by Pippa Roscoe
Eloise felt a strange, unworldly nostalgia rise within her. Something that spoke of home. Or was it simply because beside her in the limo was the solid, silent presence of her husband? She couldn’t tell any more. She was so very tired. They both were.
The silence between them filled up all the space in the elegant car, all the space in her heart.
* * *
Odir watched Eloise, her face pressed up against the glass like a child taking in new sights. There was something different about her now. That evening she had not been the woman he’d married. He wondered once again that he had ever thought her to be made of porcelain, made of a shell that held nothing beneath it other than cold calculation.
When she had first entered the room at Heron Tower she had been filled with energy, determination. It had vibrated under her skin, lending it a rosy colour that alluded to life, to fire and passion. But now... Now she was somewhere in between. The cool pallor of her skin was nothing like the fine white marble that filled the halls of the palace in Farrehed, but it was also something very different from the soft and smooth warm silk he knew she could feel like.
It was as if she had lost something—withdrawn from him somehow—and he didn’t like it. Odir hated silence at the best of times, but right now it reminded him of the shroud that had descended over the palace after his mother’s death. As if all the life and the energy of the country had died with her.
‘The press conference will happen at eight a.m.,’ he said, even though they both knew when it was. He would have said almost anything to break the silence between them.
She nodded.
‘Then we will travel back to Farrehed for the state funeral.’
She nodded again.
‘I’ll be incredibly busy over the next few months, and I want you to know that it’s not because of you. It is because of what my country needs.’
‘I understand.’
Her quiet acceptance only frustrated him more. Especially as it was delivered in such a way that made it sound as if he were delivering a punishment rather than an order of events.
‘When all this settles down I promise you we will find a way to bring your friend to Farrehed and we will find peace...between us.’
‘I understand,’ she repeated, still looking out of the window at the streets of London as they twisted and turned down the roads that would lead them to the embassy.
Something like panic gripped him—concern that maybe she wasn’t well.
‘Are you okay?’
‘Yes, perfectly.’
‘You must be tired. You’ve been awake since seven a.m. yesterday.’
‘Has it been that long?’
The detached tone of her voice, so very different from the sounds made by the woman who had cried his name only two hours before, pierced him somewhere within his chest.
‘Time waits for no woman,’ she said, turning to him with a small smile. ‘Not even a queen.’
Odir released his hold on the overhead handrail before he broke it. He considered kissing her again. He was desperate to do something—anything—to bring back the heat, the fire that had been there earlier that evening.
It had reminded him of when he had first met Eloise. She’d been so full of light... But on reflection he could see now that that light had been reserved for the times when her father hadn’t been there.
Odir had taken her acceptance of his proposal for granted—as a side effect of their fathers’ close relationship. He’d somehow managed to convince himself it was what she wanted. But now, in his mind, he ran over their conversations during their engagement—what he’d taken for shared confidences—and saw only polite exchanges, not really digging deeper into the woman he had desired with a need that had almost undone him, undone his country.
He’d told himself his absence from her was due to the fact that he hadn’t had any time, and he’d clung to that in desperation—because if it wasn’t that, then it was because he had been hiding from his wife. That he had been a coward. Too much of a coward to take what he’d wanted...what he’d felt simmering beneath the surface of their every interaction.
Looking back on endless nights spent in the furthest reaches of the palace, separated from her by empty rooms and duty, he knew his wife had become a source of impossible temptation and censure.
In public she was perfect. Poised, but sensitive. Kind and caring, but regal. In private she had become an ache, a thorn in his side—one that now whispered across the months of time, Why don’t you want me? The thought pierced his deepest secrets, sounding so very much like himself as a child, looking to his father, wanting to know why he wasn’t enough to spare the man pain.
And suddenly every action, every sacrifice Eloise had made during their brief marriage, became overlaid by his own attempts to reach out to a man too distant, too emotionally shut off to love him.
An arrow of pain sliced through Odir and he wondered whether he had made a sound—because Eloise’s eyes were suddenly on him and full of concern. His heart started to pound beneath his chest, and in his mind, just for a second, he wanted to call it all off. He wanted to send her away from the questions and needs that he wasn’t sure he could answer.
The limousine turned left and pulled to a stop before wrought-iron gates. A small crowd had begun to gather in front of the embassy, backed by several news trucks. Figures huddled in the dark, sipping from plastic cups with wisps of steam curling into the night air, throwing cigarette ends into the street away from the pavement, their badges flashing into the night proclaiming them world-renowned news crews.
Before they could move through the gates a couple of flashbulbs burst through the tinted windows, highlighting Eloise’s drawn features. But the quiet growl of the powerful engine beneath them glided them forward through the iron gates and into the embassy courtyard.
Men dressed in black flanked the side entrance to the building, two moving to open the doors to the town car, and Odir regretted it. Some ancient sense of inbuilt propriety had him wanting to open Eloise’s door himself and lead her out into the night air.
* * *
Eloise’s heeled feet nearly slipped on the cobbles, and she clung to Malik’s arm like a lifeline. She took a deep breath and steeled herself. This was her life now. It had been once before, but now...now she knew her reasons for being there.
She forced a smile, turning her head to where the cameras eagerly sought their mark, and gave a small wave. Not too happy—it would not be the done thing to appear happy with the news that they were about to share with the world’s media. Calls for her to smile, questions about where she had been, demands to know if the rumours about her pregnancy were real—a thousand voices swirled around her with one word ringing in her ears. Baby, baby, baby.
For a second her smile faltered, just as Malik positioned his body between her and the media behind them. A baby. They had twice had unprotected sex tonight. She had come to the party seeking a divorce and left the party possibly pregnant, definitely still married and about to become a queen.
Her hand went reflexively to her abdomen. Could she bring a child into the world with parents who...who...?
Could she still claim that she did not love Odir? She might be willing to fool the world’s media, but after all this time she was done with fooling herself.
They might have only slept together for the first time that evening, but she had known this man for two years. She knew how he took his coffee, she knew that he hated to swim, she knew that he felt more at home on horseback than in any powerful car, and she knew that he would sacrifice anything for the protection of his people—even his own heart.
She knew the sound he made when he found his completion within her—had felt it echo within her breast. And she knew that within her heart of hearts, buried deep within its recesses, beneath all the secrets and lies that had built up between them, she had always loved her husband.
‘Your Majesty?’ Malik prompted softly.
The clipped sound of her
heels on the cobblestones cut through her thoughts as Malik led her to where Odir was waiting halfway up the steps and then towards a non-descript side door, partially opened on the inviting light and warmth of the embassy before her.
Odir’s security detail, having received word that the press had surrounded the front steps of the Embassy, had decided to use the side entrance and led them through sleek industrial kitchens, where staff were already beginning to prep for the day. Each and every one of them stopped what they were doing and bowed their heads with a respect that settled peace within Eloise’s heart. She was a part of this, helping to create happiness not only for these people but for an entire country that very much needed healing. And she allowed that knowledge to warm her. To give her strength.
From the kitchens they were led into a hallway, and then they covered the distance to the central state room at a fast pace. Hearing the hushed tones and feeling the silent respect of every single person they passed, Eloise felt the weight of that responsibility. She looked to her husband, at the broad shoulders ready and willing to take as much of it as was needed. But his back appeared frozen with a tension she had not seen before. His left shoulder was just a centimetre higher than the other—the only outward indication that he wasn’t as relaxed as he appeared.
And suddenly Eloise understood the difference between the previous signs of respect she had witnessed Odir encountering and those she saw now. The bows were just that little bit deeper, the smiles on the faces of his staff more sincere, and tinged with so much more than respect.
They knew.
They knew that his father was dead and that they were now standing before the Sheikh who would take them back from the brink of civil war and bring them to a new era of peace and prosperity.
Eloise felt rather than saw Odir’s step falter, so attuned to his body now, in a way that she had never been before. And she knew that he had realised, almost at the same time, the reason for the heavy silence about them. A combination of grief and hope.
His powerful stride took them from the rich red hues of the state room and out into the warm gold and white of the central hallway. Eloise took in impressions of colour, rather than specific details, for her eyes only had one goal. Her husband.
In the main foyer, beneath a large, expansive white marble staircase, there were even more people. Men in suits instead of kitchen whites hurried between the rooms off the foyer, papers and tablets in hand, calling for corrections to statements and prepared interviews, demanding changes to itineraries planned for months ahead.
All of them came to a sudden halt on seeing Odir.
Only one figure had been still and silent, watching their approach with hooded eyes. Eyes that sought Eloise rather than Odir.
Jarhan might have fooled those about him with his relaxed stance, but Eloise recognised it for what it was. A façade. And when their gazes met she could read the fear written there. The fear that her return to his brother’s side meant that his secret was out.
Odir caught sight of his brother at the same instant Eloise did. Of all the people in the room, the only one not looking at him was Jarhan. He felt the familiar instinctual reaction rise within him—fury, anger, jealousy, and one word that echoed in his brain—mine!
And then he came to a crashing halt. It wasn’t lust painted in his brother’s eyes. It wasn’t desire or need, but fear. This was the brother he’d tried to protect as a young child—protect from his father’s grief, from his own. The brother he’d taught to ride, made toys with, conjured up imaginary castles and battles, commanded rebellions and cut down tin soldiers... The brother who had been forced to live a lie, forced to hide his own sexuality, forced to sacrifice his own happiness. The brother who had been innocent of all accusations...
Again he wondered how he’d never seen it.
Jarhan wasn’t effeminate—he was almost as strong and commanding as himself. But he would still be castigated for his feelings, for his desires. His father would have exiled him—would have cut him from their family, never allowing his name to be uttered within the palace walls.
But Odir was not his father.
Amongst a sea of bowed heads only three remained upright, and finally Jarhan met his gaze. And instead of anger or recrimination—the two things that had tainted their every interaction in the last six months—Odir felt...love.
Shockingly powerful and utterly protective, the feeling nearly knocked Odir off his feet.
He crossed the expanse of the foyer between them in five long strides and took his brother in his arms in an embrace that he hoped would convey even just an ounce of what he was feeling. Grief, love, loss, pain and regret all swirled within him. And it felt...good. Good to embrace all these feelings without secrets and lies, without shame and anger.
His brother’s body—at first held as stiff as the tin soldiers they had once played with—relaxed into his hold, and Odir felt wet heat press against his closed eyes. Jarhan stirred and tried to say something. But Odir cut him off.
‘Can you ever forgive me?’ Odir whispered into his brother’s ear.
‘Can you forgive me?’
‘Already done, Jar.’ Using the childhood nickname brought a broken smile to his brother’s features. ‘Already done.’
There would be a time for words. That time would be soon, but it wasn’t now.
‘You’ll fly back with us after the press conference and we’ll talk. We’ll talk properly.’
‘Us?’ Jarhan queried.
Odir glanced over to Eloise who, unlike the two men, had failed to prevent the tears in her eyes from finding a trail down her cheeks. She brushed them aside and the smile that almost reached her eyes poked at the sensitive heart learning to beat again beneath his chest.
‘You will be by our side at the press conference.’
‘I’m not sure—’
‘I am,’ he interrupted.
He would begin his rule properly—united with his brother and his wife—no matter what might come in the future. Odir wanted this. Not for his country, not for his people, but for himself. And by God he would make it happen.
* * *
Jarhan left them to get ready for the press conference and Odir dismissed his guards. He directed Eloise to the central staircase at the back of the embassy that led to the private suites on the fourth floor. This was the lowest building in the possession of the Farrehed royal family, and in comparison to Heron Tower it was almost laughable, but he had always liked this embassy.
It wasn’t a palace, but he and Jarhan had looked forward to holidays here as children. Odir’s feet carved a pathway over the rich burgundy carpet that had intricate patterns he could still strangely remember from his childhood.
Somewhere in the distance of his memory he heard the laughter of children disappearing around one of the corners of the embassy, followed by his mother’s light call for both her children. He would never hear the sound of her voice again, nor that of his father’s. Both his parents were gone.
He wasn’t fool enough to think that he didn’t need to grieve. He was a prince—a king—not a madman. He just couldn’t allow himself the time—not yet. Maybe not even for some months.
Eloise shifted beside him, drawing him out of his thoughts and eyeing him with something suspiciously like compassion. He wondered how it was that she seemed to see right through him to his deepest thoughts. This woman he had not even seen in six months, to whom he had not made love until tonight—a woman who might be pregnant with his child.
For a moment it all felt too much. His father, Eloise, her father, his brother... It was all swirling around in his exhausted mind.
He felt Eloise take the card that had been given to him by Malik and saw her type the passcode written on the back into the electronic pad beside the door. She turned to him and smiled and the breath left his lungs—she looked...naughty, cheeky, impish. Not a look he remembered seeing.
‘I feel like I’m in a spy film.’
‘Well, I do know how to kill
someone with my little finger,’ he replied, the response rolling off his tongue before he could censor it.
Her laughter was glorious. Uninhibited. And it was something that he wanted to hear again.
She pushed open the door and continued talking to him over her shoulder. There was something incredibly and oddly domestic about it, and he couldn’t tell if he’d walked into a dream or a nightmare.
‘It was good what you did with Jarhan,’ she said, disappearing into the room.
‘Good?’
‘Yes—kind.’
‘Kindness has nothing to do with it. He’s my brother.’
‘Mmm...’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Nothing... Well, I was just wondering what you would have done had he not been gay and had actually meant it when he kissed me.’
She turned, casting those blue eyes on him once again, and he couldn’t tell whether she was serious or not.
‘I would have married him off to his first cousin once removed.’
‘A terrible fate, I’m sure.’
Another smile lifted those lips and he felt as if the sun had burst through the clouds.
‘You haven’t met her!’
‘So you have a sense of humour, Your Majesty?’
‘Shh, don’t tell anyone.’
A shadow passed across her features. ‘I remember it. From before our wedding. You would wield it like a sword, cutting through the tension and making me laugh.’
He remembered it too.
‘I used to think...’ She trailed off, as if unsure she should continue.
He held her gaze, held his breath, ridiculously desperate to hear what she’d used to think.
‘I used to think that you were my Prince Charming,’ she said, collapsing into a plush chair in the living room. She looked almost dainty, nestled within the cushions. ‘That you would come and rescue me from my evil father.’
‘I still can, Eloise.’
‘Surely in this day and age a princess should be able to rescue herself, no?’ she asked, and he heard a thread of uncertainty enter her voice, slowly withering him from the inside.
