Royally Matched (Royally #2)(18)

I give my sister a hug before Miss Herald guides her away.

“Have fun, Pen.”

Her soft brown eyes dance up at me. “You too. If you spot any ghosts in this old place, try to get a photo!”

When they walk off, I step slowly through the castle, taking it all in, gazing at the ceilings and the walls and everything in between. I think about the people who have stood where I am right now, whose footsteps I could be retracing—grand lords and ladies, powerful soldiers and warriors, mighty kings and commanding queens.

It’s humbling and thrilling at the same time. Like their energy and spirit is in the stone itself, speaking to me, showing me—guiding my way. Before I know it, I’m in the corner of the east wing on the third floor. It’s quiet here, a bit far from the commotion of the main filming areas. The door creaks when I open it, stepping inside the bedroom.

And my breath catches.

Oh. Hell. Yes. I’ve found my room. Because for me, this one is perfect—absolutely perfect.





Later, when the sun hangs low in the sky but there are still a few hours until sunset, the full cast of ladies and crew are down in front of the castle. Vanessa Steele, the executive producer, announced that all assistants and non-cast members must remain indoors or off set. Since it’s an outdoor shoot, she doesn’t want to chance any of us getting caught in the shot.

I’ve found the perfect spot to watch the taping—on the forested side of the castle, up a hill, near a tree for cover, just in case. I have a stellar view of the castle entrance down below, and in the meantime, I have my book for company. Sitting back against the tree, I sigh with contentment. This is going to be lovely. Then I open my book . . . and practically jump out of my skin when a cough sounds from behind me.

I didn’t see anyone when I first walked up here.

Closing my book, I look out from behind the trunk cautiously. Just far enough . . . to see the unmistakable sight of His Royal Highness, Prince Henry, standing a few yards away.

With a gasp, I duck back behind the tree.

I grew up inundated with news stories of the royal family and posters of our handsome princes pinned to my bedroom walls—every girl in Wessco did. Nicholas was the serious one, staid and well-spoken, honorable—just like Mr. Darcy. Henry always seemed more like Fiyero Tigelaar from Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West—fun-loving, passionate, and thoughtless, focused only on the next party and his own pleasure.

I stand up and peep back out from behind my tree for another glimpse.

And my heart starts to gallop, my head goes fuzzy, and it feels like my throat is closing in on itself. Because—sweet baby Jesus in a manger—he’s coming this way! His long, purposeful strides are aimed right at me. Which means when he gets here, I’ll actually have to speak to him. Although we met that one brief time—last year in a pub when he was with his brother and Olivia Hammond, who is now Princess Olivia, the Duchess of Fairstone—and while I’m acquainted with the details of Prince Henry John Edgar Thomas’s life, he’s still just a handsome stranger. And I don’t do well with strangers.

My eyes dart around for an escape. Curling up behind the tree like a snail in its shell is out—he’s obviously already spotted me. Damn. I glance up at the branches—I’m an excellent climber—but even the lowest one is out of jumping reach. Double damn.

He’s almost here. Shit, shit, shit.

I think I’m hyperventilating. I may pass out. Which would solve the problem of having to talk with him, but it’d be even more embarrassing—I’m speaking from experience.

Mentally, I shake myself. I just need to think of something to say.

And now the only thing filling my mind is thinkofsomethingtosay, thinkofsomethingtosay, thinkofseomthingtosay.

My hands turn sweaty and numb.

I could ask about his mother—always a safe bet. Except . . . his mother is dead.

Damn it all to hell.

And . . . he’s here.

My eyes drop down and I freeze, like a deer caught in the biggest, brightest headlights. I stare at his boots, dark and shiny like black mirrors. I force my gaze upward, over his long legs clad in black . . . polyester pants? His hips and waist are covered by a white jacket with garishly shiny buttons, purple accents, and gold-roped tassels on each of his broad shoulders.

It’s a ridiculous outfit—like a cheap Prince Charming costume—and yet he still manages to look fantastic.

The top button is clasped at his neck, accentuating a sexy, masculine Adam’s apple. He has a chiseled chin; a strong, slightly stubbled jawline; criminally full lips; a straight, regal nose; thick, wild dark-blond hair, and eyes so beautiful they’ll steal your breath, words, and thoughts. They’re a stormy shade of green, but warm like raw emeralds heated by the sun. I remember, the first time we met, thinking how none of the pictures I’d ever seen of him did his eyes justice. And, at this moment, I second that opinion.

If I weren’t naturally speechless, I would be now.

Prince Henry’s brow furrows, looking down at me in an almost disgruntled way.

“Did someone die?”

And it’s such a ludicrous question, I forget to be panicked.

“What?”

“Or are you a witch?” He clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “Sorry—Wiccan? Pagan? Worshipper of the dark arts? What is the PC term these days?”