The Royal Bodyguard

by Lindsay Emory

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The ride back to the hotel was a blur. I’m sure I was polite enough, probably made small talk. I’m really excellent at small talk, you see. Making other people comfortable, assuring them all is well and fine. Those had been my specialties before I had dared to step outside the gilded box.

  But inside, the adrenaline kept pumping. I felt like I had just poked a wasp’s nest with a short stick. Like I was standing on the bridge with a bungee cord wrapped around my ankles.

  All the things good princesses weren’t supposed to do, I had just done them. I had deliberately teased the press. Suggested I put my secret alias out in front of the world. Offered to aid and abet the enemy.

  Oh, I knew better. Even though it had been impulsive, disappearing after Stavros’s funeral was the most reasonable, most clear-headed decision I had ever made. To go small. To go underground. To listen to my head and not my heart.

  And now look what I had done. Yes, maybe it wasn’t my fault that Christian Fraser-Campbell had barged into my life and caused so many problems. But if it wasn’t for Hugh Konnor reserving my rental apartment, I wouldn’t have been with a single, sexy billionaire entrepreneur at a historical excavation in front of the nation’s press.

  I wouldn’t be feeling all these feels.

  And that made me mad.

  Even though I had managed a polite, easy farewell from von Falkenburg once we returned to the safety of the underground garage at the hotel, one angry thought was coursing through my brain: This is all Hugh’s fault.

  I knew what would happen when I reached my rooms—Hugh would be there. Waiting.

  What I didn’t know…

  Was my mother would be, too.

  If I hadn’t been so angry—at myself, at Hugh, at the world—then I would have found the scene amusing. I came through the door to my rooms. Hugh, with his arms crossed, glaring at me. And my mother, Felice. “Darling!” she cried, her arms raising for some sort of victory hug, “You’ve done it! You’ve reclaimed your womanhood. And in my Hermès scarf, as well!”

  It was enough to make me want to throw the scarf over my face and suffocate myself with it.

  “How did you two get in here?” I cried, with not a small amount of exasperation. When were people going to stop barging into my spaces?

  Felice was unashamed. “He let me in.” She pointed at Hugh. “He’s been waiting up for you.” She lowered her head and said in a stage whisper, “I think he’s miffed you didn’t call.”

  My eyes fell on the smartphones that were in both of their hands. “How bad is it?” I asked, to whatever goddess out there cared about the poor plight of princesses. Er…ex-princesses.

  “It’s wonderful!” Felice exclaimed.

  Hugh’s expression begged to differ.

  “Karl Sylvain von Falkenburg!” Felice continued to gush. “Rich, handsome, not royal, but distantly related, you know, so even my mother can’t complain.”

  I was distracted by the anger on Hugh’s face and wondering what on earth he could be upset about.

  “And I’m guessing the media know about it?” I asked, trying not to wince.

  “They’ve posted photos of what you were wearing and your location and what sort of car you arrived in,” Hugh said, his voice so even and businesslike he sounded like the royal bodyguard he was.

  “Oh. That’s not so bad, then.”

  “Not bad?” Felice echoed. “Oh, my dear, it’s wonderful. I’m ever so pleased for you.”

  “Anyone could have found you,” Hugh said pointedly.

  I rubbed my head.

  “Oh, darling, do you have a headache?”

  Yes. It’s a five-foot-four headache with wild blonde curls and excellent taste in scarves. “Yes,” I said with a miserable nod.

  “I have the most precious little pills that my friend Dr. Ashton in Los Angeles gave me. I’m sure they’re legal here,” she added, with her trademark Felice confidence.

  “I think I just need to lie down and rest.”

  My mother nodded understandingly, came to me and gave me a little squeeze. “You’re truly my daughter, aren’t you?” she said in my ear, before patting my hair and retreating to the door.

  When the door clicked behind her, I turned on my heel and marched to the suite’s bedroom. The bed, piled high with pillows, the deluxe view over the lazy Comtesse. It was the perfect place for me to dive in and ride the next six months of media speculation out.

  What my mother was excited about—the gossip potential of a made-in-the-headlines glamorous romance with a billionaire—was exactly what made me want to run far, far away.

  But first. The heavy-footed grumpy bodyguard who followed me.

  “No.” I said firmly. “Out!”

  “Car—”

  “You don’t get to be angry with me!”

  “I’m—”

  “I was doing perfectly fine, living a safe, normal, boring life until you and your vendetta came charging into my rental apartment!”

  “That wasn’t—”

  I ignored him. “If you wanted me to be locked up and far away, you would have left me alone in mother’s villa. Or in Rome. But no. You kept insisting you knew what was best for me and now I have to deal with all this again!” I made wild arm circles at my city, my country, the planet Earth. “And I don’t want that! I didn’t want that! I didn’t want to be her!” Now I pointed at the door. That led to the hotel hallway. And down the hall to my mother’s room.

  “Oh,” I breathed. I realized I was a bit dizzy from all the yelling and arm gestures. I sat on the edge of the bed and tried to quickly blink away the tears that had formed.

  “Oh,” I said again as I processed what I had said. What I had said about my mother.

  Hugh stood quietly, waiting for something else to erupt from my stupid mouth.

  “It’s not fair for you,” I said. “That you have to stand there and listen to all my tantrums.”

  “I could leave.”

  “But we already know that you won’t,” I said ruefully. “You know too much about me, Hugh Konnor.”

  “Believe it or not, it’s interesting.”

  I laughed at his dry sense of humor. “You know about me,” I said, deciding to be boldly honest. “It really isn’t fair, you know. That all these years, you read about me, you watched me and knew absolutely everything about me and I know hardly anything about you.”

  Hugh pulled his hands back from my shoulders and shifted back on his heels. Now he was the one looking a little uncomfortable in the spotlight, but still he said, “Anything you want to know?”

  I considered it. What could I ask? What was important?

  I considered him. Standing just an arm’s length away. His jeans slung on his hips, an oft-laundered sweater with sleeves that pulled tight as he crossed his muscular arms.

  “What’s this for?” I asked, pulling up his right sleeve. Slowly, I ran a fingertip along the long line of numbers and degree symbols along his forearm. His skin prickled as I brushed the sparse auburn hairs on his arm.

  “It’s there to remind me of where I come from,” he said.

  “They’re coordinates, then?”

  He nodded, a quick jerk of his head. “Of Koras.”

  The working-class neighborhood he’d grown up in was one I had visited only a few times before I was an adult, always on some sponsored appearance at a charity for economically disadvantaged youth or a job-retraining center.

  His fist clenched. I couldn’t help but notice and, for some reason, it wounded me, that closed hand. That he was trying to keep something from me didn’t seem fair when I was a perennial open book to him.

  I reached for his left hand, then, untangling it from where he held it tight and pushing the sleeve up. Another tattoo, the length of his forearm, this time not numbers but words. In th
e scrolling calligraphy, the phrase wasn’t easily legible at a distance but, this close, I could read it. Latin. Amor honorem.

  “Honor above love,” I translated softly. This time I chose not to trace the letters or touch him further, lest I face another gripping, frustrated fist again. “When did you get these?”

  He kept his gaze lowered to the black ink stark on his skin. “In Buenos Aires,” he said.

  Argentina. That meant…

  “The week I joined your mother’s service.”

  I swallowed. The week after he’d left mine. My stomach twisted tight and knotted. Did this mean…something? Anything? Or was it just coincidence? A good exchange rate with the Argentine peso? A hard night of drinking on the town and a convenient tattoo parlor?

  No. These designs were too intentional to be the product of some jet lag and overabundance of cheap Argentine wine. He had gone in with his numbers researched, the precise place of his birth plotted out with a pin. And as for the other…

  He was a hard, strong man but still, the thought of him willingly subjecting himself to thousands of needle pricks in this sensitive location affected me.

  Scared me.

  But I had run from my fears too many times. Hidden from the awful pain of adulthood, of vulnerability. I was tired. And I didn’t want to hide from Hugh anymore.

  “Tell me about this one,” I said, rubbing my thumb over the Latin phrase and tucking my other hand into his. If he was going to squeeze his hand shut, it was going to be my hand he was holding.

  My chest hurt as he took his time, staying silent before he looked at me. Amber eyes met mine, clear and bright. Honest. True.

  “It was meant to remind myself that I couldn’t have you.”

  Truth hurts.

  “You wanted me, though.” I would always grasp at straws with this man.

  A harsh sound. “‘Want’ is too tame a word, my lady. ‘Want’ is for a child’s tantrum. A shopping trip.”

  I understood. I clamped my hands around his, closed my eyes and felt that same well of need.

  “It wouldn’t have done,” he whispered. “You were nineteen. And with so much life to live.”

  My eyes shot open. “And now? I’m still trouble, remember?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “And I’m a bodyguard.”

  Amor honorem. I tapped the words on his arm one more time. Honor over Love.

  “I don’t know, Hugh Konnor,” I whispered. “Things are sometimes more complicated than they seem.”

  “Like an outing with Karl Sylvain von Falkenburg?” I jumped guiltily and looked up at his face. Did he know what I had done? How?

  But there was no indication that it was anything other than an innocent question.

  “Outings with any men are complicated,” I said wryly. “Like I said, I’m turning into my mother.”

  Hugh squeezed my hand one more time and left without saying another word. It was annoying that he didn’t try to argue with me about that.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Habit made me read the newspapers the next morning, but I knew what I would find. I girded myself with strong Driedish coffee, an extra shot of farm-fresh Driedish cream- and butter-slathered brioche and began to read the sensational stories about me.

  Oh, one could almost hear the heavy breathing of the so-called journalists as they all gushed and critiqued and speculated about my sudden reappearance in Drieden. So many theories were presented as facts, I almost forgot they were talking about me. After all, I sounded utterly fascinating. According to “sources,” Princess Caroline (that would be me) was recovering from a complete facelift, a stay in rehab, a monastic epiphany and had been, improbably, carrying on a months-long affair with Karl Sylvain von Falkenburg. All at the same time! It was really quite impressive of me to juggle all that at once. I should offer an on-line course—how to reach spiritual enlightenment, achieve sobriety and meet the love of your life in sixty days. Guaranteed results, no refunds.

  Further, Karl and I had been having secret assignations at his country house in Devon, my estate in Botswana and, of course, my friend Ari’s yacht in Greece. I did not, as far as I knew, have a friend named Ari. Devon sounded uninspiring, but Botswana was probably lovely in February. I made a mental note to contact a local real-estate broker for more information.

  It was as bad as I feared. The photos were clear and unambiguous. Me smiling at a man. My arm tucked in his. His arm circling my shoulders. To my credit, one could hardly tell that it was freezing outside when Karl and I had viewed the battle site or that I had been the dummy who had forgotten a winter coat.

  And while the media was concerned with my “ability to love again,” they were similarly fascinated with Karl’s vast business holdings, his wealth and his corporations. Yes, for every mention of one of my past (and failed) relationships, there was an equal description of Karl’s biotechnology “empire” or his business “genius” of identifying genetic sciences as the next health revolution of the twenty-first century.

  This, as we all know, was completely fair and balanced. /sarcasm font/

  The press would have learned by now where I was staying and that Felice was here, too. Speculation would be rampant about…something. I couldn’t imagine what new rumor would be concocted next. Mother–daughter facelifts were so five years ago. Perhaps she was here to help me plan my next wedding—a beautiful affair in a garden somewhere.

  And if this was in the newspapers, it was around the globe. On television, the internet. Elena and Signore Rossi and all the people in Varenna who had treated me like a normal person would all now say, “Aha! That’s who she is! I knew she reminded me of someone famous.”

  And if my photo was everywhere, there was no way it wasn’t in the middle of Drieden City. At the royal palace. On Big Gran’s desk.

  Yes, my grandmother the Queen kept abreast of the news herself, even if it hadn’t already been presented to her on her morning breakfast tray. I looked over the edge of The Driedener at my own room-service tray. I supposed it wasn’t the worst habit to emulate.

  So.

  What next?

  I pulled my computer over and tapped the table idly, brainstorming a few possibilities.

  Two, three, four minutes went by and I realized…my options had narrowed considerably. The number of places in the world where I could escape public scrutiny had been winnowed…again. As for my quiet journalism career as Clémence Diederich, that would be a bust unless I could research and interview in disguise.

  Basically, my career options were now limited to professional fashion plate, trophy wife or reality-show judge.

  Just like that, I had become my mother.

  And when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, there was a very officious knock on my door. I tightened the belt on my robe, checked the peephole and saw the unmistakable stern mien of yet another palace official.

  After I opened the door, I was handed a note. Written with a fountain pen on cream linen stationary, sealed with a red wax signet ring.

  Okay, I’m exaggerating slightly with the red wax seal. Honestly. This is the twenty-first century. Every royal I know would use a vegan soy blend for their signet seals.

  I felt a bit sick after the door closed and I was left alone with the note. Yes, I had been accompanied (for lack of a better word) by a palace bodyguard (even if he was on sabbatical) in recent days. And yes, I had seen my sister, even flown with her to a royal residence (even if it was a strange, inhospitable and useless island.) But this physical link to the palace-with-a-capital-P, to the place where I had grown up, made me queasy.

  Once they start sending you notes on official stationery via stone-faced courier, the trap had been set. Zing. There went the steel teeth snapping around my ankle.

  They knew where I was. Hell, everyone knew. This time, there would be no sneaking off. Not without some extensive pl
anning and significant bribes.

  I settled in, took a deep, calming breath or six and opened the envelope.

  It wasn’t from my grandmother. It was from my sister.

  Caroline,

  I was going to call but Lucy reminded me about the phones at the Hotel Ilysium being bugged during Mother and Father’s divorce. We’ll send someone over soon to check your phone (or perhaps we can get you a new cell phone? That would probably be more secure. Nick will bring you one).

  Thank you for meeting with Karl yesterday. I know the attention will be an annoyance—the photographers always are—but unfortunately…well, it’s something we have to deal with. As soon as they’re used to you being here, it will die down, I’m sure. It always does.

  I have a meeting with Big Gran shortly. I can’t imagine that she won’t want to know more about your plans. I’ll take care of her—and everything else—in my way. I can’t say too much more in a note (is this where I tell you to burn it or it will self-destruct in fifteen seconds? I’m not sure how this should go, only that a note seemed much safer than those phones! Post-trauma from those days, am I right? Remember those Cordelia Lancaster columns? What a nightmare).

  Hugh let me know that you are safe and sound and, as soon as you get your new phone, I’ll be able to tell you myself. (I should probably let the furor die down before I visit again. Lucy always says we shouldn’t feed the frenzy.)

  More updates coming soon.

  Thea

  PS Lucy says hello! She’s missed you as well.

  PPS Sophie’s just called. She wants all the gossip. I’ll fill her in so you don’t have to.

  A handwritten note.

  Quaint and formal and civilized, practically delivered on a silver plate by a liveried butler from the next Queen of Drieden.

  So why was it making me cry?

  In the span of the last hour, I’d been detached, amused, appalled, afraid, exasperated and more.

  But this simple, stupid note from my sister made me feel all the feels. It was like we were back in grade school, before we were allowed to text or email. The mention of Lucy…oh, dear Lucy. Our cousin, and Thea’s right-hand woman, who had always been around the family.