by Kate Johnson
“How? Move back to Wales?”
“Maybe.” His gaze suddenly focused on her again. “Annemarie, when you heard the news who was the first person you turned to? Who was the person you needed to be with, more than anyone else?”
She looked nonplussed. “The children, of course.”
“There’s no one else?”
She shrugged. “Edward was my best friend.”
“Just like Olivia is mine,” said Jamie, standing up. “And you know what, if I marry her then someday one of us is going to be having this exact same conversation. She’s my best friend, not the woman I love.”
“I don’t understand?” said Annemarie.
Jamie went over and kissed her and the baby both on the cheek. “I love someone else and I’ve been miserable without her and you know what, time passeth away and the lust thereof, so I’m going to bloody find her.”
He walked into Olivia on his way out. She looked livid.
“Where have you been? I’m putting out fires here. Your grandmother just asked me when we’re going to announce our engagement.”
“Never.”
“Well, that’s what I said, but she said the country needs some good news. Panem et circuses and all that.”
He paused. “Oll, I love you, but it’ll be a cold day in hell when I marry you.”
“I know,” she said, exasperated. “Will you slow down? Where are you going?”
She hurried to keep up with him as he dodged out of sight and along a back corridor.
“I’m going to find Clodagh.”
“What? But—she said she didn’t want to hear from you—”
“She also said she loved me, so fuck that. Where the hell is my phone? Who has it?”
Geraint caught up with him as he flew out of the castle into the inappropriately pleasant sunshine. “Sir, I’d advise against—”
“Shut up and give me my phone. And if you tell one person where I’m going I will have your job, your rank and your pension, do you understand?”
“Sir.”
Jamie kept running until he was in the back of a car and Olivia had given up trying to follow. She called him as the car set off.
“Don’t you dare tell me not to.”
“I won’t.” She hesitated. “Everyone’s leaving. Annemarie says she’s going to Wales tomorrow.”
“Good for her. Don’t tell anyone where I’m going.”
She sighed as if he was being impossible. “I won’t, but—”
He cut her off, and tried to find Clodagh’s number on his phone. But someone—bloody Peaseman or someone, probably—had erased it. Great. Well, then, this was going to be a surprise.
“Strange day,” said Oz, glancing back at the TV as if pulled by an invisible thread.
Clodagh just nodded. She couldn’t get the images out of her head: the coffin draped in the Royal Standard, the endless crowds, thousands of people lining up to pay their respects, the oceans of flowers, the procession of princes walking behind the coffin, sober in black…
…Jamie’s face, drawn and bleak, the only time she’d seen him unsmiling in public. The camera—the damned camera!—zooming in to catch his damp eyes. She hated the cameras for invading his grief like that, but at the same time she was greedy for every shot of him.
His voice had stayed steady as he’d read from the Bible. The TV said it was 1 Corinthians 13, a passage that was vaguely familiar. “When I became a man, I put away childish things,” he said, and his voice broke, and everyone held their breath, and Clodagh didn’t even pretend she wasn’t crying as he faltered through the next couple of sentences.
But then he looked up, and finished, “And now abideth faith, hope, love, but the greatest of these is love,” and his eyes were more green than hazel and Clodagh had to leave the room.
Oz found her in the cellar, leaning against the wall and weeping into her hands.
“Jesus,” he said, and she startled, swiping frantically at her eyes in a manner that didn’t fool anyone, “I thought it was just a crush.”
She sniffed. “What?”
“Come on, Clodagh. You were walking on sunshine when he was around and you’ve had a face like a wet weekend since he left.” He broke open a packet of serviettes and handed her some. “Nice going with Davood, by the way. You had me fooled at first.”
She thought about denying it, but there was no strength left in her. She shrugged and blew her nose.
“Is it really obvious?”
“It is right now. Look, everyone’s upset, it’s a weird day, no one will judge you for crying a bit. Why don’t you go home early and I’ll cover for you?”
Clodagh was tempted, but Becca had announced her intention to watch the whole of the royal funeral with a big bar of chocolate to hand. There’d be no escaping it, and at least here she had things to do.
“No,” she said, and swiped at her nose with a serviette. “I’ll stay. That was probably the worst part.”
But it wasn’t. Because the cameras stayed on the coffin as it was loaded into the hearse that would take it to Windsor, and whilst they didn’t follow it inside, the presenters chatted sombrely to various people who had some claim to knowing Prince Edward while they waited for the family to emerge from the chapel. The patrons of the Prince’s Arms grew bored at that point, and Clodagh busied herself fetching their drinks and collecting their empties.
And just as she walked past the TV the announcer said in stentorian tones, “And now the family emerge from the chapel. His Royal Highness Prince Edward of Wales has finally been laid to rest…”
And there was Jamie, walking out alone as the rest of his family followed, hand in hand with spouses or children. His face was bleak, those kind, intelligent eyes blank, and Clodagh stood stricken, aching for him.
Then someone walked up beside him, took his hand, bussed his cheek, and he gave a ghost of his former smile to Lady Olivia as he walked with her into the castle.
“Oh, they’re gonna be having funeral sex,” said someone, maybe Hunter, and it was only Paulie grabbing her wrist that kept her from smashing the glass she was carrying into her face.
“Ignore him, girl,” he said softly, and there was knowing in his eyes. Clodagh realised she didn’t know the first thing about this man she served beer to every day, but here he was, being kind to her.
She nodded and took the glasses back to the bar.
After the TV coverage ended and some dull, inoffensive antiques programme began, a lot of the crowd dispersed, but the lull didn’t last long. The early evening crowd came in sooner rather than later, some of them with the distinct air of having cracked open the gin whilst watching the royal funeral at home.
Pouring a gin and watching it all in HD, like it’s entertainment and not the last resting place of a man who was going to be king one day, all laid out for your viewing pleasure. They were no better than a crowd at Tyburn.
Clodagh was finding it hard to keep a civil tongue in her head.
And here they were, picking over it all like vultures, deciding whether they liked this frock or that hat or whether she should be wearing those shoes. If everyone had looked suitably sombre. If the cousin who accidentally smiled would be cast out forever. If Edward’s children really should be in attendance.
They decided, one after the other, that Annemarie’s parents hadn’t looked bereaved enough, but that Prince Jamie shouldn’t have nearly cried like that.
“Probably been told to,” said some woman, nodding sagely. “You know, to make it look sadder.”
Oz wheeled Clodagh away before she could even open her mouth.
“I know,” he said. “Go and serve in the other bar.”
Spitting like a cat, Clodagh bit out, “She—”
“Go and serve in the other bar,” he repeated, and she snarled at him but did as she was told. Which meant that when the top bar went suddenly quiet she didn’t know why, and when she walked through to find out the crowds parted like the Red Sea and there was Jamie.
Her hands went into his hair, grabbing it by the handful as her body moulded against his, and he shuddered as he sank against her, arms tight around her body.
“Clo,” he breathed against her mouth, and she tasted salt because both of them had tears streaming from their eyes. “Oh God, I need you.”
“Yes,” she said, kissing his face.
“You—I’ve just needed—all this time, I can’t—”
“Whatever you need,” she promised, fingers going under his collar, needing to touch his skin.
“Come with me. Please.”
And Clodagh said, “Yes,” and followed him out to the car.
Chapter Nineteen
Jamie woke, exhausted, in an unfamiliar bed, and spent a moment frowning at the ceiling. It failing to yield any clues, he put on his glasses and looked around.
Wherever he was, he was alone. That dream he’d had of Clodagh, of walking out on his family to be with her, of that amazing kiss, had been just that, a dream. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath to keep the tears at bay, then wondered why he was bothering.
He sat up in the bed, which was comfortable enough and had carved wooden posts at each corner. The room wasn’t large, and it was oddly shaped, as if each of the four corners had an extra, rounded chamber plonked on them. One seemed to contain a bathtub.
The windows were leaded, but all he could see was sky and a bit of tree. Wait a minute…
The Hunting Tower. Of course, yes, he’d come up here with Olivia when they were kids, and then he remembered her telling him they were having it renovated into a holiday cottage. The round chambers were turrets, one of them containing a tightly wound spiral staircase. A room on each floor. She’d called last night while they were on the M11 and told him the place was free this week if he wanted somewhere to hide out. The housekeeper would drop off some supplies…
But if Olivia had called then it meant he hadn’t dreamt escaping and if he hadn’t dreamt that—
The door in the staircase turret opened and there she was, his Clodagh, wearing a t-shirt with the Prince’s Arms embroidered on it and carrying two mugs of tea.
“Hey,” she said. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t.” He rubbed his eyes, and she was still there. Oh, she was a goddess.
She put the mugs down on his nightstand and sat down on the edge of the bed. “Did you sleep?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said, surprised at the answer. Better than he had in weeks, in fact.
“Good. Grief is exhausting.”
He’d slept in the car, he remembered now. He’d clutched at Clodagh and sobbed and cried for half the journey, and she’d held him and soothed him and cried a bit, too, and then he was waking up with a crick in his neck and being guided inside the darkened tower, where Clodagh had cuddled him close as he fell asleep.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“What for?”
“Well, for crying all over you last night—”
She waved that away. “Don’t be silly.”
“And for kind of kidnapping you.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Asking someone politely and getting an answer in the affirmative is kidnapping where you come from? I said I’d come with you,” she said, her hand covering his, “and I did. Although I will add I’m bloody glad one of the PPOs had the presence of mind to get my bag and my jacket. May in Derbyshire: not that warm.”
She reached for a mug, which he noticed had the Allendale crest on it, and took a sip, brushing her springy hair out of her eyes.
“There’s enough food downstairs to last us for weeks,” she explained, “and clothes and toiletries too. All with this crest on, strangely enough. Wherever could we be?” she said with mock confusion.
And Jamie said, “I love you.”
He didn’t know why. Well, he did, he said it because it was true, but he didn’t know why he said it just then.
Clodagh calmly put down her mug, and then she threw herself at him and buried her face in his neck and said, “I love you too. Oh God, Jamie, I really do.”
He held her, hardly able to believe it was real.
“And I don’t know what the fuck we’re going to do,” she said, lifting her head, “because any chances of yesterday not going public are pretty much slim to none.”
“Yesterday?” Jamie said. Ed’s funeral had been broadcast to the world, what did she—
“You walked into the pub and snogged my face off in front of all those people,” she said, and Jamie lost his breath. “You in your black with your bodyguards, everyone would have recognised you, snogging someone else when you’re supposed to be seeing the lady whose tea we’re drinking.”
“What? Oh.” Allendale. “I’m not. I’m really not. I don’t even know what happened with that. We were trying to figure it out when…”
She nodded, and rearranged herself more comfortably beside him. Her arm went around his waist, bare skin to bare skin, and he wished she wasn’t fully dressed.
“I am not seeing Olivia,” Jamie said firmly, just to reiterate it. “I’m not engaged to her, or going to marry her or anything. The only person I want to—”
He broke off before he said the embarrassing thing.
“The only person you want to… what?” said Clodagh softly.
“Um. See. Date. Be with.” He cleared his throat. “Is you.”
Her hand touched his bare chest. Her thumb stroked thoughtfully and his heart beat in time with it.
“And then what?” she said.
“What do you mean, and then what?”
“Jamie, love, I’ve kind of gone all in on this. You know all my… you’ve seen all the skeletons in my closet. And they’re all going to come out to play now, whether we like it or not. And I strongly suspect not. So… I guess what I’m saying is… finish that damn sentence, will you?”
His mouth went dry. He couldn’t speak. He managed, “Seriously?”
“Yes. Either we’re in the shit together, or separately. And if it’s together…”
“Semper in excretia sumus, solum profundum variat,” he murmured.
“Always… we are always…” she frowned up at him.
“We’re always in the shit. Only the depth varies.”
“Right,” she said, clearly confused.
“And, and…” Argh, proposals weren’t supposed to include conversations about shit! “Look, what I was going to say before my brain stopped working was, there’s only one person I want to marry, and that’s you.”
Her hand found his, fingers twining together. “Really?”
“Really. So, will you? Will you marry me?”
Clodagh smiled, and then she laughed, and said, “Oh God, this is the worst idea in the world.” But she didn’t look like she was going to say no, especially not when she climbed on top of him and kissed him long and hard and said, “Yes, I’ll marry you. I love you.”
“Even if it’s the worst idea in the world?”
She considered this as she combed her fingers through his hair. “I mean, it’s not ‘getting married in Westeros’ bad, but...”
“Is it worse than wearing a red shirt on Away missions from the Enterprise?”
“Mmm. It’s just about possible to survive that. We have an analogy.”
I am so into you. “We’ll survive it. I promise.”
She cuddled him close for a long moment before settling back down by his side. “I know we will.”
“I think what I was trying to say,” he said as they lay side by side, fingers playing together, “was that if we’re going to be in the shit we might as well make it worth it.”
“So romantic,” she said. “That’s a quote for the ages.”
“A story to tel
l on the news. When we make the announcement,” he added, and she sighed.
“Oh yeah. That. Ugh. Jamie, why do you have to be a prince?”
“A question I ask myself every day. I could quit,” he said wistfully. “Renounce the title. Remove myself from the succession.”
“Thus making yourself an even bigger object of fascination,” Clodagh said.
“And depriving you of a title and a tiara…”
“Ooh, there’s a tiara?”
“There are always tiaras,” Jamie said, gathering her close to him. She wore jeans and t-shirt, where he was only in his underwear, and the feel of her clothes against his bare skin was kind of a turn-on.
He forced himself to think logically. If—and it was one hell of an if—they could ride out the inevitable media storm Clodagh’s background would cause, he’d have to ask the Queen’s permission to marry. She’d never said no before, but then none of her descendants had wanted to marry anyone she disapproved of.
“Regrets already?” Clodagh said softly, and he shook his head vigorously.
“No. Never. Not one moment with you have I ever regretted,” he said. “I love you. That’s not going to change.”
“With you, bread and onions,” she said.
Jamie leaned in close and whispered, “That’s because you know what I can do with bread and onions.”
Clodagh laughed, and squirmed closer, and said, “You know what I found in the bags of stuff downstairs? There’s Allendale soap, and Allendale socks, and Allendale eggs… and there’s one thing that’s not made on the Allendale Estate.”
“Yeah?” said Jamie, wondering where this was going.
“Yeah. Unless they lease land to Durex.”
Jamie groaned and kissed her and it wasn’t long before he was racing downstairs to find them himself.
At Geraint’s firm suggestion, they’d handed over their phones last night to the security team, who had settled in an annexe behind the Hunting Tower. Clodagh shuddered to think how many messages would be on it now, from Oz and Marte at the pub, from Becca and Heather wondering where she was, and from her mum and her siblings even, if the news had broken.
She didn’t want to find out. If she stayed in this place with Jamie, then she never had to know if the story had broken. Like the rest of the world was Schrödinger’s box and they alone stood outside it.
