market fell silent, watching Philippe. It was difficult to tell quite what the mood was. Wariness and surprise, Caro thought, as she disentangled her breathing and forced her heart back into place. She could relate to that. It was what she felt too. Not that she had any intention of letting Philippe know that.
‘Oh, hello,’ she said, determinedly casual. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘No, that’s my question,’ snapped Philippe, who was gripped with a quite irrational rage at finding Caro safe.
Lefebvre, the First Minister, had spent the morning droning on about the increased threat from environmental activists who were protesting about some pipeline, although why he was telling him Philippe couldn’t imagine. The Dowager Blanche had no doubt already decided what would be done.
He’d found his mind drifting to Caro. He’d been short with her that morning, but it wasn’t actually her fault that he hadn’t been able to sleep. Philippe couldn’t get the image of her in those shabby pyjamas out of his mind. He’d imagined unbuttoning the pyjama top very slowly, slipping his hands beneath it to smooth over silky skin. Imagined hooking his thumbs over the waistband to slide the bottoms down over the warm curve of her hips and down those legs she insisted on hiding away.
This was ridiculous, Philippe had told himself, shifting restlessly. He liked women in silk and sheer, slithery lingerie, nightclothes that were feminine and flirty and fun. He was in a bad way when he was getting turned on by a pair of frumpy pyjamas.
The fact that he needed that damned pillow stuffed between them had left Philippe feeling edgy and irritable and he’d woken in a thoroughly bad mood.
When Lefebvre had finally left, Philippe had gone back to apologise to Caro, only to find the apartments empty. Mademoiselle Cartwright had gone out, the dolt of a butler had informed him when Philippe had established that she wasn’t in the gardens either.
‘She said that she wanted to explore the city. Mademoiselle Cartwright was charming,’ he had added.
Mademoiselle Cartwright was a damned nuisance, Philippe had corrected him, Lefebvre’s warnings running cold through his veins. What if someone had seen Caro strolling out from the palace? She would be an easy target.
Yan had made him stop and work out where Caro was most likely to be. Anywhere there was food, Philippe realised, and they had headed straight for the market. It was that or trawling through every café and restaurant in town.
And now here she was, quite safe and obviously having a wonderful time, and Philippe was perversely furious, with her and with himself, for having, for those few minutes, been so ridiculously worried.
‘I thought I told you to stay in the palace grounds?’ he said, smiling through clenched teeth. Even though they were talking in English, he couldn’t have the row he really wanted in front of all these people, which made him even crosser.
Caro looked taken aback. ‘I thought you just meant if I was taking Apollo out.’
‘What do I care about the dog? It’s you I’m worried about! I told you that there’s been unrest recently. I told you that’s why Yan goes everywhere with me, but you, you toddle off on your own without a thought for security!’
‘You also told me the situation wasn’t likely to affect me.’ Caro actually had the nerve to roll her eyes at him. ‘So let me get this right … I’m not allowed to go to the kitchens, and I’m not allowed to go outside the palace either?’
‘Welcome to my world,’ gritted Philippe, still smiling ferociously. ‘Anyone could have got to you without protection.’
‘Oh, rubbish,’ said Caro. ‘Nobody’s the slightest bit interested in me. Or at least they weren’t until you appeared. If you hadn’t come rushing down here, nobody would have had a clue I had anything to do with you at all.’
This was so patently true that Philippe could only grind his teeth and glare at her.
‘Anyway, I’m glad you’ve come, actually,’ she went on breezily. ‘I wanted to buy some of this cheese, and I was trying to explain that I didn’t have any money.’ Completely ignoring Philippe, who was still trying to make her understand the reality of the security situation, she smiled at the stallholder and mimed trying the cheese. He nodded, delighted, and cut off a generous piece, which she handed to Philippe, who was trying to talk about security threats.
‘Now, try this,’ she said. ‘Tell me if that’s not the best cheese you’ve ever tasted!’
Philippe felt the flavour burst on his tongue and he was gripped by a strange heightened awareness, as if all his senses were on full alert. He could smell the bread on a nearby stall, hear the murmurs of the people watching. And then there was Caro, her face bright, head tilted slightly to one side, blue eyes fixed on his face to see what he thought of the cheese.
Cheese! That was all she cared about! She wasn’t knotted up about the night before. And he shouldn’t be either, Philippe reminded himself, irritated. How could he be knotted up about a woman who dressed the way Caro did?
Today’s outfit was evidently based on a Fifties theme. Some kind of red top and a turquoise circle skirt with appliquéd tropical fruits. Ye Gods! Only Caro could stand there covered in bananas and pineapples and look so right in them. She ought to look ridiculous, but actually she looked bright and vivid and fresh, and pretty in a quirky way that was just her own.
‘Well?’ she demanded.
Philippe swallowed the last of the cheese. If she could be relaxed, so could he.
‘Very good,’ he said, and repeated it in French for the stallholder, who puffed out his substantial chest and beamed.
‘Can we buy some? I haven’t got any cash.’
‘I haven’t either,’ he had to admit. They turned as one to look at Yan, who didn’t miss a beat, producing a wallet and handing it over to Philippe without expression while his eyes checked the crowd continuously.
‘Thanks,’ said Philippe as he flipped it open in search of cash. ‘I’ll sort it out with you later.’
Caro craned her neck to see inside the wallet. ‘Fantastic,’ she said. ‘How much have we got to spend?’
She was very close, close enough for her hair to tickle his chin, and Philippe could smell her shampoo, something fresh and tangy. Verbena, perhaps, or mint.
They bought the cheese, and then Caro insisted on dragging him onto the next stall, and then the next. She made him taste hams and olives and tarts and grapes, made him translate for her and talk to people, while Yan followed, his eyes ever vigilant.
For Philippe, it all was new. Nobody had ever told him how to behave on a walkabout—the Dowager Blanche and his father were great believers in preserving the mystique of royalty by keeping their distance—but, with Caro by his side, chatting away and laughing as they all corrected her French and made her practice saying the words correctly, it wasn’t hard to relax. People seemed surprised but genuinely delighted to see their prince among them, and he found himself warmed by their welcome as he shook hands and promised to pass on their good wishes to his father in hospital.
Montluce had always felt oppressive to Philippe before. He associated the country with rigid protocol and fusty traditions perpetuated for their own sake and not
