I sigh, finally at ease. Flora is safe. I’m safe. We’re home.
Going to my own chambers, I kick off my shoes and let my toes sink into the plush carpet. In the silence of my own home, reality starts to set in.
I fucked up. I know I did.
Flopping down onto the bed, I rub my hands over my face and groan. Charlie hardly said a word to me after the ceremony, and I left before I could really talk to him. Now that I’m here, in the silence and isolation of Westhill, I feel like an idiot.
Why did I have to rush the crowd? I punched someone. I punched one of my own subjects! I’m a prince, for Farcliff’s sake! What was I thinking? I can only imagine what the media are saying about me. They’re probably dredging up old footage of my face getting knifed, and grainy videos of me lunging toward Paulette.
Maybe they’re talking about Flora. That thought makes my gut churn. The last thing I want for Flora is for her to be dragged into a messy fight with the media.
Paulette probably loves this, though. Her book sales will go through the roof. Even though her book was banned in Farcliff years ago, I know it still gets smuggled into the country and sold in the back of dingy bookshops. That drivel she wrote about me made her a millionaire—and it turned me into a recluse. She’s still making money off her lies, and she’s probably loving all of this.
I rub my hand over my jaw and push myself off the bed. Heading to the window, I gaze down at the Royal Rose Garden below. The rose bushes are still here, silently working to create the explosion of scent and color that will soon happen.
Movement catches my eye. It’s the girl from the driveway. She’s walking through the bushes, inspecting the tiny buds. I crack the window open, and I can hear the sound of her voice. I frown.
She’s singing to them.
I lean against the window frame, hidden in the shadows. What did Marcel say his daughter’s name was? Did he even tell me her name? I frown, watching her. The sounds of her melody float up toward me, and the tension behind my eyes begins to ease. The pounding headache that’s plagued me ever since I left Farcliff starts to fade.
The girl pauses under my window, glancing up toward the castle. I shrink away from the glass, and I’m not quite sure why. I don’t care if she sees me—it’s my castle.
Still, I don’t want to ruin this moment for her—because that’s what I do. I ruin things.
I ruined my own life. I ruined Flora’s health by giving her this disease. I ruined Charlie’s ceremony.
Everything I touch turns to ash.
My new gardener’s eyes drift past my window, and I watch her take a deep breath. Her voice grows more and more faint, and she makes her way out of the rose garden and towards the Gardener’s Cottage. I watch her until she slips out of view.
What kind of young woman would accept a position here? What kind of person would take her father’s place in an isolated palace at the edge of the Kingdom? The only people who come to Westhill are ones that grew up here, or they’re running away from something.
I know which I am. I’ve been running away from myself since I was a toddler.
What is she running from, I wonder?
I already know I won’t sleep tonight. Truthfully, I don’t sleep most nights. Insomnia is like a devil sitting on my shoulder, poking me every time my eyelids start to droop. Some nights, when the demon cackles in my ear, my eyelids don’t droop at all. When that happens, I’ll wander the castle and the gardens, or I’ll stare at the ceiling. If all else fails, I’ll go to my studio and I draw feverishly through the night.
Tonight, I decide to head down to the garden. The evening still has a bit of a chill to it, but it zips through me in a pleasant kind of way. I wander through the roses and glance up at the window where I’d been standing.
Usually, being in the rose garden makes me calmer. The flowers creep around me and push the beast inside me down. Tonight, though, I’m restless. I wander up and down the rows of rose bushes, not daring to touch the flowers. I know that their thorns will prick me if I get too close.
The roses have a mind of their own. When they bloom, I can hear them singing all day and all night. When they die, their petals flutter to the ground like hundreds of falling tears. Their songs fade as quickly as their colors, and the magic in the garden dies.
Tonight, as the flowers bud, the garden feels like it’s full of energy buzzing right below the surface. Energy like this is dangerous. I know it, because it’s the same energy that flows constantly just beneath my skin.
I take a deep breath and walk along the waist-high fence. At the gate, my eye catches a small, brown leather notebook. Leaning over to pick it up, I turn it around and flip through its pages.
Tight, scrawly handwriting stares back at me. I read notes about people and places, quotes, half-formed ideas, and to-do lists that look like they’ve been jotted down in a hurry. It looks like a writer’s notebook.
I lick my finger and turn the pages over, sinking deeper and deeper into the mind of whoever wrote these words. It’s bursting with ideas.
Interestingly, the people described in the book are dark and the places are seedy. The bits of dialogue are biting and sharp. I don’t know how long I stand there, reading words that will never make sense to me. It feels like I’ve opened a notebook into the depths of its owner’s mind, flipping through the pages of their innermost thoughts.
Dark thoughts. Fragmented thoughts.
Then, I turn another page and I see one last to-do list.
Mulch roses, ask George about food scraps for compost, buy more fertilizer.
A smile tugs at my lips. The mind that I’ve just split open, whose most innermost thoughts and images I just read?
It’s my new rose gardener’s mind.
I lift my eyes towards the Gardener’s Cottage at the far end of the grounds. Before I can stop myself, my feet are carrying me towards it.
Maybe I’ll just slip the notebook in the mailbox or leave it at the doorstep—but the lights in the cottage are still on, and I know I won’t be able to resist knocking on the door.
As I get closer, my heart starts to beat harder. The dangerous energy zipping beneath my skin grows more frantic, and I can feel every hair on my skin standing on end.
The grass is dewy, and by the time I make it to the cottage, my pants are damp up to my mid-calf. I wipe my feet on the welcome mat outside the front door, and I glance around the front of the building.
I can’t tell if there are any changes since Marcel and Violet left—I haven’t been out to the cottage in months.
As I stand there, a curious noise comes to my attention. It’s the tapping of fingers on a keyboard, as if my new rose gardener is typing at light speed. I lean toward the door, listening for anything else. A chair creaks, and footsteps sound as she starts pacing up and down the room.
She’s talking, and I frown. Is someone else in there with her? Who would be with her at this hour? A lover?
Why does that thought bother me?
Dirty, green jealousy flares inside me, and I don’t even understand why. I don’t even know this woman’s name, and I’ve never seen her up close.
No one responds. The pacing stops, the typing resumes, and the voice falls quiet. She was talking to herself.
I turn the notebook over in my hands, and then raise my fist to knock on her door.
The typing continues, and I drop my hand again. I stare at the notebook, and I wonder what her words look like when they’ve moved from her notebook to her computer screen.
Sighing, I shake my head.
Another damn writer—it’s always a writer.
At least this one is honest in her writing—or at least her notebook seems that way. I place the little leather-bound book on the welcome mat, then turn around and walk back to the palace.
JO
“THANKS FOR BRINGING MY NOTEBOOK BACK.” I smile at Mrs. Grey across the breakfast table. “That thing keeps me sane. My whole life is in that notebook! Everything I’ve ever do
ne, am doing, or will do in the future is written down in it.” I laugh, shaking my head. “Losing it would be a disaster.”
Mrs. Grey frowns. “Your notebook?”
“Yeah. It was on my doorstep this morning. I hadn’t even realized I’d lost it.”
“I didn’t bring anything back, Jo,” Mrs. Grey says, shrugging. “Must have been someone else.”
I glance at Sam, who shrugs as well. “Wasn’t me. Harry, maybe?”
I grimace at the thought of Harry Brooks showing up at my place unannounced. The look on my face makes Sam laugh.
“Didn’t enjoy the tour Harry gave you, I take it?” She asks.
“No, I did.” I insist. “It’s just…” I look around the room, not wanting to gossip on my third day at the castle.
Sam grins. “Don’t worry. I get it.”
Harry walks in with his chest puffed out. He flicks the back of one of the young gardener’s heads, who yelps in pain.
Sam rolls her eyes, and I stifle a giggle.
I touch my pocket, where my precious notebook lives. The thought of Harry showing up at my door doesn’t exactly make me feel comfortable. At least he didn’t want to come inside.
Sam nudges me with her shoulder. “How about a tour of the inside of the castle today? I can show you around after breakfast.”
“Really?”
“As long as you’re not too busy in the garden.”
“Well, there’s always something to do, but I wouldn’t mind seeing some of this place. It’s so huge!”
Sam smiles, spooning another dollop of porridge into her mouth. I turn to my eggs. When I take a bite, I moan in pleasure. “Mrs. Grey, you weren’t joking. George is a master. I never knew scrambled eggs could be this good.”
“Wait until you try his cream puffs.”
“Choux a la crème,” George corrects with a shake of the head. “I refuse to call them crème puffs.” He tuts, slinging a tea towel over his shoulder. With a judgmental glances at us, George turns his nose up. “Heathens—all of you.”
Ever since I’ve arrived here, I haven’t stopped smiling. I feel like I’ve found a new family. No wonder my parents never wanted to leave. The only person that I’m not sure about is Harry—but truthfully, he’s fine. Just a little awkward, I think. Hopefully, he’ll move past his lame attempts at flirting with me, and then things will be more comfortable.
Sam pushes her chair back and clears her plate. “Let’s go,” she says, nodding to the door. “Before Mrs. Grey finds something better for us to do.”
We put our dishes away and slip out of the kitchen door. Sam leads me down a narrow hallway that opens onto a much larger one. My feet sink into the plush, intricately designed carpet. The ceiling is lined with crown molding, and chandeliers dripping with crystals give the whole place a soft glow. Ceiling roses weave above the chandeliers, and I crane my neck to look at them.
We walk for a minute, until we reach a small alcove in the hallway. A shiny, silver suit of armor stares back at me.
I laugh, reaching out to touch it. “What is this thing?”
“Apparently it’s like, six hundred years old or something.” Sam pulls out a polishing rag and wipes away the smudge my finger left. “They’re all over the castle.”
We keep walking, and Sam glances at me. “So, are you excited for the fair?”
“The what?”
She stops dead in her tracks, staring. “Excuse me?”
I frown.
“Did you just say that you didn’t know what the fair is? The Westhill Town Fair?”
I shrug. “Is it famous, or something?”
“Jo! It’s only the biggest event in Westhill!”
“Okay, well, yeah, I guess I’m excited then.”
Sam huffs, shaking her head. “I can’t believe this. You mean to tell me that you came to Westhill and you haven’t even heard of the Fair?”
“What is it?”
“It’s the one time a year that the entire staff gets the night off—except for the medical staff, obviously. They stay with the Princess. The whole town of Westhill transforms! Last year, your parents had a booth selling roses. They raised, like, three thousand dollars for charity.”
“Did they? They never told me that.”
Sam nods. “They were great. I’m sad they’re going to miss it. This year, apparently the Mayor of Westhill hired some professional acrobats. It’s a huge event! People come from Canada and the States, too. It’s all for charity.” She stares at me, smiling. When I don’t respond, Sam shakes her head. “You’ll see. When we go to the Fair, you’ll understand why it’s such a big deal.” She nods down the hallway. “Come on, I want to show you the library.”
The hallway stretches on forever, opening onto a multitude of formal living rooms and dining rooms. All the while, Sam tells me in great detail about the Westhill Town Fair. I nod and pretend to be excited—but how good can a regional town fair be, really?
Finally, we get to a set of tall, arched, double doors. The Farcliff crest is carved into the wood.
Sam smiles at me. “The library. Ready?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
She throws the doors open. I wasn’t ready.
When I was a child, I’d dreamed of having a private library. I’d close my eyes and imagine rows and rows of books, stacked high up to the ceiling. I wanted one of those sliding ladders all around the room, and big, comfy chairs.
I never thought I’d see it in real life—but it’s here, and it’s glorious. The library of my dreams stares back at me. It’s intimidatingly grand and comfortably snuggly at the same time. The roof is domed, with an intricate scene painted on it from wall to wall. At the far end of the room, massive windows dominate the wall, staring out onto the vista of the castle grounds.
We enter, and I run my fingers along the spines of the books, unable to wipe the smile from my face. I make my way to the windows and let out a soft breath as I stare out.
Then, I sit down in one of the plush sofas near the window. I sigh, staring up at the painted ceiling. There are thousands of tiny roses painted above me. A smile drifts over my lips as I lose myself in the details of the painting. It’s just like the front gate, and the fence around the rose garden, and the carving on the library door. Everything is so detailed and so beautiful here. It takes my breath away.
My heart sings. To think that in only a few days, I’ve gone from a tiny, rat-infested apartment in New York City—where my doormen were junkies and drug dealers—to here. To the lap of luxury.
I’m living next door to the Prince of Farcliff, and his daughter, the Princess.
Of course, this luxury isn’t mine. I’m only the rose gardener, and the Prince is notorious for his short fuse and legendary temper.
Not exactly the perfect neighbor.
Sam and I aren’t even supposed to be here, but I can still enjoy it for a few moments…
…until the library door opens, and Prince Gabriel steps through the doorway.
Sam yelps, clapping her hand over her mouth. I jump up from the sofa as if it’s burned me, smoothing my hair down and stammering as I half-bow, half-curtsy at the Prince of Farcliff.
He takes another step closer, and my breath catches.
The Prince is taller than I expected—and wider. He’s wearing slim-fitting pants and a t-shirt under a tailored sport coat. It hugs him in all the right places and makes him look like he belongs in a place like this.
Of course he belongs here. He’s the Prince of Farcliff, for crying out loud.
Me, on the other hand? Wearing dirty jeans and a ripped tank top I use to garden in?
I’m not exactly Farcliff nobility.
The Prince’s sharp blue eyes drill into mine. His dirty blonde hair is swept back from his face, but a stray strand falls across his forehead. Every step he takes toward me fills me with fear and a deep, pulsing excitement. His eyes make me feel like I’m on fire. His lips part, and for the briefest of moments, I wonder what they’d
taste like to kiss.
I shoo the thought away. Why would I think that?
“What are you doing here?” The Prince’s voice is low and commanding. My stomach clenches as delicious heat curls around it.
“We were just leaving.” Sam shifts her weight from foot to foot, darting toward the door.
Prince Gabriel swings his eyes from mine to hers and holds up his hand to stop her. “That doesn’t answer my question.”
When he looks at me again, I notice the faded white scar that passes from his chin, over his jaw, and up across his cheek.
I remember watching the reports on television when he got the scar, and hearing all the rumors that surrounded his relationship at the time. I remember him lashing out—just like he did at the ceremony this week.
I gulp.
Didn’t my father tell me to stay away from him?
“You’re my new rose gardener.”
“Yes,” I answer, even though it wasn’t a question.
“What’s your name?”
“Jo.”
“Jo,” he repeats, tasting my name on his tongue.
“Short for Jolie.”
Not that you asked. Stop talking, Jo.
His eyes slide over my body, and I’ve never felt so alive. The Prince takes another step toward me, and I feel like he sucks all the air out of my lungs. His presence fills this massive room, and I can’t look anywhere except into his deep, blue eyes.
“Did you get your notebook?” He tilts his head, and his gaze darkens. Something flits across his face. Contempt, maybe? Interest?
My lips part in shock, and the Prince’s eyes follow the movement. His own tongue slides out to lick his lips, and heat roars in the pit of my stomach.
The Prince of Farcliff brought my notebook back to the cottage for me?
My cheeks burn and I try to respond, but all I can do is stammer. Finally, I manage to thank him and do another awkward bow-curtsy. The Prince waves a dismissive hand and checks his nails.
He leans against a bookshelf, dragging his eyes back up to mine.
Yep, definitely contempt.
“You shouldn’t leave your things lying around.”
Cruel Prince: An Accidental Pregnancy Romance (Royally Unexpected Book 3) Page 5