The kids were nonplussed by the visitors, perhaps used to the unwanted attention, and carried on with their activities with hardly a glance at the passerby. They did not visit Ms. Shire’s office so they did not have a chance to see the antique swords, and perhaps because of their recent library tryst, the tour of that room was infuriatingly brisk.
They were led out back to a large, walled-in courtyard, dozens of children playing in the grass or sitting at picnic tables. Ms. Shire explained to the group that the children had regular exercise and sport schedules, but Brinley was watching a young girl, no older than seven, attempt to throw a rock at a can perched twenty feet away. Her aim was well off and she was never going to hit it.
Brinley ordered herself to pay attention to the lecture and keep a bland look of interest stamped on her face. But her eyes continued to stray to the girl and the unharmed can, and finally she slipped away from the group and approached the child.
“You will never hit it if you don’t step into your throw,” Brinley said reasonably.
The girl froze and turned to look up at her with wide eyes. She blinked, confirming she was looking at a living person and not a ghost, and Brinley saw the same hesitation that she was so familiar with herself. The reluctance to trust somebody, fully expecting their criticism and not their support.
“You’re keeping your feet in one place,” Brinley said. “That means your arm only gets about half as much throwing room as it would if you stepped into it.” She bent to scoop a rock from the pile collected on the ground and demonstrated. “Step with your opposite foot—see how much more range of motion your arm has?”
The girl nodded, chewing on her bottom lip.
“It will give you more power,” Brinley continued. “Just step...and throw.” She tossed the stone—not terribly hard, lest it ricochet and maim one of the children, just her luck—and hit the can, knocking it over.
The girl’s jaw dropped. “Whoa,” she said.
The sound of a throat clearing had Brinley turning to remember the group, all of whom were now watching her. The throat clearer was Finn, and Brinley knew she was looking at him with the same trepidation with which the girl had looked at her.
“And of course,” Brinley added lamely, “be good and be gracious.” The Estau motto, not that she had ever mastered either part of it.
Finn swiped a hand across his jaw, and Brinley strongly suspected he was attempting to hide a smile. The headmistress was scowling and the public relations ladies were darting uncertain glances at one another, but it was Finn who broke the tension.
“Also,” he said, stepping forward to crouch beside the girl to select a rock. “Keep your feet and shoulders square, facing the target. It will make your throw more accurate.” He tossed a rock and neatly hit the can lying in the grass. “See?” he asked, deadpan. “Good and gracious.”
IT WAS DINNERTIME WHEN they arrived home, and Brinley was famished. An afternoon of good behavior was terribly taxing, and the too-tight chignon was giving her a headache.
She passed her mother as she hustled toward the elevator, desperate for a change of clothes and a stiff drink. “Brinley,” Queen Vivienne called as she jabbed the up arrow. “Dinner will be served in half an hour.”
“What are we having?”
Magda appeared behind the queen. “Roast squab with side salad,” she said. “Mushroom soup to start.”
Finn, who had lingered to speak with Charles, approached just in time to hear the mention of the dreaded squab.
“I have a headache,” Brinley said, stepping into the elevator when it arrived. “I will eat in my room. And I would prefer spaghetti, Magda. With meatballs. And garlic bread.” She waited for Finn to get in. “Finn will have the same. He also has a headache.”
Queen Vivienne had been ready to argue, but now closed her mouth and exchanged a look with Magda. Randy newlyweds, they agreed.
Brinley had been telling the truth about her own headache, and tossed Finn into the mix to spare him the squab dinner. She had not meant to start a rumor about herself—there were plenty of people to do that for her, especially about something so patently untrue. Still, she said nothing to correct them and she and Finn rode to the third floor in a slightly awkward silence.
“Thank you,” he said abruptly, when they stopped and the doors slid open. “For the...spaghetti.”
“You can tell them you don’t like squab, you know. Or turnips or strawberries or anything else you despise. You’re a prince, after all. This is your home now.”
“Right,” he said. “All true.”
They went into her—their—room and Finn closed the door, and she was aware that he watched with a look of bemusement as she wiggled out of the too-tight jacket and undid the button at the back of her skirt. She had not forgotten herself quite enough to squeeze out of the garment in front of him, but she did enjoy her first full breath of the day.
“I did not mean to get us in trouble at the orphanage,” Brinley said as she hunted through her wardrobe for something more comfortable to wear. It was warm in the room so she settled on a pair of shorts and a long sleeve shirt bearing the logo of her university. “I really just meant to teach the girl to throw.”
Finn lay his suit jacket over the arm of the sofa and reached up to loosen his tie. “I rather thought you intended to get us banned from the orphanage,” he remarked. “To thwart any of your father’s future public relations plans.”
“A side benefit,” Brinley admitted. “But an accidental one.”
Finn sat on the sofa and picked up his tablet to read as she went to the bathroom to change and free her hair from its strict confines. She watched in the mirror as she peeled away the dutiful princess costume and replaced it with an actual human, and with each bobby pin she plucked from her curls she felt the tension in her temples ebb. Eventually she had retrieved them all, running her fingers through her hair to finagle the knots and massage her sore scalp. The end result was her typically tousled mess, curling past her shoulders, the same curls the castle stylists had begged her mother to straighten when she was a girl. Queen Vivienne had allowed them to try a few times, but ultimately gave in to her daughter’s tears and let her be. They had Elle, after all. Brinley could be forgiven her second rate hair.
When she returned to the bedroom Finn was still on the sofa, one foot propped on the opposite knee. His socks today had tiny purple polka dots speckling the black cotton, an equally tiny glimpse into his personality, much like the small twitch of his mouth when he looked at his wife.
“Come here,” he ordered, nodding at the seat next to him.
Brinley had heard those words many times, and they were never good. “Why?” she said, not sitting. She listened to her father—usually—but it was the 21st Century and their wedding vows had specifically not included the word obey.
“You should see this,” he answered, skimming whatever was on the tablet. When she still didn’t move he finally recognized her discomfort and added, “It’s good, Brinley.” The stark gray of his eyes softened when he said her name, when he saw her bare feet and her knobby knees and the little hole in the corner of her shirt.
She took a breath and took him at his word and sat down, leaning in slightly to see the screen. It was a small blog she had never heard of, and the headline of the top post was Princess Takes Aim. It included a color photo of Brinley arcing back her arm to make her throw, the little girl from the orphanage watching intently. Today, the article began, Estau’s infamous “bad princess,” Brinley Cantrella, visited an orphanage as her first public outing since her surprise marriage to Prince Finian of Lenora. Unlike the palace’s typically trite excursions, trotting out the royals to pose for photos and build up bland, general goodwill with the public, Brinley Cantrella made the outing an interesting—and informative—one. Perhaps her increased public presence will help bring the royal family into the present day, one where the women teach little girls how to make their mark and not merely how to stand by their man.
“Wow,” Brinley said once she’d finished the article. “Just...wow. I kept waiting for the ‘but.’”
“I kept waiting for the ‘good and gracious,’” Finn replied.
“Oh.” She waved a dismissive hand. “That never comes. I’m a bad princess, remember?”
“I guess it just depends which paper you read.”
“All of them,” she answered. “Except this one. Which has...” She scanned the page. “Seventy-seven subscribers.”
Finn typed in his email address—FredLandry93—and hit the subscribe button. “Seventy-eight,” he said. “Its readership is expanding.”
Brinley was so taken by his fake name that she missed the kindness of his gesture. “Fred Landry?”
He shrugged. “Why not? What’s your fake name?”
“Claire Medusa,” she admitted.
“Your hair looks nothing like snakes. It’s quite beautiful.”
Her face grew warm. “You don’t have to say that.”
“I don’t have to say anything, do I?”
For a second she just stared at him.
He stared back.
The same heat and energy that had scorched them in the library was back, this time without the assistance of alcohol. Without the forbidden taboo. They were a married couple, in their bedroom, with no rules to break, no tours to stumble in and catch them red-handed.
Finn made the first move.
He put down the tablet and leaned in, closing the scant inches between them, and paused with his mouth a hairsbreadth away. When Brinley didn’t move he closed the remaining space and touched his lips softly to hers.
She tried not to whimper foolishly.
Tried foolishly not to want this.
Want him.
Her husband.
He tilted his head slightly and hers moved as well, improving the fit. They fit together so well. Unfairly well. So temptingly, appallingly well. He nudged her bottom lip and she opened for him, felt his tongue on hers, every bit as skilled as it had been the first time. His hand slipped into her hair and cupped the back of her head, and Brinley let out the whimper she wanted to hide, let him slide a hand over her hip and draw her in so she straddled his lap.
She had just barely gotten into position when a quick rap at the door had her toppling right back off. Finn caught her before she hit the floor, his eyes glazed and breathing rough. Brinley tried to stifle a yelp but one slipped out, and Charles took that as his cue to enter, pushing open the door with a phony, “I hope I’m not interrupting...”
The look on his weasel-like face was one of genuine surprise, swirled with disappointment. He knew the marriage was forced, and, like many, believed that Finn had come to the castle that scandalous night with his heart broken, and Brinley—and tequila—were merely a bandage, so finding them in what probably appeared to be a weird sex contortion took him very much aback.
“Oh, ah...” he stammered. “I just came to...”
Finn righted Brinley and she stood and scowled at Charles, fighting the urge to attack him for the interruption.
“Spit it out,” she snapped, when he continued to fumble.
He, too, was holding a tablet in his hands, but she didn’t need to see it to know he was not here to bring their attention to the Princess Takes Aim article.
Finn was slightly more tactful. “What is your business here, Charles?”
“I came to show you this,” he said, thrusting out the tablet. Brinley kept her arms folded so Finn came forward to take the device, standing next to her as he frowned at the screen. “It’s the same response all over,” Charles added. “Everyone is unsurprised by the princess’s behavior, but they seem to view your response sympathetically. There is only so much that can be done. We can work with it. Call it a...learning experience, if you will.”
Brinley glowered at him but they had a lifetime of glowers between them, and Charles didn’t even blink.
“Get out,” Finn said mildly.
Now Charles did blink. “Er...what? I mean, I beg your pardon? Sir? Your Highness?”
“Get out,” Finn repeated, equally bland.
Charles remained rooted to the spot for another flustered moment, then turned and reached for the door. “My tablet,” he said, as an afterthought.
“No,” Finn replied.
Charles flushed red, considered arguing, then wrenched open the door and fled. The door slammed behind him and Brinley and Finn stood still for a full minute, staring at the place he had been. She so seldom received visitors to her room that she rarely locked the door, and now she cursed her laziness.
But the more she read the article still displayed on the glowing screen, the more it dawned on her that Charles may have unintentionally saved her from enormous personal humiliation.
Princess Elle Vida’s visit to the orphanage two years earlier was a much more civil affair, the article read. Instead of teaching children how to use weapons, she showed them how to be good and to be gracious, and led by fine example.
Brinley’s stomach twisted miserably.
She had long accepted the fact that she was rarely good or gracious, but the press—and the public—seemed both unwilling and unable to come to terms with it. Still, it frustrated her not only to be officially shackled to this position, but to so desperately want it when she was so abominably unqualified.
The situation with Finn was much the same.
She loved him with the same youthful fervency she had always felt, but to him she was a duty. He showed her kindness and respect, and he kissed her like a starving man brought to a feast, but it only made the situation worse. He, like the entire kingdom, had long had his heart set on Elle.
And now he was forced to make do with her sister.
“Do you miss her?” Brinley asked softly, staring at the tablet as the screen mercifully faded to black.
Finn looked at her. “Miss who?”
“Elle,” she said, a bit too forcefully. “Who else?”
Finn thought for a second, then shrugged. “No. I hardly knew her.”
“But she was your...was to be your...”
He turned to face her fully, considering his words. “That was someone else’s plan,” he said finally. “Someone else’s dream.”
“But you made it your own.”
Something that might have been regret flickered in his eyes. “Yes,” he agreed. “I suppose I did.”
“What would you want? If you could have anything? What would it be?” Brinley held out no hope that he would reply with her name, but found herself disappointed all the same when another knock came at the door, this time followed by Magda’s cheery, “Spaghetti and meatballs delivery!”
Finn arched a brow. “Does Magda normally make the deliveries herself?”
“No.” Brinley sighed. “Charles probably sent her. Or my mother. Or both.” She pulled open the door and Magda swept in with the cart, not bothering to hide the fact that she was scanning the room for signs of...something. Something that did not exist.
“Spaghetti, meatballs, and garlic bread,” she announced, lifting the domes off the plates so the smell of tomato and garlic filled the air. “And a bottle of wine to go with it.”
Brinley tried not to sigh again. “Thank you, Magda. This is wonderful.”
“Scrumptious,” Finn added.
Magda bustled back out, wishing them a good night. She had placed the dishes on the trunk at the foot of the bed, as per usual, but tonight Brinley snatched up her plate and brought it to the small table in the corner. The table was ostensibly for tea, but she rarely drank tea and rarely used the table. It sat next to a window which overlooked the east garden, and Brinley stared at it intently as she took a large bite of bread. She was aware of Finn joining her but kept her attention focused outside. The garden had a large hedge maze, and as a child she had studied it for hours, planning how best to dash through from one end to the other without making a wrong turn. If only she could be so successful in life.
“She knew yo
u wanted it,” Finn said, twisting his fork in the noodles.
Brinley glanced at him. “I ordered it, didn’t I?”
“Elle,” he clarified. “She knew you wanted to be queen one day. She knew she would be leaving the castle in good hands.”
“She told you she was leaving?” The real shocker in that sentence was the notion that Elle—that anyone—would think leaving the castle to Brinley to inherit was to leave it in good hands, but she couldn’t process that concept right now, so she focused on the more immediate issue.
Finn shook his head. “No. But it was not a surprise. She was unhappy here. She looked the part, but that was it.”
Hearing the words coming from Finn—honorable, dutiful Finn—was shocking, and felt almost treasonous. How could he share this information so calmly, when it went against everything he had been raised to believe?
“Do you want it?” Brinley asked.
He watched her for a second. “Yes,” he said. “Very much.”
“Because you want to be king or because someone else expects you to be?”
“That’s very much a chicken and egg question,” he answered. “Do I want to be king because I was born to it; would I want it even if I were not? I cannot guess how I would feel if things were different, because they are not. But my choices have led me here, so I cannot complain.”
Brinley watched him cut a meatball.
“I would want this,” he added, also watching the meatball. “I have always wanted it. It is not a chicken-egg situation.”
Her heart skipped an optimistic beat. “Are you talking about the meatball?”
“No.”
“The spaghetti?”
“I am not talking about food at all.”
For once, Brinley was speechless. Finian of Lenora was not known to be a liar, but it was impossible to believe what she was hearing. That he would want this—want her—even without the pressing circumstances surrounding the situation, was beyond comprehension.
Bad Princess Page 5
