Crown Jewels (Off-Limits Romance #1)(21)
Again, I don’t know how to feel or what to think. The way he acts—like he’s…invested. Like he cares. It’s hard for me to comprehend. It’s overwhelming. Nice. But it makes me want to keep my distance.
Silence fills the line.
“Lucy?” he murmurs.
“Yeah?”
“Would you like to come to Gael?”
“Why?” I choke.
“Why not?”
My eyes shut. “It’s across the ocean?”
Compared to my high, shaky voice, his sounds extra low when he asks, “Are you afraid of flying?”
“No. Not really.”
“Are you afraid of me?” I think I hear a smile in his voice.
“Maybe.” I flip my hair off my hot neck. “I think your harem is full enough without another woman.”
“There’s no one here but me.” There’s something strange about the way he says it. So I almost believe him. Then I imagine him with that girl atop him in the Instagram photo, rubbing his shoulders while she rocks herself against him.
He’s nice—yes. He’s charming. Swoony, even. But he’s Prince Liam. He’s a playboy.
“Thank you, Liam. I’m okay here, though.” For now at least. Someday soon, I’ll have to tell him my secret. But not now.
“The offer stands. Escape and entertainment.”
“Thank you.” My gut clenches.
“Goodnight, Lucy.”
“Goodnight, Liam.”
NINE
Liam
The Kingdom of Gael is 4,700 square miles: a little smaller than Northern Ireland or the state of Indiana. Several million years ago, its west coast was connected to the east coast of Scotland, fitting like a puzzle piece into Linne Foirthe, the inlet of the North Sea that kisses Edinburgh.
Lots of underwater earthquakes later, the ferry ride from Edinburgh to Clary, Gael, covers 69 nautical miles, or about the distance from Baton Rouge to New Orleans. Gael is shaped like the silhouette of a bird’s head, turned sideways. Our capital, Clary, is at the tip of the beak, pointed toward Scotland. Torr, where I live in Haugr Castle, is at the top of the bird’s head. The journey from his head to the tip of his beak takes me exactly one hour, twenty-seven minutes. More if I tell Ain to disregard discretion and drive fast.
It wouldn’t be smart to take a vehicle outside the royal fleet. Would be too dangerous if we’re caught. Would put us at risk of being stopped by the guard—Gael’s police force. So Ain drives a black Bentley with the royal plates. Past the townships Kot, Dalr, and Vestur, over two-lane roads that cut through grassy, rock-strewn countryside and arch over sloshing tj?rns.
It’s windy today, even more so than usual. When the wind rips across Gael’s flatlands, it’s a force. I watch Ain pull the steering wheel against the slap of it and wish that I was driving. One of many things I dislike about being in my homeland: a prince behind the wheel would seem like sacrilege. Would start rumors about the royal finances.
I try not to think about that as Ain drives and I sit with the tips of my shoes against the bundle underneath the front passenger’s seat.
Ain has the radio set to classic rock, and doesn’t look back at me as he drives. I know he feels sympathy for me—maybe even pity—but he’s angry with me too. For putting the crown in jeopardy. For not stopping everything sooner.
He’s told me more than once this can’t go on. I know he’s right. I just don’t know how to end it. There is a solution I don’t think I can pull off. Another one I’m not ready for. I wonder if he thinks I’m a coward for not being ready. The thought makes my hands sweat, makes my throat tighten. Like there’s a noose around my neck in more than metaphor.
I let my fingertips hover over the flask in my pocket, but I don’t touch it through the fabric of my pants. Having it up against my leg: that’s enough. It has to be. I’m not drinking it in front of Ain.
I study the black hair that curls along his nape. It’s turning silver in some places. I remember when I was a teenager, the way I envied Ain’s beard. I thought he was such a badass, but I also hated him for following me everywhere and making me look weak and sheltered. He wasn’t with me for most of the last year and a half. I enjoyed it. I think briefly of dismissing him entirely, and what that would be like, before I feel a jab of guilt.
I lift my gaze out the window, to where buildings have started springing up out of the rocky landscape. Petrol stations, restaurants, office buildings, apartments… Clary looks a bit like Edinburgh, but cleaner and slightly less modern. Three hundred thousand people live here. My eyes follow them as they walk, bike, and wait on buses.
Gael has a great bus system. Thinking of that makes my mind lurch forward, cataloguing what I know about the nation’s transport system, any controversies with its funding, flaws in the planning grid. I grit my teeth and shift my thoughts away.
I shut my eyes, try to imagine the capitol city of Clary as it stood two hundred years ago: nothing but a stone fortress and huts for all the farmers and the tradesmiths.
There are mountains on the island’s north shore, and a small ridge in the northeast. But not here. Clary is situated on a high point, overlooking a vast valley. I wish I could turn back time and see the way the wind would whip through the grasses. The way the ocean would pound the rocky shore. Horses, carts, and maybe even chickens on the rocky roads.