And then I realize I’ve been staring at him for several beats, and when I lift my gaze back to his face, he’s watching me, and I realize that he may not have understood that I was mentally composing a text message to my best friend about how disappointing he is.
In fact, he might think—
I can’t even finish the thought before Seb is letting go of the bedpost and moving toward me with the same grace I’d admired earlier. There’s no time to admire now, however, as he immediately swoops down on me, his lips meeting mine.
Chapter 11
He must take my gasp of surprise for an invitation because he is full-on kissing me immediately. No lead-up, no questioning, just a royal tongue in my mouth, and oh my god.
I place both hands on his chest and shove hard.
Seb lets me go immediately, stumbling back a few steps, his brow furrowed. “What?” he asks, and I stand there, gaping, the taste of whiskey—which, turns out, I really don’t like—still stinging in my mouth.
“You kissed me,” I tell him, and he nods, even as he keeps looking at me like I’m speaking another language.
“I did . . . yeah,” he says slowly. “Because you were looking at me in such a way that seemed to indicate you’d be amenable to such a thing.”
I am shocked and still a little jet-lagged, so it takes me a second to work out that sentence, and when I do, my face heats up.
“I was not amenable,” I assure him, wrapping my little blanket cape more tightly around myself. “I was looking at you and thinking you weren’t really what I expected.”
That seems to take some of the wind out of his sails. Backing up a few more steps, he sits heavily on the edge of the bed, the whiskey bottle still dangling from one hand. He hadn’t even put it down to kiss me.
“Not. What you. Expected,” he says, shoulders slumping, and for a second, I feel kind of bad. I didn’t mean to hurt his feelings.
“You’re still really good-looking if it’s any consolation,” I offer up, and he raises his head, smiling a little.
“It is, thanks.” Then he sighs again before bringing the bottle back to his lips.
“Sorry,” he says once he’s finished, and wow, that bottle is a lot emptier than it was a few minutes ago. His eyes are starting to look hazy, too, not quite as bright as they struggle to focus on my face. “I only . . . that interview. With your sodding boyfriend.”
I stare at him. “Michael?” I squeak. Somehow, it never occurred to me that someone like Seb would actually read that. I understood people who worked for the royal family, people whose job it was to keep an eye on that kind of thing, knowing about it, but the actual prince?
“He said you dumped him to shag me,” Seb goes on, and I would throw my hands up if I wasn’t clutching the blanket so tightly.
“He was lying,” I said, but Seb isn’t really listening.
“Besides,” he adds, “it’s what everyone expects.”
He gestures between the two of us, the bottle wobbling in his hand. “You and me. Alex’s brother, Ellie’s sister. And people bloody love Ellie, so now they bloody love Alex.”
His blue eyes move up and down my body again, and I’m pulling the blanket so tightly around me, it’s a wonder I still have circulation in my arms.
“So maybe people will love you, and if I loved you—well, not loved, exactly, but you get the idea—that would mean they love me.”
He frowns, a trio of creases appearing between his auburn brows. “I said love too many times, I think.”
“People totally love you,” I say. “Maybe not random farmers your friends try to duel, but back home, you’re pretty freaking popular, dude.”
He just shakes his head. “You clearly didn’t do your research, Ellie’s Sister.”
“It’s Daisy,” I remind him, but he just shrugs.
“In any case, I thought we might as well get it over with.” He jerks his head toward the bed then, and this time, it’s not fancy sentence structure or flowery words that have me struggling to process what he just said. It’s shock.
“You came here to . . .” I can’t even finish the sentence because it’s too mortifying, so I just jerk my head toward the bed. “With me? A girl who’s known you for five minutes?”
He blinks at me, and I remember that he’s famous, rich, extremely attractive, and a royal to boot.
“Okay, so the five-minutes thing is probably the norm for you,” I allow, “but for me—wow, you do not have to roll your eyes at me.”
But Seb is not rolling his eyes at me. His eyes are rolling back into his head because he’s passing out.
I watch as Scotland’s most eligible bachelor slides off the edge of my mattress and crumples to the floor.
My very own Sleeping Beauty.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I mutter as I look at the unconscious body slumped on the carpet. He’s over six feet tall and definitely outweighs me, so it’s not like I can help him up. Is there someone I should ring for?
I look around the room, either for a phone or for some kind of old-fashioned bellpull. They have to have someone who deals with this kind of thing, right? Was Glynnis around? Because I do not want to explain to Ellie why Seb was in my bedroom at night.
I’m just about to panic when there’s another knock at the door, this one softer than Seb’s, and for a second, I hover between my bed and the door, not sure what to do.
Then the knock comes again, and I dash to the door, opening it just a crack.
The douche guy from the farm, Miles, is standing in the doorway. He’s changed clothes since I saw him earlier and is wearing jeans and a gray T-shirt now. But he’s standing up so straight and looking at me so coldly that he might as well be wrapped in nine sweaters and maybe some tweed.
“I’m looking for Seb,” he says, lips quirking with irritation. “He’s not in his room, and my inner best friend alarm sensed he might be here, making bad choices.”
I open the door wider, letting Miles take in the fact that the man who’s second in line for the Scottish throne is currently out cold on my floor.
“Ah,” Miles says. “Alarm still functioning, then.”
I have to say, for a guy who just came to a strange girl’s room to find his bestie passed out, Miles is pretty chill about the whole situation. It takes both of us, but we manage to maneuver Seb up off the floor, draping his arms over our shoulders.
“Luckily,” Miles says once Seb is more or less on his feet, “his room isn’t far.”
Patting Seb’s face—okay, patting is a nice way of putting it, it’s basically gentle slapping—Miles says, “Gonna need you to wake up a bit, Seb. Use your feet. One, two, one, two, one in front of the other.”
Miraculously, Seb does as he’s told, and the three of us shuffle out the door.
It’s dim in the corridor, and between the crazy-patterned carpet, the paintings and paneling on the walls, and the doors all being identical, I get a weird sense of vertigo, like I’m in a funhouse. How does anyone find their way around this place?
Also, Miles’s definition of “not far” does not line up with mine. We half carry, half drag Seb down this corridor, then turn into another. At one point, we go through an arched doorway, and the hall we step into looks exactly like the one we just walked down.
“Where are we going?” Seb asks blearily. He slurs it, really, so it’s more “Whuurwegoooin’?” but Miles clearly speaks Drunk Seb.
“Bed, my good man,” he replies. “Your own this time.”
Seb nods slowly. “Solid plan, Monters.”
Just when I think my upper body strength might desert me completely, Miles pauses and opens a door that leads into a chamber a lot bigger than mine, but still a little drabber than I’d expect to see in a castle. The colors are muted burgundies and golds, and I feel like we just stepped back in time or something.
 
; “I could have you thrown into the dungeon for this,” Seb slurs out, but Miles just laughs, patting Seb’s cheek.
“Keep threatening, mate. Maybe one day it’ll actually happen.”
Seb swings his head toward me, his blue eyes hazy. “Would never,” he tells me in what I think he thinks is a whisper. “Can’t do without Monters.”
“Clearly,” I reply, watching as Miles lowers Seb to sit on the edge of the mattress. I wonder how many times he’s done this over the years because even though Seb is just as tall as Miles and probably a fair amount heavier, he pulls off the maneuver smoothly, like he’s very used to it.
Seb flops back onto the bed, feet still on the floor, and heaves a sigh. “I did it again, didn’t I?” he asks the canopy, and Miles pats his leg.
“Not as bad as usual. No one got punched, no arrests, not even a camera phone picture.”
“Oh, I took one as we were walking down the hall. Was I not supposed to?” I say, widening my eyes, and Miles shoots me a dirty look. Honestly, how does he do that thing with his mouth where it’s like his face eats his lips in sheer disdain? Is there a course in that at whatever fancy boarding school they go to?
“That was a joke,” I tell him. “We colonists do that sometimes.”
I’m clearly not worth Miles’s time because he turns away, looking back at Seb.
“Sleep it off,” he says, and Seb nods as though that’s a sensible idea.
“Bed,” he mutters, sinking back down. “Bedfordshire.”
“Even so,” Miles says, and after a second, Seb’s eyes drift closed.
I’m just about to back up from the bed and start heading for the door when Seb suddenly sits up slightly, eyes popping open. “Ellie’s Sister!” he calls, and I sigh, waving one hand.
“Daisy,” I remind him, but he just fixes his bleary blue eyes on me. “Ellie’s Sister,” he says. “I’m sorry. About the part where I kissed you and suggested we shag. It was ungallant and . . .” He struggles, lifting one hand in the air and pointing, like the word he’s looking for is right in front of him.
“Inappropriate,” I supply, my face flaming. Miles isn’t looking at me, but I’m pretty sure I can actually hear him creaking, he stiffens up so much. “Also gross and kind of sexist.”
“All those things,” Seb admits on a sigh. Then his eyes slide closed again, and Scotland’s most eligible bachelor is soon snoring on his fancy bedspread.
Miles backs up from the bed slowly, jerking his head to indicate I should follow. Once we’ve exited the room, Miles carefully and quietly shuts the door behind us, and then we’re standing there in the dim hallway. It’s quiet in the castle, the only light coming from the sconces lining the walls.
“Well, that was fun,” I start to say, but Miles is looking somewhere above my head, a muscle ticking in his jaw.
Then his eyes meet mine. “So,” he says. “Did that go as you’d hoped?”
Chapter 12
I stare at him, so shocked I actually make a noise, this sort of huhngh? sound that’s way too loud in the quiet hallway. When I can actually find my voice again, it’s to squawk out, “Did you miss the part where he was in my room? Like, he came there himself. He just showed up like a posh vampire I accidentally invited in, then couldn’t make leave.”
Miles frowns, and I roll my eyes.
“Look at me.” I spread my arms out to both sides, letting Miles take in the insanity of what I’m wearing. “Is this what girls usually wear to seduce princes in Scotland? I mean, I know it’s cold here, and maybe after years of an all-boys school those of you who are straight aren’t all that picky, so I guess it’s possible forty-seven layers of pajamas are a real turn-on.”
By now, Miles has pulled himself up so straight and tall that I think he might actually be creaking. His arms are down at his sides, chin lifted, and I don’t know if they teach this type of arrogance at whatever fancy school he goes to with Seb, but if they do, he’s clearly aced his How to Be a Total Dick class.
“Honestly, I was giving you points for originality,” he says, one corner of his mouth quirking in a near smirk. He nods at my plaid pants. “And for staying on theme.”
I snort. “Are you this paranoid about every girl who comes into Seb’s orbit?” I ask. And then something occurs to me.
Dropping my arms and my attitude, I lean closer to him. “Wait . . . are you into Seb?”
That actually seems to surprise some of the permafrost right off him, because Miles blinks and takes a step back, looking—for just a second—like an actual teenage boy and not someone about to order a beheading.
“Into . . . no.” He shakes his head, and ah, there it is, the crusty layer reforming itself.
“No,” he repeats, pushing his shoulders back a little. “I’m not jealous. I just don’t want to see Seb dragged into your particular scheme.”
Parting my lips, I shake my head, totally confused. “I have no idea—” I start, and then I remember what Seb said in my room.
About Michael.
About that stupid interview.
“Ohhhhh my god,” I say, putting my hands on either side of my head. “You give me crap for knowing gossip, but you guys are, like, drooling over TMZ?”
He has the grace to look just a little bit chagrined, but he lifts his chin and goes for haughty again.
“You’re hardly the first girl to throw over one boy and set her cap for Seb,” he says, and I would absolutely mock him for saying something like “set her cap,” but he’s still going. “And that’s the last thing he needs right now.”
“Why?” I ask. “I mean, trust me, I’m not interested in Seb no matter what the internet told you, but why would me and Seb be such a disastrous thing?”
When he doesn’t answer, I press a hand to my chest, gasping with faux shock. “Is it because I’m . . . American?”
Miles scowls.
“Or wait, it’s because I don’t have a nickname, isn’t it?” I give an exaggerated frown. “Maybe one day, I, too, can have a bevy of stupid things people call me instead of my own name, Monters, but alas, I am nickname deficient.” Sighing, I let my shoulders rise and fall, and now Miles rolls his eyes at me.
“Just stay away from him,” he says, and honestly, I’d take Spiffy and Dons and their stupid kilts and dancing over this jerk any day.
“Maybe tell him to stay away from me. And I’ll find my way back to my room on my own,” I reply before marching down the hallway in what I think is the general direction of my room.
He doesn’t follow, thank goodness, and as I stomp past hall tables and portraits and one truly enormous clock, I try to get my temper under control. But seriously, who does that guy think he is? He doesn’t even know me, but one stupid interview with my stupid ex-boyfriend has him convinced I’m scheming to land a prince for myself. Which . . . no thank you. Ellie can do all the ribbon cutting she wants, I’m gonna take a hard pass on the royal life.
And seriously, if he’s been Seb’s friend for so long, doesn’t he know his friend is a disaster of a human? Why not talk to him?
Unless that’s treason?
Maybe that’s treason.
My feet touch a stone floor, cold even through my socks, and I stop, suddenly looking around me. I’m in another hallway, this one lined with . . . I don’t remember seeing this part of the castle before.
I turn around, looking behind me, trying to remember if I’d made a turn anywhere while I’d been busy arguing with Miles Montgomery in my mind, but no, apparently I was too angry to notice my surroundings.
Aaaaand I’m lost.
Like. Really lost.
Which is stupid because this is a house, not the freaking Amazon rain forest, but it’s a really big house, and it’s filled with more hallways and rooms than I’d accounted for.
Okay. We didn’t take any stairs going from my room to Seb’s
, so maybe I’m at least on the right floor? Unless the hallways slope and I didn’t notice.
Ugh.
I tuck the blanket a little more tightly around me and start heading back the way I came. I’m not someone who’s easily spooked, but this is all just a liiiiiitttttle too Gothic for me, swanning around the dark halls of a castle at night. Plus, I’d also dealt with having a charming scoundrel in my room, and a fight with a stuck-up snob.
Not even a full two days into my trip, and I was already going full Jane Austen.
There’s a lamp on one of the nearby hall tables, and I walk over to it, deciding that some light might help me get my bearings. As I flip it on, something behind the painting hanging above the lamp catches my eye.
It’s . . . the hilt of a knife?
Maybe you can resist pulling out what appears to be a dagger from a little leather holster hidden behind a painting, but I’m not that strong.
The metal is cold when I draw out the knife, and sure enough, it’s a short, sharp dagger, just . . . strapped to the wall. Are castles more dangerous than I thought? Gotta arm yourself just to walk down a corridor?
“It’s for the painting.”
I whirl around, the little knife still in my hand. It’s Miles, of course, standing in the doorway with his hands clasped behind his back.
I look back at the blade. “The painting needs a dagger?” I ask. “Why? In case it gets in street fights with the other art?”
To my surprise, Miles actually cracks a smile. Okay, it’s not so much a smile as a tiny lifting of one corner of his mouth, but given that I’ve barely seen anything from him other than contempt and disdain, it’s close enough.
“In case there’s a fire,” he says, walking a little farther into the room, “someone can slash the painting out of the frame quickly and carry it to safety.”