The Rebel Prince. Raye Morgan

made a head gesture in a direction she knew was opposite of where she was going and his grip tightened on her elbow.

      “Come with me,” he said abruptly, making it an order.

      She dug in her heels, thinking fast. She didn’t much like orders. “Wait! I can’t. I have to get to the kitchen.”

      “Not yet. I need you.”

      “You what?” Her breathless gasp of surprise was soft, but she knew he’d heard it.

      “I need you,” he said firmly. “Oh, don’t look so shocked. I’m not planning to throw you into the hay and have my way with you. I need you for something a bit more mundane than that.”

      She felt color rushing into her cheeks and she silently begged it to stop. Here she was, formless and stodgy in her chef’s whites. No makeup, no stiletto heels. Hardly the picture of the femme fatale he was undoubtedly used to. The likelihood that he would have any carnal interest in her was remote at best. To have him think she was hysterically defending her virtue was humiliating.

      “Well, what if I don’t want to go with you?” she said in hopes of deflecting his attention from her blush.

      “Too bad.”

      “What?”

      Amusement sparkled in his eyes. He was certainly enjoying this. And that only made her more determined to resist him.

      “I’m the prince, remember? And we’re in the castle. My orders take precedence. It’s that old pesky divine rights thing.”

      Her jaw jutted out. Despite her embarrassment, she couldn’t let that pass.

      “Over my free will? Never!”

      Exasperation filled his face.

      “Hey, call out the historians. Someone will write a book about you and your courageous principles.” His eyes glittered sardonically. “But in the meantime, Emma Valentine, you’re coming with me.”