Chapter Thirty-Four #2
He pulls something from the inner pocket of his livery waistcoat, and at once recognition shudders through my bones. I am rooted to the spot, my gaze locked on to the familiar writing across the front of the worn envelope he holds.
Has he read it? How is that a crime? I swallow hard, but I can’t speak, so I wait for him to raise his gaze to meet mine. He looks ashamed, which is nonsense. I could kiss him, would it not be a horrid abuse of my power.
“I stole this from the king’s chamber. I…” He draws in a deep breath. “I believe it means something to you.”
I step forward and take his hands in mine firmly. “Thomas,” I say as he stares at me with wide eyes. “You risked so much to get this for me. You are the greatest friend any man could ever ask for.”
His shoulders relax, his grip on the envelope slackening. I take it from him and draw him into a tight hug, one hand grasping the back of his neck. He allows it—and after a moment he relaxes a little, and we are embracing, as brothers.
When his body slackens just a little more, I follow his cue and release him, taking a step back and staring down at the envelope. “I can’t thank you enough,” I say. “You have no idea what this means to me.”
“I heard him order Haines to burn it after he gave you the rings. I swapped it out for another envelope with your name on it, stuffed with blank paper. I don’t think he realized. What do you think is inside it, Your Highness?”
I swallow hard and finger the broken seal. “I suspect… it’s proof that could lead to the ruin of the Stuart name.” I exhale slowly as I brace myself for what I am about to read.
Seeing the horror in Thomas’s eyes is like staring at my own reflection. I know that horror; I have lived it. “I hope I’m wrong,” I whisper, studying the envelope once more. “But something Falmouth said to me last night makes me fear the worst.”
“I’ll leave you to—”
“No,” I say, lifting my head. “I beg of you, stay. I can’t open this alone.”
“Surely, Captain Sharpe…,” he starts, then trails off to let me complete the thought.
I shake my head and swallow the lump forming in my throat. “No. I suspect he already knows what’s in here. Stay with me. Please?”
He watches me for a moment, looking as though he wants to refuse. But then something in his gaze changes, and his expression shifts into one of determination as he nods. “Of course, my prince.”
I give a humorless laugh and suck in a trembling breath. “I’m not a prince,” I say, sinking back down into the chair. Hands trembling, I flip open the top of the envelope and slide out the small collection of letters inside.
Dropping the envelope into my lap, I unfold the worn papers and turn them over. The lettering is old and faded, and gone entirely along the creases where the papers have been folded, but it is still legible. I recognize Henry’s steady hand.
My Dearest Friend,
I have done a thing that could destroy my future if word gets out. I write now to beg a favor of you, and in return, I will grant you the viscountcy of the port city of Falmouth, so you might live away from court with my secret carefully hidden.
I have given in to the temptation of Eve, and eaten the apple dangled before me to its very core.
I fear the seeds may poison my crown if you do not help me.
When I become king, and I have the power to do so, I promise I will elevate you and your heirs to a dukedom, so long as you do this thing for me.
The girl cannot speak a word to me. She knows no English words apart from “please” and “highness.” I have kept her bound to the post of my bedchamber in Kensington Palace, where no one may find her.
The servants assure me her monthly courses have stopped.
I knew in my heart that it was not my fault Eleanor would not conceive, and here is my proof.
The Turkish girl will bear my child, but that child must remain clandestine, at least until a time comes when I may need him.
I would send her to you to wed and do with as you please.
She is beautiful and obedient, for I have broken her like an exotic mare with my mastery and virility.
Raise my child as your own, and allow her to bear more for you, for she is fertile and of strong stock.
Her father, and unfortunately, her young sister, have been dealt with as David with Uriah, and will trouble us not.
Reply in haste, my beloved friend, for I fear she will soon begin to show, and we will be unable to hide the truth of her conception.
Send to me the gift of a ruby, and I will send you, in return, the girl called Yumna.
Falmouth shall be your wedding present from the Crown, and the princess and I will be in attendance, to show our love for you to the realm.
Destroy this letter, or it may bring a black mark upon us both—for a bastard with the flesh of heretics and slaves would be a blight upon the House of Stuart and would surely bring about our ruination.
Henry
The lettering blurs as I reach the bottom of the page.
Breathing is impossible. I blink, and the tears roll freely down my cheeks.
I fold the letter before I can smudge the faded ink.
I knew it to be true, and yet to read the truth so plainly from my own father’s hand fills me with disgust and shame.
My clouded gaze shifts to my fingers against the parchment, and something tightens in my throat.
The flesh of heretics and slaves. Never before has someone suggested that I was anything less because of the color of my skin.
Indeed, I have always blended in fairly well with those around me.
I have always known I was not the same as the pale-skinned Englishmen, but never have I considered myself other. Not until this moment.
Even Falmouth did not treat me differently for my outward appearance, not for that reason.
All at once my thoughts fly to Captain Sharpe, and Billy, and Naeem.
To all the men my captain has rescued. A sick feeling twists my gut as another realization settles there like milk that’s gone sour.
Some part of me knew when they refused to disembark the Deliverance at various port cities—but I truly understand now.
They cannot hide among the gentry, as I have done my entire life.
They are othered the moment they enter a room.
The advantages of my birth have given me a disguise I never quite realized I had.
How ironic that my father’s own disgust at my heritage is exactly what’s led to this realization. It only deepens my shame. It should not have taken me nineteen years to reach this truth.
I get to my feet, seeking air, sucking in as deeply as I can to fill my burning lungs as the letters and envelope flutter to the floor.
Thomas, thank Christ, is quick on his feet. He drops to one knee to gather the papers. I can hear the rustle of the letters as he carefully tucks them back into the envelope, and then he is standing, his hands gripping my arms.
I am still gasping, unable to form words. Thomas draws me into his arms, too tight. So tight that it hurts, and I think I might faint from trying to breathe. “You’re all right,” he whispers into my hair. “You’re all right, Kit.”
Hearing him say my name is a shock to the system.
I open my eyes and look at him, and he gives me a firm nod.
And then I am sobbing. He cups the back of my head and rocks me back and forth.
I recognize in this gesture the same tender comfort Captain Sharpe offered me the night I found Jeffrey Reuter’s dead body.
But this is so much worse.
“He raped her,” I blurt, trembling against Thomas as he supports my weight. “He raped her until she conceived, and then he murdered her family. My family.”
I hate him. I hate Henry with every fiber of my being, and yet I grieve for the loss of my true father, for the love he bore for me.
I held out hope, even as I fled from the palace, that his love for me was true and genuine.
I held out hope that he wasn’t a monster, like Sharpe had said, but simply an unfaithful husband.
Mostly, I hate him because I’m not entirely sure I do hate him.
In the same way that I know I will never truly hate Falmouth.
Perhaps I am broken, and the curse of my conception has stained my blood and my soul.
I was the destruction of my own mother, an innocent girl with no one to comfort her as Thomas comforts me now.
Falmouth was right about me. I was neither made out of love nor born out of love, and I certainly wasn’t raised with love. I am cursed.
Or—I was.
But I’m not anymore.
“I’m all right,” I say finally—because even if that’s not perfectly true in this moment, I know now that I will be. I draw back from Thomas’s arms and swallow down the thickness swelling around my tongue. “Take it out of here,” I whisper.
“Shall I destroy it?” he asks.
I consider that. I consider the burning embers mere feet away, and the endless roiling sea outside. I want to get rid of it. I want to never see it again.
But no. I shake my head and draw in a slow, fortifying breath. “No,” I breathe. “Someday my father will find out where I am. He will come for me to secure his throne, and when he does, I will rain devastation upon him with the venom of his very own words.”
I wipe my cheeks with the silk of my sleeve and see Thomas wince at my carelessness. Still playing the part of the valet, even now.
“I was born out of his violence, and cursed for it. So I will become the blight upon the House of Stuart and fulfill my father’s own prophecy.”
Thomas refuses to leave my side for the remainder of the evening.
He sits faithfully beside me, saying nothing, as we drink wine in lieu of tea and watch the embers glow inside the stove.
I feel calm once again, though I am spent from the outpouring of such raw emotion.
It isn’t until Sharpe steps into the cabin that Thomas rises to his feet.
He bows to me, and I can’t help but smile at his relentless allegiance.
“Thank you, Thomas,” I say.
“It was my honor to sit at your side this evening, my prince,” he replies.
I should correct him, and remind him that I’m not a prince anymore, but I just smile and nod as he stands there smoothing out his livery, glancing meaningfully at the bed before finally turning to face down Captain Sharpe.
I’m not sure what kind of threatening look Thomas sends in his direction, but from the way Sharpe’s brows shoot up, it must be a fearsome thing to behold, indeed. I laugh softly as Thomas leaves the cabin, presumably to finally get some rest in the privacy of his own stateroom.
“He’s a terrifying little shit,” Sharpe says, staring at the closed door.
“I know, isn’t it marvelous?” I ask, which earns me a snort.
Sharpe turns to face me once more and narrows his eyes at the stove beside me. “I’m not sure how I feel about that,” he says. “Fire on a ship is a little insane, even for me.”
“It’s contained,” I say as I watch the embers glow in the iron stove, carefully sealed shut, with a marble hearth surrounding it. “And there are pipes that run along the ceiling downstairs, so the men won’t freeze.”
“How very modern,” Sharpe says with a smile as he approaches me. He’s staring at my silk dressing gown—and, by the look in his eyes, deciding whether it’s worth it to laugh at me or if I’ll refuse to take it off if he does.
He raises his gaze to my face and halts for a moment. “All right there, Kitten?” he asks.
I shift in the seat and sigh. I had hoped the redness in my eyes would have faded by now, or at least be disguised by the shine of the wine I’ve been drinking.
“I am now,” I say.
“Don’t want to talk about it?” he asks, and I love him for that.
“Not particularly.”
He snorts and steps towards me once more, looking like he might press the matter.
“What does Reggie stand for?” I ask before he can. “Reginald?”
He’s startled by the question. He stops short and blinks at me, then gives a laugh. “Excuse me?”
“Tydes calls you Reggie. No one else does. Before he said it, I’d never even heard your Christian name. I’ve had you in my bed and never thought to ask your name. What does it stand for?”
He steps closer and sinks onto his knees in front of me, then looks up and grins a little.
“I’ve had you in my bed, Kitten. Not the other way around.
” I think for a moment he isn’t going to answer, but then he does.
“It’s short for Regulus,” he says softly.
“My mother called me her prince. And now the men call me one too.”
A prince among pirates. I laugh a little and reach out to remove his hat. “So her premonition about you came true, did it?”
“Apparently so,” Captain Sharpe says.
“I’m not going to call you Regulus.”
He laughs again. “Good. I like when you call me Captain.”
I smirk a little at that and tilt my head as I admire him. “So, Captain…,” I say, reaching out to slide my fingers along the blue silk ribbon. “What are we going to name your ship?”
We hadn’t time to name the ship in Portsmouth. The men didn’t like it, but we all agreed that getting away from England was the priority.
He considers, watching my face as he slowly slides his hands up my thighs under the dressing gown.
My nightshirt rides up, and I shiver. “A ship needs a name,” he murmurs with a nod.
“Bad luck to sail without one.” His hands reach my hips, and as he leans in, I let my thighs fall open to make room for his body between them.
I gasp as he tugs my hips forward in the chair, forcing my legs open just a bit wider to accommodate him. He smiles and leans his face close to mine—but not quite close enough.
I’m dizzy with the heady rush of his hands on me and his body so close to mine. I don’t lean in, though, as I normally might. Instead I let myself fall against the back of the wingback chair and catch him by the lacing of his shirt, yanking him down with me.
In the next moment his mouth is on mine, and I close my eyes to enjoy the familiar taste of him, the heat of his body on mine. Then the kiss breaks, and he brushes the tip of his nose against mine. “How about… the Brine Prince?” he whispers against my lips.
I laugh and open my eyes to look into his. I would lose myself in the deep wells of his eyes every night if I could. “That is a terrible name,” I whisper back, shaking my head, even as my chest swells with love for him. “It makes me think of shrimp. We’re not calling it that.”