Royally Matched Page 9

  I pull up to a deserted lot near the beach, kill the engine, and Sarah and I perch on the hood of the car to eat our flaming-hot heart-attack-waiting-to-happen with fries.

  Hesitantly, I ask about her earlier episode. "Are you feeling all right now?"

  Her smile is small and embarrassed. "Yes."

  "Does what happened . . . happen often?"

  She tilts her head. "Not too frequently."

  I'm in unfamiliar territory here. I don't want her to be uncomfortable, but at the same time I want to know more about those episodes. More about her, full stop.

  "Look, Sarah, feel free to tell me to piss off, but is it . . . a medical condition?"

  "Temporary fugues, brought on by loud noises. I've tried a few treatments, but it's just something I live with. If there's a crash, sometimes I just . . . blink out."

  "You looked so frightened. Where do you go when you blink out?" I ask very gently.

  Sarah swallows, staring at the ground. "Nowhere. It's just . . . gray. There's no floor, no ceiling or walls, no sound. It's just as if I'm . . . suffocating in gray."

  I cover her small, warm hand with mine. "I'm sorry. Do you know why? What caused them to start?"

  Sarah's smile is tight. "Everyone has their quirks."

  Then she breathes deep and deftly changes the subject. "Are you enjoying filming the show?" Sarah asks. "Narrowing down your choice for queen?"

  I nod. "So far, Guermo's my top pick."

  She chuckles.

  "What do you think of the show, so far?" I ask.

  She grunts. "I think it's a glorified beauty pageant."

  "You don't approve?"

  She shrugs. "I suppose it could be worse. At least they're including a variety of women, not just those who check the boxes of those disgusting laws on who a crown prince can marry."

  "Are you a virgin?" I ask.

  "Well . . . yes."

  "Then why are you complaining? You qualify."

  Sarah's eyes flash with annoyance and she practically growls at me. "Because I'm more than my hymen, Henry! To base the value of an accomplished, intelligent, passionate woman on a flimsy piece of skin is degrading. How would you feel if your worth rested on your foreskin?"

  I think it over. And then I grin. "I'd be all right with that, actually. I've heard it was an impressive foreskin--all the nurses were fawning over it. It's probably being showcased in a museum right now."

  She stares at me for a beat, then she laughs out loud--a rich, throaty, sensual sound.

  "You're a terrible human being."

  "I know." I shake my head at the calamity of it all.

  "And you're an even worse feminist."

  "Agreed. That's something I need to work on. You'll help me, won't you? We should spend as much time together as possible--every minute of the day and night. I'm hoping you'll rub off on me."

  Sarah pushes my shoulder. "Ha! You're just hoping I'll rub you off."

  Now it's my turn to laugh. Because she's not even a little bit wrong.

  "But there's never been anyone? Really?"

  Sarah shrugs. "Penny and I were tutored at home when we were young . . . but in year ten, there was this one boy."

  I rub my hands together. "Here we go--tell me everything. I want all the sick, lurid details. Was he a footballer? Big and strong, captain of the team, the most popular boy in school?"

  I could see it. Sarah's delicate, long and lithe, but dainty, beautiful--any young man would've been desperate to have her on his arm. In his lap. In his bed, on the hood of his car, riding his face . . . all of the above.

  "He was captain of the chess team."

  I cover my eyes with my hand.

  "His name was Davey. He wore these adorable tweed jackets and bow ties, he had blond hair, and was a bit pale because of the asthma. He had the same glasses as I and he had a different pair of argyle socks for every day of the year."

  "You're messing with me, right?"

  She shakes her head.

  "Argyle socks, Sarah? I am so disappointed in you right now."

  "He was nice," she chides. "You leave my Davey alone."

  Then she laughs again--delighted and free. My cock reacts hard and fast, emphasis on hard. It's like sodding granite.

  "So what happened to old Davey boy?"

  "I was alone in the library one day and he came up and started to ask me to the spring social. And I was so excited and nervous I could barely breathe."

  I picture how she must've looked then. But in my mind's eyes she's really not any different than she is right now. Innocent, sweet, and so real she couldn't deceive someone if her life depended on it.

  "And then before he could finish the question, I . . ."

  I don't realize I'm leaning toward her until she stops talking and I almost fall over.

  "You . . . what?"

  Sarah hides behind her hands.

  "I threw up on him."

  And I try not to laugh. I swear I try . . . but I'm only human. So I end up laughing so hard the car shakes and I can't speak for several minutes.

  "Christ almighty."

  "And I'd had fish and chips for lunch." Sarah's laughing too. "It was awful."

  "Oh you poor thing." I shake my head, still chuckling. "And poor Davey."

  "Yes." She wipes under her eyes with her finger. "Poor Davey. He never came near me again after that."

  "Coward--he didn't deserve you. I would've swam through a whole lake of puke to take a girl like you to the social."

  She smiles so brightly at me, her cheeks maroon and round like two shiny apples.

  "I think that's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me."

  I wiggle my eyebrows. "I'm all about the compliments."

  Sarah shakes her head. "Anyway. Once word got around school, no one else wanted to come near me. And here I am--twenty-five and probably more of a virgin than the Virgin Mary was."

  Sarah makes the sign of the cross, just in case that's blasphemous, I guess.

  "But you have some experience, don't you?" I slide my fingers together meaningfully. "Even . . . just with yourself? Rubbing one out is good for the soul."

  Her reaction is a level-five blush . . . crimson.

  "That's private," she murmurs.

  "That's a yes."

  And holy hell, the images that come to my mind. My cock moans--willing to give up a neighboring nut for a peek at Sarah Von Titebottum pleasuring herself.

  "Since I'm staying in your room, we should work out a system. A sock on the door or such. I don't want to deprive you. Or . . . you could let me watch--I'm a fantastic audience member."

  She glares, still blushing. "I don't like you anymore."

  I tap her nose. "Liar."

  When we pull back into the castle courtyard, James is waiting. And he does not look happy. Actually he looks like a blond Hulk . . . right before he goes smash. Sarah sees it too.

  "He's miffed."

  "Yep."

  We get out of the car and she turns so fast there's a breeze. "I should go find Penny. 'Bye."

  I call after her. "Chicken!"

  She just waves her hand over her shoulder.

  Slowly, I approach him. Like an explorer, deep in the jungles of the Amazon, making first contact with a tribe that has never seen the outside world. And I hold out my peace offering.

  It's a Mega Pounder with cheese.

  "I got you a burger."

  James snatches it from my hand angrily. But . . . he doesn't throw it away.

  He turns to one of the men behind him. "Mick, bring it here."

  Mick--a big, truck-size bloke--brings him a brown paper bag. And James's cold blue eyes turn back to me.

  "After speaking with your former security team, I had an audience with Her Majesty the Queen last year when you were named heir. Given your history of slipping your detail, I asked her permission to ensure your safety by any means necessary, including this."

  He reaches into the bag and pulls out a children's leash--the typ
e you see on ankle-biters at amusement parks, with a deranged-looking monkey sticking its head out of a backpack, his mouth wide and gaping, like he's about to eat whoever's wearing it.

  And James smiles. "Queen Lenora said yes."

  I suspected Granny didn't like me anymore; now I'm certain of it.

  "If I have to," James warns, "I'll connect this to you and the other end to old Mick here."

  Mick doesn't look any happier about the fucking prospect than I am.

  "I don't want to do that, but . . ." He shrugs, no further explanation needed. "So the next time you feel like ditching? Remember the monkey, Your Grace."

  He puts the revolting thing back in its bag. And I wonder if fire would kill it.

  "Are we good, Prince Henry?" James asks.

  I respect a man willing to go balls-to-the-wall for his job. I don't like the monkey . . . but I respect it.

  I flash him the okay sign with my fingers.

  "Golden."

  THE MATCHED CREW WAKES US up before dawn, banging on doors like drill sergeants, to the vocal disgruntlement of the contestants. If there's one thing the female aristocracy values above all else, it's beauty sleep. Staff have been fired--and in the past, killed--for less.

  I think the producer intentionally wants them on edge, moody, and pissed off--ready to snap at each other.

  Drama sells, almost as well as sex.

  They tell us to pack an overnight bag quickly. Only one bag per person, which for this group is a challenge. They don't tell us our destination, only to bring clothes appropriate for a pool party. Danish pastries and tea are laid out on the dining room table, but we have to grab and go, to the airport.

  Once there, we're ushered into a very large back waiting room, separate and shielded from the public. The rear wall is all windows, facing the tarmac where private planes sit. Henry gazes out the window, in a white button-down shirt and tan slacks, his broad back to the room of ladies, leaning one hand on the glass. He seems fixed on something, staring.

  I come up beside him, peeking under his arm, to see what he sees.

  And my heart drops.

  Because it's a military plane. Four uniformed soldiers have deplaned, and with practiced, almost beautiful precision, they carry a casket, draped in the gold-and-purple Wessco flag, and place it onto a silver-wheeled table.

  I'm transfixed as they move, marching in time, one man at each of the corners--reverently escorting the remains toward the waiting hearse. Three of the soldiers stay behind, while one of them walks through the door at the far end of the waiting room we now occupy.

  It's only then that I turn my head and see a dark-haired, middle-aged woman in a wrinkled beige coat, holding the hand of the small boy beside her. He seems to be about ten years old. The soldier bends his head, speaking softly, handing the woman a manila envelope.

  Henry watches for a moment, and then he's walking toward them. I follow behind.

  The soldier's eyes flare when he sees him, immediately going stiff with a salute. Henry pauses a few feet away, snapping a salute in return. And then the soldier bows low and Henry nods. The soldier straightens up, gives some final words to the woman, and tells her they'll wait for her at the car until she's ready.

  The woman watches him walk away, bringing a tissue to her nose. And it's only then that she notices Henry--realizes who he is.

  "Oh, Your Highness." She bows, and the boy beside her mimics the motion. "Hello. I didn't know you were here."

  "It's an unannounced trip. Ms. . . .?"

  "Campbell. Mrs. Margery Campbell." She strokes the boy's hair. "And this is Louis."

  "Mrs. Campbell. Hello, Louis."

  "Hello, Prince Henry," the boy says without smiling.

  "I want to offer my condolences for your loss."

  Mrs. Campbell dabs at her eyes with the tissue. "Thank you." She gazes lovingly at the casket through the window. "That's my oldest, Charlie."

  "Charlie Campbell," Henry says, like he's committing the name to memory.

  "That's right. Charlie's captain told me that it was an ambush that took him, said he was very brave. He drew the fire on himself so the other boys could take cover."

  "A heroic act that I'm sure those boys will never forget," Henry offers.

  Mrs. Campbell nods. "He was always a good lad. Protective. And now he's in heaven with his da, watching over us all."

  I lean down toward Louis. "I bet Charlie loved having you for a little brother."

  The boy sniffs and nods. "He taught me how to fly-fish. I've been practicing and I'm real good at it now."

  I nod, just barely able to hold back my tears. "And whenever you fish, you'll think of him and so he'll always be with you."

  Louis nods again.

  Henry takes his wallet from his pocket and hands Mrs. Campbell his card. "If there's anything I can do for you--anything at all--I want you to call my office. Please."

  She takes the card, smiling with wet eyes. "I will, thank you." Then she gazes up at Henry, contemplatively. "You've grown into such a fine young man, Prince Henry. Princess Calista would be so proud."

  Henry looks down. "I hope so," he says, his voice soft and rough.

  "Oh, I'm sure of it. We mums know these things. She would be as proud of you as I . . ." Her voice drifts off as she turns to gaze at the flag-draped casket. And her face crumples. "Oh my boy . . . my poor, sweet Charlie . . ."

  She covers her face, sobbing into her hands, and the tears leak through her fingers.

  Without hesitating, Henry pulls her into his arms and presses her head to his chest.

  It's a break in protocol--common citizens aren't supposed to hug royalty--but Henry doesn't seem to care.

  "I'm sorry," he whispers, smoothing her hair down. "I'm so, so sorry."

  When little Louis's face twists, I hug him to me, soothing him with soft, rambling words that I can only hope will bring him comfort.

  And we stay just like that for a time, until the tears calm and deep breaths are taken. Henry leaves Mrs. Campbell with a squeeze of her hands and a reminder to call his office if she needs anything. Then together, we rejoin our waiting group.

  "That was television gold!" Vanessa Steele practically bounces in her stilettoes. "When that footage airs--the dashing prince comforting the grieving mother--it'll be the biggest cross-continental panty drop the world has ever seen."

  At first Henry looks ill, and then . . . angry.

  "You filmed that?"

  "Of course we filmed it. I told you, everything is copy--and that was fucking phenomenal. Real emotion; you can't stage that kind of thing."

  Henry's finger lashes out, pointing toward the exiting hearse. "That boy died for his country. For my country. He gave his life protecting the ground beneath your feet."

  Vanessa stands straight, meeting his discontent head on.

  "And when I'm done with him, everyone will know his name. His story and sacrifice."

  Horseshit. I'm naive, but not even I am that naive. The producer's motivations have nothing to do with honoring the dead.

  Henry nods, tensely rubbing his lips together. He motions to the cameraman. "Can I see it?"

  The cameraman hands over the silver device--small, as Penny had explained to me, to unobtrusively capture the shot in public, but powerful enough to film from long distances in the highest definition. Henry turns it over in his hands.

  Then he drops it to the ground and stomps it to pieces beneath his boot--paying special care to pulverize the memory card.

  "Henry!" Vanessa screeches. "God damn it!"

  "This is one of the worst days of their lives, in a string of horrific days," he bites back. "You don't get to turn that into entertainment."

  The producer seethes. "Do you know how expensive that equipment is?"

  Henry sneers. "Bill me."

  And then he strides away.

  Out on the tarmac as we file up the steps onto the plane, Henry is last in line. I double back and slip behind him. He's still furious--his
face tight, shoulders tense, and fists clenched.

  "That was amazing," I tell him softly. "I think what you did was amazing."

  He shakes his head bitterly.

  "No. It was just decent." His eyes burn with a green, thrashing fire. "Your expectations shouldn't be so low."

  "My expectations of you?"

  "Of everyone." His words are clipped and sharp. "Set your bar higher, Sarah."

  Then he turns around, dismissing me, and steps onto the plane.

  We touch down in Hampton Hills, a posh destination for the rich and famous in the northernmost region of Wessco. A black window-tinted caravan whisks us to The Reginald Hotel, where Matched has reserved the indoor pool for a private party. Upon entering, Henry strips down to his swim trunks and heads straight for the bar. The camera follows him as he moves to a reclining lounge chair, a whiskey in each hand.

  My chest pinches as I watch him watching the ladies frolic in the pool, in their colorful array of barely-there string bikinis. I push up the sleeves of my black shirt, feeling sticky and uncomfortable in the steamy, humid room. Until Vanessa Steele whips out her obnoxious bullhorn again, ordering all assistants and non-cast members to leave the area.

  "Come play, Henry!" Lady Cordelia calls, holding a beach ball over her head and moving closer to the cameraman who stands at the edge of the pool.

  He gulps his drink, grinning. "I'll join you just as soon as I finish this, sweets."

  I look away and move toward Penelope, where she's comparing manicures with Laura Benningson near the diving board.

  "I'm going up to the room, Pen," I tell her. "Behave yourself, yeah?"

  My sister nods and waves.

  And my head wants to swivel in Henry's direction for one last look, to see if he's gone to "play" with Cordelia. But I force myself to keep my eyes trained on the door.

  And then I walk out.

  Later, after a dinner of fish and chips in my room, I lie in bed trying to read Jane Eyre, but my heart's just not in it. The words blend together and the only thing I see in my mind is Henry Pembrook, lying half-naked on a pool chair, giggling and laughing and drinking. I wonder--did he stay at the pool? Or did he move to one of the girls' rooms--Cordelia or Elizabeth or, hell, Penelope's--for a more private party?

  My book closes with a clap.

  I slip on my shoes and take the lift down to the pool. It's late, and the hotel halls are quiet and empty. James, Henry's personal security guard, stands outside the pool area door.

  "Is he still in there?" I ask.