Crown Jewels (Off-Limits Romance #1)(39)

“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.