by Rachel Hauck
Modern rugby demanded he stay fit and on top of his game, mentally and physically. Drinking made him the opposite. Rugby turned out to be his only true salvation.
Just over his shoulder, he saw Corina working through the crowd, the people responding to her. She looked divine under her sparkling tiara. Bravo for defying royal protocol.
“Sir?” Thomas tucked in next to him. “It’s nearly midnight.”
“I’m ready to go.” After midnight, the music changed dramatically, and previously well-mannered citizens with a sense of decency lost their minds, and maybe a piece of their souls, with raucous music, strong drink, and backroom antics. “Let’s collect Corina.”
“She’d said she’d take a taxi.” Thomas shouldered his way through the crowd, making room for Stephen, nodding to the protection officers waiting by the door.
“Not again.” Stephen stepped faster. He’d just seen her, so she couldn’t be too far.
“The limousine is coming round,” Thomas said.
Through the doors and into the clear cool night, illumined with roaming spotlights, Stephen slammed into the wall of tenacious paparazzi.
“Prince Stephen, this way. What did you think of the film?”
He quickened his gait. “Quite splendid.” Where’d you get off to, Corina? “For a moment, I almost called Clive Boston ‘Granddad.’ ”
The laughter slipstreamed along the night air.
“Your Highness, where’s your lady friend?” A photographer ducked under the media rope and ran alongside him. “Corina Del Rey, if I’m not mistaken. Are you two an item?”
“No, we’re not.” Clear enough? But the truth of the matter gnawed at him. They were an item. A couple. Man and wife. Why couldn’t he just say it? Be free of it? But we’re getting an annulment.
Because then the “why” questions would come.
Thomas intercepted the photographer, urging him to move on, just as Stephen spotted Corina at the taxi stand, her hand raised, hailing a cab.
Breaking away from the protection detail, his tightly wrapped ankle tired and burning, he limped toward her.
“Stephen, where are you going?” Thomas’s voice barreled after him.
“For a stroll.” Stephen linked his arm through Corina’s and, without a word, moved her away from the curb and into the shadows of the giant spotlights. “You were going to leave without saying good-bye.” At the curb, Stephen checked the motion of the traffic, then dashed across the thoroughfare as headlights from the oncoming lane sped toward them.
“Gee, Thelma, what’s your hurry?” Corina pulled away from him but kept up with his stride.
“I’m in the mood for some puffs.”
“Puffs? At this hour.”
“Puffs are grand at any hour.”
Thomas appeared off Stephen’s right shoulder, relaying commands through the com tucked into his jacket sleeve. “Bring the limo round. Heading east on Bakery Row.”
“Home of the best bakery and eateries in all of Europe.”
“Thomas, how could you box me out? I thought you of all people—”
“Sorry miss, my duty is to the prince. When we’re in large crowds—”
“Blame me. Not Thomas.” Stephen slowed as they stepped up onto the sidewalk, into a triangle streetlamp glow. “Is it too late to apologize?”
“For what?” She sighed, glancing away. But he caught the soft sheen in her eyes. “I’m starting to think you’re right. We should’ve never happened.”
“I’m sorry, Corina. I just don’t want a lot of prying questions. What do you say? A box of Brighton’s best pastry? A cup of hot sweet tea with thick cream?” He loosened his tie, unbuttoned his collar, pointing to the lights of the old Franklin Bakery. “We came here on our first date, remember? You had your first taste of puffs.” They’d gone to dinner with friends. His mate Harry had leaned over during the first course and said in no small whisper, “Marry her. And I’m not kidding. Find a way.”
She drew up, slowing her step. “They weren’t my first puffs. I vacationed here as a kid. Please tell me you’ve forgotten the stories of—”
“Yes, your maid, Ida Mae, trying to converse with the locals.”
Corina laughed low, a melody that lingered with him longer than the movie’s dynamic score. At least in this moment. “She’d come in from the shops. ‘I declare, Horatia, but I think I got yet another weddin’ proposal.’ ”
“Because grocer colloquialism said, ‘If ya make me a spry dish with what here I’m selling ya, I’ll make ye my bride.’ ”
“Which meant, ‘I’ll give you the best house deal next time you come into the shop.’ ”
Their laughs blended with the sound of the night, the scuff of their heels. Corina stopped, leaned on his shoulder, and popped off her shoes. “Ah, finally. They were killing me.”
“Thomas!” Stephen snapped with a flare. “Carry milady’s shoes to the motor car.”
“Oh good grief, I’m not going to ask the man to carry my shoes.”
Thomas held up his hand. “I don’t mind at all.”
Corina dropped the spike-heeled shoes to his palm. “Then thank you very much.”
With a light press of his hand on her back, Stephen urged her forward. “That night we dined at—”
“Ten Bluedon Street.”
“Precisely. Then we went for puffs.”
“Franklin’s has the best in the city, so much so they never close,” he said, leaning to see around her sheen of hair. “Come on, I mean, you’ve spent the better part of the night with me.”
“Yes, and I’m starting to be concerned for my reputation.”
He laughed. He liked who he was around her. Relaxed, himself, unaware of his princely stature. But yet, didn’t she make him want to be all he could be as a royal?
“So, a walk to Franklin’s for a box of puffs?”
“I don’t know . . .” She chewed on her bottom lip in contemplation, and he thought he might just slip her into his arms and taste her lips.
“Tell you what . . .” He retrieved his mobile. “I’ll ring your brother. Ask his permission.” He dialed as she laughed. “Carlos, chap, this is Stephen. Yes . . . your sister . . . doing splendid. We’re debating going for a box of puffs . . . at Franklin’s . . .” He glanced at her in the ambient light of 10 Bluedon Street and his heart slipped a little over love’s edge. “Might I have your blessing to coax her along? All right, sounds like a fair offer. A box of puffs, chocolate, for the brother.”
“Carlos, you’re a rotten big brother.” She held up her finger and mouthed “by one minute.”
“He says a man has to eat.”
“I miss him,” she said, chewing on her bottom lip, like that night so long ago.
Her soft confession speared his heart. Clearing his throat, he walked round her. “Puffs it is, then.” What was he doing? Let her go. Be done with it. Did he think he could dance around the truth forever? That he’d not impulsively spill it all?
No matter how he sliced it, Corina Del Rey came attached to her brother, and alive or dead, he would always be a part of their relationship.
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.”
