by Rachel Hauck
She laughed. “It’s too late. But thank you for asking.”
“Shug, if he really is your prince, don’t give up.”
Corina stopped his line of thinking with a flash of her palm. “I just spent a week trying to love well, and what I got was an annulment. But I did forgive him, Daddy.”
“That sounds like loving well to me.”
Corina jerked her thumb in the direction of the stairs. “I’m going to fix my flight home for tomorrow and take a nap. Tomorrow I’ll quit my job, then spend a week on the beach plotting my next move.”
“I know a few movie people if you need some help.”
“Hey, now you’re talking. We can get Clive Boston to star in the movie version of How to Catch a Prince. And lose him.”
“Don’t laugh, Kit. It can happen. Sounds like an Oscar winner to me. But don’t you think Clive’s a bit long in the tooth for such a role?”
“Don’t let him hear you say that.” Her laugh mingled with Daddy’s, and for the first time in five and a half years, Corina felt a little piece of the way things used to be. “Daddy, I know losing Carlos has been hard on us all, especially you, losing your son and heir, but don’t let it destroy us.”
“You’re my heir, Corina. But you’re right.” He nodded, but she could tell he still wrestled with his heart. “I’ll work on it as long as you promise me that the next time you get married, I walk you down the aisle. I’ve been looking forward to that since the day you were born.” He waved the newspaper at her. “I felt a little cheated when I read this.”
“I promise. And you know I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Your Highness.” Archbishop Caldwell stepped aside for Stephen to enter his seaside cottage. A cozy abode with a clutter of books and papers stacked around the small living room. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“I hope I’m not disturbing you.” The place felt like home the moment Stephen walked in and sank into a plush, deepred sofa.
“No, no, not at all. This is my wife, Lola.”
“Your Highness.” She curtsyed. “Would you care for tea?” She picked up the magazines and books by Stephen’s feet and stacked them on an end table.
“Thank you, kindly. Tea would be lovely.”
“I’ve baked blueberry scones. Would you care for one?”
“Again, thank you.” Now that he was here, the tension eased from his gut and his stomach reminded him he’d walked out on his breakfast. “But please, don’t go to any bother.”
Her laugh bubbled. “Pshaw, ’tis no trouble a-tall. Mack, I gather you’d like some tea as well.”
“As long as you’re serving the prince.” Archbishop Caldwell removed his glasses, setting them on the table next to his chair. “It’s good to see you. It’s been a number of years. I heard your service in Afghanistan ran into a bit of trouble.”
Stephen sat forward, rubbing his hands together, warming away the chill of nerves. “Some, yes. Lost everyone on my crew but me.”
“Do you care to talk about it? Is that why you’re here?”
“No, I’m here on another matter.”
“Whatever it is, I can see it troubles your soul.”
Mrs. Caldwell returned with the tea and scones, giving the men and the conversation a moment to breathe. Gain direction.
Stephen stirred his tea, his spoon clicking against the china cup. He peeked at the archbishop, who drank his tea with a look of contentment, offering nothing to Stephen but the space to speak.
Which he didn’t exactly know how to fill. Setting aside his tea, he stretched his legs and cramping ankle. Lately the pain seemed much more intense. He was starting to believe the injury would be with him the rest of his life.
He regarded the spiritual leader. “Sir, may I ask you a question?”
“Isn’t that why you’re here?”
“Why did you marry us? In secret? Corina and me? We woke you up in the middle of the night, asking you to break Brighton royal law.” Six years ago, the archbishop was a servant of the House of Stratton and the Church of Brighton, avowed to keep the nation’s and God’s laws.
The sister island nations were hobbled together by a hundred-year-old entail until Hessenberg discovered their own long-lost princess last year and established themselves as a sovereign nation once again.
“You tell me,” Mr. Caldwell said.
“Why you married us?”
“Yes, why do you think I agreed to your request, keeping quiet all these years?”
“Because I’m the prince? Because you . . . I don’t know . . . wanted us out of your hair so you could go back to bed? Leave me to sort out my own mess?”
The man laughed. “I’ve said no to kings and queens. Do you think I’d have any qualms about denying a young prince his seemingly impetuous request?”
Stephen sat back, holding his teacup in his palm. “Her twin brother died. In Afghanistan. I was there.”
“Ah, I see. Is that why you’ve been apart?”
“Yes.”
“And what does she think of this arrangement?”
“She says she loves me. She only recently learned the entire truth and why I cannot be with her.”
“Can’t be with her? Are you still married?”
“She signed annulment papers.”
“And it’s bothering you?”
“A little. I want to know why you married us.”
“Why did you want to marry Corina a month before you deployed?”
“I just wanted to be with her. Not just for a night, not to . . . you know . . . and then leave. I wanted to give her my name, a title. I wanted to spend my life with her. I love her.” He set down his tea, having no desire for it.
“And she loved you?”
“Yes, she loved me. She says she still loves me.”
“There’s your answer. Why I married you. That night, when you knocked on my door rousing me from sleep, I was a bit irritated. Then I opened the door to two people very much in love. I saw my reflection in your eyes. The way I felt about my missus when we married forty-five years ago. Otherwise, don’t think I’d have hesitated to send you back home. Prince or not.”
“You see, sir, when I look at her, I see . . . her brother . . . bleeding and dying. I’ve had a dream of her walking among the dead, wailing, her white wedding dress splattered with blood.” Stephen gripped his hands together, squeezing, cleansing away the invisible stain. “I did that to her, to those men.”
“You are somehow responsible for their deaths?”
The old man was trying to understand the details Stephen could not speak. He’d trusted him with a secret six years ago, but he could not betray the Defense Ministry’s classified files again. He was the Prince of Brighton, after all.
“Indirectly, yes.”
“A wrong decision?”
“Indirectly.” Asif appeared to be a stellar choice at the start. But . . .
“You cannot tell me more, can you?”
“No, I’m sorry.”
“I’ve enough to understand, I believe.” The archbishop reached for a scone, then settled back in his chair. “Would you care for one?”
“No, thank you.” He thought he did, but the conversation had filled his empty belly.
“As I see it, whatever transpired over there has left you feeling responsible, perhaps guilty, and you cannot face Corina.”
“Not as my wife, no.” A soft, blue word slipped from his lips, but he didn’t apologize or wish it back. “Her brother, the others, did not deserve to die, not for the cause that spilled their blood.”
“You alone survived?”
He nodded, dropping his chin to his chest, his eyes filling, a peppery heat trailing along his emotions, burning his thoughts. “I’m not worthy. I–I hesitated. They died.”
“And this hesitation makes you responsible in some way.”
“Yes, precisely. And betrayed by someone I’d once considered a friend.”
“Quite a sticky wicket.”
“And you can’t forgive yourself, can you?”
“Never!” He fired to his feet, leaning on his wounded ankle, pain striking his bones, spiking down through his foot. “I am not worthy.”
“No man is worthy until Christ makes him worthy.”
“Don’t you see? They died in vain.”
“Did your Lord, the Christ, die in vain as well?”
“Pardon? I don’t follow. The Christ had nothing to do with my men.”
“He has everything to do with you, and your men. If he counted you worthy of his death, then you were worthy for those men. No greater love is this than a man lay down his life for his friends.”
“Stop!” Stephen pressed his palms to his ears. “Lie. It’s a lie.”
“But you count yourself as unworthy, and therefore not worthy of a woman like Corina and unworthy of Christ’s love.”
“Because I am unworthy. I may be a prince on the outside, but on the inside I’m a man like every other, and war or no . . .” He hesitated, on the brink of sharing too much. “My life is not worth that of another. And I certainly don’t compare to Christ. He perhaps is worth men giving up their lives, but not me.”
“He was also man. With emotions. He was also betrayed by those closest to him.”
“He’s also God.”
“But he was also a man.”
The archbishop chuckled, though Stephen failed to see the merriment, and considered his tea, taking a hearty sip. The old man broke off a corner of his scone, closing his eyes, hmmmming his enjoyment, spiking Stephen’s irritation.
He should just leave. This was an ill-planned quest.
“What do you want from me?” the archbishop finally said. “You seem set on your answers.”
Stephen regarded him. “I–I . . .” What did he want by coming here? “I thought I wanted to know why you married us.” Stephen picked at the upholstery threads, feeling his heart and foolishness exposed. “But now I don’t know.”
“If you could go back, do it all over again, would you? Marriage, deployment, serving with those particular men?”
“I–I don’t know.”
“What might you do different? Not marry her? Perhaps serve with different men? Make different choices?”
“No, I’d probably be foolhardy enough to marry her.” Face it, you love her! “And the boys in our crew were the best in the entire squadron. It was an honor to serve with them. But yes, there are a few different actions I’d take.”
“In hindsight.”
“In hindsight.”
“My dear prince, you need a new perspective.” The archbishop struggled out of his chair to join Stephen on the couch. “Your worth is not determined by who you are or what you do, even what you don’t do. It’s determined by the work of your Savior. If our Lord bore the cross to declare you worthy, then indeed you are, and nothing—not war, nor death, regrets, injury, broken hearts, or tabloid headlines—can change it. Only if you choose not to accept it.”
“I confess I’m not a religious man, archbishop.”
“Then can you be a believing man? One of faith in God? Let him forgive you so you can forgive yourself. Let this matter go to him. Otherwise, your mates indeed died in vain if you confine yourself to a life of regret, bearing a burden that doesn’t seem like yours to bear. And not forgiving yourself for it.” He spoke in an even, calm tone, sorting through Stephen’s emotions with the fine edge of his wisdom. “In the end, you die with them, but only after years of a slow, withering kind of death, fulfilling your own prophecy. They died in vain. That banged-up ankle you sport will seem a welcome respite when it’s all said and done.”
His words melded with a heavy, oily presence in the room, creating a spicy-sweet fragrance that washed over Stephen. When he closed his eyes, he felt as if he were floating.
“What choice will you make? Your Highness, you cannot undo the past. But you can blanket it in the Lord’s blood, not that of your mates, and the Son of God will heal you and ensure your future days.”
The declaration rattled him. Disquieted his self-righteousness. He felt the rumble and shift in his chest. He’d believed in God most of his thirty-one years. But after Torkham, doubt and confusion shattered his small faith. “What do you want from me?” His spirit churned, addressing the question more to the One who hovered in the room than the archbishop sitting next to him.
“He wants everything, Your Highness. I’d say he earned it. If you could meet with your mates, somehow in the beyond, wouldn’t you give them everything for dying for you?”
“My royal scepter. My crown, my title, my money . . . yes, my everything.”
“The Christ will do the same for you. If you give him your everything. Come to the cross.” The archbishop’s voice seemed to stir the oil in the room.
Stephen remained planted, shaking so violently on the inside, his hands and legs trembled. He gripped his knees, trying to control the waves coursing through him, but he could not.
“Best give in, lad. The Lord has come for you, and I dare believe he’s not leaving until he has your surrender.”
“Surrender to what?”
“To him, to his cross, to his love and the fact that you, my boy, were worth dying for.”
Worth dying for . . .
The phrase crushed him so intensely, Stephen slid off the sofa, unable to command his muscles, and hit the floor on his knees, weeping, the heel of his hand pressed into his eyes. Humiliating, undignified . . . But he could not stop it.
His chest expanded with each sob, filling with the reality of his own weaknesses and sin. Sin he’d never contemplated, actions and thoughts he’d once delighted in ground him down, further into the unseen presence in the room.
“Lord, forgive him.” The archbishop’s soft prayer demolished Stephen’s last wall.
A wail exploded from his chest, a sound he’d never heard. “Lord, they died for me. An unworthy man.” He sucked in a sharp, shallow breath, unable to fill his lungs. “Lord—” The name smoothed over his tongue, and from his lips he confessed. “Jesus, you are Lord and died for me. Forgive me. Let me forgive myself. Please, remember Bird and Carlos, the lads who died. Asif . . . remember Asif. And Corina, my Corina.” The words continued to flow as he lowered his chest to the floor, prostrating himself, and letting every hidden thing come to the light.
And moment by moment, Stephen Stratton, Prince of Brighton, became the man he’d always longed to be.
TWENTY-EIGHT
On a glorious Monday afternoon, Corina marched through the bull pen with an empty printer-paper box in hand, the ping of the elevator behind her, and she remembered.
She no longer had a secret.
She’d caught an early flight out of Atlanta, was home and unpacked before lunch. Now she was at the paper, her resignation prepped and ready.
“Oh my gosh.” Melissa pounced on Corina the moment she set down the printer box. “How did you keep that a secret? A prince? And for crying out loud, what are you doing here in Melbourne?”
“I’m here because I live here, Mel.” The lamp was hers, bought the afternoon she accepted the job from Gigi. It went into the box. The pencil canister as well as the hand sanitizer everyone used and the array of squeeze toys were also hers. Corina inspected the stapler. Hers or the Post’s? Hers. Too new and nice to be the Post’s. But she stored it in the middle drawer. A lovely parting gift for Gigi. “I kept it a secret because it was a secret. Besides, I didn’t think we were still married.” With a sigh she peered at her friend. “It’s not the kind of thing you blurt out. ‘Hey everyone, I was married to a prince.’ ”
“Sure, for most of us, but you’re you, Corina Del Rey. The kind of girl who does marry a prince.”
“Well, we’re not married anymore. I signed annulment papers.”
“You what?” By the look on her face, one would think Melissa was being divorc
ed. “Why? No, no, no, I want a princess for a friend. And I want my friend to be happy. Do you still love him?”
“That’s not the question, Mel. The statement is he doesn’t want to be married to me.”
“Why not?”
“Mel, I can’t go into it.” Corina smiled. “Please, just leave it alone.”
“Corina, he’s an idiot. Can I just say that?”
Corina laughed low. “I know you mean to make me feel better, but the truth is he’s not an idiot. He’s a very good and kind and decent man.” Her voice wavered. “One of the best.”
Melisssa tapped the side of the printer box. “Are you leaving?”
“You don’t think I’d stay after what Gigi did, do you?”
“Rats, there goes all the cool people.”
“No,” Corina looked toward Gigi’s office. “You’re still here.”
Through the glass panel, she could see the tip of her blond hair as she worked at her desk. “Do you know how she found out?”
“It’s Gigi. She has minions all over the world.”
“Yeah, well, it seems she has a minion inside the palace. The article said, ‘a palace source.’ ”
“She could’ve made that up.” Melissa took out the pencil canister and examined the pens. “Can I have the purple pens? I love purple pens.”
“Knock yourself out. But she couldn’t have made up the fact we were secretly married. She’s not that good.”
As much as Gigi stepped over the line by running the article, the woman did Corina a favor. She exposed the marriage and outed the secret.
Mama had seemed somewhat changed Sunday evening when she returned home late from wherever she’d gone. Gentler. Kinder.
This morning she came down to say good-bye as Corina and Daddy headed down to Atlanta. She’d brushed a wisp of Corina’s hair aside, her eyes misty. “Don’t be a stranger.”
“What are you going to do next?” Melissa tapped the printer-paper box.
“I don’t know. Haven’t decided.” And she was okay with that . . . for now.
