by Rachel Hauck
Around the corner, Stephen stopped in front of the bright window of a small bake shop. The sign above the door read Franklin Bakery. A Brighton landmark.
“Shall we?” He opened the door. Thomas entered first, then Corina, followed by Stephen. Along the curb, the limousine slowed then stopped.
Stephen approached the counter as the proprietor came round the corner, dusting flour from his hands. “Prince Stephen.” The surprise in his voice displayed in his eyes. “Your Highness, welcome to Franklin’s. Lovely to see you. A box of puffs?”
“You know me well, Mr. Franklin. And a couple of boxes for my friends out there.” He tipped his head toward Thomas and the limo lads. “Add a round of teas.”
“Coming right up. Cinnamon?”
“The best kind. But toss in a few chocolate.” Stephen peeled several pound notes from his money clip and set them on the counter before turning to Corina. “Shall we choose a table?”
She chose one by the window, and when Thomas nodded his consent, Stephen led her over.
“What did you think of the film?” he said after a moment.
“Are you asking the woman or the amateur critic?”
“Whichever one wants to answer?”
“The critic thought it was well done. The cinematography was stunning. The acting . . .” She waffled her hand in the air. “Martina as Magdalena and Laura as Gillian were excellent, but Clive as King Stephen . . . He was just too much like his super spy Scott Hunter character. Jason Bourne meets James Bond in 1552, you know? I felt like it was a Bond-Hunter-Bourne flick only with a serf army wielding bow and arrows instead of CIA spooks trained to take out their opposing asset with the back of a cell phone and wad of chewing gum.”
Stephen chuckled. “Well said.”
“However as a woman and premier reporter, I loved every minute of it. King Stephen was so noble and heroic. I thought Magdalena was beyond courageous.”
She glanced up when Mr. Franklin—an heir much like Stephen, only to the bakery world, the son of sons of sons of the founder—who regularly worked the night shift, appeared with their puffs and tea. And Stephen’s money.
“On the house tonight, Your Highness.”
“Are you sure?” Stephen hesitated, then reached for the pound notes. “Thank you.”
“In honor of the premier.”
“For the premier.” Stephen stood, shaking the man’s hand.
Corina pulled one of the light pastries from the box and dipped it in her tea, just like he’d taught her the first time they shared puffs.
“It’s the only way to eat a puff. Dipped in hot sweet tea.”
“What about you?” she said. “Did you enjoy it? What was it like watching your ancestor come to life on a movie screen?”
“Eerie, inspiring. I thought the film was well done.” He reached for his napkin, dusting the cinnamon from his fingers. “There were moments when I found it hard to believe that the blood of a brave chap like King Stephen I, even though Clive was a bit too Scott Hunter, runs in my veins.”
“Why is that hard to believe? You fought for your country same as he did. Perhaps you’re more like him than you realize.”
“Or less.” King Stephen I had loved Magdalena without reserve or fail. Even in the difficulties when his council stood against him. Stephen peered over his cup of tea. How could he love Corina faithfully when he bore her brother’s blood?
She could never forgive him. Rightly so.
“I’d like to think I’d pick up my fallen brother’s sword, if I could.”
Stephen dipped his puff in his tea. This conversation edged on danger. Just let it go.
Dusting cinnamon from her fingers, Corina reached up to work the tiara from her hair. “I shouldn’t have worn this out with you. I only dug in my heels because you demanded I take it off. I’ve probably further offended your family.” But the crown would not budge. “That Adelaide . . .” Corina growled low. “Did she glue it on? She’s going to have to cut this out of my hair or I may have to wear it all week.”
Stephen stretched across the table, touching her hand. “Leave it be. It’s becoming.”
She settled back, swirling her finger through puff crumbs. “Do you realize this was our first public outing? At least officially.”
“I suppose, yes. I never considered it.”
She drew a long breath and dusted the cinnamon from her fingers. “No one ever knew.”
“We hid our relationship well.”
“And it was fun but . . .” She peered at him. “But when a girl gets married, she wants the whole world to know.”
Stephen shifted in his seat and heard his heart kerplunk. From his proposal to the secret marriage, he’d robbed this woman of everything romantic. Everything a woman desires.
Maybe impulse was his nemesis, not his superpower.
Yet she did it all willingly. Gladly. Because she loved him.
A slow perspiration started across his forehead, heat sinking into his face and neck. And how did he repay her? With an abrupt end and cold silence.
“It’s odd . . . this thing between us.” In the quiet moments, his heart popped open on its own. A small thread unraveling in his carefully brocaded emotions. “Married but not married.”
“Very odd.” She leaned on her elbows and dipped her puff in her tea again.
“I’m sorry.” His clipped confession floated out on a cloud of shallow emotion. He could offer a world of apologies, but would it still be the balm her wounded heart demanded?
She sighed. “Can we just enjoy this?” She offered up her half-eaten puff. “Why spoil the evening with the conversation we’re not going to have?”
He smoothed his hand over his napkin. “All right. But tell me about the business of you tweeting during Madeline and Hyacinth’s show.”
She pinched her lips, but her laugh leaked through. “I don’t know . . .” Her golden-brown eyes snapped. “I felt ornery.”
“What were you trying to do? Alert the media?”
“No,” she said with a defensive air. “I wanted to alert you, then watch you proclaim the glories of your boorish rugby.”
His laugh rolled. “Boorish rugby.” He slapped his hand over his heart as if truly speared, then regarded her, awash with humility. How did she offer him such patience and kindness? It disrupted him. Knocked at his soul.
“Yes, boorish. I mean, what’s it all about? Running up and down the field in a line, tossing the ball behind you?”
“It’s about being the most superior, toughest sport in the world.”
She made a face, wrinkling her nose. “Yeah, I’m not getting that.”
He snorted, pressing his fist to his lips. “Rugby is far superior to your American football, darling.”
From across the room, Thomas spoke out. “Careful, Corina, you’re talking to one of the world’s best wingers.”
“Thank you, Thomas,” Stephen said, puffing up, anchoring his arm on the back of his chair. Indeed, one of the best. It felt good to have someone proclaim his excellence in front of his wife. Not that “wife” mattered in the long run. Don’t let loose too much, mate. She’s going back to America.
“Best winger in an inferior sport. Does that really even count?” Nonchalant, she shoved a puff in her mouth, chewed, and swallowed before going on. “Thomas, I thought of you more as an honest man, speaking the truth. Even to your prince.”
“I am, ma’am.”
Oh, now the lass was just begging for it. “Tell me how many countries play your brand of football?”
She shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.”
“Over a hundred and seventeen nations play in the Rugby Union. And your American football? A dozen, perhaps?”
“See, that’s why it’s superior. It takes time, talent, training, money to play. And since when did quantity equate with quality?”
Thomas laughed. “She has you there, sir.”
“Hush, or you’ll be on palace foot patrol.”
Thomas winked at
Corina and headed for the door. “I’ll just join the lads and leave you to it, Corina.”
“Stephen,” she said, leaning toward him once Thomas had gone, holding her teacup in her long, slender hands. His lips buzzed with a desire to kiss her fingers. “Have you ever played American football?”
“You mean the game with the lads under a helmet, wearing all sorts of protective gear? No. A game for the ladies.” He caught her mid-sip. She snorted and spewed a small shower of tea. “Ah, lovely. Spitting on your date.” He brushed his tux with exaggeration.
“Not my date.” She dabbed the table with her napkin. “No, you made that clear. Anyway, why do you think they wear the gear? Because—”
“They’re weak,” he said, letting the date comment slip past, choosing instead the soft ground of a sporting debate. “And I said I was sorry.”
“Weak?” She jutted out her chin with a challenging gaze. “And oh no you did not.”
“I think I just did. I’m sorry for any rudeness.”
“Listen, American football is a full-on, run-at-each-other-like-freight-trains contact sport. In rugby, y’all just hug each other down to the ground, and apology accepted.”
He jerked forward, eyes wide. “Oh no, you didn’t. ‘Hug each other to the ground?’ ”
“I think I just did.”
“All right.” He rubbed his hands together, well aware he was treading on familiar ground, venturing into fall-in-love space. “How about a little wager?” Beyond the window, the protection officers paced, passing around the box of puffs, sipping from paper cups. The hour had grown late and Stephen didn’t want to make them wait too much longer to go home, but he wasn’t quite ready to leave Corina’s company.
“What kind of wager? And no sucker bets, like name the all-time leading scorer in rugby.”
“Dan Carter, New Zealand. He’s a hundred caps. I was aiming for half of that by now.”
She glanced down at his bandaged ankle. “Will you be able to play soon?”
“The fall Premiership is my goal.” He didn’t mention how he pushed himself this morning on the pitch and ended up with his foot in an ice whirlpool for ten minutes, enduring a stern lecture from his physiotherapist.
“What’s the bet?” With that, a lock of her black hair bounced between her hazel eyes, twisting to the tip of her lean nose.
“The first day we spoke . . . where were we?”
“That’s the bet?”
“That’s the bet.”
“Do you want to lose?”
“I aim to win.”
“And if I win?”
“I will declare, in the city square—my city, mind you—that American football is the most superior sport in the world.” He winced. Could his soul endure such a thing? Such a lie? Even for her? For true love? “Isn’t that what you Americans really believe?”
“Absolutely. It’s true.”
“But if I win,” he said, leaning toward her, propped on his elbows, inhaling the intoxicating scent of her skin, “you must stand in the square, declaring that rugby is the most superior sport in the world.”
“You’re kidding.” But her smile told him she loved the wager. “You must not believe in your sport very much, Stephen.”
“I believe wholeheartedly in my sport and this, shall we say, throw down.”
“Deal.” She stuck out her hand.
“Deal.” He hesitated, then took her hand in his. As he feared, her touch blew passion over his dormant fires. He didn’t want to let her go. How easy it would’ve been to pull her into him and reacquaint his lips with hers.
“Professor Reuben’s class. When you sat behind me. That was the first time we spoke.”
“As I suspected. Wrong.” He slapped his hand on the table. Dates were not typically his specialty, but he’d never forget the first time he saw her, spoke to her. He could count every day he spotted her crossing the oval, her hair floating behind her. “Off with you now to the city square.”
“Wrong? I remember expressly—”
“Do you remember the first day of fall semester? Outside the registrar’s office? You came out the door so fast you ran into someone, dropping your books.”
She gasped. “That was you?” She made a face, refusing to believe. “No, that man was . . . nice. He picked up my books, asked if I was all right. Apologized even though it was my fault.”
“Did he say something like, ‘Afternoon, miss. I’m so sorry. I seem to be in the wrong place at the wrong time these days’?”
She crossed her arms with a defiant chin raise. “What was I wearing?”
“Not fair. I’m a man, Corina. We don’t notice outfits.”
Her eyes twinkled as she leaned toward him with smug confidence. “What was I wearing?”
“A pink top. Jeans. Flip-flops.”
She froze, eyes wide. “It was you.”
Stephen popped another puff in his mouth, took a long, satisfying sip of his tea, and pushed away from the table. “Well, we’d best get on with it.”
“You never said anything.”
“Some memories are just mine to treasure.”
“I can’t believe you.”
“Crack on. Enough stalling.” He offered her his hand.
She rose slowly from the table, her eyes like blipping saucers. “You’re serious? You want me to shout in Cathedral City Square that rugby is a superior sport? I’m a woman of society. An heiress. Never mind a journalist for the noted Beaumont Post.”
“I’m the Prince of Brighton and a star winger. If the situation were reversed you’d show me no mercy. We’d best hurry.” He glanced at his thick, jeweled watch. A gift from his paternal grandfather, King Kenneth III. “It’s half past midnight. Timely for the late dinner crowd driving home past the square.” He led her to the door, threading his arm through hers. “What do you say? The roundabout? It’s a central place. Best start warming up your voice. I want this declaration loud and clear.”
“You seriously want me to shout a lie in the middle of the city square. From the roundabout.”
“No, I want you to shout the truth. It’s only a lie to you because you refuse to believe it.”
“Or . . . because it’s actually a lie. At least to me.”
“Corina, really now, warm up your voice. Me-me-me-me-me.”
“Oh, I’m warm.” She crushed her clutch bag between her hands. “My declaration will be loud. And very clear.” She snarled at him, stepping into the night. He muted his laugh. Muted the simmering stirrings of love.
“Don’t be angry, love. To the square,” he said into the night. Thomas and the security team shuffled along beside them.
“Where are we going, sir?” Thomas said. “Corina, your shoes, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Thomas.” She snatched them from him, pausing to slip them on, propping her hand against Stephen’s shoulder for balance.
“We’re off to the roundabout in the city square, Thomas,” he said, walking on when Corina was ready.
“Now? The traffic will be substantial.”
“Of which I’m most grateful.” He glanced at Corina. She was silent. A bit too silent. He could almost hear the cogs of revenge cranking in that beautiful brain of hers.
Stepping off the curb, the five of them dodged the traffic of Bakery Row toward the thick roundabout thoroughfare.
“Again, what is this all about?” Thomas, the ole mutt with a bone.
“Corina is going to declare truth.” He cut across a side street lined toward the park, ducking through the shadows of Victorian brownstones and ancient, thick-trunk trees burdened with leafy fat limbs.
“What sort of truth?” Thomas pressed his hand into Stephen and Corina’s backs, urging them across another side street and finally onto the grassy roundabout in the center of the six-lane Broadway thoroughfare. A river of headlights flowed toward them.
“Just you wait, Thomas,” Corina said. “You’ll see.”
Stephen halted midstride. Something was amiss. “What do yo
u mean, ‘Just you wait’? Not sixty seconds ago, you were protesting.”
“You wanted a declaration of truth. A declaration of truth is what you’ll get.”
“Stephen, sir, please, we’re in the middle of the lane.” Thomas motioned for the other officers to get Corina to the roundabout.
Hurrying as quickly as he could, ignoring the twinge in his ankle—he’d pay for this tomorrow—Stephen landed on the grassy roundabout center, inhaling, deciphering the feelings flowing through him. Fun? Happiness? Joy? All of the above? He’d not felt such textures in so long. “Corina.” He focused on her. “Repeat after me, ‘Rugby is the most superior sport in the world.’ ”
“Rugby is the most superior sport in the world.” Stiff, straight-laced, and staring into the wave of white headlights moving toward them.
“Very nice, but with more meaning.”
“Rugby is the most superior sport in the world.” Corina repeated the words in a flat, meaningless tone.
“Love, listen, I won the bet. Fair and square. Don’t you agree?”
“I was set up.”
“But you made the bet. Face it, you thought you were going to win. So, please, with a bit more vim and vigor. After all, you’d demand all that from me and more. Perhaps a dance or some such.”
“Sir, is this really necessary?” Thomas positioned his team facing north and south on the circle, watching the roundabout, but he was nervous. Agitated.
“Yes, it is. Now . . .” Stephen flattened his palm against the carved marble base of the King Leopold II statue, leaning, taking the weight off of his sprained and complaining ankle. “Which way should she face?” He gazed north, then south, ignoring how the wind brushed her hair against his cheek. Nevertheless, the subtle encounter with her sent a wrecking ball against the wall of his heart.
Meanwhile, Thomas gave low commands to the limo driver through the com in his sleeve. “Pull round to the west corner of the side street. We’ll dash over when this business is done.”
“South I think,” Corina said, turning round, her hip grazing his arm. “More oncoming traffic.”
Another touch like that one and he’d be engulfed. “Well then, give it your best go.”
