The Rebel Prince. Raye Morgan

be crazy! What will you get out of it?

      The lecture isn’t for me. It’s for him. And he needs it.

      She waited a few seconds, but the rational side didn’t seem to have an answer for that, so she took a deep breath and charged ahead.

      “Since you’re interested in survival,” she began, carefully feeling her way at first, “I’ve got a tip for you. It’ll make you a better monarch.”

      He looked suddenly wary. “Okay. Let’s hear it.”

      She was rapidly developing a nervous twitch now that he was looking at her so intently, and wondering if it might not have been better to listen to her rational side after all, but she soldiered on.

      “Requests and suggestions work better than orders,” she said as firmly as she could, concentrating resolutely on her stitches. “Don’t run roughshod over people, like you did with me just now. Make them want to help you by giving them the same respect you want from them.”

      He stared up at her, shaking his head, looking like a man who felt he was being wrongly accused. “What the hell are you talking about?”

      “You.” She glanced at him and then back to the sewing. “You tend to order people about as though their lives aren’t as important as yours and—”

      “No, I don’t.”

      Now he was looking fierce, and his fierce look was enough to make her voice shake a little, no matter how tough she was determined to be.

      “Yes, you do.”

      He shook his head. “And, anyway, maybe their lives aren’t as important as mine.”

      Throwing her free hand in the air, she appealed to the heavens. “See what I mean?”

      “So you want me to pretend,” he said irritably, his jaw clenched. “To make nice.”

      Her heart was racing. She’d offended him. She probably shouldn’t have brought it up. But she couldn’t back down now. She lifted her chin and held her own.

      “Yes, if it comes to that,” she told him earnestly.

      He glared at her. “You have some nerve, Emma Valentine,” he said in a voice that could have cut through steel.

      “I know.”

      He paused, staring at her, then shook his head. “Okay, Emma,” he said gruffly. “I’ll think about it.”

      “Oh.” Relief flooded her system. “Well. Good.” She wanted to laugh but she didn’t dare ruin everything. “Hold still,” she said as she tied off the knotted end. “There. You’re finished.”

      Rising, he buttoned his jacket up to the neck and flexed his wide shoulders inside, then bent to look into a mirror.

      “Good job,” he said coolly. “It looks great.”

      She nodded, turning toward the doorway. “I’m off,” she said, avoiding another last look into his eyes. “Goodbye.”

      “Emma.” He caught her hand and held it until she turned back to face him. “Thank you very much.”

      She looked up in surprise. The way he said it, she had a feeling he didn’t overuse that phrase.

      “Let me know if there is any favor I can ever do for you,” he added.

      A certain warmth filled her. Was he saying this because she’d made him more aware? There was no way to tell, but she thought there was a chance her little lecture had actually done some good.

      On the other hand, was that a mocking light she saw in his eyes? With a rueful smile, she turned. It was time to get away from him and his very potent sphere of influence.

      But before she could escape, he reached out and stopped her again.

      “Before you go, one word of advice for you, Miss Valentine,” he said coolly, his golden eyes cynical. “When you hang around a royal castle, don’t trust anyone.”

      She frowned. Was he trying to scare her? Or was his warning for real?

      “Not even the king?” she asked.

      His smile was humorless. “Especially not the king,” he said.

      The kitchen of Rolande Castle seemed to have a personality of its own—ancient, cavernous and crusty, with a certain medieval ambience. As Emma looked around it she could imagine knights of old stomping through, armor clanging, nabbing hunks of just-roasted meat with their swords. Modern stainless-steel appliances and other attempts at updating were overwhelmed by the dark atmosphere of centuries past lingering on. A huge arched brick fireplace took up one entire wall and the heat it generated was stifling. Large copper-bottomed pots hung everywhere.

      “Chef Henri,” she said, presenting herself to the chef, a pudgy man with a sense of the dramatic and a mustache that reminded her of Salvador Dalí. “The housekeeper said you could use some help tonight, so I…”