Long Live Queen Perry: Contemporary Reverse Harem (Kingdom of Veronia Book 3)

by Serena Akeroyd

  “Shut up.” She eyed him grumpily, but the hand she lowered to George’s was anything but tempered by her mood. She squeezed his fingers, Xavier noticed, with a strength she tried to imbue to his cousin.

  “I don’t know, Perry, they seem to be dropping like flies around you,” he teased, needing to play, to jerk her chain a bit. Do anything to lighten the tension in the room.

  But he could only do so much.

  Philippe’s silence and stillness combined with the endless beeps of the machines that kept him alive were draining any possibility of lightheartedness.

  As always, her sensitivity surprised him. She seemed to recognize what he was doing, didn’t take offense, and murmured, “I prefer ‘bees around honey’ than being compared to flies, Xavier.” She pouted.

  His grin appeared, and it was such a strange development that the muscles in his jaw ached. It had been close to four weeks since they’d been happy and on honeymoon; in those twenty-eight days, he hadn’t smiled. Not even once.

  “Stop being fussy. They’re all insects.”

  “Bees have queens,” George said hoarsely. His hand closed around Perry’s like the lifeline it was. “She’s right. It’s more fitting.”

  Perry ducked her head when George took a seat beside his father’s bed. She pressed a kiss to his temple, then closing her eyes, she turned slightly and buried her face in his hair.

  Xavier understood. The need to connect was deep. It burned like a living flame between them all.

  It was an unusual phase in their relationship, considering how new their being together really was. So shortly after the honeymoon, they should still have been at it like rabbits. But since Marianne’s murder, they hadn’t come together in that way… and it was strange. Strange not to seek union in that manner. Instead, they were growing more affectionate.

  Especially Perry.

  He hadn’t needed George to tell him that Perry had had few romantic relationships in her life. She was very comfortable in herself, but in many ways, unused to being touched by others. It wasn’t that she wasn’t affectionate, but simply unaccustomed to being able to touch somebody with tenderness. In these past weeks, she’d been learning. Gradually becoming fluent in the silent language they could only utter with touch.

  “Where’s Edward? He should be here,” George whispered, all joviality disappearing.

  Xavier sighed, but it was more like a gust of air than a gentle trickle. “You know he would be if he could.”

  Perry straightened a little, moved her hands to bracket George’s shoulders as she whispered, “He’s meeting with Drake today.”

  His cousin shuddered. “I hope that means they have news. It’s about goddamn time.”

  “Drake called in as many favors as he was able,” Xavier noted, thinking uneasily of the offer of help Perry’s former president had extended to them. He shouldn’t have been surprised that there was a CIA black site here in Veronia, but he was. And that their head of security had been using it merely deepened his unease.

  “Not enough,” George said hoarsely. “Not nearly fucking enough.” His eyes were trained on his father’s pale and drawn face.

  Philippe had always been hale and hearty, rarely ill. Now, to see him like this, he looked every one of his sixty-eight years.

  Xavier wasn’t sure if that made him feel very young or very old.

  “That reminds me,” Perry said softly. “Edward wanted me to ask you something, Xavier.”

  Curious, he cocked a brow at her. “What?”

  She pulled a face, and her discomfort made itself known as she bit her lip. “He was wondering if you’d sit in Parliament for the foreseeable future.”

  The notion didn’t exactly thrill him, but he was eager to help. In times of crisis, family pulled together or fell apart. He had no intention of their quartet disintegrating.

  “Of course.”

  Perry blinked. “Really?”

  Her surprise had him smiling—twice in one hour, talk about a damn miracle. “Edward sent in the big guns, huh?” It didn’t astonish him that Edward had believed he’d say no—Xavier had, after all, spent most of his life avoiding his Aunt Marianne’s attempts to bring him more into the royal fold.

  She cut him a look. “Maybe. If you consider me ‘big guns’.”

  George snorted. “You’ve been Perried, Xavier.”

  Didn’t he just know it.

  Chapter Four

  In the family, Edward was the rider. The one who found freedom on the back of a horse, who could and would lose himself on an hour-long ride. But it was George who found himself today on horseback, he who sought the gentle peace that only a stallion could bring him.

  He wished he was alone, but ever since the shooting, security had begun to border on the ridiculous. Perry and Edward were followed around by small armies, and George and Xavier, even though they were lesser royals now, hadn’t been saved from the miserable fate of having too many guards traipsing around behind and in front of them.

  After the freedom of the States, George felt certain he’d go mad if he couldn’t have a moment to himself. Then, when such thoughts crossed his mind, he felt inordinately guilty. How must Perry feel? She, who’d led a simple life before he’d barged his way into it? Who was unaccustomed to needing guards, never mind the depth of security they were currently enduring.

  Sighing wearily, George brought his horse to a halt. Standing in the stirrups, he balanced himself on the unsteady terrain as Whisper, an Arabian stallion, shifted and settled himself.

  The play of his muscles felt good, George realized. Since Dubai, they’d been inactive for the most part. Sequestered in secure locations, shielded from any and all potential dangers.

  Though he understood, the brain didn’t always make sense. Feelings certainly never did. These precautions were for his safety. It was the same for Perry, Edward, and Xavier. Drake wasn’t a sadist; he didn’t get off on making them more miserable by having them under constant supervision.

  He did it for their own good.

  But that particular truth didn’t stop him from feeling trapped. From feeling like he could scream and scream from within the box that was suddenly his life.

  All around them, he saw DeSauvier terrain. Land and territory that had been fought over and conquered several times throughout his family’s dynasty. He wondered how his ancestors would handle the current threat to the throne. Would they have allowed themselves to be curried into safe locations? Or would they have gone to war?

  Knowing his heritage, his ancestors’ delight in claiming more territory for themselves—a delight that had in fact inspired the UnReal’s anti-royalist cause in the first place—George could well understand the desire for battle.

  Only something like fighting would burn off this excess energy that was roaring through his system. Some moments of the day, he felt sure he’d go mad. Only Perry seemed to calm him. Only she, who was far newer to this world than he was, had the ability to help George breathe through the rages that threatened to drown him.

  The wind whistled through his hair. It was sharp and brisk, cold too. There was just enough nip to the air to make him shiver despite his thick Aran wool sweater—the faint perspiration his abrupt ride had stirred was likely the reason for that. The sun was murky, shielded from sight by a thick blanket of clouds, mostly grayer than white, but that perfectly suited his mood.

  Rain beckoned, and the truth of it was, George welcomed it. He could handle being drenched, might even feel renewed by a spiritual cleansing.

  In the distance, Masonbrook peered back at him. On days like today, with moods like his current one, he hated the castle. It was so solid. So enduring. It outlasted them all. Had seen so many of his line since the first DeSauvier who had constructed the monstrosity.

  It seemed to span miles—especially from this vantage point. The rolling hills that surrounded the castle didn’t even impugn the building’s stature. If anything, the castle dominated them, with its endless turrets, walls that
spanned hundreds of feet.

  Slivers of air were cut into some of the ramparts, holes that had once enabled archers to attack enemy soldiers for the DeSauviers had many enemies over the years—something that hadn’t changed. Would it ever? George asked himself sourly.

  There was a garrison, cannons lined some exterior courtyards just as suits of armor were decorative fodder in certain halls inside. The past was disturbingly present in Masonbrook. There was no forgetting the brutality of their history, and considering how his mother had just perished, that brutality seemed to be without end.

  “Your Highness, we’d best be getting back. It looks like rain.”

  George cut his guard a look. Francesco had been his ‘sentry’ since George had left for America years before—even when he’d fancied he’d dismissed them all, he’d known Francesco was there. Ever waiting, ever watching. He’d come to know the man quite well, had even appreciated the Italian’s bawdy sense of humor.

  That prior knowledge was probably the only reason he didn’t snap at him. Francesco hadn’t done a damn thing wrong, save for doing his job. Just because George wanted to be caught in the rain, didn’t mean it was fair that his guards would share a similar fate.

  The simplicity of his life in Boston was a siren’s call at that moment—God, how he wished they were there instead of here.

  Back in Boston, he’d only really answered to his boss and to Perry. The former he’d only done so he’d have a legitimate reason for staying there. The latter being why he needed the reason.

  He didn’t reply to Francesco, just seated himself and rode back to the stables. As always, the place bustled with activity. The DeSauviers spent a fortune on their horseflesh. For the family, it was more for the luxury of their station. For Edward, it was personal want—he loved his horses. The breeding program was something his brother had implemented back in his twenties, and the racehorses that program had reared were prizewinners in themselves.

  Knowing he was being a brat didn’t stop George from being petulant. He left Whisper to a stable hand, mumbling thanks to the young lad who looked up at him in awe, knowing full well he should have seen to the stallion’s tack himself.

  It was a poor horseman who didn’t care for his beast after a ride, but knowing that didn’t stir him into action.

  As he approached the castle, he blinked in surprise at the sight of Perry in one of the smaller courtyards. She had a small retinue of staff around her, fluttering around like wild butterflies that had been let loose.

  The courtyard contained a fountain and several beds of roses that were currently barren because of the season. Winter or not, the fountain tinkled merrily away as it had done for the past two hundred years. The grand marble statue of Poseidon, complete with trident, had been a gift from an ancestor to a particularly fertile bride. If memory served, each fish that spouted water into the air represented a child. As a boy, the notion had always astonished him.

  There were fourteen fish, after all.

  To George, that wasn’t fertile: it was madness.

  Still, different times, he supposed, trying to find comfort in his heritage. Everywhere he looked were the signs of his family’s longevity. They had survived worse than this threat, and they would live to see another day as they always had.

  Amid the dead rosebushes, Perry stood with all the fortitude of Boadicea. Arms aloft, she pointed here and there, muttering something that had the staff around her nodding in agreement. A few faces showed surprise, so only God knew what she was planning.

  He saw her delight when she spied him. Her hands came together in pleased applause, and he knew if they were alone, she’d have launched herself into his arms.

  He bitterly regretted that was impossible. With his maudlin mood, he could’ve done with a Perry-style hug.

  When he neared, however, she reached for his hands with both of hers and squeezed his fingers tightly as she stared up at him. Her beautiful face shining with a bright happiness that skewed the darkness of his own mood.

  “What are you doing out here?” she asked.

  If he’d needed proof of the fact he was brooding, he guessed he’d just had it. “I went for a ride.”

  Her eyes widened. “You did?”

  He watched as she pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, he let her gnaw on it a second before reaching up to pinch her on the chin. “Why does that come as such a surprise?”

  “It’s not, not really. I was just thinking.”

  “Always dangerous,” he teased.

  She huffed. “Xavier told me Edward loves to ride, that’s all. He half-threatened to teach me how.” Her huff turned into a grimace.

  Despite himself and his earlier agitation, he had to hide a grin. “Half-threatened? I offered too.”

  “You were only teasing. He was being serious.”

  “I was being serious,” he countered drily.

  “It takes all my energy to stay on two feet. You, more than anyone, know that.”

  He shook his head. “I know you’re clumsy, but you’re not as bad as you think, Perry. I swear, it’s like you think you’re one of the Marx brothers. You don’t spend half your time on the floor, you know. And if you did, you’d find an epic way to do it.”

  “If I fell before, it didn’t matter. Now?” She gestured at the staff behind her, who had dispersed somewhat to give them some privacy. “Now I have an audience.”

  “I wish I could tell you that you get used to it,” he grumbled, eyeing his own protective shadows who had stopped on the perimeter of the courtyard. He peered around, a thought occurring to him. “Where are your guards?”

  She shrugged. “Here and there, I’d imagine.”

  Concern filtered through him. He knew he’d only been mentally complaining about the gaggle of security acting as their second skin of late, but they were there for a reason after all. And that reason wasn’t for goddamn fun.

  “They should be here,” he insisted.

  “I’m sure they are,” she returned, raising a hand and rubbing at his shoulder to console him.

  He sighed impatiently. He didn’t need consoling, he needed answers. Turning to Francesco, he beckoned him close.

  As the guard approached, George asked Perry, “What are you doing out here anyway?”

  “This courtyard used to be a herb garden.” She smiled with no small amount of satisfaction. “I’m arranging the way I want it to be once the flower beds are tilled.”

  “Edward gave you free rein?”

  He only asked because his brother hadn’t said anything about it to him. But then, Edward hadn’t been saying much of anything to anyone outside of his advisors.

  The satisfied smile on her face broadened. “He did.”

  George couldn’t withhold his snort. Why did he think Edward didn’t realize the castle was about to be totally overhauled? He fully expected for the ancient edifice to be ripped to shreds to salve Perry’s eco-warrior conscience.

  “The Queen needs her guards,” he informed Francesco.

  His man nodded, then spoke into his microphone. Whatever he heard had him frowning as he turned about the garden. Then, he pointed to one, another, and a final one who looked like he was doing something illegal or something definitely dodgy behind a bush. “They’re dotted throughout the gardens.”

  “Who’s in charge of her staff?”

  “Raoul Da Silva,” Francesco murmured.

  “Mother’s head guard?”

  “Yes. Natural fit, I suppose, sir.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Francesco,” he said dismissively, feeling more at ease now he knew the guards were there, even if they weren’t entirely on show—on Edward’s orders, undoubtedly. Trying not to make Perry feel like she was totally hemmed-in.

  When his guard fell back, George turned to a scowling Perry. “Why herbs?” he asked, smiling a little as she glowered at where Francesco had pointed. When she failed to respond, he repeated his question.

  Though she was still glowering, he assumed because sh
e’d thought she was free from their surveillance, Perry grumbled, “According to records I found in one of the libraries, this used to be a herb garden…before it was converted into a useless rose garden.”

  He rolled his eyes. “You do know Veronia is famous for its roses? Which is why we have a lot of girls named Rose.” Like her new PA. The one she’d had for two minutes and didn’t like, and whose mother was one of their parents’ oldest friends. More’s the pity.

  That had her mouth rounding. “Huh, well, I didn’t know that about the girls’ names. Anyway, it can still be famous for them. We just don’t need a dozen rose gardens in the castle grounds.” She planted her hands on her hips. “You don’t even like roses.”

  “No,” he agreed. “I hate them. They’re trite and cliché.”

  “Then why the questions?” She squinted at him, her narrowed eyes raking over him in a way that, had they been alone in one of their quarters, he’d have used to start something between them.

  Pity that they were in the garden.

  “Curiosity, that’s all.”

  “You’re never curious about gardens. Your thumb is only green from flicking through all the money you earn in the stock market.”

  He chuckled, knowing full well that only she could make him laugh in his current mood. “You do know how playing the stock market works, right? We don’t actually touch the money.”

  “It’s all Monopoly money to you anyway,” she said on a sniff. “Why didn’t you invite me to go out with you? We could have walked, not gone riding.”

  Cocking a brow at the out-of-the-blue question, he grabbed her elbow, and gently shuffled her away from the half dozen members of staff pretending not to eavesdrop on their conversation. “Because I wanted to be alone.”

  She shook her head decisively. “The last thing you need is to be alone. You don’t do well alone. Edward doesn’t either.” She pursed her lips, a pensive expression crossing her features. “Xavier likes his own company. We’re alike in that.”

  He scowled at her. “I do do well alone.”

  “Oh, you do do, do you?” She let out a giggle. “British English makes no sense sometimes.”