Her Majesty My Love - eBook - Final

by Maya Banks

  His eyes glowed with concern, and he leaned in, capturing her lips in the softest of kisses. He seemed to realize that with only the slightest provocation, she would shatter into a million pieces.

  Feather-light, his lips skimmed across hers then to her cheek where he captured a tear that trailed down.

  “Your Majesty, I bring news,” Lucien Montforte announced from the doorway.

  He bowed when she looked up. She motioned him over, and Merrick moved to sit beside her on the settee.

  “Jacques Montagne was found dead in his cell.”

  Isabella blinked in surprise remembering Jacques’ earlier prediction that he wouldn’t live. “How?” she demanded.

  “Suicide. He hanged himself.”

  She shook her head. Either he hadn’t been able to live with his guilt or he realized Stephane had not been successful in his bid for the throne.

  “That’s not all, Your Majesty. We found a letter of confession in his cell. He requested ink and paper not an hour before he was found dead.”

  “What does it say?” Merrick spoke up.

  “The plan to free Bonaparte is real. There are detailed plans and dates listed in the letter,” the captain replied.

  “I need that letter,” Merrick said grimly.

  The captain held out the paper, and Merrick rose, retrieving it from the captain’s outstretched hand.

  Isabella watched the transformation from her gentle protector to a man with the defense of his country uppermost on his mind. He spoke in low tones to the captain as they studied the letter. She should be listening, planning with them. As queen, the protection of her own nation should be at the forefront of her thoughts.

  Instead, her entire being was focused on Father Ling’s words. He is who he is. You are who you are. You would not be happy with half a man.

  She closed her eyes, her heart screaming a litany of nos. Father Ling was right. What she hadn’t understood then was crystal clear to her now.

  She opened her eyes and balled her fingers into fists. Nothing in her life, not the deaths of her parents, not Stephane’s betrayal, had prepared her for what she must now do. “You must return to England,” she said softly, careful to keep the tremble from her voice.

  Merrick turned to her, his eyes heavy with regret. “Yes. Bonaparte’s planned escape could spell disaster for England. For France, if it is not prevented. I must carry what I know to the regent. To Castlereigh.”

  She nodded, too afraid to betray herself by speaking.

  “But I shall return, Isabella.”

  He stared at her, determination rigidly set into his features. She knew he spoke the truth. He would not lie to her, betray her. Which made it all the more difficult for her to lie to him.

  She could not allow him to give up what made him who he was. Even for her. Everything she most admired about him would be forfeit. How long would they exist before he regretted his decision to leave England? To give up his life’s pursuit?

  Half a man. No, she couldn’t accept anything less than his entire being. And half of him would always belong to England.

  “No,” she said.

  Simon stared at her, sure he hadn’t heard correctly, but the painful thudding in his chest told him he had.

  “You don’t want me to return.”

  He said it, not as a question, but as a statement.

  She looked away then drew herself up firmly and faced him again. “Your duty is to England as my duty is to Leaudor. Neither of us can compromise that aim. We…we can never be,” she said quietly.

  He struggled with the magnitude of what she was saying. Until a few moments ago, he hadn’t known himself that he was capable of giving up everything that he was to be with someone he loved, but when faced with the prospect of leaving her, he only knew he must return. He could not be without her. Whatever that entailed.

  “Look at me, Isabella. Look at me,” he said when her gaze fluttered briefly over his face. “Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t want me. Want us. That you don’t…love me.”

  She had never returned his sentiment. Had looked away when he confirmed his declaration. He had to know. Was he so horribly wrong? Had he thought he finally realized the true depth and scope of loving another person only to realize how very mistaken he was?

  She pressed her lips firmly together then took a deep breath. “I don’t love you, Merrick.”

  And there it was. His worst fear realized.

  All the air left his lungs as if someone had punched him in the stomach. Old hurts came rushing in from the past. Not good enough. Not worthy.

  “I admit I hold a certain amount of affection for you,” she stammered when he said nothing. “And Leaudor owes you a large debt of gratitude.”

  “Stop,” he bit out, holding a hand up. “Save your gratitude. I don’t want it. I’ve heard all I need to hear.”

  He searched her face for some sign that he was wrong, that he was in the midst of a terrible nightmare. Her usually vibrant, oceanic eyes stared dully at him, something remarkably like sympathy reflected in them.

  God, what a fool he was. She pitied him.

  “If it pleases you, Your Majesty, I would like to procure immediate passage back to England.”

  He spoke stiffly, formally, as if they had never spent an entire night loving, as if he weren’t speaking to the woman who comprised the other half of his soul.

  “Captain Montforte will see to it at once,” she said, her voice barely recognizable through his haze of anguish.

  His father. His brother. Kirk. None of them mattered, their betrayals, their disappointments paled in comparison to this.

  He turned, no longer able to look at her. With measured steps, he slowly walked away. Out of her chambers. Down the hall. Out of the palace. Out of her life.

  Chapter Thirty

  London, England

  October 1815

  It was over.

  Bonaparte had been recaptured. The fighting was finished. England was safe again. For the moment. Until the next mad scheme. Until one country sought to dominate another.

  For how long such peace would last was anyone’s guess. There were always plots to circumvent, assassinations to prevent and information to gather. Investigations to lead. It was a never ending cycle. And he was so damn tired.

  Simon stood outside his London address staring at the empty townhouse he called home.

  “Is there anything further, your lordship?” the driver of the hack called down to Simon.

  Startled into action, Simon bent down to collect his bags. He nodded at the driver and started up the walk toward his door. He glanced skyward. It would rain soon, ushering in brisker autumn air.

  As he stepped inside, he dropped his bags in the foyer and shrugged from his overcoat. Timmons bustled in, a welcoming smile on his face.

  “Welcome home, my lord.”

  He bent to take Simon’s bags and hurried up the stairs, leaving Simon standing alone once more.

  Simon walked into his study, satisfied to see a fire burning in the hearth. He poured a drink and stood in front of the flames to rid himself of the chill that had seeped into his bones.

  He felt no joy to be home again. Just overwhelming fatigue. He hadn’t felt joy since his last day on Leaudorian soil.

  Isabella.

  A fresh wave of pain assaulted him, and he flinched as he heard her words all over again.

  I don’t love you.

  How could he have been so wrong? It was a question he had asked himself a hundred times in the months since walking away from her.

  Tormenting himself did no good. Isabella didn’t need him. She had a country to rule. Any worth he’d held for her quickly dissipated once her objective had been achieved. But the pain would not feel so fresh, so raw, so new if he didn’t love her still.

  He turned away from the fire, his gaze flitting over the window. It was raining. The perfect accompaniment for his mood. He shuffled
to the sideboard and poured another drink.

  It had been a long time since he had indulged heavily in spirits, but an evening spent in his cups seemed the perfect homecoming. Maybe then he could forget the past year. Forget he ever met Queen Isabella Genevieve Elizabeth Chastaine.

  * * *

  The hours passed. The drinks blurred. And so did his pain. Simon slumped in his armchair and stared unseeingly into the dying fire as he downed another glass of brandy. He started to pour another then looked in disgust at the empty decanter in his hand.

  “Timmons!” he bellowed.

  He needed another bottle. Somehow the contents of this one had disappeared.

  “My lord, you have a caller,” Timmons said from the doorway.

  “Well, send them away,” Simon grumbled, waving his hand dismissively.

  Timmons hesitated and Simon focused unsteady eyes on him. “Who the bloody hell is it?” he demanded.

  “I don’t know, my lord,” Timmons replied, a perplexed expression on his face. “He’s a peculiar looking man. Dressed as a monk.”

  Simon bolted upright in his chair. “Monk you say?” His heart hammered in his chest. Could it be Father Ling? Had something happened to Isabella? He could come up with no reasonable explanation for the monk to be in London.

  “Send him in at once,” he ordered.

  He rose from his chair as Timmons left and hastily straightened his rumpled clothing. He ran a hand through his mussed hair in an effort to make himself more presentable. Harsh stubble abraded his hand as he rubbed his palm over his jaw. He hadn’t shaved in days.

  A few moments later, Father Ling walked into the study, his brown robe plastered wetly to his body. His hood was pulled back and his normally serene features wreaked of fatigue.

  Simon crossed the room to greet him. “Father Ling, this is a surprise,” he said as he took the monk’s arm and guided him toward the fire.

  “Have Mrs. Turnbull prepare Father Ling some hot tea,” he directed Timmons.

  “I am happy to find you well, Lord Merrick,” Father Ling said as he stood warming his hands by the fire.

  “You say that as if there had been some doubt,” Simon said dryly.

  “These have been troubled times,” the monk said solemnly. “You have risked much in the past months.”

  “How is Her Majesty?” Simon cut in. He had no desire to discuss the last few months. He was more interested in why the monk was here and if Isabella was all right.

  “She is…well,” Father Ling said slowly.

  “What brings you here?” He voiced only one of the hundred questions swirling around in his mind.

  “I have come to correct a wrong.”

  Simon’s brow furrowed in puzzlement. He turned as Mrs. Turnbull bustled in with a tray of hot drinks. “Please sit,” Simon said, motioning for Father Ling to rest in the armchair closest to the fire.

  Mrs. Turnbull pressed a cup into the monk’s hand, and casting him a curious glance, she retreated from the room, leaving the two men alone.

  “I have made a serious misjudgment,” Father Ling said quietly, surveying Simon over the cup he held to his lips. He took a sip before continuing. “I feared that neither you nor Queen Isabella would be happy as half a person, nor would you be content with only half of your mate. What I did not see at the time is that both of you are only whole when you are together.”

  Simon’s mind raced to comprehend the cryptic statement. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Isabella sent you away because she thought it the right thing to do. At the time so did I.” Regret filtered over his features. “I underestimated the depth of your love for one another.”

  “She does not love me,” Simon said flatly. “I appreciate what you are trying to do, Father Ling, but Isabella made her feelings very clear to me before I took my leave.”

  Father Ling’s face softened. “Ahh but she does, my son. Does the sun not rise in the east and set in the west? So too is her love as constant.” He looked down at his cup. “She is as unhappy as you are. I traveled here because I see two dying souls. Two halves of a whole that can only live if they are together.”

  A buzz began in Simon’s ears and became louder as he sought to contain the overwhelming flood of pain that rushed over him all over again. Try as he might, he had been unable to put Isabella from his mind in the last six months. No matter that he told himself she didn’t love him. That she had used him and discarded him like yesterday’s rubbish. If he closed his eyes, he could still smell her soft feminine scent, a mixture of jasmine and inner strength. Could feel her touch, the satiny smoothness of her skin, the silken waves of her hair.

  He shook his head and eyed Father Ling, careful to keep a check on his emotions. “All she had to do was say the word and I would have never left her side.”

  Father Ling set aside his cup and leaned forward, his usual calm replaced by agitation. “She died that day. She became a shell of her former self. She sent you away, lied about her love so that you would not be forced to choose between her and everything that made you the man you are.”

  Simon’s face twisted as his incredulity grew. “Are you saying that she lied to me in order to make me leave?”

  “Tell me, Lord Merrick. If she had professed her love for you that day, would you have left her?”

  “I would have come back, of course,” he said hotly. He began pacing in front of the chair where Father Ling sat, his anger rising by the minute. “She should have had faith in me, damn it. Let me make my own decision. Instead she made us both damn miserable.”

  “Aye, she did,” Father Ling admitted. “I fear I am partly at fault for giving her guidance when I shouldn’t have.”

  The monk’s expression was bleak, and Simon felt a twinge of sympathy for his plight.

  “I am sure you did as you thought best at the time.”

  “Good intentions are not any solace when the result is pain,” the monk said wryly.

  “How is she?” Simon asked softly. He needed to know anything about her, to be able to reach across the miles and feel as though he was near.

  “She is a strong woman. But she grieves for you,” Father Ling said quietly. “Our country has already prospered under her leadership, but she is unhappy.”

  Simon blew out his breath. “I appreciate you coming all this way to tell me these things, but I am unsure of why you came. If she truly wanted…me.” He stumbled over the words. “If she wanted me, would she not come herself? Send a personal letter? Does she even know you are here?”

  The monk smiled sadly. “She still feels she did the right thing, and even though her sorrow grows with each passing day, she refuses to place her own desires ahead of what she feels is best for you and your country.”

  “Then what do you want from me?” Simon asked.

  “It is up to you to make her see she was wrong,” he said simply. “You will have such an opportunity sooner than you think. It is up to you to seize the chance. I merely wanted to give you the motivation to do so.”

  Simon gritted his teeth. “Oh no, you don’t. Not this cryptic prophesy again. You cannot come all this way to dangle a carrot in front of my nose only to snatch it away at the last possible second.”

  The monk smiled. “Patience is a virtue, my son. And it is rewarded. Think on the things I have told you so that you may make the proper decision when the time comes.”

  He rose and walked forward to clasp Simon’s hands. “Go with God, and may you lead a long prosperous life no matter the path you choose.” He paused and stared piercingly into Simon’s eyes. “I hope that our paths cross again. Soon.”

  His eyes twinkled as he let his hands slide from Simon’s. “I will take my leave now.”

  “Wait,” Simon called as the monk started to walk from the room. “The hour is late. May I, at least, offer you a place to rest for the night?”

  Father Ling stopped and turned to face Simon. “You are generous, my l
ord, but I find I am quite enjoying your fair country. There are many interesting sights to behold as I travel. I will seek my rest beneath the stars this night.”

  Simon shook his head as the monk disappeared in a swirl of robes. The man was enough to inspire violence.

  He sagged into his chair and rubbed his hands over his face. There was no hope for him to sleep now. Thoughts of Isabella consumed him. He ached for her. He needed her. She was the only person who could complete him. And yet…

  Had she really sent him away to prevent him from having to choose between his country and the woman he loved? A curl of anger stirred to life within him. How could she not have trusted him enough to allow him to decide for himself?

  A person in love does not always see so clearly.

  Father Ling’s voice whispered in his mind. Simon sat straight up, searching for the source of the voice. Had the monk not departed yet?

  He strained to hear, but the house remained eerily quiet. He was losing his mind. Why not? He’d already lost his heart. Surely his sanity wasn’t far behind.

  Love is a madness all in itself.

  “Stop it,” Simon muttered. He shook his head as he heard the echo of Father Ling’s soft laughter.

  Clearly he’d had one drink too many.

  “I’m going to wake up in the morning and this will all have been a dream.” He waited for the monk’s response but silence reigned.

  He rubbed his eyes in disgust, angry that he had allowed himself to believe…even for a second. Tomorrow he would feel very foolish indeed.

  * * *

  Simon sat at a table in the far corner of the room, waiting for the Duke of Ardmore. He checked his timepiece, wondering if he had misunderstood the time of their meeting. He drummed his fingers on the mahogany table as his eyes scanned the room for his grace.

  He’d awoken this morning to Timmons delivering an invitation from the duke to dine with him at White’s. Which could only mean one thing. Simon would be given another assignment.

  His lips curled into a half-smile as he remembered a similar meeting nearly a year ago. When he first learned of the atrocities in Leaudor and set out on a course that would forever change his life.