Romancing The Crown: Leila and Gage

“This is Cade,” said Elena. “Cade Gallagher—my friend and, uh, guardian.”

“Of course.” Lashes lifted; eyes gazed at him, somehow both dark and bright, mysterious as moonlit pools. He had a sudden sensation of leaning slightly off balance, as if his internal gyrocompass had been knocked out of kilter. “And also your brother—but not really.” The dimples flashed. “For that I am glad, because if you were truly Elena’s brother, and she is now my sister, then you would be my brother, as well.” Her laugh was low, a delightful ripple, like water tumbling over pebbles. “And I most certainly do not need any more brothers. Two is quite enough!”

Cade found himself floundering in unfamiliar territory, at least when dealing with a beautiful woman. Not that he considered himself suave—far from it—but he’d never found himself utterly at a loss for words before, either. At least, not since about seventh grade. He was muttering something unintelligible when a discreet cough from Elena reminded him that he was still holding the princess’s hand. He released it…laughed…and felt as awkward and abashed as the twelve-year-old Cade he painfully remembered.

“Are you enjoying the game, Mr. Gallagher? Exciting, is it not? Especially since Tamir is winning.” Her eyes held a gleeful sparkle.

He wondered suddenly if the reason he felt so young was simply because she was, and the thought helped restore him to sanity. That, and a calming sip of his cheroot. “I am, very much,” he drawled, gazing over her head to where the action was taking place now, at the far end of the field. “Especially the horses. That gray stallion of Rashid’s—”

“Oh, but they are all Rashid’s ponies. He raises them, you know, on one of the other islands. Siraj—it is just south of Tamir. Perhaps you would like—”

“Cade raises horses, too,” Elena interrupted. “Arabians.” “Really? But that is wonderful!” In her eagerness and enthusiasm she seemed almost weightless, like a bird, he thought—a blackbird one sudden motion away from taking flight. “How I wish that I could see your horses, Mr. Gallagher.”

“Maybe someday you will,” Cade murmured, and felt a strange little shiver go through him—some sort of primitive warning. He coughed, glanced at Elena and gruffly added, “When you come to Texas to visit your brother.”

And he watched the light go out of the girl’s eyes as if someone had thrown a switch, shutting off all circuits. Her lashes came down and her smile faded. Her body grew still.

“Yes,” she said softly. “Perhaps…” She turned away, one hand going to her forehead. “Oh—I see the play has been stopped. Someone has fallen off. I think now it is safe to get my hat. Please, excuse me—”

Maybe it was because she’d looked so sad—Cade had no other rational explanation for doing what he did. He shot out a hand and caught her by the arm. The feel of her flesh beneath the silk fabric of her blouse sent impulses tingling along the nerves in his fingers as he gruffly said, “Here—I’ll get it.”

With that, he strode past her down the slope, stepped over the low barrier and scooped what was left of the hat out of the trampled grass. Grimly ignoring the smattering of applause from nearby spectators, he whacked the hat once against his thigh, then retraced his steps to where Elena and the princess were waiting for him under the trees.

“There you go,” he said as he handed the hat over to its owner. “For what it’s worth. Looks in pretty bad shape.”

“It is only a hat,” Leila said, smiling but without a trace of the sparkle that had lit her eyes before. Cade was conscious of a vague disappointment. It was like watching the sun set without colors. “It is not important. But it was very kind of you to retrieve it for me. Thank you.

“Well—” She looked quickly, almost guiltily, around. “I must go now. Someone will be looking for me. Elena, I am so glad to have had a chance to see and talk to you. And Mr. Gallagher, it was very nice meeting you. Thank you…goodbye….” Cade watched her disappear into the crowd like a doe in dense forest.

“Cade,” Elena said in a warning tone, “I mean it—she’s absolutely off-limits.” He pulled his gaze back to her, covering the effort it cost him with a snort and a wry smile. “Hey, she’s too young for me. Besides,” he added after a moment’s contemplation of the end of his cigar, “she’s not really my type.”

Elena gave a derisive hoot—not very ladylike, but pure Texas. “Oh, yeah, I know all about your ‘type.’ Whatever happened to that Dallas Cowboys cheerleader, by the way?”

“She was a nice girl,” Cade said with a small, reminiscent smile. “We…wanted different things, is all. She was thinkin’ in terms of wedding bells and baby carriages, while I—”

“I know what you were thinkin’ about,” Elena said dryly. “The same thing you’re thinking right now, which is absolutely out of the question. You promise me, Cade—”

Laughing, he held up both hands in a gesture of surrender. “Hey—you’ve got nothing to worry about. Like I said earlier, and like I told your friend Kitty last night—where is she, by the way? Haven’t seen her around this morning.” He looked around furtively, half expecting to see a fuzzy brown head bobbing through the crowd, to hear that gawdawful, “Yoo-hoo!”

Elena grinned. “I think maybe she overdid a bit on the rich food last night. She was planning on taking it easy this morning, getting all rested up for this evening’s festivities.”

Cade made a sound somewhere between a groan and a sigh.

Leila ran across the courtyard, the patterned tiles smooth and warm under her bare feet. She had taken her boots off in her chambers, but had found it impossible to stay there. She felt too stirred, too restless to stay indoors—which admittedly was not an uncommon way for Leila to feel.

But this was different. Today the pounding of her heartbeat was only an echo of the thunder of horses’ hoofbeats. The breeze from the sea tugged gently at her hair, but she longed to feel it whipping in the wind as she raced wild and abandoned across fields without boundaries. Today, every flower and tree and shrub in the gardens, every fountain and vine-draped arch and pillar, seemed like the bars of a prison to her. A very beautiful prison, it was true, but a prison nonetheless.

And something else. Today as she ran, she thought of the way a garden feels when it rains—a contradiction of freshness and excitement and anticipation, but also a bit of gloom and sadness, a yearning for the sun’s familiar warmth. And all of her insides seemed to quiver like the leaves of flowers and shrubs and trees when the raindrops hit them.

The palace gardens were vast, and Leila knew every inch of them, including hidden nooks and bowers where she occasionally sought refuge from turbulent thoughts like these. Today, though, it wasn’t refuge she wanted. After this morning, she very much needed to confront those disturbing thoughts, face them head-on, and then, if at all possible, decide what she was going to do about them. For this she had chosen a spot she was almost certain would be empty at that hour—the private terrace adjacent to the family’s quarters where she sometimes took breakfast with her sisters, or her mother and her mother’s faithful servant, Salma, who had once been Leila’s nanny. The terrace faced northeast and overlooked the sea. Now, approaching midday, it would be shaded, with a nice breeze from the sea to cool her burning cheeks while the gentle trickle of the fountain and the heady scent of roses would, she desperately hoped, help to calm her fevered thoughts.

Never had Leila so desired to be alone with those thoughts! Oh, such humiliating, embarrassing thoughts. And so she was dismayed to find, as she plunged headlong through the arched portal that was the garden entrance to her retreat, that someone was there before her.

Worse, a stranger. A woman with drab brown hair—rather frizzy—was sitting in a chair beside the fountain, reading a paperback book.

Leila’s headlong plunge had already taken her several steps onto the terrace before she realized it was already occupied. She lurched to a halt, arms flung wide, body tilted forward, and uttered a soft, disappointed, “Oh!”

The woman quickly set aside her book, a romantic novel, by the looks of the cover. She smiled, and Leila recognized her then—the woman who had been talking with Cade Gallagher during the banquet the night before. She felt a jolt of excitement, then an alarming twinge of jealousy. But it was fleeting. The woman wasn’t very pretty, and besides, Leila told herself with a mental sniff, she’s old. At least forty.

“I’m sorry,” the woman said, and Leila noticed that she had an accent just like Elena’s. “Gee, I hope I’m not where I shouldn’t be. I was looking for someplace cool and quiet, and…well, the roses just smelled so good….”

“No, no, it is quite all right.” Leila had been raised to be polite to her elders. She advanced, hand outstretched. “I am Leila Kamal. Please—do not get up.”

In spite of Leila’s assurance, the woman half rose and at the same time managed to execute an awkward sort of curtsey. “I’m Kitty.” And oddly, it was she who sounded out of breath, though it was Leila who had been running. “Elena’s friend.”

“Yes, I saw you last night at the banquet. You were talking with Mr. Gallagher.” Leila spoke slowly, absently. An idea was beginning to take shape in her head.

“That’s right!” Kitty looked pleased, perhaps flattered that Leila had noticed her. Then her pleasure changed to concern. “My, but you look warm. Would you like something cold to drink? There’s a lot more here than I’ll ever need.” She indicated a water-beaded pitcher and several glasses sitting on a tray on the glass-topped table an arm’s length away. “It’s some kind of fruit juice, I think—got a little bit of a bite to it. It’s not quite up to sweet tea, but it’s pretty good.”

“Thank you,” Leila said with an absent sigh, then gave the plain woman a friendly smile. “I have been watching the polo match. You do not care for polo?”

She sat down in a chair beside the table and only then realized she was still holding what was left of her hat. She glanced at it, frowning.

“Well, you know, it’s not really my sport. I’m more a Dallas Cowboys fan,” Kitty began apologetically, then gave a gasp of dismay as she, too, noticed Leila’s hat. “Oh, my goodness, what in the world happened? That’s a real shame.”

Leila shrugged and placed it on the tabletop. “The wind blew it onto the field and the horses trampled it,” she explained matter-of-factly as she poured herself a glass of the blend of pomegranate and grape juices. She sipped, and found it nicely chilled and just slightly fermented. She lowered her lashes, veiling her eyes, and casually added, “Elena’s friend—Mr. Gallagher—got it back for me.”

Kitty chuckled and rolled her eyes. “Oh yeah, that sounds like something Cade would do.”

Leila flashed her a look of what she hoped was only polite interest. “You know this Mr. Gallagher—Cade—very well?”

“Not real well, no—mostly through Elena.” But then Kitty gave a little smile and sort of waggled her shoulders as she settled back in her chair, reminding Leila so much of her favorite source of gossip, Nargis, that she almost laughed out loud. “He is a good-lookin’ man, though, isn’t he?”

“He is handsome,” Leila said in a considering tone, then made a brushing-aside gesture with her hand as she picked up her glass. “But surely such a handsome man must be married.”

Kitty shook her head, looking gleeful. “Uh-uh—he’s not.”

Leila glanced at her in surprise. “Really? Then…surely, someone special—a girlfriend?”

“Not that I know of.” The expression on Kitty’s face reminded Leila now of the palace cats—she all but purred. “Lots of girls, I imagine, but, nope—no one in particular. Elena would have told me if there was.”

“But that seems very strange,” Leila said, frowning. “What do you suppose is the reason? There must be some reason why a man of his age—he is what, thirty?”

“Thirty-six,” Kitty promptly supplied. “I know, because Elena told me he’s six years older than she is.” Thirty-six…ten years older than I am. But that is good—

Startled by the thought, Leila guiltily slammed it into a drawer, hidden far away in the back of her mind.

“Perhaps,” said Leila with a sniff, “he is not a good man.”

“Cade?” The other woman looked taken aback, even mildly affronted. Then she chuckled. “I’m not sure how you mean that, honey, but if you mean ‘good’ like in decent, honorable—that sort of thing—then I can pretty much tell you there’s probably not a better man alive. Cade Gallagher is so honest it’s scary. Oh, I hear he’s tough when it comes to business, but judging from the way I’ve seen him with Elena—” She interrupted herself to lean forward like a conspirator. “His parents are dead, you know, just like Elena’s—they’re all the family each other’s got.” She sat back with a little wave of her hand. “Anyway, as far as I can see, the man’s got a heart like a marshmallow.”

“Marsh…mallow?” The word was unfamiliar to Leila.

Kitty laughed. “It’s a kind of candy—real soft and gooey, you know? And sweet.”

Sweet? Leila chewed doubtfully on her lower lip. “Sweet” was not a word she had ever heard applied to a man before. Certainly not to one as rugged-looking as Cade Gallagher.

“Well,” said Kitty with an air of finality, “I know Elena thinks the world of him—that’s enough for me.”

And, Leila realized suddenly, I think Elena thinks the world of you, too. She must, to have invited the woman to her wedding. This woman—Kitty—seemed like a kind person. A bit of a gossip, maybe, but Leila saw no real harm in that. The important thing was, she was Elena’s friend. Elena trusted her.

Leila took a deep breath and made a decision. She sat forward, hands earnestly clasped. “Please—tell me about America. What is it like, between men and women? How is it when they are…” she waved a hand in a circular motion, searching for the word. “I am sorry, I do not know—”

“You mean, dating?”

“Yes.” Leila let out a breath. “Dating.” She had learned a little about the customs of Europe and England from classmates in boarding school, but what she knew of America came mostly from movies and very old television programs, and she was, she feared, badly out-of-date. “You must understand, here we have no such thing. What is it like? How, exactly, is it done?” And without her realizing it, her heart had begun to beat faster.

“What’s it like?” Kitty gave a dry little laugh. “Not that I’ve had much personal experience lately, you understand, but from what I can recall, it can be anything from fun and exciting to downright awful. As for how it’s done—honey, there’ve been about a bazillion books and magazine articles devoted to that subject.”

“Oh, but please,” Leila cried, “you must tell me. For example, must the man always be the one to…to…” Frustrated, she paused to frown and gnaw at her lip. She was not accustomed to feeling so awkward, and she did not like it one bit.

“Make the first move?” Kitty said kindly.

“The first move—yes!” Leila was almost laughing with relief. “Must the woman always wait for the man to do it? Or may the woman be the first one to speak?”

Kitty gave a merry laugh. “I guess that depends.”

“On what?” She leaned forward, intent with purpose now.

“Oh, well…on your generation, for one thing. Now, my generation, they’re pretty much stuck on the ‘leave it to the guy to make the first move’ tradition. Men my age seem to feel threatened by pushy women, for some reason.” She sighed.

Leila wasn’t exactly sure what was meant by “pushy women,” but she forged on, eager to get to what she really wanted to know. Breathlessly, she asked, “And…Mr. Gallagher?”

It was hard to imagine such a man feeling threatened by anything, much less a mere woman.

“Cade?” Kitty had that look again, the one that made Leila think of the woman’s animal namesake. She leaned forward as if she were about to reveal a great secret. “Just between you and me, I think that man focuses entirely too much on business. I think maybe if a woman wanted to get his attention, she might have to be a little bit pushy.”

“Pushy?” Leila frowned. That word again. The pictures it brought to her mind didn’t seem appealing to her.

“You know,” Kitty said, lifting one shoulder just slightly. “Give him a little…nudge in the right direction. A push.”

“Ah,” said Leila, feeling as if a light had come on in her head, “you mean, not a real push, but a suggestion. And this is…permissible in America?”

“I don’t know about all of America, but in Texas it is.”

“Thank you,” Leila breathed. “That is what I wanted to know.” She placed her glass on the table and rose to leave, preoccupied and just in time remembering her manners. Turning back to Kitty, she said automatically, “It was very nice talking with you. I hope I may see you tonight at the reception?”

“Oh,” said Kitty, looking solemn, “you can count on it.”

As Leila was turning away, she saw the other woman pick up the paperback book she had laid aside when Leila interrupted her. She thought it must not be a romance novel after all, but perhaps a very funny one instead. Because, as she found her place and began to read, Kitty was laughing to herself, and the smile on her face stretched from one ear to the other.

Chapter 3

The hum and clatter of sound from the reception hall receded as Cade strolled deeper into the gardens, and was gradually usurped by the quieter conversation of the fountains. The music followed him, though, carried on the soft evening air like a sweet-scented breeze. At least it was western music tonight. Not country western, that would have been too much to hope for—but the classical stuff, something vaguely familiar to him. Mozart, he guessed, or maybe it was Beethoven. He never could keep those guys straight.

He had the gardens to himself tonight. Everyone seemed to be inside the grand ballroom, nibbling fruits and exotic Middle Eastern tidbits and awaiting the arrival of the king of Montebello and his entourage, including the recently restored crown prince, Lucas, who not so long ago had been all but given up for dead. Elena had filled him in on that story, and thinking of it now, Cade could only shake his head. The whole thing sounded like something out of a spy novel to him.

He’d pay his own respects to the honored guests before the night was over, of course; he owed that much to Elena. But for now, he was seizing the opportunity for a much needed breath of fresh air. And some space—oh, yeah, that more than anything. There was something about this damned island, beautiful as it was, that gave him claustrophobia. He’d be glad when all the hoopla was over and he could get down to doing business with the old sheik. Hassan and Elena were postponing their honeymoon long enough to give him the intro he needed to smooth the way, but he was confident the negotiations would be easy sailing for all concerned.

As he stepped though the rose-covered arch that led to the promenade where yesterday he’d stood and listened to that strangely sinister conversation, he paused once again to light one of his cherished cheroots. This time, though, he didn’t linger there but continued on down the tiled walkway, which was arrow-straight and flanked on both sides by rows of intricately carved columns and lit at regular intervals by torches. At the far end, through another arched portal, he could see where it opened out finally onto a cliff-top terrace overlooking the sea. Through the portal the sky still glowed with the last wash of sunset, and it seemed to Cade like the gateway to paradise.

He walked toward his destination slowly and with a pleasant sense of anticipation, savoring the taste of the cigar, enjoying the textures of the night and his aloneness in it, feeling the breeze curl around his shoulders like a cloak…stir through his hair like caressing fingers…

And something shivered down his spine. He’d felt something…something that wasn’t really a touch. Heard something that wasn’t quite a sound. And knew with absolute certainty that he wasn’t alone in the promenade any longer.

He halted…turned. Froze. His heart dropped into his shoes.

Halfway between the archway and where he stood the figure of a woman paused…hovered…then once again moved slowly toward him. Tonight, she wore an evening gown of a delicate yellow-gold, something shimmery that seemed to glow in the light of the torches like a small pale sun. It had a high neck and long, flowing sleeves, a bodice that clung and skirts that swirled around her legs so that she seemed to float, disconnected from the ground, like a wraith or a figment of his imagination. Except that he knew she was only too real.

Strands of long black hair, teased by the same wind that made a plaything of her skirts, coiled around her shoulders and lay like a shadow across one breast. Something glittered in the twist of braids on top of her head…caught an elusive source of light and winked. He couldn’t see her features in that purple dusk, but he’d known at once who she was. In a strange way, her body, the way she moved, seemed already familiar to him.

Leila almost lost her courage. The tall figure silhouetted against the evening sky and framed by gold-washed pillars seemed so forbidding, utterly unapproachable, like a sentinel guarding the gates of Heaven. But, oh, she thought as her heartbeat pattered deliriously in her throat, how commanding he looked in his evening clothes—how elegant, even regal.

And yet—the notion came to her suddenly, the way such insights often did to Leila—as elegant and at ease as he appeared, there was something about the formal dress that didn’t suit him. As if his appearance of ease went no deeper than his skin…as if it were his soul that was being suffocated.

Almost…almost, she turned to run away, to leave him there with his solitude. For uncounted seconds she hovered, balanced like a bird on a swaying branch, balanced, she was even in that moment aware, between two futures for herself…two very different paths. One path was familiar to her, its destination dismally certain. The other was a complete unknown, veiled in darkness, and she had no way of knowing whether it might lead her to the freedom she so desired…or disaster.

She hovered, her heart beating faster, harder, and then, somehow, she was moving forward again, moving toward that imposing figure in evening clothes. She felt a strange sense of inevitability as the figure loomed larger, as she drew closer and closer to the American named Cade Gallagher. And it occurred to her to wonder if she had ever had a choice at all.

They were only a few feet apart now, close enough that one or the other must speak. But Cade only looked at her and went on quietly smoking…something too brown to be a cigarette, too slender to be a cigar. Reminding herself what Kitty had said, that in America—in Texas—it was permissible for a woman to speak first, Leila summoned all her courage and sent up a small prayer.

“Good evening—it is Mr. Gallagher, is it not?” She kept her voice low to hide the tremors in it. “May I call you Cade?”

“I wish you would.” His voice was a husky drawl that shivered her skin as if someone had lightly touched her all over. He gave a bow, and she wondered if he might be mocking her. “Good evening, Princess—or is it, ‘Your Highness’?”

“If I am to call you Cade, then you must call me Leila.” She was glad for the shadowy torchlight that hid the blush she could feel burning in her cheeks. On the other hand, she hoped he would see the dimples there, and as she joined him, she smiled and tilted her face toward him and the light.

He waited for her to reach him, then turned so that they walked on together toward the terrace, side by side. Leila’s heart was beating so hard she thought he must hear it.

After a moment he glanced down at her and said, “Shouldn’t you be at the royal reception?”