Crown Jewels

by Ella James

  Since then I’ve been feeling…strange.

  I can’t settle. Not hungry. Can’t sleep. I don’t want to shower, lift, ride, shoot, or even check my phone. I’ve been getting texts, snaps, and emails—and ignoring them all.

  I drop the towel around my waist and pull on black lounge pants. I think of Lucy as I reach for the decanter on the bathroom counter.

  I see her bruised face as I take a nice, long pull of whiskey. It’s Maith, a local brand that is my favorite. I can’t feel it really, but the twitch around my left eye settles, so I guess it’s done its job.

  I rub the towel over my hair, walk into my room, and lie on my back across my bed, facing the canopy. It’s dark green, like a forest. I shut my eyes and try to see a forest, not her face.

  I should really try to sleep…

  Instead, I hear Lucy’s ghost voice in my ear. Strange how I miss her. As if I know her. As if she knows me. Loneliness is strange, though.

  I’m not calling. Not anymore. It’s better not to, with what’s going on.

  In lieu of human contact, I navigate to Audible and select a book: The Necessary Death of Lewis Winter by Malcolm Mackay. It’s a relief to hear another person’s voice, after hours of nothing but birds outside my window and the swish of fabric. I let my eyelids sag as I follow the narrator’s words. So I’m confused when I hear someone else’s voice come over his.

  I push up on my elbow. My eyes settle on the speaker in the wall beside my dresser. I hear static, but whatever was said to me, I missed.

  I get down off the bed and press the button. “Yes?” I ask. My voice is scratchy from disuse.

  “Prince Liam. There you are! You have a visitor.”

  “I…what?”

  “A young lady. She says you’re friends.”

  * * *

  Lucy

  Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me! I am such a moron.

  Why am I here?

  What am I doing?

  I’ll tell you what I’m doing: I’m sipping tea from a dainty, off-white teacup while Grey licks his paws on the rug beside me.

  Yes, that’s right. My cat and me, just chilling here at Haugr Castle. Why is it called that, anyway? What the hell does it mean? It sounds like the lair of some evil, part-gargoyle overlord.

  I look around the room, which has obscenely tall ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows adorned with flowing, gold curtains, and, in between the windows, ornate bookshelves. I’ve been glancing over them, and I haven’t seen a paperback spine yet.

  Obviously not, Einstein. They’re royals. They’re going to have hardbacks.

  I take a sip of my tea, which the man wearing navy blue dress pants and a stiff, starched shirt told me was flavored with local honey.

  I should leave now. Would they let me leave? They probably would. I give Grey a wide-eyed look, and he meows.

  I’m not sure why, but this makes me laugh. It sounds strange and over-bearing in the pinprick silence. I rub my forehead, feeling like a lunatic, and cast my gaze to the rug. It’s oriental. Real, of course. I like the colors: robin’s egg blue, cream, brown, and red. It doesn’t strike me as new, but its hairs—what are the damn things? Not hairs. Fibers?—look shiny and soft, as if it’s been well cared for.

  Grey shifts, curling into a ball, and I cringe a little. When—if—Liam gets here, will he be upset I brought my cat inside?

  He seemed so nice that night, but I don’t really know him. Not at all.

  This is why you don’t have one-night stands. Not without a birth control implant. Nitwit.

  I rub my damp palm on my dress and let my gaze rise to the ceiling. There’s a gorgeous, crystal—or diamond—chandelier hanging from the center of the room. My eyes rove the walls again, noting that the bookshelves aren’t built-ins. They’re real: thick and sturdy, made of glossy mahogany. Just above them is the walls’ crown molding: thick and pale gray.

  As my heart begins to pound again, Grey jumps onto the couch, arching his back.

  “You want to go?” I murmur.

  He blinks.

  Done.

  I scoop him up. I set my teacup down. I’ll come back another day. I can tell Liam…something. It’s too soon to tell him I’m knocked up.

  I suck a breath in. My head spins. As I take a step toward the row of open doors that led me from the hallway into this room, I hear footsteps.

  I turn just in time to see him come into the rear doorway.

  Prince Liam.

  A bolt of heat sears through me as my eyes run up and down him. Gorgeous body. Black lounge pants hanging from his hips, a ratty white t-shirt stretched across his chest. And that face. That regal-perfect face. His luscious lips pressed flat in surprise, heavy brows drawn low over his beautiful eyes. His hair is swept up on his head, still long, still that gorgeous cinnamon color streaked with honey.

  After the confused frown, his eyes widen in shock. He shakes his head, walking toward me as a grin spreads over his face.

  “Lucy…”

  He laughs, a hearty chuckle that reverberates through the library. Then he’s coming toward me and I’m too surprised to move. He wraps an arm around my back and pulls me to him. I smell something spicy, almost like liquor, before I feel the sturdy heat of him. His squeeze is gentle. Caring. I feel his face against my hair, feel the tenor of his low voice echo through my belly as he murmurs, “You smell good.”

  His fingers thread through my pony-tail, fingertips pressing lightly against the back of my head. When he pulls away, he’s grinning like he just got crowned king.

  “What the fuck are you doing here, Lucy?”

  I feel my face flame. “I…was in the neighborhood?”

  He shakes his head, laughing that low, rich, sexy laugh before his brows scrunch thoughtfully. “Are you okay? You look okay.” His lips press flat. “Sit down.” He urges me toward the couch, then does a funny little smile-smirk when his eyes land on Grey. “Is that your cat?”

  “Um…yeah. I’m sorry. I hope you’re not allergic to cats.”

  “No.” He kneels down, hand outstretched toward Grey. “Girl or guy cat?”

  “Guy. Grey is his name.”

  His eyes flicker to mine. “The book?”

  “The Oscar Wilde one.”

  “Dorian Gray?”

  I nod.

  His brows lift, and I can’t help laughing. “That’s not true. It’s for the Fifty Shades of Grey books.”

  He shakes his head, looking amused. “You are a surprise, Lucille Rhodes.”

  “A surprise visitor.” I give him a shaky smile as Grey arches up against Liam’s big hand. “I wanted to skip town for a little while. I thought I’d go to Ireland and Scotland, but then I decided to tour Gael first. I thought it might be a little more under the radar.”

  He nods, his face thoughtful. “That was a good idea. And you’re right. I can shield you from all that.”

  I nod, feeling exposed. I don’t like it that he thinks I wanted to come see him just for kicks. But when I open my mouth to say more, nothing comes out.

  “This was the smartest thing you could have done,” he says. “I just wish you’d told me. I could have sent a plane.”

  “I flew private. It was okay.”

  “You flew here?”

  I shake my head. “To Scotland first.”

  “When did you get in?”

  I swallow. “Yesterday.”

  Annnnd now he thinks I ran right to him. Perfect.

  Liam doesn’t seem fazed, though. Still crouching by Grey on the rug, he turns a little more toward me, all bulk and shoulders, looking at me through his thick, dark lashes. “You hungry?”

  I shrug.

  He stands and holds his hand out. “C’mon. I’ll get you something.”

  “You will?”

  He tilts his head, smirking. “You don’t think I’m capable of preparing food?”

  “Um…I’m not sure? Can you?”

  “Come find out.”

  I pick Grey up, and Liam leads us in
to the hall, then down a few yards, through a set of double-doors. As I step through them, the dark space is lit up, revealing a large, industrial-looking kitchen.

  I look from a row of refrigerators to Prince Liam. “Seriously, though, are you allowed in here? You’re the prince, remember?”

  He laughs. “You think they bar me from the kitchen?”

  “Where’s the help? Remember my dreams of Downton Abbey?”

  He folds his thick arms, leaning back against a granite countertop. “I gave them some time off.”

  “Really?”

  He nods. “It’s something we do in summer. I’ll call them back tomorrow.”

  “Why tomorrow?”

  “So you can indulge in your Downton Abbey fantasy.”

  “So you’re going to cut their vacation short?” I shake my head. “No way! Not for me. You tyrant.”

  He smiles. “They won’t mind.”

  He pulls out a bar stool and turns toward the cabinets, taking out a few things, then turning back toward me as I scoot up onto the stool.

  “What do you want, Lucille?”

  “Don’t call me that. It’s weird and old-ladyish.”

  He grins, defiant. “Do you like macaroni and cheese, Lucille? What about breakfast foods?”

  I stick my tongue out, then can’t help smiling shyly. “Mac and cheese is awesome.”

  I watch his back move as he fills the pot with water, sits it on the stove top, turns on the flame, and dumps noodles in. Then he sets a top on it.

  He turns back to me with a thoughtful expression that slowly darkens. “I’m sorry for what happened. With the pictures.”

  My stomach tightens like a wrung out rag. I’m so embarrassed, I can’t look at him. “Thanks.” I trace a fracture in the marble countertop, then stare at my emerald fingernail.

  “You’re embarrassed.”

  “Yeah.” I force myself to meet his eyes as I say, “It’s embarrassing. How would you like it if someone saw you all banged up, and they knew all about how it happened? And they saw you as a victim?” The word is cloaked in vitriol. Vitriol I feel for Bryce, and myself too, if I’m being honest.

  His mouth presses into a line. “I would hate it. No doubt.”

  “Well, I would understand.” I sigh.

  “I’m going to tell you something, though, Lucy.”

  He comes and stands across the bar from me, resting his elbows on the marble, leaning down so a strand of brown-blond hair falls in his face. I watch his shoulders rise, his chest puff out, as he takes a long breath. He holds my eyes as he blows it out. Then, with his eyes cast down, he pulls his shirt off.

  He turns toward me and points to his back. “For years this scar—“ I can see one right under his shoulder blade— “has been explained as being from a piece of a horse’s bridle. And it was,” he says, turning around. His face is dark.

  My stomach fills with an air bubble that floats up to my throat.

  “I went to school on the island first. As a boy.”

  His eyes hold mine, confessing without sound.

  I whisper, “Someone hit you?”

  He turns away again and tugs at the waistline of his jeans. He peels them down a little, and I see another scar. This one is about six inches long and horizontal. Thick as a ribbon. He turns slowly back to me.

  “There’s another one, too. Lower.”

  My heart feels like it’s seizing.

  “From a leather belt.”

  “Holy fuck. Who was it?”

  His mouth tautens. “It doesn’t matter now.” He lets his breath out. “Only my oldest friends know. But I wanted you to see—” he inhales— “that I can understand, at least a little. With the public element, too. I hate it when everyone knows about me. I feel like they’ve taken something from me.”

  “They have,” I whisper. “Dignity. And privacy.”

  His tongue darts over his lower lip. Then his shirt is over his head, and he’s turning toward the pot and stirring.

  I can see the tension in his back through the thin undershirt. The shape of his forearms as he moves around the stove top. The angular strength of his hands, the long fingers. When he turns back to me, his eyes are blazing.

  “He’s the fuckwad, Lucy. People know that. You left him. They know. You worry what it looks like? It looks like he was a monster, and you got away.”

  I look down at my lap. It feels surreal that I’m here, talking about this. I push past my awkwardness and fear and try to talk frankly to him. I feel like it’s the least I can do after what he just confided in me.

  “I just hate how it’s sensationalized, you know? I think everyone feels like it’s nice to see me taken down a peg. Most people think my life has been pretty charmed. Not that it hasn’t. But…you know what I mean.”

  He leans back against the counter, big hands curved around its edge. “I know.”

  I nod, again too shy to look him in the face.

  I feel him move closer to me. Feel his hand against my cheek as he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “You’re not taken down, Lucy,” he says quietly. “Fuck anyone who wants that, anyway. And while you’re here,” he tells me as he straightens up, “I’ll keep you distracted.”

  Alarm bells peel in my head, set off by how nice he is. “You don’t have to. If you’re busy. I just stopped by…” My heart trembles. “To talk.”

  Liam’s hand trails down my arm. He takes my hand loosely in his. “We can talk.” His fingertips play with mine, and he gives me a sexy smile. “Tell me something.”

  “What?” I whisper.

  “Anything.”

  I look down at his feet, where Grey is rubbing himself against Liam’s ankles. “I think my dude cat is in love with you.”

  He smirks. “Happens all the time.” He kneels down and rubs Grey’s head. Grey arches into Liam’s hand.

  “My mum had cats,” he tells me.

  “Yeah?”

  He nods. “Odin and Freyr.”

  “Are those Norse gods?”

  “Aye.” He smiles.

  “The tabloids are right, you know. You smile a lot.”

  “That’s what they say?” He fakes a stern look.

  “You know it is. They love you.”

  “They love wealth and novelty.” He turns back to the stove.

  I blink at his muscled back. Of all the types of comments I didn’t expect to hear from Prince Manwhore…

  I rub my lips together, trying to think of what to say. Coming to terms with the fact that I really don’t know this guy at all. That even the caricature of him could very well be wrong. And maybe it is wrong—he seems more serious than he’s portrayed in the media—but at the core of all the Prince Liam coverage is Prince Liam.

  I lean my cheek in my palm. “I think they like you, too.”

  I can tell by the way his shoulders stiffen that my words were wrong. What I meant is I like him. From the paparazzi pictures to the guy cooking for me. I like him. All of him. I don’t even know why. I don’t know him very well, but I find him magnetic.

  He glances over his shoulder, face taut. “They don’t know me.”

  “Well—they know you’re charming.”

  He steps toward me. He takes my chin in his hand. “As are you, Lucy.”

  My blood burns as his fingers shift a little on my face. His grip is firm but gentle.

  When his lips brush my forehead, I don’t move or even breathe. Then he’s turned back toward the stove again, cooking in a broody silence while I look down at my nails and think of which ones need to be filed.

  The next few minutes pass with no noise save the clinking of cooking utensils and the light whoosh of his clothing as he moves about. Then he’s filling two bowls with macaroni, pouring two glasses of wine and two glasses of water.

  Finally he’s facing me again and I can’t read his flawlessly schooled features. He sets my stuff down in front of me, grabs two cloth napkins, and takes the bar stool beside me.

  He spreads my napkin
on my lap and watches me take the first bite while he has some of his wine.

  Oh my God. The cheese is heaven. “Mmmm.” I shut my eyes and open them to find him smiling.

  “There’ll be more of this tomorrow when the chefs return.” To my look of question, he replies, “You’ll stay tonight. And several more unless you don’t want to. I have a guest room just for you. Red walls.” He winks.

  We talk about random things, like the Gaelic practice of “stalking” and hunting red deer; the water quality in the local streams (excellent); who makes the castle linens (a local company); and how many interlopers the castle grounds get (a few each week).

  My mac and cheese is finished fast, and when I’m finished, I find my eyelids feel heavy.

  “No wine, Lucy?”

  I blink at it. “Oh. I kind of forgot about it. Sorry.”

  He bumps my shoulder with his, then downs the glass. “No worries.” I watch in silent surprise as he takes our dishes to the sink and washes them. I’d have thought that he would leave them for the crew tomorrow.

  As he turns to me, he arches his brows.

  “I can use the sink too.” He smirks.

  He helps me off my stool. I gather Grey into my arms, and Liam gets all my bags. I follow him upstairs, what feels like several centuries back. The hall is wide, with insanely high ceilings, candle-lit wall scones, and a pleasant lemony smell. The walls are made of stone, the floor a very old, dark wood. The doors are thick wood, wide and tall, imposing.

  I follow him past woven-rug type wall hangings, past oil paintings and portraits, until at last the hallway ends. He taps a door on the hallway’s right—“I’m here”—and then the doorway right across.

  “This one is yours.”

  I have to struggle not to gasp as he pushes the door open.

  The room is stunning, massive as a cave, with the same high ceilings the castle seems to boast in every area. The walls are deep crimson, the floor-to-ceiling curtains beige and patterned with poppies. One long wall bears two big, round window seats, the seats done in a gold fabric. At the center of the room is an enormous, round canopy bed; the wood is cherry-colored, smooth and fine. The bed spread is gold with hints of brown, and enough pillows for an army.