“Did you get your notebook?” He tilts his head, and his gaze darkens. Something flits across his face. Contempt, maybe? Interest?
My lips part in shock, and the Prince’s eyes follow the movement. His own tongue slides out to lick his lips, and heat roars in the pit of my stomach.
The Prince of Farcliff brought my notebook back to the cottage for me?
My cheeks burn and I try to respond, but all I can do is stammer. Finally, I manage to thank him and do another awkward bow-curtsy. The Prince waves a dismissive hand and checks his nails.
He leans against a bookshelf, dragging his eyes back up to mine.
Yep, definitely contempt.
“You shouldn’t leave your things lying around.”
Anger flashes through me. “Well, it was hardly lying around intentionally. I dropped it,” I snap.
His eyebrow arches. I clamp my mouth shut.
“Is that any way to speak to your Prince?” He takes a step closer to me, and fear grips my chest. “Your father was a lot more docile. Shame you had to take his place.”
I frown. “Excuse me?”
“Judging by your presence in my private library, you’re not as adept at he was at following rules.” Prince Gabriel emphasizes the last word, and my jaw tightens. “Maybe you should take some time to figure out how things work around here.”
I desperately want to talk back. I want to tell him to stop talking to me like I’m worth less than the dirt under his shoe. I want to tell him that he’s lucky I’m here, because otherwise he’d be left without a rose garden.
But he’s the Prince of Farcliff, and I’m just Jo.
The Prince nods, taking a step to the side to signal that we can leave. I hate that I waited for his permission. My jaw ticks, and I start walking to the exit.
In order to get out, though, I need to pass right in front of the Prince. My heart hammers and my mouth turns dry as I get closer to him. Every step makes my pulse quicken, as heat curls in my stomach. It’s a mix of anger and desire, and I struggle to walk normally as the heat teases between my thighs.
I hate that I’m attracted to him. He’s your typical arrogant, self-serving jerk. The Prince hasn’t lifted a finger in his life, but because his title is ‘Prince’, he thinks he’s better than me.
I want to keep my eyes on the door. I want to hurry past him—but I can’t help myself. I’m not the type of person who keeps my head down. My chin lifts and my gaze meets the Prince’s as I walk past him.
He catches my hand in his.
My heart jumps to my throat and rage flares through my chest.
How dare he grab me? Touch me? Hold me back?
My pulse thunders through my veins. I’m so close to him that I can smell his fresh, manly scent. My hand burns where he touches it.
The Prince turns my palm over, and runs his fingers over it more gently than I expect.
“Your hands feel too soft to be a gardener’s.” His eyes drag up to mine, and my whole body burns.
“I wear gloves,” I snap, “and I haven’t had a garden in a while.”
“Well, don’t fuck it up.”
Rage.
The Prince stares at me blankly, and I desperately want to gouge his pretty, blue eyes out.
Still holding my hand, the Prince nods at me. My eyes drop to his lips, and once again my thoughts are treasonous. Is he a good kisser? That brutishness, beastly side of him—does it come out in other ways?
In good ways?
Shut up, brain!
Finally, the Prince drops my hand, and the moment is over. I stumble out of the library and close the door behind me, leaning against it as I try to catch my breath.
Sam waits there for me, biting her lip.
“Oops,” she whispers. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine.” I shake my head and try to smile, even though my head is spinning and I’m trying my best not to pass out. “I had to meet him sometime. Bit of an asshole, hey?”
Sam’s eyes widen, and her freckled cheeks turn an unnatural shade of red. She glances behind me.
I hope he heard me. It’s the truth. He’s a complete and total ass.
We head back the way we came.
“What’s that way?” I ask, pointing down the hallway.
“That’s the East Wing,” Sam says in a hushed whisper. “It’s forbidden. That’s where the Prince’s chambers are. His and his daughter’s. Only them and the medical staff are allowed over there.
I stare down the hallway, and then back at the library door. My heart is still hammering, and I can’t make sense of what just happened. I let Sam drag me back to the servants’ quarters. I’m still in a daze when I stumble out into the rose garden to get back to work.
8
Gabriel
I watch my new rose gardener leave the library, and a low growl rumbles through my chest. She shouldn’t have been in here. Anyone else, I would have fired on the spot.
But not Jo.
I stare after her, and my whole body pulses. I want her.
I want her in a way that I haven’t wanted anyone in a long time.
I want to consume her body, her mind, her soul. I want to tear her apart and watch the ecstasy pour out of her. I want to hear her scream, and moan, and laugh. I want to taste her, devour her, destroy her.
Fire roars through my body. I haven’t felt this way since the early days with Paulette. It scares me, this feeling. I know that I’m not far away from tumbling into mania, from losing control of myself again.
I’m not chaste—I’ve been with women in the past six years. Lots of them. But that was more like scratching an itch than really fulfilling a need. I know I could call Bertrand and ask him to bring me a willing woman, or two, or three—but I don’t want a willing woman without a name.
I want Jo.
Short for Jolie.
My blood pumps hot through my veins and I breathe in through my nose, slowly and deeply. I stare up at the ceiling, and I already know I’ve lost the battle against her.
I already know I’m going to pursue my rose gardener. I know I’ll claim her, I’ll ruin her, and I know it’ll tear me apart.
The wildness inside me is waiting to be unleashed. Ever since the ceremony in Farcliff, I’ve been holding myself back—white-knuckling through my urge to destroy myself and everything around me.
All it takes is one doe-eyed girl to send me over the edge.
Another fucking writer, to be exact—because that went so well for me the first time.
But still, I do love to ruin things. Why not ruin myself?
Stalking out of the library, I head over to the East Wing. I need some time away from people so that I can think. Before I get there, though, I pass by large picture windows at the front of the castle. Three cars coming up the drive.
Frowning, I wait for them to get closer. My shoulders drop.
It’s my brother, the King, and I know why he’s here. It’s not to congratulate me on my decorum and poise at the coronation ceremony.
I trudge down to the front doors to meet him. The motorcade of cars pulls up outside the steps, and Charlie steps out of the middle vehicle. His face is dark.
I glance behind him, but no one else comes out. He didn’t bring his family. He’s not here on a social visit.
“I need to talk to you,” he says as he walks up the steps.
I nod, motioning to the door. Charlie brushes past me without a word. I follow him straight through the castle, all the way back to a small study overlooking the rose garden.
“Close the door,” Charlie orders without looking at me. He stands near the window, staring out with his hands clasped behind his back.
I close the door, anger flaring in my chest. It teases the inside of my ribcage, singing my bones as I fight to regain control over myself. I’m not used to being spoken to like this—even if Charlie is the King. This is my castle. My domain.
Standing by the door, I watch him for a moment.
Finally, my brother sighs a
nd turns to look at me. “What the fuck, Gabe?”
“What?”
“What? You’re seriously going to stand there like you’ve done nothing wrong? I told you to come back to Farcliff for two days for the ceremony. You couldn’t handle yourself for two fucking days!” He shakes his head. “And then, you left without a word, and you stand there asking ‘what’.”
“What was I supposed to say? I know what I did.”
“Oh, I don’t know, maybe ‘sorry’, to start?”
I scoff, shaking my head. “What would that achieve?”
Charlie glares at me. He turns back to the window and lets out a heavy sigh. “It was my ten-year wedding anniversary, Gabe. Ten years since I was crowned King, ten years since I had my son. Then, you just show up like a fucking hurricane and destroy it all.”
“What did I destroy? All I did was leave the parade early.”
“Those videos of you lunging at the crowd have gone viral, Gabe. That ceremony started with as much chaos as my reign did. And what about your daughter?”
“What about my daughter?” My voice has a dangerous edge to it.
Charlie holds my gaze. “What about the introduction you’ve given her into Farcliff society? Huh? What about that?”
“Fuck Farcliff society. We don’t belong there.”
“Don’t you think you should let Flora decide that?”
“Flora is six fucking years old—so, no. I don’t think she should decide anything, except maybe the color of her socks in the morning. I’m her father, and I decide that she’s better off here, in the care of her medical team and away from the cesspit of Farcliff City.”
Charlie sinks down into a chair and sighs. He leans back, staring at me. In the past ten years, Charlie has lost his rebel edge and grown into a true King. He’s reasonable, and kind—but doesn’t tolerate any shit.
Including mine.
“This has got to change, Gabe,” he starts. “You’re going to stop hiding away in Westhill, and you’re going to resume your duties as Prince of Farcliff.”
“My duties?”
“Charitable work, to start.”
“I already do charitable work.”
Charlie arches an eyebrow. “Like what?”
“I employ all the people at this castle, don’t I? Keep the village running? Keep the castle in good shape?”
“You call that charity? Living in the lap of luxury?”
I bristle, even though I know Charlie’s right. I know I’ve been shirking my duties, and that I’ve been isolating myself out here. He’s given me an easy ride—probably because of Flora. I’ve had time and space and resources to deal with my shit.
Instead of dealing with anything, I’ve just grown more isolated, and now it’s hurting the people I love… including my daughter.
I hate that Charlie’s right. I walk over to the window and lean against the frame, gazing out without really seeing anything.
“So?” Charlie asks.
“So, what?” I sound like a child, but I hate being told what to do.
“Don’t start, Gabe.”
I don’t answer.
Charlie sighs. “Well, since you claim to be so good for the town of Westhill, you can start there. When I was driving in, I stopped in to see the Mayor. They’re preparing for the Westhill Town Fair—there’s lots of work to do this week. I also noticed a pretty decrepit community garden. The library needs a new roof. Should I keep going?”
“You want me to plant fucking tomatoes and help people sell corn dogs?”
“And smile while you do it. In fact, the Mayor was ecstatic to hear that you’ll be participating in the dunk tank.”
“Dunk tank?”
“The wonderful residents of Westhill will be able to pay to have you dropped into a bucket of ice-cold water.”
I stare at my brother, unmoving
His eyes flash. “What? Not happy about that?”
“Are you being fucking serious right now?”
“As fucking serious as can be, little brother. Maybe a little bit of public humiliation will shock you out of all this wallowing you’ve been doing for the past six years.”
“I’m not wallowing. I just don’t like people.”
“Well, you’re a Prince of Farcliff, so you need to learn to like people.”
“No.”
Charlie shakes his head. “You don’t get a say in this, Gabe. If you don’t do this, you’re on your own. I mean on your own. You and Flora won’t have this castle at your disposal, or the resources of the Crown to leech off. No more teams of doctors at your disposals, and pretty, young gardeners to take care of your roses.” Charlie nods toward the window. “When did you hire her, anyway?”
My eyes flash.
Charlie arches an eyebrow, shrugging. “From now on, everything you do will be in service to the Kingdom.”
I turn back to the window, trying to contain my frustration. What will it help to have me at some stupid dunk tank? How the fuck is that in service to the Kingdom?
Movement catches my eye outside, and I see Jo wheeling a wheelbarrow over to the garden. She pauses to wipe the sweat off her brow, and then continues over toward the roses.
“Charlie…” I start, sighing.
“No,” my brother cuts me off. “You don’t get a choice anymore. You’ve had time to work on yourself, and you’ve done nothing. You came back to Farcliff and embarrassed the whole family, not to mention leaving a black stain on my ten-year wedding anniversary. If you’re going to continue living on the Kingdom’s resources, you’re going to contribute.”
“How is an idiotic dunk tank contributing?”
Charlie’s lips curl into a grin. “Call it your punishment for making an ass out of me this week. After that, I promise I’ll never bring it up again.” He pushes himself up out of the chair and stares at me. “It’s either this, or you give up your position and join the real world. I don’t know what marketable skills you’ve developed while skulking around in this castle, but you’d better make use of them now. Either that—or plant some fucking tomatoes and sell some fucking corn dogs.”
He strides out of the room, leaving me at the window.
I watch the rose gardener shoveling mulch around the base of a few plants. She touches the leaves and inspects the buds. Every movement is delicate and precise. She moves purposefully, as if there’s nothing more important than tending to her father’s roses.
Jo has a purpose—even if it’s a modest one.
And what do I have?
Sighing, I turn away from the window and stalk back to my rooms in the East Wing.
9
Jo
I’m still seething when I make it back to the rose garden. How dare the Prince talk to me like that? How dare he mention my father? Doesn’t he realize my father is sick?
I shake my head and work the afternoon away. Deciding not to have dinner in the castle kitchens, I make my way to the Gardener’s Cottage. I saw a can of soup in the cupboards—that’ll do for dinner tonight.
My muscles ache and my mind is exhausted. It’s been an eventful first week at Westhill. I’m looking forward to having a bit of food and collapsing into bed. Maybe I’ll put a movie on and zone out.
I don’t get to do that, though, because when I walk into the cottage, I spot a little blonde head poking up over the back of the couch.
“Um, hello?” I say.
A young girl turns around and smiles. She gets up off the couch and dips down in a graceful curtsy—much more delicately than I ever could.
“You must be Mr. Marcel and Mrs. Violet’s daughter. They told me you were coming.”
I close the door, nodding. “I am—and you are…?”
“Flora.” She walks toward me with her hand extended, and I see a book tucked under her arm. Noticing my gaze, the little girl takes the book out. “Mr. Marcel used to let me come and read here some evenings. It’s quieter than the castle.”
I stare at her face. She looks familiar, but I can�
�t quite place her. I’ve seen her somewhere before… but when? I rack my brain, but the information is just on the fringes of my memory.
I nod to the couch. “You mind if I join you?”
Flora breaks into a wide smile. “Not at all. Your dad said I’d like you.”
I chuckle. “I’m glad.”
We sit down next to each other, and Flora returns to her book. I notice it’s a novel, and I stare at the girl. She’s so tiny. How could she possibly be reading a book?
“How old are you?”
“Six and three quarters,” she answers without looking up from the page.
Then, it hits me.
Flora.
As in, Princess Flora, the daughter of Prince Gabriel.
“Are you…? Is…?” I stammer, clearing my throat. I stare at her, wide-eyed.
“Am I the Princess?” Flora asks. “Yes. But Mr. Marcel said you wouldn’t mind.” She finally looks up from her book, smiling at me.
“Of course I don’t mind.” I answer. I glance at the book again. It’s a Nancy Drew mystery—the exact copy that I used to read when I was younger. “You can read that, and you’re not even seven years old?”
“My tutors tell me I read at a fifth-grade level,” Flora says with a big, toothy grin. “I read a lot. Sometimes I have to be in bed for a long time when I’m sick, so I have more time to read than normal kids.”
“I used to read a lot, too.”
The Princess nods, and turns back to her book. Not knowing what to say, I decide to grab my laptop and do a bit of writing. As surreal as it, I sit beside the Princess in comfortable silence and type.
After a time, she closes the book and stands up.
“See you around!” Without waiting for an answer, Flora leaves the cottage.
I stare after her, speechless. How could such a smart, polite, gracious little girl come from that brute of a father? How could he create her?
From then on, Flora shows up at the cottage almost every day. She asks me about my writing, and I give her book recommendations. The girl is a borderline genius. She tears through books faster than I do, even offering some critiques of the plots when she’s done.
Knocked Up by Prince Gallant Page 6
