How to Catch a Prince

by Rachel Hauck

  “You had no right to demand answers of me about Carlos’s death.” He only held her gaze for a second. “But I yielded to your demand.”

  “Did you want the annulment signed that much? To break the law, deliver classified information?”

  He held up the envelope. “Would you have signed it if I didn’t?”

  “Probably. Eventually. But I meant it when I said ‘I love you.’ ”

  He didn’t respond, simply stared at the envelope. Corina weighed her next confession. One she’d thought a lot about, prayed about, considered as important as ‘I love you.’ ”

  “S–Stephen?”

  He glanced up.

  She drew a deep breath. “I forgive you.”

  “W–hat?”

  The tears . . . oh the dratted tears. “I–I forgive you.” Were there any more pieces of her heart to break? But each pulsing, shattered piece affirmed her proclamation. “I–I forgive you. I don’t see my brother’s blood on your hands.”

  His shoulders shimmied as he looked toward the edge of the Braithwaite.

  Corina stroked his hand. “For what it’s worth, you should forgive yourself too.”

  “Is that why you brought me up here?” He adjusted his position on the bench, moving slightly away from her. “Show me up? Be the bigger man, as it were?” The question, laced with accusation, stung.

  “No, I just wanted us to end on a good note. Who knows if our paths won’t cross again.”

  He was silent, jaw tense and taut, then, “Last night . . . I couldn’t stop thinking about Bird and how he had a child on the way, Corina. A son. You didn’t know Bird, but a wife, a family? All he wanted in life. And to play rugby on weekends.” The comment was not random, but filled with calculated emotion. “If he’d had known, would he have acted differently that day? I’d be dead like the rest if he’d not fallen on me.”

  “Stephen, what’s the point of this? Stop being the living dead. You’re as bad as my parents. You were saved for a purpose and I don’t think it was to live in perpetual regret, perpetual mourning.” She held her fisted hands at her side, shaking. “Bird chose to protect you. He might not have known about Baby Bird, but he sure as heck knew about Agnes. He gave his life for you. Why don’t you choose to honor him by living it?”

  “Instinct.” He shook his head, refusing to face her. “Bird moved on instinct. If he’d hesitated like me, he might have run for cover. But no matter what, I can’t shake the reality that I robbed Bird, Carlos, the others of their lives.”

  “No, you didn’t.” She moved in front of him, hands on his legs, ducking her head to see his face. “Stop with this reflective guilt. Asif robbed them. Not you. His anger and bitterness.” Oh, the picture of forgiveness just became clearer to her own heart. “You keep on this path and not even the pitch can save you. One day, Stephen, you’ll be too old to play. What if your ankle doesn’t heal—”

  “It will heal.” His eyes locked with hers and she saw beyond the cloak into the depth of his pain. “It will.”

  “Then heal you. Let go. It’s been five and a half years. Don’t chain yourself to the past. What’s your instinct telling you, Stephen? Right here, right now? You said hesitation caused you to falter. So don’t hesitate.”

  His hand grazed her hip and her passions pulsed, aching to be in his arms. But his answer was soft. Passionless. “Carry on. One day at a time.”

  Disappointment burned in Corina’s chest as the first cathedral chime rang out, a second cathedral bell following. At nine o’clock they were bold and resonating, but a dissonant, uncoordinated sound.

  One . . .

  Two . . .

  Three . . .

  Corina determined not to lose this moment. She slipped her hand around his neck and drew him toward her, pressing her lips to his. Tentative at first, then with the full force of her heart, leaning against his leg, pressing toward his chest.

  Four . . .

  A kiss to remind him of their love, of the kiss that began it all that day on the pitch in Cathedral Stadium.

  Five . . .

  Her kiss deepened with the memories of their wedding night, the heat and sweat of making love for the first time in that small quaint cottage on Hessenberg’s shores.

  Six . . .

  He held off at first touch, almost pulling away, then his arms slipped around her waist and he drew her onto his lap. They embraced, their bodies pulsing.

  Seven . . .

  Then she broke away, smoothing her hand over his chest where his heart kicked against her palm.

  Eight . . .

  “Corina—” His breath was hot against her skin.

  Nine . . .

  “I love you.” She anchored her hands on his legs and tapped her forehead to his, the flutter of the annulment envelope brushing against her arm. “I just do.”

  Stephen woke Sunday morning, drenched in sweat. He’d dreamt of Corina again, but this time she was in his arms, swaying to the music of violins playing Chopin, the feathery white of her gown pure and spotless.

  Forgiven.

  With a growl in his chest, he kicked out from under the bed linens and made his way to the bathroom. At the sink, he doused his face with cold water, cooling the emotions that flamed against him.

  “You’ve done it, mate.” He stared at his reflection. “She’s gone now. It’s what you wanted.”

  He touched his finger to his lower lip, where the buzzing hint of her presence remained. He splashed his face again and tried to rub the buzz from his lip. When he snatched the hand towel from the bar to dry his face, the sensation of her touch had not diminished but intensified.

  Forgiven. The word strafed his heart.

  Stephen tossed the towel into the hamper and made his way back to his room. He wasn’t worthy of forgiveness. Not from himself or Corina. Especially not from a God to whom he barely spoke.

  The white annulment envelope beckoned from his dresser. Snatching it up, Stephen walked to his office. This was what he wanted. Not the lingering passion of her kiss nor the resurrection of their memories.

  He was free, right? So why did he feel so bound?

  Tossing the envelope to his desk, he made a note to carry it over to the King’s Office in the morning. By Monday afternoon, it would all be official.

  The idea emptied him as he sank down in his desk chair, head in hands. God, could you love a man like me?

  From down the hall his mobile rang. With a jerk, he pushed out of the chair and skip-walked back to his room. His left ankle throbbed and pinched.

  More physio. He must remain determined. Maybe he could entice Darren out on a Sunday afternoon for some exercises.

  Corina’s number flashed on the small screen and he sighed. Was she still in the city? With his pulse thick in his veins, he answered.

  “Hey,” she said, low and southern, full of sweetness.

  “How are you?”

  “Good. At the airport.”

  “It’s cliché, you know. A sappy airport good-bye.”

  “Guess that’s why you’re not here?”

  “Y–yes, that’s why I’m not there.”

  After their Braithwaite kiss, she waited for him to respond, to relent, perhaps to say he loved her, too, but his heart remained locked.

  She laughed. “Smart. Because who likes a sappy airport scene? Especially with a prince involved.”

  He sobered. “Corina, please, I cannot let you go home with any sort of hope. I’m sorry to speak with such frankness, but I want to be clear. I did you a great disservice with five and a half years of silence. I won’t do it again. The annulment goes to the King’s Office tomorrow morning.”

  “Then you should know I meant what I said. I love you. And I meant that kiss last night. We’re good together, you and me. What happened in Afghanistan should draw us together not push us apart.”

  Did she hear herself, really? “You say that now, but in five, ten years, you’ll regret waking up next to a man who cost you so much. Can I be so bold as
to say ‘Let go’? You must move on. Don’t hold on to anything for me.”

  “What about you? Will you move on?” The tentative tone in her question made him think she didn’t want an answer. “I–I guess I’ll have to prepare to see you with someone else.”

  “Don’t put yourself through this.” Move on? How could anyone compare to her?

  “Stephen, I’ve been wondering. If you thought we were annulled all those years, why didn’t you move on?”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “I was just surviving, giving energy to Daddy and Mama. It’s so true, the death of a child can break a family if they’re not careful.”

  In the background, Stephen heard the announcement for a flight to Atlanta. “Is that you?”

  “First class. That’s me.”

  He grinned, pressing his finger against the sting of tears. “Indeed, love, that’s you.”

  “So, I guess I shouldn’t ask you to call or write.”

  “It’s best we break away clean.”

  “What if I’d been pregnant?”

  He swallowed. Grateful she had not been. “Corina, let’s just stay on this plane.”

  “I just wondered—”

  “Can you do me one favor?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Forget about me.”

  “Five and a half years so far and I’m not very successful.”

  “It’s all over now. We know it. The conversation has been had, the stories told, the papers signed.” Another call came to board flight 781 to Atlanta.

  “All right. I’ll move on. But Stephen, that doesn’t change one simple thing.”

  “Corina, don’t—”

  “I love you.”

  She said her good-byes and he hung up, crashing down to his bed. She was killing him. He smoothed his thumb and finger over his eyes, squeezing out the shallow wash of tears.

  This was it. The last, last time he’d cry for her. Then it was over.

  After a few moments, he collected himself, dried his face, and called Darren, who declined a physio appointment because he was heading to the shore with his family.

  “Take a respite, Stephen. Rest. Do something with your family today.”

  “Have a good time, Darren. See you tomorrow.”

  Robert came in declaring the breakfast buffet was ready. Stephen thanked him and jumped in for a quick shower, where a nagging idea began, finding life among the heat and steam.

  Talk to Archbishop Caldwell. The retired archbishop lived in a cottage along Hessenberg’s northern shores. Stephen felt sure he’d read that somewhere.

  He wondered if the old chap was up for a visit.

  “Robert, I’m going out for the afternoon,” Stephen said, coming down the stairs, finding his butler waiting for him in the foyer.

  “This came for you.” Robert met Stephen in the kitchen. “By special courier from the Galaxy via the King’s Office.”

  “On a Sunday?” Odd. “I didn’t purchase anything at auction. Who sent it?”

  “Not sure.” Robert held up a hammer, ready to open the crate. “Shall we?”

  “We shall.” Stephen motioned for him to open it, helping lift the lid when it was free, then sliding the painting from inside, breaking away the packing paper.

  He knew what it was without looking. The Pissarro. Setting it against a chair in the living room, Stephen stood back, and the magic of the golden gas lamps reflecting off the rain-stained Rue du Roi made his hunger for Corina burn.

  “My, sir, what an exquisite painting. Camille Pissarro is one of my favorites.”

  “Mine as well.” Corina. This was her handiwork. In the painting’s muted brown, rust, and gold colors of the Rue du Roi, he was with her, walking along the avenue arm-in-arm among the other lovers. Her kiss on his lips awakening his heart.

  You love her.

  Stephen glanced at Robert as he exited the room. “Send it back.”

  “Send it back to whom, sir? I–it’s a Pissarro. Are you sure you don’t want it for your collection?”

  “What collection, Robert?” Stephen faced him, holding his arms wide.

  “Perhaps one day you’ll start a collection, sir.”

  “Perhaps. But I’m not starting with this piece.” Was she trying to break him? “Return it to the Galaxy. Better yet, donate it to a museum. But it’s not staying here.”

  You love her. He pressed his hands against his ears, starting for the kitchen. He’d confront this archbishop, this man of God—“Why did you marry us?”—sort out this love business, and be done with it.

  “There’s a note on the back.” Robert’s voice roped Stephen to a halt.

  Stephen glanced down the curved staircase at his butler. “Bring it here, please.”

  Robert handed him the greeting-card-sized envelope and Stephen removed the card. The butler-valet-aide went on his way as Stephen sank down to the nearest chair and read.

  To say I love you is more than mere words.

  ’Tis a truth in my heart.

  I love you, my darling, and you’ve married me.

  And we will never be apart.

  The words were distant, but he knew them. From the card he bought at the shop the night they married. He crumpled the card in his big hand, dropped it to the floor, then smashed it with his foot. Now she played dirty. Unearthing tender memories he only planned to review as an old man, gumming his breakfast, mumbling of a love no one knew about, and they’d think him senile. The babbling Prince of Brighton.

  Stephen glanced back at the painting. It was beautiful. But what were her intentions, sending him the Braithwaite painting? Did she intend to torture him, remind him of what he could never have? His heart palpitated at the idea of hanging that painting, her memory, in his apartment.

  Shoving to his feet, he returned to his room for his walking boot, phone, and wallet. Twenty minutes later, through the light Sunday morning traffic, he parked his motor at the south bay and caught the morning ferry to Grand Duchy of Hessenberg, the island nation south of Brighton, just as she pulled from the docks.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Corina peered out the cab window as the driver turned down the long driveway toward her parents’ home, exhausted. She tried to sleep during the long flight home, but the moment she drifted away, the fullness of Stephen’s embrace jolted her awake.

  Then she realized she wasn’t in his arms, so she tried to sleep again. But rest never came.

  She hadn’t planned on coming back here, but she’d miss her flight home to Melbourne. She needed to talk to Daddy anyway, tell him the truth about Carlos face-to-face.

  She was grateful for the light traffic and quick drive from the airport to Marietta. For the driver who didn’t ask too many questions. For when he pulled past the front gate and down the long, live-oak-shaded drive of home.

  She was even more grateful for Adelaide and Brill, her guardian angels, if not in reality then in theory, who said good-bye with sad looks on their angelic faces.

  “I told him I forgave him, Adelaide. And I meant it. I–I think that’s the core of loving well, don’t you?” she asked, wanting truth, wanting confirmation that she’d succeeded in her mission.

  Adelaide caressed Corina’s arm. “Indeed I do.”

  “Maybe I should stay? He might come around.”

  “Leave it to the Father, lass. You needn’t fret so. You’re in his gracious hands.”

  “Adelaide, I wish I had your confidence.”

  Then the taxi arrived and there was no time for more discussion. She was going to miss those two. Whoever they were.

  Adelaide and Brill watched her go in the thin light of dawn, and Corina captured the image of the old inn with its single-pane window filled with gold light and the odd and ancient proprietors waving good-bye.

  Halfway over the Atlantic she realized she’d not taken one photograph of them. She pulled out her laptop and journaled her thoughts.

  The cab driver curved around in front of the veranda and stopped. He
popped the trunk as Corina stepped out into the early afternoon heat. Mid-June promised a sweltering summer.

  Had it only been a little over a week since she was here? It felt like a lifetime.

  “Here you are.” He set her suitcases by her feet.

  Corina paid him and he bid her a good day. She picked up her luggage and started for the house. She missed Stephen. If she’d stayed longer, could they have started over, fallen in love again, and repaired their annulment?

  She wondered if he’d let her know when he received the Pissarro. She wondered if he’d keep it but well, that was up to him. She’d done all she could to remind him of who they were. Who they could be.

  She swished up the porch stairs through pockets of cool shade, her stomach rumbling for home cooking, for some of Ida Mae’s chicken and dumplings.

  At the door, she tried the handle and the front door eased open.

  “Hey y’all.” She deposited her suitcases in the airy grand foyer then crossed toward the kitchen. “Anybody home?”

  “Hello?” A masculine voice boomed from the foyer hall.

  Corina spun around. “Daddy!”

  “Welcome home, Kit. How was Brighton?”

  “It was . . .” She sighed. “It’s a long story. You’re home. I’m glad.” Corina fell against the man who’d been her first prince, her rock, her harbor.

  He kissed her head. “I came home to check on a few things.” He was somber, and when he motioned with his folded paper for her to sit in the formal living room, dread coated her joy.

  “Daddy, what’s wrong?” She sat on the edge of the sofa while he perched on the arm of the wingback chair.

  “I’m going to live in the Atlanta condo for a while.”

  “Daddy, don’t do this.”

  “Your mom and I need some space.”

  “Daddy, you don’t need space. You need to come home. She needs to leave home. You two need to go back to being Donald and Horatia Del Rey.”

  “Darling, I’m not sure we can ever find those people again. By the way, our accountant called. Said you took ten million out of your Del Rey trust.”