Page 25 of Romancing Rayne

“Ghost?” Rayne tugged on my shirt, stopping me from following the prince. “Is this Nottingham Cottage?”

“It is.”

“But—”

“Princess. This is nothing more than Spike’s home. Relax and enjoy yourself. It’s just like having a barbecue at Fletch’s.”

“You’re joking, right?”

“Relax.”

This was not going as planned. I wanted Rayne to have fun, not be stiff and freaked out. Maybe this had been a bad idea.

“You’re right. I’m being stupid. They’re just people.” She smiled, then muttered, “Everyday, royal people.”

“I hope you don’t mind, I asked the staff to set a table in the garden,” Meghan said as we entered. “Would you like a tour before lunch?” she asked Rayne.

“Would you mind? I don’t want to impose. This is your home.”

“Not at all. Let’s let the men reminisce about their glory days.” Meghan smiled and motioned for Rayne to follow.

Spike and I both stood, waiting for the women to leave before he offered us a seat.

“My apologies we missed the wedding. The team was called away on a mission. I was happy I’d never told Rayne about the invitation; she would’ve been crushed if she’d known. She did, however, watch it live on TV with the rest of the women. I heard so much about it, I feel as if I was there in person.”

“I wish I could’ve taken her to an island and done it in private. There are some things a man wants to share with just his bride.” There was a longing in his voice. I couldn’t imagine always being in the spotlight, having my every move criticized and documented.

I understood why he’d spent as long as he had in Afghanistan. There, he was Spike Wells, troop leader, not the sixth in line for the throne. The news outlets have reported he’s done two tours, however that’s inaccurate. He’s done more than two tours, and his time in country had been downplayed as well.

“So, tell me, how are the rest of the guys? Truck did email with an update, but he always leaves out the gossip.”

Oliver joined us, setting a tray with three crystal tumblers and a decanter of amber liquid down on the table in front of us.

“Good idea. Let’s toast,” Spike said, pouring each of us two fingers of Scottish whisky. “To best mates.”

* * *

Rayne

Lunch had turned into dinner, and while I was still amazed I’d spent the day with royalty, Ghost had been right; as soon as I’d relaxed, I had a great time. The prince was hilarious. Of course, like any good American royal watcher, I’d read the tabloid stories about his exploits. I wasn’t sure if I was happy or disappointed to learn much of the bad-boy prince stories that had been printed were greatly exaggerated. He was caring and down to earth and positively in love with his wife.

We talked about everything from his charity work to more stories about Afghanistan. Harry even explained why Ghost called him Spike Wells. Who knew, both Prince William and Harry had used code names when they were in college. Prince William was known plainly as Steve, and Prince Harry, being the rebel, chose the name Spike. But what really got him animated and happy was when he spoke about his time in Africa. I was honored when he pulled out his laptop and shared his personal photo collection. The couple planned on spending more time there in the near future. And when they’d invited Ghost and me to come along, I nearly swallowed my tongue.

Meghan and I finished cleaning up the dinner dishes. Yes, Her Royal Highness did dishes. She’d insisted on us cooking and not calling in the staff, explaining she and Spike enjoyed doing normal, everyday things together. Now we were gathered in the living room. The men were enjoying an after-dinner whisky when Oliver offered to pour me a drink.

“No, thank you,” I refused.

He held an empty glass in Meghan’s direction and she, too, declined. I’d noticed, like me, she opted for water with dinner as well.

“What’s wrong with the women tonight? Are you both up the duff or something?”

Meghan’s eyes widened in shock, and Ghost stiffened beside me. I searched my brain trying to decode the British slang but couldn’t remember what it meant.

“You know, a bun in the oven, in the family way, or as you Americans so eloquently put it—knocked up,” Oliver helpfully continued.

“Um . . .” I looked to Ghost, waiting for him to respond. We’d decided to wait until everyone was back from their honeymoons to announce our pregnancy to our friends.

“I cannot confirm nor deny that intel,” Ghost told the room.