Snippet from The Common Touch

Harlequin Romance didn't think Major Zara Dare's career, giving it up for a man she loved or dropping the guy, were high enough stakes for this story. I went on a few military forums and asked other female CAF members what they thought, and they all agreed with me. That kind of decision would tear a person's soul.

My own daughter is in the military, as is my son. She shook her head over my rejection letter too. "Finish the story, Mum."

So I did. Here is a small part of it.

Major Zara Dare waited in the Long Gallery at Rideau Hall telling herself to just suck it up. It’s only a reception. An hour or so, and she’d be out of here. Besides, it wasn’t every day one met a prince.

Night was falling as the last hint of sunset disappeared beyond the large uncovered windows. In daylight, the view showcased the Rideau Canal and the Ottawa skyline beyond. Now, the last slivers of peach and pale pink gradually faded to dissolve into the fast moving waters.

The site made Zara shift restlessly in her floor-length skirt and matching jacket. The material of her formal dress uniform or DEUs, was blue. Though such a dark blue, as to the casual eye, appeared black. To complete the ensemble, she wore a silky white blouse and topped it all with a black bowtie. A proper one, not the clip-on sort, it was a gift from her oldest brother, Adam. His advice was never far from her mind, much like her father’s. But then, the military was the world she’d been born into.

A corporal stood to her right. He vibrated with a mixture of excitement and worry and made her smile a little. His enthusiasm added to the palatable feel of all those queued up.

“Do I look okay, Major?” Mufisso whispered.

She turned toward him and ran a practiced eye over the corporal’s deep green army dress kit. His white leather belt with gold buckle, and matching buttons shone brightly as did his black boots. His anxious swarthy face made him look about twelve-years-old. “You look fine, Corporal,” Zara assured him with a nod. “Think of this as any other formal mess function. Except no one will pull any pranks tonight.”

“Thank you, Ma’am,” the corporal said with relief and gratitude.

Zara looked the opposite way down the row, of which she and Mufisso were nearly the last. The receiving line boasted government ministers, foreign dignitaries, A-list celebrities, a couple well known authors, and one newly minted Order of Canada recipient.

A few military types like Zara and the corporal were in attendance, too, but those other people were a higher rank. Much higher.

The waiting guests glittered and shone. So, too, did the stately entrance to the Governor General’s residence. The polished oak gleamed and the vivid red carpet was at the ready, in honour of his Royal Highness Prince James, of Oílean Ríocht, or island kingdom in English. His home was a chain of six islands west of Scotland and east of Norway. The Oíleanach, as they called themselves, were a hardy and rough seafaring folk descended from Norsemen and Highlanders and a splash of Spanish to make things interesting.

“Major, do you think the prince will be going to the icebreaker at the mess with his team?” the corporal asked as he tweaked one tunic cuff.

“I doubt it,” Zara said. “There are too many people here who will want a chunk of his time.” The prince was on his first Canadian visit and playing a dual role as ambassador and visiting dignitary for his country. The trip was timed to coincide with his country’s team in attendance at the annual marksman event in Ottawa, The Canadian Armed Forces Small Arms Concentration better known as CAFSAC.

He was in Ottawa to shore up support from a Commonwealth cousin. Determine where the Canadian government stood with regard to trade, and more importantly industrial consultants.

Oílean Ríocht’s own government had a decision to make which would affect its future. That was to stay with Britain, and the Commonwealth, or go with the European Union. Zara was party to the prince’s official and unofficial schedules.

 “Are you attending the icebreaker?” Zara glanced up at the bean-pole young man.

“Yes Ma’am,” he answered promptly. “Tomorrow is a practice day for the foreign competitors, so a late night won’t affect me much.”

“As long as you are in your bunk early the following night, we want a repeat of last year’s success.”

“Yes Ma’am,” Mufisso gave her a wide grin.

Zara looked left again, down the long line to the Governor General. The white-haired Madame Bellevue chatted with Colonel Austin McGinnty, Zara’s boss.

McGinnty turned and caught Zara’s eye. He opened his own wider, mockingly. Zara dropped hers so she wouldn’t laugh. McGinnty had a wicked sense of humour.

“Suck it up Major, what did you think would happen after you won the Queen’s Medal for top pistol shot, two years in a row?” McGinnty asked her when he’d briefed her eight weeks ago he also informed her, the formal request she’d made for an intelligence post was under consideration.

“He’s not a bad fellow and this will be an excellent opportunity for me to see what you can do.”

And there was the carrot.

Hobnob for a couple of days, keeping a watchful eye on the royal, while she oversaw administration of CAFSAC, and she might move up the career ladder.

No, the prince wasn’t a bad guy. His Highness was cheerful and easy to talk to, or so her research said. The man might be charming, but he was also very late.