Royally Matched (Royally #2)(76)
It’s a simple drawing, an open book with two blank pages, except for one word at the top:
“My story hasn’t been written yet,” she reaches up, tracing my jaw, “but I know it begins with you.”
And I’m so fucking honored and grateful, so absolutely in awe of her and so much in love with her I barely know what to do with it. So I do the only possible thing I can in the face of such a gift. I bring Sarah into my arms and kiss her.
In a blink, the morning arrives when I have to report for deployment—when I have to leave Sarah. I try to get her to stay at her flat, snuggled under the covers, but she pleads and insists on coming to the airport with me. I want every moment with her that I can have, so I give in.
The sun isn’t quite up yet and the air is frigid. On the tarmac, outside the plane that will take me away, Winston, the head of Palace security, meets us. I introduce him to Sarah.
“Sarah, this is Winston, the head Dark Suit. He’ll be making sure you’re looked after while I’m gone.”
Winston bows respectfully. “An honor and a pleasure, Lady Sarah.”
She gives him a nod, smiling graciously but shyly, as she tends to be with new people.
I squeeze her elbow and tell her I just need a private moment with Winston. And then I take him aside.
“You’re aware of Lady Sarah’s plans to join the BCA?”
“I am, Sir.”
“You’re arranging her security?”
“Yes, Prince Henry.”
My voice is as cold as the air. “Your job is to protect the royal family, to secure the future of the monarchy, is that correct?”
He nods, his eyes tireless and unyielding, like a machine. “It is.”
“Take a good look at her, Winston. Without her, there is no future for this monarchy, do you understand?”
He bows just slightly. “Completely, Sir.”
“I want her covered in security. Only the best men. If she chafes at it, have them go undercover, but I want her protected at all times. No matter what. Is that clear?”
Again, he nods. “Do not trouble yourself about it, Prince Henry. Lady Sarah will be as secure as the Queen herself.”
And a small measure of comfort slips into place. I’m not a fool, and there’s a terrible conflict that comes with being who I am and loving someone so much. A price. Because by loving Sarah, I’m bringing a level of attention and scrutiny—even danger—into her life that wouldn’t be there without me. The only reassurance is that I have the resources to protect her from it. Men like Winston and James, and the hundreds of other noble security men and women who would die to keep me, my brother, my sister-in-law, my grandmother—and now my Sarah—safe.
I tap Winston’s shoulder and with a bow, he heads toward the plane.
And I return to Sarah’s side, gazing at her face, burning this moment into my mind. I push up the sleeve of my coat and unclip the ID bracelet at my wrist, then I open Sarah’s hand and pool the platinum into her palm.
“Keep this safe for me, will you? It’ll be good to know the two things most precious to me are in the same place.”
She nods and smiles up at me at first, so lovingly . . . but then her face tightens and crumples as she starts to cry. She wraps her arms around me and I hold her close.
“I’m sorry,” she says against my coat. “I didn’t want to cry.”
I kiss her hair, rocking us gently. “You go ahead and cry all you like, love. You’re crying for both of us.”
For a few more final moments, we hold each other.
And then it’s time to let go.
I kiss her softly, deeply. And as I look into her beautiful eyes, I remember words from a lifetime ago. Words that comforted me when I needed comfort more than anything.
I press my palm to Sarah’s cheek and smile. “We’re going to be all right, you and I. Yeah?”
She takes a deep breath and gives me a smile back.
“Yeah.”
Three years later
HENRY KEPT HIS PROMISE. He wrote me a letter a day, every day that we were apart, and it turns out he’s a fantastic writer. Most were romantic, naughty—the kind a typical soldier would pen to his girl back home. A few were heartbreaking, a place for him to find solace, to pour out his grief after a difficult battle and the losses that all too often accompanied them. Some were philosophical, a way to sort out his own thoughts and beliefs by conveying them to me. And there were others that were hopeful, that spoke of the future—our future, as well as the future of our country and people and the kind of leader he aspired to be.
And I matched him letter for letter. I found I was bolder, dirtier, in my writing . . . although with Henry’s instruction, I’ve come pretty far on the dirty talk front too. In the moments that he needed my comfort, when the words were too difficult for him to write and he needed my open arms but I wasn’t there to hold him, I would send him pages and pages of I love you’s—because sometimes there’s nothing else that can be said. Other letters spoke of the work I did, the children I met and how all children are the same, no matter where they live or the language they speak . . . they all have the enormous capacity for resilience and hope and to give and receive love. And there were the letters that I wrote of my own dreams for Henry and me, for our children, and the source of strength for our people I hoped one day to be.