Page 9 of Her Royal Christmas

Alex shook against her, laughter only barely muffled. She slipped one gloved hand up to the back of Erin’s head, fingers threading into the hair at her nape in a gesture that was far too intimate to be mistaken for anything but what it was.

“It’s not her fault,” Alex said, voice warm. “She doesn’t know.”

“She always knows,” Erin said, lifting her head reluctantly.

Vic was standing just inside the doorway now, slightly out of breath, hair escaping from the ridiculous fox hat, clipboard clutched like a shield.

“I turned my back for five minutes,” she announced, by way of explanation, “and the turkeys mutinied, the cranberries are lost somewhere on the A9, Mrs. MacLeod is threatening to quit if anyone mentions vegan gravy again, and Hyzenthlay has weaponised the mixing bowls. I have never needed you more.”

She actually flung out an arm for emphasis, nearly smacking a passing footman in the face.

Erin stared at her, then at Alex, then at the narrow, rapidly closing window of opportunity between “children distracted by snow” and “children discovering that snow is cold and they are hungry.”

She made a noise that could have been a laugh or a growl.

Alex stepped back just enough to refocus, queen mode sliding over her like armour. “Emergencies,” she repeated, lips still curved. “Plural.”

“At least three, yes,” Vic said. “Possibly five if you count the reindeer recon mission.”

“I’m not sure I want to know what that means,” Erin said.

“You don’t,” Vic assured her. “But we’re in triage mode now. I need royal approval on some last-minute changes to the Christmas Eve schedule, and also possibly your security team in the kitchen, because Mrs. MacLeod is wielding a rolling pin in a very threatening way.”

“Rolling pins are rarely classified as offensive weapons,” Erin said, running a mental inventory out of sheer habit. “But given Mrs. MacLeod’s biceps, I can make an exception.”

“See?” Vic said to Alex, triumphant. “This is why we keep her.”

Erin opened her mouth to retort, then paused.

Alex’s eyes met hers again over Vic’s shoulder. There was apology there, yes. But also something like a promise.

Later, that look said. Not forgotten. Just postponed.

Erin blew out a breath that fogged in the cold air and nodded once.

“Okay,” she said. “Fine. Emergencies first. Sex later.”

Vic choked. “I—what?”

“Nothing,” Erin said smoothly. “Lead on, General. I’ll wrangle the troops.”

“The small troops,” Alex added. “You wrangle the small troops. I will attempt to stop Mrs. MacLeod committing cranberry-related homicide.”

“That’s actually under my remit,” Erin said. “But I’m willing to share jurisdiction this once.”

Matilda chose that moment to let out a wail of outraged betrayal. “My socks are wet!”

“Mine too!” Frank yelled, as if this was a shocking plot twist.

“My everything is wet,” Florence said mournfully.

Erin turned toward the sound, half exasperated, half aching with love.

“Right,” she said. “Change of priority. Warm, dry children before both of you get frostbite and start a constitutional crisis.”

Alex smiled, that small private smile again. “Sergeant.”

“Ma’am—Alex,” Erin corrected, and almost got it right on the first try.