Page 29 of A Prince for Christmas

As we climbed up the gentle slope of the cave, my Crystal Staircase, he kept a hand on my waist, presumably in case I slipped. “You know,” he remarked as we emerged into the clear, starry night. “Those cake rolls were good, but I don’t think that storing them in a cave for years is the best practice.”

“I know,” I admitted. “I’ve never tried them after that long, but I couldn’t resist. Thanks for being such a good sport. I can’t believe the prince of England ate three-year-old cave snacks.”

“Next time, we’ll bring a picnic. I couldn’t bear to lose you to bad Twinkies.”

Next time? I wondered what that meant. How could there possibly be a next time for a prince and a would-be teacher?

I pushed the thought away as we walked through the still night. I refused to worry about it anything right now. I was just going to enjoy this perfect, peaceful Christmas morning.

We walked hand in hand back to the house through the still night, the snow crunching gently under our feet, the occasional animal sound breaking through the silence. I let the past and future go, and moved in the moment, our bodies in harmony, spirits in sync.

We opened the back door quietly and shut it with care, shed our outer garments and boots, and tiptoed up the back stairs. At my bedroom door, Nick took my face in his hands and looked into my eyes.

“Good night, my Em,” he whispered, right before his lips covered mine. Again, I was lost in pure sensation, a feeling of wholeness I’d never felt with anyone else.

It was Nick who finally pulled away. “Get some sleep, Love. We have a long day tomorrow, I suspect.”

He turned and disappeared down the hall, and I stared after him for a long minute.

He’d said, “Love.”

Surely, it was just an expression. Wasn’t that a common English greeting?

I finally stepped into my bedroom and closed the door, refusing to consider that question any longer. My clothes went into a heap on the floor, and I crawled into my cozy bed, which for the first time, felt too empty. Still, I was asleep almost before my head hit the pillow.

My dreams were warm, fuzzy, and all about Nick.

Daybreak came too early, but I awoke feeling energized and amazingly happy. The excitement of racing downstairs to see what Santa had brought was long gone, but I stretched lazily, enjoying the delicious sensation of being home and full of joy on this special day.

No matter what the future held, today was perfect. I was in my beloved home, surrounded by family, with a man I loved. It was hard to admit, but sometime during the night, in my dreams, I’d come to terms with it. He might break my heart, and it might never work between us, but I couldn’t deny the reality. I was in love with Nick Lancaster, first in line for the English throne.

With that thought in mind, I climbed from bed, anxious to see a man with a lot less beard and a lot less white hair than Old Saint Nick.

I always wore red for Christmas as it made me feel festive and went well with my skin and hair. This year, I’d picked out a cute outfit that was a little more feminine than my family was used to. I was sure I would get some teasing from Jenny and Lizzie, but they weren’t my intended audience. Hopefully Nick would enjoy it, and my parents wouldn’t be scandalized.

To begin, I pulled on a pair of red lace panties and a matching bra—those were for me, not an audience, or so I’d thought at the time of purchase. Then a pair of red and gray brocade harem pants, heavy enough to keep me warm in this climate but hanging low on the hips, a look I loved but only occasionally dared to wear. My red top had long puffy sleeves and a rather low neck and ended two inches above where the low-rise pants hung.

A touch of red lip gloss, a French braid with a few Christmas rosebuds tucked in, and a brass python bracelet curled around one arm completed the costume. Our family had a tradition of dressing up for Christmas, I just hoped Dad wouldn’t wrinkle his brow in disapproval at my exposed midriff.

When I got downstairs, I saw Lizzie had decided on a Christmassy Tinkerbell costume, and for unknown reasons, Jenny was dressed as a bright red dragon, complete with tail. They were both awake and staring at the Christmas tree as if they had x-ray vision. Even though we were all too old for Santa, the warmth and joy of the day swept over me when I saw the twinkling lights on the tree and the neatly wrapped boxes beneath. My kooky sisters made the picture complete, almost bringing a tear to my eye. The smell of freshly baked bread mixed with the faint scent of the needles on the tree, and the sounds of Christmas music drifted from the stereo in the kitchen.

I headed that way to help Mom, who had decided that this was the Christmas to dress as a Christmas elf—green leggings, cute hat, the whole works. She was busy cutting the breakfast rolls: yeast dough she’d made last night and set to rest, rolled out thin and wound into pinwheels. There were three rolls, one cinnamon, one chocolate frosting, and the third her homemade orange marmalade.

We hugged and wished each other Merry Christmas, complimented each other’s costumes, and began working on the buffet. I set out mimosas, sausages from the local butcher, and a giant pile of scrambled eggs with red and green pepper bits, onions, and on top, a pile of white, fluffy cheese. Mom called her eggs “snow on the mountain.” Again, I realized that our customs and traditions might seem silly to a prince, and I steeled myself for his possible disapproval.

Still, this was us. Love me, love my family.

Lizzie managed to pry herself away from the presents under the tree to check out the buffet table and announced, petulantly, “There aren’t any rolls! And what are we supposed to drink?”

“Calm down, Munchkin,” Mom said. “The rolls are about to be frosted. And your drinks are coming.”

With my help, Mom brought out another pitcher of orange juice and a bottle of sparkling grape juice. She also had a dish of skewers, umbrella on one end, and maraschino cherries and pineapple chunks on the other. “Don’t get into them until everyone is here.”

Nick chose that moment to come downstairs, wearing what was probably proper English Christmas breakfast attire. Dark slacks, a long-sleeved shirt, and a sweater—no tie, thank goodness. He looked so out of place.

I didn’t care. He looked good enough to eat.

He surveyed the buffet and looked at Mom. “You must never tell my mother, but this is the best-looking breakfast I’ve seen in years.”