How To Love A Fake Prince

by Jasmine Ashford

  “Today, you rest,” he said clearly. “Tomorrow, we march.”

  Something had changed his mind. Enola wasn't going to ask what. She had a feeling it was seeing his eldest daughter sob over the British man, beg the gods for his life, that convinced him. They were one.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  THE NIGHT

  THE NIGHT

  I'm really alright,” Patrick said to her that night as she sat on the ground by his cot. “You don't have to worry so.”

  “You could have died,” she said. “And then what? What would I do?”

  “I'm sure you would have found another way to convince your father,” he answered softly, and her eyes shot up.

  “That's not quite what I meant,” she replied. He tried to smile.

  “Death is a part of life, lass. And for a long while, I did wish for it; hope for it.”

  “So you could be with her again?”

  “Yes,” he said. “But these past few days....it's not as strong.”

  “Death is a part of life,” she agreed. “But we cannot wish away our breath. And when I thought you were going to leave me...”

  “When I lay there, and the world dimmed, I thought about how easy it was to leave. But then I heard your cries...” He took a deep breath. “And suddenly it wasn't so easy anymore.”

  “Don't leave,” she cried, in a rare show of emotion.

  “I'm not trying to,” he reassured her. “I'm not trying to anymore.”

  “Did you know that you were allergic to raspberries?” she asked.

  “No,” he promised her. “Strawberries, red peppers, apples...”

  “Creator,” she put her face in her hands for a moment. “You should have told me. I could assure everything was safe.”

  “Didn't want to cause you any more trouble than you've already been through,” he replied. “It's you who is sticking your neck out.”

  “At least we are going to war now,” she said as she leaned against the foot of his cot, looking up at him. “It has not been in vain.”

  “Yes, I vaguely heard your father mention that,” he replied.

  “Did you mean what you said today?” she asked, after a quiet moment.

  “When?” He cocked his head, confused.

  “In the sweat lodge?” she asked. “And in the tent, with my father?”

  “I did,” he said, squeezing her shoulder. “I've never found it very easy to lie.”

  “Neither have I,” she admitted. “I mean, I have lied, I've gone undercover before...but I've always felt a tearing in my soul when it happens, as if I'm going against the very balance of Nature itself.”

  He chuckled. “Nothing quite that bad. I'm just not as good as the actress.”

  “Oh,” Enola cocked her head. “I never thought about it like that; that acting is lying.”

  “Not quite what I meant,” he replied. “I was more referring to her defiance over her marriage. The two of them, life is short, there's no reason to act like that.”

  “Aren't you a romantic?” she teased and he shifted, getting more comfortable.

  “If you are insisting in staying here, the least I can do is give you the cot. Or we can share it.”

  She froze. “Patrick, I....”

  “Nothing will happen,” he promised her. “I will be a perfect gentleman. We are married, though, Enola, so there's no harm in lying beside me if it will make you feel more comfortable.”

  She hesitated and then stood up as he shifted over. “Only because I am concerned about you,” she said. “In case it happens again.”

  “Hopefully word of this doesn't get out,” he said, as her head rested on the pillow beside his. “Major Holde can be brought down by simple forest items, forget highly trained assassins or gunshot wounds.”

  “Don't think like that,” she answered. “All of us are human with weaknesses. And most humans are allergic to gunshot wounds.”

  He smirked, at that, rolling over. There was enough room for them not to touch on the small sleep cot, but only just barely. If he shifted only an inch, his arm would be around her. Enola stared at the tent ceiling on her back, her hands folded on her stomach.

  “Have you thought about...after this?” she asked bravely, after a moment.

  “After?” he asked.

  “We gain the Native warriors, we march, we win...or we don't,” she said, realistically. “And then you and I....”

  “Oh, lass,” he shook his head, rolling over. That seemed to be a topic that still caused too much pain. “Let's just think about tomorrow, hmm?”

  That was enough for her, and she closed her eyes. Both of them soon found the darkness of sleep taking them, and they drifted off, shoulders touching and breathing in sync.

  Outside the tent, Aaron and Harold stood by the river, listening more than watching in the darkness. The river rushed past them, sprinkling onto the rocks. Every once in awhile, they could hear a fish jump or a frog croak.

  “Are you sure you're alright?” Harold asked. Aaron smiled.

  “You see someone else have a health issue and you ask me if I'm alright straight on? I'm fine, really.”

  “It was a hard day, was all,” Harold said, not wanting to admit that was exactly what he was doing. “Both of us should be asleep.”

  “We should be,” Aaron replied. “Instead, we are standing here, speaking about nothing.”

  “There were days when we would stand here, speaking about nothing until dawn,” Harold pointed out. “Do you remember that? Nights on the ship where we'd discuss everything under the sun and no one could breach the world we created?”

  “Aye,” Aaron said, with a smile. “I do think fondly of those days.”

  “I've been thinking,” Harold said. “Of your...issue.”

  “Which one?” the blond asked plainly.

  “With Shauna and Kirsten being so far away. I know that you miss them so, and it's not right that I get to live this life, and you don't.”

  “What do you propose?” Aaron asked. “Because as painful as it is, Harold, I knew what I was doing when I accepted this plan.”

  “It's complicated,” Harold answered. “And I'm not quite sure it will work.”

  “Just spit it out, man,” Aaron chuckled and gave him a grin.

  “Wesley has absolutely no interest in returning to the life of an Earl,” Harold said. “Or letting Lola return to her life as his wife. Neither of them are ever home, and both of them are happier that way. Regardless, he has more houses than you do, settled into the countryside of Ireland. Both of them are happier in the city, though, to stay active, to be constantly immersed in life and moving.”

  “Yes?” Aaron asked, not entirely sure where Harold was going with this. Harold was incredibly intelligent, and always figured out a solution for every problem. Occasionally, it was of such a high thought process that no one really followed. “All of these things are true.”

  “Wouldn't it do us all better to switch?” Harold asked. Aaron choked.

  “Sorry?”

  “You want to be close to your family, to come and go without question, and that is what I want for you as well. If we switched houses...let Wesley and possibly Lola take up residence in Bamber Manor as keepers of the estate, and we did the same in one of his larger country manors? God knows there's enough room for everyone in either house. No one knows us in Ireland; not our faces, not our names. We could be whoever we wanted to be, come and go as we please. You wouldn't be able to regain your title, of course, but I would be happy to relinquish rights of head of the household to you.”

  “Huh,” Aaron said. “That is an interesting suggestion. But the title...”

  “The title would be protected,” Harold said. “When the children are grown and old enough to inherit and run a house, we could return to that life. But for now, this will give us years, possibly decades depending on how quiet we keep our story. We could live as we once did... just with slightly different names.”

  “It is a brilliant idea,�
� Aaron replied. “Are you sure you want to propose this? It would mean moving your whole family to the middle of nowhere...”

  “So that they could be together again,” Harold said. “I would have to go into London from time to time, but there are Navy officers in Ireland. I have a high enough rank that I could dictate where I go to work. A desk is a desk, so as long as I accept mail, it could be a desk in my own home.”

  “I think Annabelle would prefer that,” Aaron said, and Harold looked to him.

  “Moving?”

  “Having you home,” the former Lord Bamber treaded carefully. “Don't speak to her about this...but she revealed to me that the reason she came here is because she wanted to spend time with you; have James know you. I know you are good to her, Harold, but she feels neglected, ignored, and Annabelle is a very loving, attentive person. She needs you by her side...even if it means putting herself in the danger that comes with being a soldier's wife.”

  “What?” Harold was stunned by this. “But she...we spent years apart. We only saw each other twice a year at most.”

  “That was then,” Aaron replied. “And unlike Lola and Wesley, my sister does not wish to maintain that independence. There are children to consider now, Harold, and no one wishes to spend their years alone.”

  “Oh my,” Harold dropped his head. “I thought she just wanted an adventure; I thought she was bored. I had no idea...”

  “It was probably the secondary cause,” Aaron tried to assure him. “Annabelle is always up for any kind of adventure. But...”

  “I'm sorry,” Harold turned to him. “I didn't mean to be anything but kind to her.”

  “I know, that's why I'm telling you,” Aaron answered. “There's still time to make it right though.”

  “I agree,” Harold said. “And should we speak to Wesley?”

  “Perhaps in the morning,” Aaron stifled again. “If he gets angry about it, it can fuel the march and later attack.”

  “Mm,” Harold replied. “I'm not sure he needs any more anger to fuel him.”

  “He's just...” Aaron sighed. “If there’s any suggestion in that brilliant brain of yours for how to get him and Lola reconciled, we'd all be open to it.”

  “Short of her putting on a version of Hamlet where she apologizes to her lifelong scorned lover, I doubt it,” Harold said. “Come, we should turn in. And if Annabelle's waiting up for me, I don't want to keep her any longer.”

  “You're a good man, Harold,” Aaron said as they headed back to the camp. Harold wanted to lavish praise on him as well; for Aaron had clarified everything. However, he fell silent; knowing words would never be enough to thank Aaron for what he had done.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  ACTION

  ACTION

  Hey, strategy and tactics,” Aaron caught Wesley's arm the next morning as they passed each other. A Native encampment was much different than a British one. The natives had been up before the sun, preparing food, hunting and going about their chores; oblivious to the fact that Aaron burrowed his head under his pillow. He missed the days on the ship when his watch ended at dawn, and he could sleep until the afternoon. Mornings had never come easy to him, and on his pirate ship, he slept whenever he pleased, unless they were being attacked. He thought only people with insanity lingering got up before the sun rose, or before it was high in the sky. Wesley, however, never really seemed to sleep, and if he was tired, Aaron didn't notice a difference. Even drunk, his first mate's mind was always at work. “Can you go and explain the plan to the chief?”

  “Why am I going alone?” Wesley asked defiantly. “Something like that is the job of the captain.”

  “Wesley, I know you have a plan,” Aaron said. “And I know you are much better at defining it than I am. Enola will go with you, as soon as she appears, to translate.”

  “I could,” Wesley said at last and Aaron raised his eyebrow.

  “Did you fall out of bed this morning?” he prompted, reminding him that while their ranks weren't strict, a certain level of respect was expected. Wesley shook himself.

  “Sorry,” he answered. “I just don't like being out here in the middle of nowhere.”

  “We're often in the middle of nowhere on a ship,” Aaron said and Wesley shook his head.

  “It's not the same,” he said. “A ship feels like a small city, there's always something to do, somewhere to be. You are never really done with your duty on the ship. But out here, some would call it peaceful. I think it's maddeningly quiet.”

  “It reminds you of home,” Aaron picked up, and Wesley's eyes shot away.

  “Where is she? Let's get this done as soon as we can, then.”

  “I haven't seen her yet,” Aaron replied. “But she is always one for rising at dawn, so I doubt she will be long.”

  Enola knew it was dawn, and she could hear them speaking her name through the tent walls. She knew she should get up, but the bed was warm and Holde was still sleeping.

  She watched his chest rise and fall evenly, and his eyelids flutter, dreaming of something pleasant, based on the smile on his face. He was relaxed now, which was something she didn't often see during the day. The idea of sliding out of bed and possibly disturbing him was not appealing to her at the moment.

  She hadn't expected to feel so comfortable, simply sleeping beside him. True to his word, he had not touched her; not attempted anything that a normal husband would do. He had not rolled over to cuddle with her, and somehow in his sleep always kept an inch between them.

  She appreciated that he respected her boundaries, for she knew many men in his position likely would not. However, Holde was different than most men; that much was clear.

  She knew she had to get up when she heard her name for the second time. Jacob was up now, and his Michif seemed to have returned in full bloom, a few feet from her tent. She was happy that if nothing else, Jacob was accepted still. So much had changed, but the acceptance of the British boy who had grown up being nothing but kind and loyal still remained engraved in their hearts.

  She threw off the covers and put her feet onto the cold grass. She shivered, her feet instantly wet with dew, and rose.

  “Mmm,” Patrick rolled over right away, sprawling out to take over the whole bed, and she laughed.

  “Were you just waiting for me to leave?” she teased him softly as she retrieved her overcoat.

  “No,” he said. “But now that you are getting up.”

  “My ears are burning,” she responded. “I hear them talking about me, so I should probably see what the commotion is about.”

  “Doesn't sound like commotion,” he cracked his eyes open, watching her blearily. “Just sounds like planning.”

  “Well, I should probably tend to that. And you should too,” she said and took a long look at him. His face was still a bit red and blotchy, but he looked much better than he had the previous night. “How are you feeling?”

  “Like I was poisoned and my insides came out, but better now,” he said, yawning. “Did you sleep well?”

  “I did,” she said truthfully. “And you?”

  “Like a dead man,” he replied and she rolled her eyes.

  “I'll get you some breakfast, if you are hungry?”

  “Mmm.” He sat up, and his stomach growled on cue. “Perhaps?”

  “Just...move slowly,” she warned him. “I'll be back in a moment.”

  She didn't want to leave him, but she knew it was necessary. She tore her gaze away and opened the tent flap, ducking out into the camp.

  The familiar smells hit her; Michif words all around her. She was home, but she felt so homesick, so lost.

  “Alright, what is it you need me for?” she asked as she approached the men. All of them watched her come out of Major Holde's tent with raised eyebrows. She chose to ignore them, keeping her chin held high. She was married to him, and she had spent most of the night feeling his chest rise and fall. There was no shame in that. “Quickly now.”

  “Wesley will explain the ta
ctics to your father, but he may need your translation,” Aaron said, after a moment. “Can you do that?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “My father is not a fan of tactics being explained to him,” she replied. “He is one who likes to do the explaining.”

  “I'm sure Wesley would be open to some suggestions, wouldn't you?” Aaron asked Wesley, who only glared at him.

  “Be open to suggestions,” Enola told him. “Or he won't listen at all.”

  “I will do what is necessary to win the war,” Wesley said, which didn't really give her an answer. Nevertheless, she took that as an agreement and started across the field.

  Her father was awake, being served breakfast. He had his war paint on, symbolizing to all who came and went from his tent that he was ready to fight. When he saw Enola, he remained seated, eating without inviting either of them.

  “Father...” Enola started carefully. “This is Wesley. He plans strategy and tactics for the whole army. He will...let you know how he thinks the attack should go. Do you understand?”

  She didn't particularly feel like translating this early in the morning. Luckily for her, her father nodded. However, he didn't look impressed with this boy in front of him who was several years his junior.

  “How long?” he asked. “How long do you plan?”

  “Ten years,” Wesley answered, shifting so his feet were slightly wider apart. He was standing strong, but Enola knew that her father could make anybody nervous if he asked the right question.

  “So young. No wife?”

  And there was the right question, Enola thought.

  “No,” Wesley answered, surprising her. She was about to let it go, figuring that if he wanted to lie about it, it was none of her business.

  There was a long pause, and she thought perhaps her father was considering the translation for what he wanted to ask next. She was going to suggest something when he held up his hand to her.