A Royal Affair Series: Book 1, 2, and 3: A paranormal, time travel, royal romance

by Christina George

  “It’s right over this bridge,” Peter said, and Emma stopped. It was the exact spot where Fitz and Anna-Maria used to take their children on a picnic. They had spent many a Sunday here, watching the children play and enjoying their family time.

  “Peter, this place is so special.”

  “I know,” he winked, “I may not have the ability to travel through time, but I am pretty keen at research, and I discovered Fitz had this bridge built for Anna-Maria. In fact, he proposed to her right here, in the center of the bridge.” And with that, Peter got down on one knee, on the arch of the little bridge.

  “Emmeline, you are the love of my life, and apparently the love of all my lives. Will you do me the great honor of marrying me?”

  Emma couldn’t decide whether to melt or burst into tears, so she settled for sniffling and stroking her fingertips along his jaw.

  “And before you answer, let me remind you I will be King, which will mean tremendous change for everyone, including your grandfather.”

  Emma nodded, she knew. But she also knew Grandfather only cared about seeing them both happy.

  Emma took a deep breath and said, “Yes.” And Peter slipped on her ring, the same one Anna-Maria wore hundreds of years before.

  Tears spilled from Emma’s eyes, then, and she got down on her knees to hug him. “I love you more than I thought I could ever love anyone,” she said.

  At which point he kissed her, hard and fast, and wrapped his arms around her and spun them in circle, while from somewhere in the distant past, Anna-Maria and Fitz held hands and watched them.

  chapter 39

  Their wedding day was declared a national holiday so the entire country could celebrate the wedding of the American girl to their King.

  Peter’s coronation had occurred two months prior, during an exhausting ceremony full of history and pomp and circumstance. Now the country welcomed their newest addition, soon to be HRH Queen Emmeline. When a local historian showed pictures of their former King Fitzgerald and Queen Anna-Maria, no one could help but notice the remarkable resemblance between them and their new King and Queen.

  It was as though the fairytale love affair was continuing once again through their new monarchs, and the entire country was soon enamored with them. Emma had done endless interviews, attended numerous events, and spent considerable time on her wardrobe (good-bye, yoga pants) and learning royal protocol.

  “People are calling you the next Grace Kelly. Giving it all up for love!” Peyton chirped while a hairdresser worked Emma’s hair into a beautifully ornate chignon. They were in the room where Emma slept the first night she spent in the palace, Fitz and Anna-Maria’s old bedroom.

  “Not quite,” Emma said. “I mean, the only similarity is that I’m also American. As you well know, dear cousin, the truth is that all I’m giving up is an apartment the size of that closet,” she pointed to a large, elaborate walk-in closet on one end of the room. “And while I worked with celebrities, I was far from being one.”

  “Not anymore. Have a look.” Peyton pulled out a plate from her bag. “A souvenir plate! I got in town yesterday. See?”

  It was a gold-rimmed plate with a picture of the two of them wearing crowns and looking terribly royal.

  “Good grief!” Emma said and looked at Peyton, “Isn’t it a little soon? I mean, we’re not even married yet. I could change my mind.” The hairdresser stopped and looked at Emma.

  “I’m kidding,” she grinned, eyes sparkling. “But honestly,” she handed the plate back to Peyton, “that’s just silly. Who would want to eat off my face?”

  “Should I send one to Alex?” Peyton joked.

  Emma smiled but didn’t laugh. The mere mention of Alex’s name made her cringe.

  “Sorry, Cuz. That was a little insensitive.”

  Emma shook her head. “It’s fine, truly. But I’m very glad it’s behind me.”

  “And now we are rid of her, and today is your wedding, and it’s going to be a fairytale. And if you don’t fix me up with a duke or some other royalty, I may have to disown you.”

  “Maybe you can try to steal William away from Kate at the reception.”

  “Stop it, are they coming?!” Peyton’s eyes widened.

  Emma nodded, “Yes, and I think Bono will be there, too.”

  Peyton fanned herself with her hand. “Be still my beating heart.”

  Emma looked at herself in the mirror, her hair pinned up with delicate curls framing her face. “I found her diary,” she said softly.

  “Whose diary? Anna-Maria’s?”

  “It’s in my suitcase on the bed.”

  “Ma’am, I’m done here,” the hairdresser said. “I will send in the makeup girl shortly.” Emma thanked her, and she left quietly, leaving Peyton and Emma alone.

  Peyton rummaged until she found the diary, then sat on the bed, and read aloud:

  “My beloved Fitz is with us again, and I am forever grateful to whatever force brought him back. I cannot forget the dream, the dream that seemed so vivid and real, of him imprisoned in a weatherworn stable. Remembering it still breaks my heart. When I spoke with Fitz about the dream, he was stunned at its accuracy, and, even now, neither of us can comprehend how it could have happened. But now we are safe and home and all is right with the world.

  “The men who did this were caught, and thanks to Liam, who kept me safe during that terrible time, life has returned to normal for me, my beloved Fitz, and our children. Fitz asked Liam to forgo returning as one of the palace staff and has instead named him a member of Parliament, which Liam has accepted.”

  Peyton sighed. “Aw, sweet Liam, savior of Belgium’s monarchy. What gem of a guy he was. Good for Fitz. The dream she wrote about back then, the dream was you...” Peyton’s voice trailed off as they both let it sink in. It wasn’t their imagination. Emma had, indeed, inserted the dream into Anna-Maria’s psyche, as evidenced by the description in her journal.

  “I’ll never understand how this could have been possible,” Emma said. “But I’ll be eternally grateful to whatever higher power stepped in to help make things right.”

  Peyton swallowed hard, smiled, and squeezed her hand.

  The makeup girl arrived to ready them both (of course, Peyton was Emma’s maid of honor), and then Peyton, Emma, and her six other bridesmaids—all members of Peter’s family, per royal protocol(but Emma didn’t mind)—were escorted to their respective vehicles, all of them horse-drawn carriages.

  Emma was in the first, alone, to lead the procession to the cathedral. Outside the gates of the royal palace, hordes of people were waiting, along with news vans from not only Belgium, but across the globe.

  To Emma’s surprise, the carriages were the original ones from the 1800s, when they were acquired, and had since been brought out only for special occasions. Emma’s carriage was the one Anna-Maria rode to her wedding, and Emma could swear she felt Anna-Maria’s presence all around her.

  During her “royal lessons,” Emma had learned how to smile and wave properly and what would be expected of her during this procession. Literally hundreds of thousands of people lined the streets as the bridal party rode in their beautifully ornate horse-drawn carriages to the St. Michael and St. Gudula Cathedral.

  It had been arranged for the ceremony to be shared with the thousands of people who had waited for hours (in some cases days) to secure a spot on the cobblestone area outside the cathedral or in the park across the street.

  Emma’s dress was a Paolo Sebastian original with Italian Sposabella lace—sleeveless, with layers of tulle and lace around the skirt and a sixteen-foot train.

  Crowds cheered while Emma smiled and waved, and when she arrived at the cathedral, she saw her grandfather waiting patiently to walk her down the aisle.

  “Emmeline,” he said while she was assisted out of the carriage, “you look as beautiful as I’ve ever see
n you.”

  Emma waved again to the cheering masses, walked over to her grandfather, and kissed him on the cheek. A collective, “Awwwwww,” arose from the crowd.

  “Shall we?” Emma said, resting her hand in the crook of his arm.

  “Your King awaits,” her grandfather said with a sweeping gesture toward the cathedral entrance, and with the help of about six people holding her train, Emma made her way up the steps and into the cathedral.

  It was ornate and breathtaking, with polished marble floors and stained glass windows that spilled colored light across the walls and crowded pews.

  “We wait here, Ma’am,” her wedding organizer said. Emma paused for a moment, still holding onto her grandfather’s arm while her bridal party was lined up. Peyton walked past her with a wink and took her place in front of her.

  After the rest of the girls were lined up, the music began, and she could see when Peter and his groomsmen emerged from a side door by the altar.

  After her bridesmaids walked up the aisle, her music began. Emma moved in a beautiful dream, on the arm of her beloved grandfather who had put everything in motion. Emma didn’t notice a single face, not a single celebrity or politician. She only had eyes for Peter, who stood waiting for her, her very own fairytale prince.

  When she reached the altar, her grandfather lifted her veil, kissed her, and bowed to Peter before he sat down beside Astrid.

  “I’ve waited for you my entire life,” Peter said softly, “and you were worth every minute of the wait.”

  . . .

  “Turn that damn thing off!!” Alex demanded, tugging at her ill-fitting orange jumpsuit. The common area had one TV, a small, ancient set that might have contained one of the last picture tubes in America.

  “Sit your ass down, yer royal nothingness. We’re watchin’ this, and that’s final.” Marta, a large woman with short, angry hair, marched over to Alex to tower over her. She placed a chubby hand on Alex’s shoulder and pushed her into a plastic chair.

  Alex turned her head away from the woman, struggling to shrug the hand off her shoulder. Her dark hair, which used to glean, hung on her shoulders in limp, greasy strands.

  “I don’t want to see this,” Alex whined, trying to stand up. But Marta’s meaty hand held her locked in place.

  “Sorry, sweetheart, but you’ve been holier than thou since you got here, and we just love having a celebrity in our midst. Don’t we, girls?” Marta shouted to the crowd, and the other women, also dressed in orange, cheered her on.

  “We feel we should treat you to a front-row seat to watch the biggest weddin’ since Diana married Charlie. Do you remember that one? Oh, maybe you’re too young, but it was a big weddin’, jes like this one.” The woman dragged Alex to the front of the room, shoving her down into another chair right in front of the TV, then grabbed her head and turned it.

  “Now watch, Queenie,” she growled and faced the crowd of women again. “Let’s all watch with her!” The women erupted into cheers again.

  And every time Alex tried to pinch her eyes shut so she wouldn’t have to watch, Marta was right next to her, elbowing her to open them and forcing Alex to watch while Emma waved to the crowd and married the King of Belgium.

  chapter 40

  “Where are we going?” Emma asked, smiling and glowing in the passenger’s seat of Peter’s small, sleek Mercedes.

  “My, you are impatient today, aren’t you?” He winked at her, taking her hand in his. She fingered his wedding ring.

  Married. They were married, and she was Queen of Belgium. Yesterday she’d been a lowly publicist, and today she was being immortalized on porcelain dinnerware. If that didn’t make a person believe in fairytales, then nothing would.

  The wedding had been grand, and wonderful, and romantic, and everything Emma could ever have dreamed a royal wedding could be, with more than one thousand people in the cathedral alone, and hundreds of thousands more on the cobblestone area outside and lining the streets.

  But despite the enormity, there had been many intimate moments, and wonderful moments. Like when she danced the father/daughter dance with her grandfather and watched his eyes well up with tears. Or when she spotted Peyton deep in conversation with Kate Middleton.

  It seemed a like a dream.

  A lovely, wonderful dream, from which she hoped she’d never wake up.

  Now they were on their honeymoon, and she had no idea where they were going. Well, she knew where she was: The Irish landscape was unmistakable as it whizzed by.

  “Trust me,” Peter winked again. “You do trust me, yes?”

  “With all my heart.” And Emma meant it, every word.

  Peter’s security detail, upset when he refused to ride in the sedan, was following them closely on the narrow, winding roads. It was a bright, clear day—rare for Ireland.

  They passed the sign that said Cork, and Peter said, “We’re nearly there. Trust me, you’ll love your surprise.”

  Emma picked up his hand and kissed it. She never doubted it for a moment.

  They approached a town, and Peter turned left onto a small street.

  “I think this is it.” Then he peered out the front window, and, seeing what he wanted, said, “O’Rourke’s. Yep, this is it.”

  “A pub? We traveled all this way for an Irish pub?”

  “It’s not just any Irish pub, my Queen.” Peter smiled secretively before he walked around to Emma’s side of the car, opened her door, and held her hand as she stepped out.

  “Fancy a pint?” he asked with an exaggerated Irish brogue.

  “Oh, why not? It is our honeymoon.”

  They walked hand in hand into the pub, which even at two in the afternoon, was packed.

  Ah, Ireland, Emma thought.

  The bartender spotted them and said, “Kin I help ya?”

  “Yes,” Peter began, leaning on the gleaning wooden bar. “I’m looking for the owner. He’s expecting me.”

  The door to the bar opened again, and Peter’s security detail stepped inside, clearly annoyed that he hadn’t given them a chance to sweep the place.

  “Have a pint on me and relax, guys,” Peter said. “My wife and I are going to visit with the owner for a while.” The men looked frustrated and not about to sit down and relax. They stood in dark suits and dark glasses, standing out among the decidedly more casual crowd.

  “He’s in the back, trew the door and upstairs.”

  Peter nodded, “Thank you. Come on, Em, you’re going to love this.”

  They walked through the bar and up a narrow, wooden staircase. Emma guessed the bar must be well over a hundred years old, and it looked like nothing had ever been changed or updated, which suited it and clearly suited its patrons just fine.

  “Hallo.” A man with short-cropped, reddish hair greeted them. “Ya must be Peter, ’tis a pleasure ta meet ya,” he gave Peter’s hand a brisk shake.

  “And this is my wife, Emmeline.” Peter grinned over at her, and she could tell from the look on his face he was barely able to contain glee over whatever surprise he’d been planning.

  “Emmeline, pleased to meetcha. Me name is Fitzgerald, but me friends call me Fitz.”

  Emma blinked for a moment and then looked at Peter, who said, “Fitz is Liam’s great, great, great grandson.”

  “Der might be another great in dar, but grandson is true enough.”

  “Peter, I…” Emma was speechless. This was dear Liam’s grandson! How could that be? “How on earth did you find him, Peter?”

  “With a great deal of effort,” he said. “But first, Fitz, tell Emma how you got your name.”

  “I’m a terrible host. Please have a seat,” Fitz pointed to two wooden chairs, and for the first time, Emma noticed the office, which was not big, but not small. There were neat stacks of papers on his desk, photos on all the walls, and a crest sh
e recognized as Peter’s family crest.

  “So, da name ya. Me great, great, great grandpa Liam insisted on it, wanted da first boy in every generation t’ be named after his best friend, King Fitzgerald. Turns out, our family was mostly a lot of girls, ’til me.”

  Emma had to fight back the tears, and as she looked into Fitz’s eyes, she could see Liam’s eyes, those kind, understanding, strong eyes.

  “I-I’m just, I don’t know what to say,” Emma said, sniffling as she felt Peter put an arm around her shoulders.

  “And I bought up me favorite Irish whiskey for a toast, but first, yer weddin’ present.” Fitz pulled out a binder and handed it to Emma with a small bow.

  “’Tis me great, great, great grandpa’s diary,” Fitz added while he grabbed the bottle of whiskey he happened to keep on his desk and reached for three small glasses. Emma stroked the binder while a tear trickled down her face.

  “Oh, Peter,” she said, dabbing away a tear.

  “Look on da first page,” Fitz said, and Emma opened the book very carefully.

  There was a copy of a letter from King Fitz to Liam, written on royal stationary.

  My friend, I cannot thank you enough for what you did for my beloved Anna-Maria and my children. I will forever be grateful. Please accept this royal crest as a small, but significant thank-you, along with my never-ending gratitude.

  Your friend, Fitz

  “Tat’s ta crest dere.” Fitz pointed to the one she’d seen on the wall, and Peter continued the explanation. “Giving a royal family crest was one of the biggest honors a ruler could bestow on one of his citizens.”

  “Tay were best o’ friends till Liam died, and when he did, Fitz gave him a royal funeral. Not sure it agreed wit summa his stuffy royal family.” Fitz winked at Peter.

  Emma flipped through the book until she found a passage Liam wrote about Anna-Maria’s letter and finding the King:

  I will never understand how it happened. I just know that God is all-powerful, and love may be the most powerful force of all. I shall never doubt the power of love or what a woman will do to find the man she has lost.