by Emma Chase
She also had a point about the sodding monkey.
Which is why James is driving and good ole Mick is riding shotgun.
Out of the tinted SUV window, I glance up at the large ivory building. A library built for a queen. I can see her working here--I can see her loving it here. It suits her, this almost magical house of worship built for books.
The main roadway is nearly deserted and there's not a single person in front of the dimly lit library. As I follow Mick up the ivory stone steps, for a moment I wonder, is this stalker territory? Does it cross a line? A boundary? But then--fuck it, I'm a prince, we don't have boundaries--it's one of the perks. Anyone who says otherwise is doing it wrong.
The door's unlocked and we go in. I'd never noticed how eerie a library is at night--large and echoed--like a mausoleum. But I notice it now as I glance about the main floor, listening. I head down a set of stairs near the circulation desk, with light coming from small windows in the doors at the bottom of it. I glance through the windows and spot a room at the end of a long hallway. It's about classroom size, the kind of place where a Bible study or Sex Addicts Anonymous meeting might be held. Or a book club.
The door's open just enough to hear, but closed enough that I'll remain undetected if I stand outside of it. I lean back against the wall, listening to the charming lilt and fall of Sarah's unmistakable voice. And I discover a whole different side of her--another version to add to all the others. I don't think I'll ever completely figure her out.
She sounds confident, efficient, and sure, almost businesslike. I wonder if it's this place, if it's because this is her domain, and she thrives here. It almost reminds me of my grandmother in her office or while addressing Parliament.
When it seems as if they're wrapping up, Mick and I duck into a room next door. It's filled with odd-smelling boxes, a bag of ski masks, cans of red paint, poster boards and signs--one says "Free the Butterwald Ducks."
What in the bloody hell is a Butterwald Duck?
When the last trickle of bookworms slinks down the hall, and only three distinct voices remain in the room--and I know who those voices belong to--I have Mick wait outside while I pop my head in.
"Don't tell me I missed it? Over already--damn."
Sarah's entire face lights up. It makes me feel a bit drunk.
"Henry! What are you doing here?"
"I couldn't stay away."
And I'm only half joking.
A gorgeously round little piece with bright blue eyes and blond hair approaches from across the room and curtsies, sighing, "Wow. Wow, wow, wow."
This must be Annie--Sarah talks about her and Willard often.
"This is Annie," Sarah says.
She's the type I'd usually go for--perky and easily happy with a look of pure hero worship on her face. The funny thing is, she's Sarah's friend, and that fact puts up an immediate roadblock in my brain, muting any attraction to her.
"And this," Sarah gestures to a short bloke in a large chair with an enormous smoking pipe between his lips, "this is Willard."
Willard doesn't stand, but dips his head instead of bowing. It's not proper--but given my own derision for all things "proper," it doesn't bother me.
"Impressive pipe," I tell him. "Should I call you Sherlock?"
He grins. "Only if I can call you Princess."
My head toddles as I think it over. "I'm secure enough in my manhood to stand that."
"Excellent."
Willard motions to the decanter of amber liquid on the table beside him.
"Brandy? It's cheap, but it gets the job done."
"Please."
While he pours me a glass, Annie chirps, "For God's sake, Sarah, when you told Haverstrom you had official Palace business to tend to, I was sure you were pulling all our legs. What kind of business does Sarah do for you, Your Highness?"
"She's helping me reorganize the Palace library." I press my finger to her lips and she almost passes out. "But that's a secret--a surprise gift for the Queen."
I glance over at Sarah where she's packing up a box of papers, and she smiles gently at the lie.
"Did you have a good meeting, love?" I ask her.
And there's that pretty pink blush again, though I'm not sure why it appears this time.
"Yes, it went very well."
Sipping my brandy, I tease, "Do you open the meeting with a sacrifice to the book gods? An animal or a nonreader, perhaps?"
Smoke puffs from Willard lips as he answers, "Only on Tuesdays."
"Have you ever thought about writing a book, Prince Henry?" Annie whispers. "My ex-boyfriend, Elliot, always said he wanted to."
Willard checks his watch.
Then Annie goes on.
"You could write under a pen name about the behind-the-scenes secrets of the palace. Or," a sly look comes over Annie's face while she glances at Sarah, then back to me, "it could be a sexier tale. About a young virgin who tames the wild, worldly prince--like Fifty Shades but with royalty."
"I'd read it." Willard shrugs.
Come to think of it, so would I.
Back at Anthorp Castle, Sarah and I get ready for bed--we each brush our teeth and change in the bathroom. Me, in my usual sleeping pants and bare chest, Sarah in her cotton pants and simple top--it's a thin-strapped tank top tonight, and her tits look amazing. Then we sit on the bed. I pick up my guitar and strum a few notes.
"By the way, what's a Butterwald Duck?" I ask. "I saw supplies and a sign mentioning it in one of the other rooms at the library."
"Oh, those are for next month." She takes off her glasses and sets them on the bedside table. "For the protest we're holding to allow the ducks penned in at Butterwald Park free rein."
"Protest?" I ask.
She nods. "The Austenites are very active in the community."
I set my guitar down, leaning it against the wall. "You're terrorists?"
Sarah rolls her pretty eyes. "Don't be silly. We're . . . an organization committed to bringing awareness to social issues, through what may be seen as semi-controversial methods at times."
"Exactly." I nod. "Terrorists."
Sarah pinches my arm.
"Ow . . . violent terrorists," I tease.
She tilts her head up and laughs, her dark hair falling over her shoulder and down her back. And it's mesmerizing. Was there a time when I actually thought she was plain? I'm an imbecile--she's stunning. I've never known anyone like her.
And I want to kiss her, right now.
And then I want to go back to the library, to that place she loves, and kiss her there too. In front of her friends, in front of mine . . . Christ, Nicholas would adore her.
I want to be that man to her.
She catches me staring and tilts her head. "What is it?"
And my mouth suddenly goes dry. Because I've never done this before. The only time I've talked about feelings with a girl involved direction or appreciation and a whole lot of screwing: harder, tighter, faster, yes that's good, just like that--don't stop.
I try to swallow and my voice comes out low and rough, like an unpracticed lad in the schoolyard.
"I like you, Sarah. I like you so much."
She continues to look at me, and I see when comprehension darkens her big, round eyes.
"I . . . I like you too, Henry."
She watches as I pick up her hand from where it rests on the bed and bring it to my lips. Softly, I kiss the back of it and each of her little knuckles. Even her hands are fucking pretty.
Her breath catches when I turn her hand over and place an open-mouthed kiss on the inside of her sensitive wrist, suctioning just slightly.
And then, I need her mouth. I can't remember the last time I needed anything so much.
Maybe I never have.
I lean in and Sarah's eyes flutter closed. I stroke her smooth cheek, and cup her jaw in my palm, and then I press my lips against hers. She's so soft and warm, so fucking sweet. I angle my mouth and turn our heads, changing direction--sucking the s
mallest bit of her plump lower lip, then tracing it with my tongue.
And that's when she pulls away, turns her head, and looks down at her hands. Sarah's breathing hard and her cheeks are flushed, and she looks beautiful.
And then . . . it all goes to bloody hell.
"I can't do this with you, Henry." She gazes down at the bed. "I can't be with you."
"You're with me right now."
She shakes her head. "Not in that way."
"Of course you can. I think you're amazing."
She looks up at me then, with fear and sadness slashed across her face. "You do now, but you're a Willoughby."
I scratch my head. "Isn't that like, a kangaroo?"
She squeezes her eyes tight and it's almost like she's stuttering. Like she can't make the words come out. And when they do, I wish they'd stayed where they were.
"No, a Willoughby--from Sense and Sensibility. He was the character Marianne fell in love with. He was wild and inappropriate, selfish and thoughtless, and he crushed her."
"Sarah, you're not making any sense."
"I can't be with you because I'm waiting for a Colonel Brandon."
"Who the fuck is Brandon?"
"He's serious and maybe a little boring, but he loves Marianne. He's dependable and steady, romantic and proper. That's what I want; that's who I'm supposed to be with."
"Proper?" The word sticks in my throat like a thorn. I slide off the bed and pace, going over her ramblings. "Let me make sure I have this right: you can't kiss me because some wanker from a book named Willoughby fucked over some other girl from a book named Marianne?"
She gives a little huff and wags her hands. "When you say it like that, it sounds mad."
"That's because it is mad!"
Sarah twists her hands together. "He broke her heart. It almost killed her."
I look down at her, feeling something breaking inside my own chest.
"And you think I would do that to you?"
"I know you would."
"Because I'm a Willoughby?"
Her chin jerks in a nod.
"Because I'm thoughtless and selfish and just don't measure up. And because you're waiting for someone better to come along."
Sarah shakes her head. "This isn't coming out right."
There's a different kind of pain when you're injured by someone you truly care about. It runs deeper, hurts longer, like a burn--it starts off stinging and smarting, then it blisters and spreads inside you, eating away at tender flesh.
Leaving in its wake a gaping hole.
I cross my arms and smirk, like I don't give a flying fuck about anything.
"How's the view from that ivory tower, Sarah? Must be lovely judging everyone beneath you, while keeping yourself too high to touch."
She rises to her knees on the bed. "It's not like that. I care about you, it's just--"
"I'm selfish and irresponsible and inappropriate--I heard you the first time. You could've saved yourself all those syllables and just called me a dick."
"Henry . . ."
"I think you're a coward. See what I did there? Simple, concise."
Her eyes snap up to me. She blinks and glances away.
"I'm not a coward. I just . . . like my life how it is. I like . . ."
I wander over to the "nook" and grab the first book I see. "You don't have a life. You hide in this room and you cower behind these books. It's fucking sad."
Sarah's voice is gentle, but staunch. "I realize I've hurt your feelings, but there's no need to be cruel."
I laugh. "You think you've hurt my feelings?"
"If this temper tantrum is any indication, I'm sure of it."
"This isn't a temper tantrum--this is a wake-up call." I wave the book at her. "These aren't your friends, Sarah--there's no sodding Colonel Brandon popping off the page coming to love you."
"I know that!" And then her eyes follow the book in my hand. "Henry, be careful--it's fragile."
And that just pisses me off more. Her concern for this inanimate, stupid thing.
"Do you even see me? Christ, I'm standing right here--real and, unlike you, actually living." I wave my arms around, swinging the book by its back cover. "And you're more concerned with fucking paper and ink!"
And that's all she wrote.
With a crack, the spine of the book snaps in half, and loose pages fly off, fluttering all over the room, then falling to the floor like a flock of wounded white birds.
"No!"
The absolute heartbreak in Sarah's voice cuts through my own, vanquishing my anger and leaving behind a residue of regret.
She falls to her knees, gathering the pages and snatching the broken book from my hand.
"I didn't mean to do that," I say quietly, in case she didn't know.
Her dark hair falls over her shoulders, hiding her face.
"Sarah, did you hear me? I'm sorry."
Why does it feel like that's all I end up saying lately?
Her shoulders shudder; I think she's crying. And my stomach feels as if it's full of worms--wiggling and squirming disgustingly.
"I'll give you the money to replace it. It's a book. I mean . . . there's more than one." I stumble on like an utter fucking prat.
"Was it very valuable?"
When she still doesn't respond, I put my hand on her back. She jerks up, wrenching away from me. Her eyes are wet and furious and wounded.
"Get out," she hisses.
"What?"
"Get. Out!" she shouts, louder this time, gathering the last of the pages in her arms and placing them gently on the bed.
I nudge the floor with the tip of my foot, murmuring, "It's my castle."
And that pushes her over the edge.
She shoves me, harder than I expect. Her cheeks are high with color, her hair mussed, and her eyes wild. I'd be as hard as a steel rod right now, if I weren't so concerned that I'd truly hurt her.
"Sarah, come on . . ."
When I don't move fast enough, she shoves my chest again.
"Get out of my room, you mean, childish son of a bitch!"
I'm about to reply with some flippant comment, but before I can, her breath catches, breaking on a hiccup, and I realize with horror that she's trying very hard not to burst into tears.
I reach out. "I'm--"
Sarah throws her hand up, looking away and closing her eyes.
"Just go, Henry. Please."
And since it's the least I can do, I leave.
I WAKE UP LATE THE next day, at least late for me--my eyes are puffy and my chest is sore. Heavy. I don't leave my room until I know he's off the property. I hear the helicopter come in for his date with Cordelia--mountain climbing or ice fishing or herding cattle or something equally ridiculous. After the helicopter has departed, I head to Penelope's room with my poor, damaged book. She hovers over it like it's a baby bird with a broken wing, cooing that it'll be good as new in no time and touching it so gently. Because she's a good sister.
She really doesn't care about Sense and Sensibility, but she cares about me. She knows how much this book means to me--even if it doesn't mean much to her.
Unlike a certain handsome, heartless prince who shall not be named.
I don't think about the gentle brush of his lips against mine before it all turned bad. I refuse to remember the simmering in his dark green eyes while he looked at me like no man has ever looked at me before--like I was something precious, a treasure that he wanted more than his next breath. And I definitely don't focus on that wonderful, thrilling feeling that spread in my lower stomach. Filled with desire and excitement and joy.
I block that all out and focus on my poor, battered book. It's simpler that way.
We ask one of the crew members for tape and repair the damage as best we can. Then Penny spends the rest of the day in hair and makeup and then in her "hot seat" one-on-one interview while I spend it walking around the castle grounds. And I think about leaving, going back to my flat and my job . . . and my life.
> I mean, really, what the hell am I doing here?
But, it's entirely possible Mother will force Penny to come home if I do. She's having so much fun and she's actually learning a few things about television production--making friends with the crew, developing contacts. So, for the time being anyway, I'm stuck like a mouse in a trap. In a castle.
I take a sandwich to my room for dinner and watch the news instead of reading. By sunset, I'm exhausted and fall asleep early.
Late that night, there's a knock on my bedroom door. And I hate the thrill that zings through me, hate the delicious swoop of my stomach and uptick in my pulse as I walk to answer it. Because my body knows who's on the other side. And it--traitorous thing that it is--can't wait to drink in the sight of him, feel the strength of his presence, smell the warmth of his skin. My blood urges my heart to forgive and forget--it says I'm being silly, that the still sore wound in my chest is only a scratch.
I inhale when my hand touches the doorknob--bracing for the overwhelming sensual onslaught that is Henry Pembrook.
He looks tired. And sad. And my wound throbs more painfully.
His usually dancing green eyes are dull and guarded. The blond stubble on his chin, which typically gives him an irresistible roguish allure, now seems almost war-weary. I pull the top of my robe tighter and secure the knot on the belt, as if that might protect me from his charm.
"What do you want?"
Thick, long lashes blink innocently--he knows what he's doing.
"It's bedtime. I'd like to sleep. Or we can chat if you prefer? I could play something soft for you on the guitar . . . or you could hum while I try to drift off and I won't complain once, I swear."
There's a heartbreakingly hopeful note in his voice as he recounts what has become our nightly routine. And I want to open the door to him. And my arms. The way I would embrace a lad who's so sorry he broke my favorite toy.
But I don't--I can't. It's self-preservation. Henry is no mere lad--and his thoughtlessness is capable of shattering so much more than a toy.
I adjust my glasses because it makes me feel intelligent and strong.
"You're not sleeping here, Henry."
He shifts gears and changes tactics. Smirking devilishly. Persuasively. He braces his hand on the door jamb, leaning in. "Come on, Sarah. It was an accident--I've already said I'm sorry. Why are you making such a fuss about it?"
This is good. This is what I need. His flippancy and derision. It shores up my anger, and anger builds a stronger wall than hurt.
His eyes scan my puckered mouth, tight jaw and hard, unyielding eyes. He pushes a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands.