The man took a breath. “No. He was here. But, I’m afraid he left, ma’am.”

York loved it when a plan came together.

He’d put together impulsive, high-risk missions before, but none felt as cobbled together, and fraught with danger as his impromptu, had-to-be-perfect wedding to RJ.

And yet, he’d done it.

Roy was right to call Gunner Ferguson. The chap had picked them up at the Royal Lodge and brought them right to the Belly of the Beast, where the planning had commenced.

Apparently, Roy and Gunner had run some training ops together while they both served in special forces. He liked Gunner. Quiet, serious, he wore his dark hair shaved short, bore his weight in his shoulders and torso, and stared through a man with his deep-set, blue eyes until he finally broke into a smile.

Held out his hand. “Any friend of Roy’s is a mate of mine.”

Gunner ordered them a couple deep-brown lagers from Ernst, the barkeep.

Ernst delivered them to their table, with a “Food?”

Gunner ordered a couple baskets of chips then got down to business.

Licenses—no problem. He knew a guy at the clerk’s office who could get it done.

Location—King Rein’s chapel, built in 1066, on one of the pinnacles that overlooked the hamlet of Dunholm. He even knew a minister and pulled up his phone.

While Ernst delivered the frothy beer, he’d nailed down a suit for York from Crown Prince John’s own tailor and managed to procure an appointment with the royal jeweler.

Ernst delivered the chips right about the time the minister called back and said he was out of town.

But Ernst, man of exactly the right, if not few words, said, cryptically, “Emmanuel. Best preacher. Love marriage.”

Whatever that meant, but Gunner gave a grunt of approval, nodded, and sent the man away.

Then, they moved on to the honeymoon.

“You can’t stay at the Royal Lodge,” he said. “I’ll talk to Prince John and see if you can stay in the turret at Hadsby Castle. Prince Gus just finished remodeling it.”

York blinked at him. “The…castle?”

Gunner had laughed, put his hand on his shoulder. “They have eighty rooms, York. Most of them empty. The turret overlooks the sea—it’s breathtaking. If I ever got married, I’d take my bride there.”

He picked up his phone again to text.

York couldn’t imagine it—having a direct line to the crown prince.

“I’m texting Shaw, Prince John’s personal attendant, to confirm.”

York ate one of the chips—aka, waffle fries—and downed it with the salty beer as Roy turned to the matter of the CDC director and a rundown of everything they knew—and wanted to find out.