The Rebel Prince. Raye Morgan

she knew better. It had only been a half-hour before that she’d had a visit from Myrna Luk, the castle housekeeper.

      “Well, he’s done it again,” she’d said as she breezed into Emma’s room. A pretty woman in her late forties, she seemed harried and overworked but managed to keep a friendly look on her face, which was more than most of the staff had welcomed Emma with.

      “Who’s done what?” Emma asked, reaching for her white uniform, anxious to show that she was ready to join in after having been AWOL for so long. She’d had a wonderful long nap and was feeling very much herself again. Dr Will had been to check on her and had been pleased with her condition. So things were looking up.

      “The prince, of course. Prince Sebastian.” The housekeeper put a hand up to smooth down the curls of her dark brown hair. “He’s here, crept in on us unannounced. The level of service for dinner will have to be raised. It won’t just be the duke and the duchess. It will be the prince as well.” She began counting out diners on her fingers. “And the Italian ambassador, so they tell me, along with his wife and sister. The chancellor of the treasury, the minister of defense and his wife. And of course, Romas, the old duke’s son, and…let’s see…”

      “The prince is here?”

      Emma was suddenly nervous. She’d been ready to meet the prince and begin working out menus with him, but when they had told her he wouldn’t arrive until the weekend she’d been disappointed, but secretly a little relieved. That gave her a little more time. And now he was here after all, and she didn’t feel prepared.

      “Yes, he’s here. And us being so shorthanded. So the chef tells me.” The housekeeper looked at Emma speculatively. “I know it’s not what you’re here for but you might as well pitch in. After all, you need to get the lay of the land and see how things are done around here. So…do you mind working with Chef Henri?”

      “No. No, of course not.”

      Emma was amenable but she wondered how Chef Henri would take it. When she’d met the man the night before she’d had the distinct impression he would have liked to see her filleted along with the fish course. Actually, she’d come face to face with a wall of hostility from most of the kitchen staff. It had been evident right away that they greatly resented that she’d been chosen as chef to the coronation over someone home-grown.

      “You look a little tired,” Myrna Luk was saying. “And Dr Will filled me in on your situation. Sure you’re up to this?”

      “Oh, absolutely.”

      Regardless of how she felt, she had to be up to it. After all, this was the housekeeper, the only person on the staff who had actually been nice to her so far, asking for help. If she couldn’t come through for her, she might as well give up and go home.

      “How are you getting on?” Myrna asked, looking her over a bit more closely.

      Emma hesitated, tempted to tell her the truth—that the staff was treating her like a redheaded stepchild. But what, after all, was that going to get her—except more antagonism from them? Anyway, this was her job and she had to take care of it herself.

      “Quite fine, thank you.”

      “Wonderful. Then I’ll tell Chef Henri that you’re willing.”

      “Yes.”

      Willing, surely. But able? That remained to be seen.

      Though she was refreshed from the best sleep she’d had in a week, she still hadn’t gone over what had happened that morning and come to terms with it. That would have to come later. Right now, she needed to find that darn elevator, or maybe some stairs, and get to the kitchen.

      She turned a corner and there it was. The ancient elevator. Sighing with relief, she hurried up and pushed the button. The elevator lumbered toward her with much creaking and clashing of metal against metal, giving her qualms. And then the doors slid open.

      “Oh, no!”

      The reaction slipped out before she could stop it, for there stood the very man she most wanted to avoid seeing again.

      He didn’t look any happier to see her.

      “Well, come on, get on board,” he said gruffly. “I won’t bite.” One eyebrow rose. “Though I might nibble a little,” he added, mostly to amuse himself.

      But she wasn’t paying any attention to what he was saying. She was staring at him, taking in the royal-blue uniform he was wearing, with gold braid and glistening badges decorating the sleeves, epaulettes and upright collar. Ribbons and medals covered the breast of the short, fitted jacket. A gold-encrusted sabre hung at his side. And suddenly it was clear to her who this man really was.

      She gulped wordlessly. Reaching out, he took her elbow and pulled her aboard. The doors slid closed. And finally she found her tongue.

      “You…you’re the prince.”

      He nodded, barely glancing at her. “Yes. Of course.”

      She raised a hand and covered her mouth for a moment. “I should have known.”

      “Of course you should have. I don’t know why you didn’t.” He punched the ground-floor button to get the elevator moving again, then turned to look down at her. “A relatively bright five-year-old child would have tumbled to the truth right away.”

      Her shock faded as her indignation at his tone asserted itself. He might be the prince, but he was still just as annoying as he had been earlier that day.

      “A relatively bright five-year-old child without a bump on the head from a badly thrown water-polo ball, maybe,” she said defensively. She wasn’t feeling woozy any longer and she wasn’t about to let him bully her, no matter how royal he was. “I was unconscious half the time.”

      “And just clueless the other half, I guess,” he said, looking bemused.

      The arrogance of the man was really galling.

      “I suppose you think your ‘royalness’ is so obvious it sort of shimmers around you for all to see?” she challenged. “Or, better yet, oozes from your pores like…like sweat on a hot day?”

      “Something like that,” he acknowledged calmly. “Most people tumble to it pretty quickly. In fact, it’s hard to hide even when I want to avoid dealing with it.”

      “Poor baby,” she said, still resenting his manner. “I guess that works better with injured people who are half asleep.” Looking at him, she felt a strange emotion she couldn’t identify. It was as though she wanted to prove something to him, but she wasn’t sure what. “And anyway, you know you did your best to fool me,” she added.

      His brows knit together as though he really didn’t know what she was talking about. “I didn’t do a thing.”

      “You told me your name was Monty.”

      “It is.” He shrugged. “I have a lot of names. Some of them are too rude to be spoken to my face, I’m sure.” He glanced at her sideways, his hand on the hilt of his sabre. “Perhaps you’re contemplating one of those right now.”

      You bet I am.

      That was what she would like to say. But it suddenly occurred to her that she was supposed to be working for this man. If she wanted to keep the job of coronation chef, maybe she’d better keep her opinions to herself. So she clamped her mouth shut, took a deep breath, and looked away, trying hard to calm down.

      The elevator ground to a halt and the doors slid open laboriously. She moved to step forward, hoping to make her escape, but his hand shot out again and caught her elbow.

      “Wait a minute. You’re a woman,” he said, as though that thought had just presented itself to him.

      “That’s a rare ability for insight you have there, Your Highness,” she snapped before she could stop herself. And then she winced. She was going to have to do better than that if she