King Size: A Royal Bad Boy Romance

by Lexi Whitlow

  Many hours later, long after my mother and Norah’s parents have retired to Buckingham Palace as guests of the Queen and Prince of Wales, I remain with Norah, determined to stay with her.

  They had to shave her head for the surgery. Her long, sun-kissed tresses, wild with curls, are no more. She’s gaunt, gray under florescent lights above her bed. She’s connected to machines measuring her heart rate and blood pressure, machines monitoring brain activity, and other machines dripping medication into her veins. She breathes slow and shallow, her chest hardly rising and falling. Her fingers, wrapped in my own, are soft and slack, without muscle tone. She’s as still as a stone.

  I lay my hand over her belly, on the small rise that’s just starting to show.

  “Be strong,” I urge them. “I’m here. I’ll always be here for you and your mum. I love you all so much. Please, all of you, be strong and come back to me.”

  23

  Norah

  The midday sun warms my face while a salty breeze coming off the blue North Atlantic keeps the heat from being too oppressive here on my spot at the beach. I shade my eyes against the brightness, peering through amber lenses at the twins rough-housing in the surf with their “da.” Owen’s having a high time of it, picking up one, lifting him high overhead, then tossing him into the deep with a magnificent splash. He picks up the other one, repeating the game. Both boys squeal, pealing with laughter, then come up for more of their father’s manhandling.

  I watch them play a long time, soaking up the view of my beautiful husband—the king—hip-deep in the ocean in his swim trunks, his toned torso flexing with the weight of a ten-year-old boy in his grip. He’s easy to look at. I’m lucky to have him. I’m lucky to have all of them. Three beautiful men who dote on me as thoroughly as I dote on them.

  Owen tosses Henry into the low waves, then throws up his hands. “I’m done!” he calls. “You two monkeys try not to drown yourselves.”

  Ellis dives under the surface, coming up alongside his brother. They swim against the incoming surf, bobbing in the waves, playing together like they’ve done since they were babies. Ellis and Henry are physically identical, but two very different children in almost every other respect. They’re our “matched set,” as Owen likes to say. Henry is contemplative and steady. He likes puzzles and complex games. Ellis is bold and a bit of a risk-taker. There’s no challenge he won’t attempt. Together, they complement one another perfectly. Ellis runs faster, but Henry can run longer, and he never quits. Henry writes wonderful little stories to entertain his brother, and Ellis illustrates them beautifully. Both boys are learning to play the piano. Henry prefers Chopin. Ellis revels in banging out Mozart.

  Owen comes up the beach toward me, dripping wet. He drops on the blanket beside me, then leans in and steals a kiss.

  “You’re beautiful, my queen, laying there half naked with your long legs begging me to rub sunscreen on them.”

  “Do,” I encourage him, grinning. “Get me warmed up for later, after we put the boys to bed.”

  “I love you so much, baby. Please come back to me. Please wake up. Norah…”

  “I love you so much, baby. Please come back to me. Please wake up. Norah, I’m right here. Wake up, baby.”

  Owen’s voice jars me from a dream. A happy, warm vision of him and our boys, all of us together.

  “Norah, wake up, baby…”

  I blink, trying to focus my brain. The sound of forced air from a ventilation system whooshes overhead and a steady blip, blip, blip from some electronic machine keeps rhythm nearby. The air in my nostrils is infused with the scent of cleaning products and plastic. Where am I?

  I force my eyes open, feeling the painful glare of greenish fluorescent lights in my face. I grimace.

  “There you are,” Owen says. His hand holds mine firmly. “God, I’ve missed you so much.”

  The room is a fog. I can make out large shapes and colors, but few details. The world comes to me through a veil. I recognize Owen’s face only because his voice is attached to it. I can tell he’s smiling by his tone, but I can’t see the crinkles that always form at the corners of his eyes when he’s happy.

  “Hi, Duchess,” he says, squeezing my hand tighter. “How do you feel?”

  “Hi,” I say, hearing my voice crack, feeling dry in my windpipes. “Thirsty.”

  Where am I? How did I get here? What day is it? We got married. I remember that—but not what came next.

  Someone puts a plastic cup in my hand. I reach forward with my other, feeling for a lid and straw. I find the straw, and navigating it to my lips, suck hard, swallowing cool water until the cup is drained.

  I feel groggy, disoriented, and curiously lightheaded. Something’s not right about my head. I lift a hand, reaching up, but Owen’s hand intercepts it.

  “Not yet,” he says softly, guiding my hand down, laying it on my belly.

  The babies. Are they okay?

  I press fingertips against my tummy where the babies are, feeling familiar firmness.

  “They’re okay,” Owen reassures me. “You’re okay, too.”

  “Norah?”

  An unfamiliar voice calls my name from my right side. A fuzzy figure in white is nearby. I try hard to focus, to make some sense of all this, but none of it makes sense. I can’t see anything clearly. I don’t know anything.

  “Norah, I’m Dr. Turner,” the strange voice says. “You’re in City Medical Center in London. I’m a neurosurgeon here at the hospital. I know you’re probably disoriented and quite sleepy. You’ve been asleep for some time. I need to ask you some questions. Is that alright?”

  He wants to ask me questions? I have no answers.

  “Owen, what’s happened?” I beg. “How did I get to London?”

  “We’ll get to all that,” Owen says, placing his hand over mine. “Let’s humor the doctor for a few minutes, then we can talk.”

  “How’s your vision?” the doctor asks. “Any blurriness or unusual effects, like tracers or shadows?”

  I nod. “Everything’s blurry, like a fog. I can’t see any detail, just shapes and soft colors.”

  “Okay,” he says. “That’s normal and probably temporary. It should gradually resolve itself. Do you have any obvious blind spots or dark spots?”

  “No,” I tell him. “Should I? How would I know?”

  “You’d know,” he says. “Norah, what year is it?”

  What? I answer his question—a silly question—and six others just as silly following it.

  “What’s the last thing you remember?” he asks.

  I remember my feet hurt and I was hungry, and Lloyd dancing on the table, chanting about Toth. I recall floating over the floor in Owen’s arms. He told me he loved me and would always take care of me. I remember I didn’t tell him I loved him back, and regretting it later. That’s the last thing I recall. Standing in front of the cameras, knowing I should have said I loved him, too, regretting not having done it.

  “The cameras,” I say. “I remember us posing in front of the cameras.”

  “That’s very good,” the doctor observes. I believe he addresses Owen with his next statement. “If there’s memory loss, it’s likely to be mild and temporary.”

  Twenty minutes later, Owen and I are left alone. He sits on the edge of my bed, grasping my hand snugly in his. He begins filling me in on exactly what happened in front of the cameras, and what’s happened since. I’ve been asleep for six days while the swelling in my brain subsided. The babies have had a rough time of it, but they’ve held on. They’re still in some distress, but the doctors are cautiously optimistic.

  “I thought I was going to lose you,” Owen whispers, anxiety stretching his voice. He sounds exhausted. “I’m terrified for the twins. I’m so sorry this happened. I never imagined bringing you into my world would put your life at risk. That it would put so many precious lives at risk. I’m so sorry.”

  “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for,” I tell Owen. “Knowing everything I know
now, I’d do it all again. I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be, with you. Our babies are going to be fine. They’re going to be strong and healthy little men who are the pride and joy of both of their parents. Owen, I love you. I’ve whispered it in your ear while you slept and said it silently to myself a hundred times. I love you. It’s been difficult to say because it’s all happened fast, and it scares me because I’ve never been in love before. I love you so much, and I’m so lucky to be with you.”

  He lifts my hand to his lips, kissing my fingers. A hot tear drops to my knuckle, then another and another. “God, I missed you so,” he says, sniffling, wiping tears away with the back of his hand. “I’m so glad you’re back.”

  I smile, extending my fingers to touch his face, feeling those earnestly shed tears. “Prince Poignant, are you crying for me?”

  He nods, not letting go of my hand. “Yes, Duchess. I’m crying for you. I haven’t told you the worst thing yet.” I hear a smile in his tone.

  “What’s that?” I ask, doubting there’s anything much worse than what I’ve already heard.

  Owen takes my hand and moves it toward me, then places it directly on top of my head.

  I feel stubble—razor-sharp stubble like Owen’s chin. Holy shit, they shaved my head! Where is my hair?!

  24

  Owen

  They’re smaller than they should be at this stage,” the OBGYN says, studying the sonogram images of our twins. “But twins are often smaller, and developmentally, they’re exactly where they should be. We’ve got ten fingers and ten toes on each baby. They’re sucking their thumbs. One of them looks like a swimmer; he’s doing the breast stroke.”

  Norah smiles. “Sometimes I think I feel that.”

  “Usually at this stage you can’t feel the flutters yet, but it’s tight in there with twins,” her doctor responds. “They’ll be boxing each other in a few more weeks. You’ll feel it.”

  She wipes the gel from Norah’s belly, then packs up her gear. “It’s been great consulting with you, ma’am,” she says. “I’ll send this to your regular OBGYN in Cymrea as soon as I get back to my office, along with all my other notes and images. I’ve kept her abreast of things while you’ve been recuperating in London. Don’t hesitate to call me if you have any questions.”

  “Thank you for everything,” Norah says, squeezing her hand before she departs. “I’ll miss you.”

  Being guests of the Queen of England, living in Buckingham Palace, has had its advantages. Norah was released from the hospital two days after she was brought out of the medically-induced coma. Since then, for the last ten days we’ve been in residence at the royal palace in London. We’ve had the benefit of a team of physicians and healthcare support personnel who are on call to every member of the royal household. Norah’s surgeon from City Medical Center, Dr. Turner, has made house calls to the palace to check on her, ensuring she’s progressing as she should.

  I postponed the coronation to stay with Norah while she recovered. A lot of people back home in Anglesey are upset with me about that, as the country has never been without a coronated monarch longer than six months. Sometime back in the 17th century, some judge made a pronouncement in the legal statutes claiming that the coronation must take place within six months of the prior monarch’s death. That tiny footnote has come down to this century as law. I sent a note to the Privy Council and the Barristers Court, telling them that as Crowned Prince, acting king, and the next monarch, I alone get to decide what the law is in my own realm, and they could bloody well wait for my wife to recover before I return home for the ceremony.

  These last ten days at Buckingham Palace, spending time with the English royal family— particularly my cousin Charles—have been enlightening. Charles is no stodgy old toad, sipping brandy with his sycophants— he’s a radical force of nature who’s had almost 60 years to contemplate what it means to reign as king. He’s as opinionated as any dock worker or bricklayer, and just as hardworking. Last year he attended 600 official engagements on behalf of the crown. He’s traveled the whole world, from the rural reaches of Zimbabwe to the peaks above Tibet, and sat on the dirt floors of carpet weavers in Iran, sipping tea. He has a few ideas about how the world ought to be organized versus how it is organized, and he’s been more than generous in sharing his philosophy while I’ve been a guest under his roof.

  Listening to him talk of all he’s seen and the people he’s met has given me a few ideas of my own. The one thing he’s made me realize is that I, as sitting monarch of Anglesey, really do have the power to effect change in my country. It’s my job to create a better place, and to upend old traditions that don’t work, while creating new ones that do.

  He put it to me succinctly last night: “Do you want to pass on all the problems and inequities for your children to deal with, or would you prefer they come up in a country they’re proud of, a place they can continue to refine? You can keep to tradition and let things decline further, leaving it for them to clean up or lose their heads over, or you can start the work for them. Which kind of man do you want to be?”

  I know which kind of man I want to be. I know what I want for my children, and their children, and all the children in Anglesey.

  Once I’m officially crowned king, I’m going to make sweeping changes to how things are done, starting with the healthcare infrastructure of the country, and going on from there.

  “I’m ready,” Norah says, seizing my hand.

  Norah’s parents left, returning to Charleston a week ago. My mother returned to Anglesey a day later. Now it’s time for me and Norah to give Buckingham Palace back to its owners and return home to Beaumaris Castle, the palace, and re-start preparations for the coronation.

  ‘The best laid plans of mice and men go often askew.’

  I think it was Robert Burns who wrote that line. It’s so true, and true for kings as well as men and mice. In my absence from Anglesey, and in response to postponing the coronation, some of the more radical elements of the peasantry have gotten busy agitating. I’ve come home to talk of a general strike to protest lack of employment, low wages, and high taxes—the economic trifecta that has brought down every European monarchy before ours.

  The nobles are in an uproar; they want the ringleaders rounded up, arrested, and the movement crushed before it can get started.

  In an emergency convening of the House of Lords, I sit patiently for hours listening to a roomful of pompous old blowhards—men who have never worked until their backs ached or worn blisters on their hands—deride the workers, complaining about the tiny sliver of our national budget that goes to things like emergency food assistance for the unemployed, and early childhood healthcare.

  I listen until I can’t listen anymore. When I’ve heard enough, I raise my hand for silence. It’s my turn to wax authoritative. “I’m going to allow the strike,” I tell them, then watch a wave of dissent roll around the room. “I’m going to go a step further and support the strike, because I’m inclined to agree with the workers. More than that, I’m going to call a meeting with the strike organizers, and I’m going to listen to their suggestions on what needs to happen to improve their lives and modernize this country.”

  I’ve shocked them all into stunned silence.

  “Anglesey is going to join the modern era,” I say. “You dukes and baronets can contribute. You can become part of the solution. Or you can oppose the effort, and I—along with the seven million working people in this country—will recognize that you’re part of the problem.”

  The way they’re looking at me, I suspect Marie Antoinette saw the same expression in the eyes of her opponents, but for very different reasons.

  “If we don’t change willingly, embracing it, they will change it for us. Suppressing this unrest will only embolden it, throwing fuel on the flames. This way, we manage it. We structure it, and no one loses their head.”

  I allow my eyes to wander around the room, pausing on each familiar face. “You’re intelligent men and wo
men. You’re all accustomed to running large households and businesses. I’m asking each one of you to do his or her duty as a leader, and work with me to put together a plan to take this country forward for everyone’s long-term benefit, and for the survival of the country. I want your suggestions.”

  I leave the Lord’s Hall with the hive of nobles buzzing behind me. Some of them are agitated, some angered, and a few are inspired and intrigued. This is the first time I’ve taken my privilege as king to oppose the nobles on any issue, much less one of national importance. It’s something my father rarely did. He was a diplomat, a conciliator. I’m sowing my autocratic seeds. It’s necessary to do this now, at the very beginning, to demonstrate that I won’t let them steamroll me on other—possibly more important—issues down the road.

  In truth, this strike is a small nuisance; I could make it go away without many repercussions. By endorsing it and engaging with the leaders, I gain an opportunity to demonstrate to the people that I am their king first, and not just a blue blood with a crown who disregards them.

  It’s a tightrope walk between the two pillars of this society. I need them both to support me, or we all fall down.

  “Boldly played,” Norah says when I tell her about the meeting and what I did. She’s still recuperating, spending more time resting than she’d like. She’s bored and restless, tired of being waited on and coddled.

  “Let’s go for a walk in the park,” I suggest.

  While she’s been recovering from her head injury and worried about the babies, I haven’t wanted to trouble her with all the issues I’m facing. It occurs to me that she’s got an objective perspective, coming as she does from another country, and she might have some insight I haven’t discovered on my own.

  Late August always brings the first chilly threat of autumn in the evening air. The days are shorter, the sunsets more vivid, the shadows longer. Anglesey’s summers are miraculous for their flowers and warmth, but they’re all too brief. The fall will come soon, and that season is the briefest of all. By November the skies will hang low and gray, heavy with fog and rain. It will stay that way until April.