The other gardener doesn’t have his arm around Jolie anymore. She’s laughing with one of the maids—a redhead. Again, she feels my gaze and glances toward me. It’s as if she can sense me, just as I can sense her. Her chin dips down and her lips tug into a smile. Then, I get in the car and drive away.
“That was wonderful, Sir,” the driver says as he takes me back to the castle. “You were great.”
“All I did was sit there.”
“You did a lot more than that.”
I nod, staring out the window as we drive back. Once home, I go to my chambers, but I already know I won’t sleep. Instead, I walk the hallways of the East Wing, and then make my way down to the rose garden. The buds are growing, and they’ll be blooming within weeks, if not days. Soon, the scent in the rose garden will be just as I remembered it as a child. I’ll be happy and calm for the few weeks that the garden blooms.
I take a seat on my favorite bench, and then sink down to lie across it. I stare at the sky, sighing. Jolie’s face appears in my mind’s eye, at the exact moment when she realized she’d hit the target. I can picture it perfectly—the mix of shock, horror, and maybe a little bit of pride.
Alone in the rose garden, lying on the bench, I laugh some more, and I feel better than I’ve felt in years.
11
Jo
Once the adrenaline of the dunk tank wears off, tiredness sets in. The rest of the group is enjoying themselves, so I tell Sam that I’m going home. After listening to a string of protests, I finally split off from the group. I start walking out of the fairground, a tired smile painted on my face.
There’s something I love about walking at night. The sounds of the Westhill Town Fair fade behind me, and soon, all I can hear are my own footsteps, the occasional car, and the hoot of an owl.
Night air is fresh and crisp, and it tastes better than the air in the daytime. I walk quickly to ward off the chill—I didn’t bring a jacket, and my thin summer dress isn’t providing much warmth. Rubbing my hands over my arms, I speed up.
The air is sweeter in the country, and my freedom tastes sweeter still. My father is responding well to treatment, and my book is coming along nicely. Some evenings, I even work on a brand-new book. It’s completely different from my usual thrillers—it’s actually a middle grade children’s book. The protagonist reminds me of Flora. Bright, happy, and ultra-intelligent.
Maybe, one day, she’ll read it and see herself in it.
I smile to myself, no longer feeling cold as I make my way back to the castle. Back to my home. Despite the fact that I just dunked the Prince into a vat of water, I have to say that things are going well for me. Besides, even if he does hate me forever, the look on his face when he fell in made it all worthwhile.
Serves him right for being an ass in the library.
When I make it to the castle gates, I buzz the intercom and walk through when they opened, just as I did the first day I arrived. Unlike the first day, though, now I actually feel comfortable. I thought I’d be isolated out here on my own, but I’m not. I feel more comfortable in this castle at the far reaches of the Kingdom, than I did in my own place in the city. There’s a bounce in my step, and I walk around the castle toward the Gardener’s Cottage.
Glancing down at the rose garden, I change my trajectory. My father always said that roses can feel the presence of those who take care of them, and they need to be fed with love as well as water and fertilizer.
Tonight, I have a lot of love to give them.
The energy bubbling inside me is too much for the little cottage, and I feel like I need to visit my flowers. And yes, even within a couple of weeks, they already feel like my flowers. It’s a good feeling—like I belong here. Like I’ve been accepted.
I push the gate open and step into the garden.
“Hello, Miss Rose,” I say to the first plant. “How was your evening?” I brush my fingers over the budding flower, laying a soft kiss on its emerging petals. Then, I start walking along the garden’s pathways.
This was always when my father was most excited about the garden—right before the flowers bloom, when the plants are working their hardest. He used to tell me that he could feel the pulse of the roses. I pull out my phone from my purse and snap a couple of pictures to send to him.
“Do you always talk to your plants?”
The Prince appears from behind a bush with an irresistible smirk on his face. I make a strangled sort of yelping sound, and he laughs. His hair is still wet, but his clothes are dry. He must have changed.
Why does he have to be so goddamn handsome, and so goddamn arrogant? He walks toward me, his eyes darkening. Every step has a swagger, and I wish I wasn’t this attracted to him. My body almost leans toward him, as if he has a magnetic pull that reaches deep into my gut and drags me in his direction.
“Not always,” I answer. “Just when I feel like they need it.”
“And they need it tonight?”
“Maybe I’m the one who needs it tonight,” I grin. “I’ve had a very stressful evening.”
“You didn’t look too stressed. You looked like you enjoyed yourself.”
“Which part? The part where you looked so smug up on that platform, or the part where you fell in?”
The Prince’s eyebrow quirks as if he can’t believe I’m talking to him like this. To be honest, I can’t believe I’m talking to him like this.
I shrug, continuing. “There’s something about sending a member of the royal family falling into a big barrel of cold water that cranks up the cortisol in a person’s body.”
“I wouldn’t know,” he says, taking another step toward me.
My breath catches. He’s so… big. In the library, I got a sense of how strong and tall Prince Gabriel is, but standing beside him here, shivering in my sun dress, he towers over me.
The Prince shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over my shoulders. His fingers brush the skin of my collarbones, and a wave of goosebumps follow. My breath catches. His touch feels good—too good.
“I didn’t realize you knew how to be a gentleman,” I quip.
“I think the words you’re looking for are ‘thank you’.”
The timbre of his voice sends shivers through my stomach, and I fight back a smile.
“Thanks,” I say. I stare at a rose bud, touching it gently.
“You know, you’re pretty arrogant for a rose gardener.”
“I’m arrogant?” I spin toward him. “Take a look in the mirror, buddy.”
“Buddy?”
“Your Royal Buddy Highness.” I clamp my mouth shut to stop the word vomit from continuing. What is wrong with me? This is the Prince I’m talking to. Literal royalty.
Royalty that happens to have a legendary temper. I’m prodding the bear, and I can’t stop myself.
But instead of snapping at me—instead of losing that notorious temper of his—Prince Gabriel just chuckles. I drag my gaze up to his. For the first time, I notice that he has little flecks of brown in his eyes. From a distance, they look completely blue. He stands close to me, his hands moving up to hold the edge of his jacket. His thumbs brush the skin below my clavicle again, and heat blooms under his touch.
“Took a lot of guts to come up on stage,” the Prince says, tilting his head to the side. “Although, judging by how comfortable you made yourself in the library, I have a feeling that you’re not the type of person to play by the rules.”
“You’ve got me all wrong, Your Highness. I’m a rule follower.” I laugh, shaking my head. “I’m so far from a rebel, it’s not even funny.”
“And yet, every time I see you, you’re doing something you’re not supposed to.”
“What about now? I’m not supposed to be in my own rose garden?”
“My rose garden,” he growls, sending thrills straight through my stomach. “The Royal Rose Garden.”
I clench my thighs together, biting my lip.
“Maybe you make me want to break the rules,” I say in a hoarse
whisper.
My heart thumps. Did I just say that? I gulp, standing still as a statue before him. The Prince’s hands fall away, but he doesn’t step back. I’m rooted to the ground, intoxicated by his presence. I can smell his cologne—faint and fresh as it envelops me.
My tongue slides out to lick my lips. My head is spinning. I can’t string a sentence together or make sense of my swirling thoughts. All I know is I need to get away from the Prince. He’s what’s making me feel off-kilter. He’s the one my parents warned me against. He’s the one I just sent tumbling into a vat of ice-cold water while hundreds of people watched.
I shrug the Prince’s jacket off my shoulders and hand it to him. “Thank you for that,” I nod. “I should get to bed.”
“Keep it on,” he says. “It’s cold out. I’ll walk you home.”
Not wanting to refuse royalty—and maybe, wanting to remain in his presence—I nod in response. I turn toward the gate, and the Prince’s hand floats to my lower back.
Unlike Harry’s touch, the Prince’s hand on my back fills me with a delicious tingling sensation. Whether it’s his touch, or the cold, I’m not sure, but my nipples pucker beneath my dress and goosebumps erupt all over my skin. We walk in silence for a while, until the Prince clears his throat.
“You have a pretty good arm, you know.”
“I played softball when I was a kid,” I say. “I guess I’ve still got it.” I glance up at him, grinning.
“You certainly do.”
We’re halfway across the lawn on our way to the Gardener’s Cottage. My heart is in my throat, and my stomach is clenching nervously.
A couple of weeks ago, I was living in a shitty apartment in New York City. Now, I’m walking across the palace grounds with the Prince of Farcliff by my side.
I want to ask him about the ceremony in Farcliff, and about his daughter, and about the rumors that surrounded her birth. I want to find out who he is—under the brooding layers and aura of mystery—but the words stick in my throat, and I can’t get them out.
It’s not my place to ask them, anyway.
We make it to the cottage, and stand on the front step. I shrug the Prince’s jacket off and hand it back to him. He nods in thanks, slinging it over his arm.
I play with the keys in my hand, not wanting him to leave, but not knowing what to say to make him stay. Lifting my gaze up to his face, a thrill passes down my spine when he stares into my eyes.
The Prince lifts his hand up and brushes his fingers over my cheek. I close my eyes and lean into his touch, relishing the sparks that fly across my skin. My heart hammers as my breath catches in my throat.
When I open my eyes again to look at him, the Prince’s gaze is still on my face. He drops his eyes to my lips, and desire teases my thighs. His hand drifts over my jaw and across my chin. I lean into his touch, not daring to move, or breathe, or speak.
I want to kiss him. The urge is overwhelming. I want his lips crushed against mine, his arms pulling me into him. I want him to take me and claim me and never let me go.
But the Prince drops his hand and takes a step back. “Goodnight, Jolie,” he says softly.
Without another word, he turns around and walks away.
12
Gabriel
My steps are unsteady as I walk back across the grounds toward the castle. My hair is wet and cold against my head, but the rest of my body is burning up.
I want her. I can’t deny it.
Another fucking writer.
I shake my head and take hurried steps back toward the castle. Reaching up to rub the back of my neck, I try to ignore the pulsing blood between my legs, or how much I wanted to tear Jo’s clothes off, slam her against the wall, and make her mine.
I replay the evening over and over in my mind, from the moment Jo stepped up on stage, to the moment I said goodnight.
The devil on my shoulder giggles in my ear, whispering that I should have entered the cottage with her. She wanted it—I could tell by the way she leaned into my touch. Her thin summer dress left little to the imagination, and it took all my self-control to walk away.
But why?
Why walk away when I could have had her? What would it change? What would it hurt? I’m the Prince of Farcliff, I’m single, and we’re both willing.
The devil whispers to me, urging me to turn back and knock on her door. Go back to her and claim her. Bring her to ecstasy and enjoy every moment of it.
The animal inside me rages, and I clench my fists to hold it back. Desire and anger are my two worst triggers—and these past couple of weeks, I’ve had a healthy dose of both.
As soon as I’m inside the castle, I lean against a wall and let out a breath. I think of Flora, my beautiful daughter, and what I owe to her. I touch my pocket, where I still carry the rock she gave me. Who knew it would give me so much strength? A simple rock, given to me by a child, is providing me with more strength than I’ve been able to muster on my own.
Feeding the beast will only bring Flora pain. Jo may seem harmless, but so did Paulette. I gave in to my desires with Flora’s mother, and I ended up with the scar on my face to show for it.
I have to think of my daughter. The last thing I need to do is bring more trouble into her life. Charlie’s right—it’s time for me to move beyond my past and introduce Flora to the Kingdom. It’s time for me to forget about Paulette and re-enter the royal world.
And Jo? She’s too much like the past. A writer—a beautiful one—who stokes the flames of my desire like few other people ever have. I need to look to the future—to Flora’s future as well as my own.
I can’t get involved with Jolie. Every time I see her, I feel like I’m on the edge of losing control. And when I lose control, disaster always follows.
Padding through the castle hallways, I head toward the East Wing. The energy inside me is still sparking, and the devil on my shoulder still speaks in my ear. It’s a dangerous feeling, knowing that I could lose control again.
I snapped at the ceremony. I snapped when Paulette released her book. I snapped once, when Flora was little—when the doctors told me there was nothing they could do for her.
I can’t let it happen again.
Making my way to Flora’s room, I poke my head inside and find her sleeping in her big four-poster bed. I tiptoe my way to the side of her bed and stroke her hair as she sleeps.
My angel, my savior, my sweet, little daughter. She’s the one who calms me down, who teaches me what’s most important.
Jo isn’t important. Catering to my carnal needs isn’t important.
Only Flora matters, and she’s the one I have to put first. My daughter sleeps softly, and watching her brings me the peace I’m looking for. I creep softly out of her room and let out a sigh.
I won’t sleep tonight, so I go to my study and get to work. Charlie left me with lots of affairs to sort out with regard to the work to do in Westhill, and I sit at my desk to settle in for a long night.
I don’t need coffee to stay awake—my mind is more than capable of doing that on its own. When the sun comes up, I lean back in my chair and stretch my neck from side to side. Charlie’s done his research—there are detailed proposals for the community garden in Westhill, and improvements to the library and the school.
I’ll be involved with them all.
I let out a heavy sigh. My eyes feel tired, but my mind is still awake. Noise at the window draws my attention, and I turn to see Flora running toward the rose garden. Mrs. Grey hurries to catch up, calling out after her. I grin, watching my daughter.
She has wildness inside her, too—except hers is good, whereas mine is all rotten. Flora pushes the gate open just as Jolie comes into view with a wheelbarrow. Jolie pauses, inclining her head at Flora. I’m too far away to hear what they’re saying, but Flora’s face breaks into a smile.
I watch Jo point to the rose bushes, taking a stem in her hand to show Flora something. I lean forward, as if it’ll help me hear what they’re saying.
>
Usually, I’d be mad. Mrs. Grey has strict instructions to keep Flora away from everyone except people that I’ve approved—and I certainly haven’t approved Jolie. Any stray pathogen could trigger a life-threatening lung infection. Her body is too weak to sustain any harm.
But as I watch the two of them, my heart warms. A smile drifts over my lips as Flora laughs, and I can tell she’s comfortable around my rose gardener.
Mrs. Grey appears, and I can almost hear her chastising my daughter. The old woman’s cheeks are bright red and she’s puffed from chasing after Flora. Flora drags her feet, and then reaches into her dress’s pocket. She pulls something out and presents it to Jo.
My forehead touches the window as I try to see what my daughter gave her. Jolie just smiles and inclines her head, and then tucks the item into her own pocket.
Flora skips away with Mrs. Grey, and I move away from the window.
I should be mad. I should discipline Mrs. Grey, or tell Jolie to stay away from my daughter. Surprisingly, though, I’m not. Watching the two of them together felt natural. Flora looked so happy.
Frowning, I head to the East Wing. Bertrand has brought my breakfast up to my chambers, but I don’t have the appetite to eat. Tiredness comes over me like a wave, and I fall into bed without another thought.
I’m awoken by the sound of voices down the hall. I frown. There shouldn’t be any voices down here. The only people allowed here are me, Flora, Bertrand, and Mrs. Grey. The medical staff doesn’t even come this far—they stay at the other end of the corridor. I rub my eyes to clear the drowsiness from them, surprised at how deeply I slept.
Stretching as I stand up, I make my way to the door. I crack it open and peer out, but the voices are too far away.
“Mr. Marcel told me that roses can hear what we say to them, is that true?” My daughter asks.
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