Crown Jewels

by Ella James

  My eyes fly around the vast space, drinking in the gorgeous oriental rug—gold, brown, and white; the dais by a row of bookshelves that bears a claw-footed tub (“for soaking, not bathing,” Liam tells me as my eyes catch his); a tall, thin dresser in one corner (“jewelry”); and an oil painting that must be almost two stories high, covering one wall almost to the ceiling. It depicts a forest, with a large deer at the center, looking directly out of the painting.

  “Just for soaking,” I laugh, waving at the tub. “Holy hell, whose room is this?”

  He smiles tightly. “The queen’s.”

  SIXTEEN

  Liam

  Mistakes are worse when you see them as you make them.

  I know I shouldn’t let her stay…but I can’t send her off. I lead her to the crimson room—my mother’s room—because I’m incapable of any other action. I was born in that room, on a night with a full moon, the quarters lit by only candles, so I’m told. As the stories go, it was an easy birth, so my parents had no reservations about adding to the family later with my little sister.

  I show Lucy the spacious bathroom and the refrigerator inside one of the bookshelves. I even pull the covers down for her, sporting a smile I hope she’ll find charming.

  Then I’m gone. Not to my room—I know I can’t sleep—but to the rooftop gardens and the labyrinth.

  The moon is full tonight. Its pearly light shines against my skin. My breath makes small, pale clouds in the black night.

  You’re an imposter, my conscience screams. You’re lying to her.

  I try to tell myself it doesn’t matter. She’ll be here and gone, another fuck, because that’s all I can allow right now. Until everything plays out, I can’t get close to someone new. It wouldn’t be right.

  You shouldn’t let her stay at all, a small voice whispers.

  I think about her hair. The way it felt. The way it smelled that night. I think about her silk-smooth skin. Her mouth. How fucking good I know already it will feel to just get lost in her, in Lucille Rhodes.

  She’ll never know. She’ll never know how much I’m holding back. I won’t put her in danger.

  Just a few days.

  I crouch down beside the tall, stone wall and pull my flask out of my pocket.

  * * *

  Lucy

  I’m tired, but I can’t sleep.

  I know I have to tell him…soon. I can’t just stay here, in this gorgeous suite, right across the hall from sexy-as-hell Prince Liam, pretending we’re just friends or—worse—fuck buddies.

  For the first few hours after the door shuts, I occupy myself with showering, texting Amelia and my family, and finally reading TMZ. I’m so mentally exhausted, I can’t bring myself to summon much feeling over the Lucy Rhodes stories, except some vague gratitude the mothereffers at TMZ pulled the images down.

  I sit in one of the window seats, Grey perched beside me in a tiny, sleeping ball, and braid strands of my own hair as the moon climbs in the sky. The cool breeze ripples through the giant fir tree outside my window. In the distance, I see a tiny sheen of sparkle: ocean water.

  At one point, I hear footsteps in the hall. Heat rushes through me as I think about Liam opening my door. Disappointment chills me when he doesn’t.

  I think about how I’d want to be told the secret I’m keeping if I were a guy. Away from the castle, maybe. I don’t know what kind of security they have in place here, but if there are cameras—and I’m sure there are, at least in some spots—there’s probably someone employed to watch and listen to them.

  I rub lotion on my legs and tell myself that in the morning, after breakfast, I’ll suggest we take a walk. I’ll tell him then.

  I pull up TMZ again and stare down at a picture they still have up. It’s one of Bryce, relaxing on a chair beside a pool. His family’s pool, in the Hamptons. He’s shirtless, his arms looking toned and lean in the glow of the sunlight, his light blond hair whipped by a summer breeze.

  I remember that bathing suit. The navy blue one. I think I might have even picked it out. I remember a conversation he and I had back in the day about designer clothes. How necessary they were. I remember stressing out a time or two about the color of my nail-polish. It, too, needed to be designer. The show’s producers were always saying something. What was it? I rub my temple. “It’s a fairy tale.” That’s what they used to like to say.

  “They want a fairy tale. Give them a fairy tale!” I smirk as I remember this one particular producer. “You can’t buy anything at Target anymore, Lucy! Don’t even drive by,” she told me.

  I look around the huge, dark room. There’s a fireplace, filled with white candles. I look at the canopy over the round bed, at the slats of glass up in the ceiling. Painted glass, it looks like. Stained glass. I can’t say for sure because it’s so dark now, but I think there’s stained glass in the ceiling.

  I walk over to one of the ornate dressers and run my hand over its shiny wood. There’s a hand mirror atop it. It looks silver—or maybe platinum. I realize it’s glittering because it’s encrusted with diamonds.

  I look at my face in the mirror.

  Not a queen’s face.

  My reflection blurs, and I can feel his hands around my wrists. I can hear his words. The things he said that night…

  “You’re just a fucking whore. That’s all you are. That’s all you are!”

  I fold my palm over my lower belly as a tear drips down my cheek.

  I know it isn’t true. I know that with my brain. But my heart still hurts. I thought he loved me. I loved him. That’s what they all forget, what I remember in these quiet, sad moments. I loved Bryce. I used to cook for him. I used to strip for him. He used to like it when I kissed under his jaw. Sometimes if I did it just right, it would make him shiver.

  Why’d he say those things? Why did he do what he did that night? I know it wasn’t me. I really do. What happened was all about Bryce. About his family. About his father. About his lack of confidence, his need for control. About the drugs that he was using.

  Still, I curl into a tiny ball, because the hurt I feel is mine.

  * * *

  I awaken to a running water sound. A stream? I lift my head and startle as I realize where I am. I’m in this big room. The queen’s room. Does that mean it was Liam’s mom’s room?

  I straighten up and blink around. That’s when I notice sunlight streaming in from a place on the wall. A sliding door. How did I miss that? The door is open now, the curtains pushed aside. I slide out of the bed and wander over to what turns out to be a balcony. It’s not actually open, it’s got a screen door, which I push back, giving a glance back at the bed, where Grey is curled up.

  I step outside into the cool morning air, and yes, I can see a sparkling stream or creek—and hear it, too. It winds maybe fifty yards away from the castle, surrounded by thick grass and shaded by trees.

  A bird flies overhead. I lift my eyes up to the blue sky.

  Who opened the door?

  I stand there in the warm sunlight, trying and failing to figure out what time it is. I’m still a little jet-lagged. I shield my eyes and look up at the sun. I don’t think it’s noon yet.

  My stomach does a brutal back-flip. God, I need to tell him. Today.

  I hear a pounding sound, and turn back toward my giant room. No, not pounding—knocking. I step back into the room, glance down at myself, and grab the robe I left atop an armchair. I pull it on.

  “Come in,” I call as I tie it and Grey jumps off the bed.

  I’m expecting Liam. Instead, I see a woman’s pretty brown eyes. Her skin is pale, and there are freckles on her nose. The next thing I notice is her clothing; it’s an old-fashioned, black and white maid’s uniform.

  Her shoes click as she pushes a giant, wooden cart into my room. It’s laden with the most amazing-smelling breakfast foods.

  “Brought you some breakfast,” she tells me. Her accent is thick—much thicker than Prince Liam’s—and very Scottish-sounding.

 
I smile and wrap my arms around myself—one of my “uncomfortable” tells the producers were always on me about years ago.

  “Thank you.”

  She disappears into the hallway and returns with a table and one chair, which she promptly sets up right beside my bed. I watch her, feeling slightly helpless as she moves all the food onto the table.

  Then she turns to the fireplace. “Would you like a fire?” To me it sounds like, Would yeh like eh fire?

  I shake my head. “No thank you. I’m okay.”

  She gives a little bow, then, as she steps back toward the door, she turns around again. “I forgot to tell you, I’m Belinda. I’ll be helping you during your stay here. If you need me, hit the button here.” She waves her hand at a panel right beside my door. “Anything you need, I’ll fetch it for you.”

  And then she’s gone, and I’m alone with a mountain of amazing food. There’s a heap of something that looks and smells like sliced, cinnamon-sprinkled ham; a pile of crispy bacon; a stack of English muffins that appear deep-fried, dripping butter; a few halved tomatoes; three boiled eggs; a plate of cheesy scrambled eggs; and a platter bearing six thick, syrup-drenched waffles.

  It appears she also brought me three types of juice, two mugs of coffee, a pitcher of water (with an accompanying crystal glass), several linen napkins with the royal seal sewn into them, and—finally I notice, behind the other plates—a giant platter of fresh fruit.

  I run my gaze over all the food, worrying over what will be done with the leftovers. Will I look rude if I don’t eat it all? Because there’s no way I can. As soon as that thought flits through my mind, my stomach churns a little.

  Oh Lord.

  Grey twirls around my feet, purring.

  “Not for you,” I murmur.

  I pick a piece of bacon and nibble on it, then try a few tiny bites of waffle. It’s really good. My stomach settles down a little, and I wish I had some ginger ale. That’s not going to happen, I remind myself. As soon as we go for our walk and I tell him my secret, I’ll be on the road again. I probably will tour Gael, spend a few days here, then go back to Scotland. Maybe even to Ireland before I head toward home.

  Even though it hurts, being alone right now, I also sort of crave it. I need to figure out how I feel about the current state of my life, and what I want to do exactly. Staying on the ranch just isn’t plausible.

  Not only because of the weird phone call and the potential Bryce-related dangers, but because as soon as I start showing just the smallest bit, it won’t be safe to work with horses anymore. Riding would put the baby at risk. And I can’t do my job without riding.

  I haven’t looked past the day in front of me in more than a year, so I’m not sure what my backup plan should be. Maybe that’s a good thing. No over-thinking things, just making plans that I can execute. I’ve got this, I tell myself.

  I notice a small tub of whipped cream and some sliced strawberries and pour those over my waffles. With a guilty look at all the other food, I zero in on them and down a waffle and a half before my stomach does another funny twist and I decide it’s time to have some water and be finished.

  I dab my mouth, set down my napkin, and then there’s another knock.

  “Come in.” My head buzzes a little, a light-headed feeling spurred by nerves.

  It’s the girl again, Belinda. My helper person.

  “Just checking in on you.”

  “I’m good. I’m…sort of finished.” I expect some protest, but she simply bobs her head and starts to load the dishes back onto the cart.

  “Prince Liam, he says to tell you dress in something fit for riding if you want to ride—horses, of course. And knock on his door when you’re ready.”

  She moves all the food stuff out into the hall, then surprises me by coming back in as I’m taking off my robe to hand me a stack of clothes.

  “Some riding gear, should you need it.”

  I frown down at it, then remember my manners and give the girl a polite smile. “Thank you.”

  I’m sure it’s not my size, but— Actually, it is, I realize as she leaves. The top and pants and boots are all my size.

  I’m not sure if that’s cool or creepy. I shower quickly, dry my hair, work the locks into a French braid, do my eyeliner and mascara, brush some light makeup on, and put on lipstick. Then I slip into the clothes: tan breeches, a very pale blue-gray shirt, a leather belt, and riding shoes—all designer. They fit me flawlessly. I pull a red button-up sweater from my bag and put it on over the blue shirt. It matches okay, because the shirt is so pale, it’s almost white.

  I glide on another layer of lipstick for good luck, rub some of my favorite vanilla lotion on my hands, and spray myself with rose water.

  You can do this, I tell my reflection in the mirror. I refill Grey’s food and water, giving him a little rub and a pep talk before I check my phone—it’s 10:10 local time—and sling my purse across my chest. Then I walk across the hall and knock on Liam’s door.

  SEVENTEEN

  Lucy

  He answers with a brow raised. Within seconds, his handsome face is curved into a smile.

  “Lucy…” He reaches for me, fingertips closing around the open hem of my button-up sweater.

  For those first few seconds, I’m consumed by the gentle look on his face. By his long-lashed hazel eyes. What is with those eyes? They’re so…kind. So warm. Everything about him seems so open as he stands there in his doorway, with his grin and his hair down, hanging almost to his shoulders.

  His body shifts a littler closer to mine. “You sleep okay?”

  I feel my face warmed by his proximity. By the fact that I can smell him. I can feel his heat. My gaze stumbles over him, taking in his charcoal t-shirt and his faded, ripped jeans. I swallow. Nod.

  “Good. Better than good,” I tack on. “That room is awesome.”

  He shifts back a little, shoving both hands in his pockets. “Good. Breakfast okay?”

  “For sure. It was a lot of food, though.”

  He crooks a brow. “Too much food?” His face is skeptical. Teasing, I realize.

  I shrug. “I felt kind of bad I couldn’t eat it all.”

  “C’mon.” He bumps me with his elbow. “Don’t feel bad for that.”

  “Southern culture isn’t very wasteful.”

  He winks. “Kitchen is probably eating your left-overs.”

  “Really?”

  He smirks.

  “You’re just saying that.”

  He shrugs. “Am I?”

  “Yes.”

  He gives me a poker face, then steps back and turns slightly—and that’s when I notice the room around him.

  “Holy God.”

  With a jacket in his hand—one he just grabbed off a table—he turns to me, brows lifted.

  “Sorry. Just…” I feel my eyes go wide as my gaze moves around the room. The bedroom set is enormous—the bed more than king-sized, made of dark, ornately carved wood. The bedding seems silk, and is in forest colors: browns, greens, golds, reds. What really catches my eye is a massive portrait of a woman on one wall. One look at her face—at her pretty eyes—and I can see she must be Liam’s mom.

  “Wow.” I shake my head slowly. My gaze pulls to his. “Liam, that’s beautiful.”

  “What is?”

  “The portrait.” I nod at it. “Is that your mother?”

  He nods once.

  “Beautiful.”

  His lips press into a thin line, and his eyebrows arch again. “Ready?” he asks, stepping out into the hall. His tone is slightly curt.

  I nod. “Sure.”

  As he shuts his door, I second-guess myself, then tell myself to quit. It’s not my fault he’s sensitive about his mother. I can take the hint and not mention her again, but no need to feel guilty that I did this time.

  I’m looking out the windows as we pass them, rubbing my fingers over my phone, inside my purse, when Liam’s hand grabs my free one. His long, warm fingers twine through mine. He gives m
y hand a little squeeze. I look up at him, surprised anew by our height difference.

  “You’re tall.”

  He smirks. “You’re short.”

  “How tall are you?”

  “How tall are you?”

  “Smartass.” I give his hand a playful squeeze. “I’m five-foot-three and a half.”

  “And a half?” He grins.

  “Well, I am. I don’t know if I should round up or down, so I just say my real height.”

  “I think you’re clinging to that half,” he teases.

  I stick out my tongue. “How tall are you, Mr. Tall Guy?”

  “Six-two. Point two five.”

  I bump him with my shoulder as we reach a gorgeous wood-carved staircase. Then I bring our joined hands out in front of me. His hand is big, the fingers long, his skin still tanned, as if he spends every day on a pool deck in the Hamptons. There are several scars across his knuckles and the back of his hand.

  Just as I’m daydreaming about kissing them, he brings our hands up higher, planting a feathery kiss on my knuckles.

  He smiles. “You have little hands.”

  “You have big ones.”

  I give him what I know is an awkward look as we start down the stairs. Our footsteps are the only sound—at least I think that’s true until we get closer to the first floor and I start hearing living sounds: footsteps, quiet chatter, the creak of a door.

  “So the staff is back.”

  He nods.

  I only have a moment in the lavish hallway the stairs brought us to—it’s at least two-stories tall, decorated by elaborate woven rugs, a wall adorned with knight-like armor, and a bunch of animal heads—before he tugs me toward a little enclave where I see a big, worn leather backpack propped against a small door.

  Liam drops my hand, throws the pack over his shoulder, and opens the door for me. And then we’re outside in the light, cool air, the sunlight making me squint. Liam’s hand is at the small of my back.