Royally Matched (Royally #2)(74)

She doesn’t laugh. She doesn’t even smile.

“The press will be told that I’m on safari in Africa, then climbing Everest, and finally, on a research mission in the rain forest. I’ll be portrayed as quite the heroic adventurer. But you can’t tell anyone—not Penny or Willard or Annie or your mum. No one can know.”

Sarah just looks at me and her expression slowly breaks my heart.

“Why are you doing this?”

I push her soft hair back and hope she can understand. “Because if I’m going to be a king, I need to know how to lead. And I think . . . I think I could be good at it.”

Her hands slide up and down my chest, grazing, like she wants to be sure I’m still here with her.

“Where will they send you?”

“I don’t know yet. I’ll find out when I report for duty . . . in two weeks.”

“Two weeks? Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“I didn’t want to risk manipulating you. I didn’t want to pressure you into taking me back.”

She snorts. “You picked a hell of a time to be noble, Henry.”

“I know.” I scoff, shaking my head at the craziness of it all. “And . . . I’m sorry. I realize this isn’t what you want . . . but it’s what I have to do.”

“For how long?” she asks quietly.

“Two years.”

She flinches, and I rush to tell her the rest.

“Extra precautions will have to be taken to keep my location under wraps. We won’t be able to text or Skype or call. It’s not just about my safety . . . you understand, don’t you?”

Her voice is clogged with sadness, but she nods. “Yes.”

I bring my hand to her jaw, needing to touch her, and the flutter of her pulse taps against my fingertips. Then, in a rough voice, I promise and swear, “But I’ll write you. I’ll write you every day. Pages and pages of lovely words and filthy thoughts.”

Sarah smiles, even as a tear trickles down her cheek. “You’ll write me letters? Real letters that I can touch and smell and hold?”

“Real letters.” I pull her closer, whispering, “Paper and ink. I’ve been told there’s nothing else like it.”





Three days later, I wake up alone in Sarah’s bed. It’s early, still gray outside, without the full brightness of the winter sun. Not needing to be anywhere anytime soon, I pick up my guitar and strum a few chords.

Just a bit later, Sarah appears in the doorway—her hair delightfully windblown, eyes shining, the tip of her nose pink from the cold. It makes me want to bite it—and that thought makes me want to bite her everywhere else. I set the guitar down and she bounces onto the bed and her coat feels like ice as I skim it off her shoulders, because she’s wearing entirely too much clothing.

“I’ve done something,” she tells me, excitedly. “You’re not going to like it.”

“Anything that puts a smile like that on your pretty lips, I’m sure I’ll like very much.”

“I doubt that.”

Then she holds out a handful of papers. I look them over and my own smile drops fast and hard. She was right—I don’t like it at all.

“No.”

“Henry—”

“Absolutely fucking not.”

The Blue Coat Association is Wessco’s equivalent of the Red Cross. Volunteers travel to disaster and war-torn areas to deliver food and medical supplies, build homes—whatever the populace needs. Six months ago a BCA facility was mistakenly hit by friendly fire, killing all thirty-three people inside.

“I’m going to start a reading program; they’re very excited about it. I’ll be teaching the children in the encampments to read and organizing donations from libraries. I can start with Concordia, but they’re hopeful the program could expand to libraries all over the world.”

My jaw clenches and I shake my head. “You’re not doing this, Sarah.”

“I’ve already signed up.”

“Then we’ll unsign you.”

Her mouth goes tight and her eyes harden.

“I didn’t ask for your permission and I’m not looking for it now.”

I feel the frustration swelling inside me. And the fear.

“I’m going to be your king.”

“But you’re not yet.”

“I’m going to be your husband.”

She holds up her hand. “Huh, look at that—no ring. And it wouldn’t matter if there were, because if you think I’m going to stand in Saint George’s Cathedral and promise to obey you for the rest of our lives, you haven’t been paying attention.”

I don’t want to make her doubt herself, but I’m desperate enough to say, “There may be explosions, loud noises. You still don’t . . . you still have a hard time with those.”

Her eyes dim—and I hate myself.

“I’ve explained the situation. They’re willing to work with me on it. Make whatever accommodations are possible.”

I cup her face in my hands. And my voice turns strangled.

“It will be dangerous.”

Her hands encircle my wrists, holding on.

“But you make me want to be brave.”