Royally Yours

by Emma Chase

  I glance out the window. There’s a doomsday sky above us, with gathering clouds the color of ash and not a glimpse of sunlight to be found.

  “As long as it takes.”

  Late that night, when I arrive, I find Thomas in the library, in light blue pajamas and a black robe, staring into the mouth of the stone fireplace from a leather chair that seems too large for him. He glances at me in the doorway, then his eyes return to the golden glow of the flames.

  “Have you spoken with Dr. Nevil?”

  “I have.”

  He bobs his head in a nod, bringing a glass of amber liquid to his lips.

  “Promise me you’ll look after Michael. This is going to be hard on him.”

  “Thomas—”

  “And for fuck’s sake don’t bury me beside my father. I don’t care where you plant me, as long as it’s not there.”

  I rush forward, still in my coat, and kneel down beside his chair. I don’t think about the impropriety of it—that I’m not supposed to kneel to anyone. Because he’s my sweetest, dearest, truest friend, so I’ll kneel for him.

  “I’m going to save you.”

  It’s not a promise—it’s a solemn vow. I swear it because I believe it.

  The fire casts dancing shadows on Thomas’s glasses.

  “Lenora . . .”

  “I couldn’t save Mother, I couldn’t do anything for Father . . . but I can save you. I’ll use every resource I have. I won’t let you die, Thomas.” I hold his hand in both of mine. “I’ll fight this with everything I am. Please fight it with me. Please.”

  He gazes down at me for several still moments, and I can feel his affection and caring and love. They wrap around me like a soft, safe blanket, warming me inside and out. Then the corners of his mouth inch up, and for the first time since I walked in the room, he looks like the Thomas I know.

  “I’d fight next to you any day of the week and twice on Sunday. You’re small but you’re plucky. And that pissed-off, determined look that you get on your face,” he points at me, “that’s the one, there—absolutely terrifying.”

  I laugh softly, even as my eyes go wet. I kiss the back of Thomas’s hand and he presses his palm to my cheek.

  And then he’s making vows too.

  “We’ll sort it out, Lenora. And whatever happens, I promise it’s all going to be all right.”

  For a time, things don’t get significantly better or worse; it’s just steady as we go. Doctors come to see Thomas and appointments are scheduled. I have breakfast with him every morning, pushing him to keep up his strength and eat his porridge. Sometimes I plead sweetly for him to take just one more bite, and if that doesn’t work I tell him I’ll have Winston hold him while I shove it down his bloody throat.

  That’s what friends are for.

  The rest of the days are filled with calls and briefings, reports and legislation, and meetings here at the castle because the business of government stops for no man . . . or queen.

  Late one afternoon, I’m on a call with Prime Minister Bumblewood, who has the temerity to ask about the rumored upcoming betrothal announcement. Inquiring minds want to know, he teases in a tone I’m sure he believes is charming.

  Wankmaggot.

  I end the call and push back from the desk, rubbing my eyes and stretching out the knot in my neck. I walk through the grand hall to the stairs and up to Thomas’s room, where I intercept Michael in the outer sitting room.

  “How is he?” I ask.

  “Sleeping.” Michael forces a tight smile, cracking open the door behind him. Thomas lies on his back, pale and still, in the center of the big canopy bed. His breathing is labored, in spite of the oxygen tubes in his nose, and despite my best efforts to get him to eat, he’s lost weight—his lively face now gaunt, with cheekbones too prominent.

  “Good. He needs his rest.” I swallow past the lump in my throat. “I think I’ll go for a ride—get some air.”

  Michael nods kindly. “That’s a fine idea.”

  After changing into my riding clothes—snug black jodhpurs, a white shirt, a black riding jacket and high leather boots—I walk out the back toward the stables. The air is cold enough to see my breath and my lungs expand with icy invigoration every time I breathe it in.

  Winston, as always, is just a few steps behind me.

  “I want to ride alone,” I tell him.

  I can feel his frown boring into the back of my head.

  “That’s not—”

  I stop on the path and spin around.

  “Is the perimeter secured?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then I’ll be fine. I’ll stay on the property. Don’t worry so much, Winston—it’ll give you wrinkles and I’ll have to fire you because you’ll be too ugly to look at.”

  He doesn’t smile exactly, but his scowl softens—like he’s smiling on the inside.

  “I’ll try my best, Queen Lenora. I do aim to please.”

  At the stables, the groom brings me a gigantic, angry brown beast of a horse named Hector. I like him immediately. As I swing up into the saddle, he dances with frantic energy that needs to be burned off. I know exactly how he feels.

  In the grassy field beyond the castle, I open him up—letting him gallop toward the forest as hard and fast as those brawny legs will go. My cheeks and the tip of my nose go numb with cold and I tuck my chin and enjoy the speed, the blur. The crashing sound of the ocean mixes with the whistle of the wind and it feels like I’m flying . . . like I’m a bird that can go anywhere.

  Someplace where there are no duties or schedules or terminal conditions. There is only the sun on my face and wind in my hair.

  An hour and miles later, Hector is calmer. I duck my head under a branch as we trot through the canopy of trees, until we come to another clearing. When I glance up at the sky, I see a storm coming in—a great swelling wall of indigo clouds that have already enveloped the sun.

  Leaning forward, I stroke Hector’s velvet neck. “What do you say, my boy? Think we can get in one more run before the rain catches us?”

  He snorts, pulling at the reins.

  “I think so too.”

  I tap his hindquarters, and we’re off again. I close my eyes, to better soak up the sensations, and squeeze Hector’s rippling flanks with my thighs and knees.

  And then I let go of the reins and hold my arms out, palms forward. Trying to catch the wind in my hands.

  It’s the stupidest bloody thing I’ve ever done—but it feels amazing.

  It feels like freedom.

  For about three seconds.

  That’s when Hector lets out a sharp, indignant shriek. He rears up on his back legs and before I can grab the reins, I’m flying—falling—like Alice down her endless rabbit hole. Before landing on my arse in the cold, hard dirt.

  “Ooof!”

  The vibration of Hector’s thundering hooves on the ground beneath me gets fainter and fainter. Traitor.

  I don’t move at first. I lie on my back breathing, making sure all four limbs are still attached. Then I open my eyes and blink up at the darkening sky. Until something obscures my view.

  Someone.

  It’s a man—standing over me, gazing down at me.

  His hair is wavy and blond and slightly too long. It falls forward over his forehead, giving him a reckless, rebellious look—like an archangel who came down to earth against orders.

  I sit up slowly, my head spinning a bit. He drops his bag on the ground and crouches down, assessing me. His eyes are an unusual green—a very dark shade of emerald—and his jaw is strong, taut, and scattered with more than a day’s worth of rugged, golden stubble. Tingling goose bumps that have nothing to do with the icy air race up my arms.

  When he speaks, his voice is deep but refined, like rough silk.

  “Are you injured?”

  I’ve been educated by the finest minds in the world.

  I speak seven languages fluently.

  And yet the only response I can muster is, “
Huh?”

  Brilliant.

  His brows draw together and his full, wicked mouth quirks—like he can’t decide if he should be worried or entertained.

  “Did you hit your head?”

  And now he thinks I’m concussed—how lovely.

  “Uh . . . no, no, I think I’m all right.”

  He nods, standing up, all tall and broad and muscly beneath a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and casual trousers. He holds out his hand and when I take it, his swallows mine whole. But when I get to my feet, a hot pain slices up my ankle.

  “Oh!”

  I take my weight off it, hopping, and the man guides me to sit on a large boulder. Without asking permission, he grasps behind my knee with one hand and slowly slides my boot off with the other. Then he cradles my ankle in his hands, pressing here and there with his thumb, his touch surprisingly gentle.

  “Can you wiggle your toes, lass?”

  Lass? I look at his face to see if he’s being impertinent, but he just gazes back at me, waiting. Because he has no idea who I am. None. To him I’m just a lost babe in the woods—like in one of those fairy tales I never finished reading.

  I’ve never met someone who didn’t already know who I was—how utterly bizarre.

  I flinch when I wiggle my toes.

  “It’s not broken, but you’ve twisted it good.” He glances up and down the field, then he turns those penetrating green eyes back on me. “Looks like I’ll be carrying you.”

  I am not a blusher. Or a giggler. I don’t get flustered.

  I fluster everyone else.

  Yet the thought of him carrying me with those impressive arms makes my insides go all gooey and my cheeks flush like they’re on fire.

  “That won’t be necessary.” My voice is breathless, because I can’t seem to get enough air. “I’ll wait here and you can have them come fetch me with the maintenance buggy.”

  On cue, a blast of thunder booms overhead—the kind that shakes the ground and sounds like the sky is cracking.

  Thanks, God. Thanks a lot.

  “No, this storm’s going to be a nasty one. I won’t leave you out here all alone.”

  “That’s very kind, but I’m perfectly—”

  It’s a very strange thing to not being listened to. To be overruled. Is this what everyday life is like for everyone else?

  I don’t like it at’all.

  He lifts me effortlessly in his arms, cradling me against his chest. His shirt is clean, soft cotton and smells like earth and fresh grass. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with my hands, so they stay folded in my lap as he walks us into the forest.

  “That was a hell of a horse you were riding.” His rich voice has a hint of teasing to it. “You may want to stick to something smaller until you get better at it.”

  “I happen to be an excellent rider.”

  The fact that he thinks I’m not prickles me more than it should.

  “Excellent riders usually know to keep their hands on the reins.” He winks.

  “I’ll try to remember that,” I reply dryly.

  Another blast of thunder comes and lightning bursts in the sky. He dips his head, leaning in closer.

  “Are you staying at Anthorp Castle, then?”

  “Yes. The Duke and I are good friends.”

  There’s a glint in his eyes as he nods, as though I’ve said something amusing.

  “And you?” I ask. “You seem to know the property well.”

  “Aye. It’s been some time since I’ve been back, but I was raised here.”

  “Oh?” I take in his clothes, his hair, his gruff demeanor. “Were you . . . one of the groundskeeper’s children?”

  His lips slide into a devilish grin and he’s definitely laughing at me now.

  “No.”

  There isn’t a chance to elaborate—or to tell him he’s being rude. Because the skies open and a torrent of pounding rain begins to drench us both.

  AFTER YEARS OF RESEARCH I’ve come to the uncontestable conclusion that no good news ever comes in a telegram. They are bringers of bad. Harbingers of depressing. The equivalent of a call at two in the morning—whoever’s ringing on the other end, you can bet your balls they’re not going to have anything happy to say.

  When my mother died, it was a telegram that told me and Thomas. When the six-member team of a river expedition I was set to join was unexpectedly wiped out by a mudslide, the telegram struck again. When my father died, a telegram informed me—though that wasn’t exactly bad news, but . . . that’s a story for another day.

  The story for today is, I’ve come back home.

  And Christ, it hasn’t changed a bit.

  Every tree, each stone is exactly like I remember it. The churning ocean is the same shade of blue-green and the waves crashing against the rocks beat in the exact same rhythm.

  Like it’s been sitting, waiting for me to return all this time.

  When I was young, it chafed at me. The sameness. The monotony. It seemed so pointless. The rigid expectations and traditions of an heir to an old dukedom wrapped themselves around me like an iron chain—weighing me down, making it impossible to breathe.

  But that was then.

  Today, standing back on Wessco’s shores, it doesn’t feel like that anymore. It feels like . . . coming home. The land may not have changed, but I have. A decade away will do that to you. There’s a comfort in the steadfastness of the landscape now—in knowing every path and trail the same way I know the look of my own hands. There’s a wistful nostalgia in the air that I couldn’t appreciate when I was wild and young and hungry for recklessness.

  Speaking of recklessness . . .

  It’s not every day you find a beautiful girl in the woods, riding free, arms stretched out, head tilted up to the sky like a submissive angel awaiting her master’s command.

  It would only have been better if she were naked.

  I think it’s a good omen—a welcome-home present from God.

  I didn’t get her name before the torrential downpour began . . . but I plan to. I can tell from her demeanor that she’s a lady—some Parliament member’s daughter perhaps, or maybe a cousin of Thomas’s friend, Michael Fitzgibbons.

  Even with water pouring down her face and her hair stuck like a drowned rat on her head, she’s lovely. With full, pouty, petal-pink lips that inspire all sorts of dirty thoughts and skin that smells like lilacs and rainwater. She’s almost nothing to carry—but pressed against me, she’s soft and full in all the right places.

  The castle comes into view through the rain. The girl gives a little shiver from the cold and I hold her tighter and walk a bit faster. A few minutes later, my wet steps echo across the stone floor and gently, I place my pretty bundle in the foyer chair. I tug down a God-awful tapestry that’s hung ugly on the wall for a hundred years, wrapping it around her shoulders and rubbing heat into her arms. Then I stand up and push my dripping hair back off my face.

  And the fun really starts.

  When a maid I don’t know comes in from the great room, looks at the woman in the chair and gasps, “Oh, Your Majesty, are you all right?”

  At the exact same time as Horatio, the butler, comes in from the other side and says, “Welcome home, Master Edward.”

  And I stare down at her and she stares at me.

  “Edward?”

  “Your Majesty?”

  “You’re Thomas’s brother?”

  “You’re the Queen?”

  When Thomas first wrote me about his little friend, Princess Lenora—or Lenny as I’d christened her, because Lenora is an old woman’s name—it was stories of a laughing, lively girl who was game to tag along on his misadventures. And that’s the image that’s been frozen in my mind—a young girl with a taste for the wild.

  But this creature—with enticing gray eyes, a pert nose and a lush, plump mouth, wearing saturated riding clothes that cling to every gorgeous curve like a second skin—she’s no girl.

  “Why didn’t you tell m
e who you were?” she demands, her eyes glinting like two sharp blades.

  “Why didn’t you tell me who you were?” I demand right back.

  She scoffs at the question as if it’s the most ridiculous thing she’s ever heard.

  “The Queen does not tell people she’s the Queen.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because they’re just supposed to know.”

  “How?”

  She throws up her arms. “They just do!”

  Fuck, but she’s an entertaining little thing. So much indignation and fire in such a tight, shapely package. It makes me want to grin—if only to infuriate her more.

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “You’re ridiculous.” She pushes herself up from the chair, standing. “And rude.”

  “I’m rude?” I hook my thumb over my shoulder. “I left my bag in the bloody woods for you. I carried you five miles through a monsoon. Does the Queen also not say ‘thank you’ when a man helps her?”

  She crosses her arms and lifts her nose, somehow making it feel like she’s looking down at me even though I’m a foot taller.

  “No, she doesn’t. It’s an honor to serve me, so . . . you’re welcome.”

  Well, would you look at that—the Queen’s got balls. Good for her. It’s more than I can say for most of the aristocrats I know.

  “Brilliant, you’re getting along already.”

  The voice comes from behind me—a voice I know as well as my own. I turn around . . . and all thoughts of sparring with the haughty Queen rush from my head.

  Because when Thomas’s telegram first reached me, I told myself it was a prank. A bit of fun. Just the kind of thing he would do—use dark humor to lure me home. But now, as I look at him, I know every word of it was true.

  And it’s like the floor falls away beneath my feet.

  Because my baby brother is here in front of me, but at the same time . . . it’s not him. Not the him I remember, not the him he’s supposed to be. He looks like an old man—a pale, young old man—in a wheelchair, with a blanket over his lap, being pushed by Michael.

  Only his eyes are the same, behind the lenses of the thick, dark frames that he’s worn since he was six. They dance with green mischief. With life.