Page 9 of The Unlikely Spare
My mouth has a bitter taste in it as I stride away. Time with the Preston-Alexanders is always like this, a masterclass inweaponized politeness. I keep showing up when they invite me because blood is supposedly thicker than water.
Although, in our case, it’s probably more like mercury. Elegant, expensive, and slightly toxic after prolonged exposure.
And I haven’t even interacted with my mother yet. She won’t arrive until tomorrow after the hunt, just in time for the ball.
I’m midway across the Great Hall when a clattering sound snaps my attention away from contemplating the toxicity in my gene pool.
Two footmen are attempting to relocate a massive suit of armor—a fifteenth-century monstrosity that family legend claims belonged to an Alexander who fought alongside Henry V, but more likely belonged to an ancestor who simply had deep pockets. The younger footman, who looks about twelve, has his arms wrapped around the breastplate while the older man wrestles with the lower half.
The entire ensemble wobbles dangerously.
“Careful with that,” I call, already moving toward them.
The younger footman turns toward my voice, his eyes widening when he sees me. His grip falters, and the armor starts to tilt.
I lunge forward instinctively, my hands outstretched.
But I barely make it two strides forward before something large and solid barrels into my side. The impact drives the air from my lungs in an undignified whoosh. Strong arms wrap around me, yanking me sideways, my Italian leather shoes skidding across marble as I’m relocated against my will. The suit of armor topples onto the marble floor with an apocalyptic crash, sounding like some sort of medieval percussion section gone rogue.
But I don’t pay much attention to the destruction as my face is currently mashed rather inelegantly against a chest that appears to have been carved from granite and then upholsteredin soft wool. The suit fabric might be soft, but everything underneath it suggests its owner moonlights as a mountain range.
The arms encircling me are like steel cables, and I’m engulfed in a cloud of scent—pine, like this creature has been wrestling evergreens, mixed with something spiced and dark that makes my pulse skip in a thoroughly inconvenient way.
Then reality snaps back into focus.
“What the bloody hell?”
I push against my assailant, trying to regain my balance and my dignity.
But my attacker—savior?—isn’t giving me up easily.
I struggle against the vice-like grip, and the arms around me loosen gradually, as if whoever is attached to them is calculating risks before each millimeter of release.
I shove at the wall of muscle again, and this time succeed in creating enough space to pull back so I can lock eyes with my overzealous rescuer.
When I do, I find myself looking up—actually up, which rarely happens at my six-foot-two-inch height—into the most serious pair of gray eyes I’ve ever encountered.
The man attached to those eyes is built like a medieval battering ram given human form and a gym membership. All broad shoulders cutting down to a lean torso, with the kind of proportions that suggest God was showing off when he made this one. Close-cropped auburn hair catches the light from the chandeliers, revealing hints of copper and gold. His face contains a strong jawline and a nose that must have been broken at least once, adding a hint of danger to a face that otherwise might be called handsome.
He looks like he eats small automobiles for breakfast. And judging by his expression, they don’t agree with him.
There’s something unsettling about the way my skin prickles as we stare at each other. I’m sure it’s just the indignity of being manhandled like a wayward toddler.
I draw myself up to my full height, which still requires me to look up at him, dammit all, and summon every ounce of royal hauteur bred into my bones.
“If you could unhand me at your leisure, I would greatly appreciate it.”
The man drops his hands as if I’ve suddenly burst into flames, taking a step backward. The warmth of his grip lingers oddly on my arms.
I straighten my jacket with as much dignity as I can muster, trying to hide the fact that my heart is still hammering.
“And now, would you be so kind as to identify yourself? One typically prefers introductions before being physically relocated across ancestral halls.”
His gray eyes don’t leave mine. “I’m Eoin O’Connell, Your Royal Highness.” His voice is deep with a distinct Irish accent. “I’m your new close protection officer.”
My mind scrambles. “Since when?”
“I joined your security team this morning.”
