her, pulls out chairs, holds doors, and keeps the citizens from taking too much out of her. It makes me wish I was the queen for one day, if only to feel that blanket of protection around me.

What is that like?

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