13. “I Found” - Amber Run
“I Found” - Amber Run
Maisie wasn’t lying about the letters. If anything—and this is the only time I’ll ever have this particular thought—she may have been under-exaggerating.
The box at my feet is stuffed full of envelopes, which she assured me is only a fraction of the stash in the correspondence office.
It’s only been a few days. How many more will flood the palace in the weeks to come?
Elizabeth Gable started a maelstrom when she got drunk and shared her deepest, darkest secrets with that reporter. Actually, it all started when she concocted this crazy fabrication.
How do we even know there was a greedy “friend” in the first place?
It’s just as likely—maybe even more likely—that she sold her story to the first journalist she could find.
Any desperate person with half a brain could look at her son, see the resemblance to a young Prince Henry, and use it to their advantage.
Until we have hard, undeniable proof, I’m sticking with guilty until proven innocent. That might not be how the justice system works, but the justice system isn’t holding the downfall of an entire monarchy in its hands.
I take out a small stack of envelopes and slice them open with my letter opener. The various scents wafting from the box are already giving me a headache, and I haven’t even begun to read yet. I don’t know how Maisie and her minions have been able to handle this so far.
The first one contains a single sheet of paper, written by an infatuated sixteen-year-old who hopes Prince Henry loves her as much as she loves him. It would actually be sort of sweet if I had any sympathy for the hormones of teenagers.
I toss it aside and pull out the next one. I promised Maisie I would help sort through these to relieve her staff, but something tells me I’ll regret that choice. At least Tundra is keeping me company by sleeping on my feet.
The next one holds pages and pages of floral stationery. I skim them to get the general gist of what the letter writer wants—money, Henry’s love, and the opportunity to bear him a child—before tucking them back into the envelope and tossing it aside.
Elizabeth Gable should be helping go through these. This is her mess after all.
Better yet, Henry should. He’s the one they’re all writing to. It would inflate his ego, but maybe he’d finally realize that his playboy stint didn’t help him in the long run.
It takes several minutes to locate my phone, which I find stuffed under a sofa cushion. I send him a text.
Can you come to my sitting room? I need your help.
I opted not to do this in our joint living room in an effort to avoid running into him, but making him suffer the consequences of his own actions is more tempting than avoiding him right now.
I have time to go through half a dozen more letters before he shows. Glad to know he’d be able to save me if I was in danger.
“Grab a stack,” I say by way of greeting.
“Hey, boy.” Henry leans over to pet Tundra, then nudges the box at my feet. “What’s all this?”
“Missives from your mistresses. Although I’m sure they can’t all be from your previous lovers. Even you aren’t that prolific.”
He shoots me a look that makes my toes curl, and not in a bad way. Tearing an envelope open, he scans the letter inside and tosses it onto the glass-top coffee table. “What are we doing, C?”
I don’t know if he means physically at this moment or is referring to the tension between us every time we’re in the same room, but I’m only willing and able to answer one of them. “We promise the people to open and read every letter we receive. I told Maisie I’d take 20 percent of them.”
His eyes grow large as he stares at the box. “This is 20 percent?”
“Yep.” I hand him a fat stack. “Better get started.”
He takes it from me and sits in one of the chairs across from the couch. For a while, the only sound in the room is the rustling of paper and the slitting—or in his case, ripping—of envelopes.
I come across a gem too good not to share. “Oh look, it’s Henry Junior.” I hold up a photograph of a red-headed little boy with a large dusting of freckles across his cheeks. “He looks just like you,” I say with a smile that could curdle milk.
Henry only glares and returns to the letter in his hands. He is giving them much more consideration than I am. Our current ratio is three letters for me for each one he reads. He is probably savoring every declaration of love.
There are a few more missives containing photos of Henry’s supposed offspring. All of them also offer “proof” as to their claims—same nose! look at the eye color! signature jawline!—or even details about the night of conception.
“Gross,” I say after reading the last one. “Did you really have sex at the top of a Ferris Wheel?”
“Only on weekends,” he says without looking up.
I toss the descriptive letter onto the table. “If we’re believing Elizabeth’s story, why not all of them?”
Henry holds up a photo between two fingers. It’s of a little girl of obvious East Asian descent. “Maybe because her child is the only one who actually looks like me?”
“And yet there’s no denying the fact that you did sleep your way through most of the country. How do I know these women aren’t all telling the truth? Maybe you have a selective memory where they’re concerned too.”
“It really bothered you that I said I don’t remember.”
“Of course it did.”
“Would it have been better if I said I did?”
“Only if it’s the truth.” But would it? Wouldn’t knowing that he still remembered kissing her mouth, holding her close, watching her orgasm, make this ten times worse?
“I’m sorry that I can’t give you what you want,” he says. “But why does it matters if I remember her? The issue is the same.”
I take a deep, shuddering breath. “The issue is that sex is so meaningless for you.”
He drops the bundle of letters in his hand. They hit the rug with a quiet thump, then gently slide out of their neat stack. “It’s only meaningless if it’s not with you,” he says in a low tone.
My heart falters, skipping along like it’s playing hopscotch in my chest. “I don’t know if I believe you.”
His eyes turn stormy. “Why are you so threatened by her?”
I allow several beats to pass before answering. “Because her claims could sink the entire monarchy.”
He shakes his head. His hands twine together where they’re dangling over his knees. “It’s more than that. If you were only concerned about the royal family, you’d let me help. Instead you’re throwing the past in my face every chance you get, like some kind of weapon.”
“Your past is the reason we’re in this mess.”
“I thought we agreed to put it behind us.”
“And yet it’s not behind us, is it?” I toss the remaining letters in my hand onto the table. “It’s right here, on display for the entire world to see. And instead of rejecting it and assuring me it’s nothing, you’re lapping it up like it’s the best thing to ever happen to you.”
Henry lurches to his feet and closes the distance between us in three strides. After nudging Tundra out of the way, he sinks to his knees in front of me and takes my face in his hands. “You know damn well you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Anything telling you otherwise is a lie.”
Tears are running down my cheeks. I don’t even know when they spilled over. He brushes them away with his thumbs.
“I saw the way you looked at them.” My sniff is loud and unladylike. “You looked at them like . . . like heaven met earth.”
He shakes his head. “No. I was in shock, maybe even awe. And that kid is adorable and sweet. But that’s all it is, I promise you.”
I want to be reassured by his words, his touch, but when I close my eyes, all I can see is the image of the three of them on that settee. It is seared into my brain.
“You think he’s your son,” I say through my clenched jaw. It’s tight from holding back tears, not anger, but the effect is the same.
“What choice do I have?” Henry sits back on his heels. “He looks exactly like me, C. You saw it, too. It’s impossible to ignore. So until I have irrefutable proof that he isn’t, I have to take responsibility as though he is.”
“And what about Elizabeth?”
A flash of confusion crosses his face. “What about her?”
“You’ll be spending a lot of time with her. Won’t she get the wrong message?”
He takes my hands in his. “If she does, that’s on her. It should be obvious by now that you are the only woman in the world I will ever have eyes for.”
His platitudes sound so good, so comforting, and I allow myself to sink into them. He’s my Henry, and if I don’t want to share him with the world, I don’t have to.
He straightens until his face is level with mine, then pulls me toward him with that gentle strength that makes me tremble. He takes my lips with his, and I sink into the ecstasy of him, of knowing that this man is completely and wholly mine.
He groans as I tilt my head, trying to get a better angle that allows him to push his tongue even further into my mouth. My hands tangle in his hair of their own volition. My chest arches to meet him, begging him to press into me. He complies, and my nipples pinch at the sensation.
One of his hands cradles my neck, guiding me where he wants me to go. The other finds its way under my blouse and teases my nipple into becoming even harder.
“Henry,” I say, breathless and in desperate need of him. “Wait.” Much as I want him right now, I can’t do this with unfinished business between us.
He manages to pull back a fraction of an inch, still teasing my lips with the brush of his as he says, “Why?”
I do my best to lean back for a little distance from his intoxicating presence, but he still has his hands on my neck and chest. “Promise that we’ll put this whole thing behind us.” I stroke his cheek, all bristly from the stubble he lets grow. “It’s not worth losing our marriage over, right?”
His brows pull together, and his hand stills beneath my shirt. “Exactly what do you mean when you say ‘whole thing’?”
“All of it. Elizabeth and the press and the letters. All of it.”
His hand drops. “You want me to walk away from them.” The words come out in a breathless rush. There’s no ignoring the coldness that has taken over his tone.
How do I say it so that it won’t push him further away? “Just until we can confirm that Axel is your son.”
He looks down at where his fingers grip my hip. “How can I make you understand that you have nothing to worry about? What if we meet with them again? You’ll see that there is absolutely nothing between me and Elizabeth.”
“No,” I say with more force than I intend. “I don’t want to see her again. Ever. And I don’t understand why you choose to believe everything she says as gospel truth. How do you know she’s not lying about the whole thing? You don’t even remember having sex with her.”
“Baby girl.” He leans close until he can reach my neck. He nuzzles it, causing the nerves along my spine to prick to attention. “I remember each time I’ve had sex with you. Doesn’t that count for anything?”
He reaches up to grasp my chin, then tilts it to give himself better access to the side of my throat. I moan as he peppers it with short, wet strokes of his tongue. “I could make you forget all of it if you let me.” His voice is low and raspy against my neck.
He could. I know he could. But that’s the problem—I’m not looking to forget. I need this problem gone. For good.
“Forgetting about it won’t change anything,” I say, struggling to retain my composure as he slowly unravels me.
“Maybe not,” he murmurs, “but it sure would be fun.”
I suck as much air into my lungs as I can and jump to my feet, pushing past him to round the coffee table. The abrupt absence of him is physically crippling, but I force myself to stand upright.
He pushes his fingers into his hair, and my heart crumples. Why can’t any of this be easier?
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “I just can’t right now. Not until things are under control.”
He looks over his shoulder at me, his eyes full of sadness. “At some point you have to realize that you’ll never have control of everything.”