Chapter 17 #2
If this is what it’s like in my one brief venture into the world associated with him, then I can totally see how a lifetime of it would make you want to write a book to share your side of the story.
And if I’ve heard a couple of comments about me, it must mean there are many others I haven’t.
Screw this. I’m not having them think Oliver’s dating some stuck-up Yank who’s afraid of some wet dirt.
So maybe it’s their judgment that compels me, or maybe I’m overcome by the fresh air and being surrounded by the pure innocent joy of the event—both of which are in short supply in New York—that makes this whole bonkers scenario totally infectious, or maybe I’m convincing myself it’ll be good research for the book, but I find myself standing up and kicking off Sofia’s wellies.
Also, screw Giles and his whole thing about it being unbecoming to get into the mud. That prick wouldn’t be able to spot a fun time even if it ran up his kilt and bit him on the protocols.
I’m pulling off my second boot when there’s a large and heavy hand on my shoulder.
“I can’t allow that, ma’am,” Dane says.
“I believe I’m allowed to do whatever I like,” I reply.
“Oliver wouldn’t approve,” he says.
“I’m pretty sure that Oliver would very much approve of me doing whatever the hell I want. Particularly if it’s in the face of an authority telling me not to do it.”
I take off Sofia’s Barbour—a dark green waxed jacket that makes me feel like a very posh outdoorsy British person—and leave it on my chair. “So I’m going to see if I can find the hairy coo.”
Which I assume means cow but, at this point of the madness, who the hell knows. Perhaps Fergus’s giggles were a suggestion that it is, in fact, a euphemism for lady bits and I’m heading off to hunt for a muddy knitted vulva.
“Yay,” Moira cries next to me.
“And we have a member, or almost-member, of the royal household joinin’ in,” Bogmeister says into the microphone.
Anyone who hadn’t spotted me before certainly has now.
I pick my way through the crowd, my socks and the bottoms of my jeans already wet, cold, and muddy.
When I get to the edge of the bog, I pause for a second, taking in the laughter and fun that those who’re already up to their knees in the goop are having. Most are bent at the waist, feeling their way around in the murky water.
A little way along, all by himself, is the kid who’d asked if I was famous.
Stepping carefully in, I gasp as soon as my feet hit the cold sludgy bottom. The mud seeping through my jeans isn’t exactly the most pleasant sensation I’ve ever experienced, but it is somehow freeing and nothing I’d ever contemplate doing back in New York.
Wading toward the boy feels like…well, exactly like I’d imagine wading through thick, cold, muddy water would feel.
“What’re you doing over here all by yourself?” I ask the kid when I reach him.
“They didnae look over here,” he says quietly, keeping his voice below the level of the squeals and laughter of everyone splashing around behind us.
“Who didn’t what?” I’m not entirely sure what he said.
“This patch.” He waves his muddy little arms around to indicate the area we’re standing in. “No one’s been here yet.”
“Ah. You think the cow might be here?”
He shrugs and dunks his hands back under the surface and starts rummaging around again.
“I like your thinking.” I take a breath and plunge my arms in a couple of feet away from him, closer to the grassy bank. “You’ll go far with observation and thinking skills like that.”
A cheer goes up behind us, and my young friend’s face drops.
We turn to find someone about twenty feet away holding something in the air in triumph. But once they’ve wiped the mud off, it turns out to be a balled-up old sock that might have been there for years, rather than the elusive piece of planted treasure.
“I’m Lexi, by the way,” I tell the kid.
“I know. I’m James.” He moves a leg in circles, feeling out the murky depths with his foot. “Everyone says you’re here cos you’re Prince Oliver’s girlfriend.”
Lying is bad. Lying to a kid is absolutely awful.
So I ignore the comment.
“Do you like him?” I continue to feel my way around the bank, the mud now unpleasantly lodged under my fingernails. But hey, this is still research if I get to ask questions like this.
“Dunno. Me mam says he’s a loser who’s a waste of taxpayers’ money.”
My stomach involuntarily tightens. “That seems a bit harsh.”
Okay, maybe the public hated his partying days. But he’s a grown man now. Can they not get over it? Because aside from that, what’s not to like? He’s effortlessly charming, says things that make me think, and his hip-thrusting action is very—
My hand brushes something soft and squishy. But, admittedly, everything under here is soft and squishy. But this does feel a lot more like wet wool than the twigs and rocks and Lord knows what else I’ve touched.
I get my other hand on it and feel it out. Yup, this really might be cow-shaped. And the things sticking up at one end might be horns.
I look back at James, whose young brow is furrowed with deadly serious concentration, drop the treasure, and wade quickly to the left, my feet becoming more numb by the second.
“Try over there, James.” I jerk my head back to where I just was. “It’s too difficult for me there. I’ll go over here where it looks easier.”
“Aye. Ye gotta have the right technique.” He proudly plows through the water to take over where my inferior searching skills have failed.
“Ma’am?” At the sound of the deep American accent, I look up to see Dane’s large, leather boot-clad feet on the edge of the bank. “I must insist you get out. For security reasons.”
“Security reasons?” I straighten and put my muddy hands on my waist before processing it was one of the few remaining clean parts of me. “I’m fairly sure everyone here is more concerned about finding the last piece of treasure than causing an international incident.”
“Gottit!” And there, over to my right, little James is holding aloft the muddy-as-all-hell knitted cow.
The expression on his face is the most magical combination of pride, happiness, and victory. And it makes me think of the kids his age in war zones around the world who do their best to create games and find joy wherever they can.
“Ma’am.” Dane’s hand waves in front of my face. “I need to get you out of there.”
“Congratulations, James,” I call, right as his mother slogs through the mud to his side.
I wink at her, and her scowl drops to an expression of mild disappointment that I might not be so bad after all. Then she reluctantly mouths Thank you, before heaping praise on her beaming son.
As Dane hauls me out of the bog, I’m more aware than ever of how very cold I am.
“I’ve already put a plastic sheet on the car seat,” he says.
“You travel with plastic sheets?”
“Never know what you might have to clear up.” He points at me from my head to my feet. But it sounds more like he never knows when he might need to dispose of a body.
“Got to get you back to the castle,” he says. “Oliver’s parents are not happy with the photos that are already online.”
Of course they aren’t.
I now get Oliver’s feeling of being damned if you do and damned if you don’t.