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you.”
    To Harrison’s way of thinking, that was how matters should have been handled all along. It was how they had been handled ever since they’d had to involve her directly…days ago. The queen hadn’t been terribly pleased to know that the RET had kept news of her husband’s condition from her, or to know that they had been acting on her behalf when the power should have come to her to begin with. But she knew her husband well, and she knew his men had had no choice but to acquiesce to his plan.
    Penwyck was not a democracy.
    “Your Majesty.” He paused, wanting to make sure he had her full attention as he reached the most important point of all. “It is imperative that you assure everyone that the business of the Crown will be conducted as usual. You need to offer that assurance as soon as possible.”
    The queen drew a deep breath, her slender shoulders rising beneath her robe. He felt sure she was about to agree. Time was of the essence. Everyone needed to act, and quickly.
    Instead she pinned him with a look of sheer incomprehension.
    “You’ve said nothing about my son.” The paper rustled as she dropped it to the beautifully painted occasional table between her and a dainty Queen Anne chair. “Do you know where he is? Do you know if he’s all right?”
    A tug of impatience tightened the muscles in Harrison’s broad shoulders.
    “We haven’t located him yet,” he was forced to admit. “But we have no reason to believe he’s been harmed,” he hurried to assure her, thinking that might help. “Intelligence is still working on it.”
    His impatience made its way to his jaw as his queen sank into the chair beside her. He needed her to get dressed, to meet with Selwyn, to address the kingdom. Sitting wouldn’t get any of that done. “Your Majesty,” he prodded, hoping to nudge her on.
    Incomprehension turned to sheer pain when she looked up at him. “You have no reason to believe he’s been harmed? How can you say that? There was a struggle in his room,” she reminded him, her voice suddenly, precariously close to cracking. “Of course there’s reason to believe he’s hurt. And all you can tell me is that they’re ‘working on it’?”
    There was moisture in her eyes, a thin ribbon of it that lay just above her lower lashes. The tears were sudden and totally unexpected, but they were definitely there. So was the telltale hint of pink on her nose that made him fear those tears might spill at any moment.
    A swift and certain unease had him at an unfamiliar loss for words. He had never seen the queen behave in any manner that couldn’t be described as stoic, reserved or regal. At the moment she looked frighteningly close to crying.
    He had been through battle with the allies in the Gulf War. He’d led covert missions as a young soldier. He knew the threat of nuclear war and the delicate game certain countries played with armed detente. But the combination of a woman and tears was the only thing he could think of that struck true fear in his heart. He’d been trained for those other circumstances. He knew the measures and countermeasures to mitigate loss and damage.
    He hadn’t a clue what to do with a distraught woman.
    His only defense was to pretend he didn’t notice.
    “I’m afraid it is, Your Majesty. As soon as there is anything else to report, I’ll be sure to let you know. In the meantime,” he continued, determined not to sound as anxious as he felt to turn her over to the woman he could feel staring at his back, “it would be best if you could meet with the king’s speechwriters as soon as possible to work on your statement.”
    The queen felt utterly betrayed. Gwen could see that, in the bow of her shoulders, the bend of her neck. Someone had kidnapped her son. Now someone close to the Crown had broken its confidence by conveying privileged information to the press. She looked the way Gwen imagined she had to feel—sick and completely overwhelmed.
    That was how she