Page 32 of American Prince (New Camelot Trilogy 2)
The day before I left, I went looking for the source of my torment. The valley had been quiet and his platoon was on base, and even though I knew I might see him tonight at the going away party they were throwing me and my guys, I wanted to see him now, and alone.
I didn’t know what I was going to say. To him, I was just the guy whose sister he’d fucked last year. Just the troublemaker he’d once pinned against a wall. Did I even want him to realize there was anything more on my end?
It was spring again, with that strange brand of chill that lingered in corners and shady spots and retreated under the sun, only to return the moment the light began to wane. I found Colchester in the yard where we’d first met, wearing a tan T-shirt and combat pants, and talking to a tall man in a suit who I’d never seen before. The man was white and dark-haired and attractive in an angular sort of way, and he seemed to be ten or so years older than us.
I was about to turn away when I saw that Colchester was occupied, but he threw back his head and laughed—laughed! He hardly ever did that!—at what the stranger had said, and the sound was so rich and warm that it melted me on the spot. The T-shirt clung to his shoulders and back, showed off the narrow lines of his hips as it tucked neatly into his pants, and I allowed myself a lingering gaze on his ass and legs—all tight, tempting muscle. The want I felt, I felt it on a cellular level. Like it had fused itself to my DNA.
“Embry!” Colchester said, catching sight of me and beckoning me over.
I never could resist it when he said my first name. I went to him.
“This is Merlin Rhys.” Colchester introduced us, and I shook hands with the man in the suit. “He’s here doing some work on the Queen’s behalf. It looks like the Brits will be joining us soon.”
“Very soon,” Merlin said as our hands separated. “I expect in three months or so.” I noted that his posh accent was very slightly betrayed by his tapped rs—Welsh, perhaps.
“I’m Lieutenant Embry Moore,” I said. “It’s a pleasure.”
“Vivienne Moore’s son, right?” Merlin asked.
I didn’t bother hiding my surprise. “That’s right.”
“I keep up with American politics,” he explained. “She gave a rather moving speech about having a deployed son last month, didn’t she?”
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. She did give that speech and to much fanfare. While I didn’t doubt that some of her sentiments were genuine, I also didn’t doubt that she displayed those sentiments in the most politically advantageous way possible. But I couldn’t say all that to this guy, so I just said, “Yes. She did.”
Merlin glanced down at his shoes—dress shoes with mud clinging to the shiny sides—and he kept his eyes there as he spoke. “And how is your aunt Nimue?”
“You know Nimue?”
He smiled and looked at me, and I recognized that look. I imagined I wore it a lot around Colchester. “Yes,” he said softly. “I know her.”
“Well,” I said, trying to smother my intense curiosity, “she had a baby a few months ago. A little boy. Lyr.”
“Lyr,” he said, his voice cradling the word. “A Welsh name. It means ‘from the sea.’”
“She lives in Seattle. She’s kind of a literal person.”
He laughed at that. “She is, isn’t she?”
“How do you two—”
He waved a hand. “It’s a long story, and fittingly enough, it involves your mother being rather angry with me. I’ll tell it to you someday. For now though, I should get on. Lieutenant Colchester, I hope very much we’ll be in touch soon. Lieutenant Moore, it was lovely to meet you and please tell your family hello from me. Or perhaps just your aunt—I don’t think Vivienne wants anything from me other than a goodbye.”
He shook our hands and left, his carefully tailored suit and precise gait so out of place in our grimy pre-fab Army base that I couldn’t hel
p but shake my head. “What did he want with you?” I asked Colchester.
Colchester shrugged those powerful shoulders. “No idea, but he asked the captain for me by name.” He frowned. “I hope I’m not in trouble.”
“Why would you be in trouble? You’re the hero, everybody’s golden boy.”
“Oh stop.”
“I mean it. I hope we all make it into your memoir when it comes out.”
“I’m not writing a memoir.”
“You will before you run for office,” I said.
