She grinned. “Very.”
He rolled his eyes. “You’re crazy. You know that?”
“I do. But I’m yours, and you chose me, so what does that make you?”
“Crazier?”
“Exactly,” she said, and with no small amount of satisfaction she settled back into the pillows at her back.
He sat beside her, his hand coming up to cup her drawn knee. “How did I not know that you’re scared?”
She licked her lips. “Of course I’m scared. We’re under threat.”
“No. I mean, about the baby.”
That made her wince. “I’m not scared. Not really. Just, you know, nervous.”
“You should have told us.”
“Told you? Why? What could you do?”
“Help make you feel better, of course.”
“You’re going to pop this baby out for me, are you?”
It was his turn to wince. “No. That I can’t do.”
“Well, then…” She cocked a brow at him. “I’m okay. Just… I’d like my mother here when I give birth.”
“We’ll fly her in.”
The immediacy of his remark made her relax. It wasn’t that she needed permission, but it was difficult to remember that pretty much whatever she wanted, on that scale, could be achieved. It just needed coordinating.
That was pretty crazy for a small-town Tennessee girl.
“She’ll disapprove of the way I want to give birth,” Perry murmured sourly. “I shouldn’t want her here because she’ll do nothing but bitch…”
“But she’s your mother, and of course, you want her close.” He pursed his lips a second. “Why will she bitch?”
“Because I want to give birth in the bathroom.”
His eyes widened. “In the bathroom?”
“That pool is awesome. It’s not a bath, it’s a freakin’ spa! Babies born in water aren’t as scared. They’re less nervous. Something to do with the water temperature. Makes sense, I guess. Think about it. Going from my body temperature to room temp.” She shivered. “Chilly.”
He cleared his throat. “DeSauviers are normally born in the Cerecei Unit at Madela Royal Hospital.”
She blinked. “So? I’m anything but normal, as we’ve already ascertained. I won’t be giving birth there.”
“Why not?” he said on a sigh.
“Because I don’t want to. I’ve never really thought about babies, but if I did, I knew I didn’t want to do it the scary, hospital way.”
“You’re going to have a fight on your hands convincing Edward,” he warned.
But she just winked at him. “You leave him to me.”
Chapter Fifteen
Three weeks later
The courtyard ahead of them was like a big chessboard.
In fact, it very much was a chessboard. With the pieces moving in a kind of order that would only make sense when she made it to the balcony that overlooked the whole damn charade.
Although “charade” wasn’t the nicest way of labeling the military procession that utilized six different cavalry units of the Veronian Armed Forces, and had over three thousand men marching like they were Nutcrackers about to dance.
Still, seeing it on the TV—or, if she was honest, when she’d seen it on the news, she’d always switched over—was a lot different to actually being in the middle of it all.
They were in Madela.
The capital city.
Right in the heart, there was a large courtyard that would make ten basketball courts side by side look small.
Regal buildings lined the courtyard with classical architecture so fine it made her eyes water at its beauty, and everything from the House of Parliament to a Public Library—the oldest in the nation—was housed here.
This was the original center of the city.
Here, the oldest buildings could be found. Yorke Abbey, a few noble houses, and a military barrack that was sited a few feet away to protect all the edifices.
This was literally the heart of Madela, and many could say, the heart of Veronia.
And, though it was months after her coronation, Perry still found it hard to believe that she, too, was considered a part of Veronia’s heart, giving her a role in the madness taking place today. As was Edward, who was at her side in the open-top carriage, and Xavier and George who rode on horseback behind them. The three of them were in goofy-looking uniforms, but hell, to her, they were dreamy.
Someone’s getting laid tonight, she thought to herself, wriggling with contentment at the prospect.
The notion of driving out into the midst of this parade had scared her at first. But ever since their talk over the dining table, and since Edward had set Markov, his friend in the intelligence services, onto the case, she’d been feeling better.
Her men’s prediction that she wasn’t wholly at risk, that Raoul Da Silva had been the intended target of the shooting at the clinic, had let her sleep more deeply at night. Had helped her breathe a lot easier.
Driving around like this would always have unnerved her, and she couldn’t help but have flashbacks to documentaries of JFK’s assassination, but she’d had to shove it to the back of her mind.
This was the most important military parade in the calendar year.
Four days to Christmas, the procession was to celebrate the coming new year by each of the troops showing off their colors. She felt like a peahen surrounded by peacocks displaying their plumage proudly.
It was a bizarre feeling. But then, bizarre was all she could manage, considering how damn cold it was.
She was tucked up in a stylish, dark, down-filled coat—having refused to wear the fur that George had tried to wrap her in—and was snuggling, as much as decency and deportment allowed, into her husband’s side.
When their part in this rigmarole was over, she’d be very happy.
George had explained it to her in terms she’d managed to understand—football rules.
They started the procession facing Parliament, and the end goal was to make it to Parliament’s steps where there was a balcony, from which they’d wave to the crowds.
As they made their way toward the building, a feat that would normally take less than five minutes to walk, but was lasting a lifetime in the procession, troops on foot and horseback strutted their stuff in a kind of military dance. At set moments, cannons exploded, and every quarter-hour— they’d been making this journey for the past ninety minutes and she was about to die of boredom—guns went off in tandem with a fleet of aircrafts soaring overhead.
In the distance, the booming of more guns from one of their naval fleet could be heard too, creating a cacophonous kind of song that she wished she’d never have to hear again, and yet that particular festive ‘tune’ would be a part of her every Christmas celebration until she popped her clogs.
Oh, the joy.
“How much longer?” she mumbled under her breath as Edward’s hand tightened about her knee when a team of eight aircraft dove and ducked, performing manic rolls in the sky.
“About another half-hour,” he replied, his attention skyward.
Was he actually enjoying this? They were in the middle of the world’s eye, out in the open, the perfect possum for attack, and surrounded by guns, soldiers, aircraft, and cannons.
It wasn’t exactly a panacea for her stress levels.
Still, Edward didn’t look bored, or nervous. He’d had to watch this parade every year, and yet he managed to look engaged, whereas it was a toss-up for her whether she was about to die of tedium or cold.
Then, she remembered he’d been a part of the armed forces, too.
“Did you have to take part in this when you were serving?”
He nodded, his attention on the back end of the air fleet, which had whipped away to only God knew where. “Yes. Normally, it’s unusual to be called up. Not every soldier will even get near this procession, but because of who we are, Xavier, George and I took part at some point or another in our careers.”
“What do you mean ‘not every soldier gets to take part’?”
“Each year, certain units are spotlighted. They’re on a rotation. It takes eight years for the rotation to refresh, and our shortest term of enlistment is six years.”
She nodded her understanding while trying to contain a jolt that stemmed from a cannon going off right at her side.
The uniforms were smart, she’d give them that. Over three thousand men in kilts was an impressive sight to behold. She’d never seen as many sexy knees in all her life. Well, they weren’t the sexiest. Those belonged to her men. But still, by sheer number, this was definitely up there.
Some wore nothing but unrelieved black, others had black with silver epaulets on their jackets. There were three different variations of red, and then a navy blue one and an emerald green. The medals they sported on their breasts ran the gamut of the rainbow, too. And the different hats they wore went from berets to peaked caps to headgear that reminded her of the Pickelhauber, what the Germans had worn in World War I—the ones with spikes on the top.
One troop would march past, then another would feint left and meet another in a kind of quadrille that was never-fucking-ending.
“Aren’t you cold?” she groused under her breath.
He laughed. “Why do you think George wanted you to wear the fur?”
“I refuse to wear dead animal.”
“Your shoes are leather, aren’t they?”
She rolled her eyes. “There’s such a difference. And you totally know it.”
“No. Not in this instance. We have areas in Veronia that run rife with mink. They do damage to livestock. Rather than needlessly let them go to waste, we use the furs. What would you have us do? Just burn them?
“Though our summers are hot and long, we have bitter winters. Short ones, but fierce nonetheless. The furs help.”
She pursed her lips. “I don’t like it.”
“What? The furs or that we have bitter winters?”
She slid her hand on his thigh and tugged at some hair that his kilt exposed. When he jumped, she said sweetly, “Be grateful I can’t reach higher up without shocking the crowd.”
He laughed, and turned to her with twinkling eyes. “You’re a spitfire.”
“That’s why you love me.”
Edward bent his head and pressed a kiss to her lips. She jolted in surprise, because Cass had told her that decorum was a must at these kinds of events and that, even if she was terrified, she needed to develop a stiff upper lip that no American was famed for.
“What are you doing?” she hissed at him, her cold mouth tingling where his had touched—their warmth was a blessing in disguise.
“Kissing my wife, of course.” He was utterly unapologetic, even as he turned his head to look at another display the troops were engaged in.
“We’re supposed to behave.” Weren’t they?
“We’re children of a new generation, Perry,” he told her softly, his gaze skyward once more. Another ream of aircraft soared overhead, in time to a few booms that came from the distant naval fleet that was anchored in Madela’s port.
“So? That means we can make out whenever we want?” she joked.
His grin made her stomach twist—God, he was gorgeous when he smiled. So bloody beautiful he drove her mad with it. “No. But if we decide to bend the rules a little, there’s nothing to say that they’ll break.”
“I like the sound of that,” she said wryly. “I always liked rules in the past. You can’t practice science without them, really, can you? But now? Sheesh.”
He nodded. “I know. We have to follow so many that it’s borderline a joke. It will do the people good to see that we’re far more flexible than my parents were.”
A thought occurred to her. “Was it public knowledge about your parents’ marriage?”
“About their adultery?” he said on a soft breath, saluting at a soldier who appeared to his right.
“Yeah.”
“No. I doubt it. Don’t forget, privacy laws are strict here.”
She gnawed on her lip. “Probably a good thing.”
“Plus, not even George knew.”
“How did you find out?”
“Accident, of course.” He grimaced. “Not one of the finest moments in my life. Hearing my father on the phone with his mistress, catching Mother looking flushed after a stupid dalliance with a footman.”
For a second, Perry’s mind boggled at the idea of Marianne looking anything other than composed and calm. Was this a parallel universe she’d been shunted into?
Before she could come to terms with the notion of her mother-in-law sleeping with a servant, the Queen of the nation as well as the High Patroness of noblesse oblige and decorum, Edward asked, “What made you think of that?”
“I don’t know. I just thought that you wanted to loosen things up because Veronia knew how strained their marriage was at times. That it would do them good to see that ours is different.”
He blinked. “I hadn’t thought of it that way, but even if they didn’t know for certain about the affairs, there’s always gossip. And body language speaks for itself, doesn’t it?” When she nodded, he murmured, “They will know from ours that we’re in love. Why wouldn’t that do them good?”
Her lips curved in satisfaction, and though she half-expected him to chide her, she tilted her head against his shoulder, finally settling into the carriage ride across the courtyard.
Perhaps Cassie would reprimand her later for breaking decorum, but Edward was right. This was a new generation, and the kids of this era would just have to shove it if they didn’t want to see their Queen snuggling into their King’s side.
As she let her spine fall against the backrest for the first time since the damn procession had begun, she found that she could relax some and begin to enjoy what was going on around her.
It would never be something she’d get a kick out of watching. But she actually thought her father might, and made a mental note to invite him for Christmas next year. He’d really love this. He’d served as a Marine himself, and she knew he’d see the same side of it that Edward, George, and Xavier could empathize with and fully enjoy.
Bare meters away from the House of Parliament, just when she knew she was about to get out of the cold and the luxury of central heating, guns exploded to her left. She jolted in surprise, but settled down because it wasn’t the first time it had happened during the ceremony. Hopefully it would be the last, though.
Edward, however, jerked upright. His head whipped around as he scanned the area. Then, he put his hand to the top of her back and hollered, “Get down, Perry. Take cover.”
Terror roared through her. It was all the more glaring for the fact she’d just started to relax. She had just started to take a breath… the suddenness robbed her of air, and panic streamed through her veins.
Scampering down to the floor of the carriage, she covered her head and tried to sink back against the low door. The carriage belonged in a Jane Austen flick, was open on all angles to the crowd, but as with everything Royal, was gilded up to the eyeballs in gaudy, molded gold trim, and rich, colored frescoes that were hand-painted onto the antique conveyance which provided zero protection.
Huddled up, she peered at her husband, and saw Edward was using some kind of hand signal to motion to men around him.
Why?
She didn’t know.
And then it came.
It rocked the carriage on its wheels. And the screams of the horses? God help her, she’d never forget the agonized screeches. Not in a million years.
Alarm whipped her nervous system as men yelled out in agony, as the stench of acrid smoke filtered through the air, poisoning every gulp of oxygen she took.
Another one came. Another boom that far surpassed the gunshots that had felled her guard and the mole, Raoul Da Silva. It seemed to sink through everything. Made even her blood vibrate in her arteries. Sensation had her limbs prickling, surging to life. After being so cold for so lon
g, she felt the agony as her skin stung in response. The tiny hairs cover her flickered to attention, and at that moment, she was so hypersensitive, so hyperaware that it was painful just to breathe.
Then, another roar came, but it was different; it wasn’t followed by a bang. A charge of men surged around them. She felt the carriage being pushed, by hand and will alone, and knew they were being shepherded forward, and to safety, by their soldiers. Her soldiers.
Tears pricked her eyes in fear for the men as more explosions went off. She heard cries of pain, bellows of fury and rage. For a second, the carriage staggered to a halt before more roars were let off, and with sheer brute force, the soldiers dragged their King and Queen to shelter. Her ears were deafened by the chaos around her, but it was only exacerbated by the booming blasts that created ragged black holes in the atmosphere.
When the carriage finally made it across what had once been graveled terrain and was now torn to shreds, she found herself falling backwards, the low carriage door opening as guards collected her. She was shuffled from grip to grip, hand to hand as she was dragged toward the House of Parliament.
But the only thing on her mind were the names she screamed, over and over, as she was taken away from the men who were her life: “Edward! Xavier! George!”
The way she was shaking, it was like she was about to leap out of her damn skin. George clung tightly to her, but she wasn’t holding him back. She just sat there. Trembling.
Who could blame her?
God, who could fucking wonder why?
“I want goddamn answers!”
Edward’s roar jolted her in her seat, and she clapped her hands to her ears.
“Edward!” Xavier murmured, the only one who seemed calm among the whole frantic lot of them, “Perry’s in shock. You’re not making it any better by shouting.”
His brother’s eyes rounded, and George had to admit, he’d never seen him so angry. Never seen him so utterly infuriated that he looked like he was going to explode.
George winced at the thought…
Six bombs.
Three detonated—with lethal results. One—no show, a damp squib. And two disposed of, thanks to a unit of experts that had been a part of the military parade.
Long Live Queen Perry: Contemporary Reverse Harem (Kingdom of Veronia Book 3) Page 27
