The Rebel Queen Page 3

  “My pleasure, madam.” The man tips his hat, avoiding my eyes, and opens the car door for Henry. “Will there be anything else, Your Majesty?” The formal address reminds me that my husband is more than just a broad-shouldered hunk, he’s now the supreme leader of a European country.

  “No. That’s all.” The icy wind ruffles Henry’s hair, but on him, the tousled locks are sexy and daring. On me? Not so much. My reflection in the car window shows a mop of tangles around my shoulders. I struggle to keep the airborne strands from sticking to my lip gloss.

  “My luggage?” I glance around for my bags. The rest of my things are being packed up by Henry’s team and shipped. We left Manhattan in a panic. I only brought what I could throw into two suitcases. Those few things are all I have left of the old me.

  “The staff will follow with our belongings,” Henry says. “Let’s go.”

  A uniformed chauffeur opens the passenger door of the Bugatti. Henry slides behind the driver’s seat, revving the engine. The car suits him; they’re both sleek and powerful with a hint of danger. The interior smells new. Soft leather chills the backs of my bare legs as I try to gracefully enter the low car without flashing my panties to the crew. My husband gawks at my bare thighs. Heat flashes into my face followed by a quick memory of his face buried between my legs. I’m instantly wet. I tug the hem down to my knees, hating the way my body reacts to his attention. I don’t want to be attracted to him. I want to feel nothing, to remain numb, because numb is safe.

  “It’s about two hours to the palace,” Henry says, flicking his gaze back to gauges on the dashboard.

  “Okay.” Awkward silence fills the car. I’d say more, but I’m too busy clutching the armrest as the tires squeal and the car springs forward. I wince at the clench of overused muscles. Henry rode me for hours. On all fours. Bent over the foot of the bed. On the floor. Against the wall. Withholding my climax until it pleased him to concede. Never tiring, driving into me until I whimpered with frustration and need. And I’d gloried in every depraved minute of it. I crawled on my hands and knees to suck his cock. Opened my legs for him. Followed his commands like a sex-starved whore. In return, he rewarded me with praise and multiple orgasms that left me speechless.

  “Are you all right?” He flashes a glance in my direction. Sunlight plays on the sharp angle where his jaw meets his neck. There’s a small love bite beneath his ear, one that I put there. I’ve got several on my breasts from him, as well. My nipples sting at the memory. I cross my arms over my chest to hide the visible reaction.

  “Yes. Fine.” I muster a fake smile while my insides quiver in confusion. No man has ever shamed and thrilled me like he did last night. Underneath the uncertainty and embarrassment, I’m famished for more of his touch.

  He takes his hand from the gear shift to slide the hem of my dress up high enough to reveal my panties. His fingers toy with the lace trim.

  “Are you sore from last night?” His tone holds a smugness that makes my blood sing.

  “Not really.” It’s a lie. Two ibuprofens barely ease the throbbing between my legs.

  “Well, I guess I’ll have to try harder.”

  “Is that a threat or a promise?”

  He smiles at my flirtatious tone. It lights up his face, making him look years younger. With his hair blowing in the wind, he seems carefree. “A little of both, I suppose.” The car growls as he downshifts to take a steep hill. “I’ll let you decide.”

  The roar of the engine drowns out our conversation. We drive through miles of rolling green pastures, thatch-roofed cottages, and small villages with cobblestone streets. Between the rustic farms and grassy fields are tanks, armed soldiers, and the ghostly ruins of bombed buildings. The contrast is shocking. I fight down a growing sense of panic. Homesickness rolls through me. I’ve been gone less than a day, and I already long for the hustle and bustle of Manhattan. A dozen unanswered questions form on my lips. They’ll have to wait. Henry is speaking Swedish into his Bluetooth, conversing with a palace liaison about an undisclosed misunderstanding.

  Am I the problem? He chooses his words carefully, never mentioning anyone by name, but I’m sure the conflict centers around our union. I use his distraction as an opportunity to study his regal profile—the long, straight line of his nose, the sharp angle of his jaw, and strong chin. His large body dominates the tight space of the car’s interior. Long fingers grip the steering wheel, handling the vehicle with ease, and I can’t help thinking how those hands felt on my body, my breasts, and between my legs.

  Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. I can’t let myself feel anything for him. This is a business arrangement, not a love match. Although we agreed to keep emotions out of it, I can’t help feeling a little nervous about tonight. My body is already thrumming with anticipation at a new lesson. I touch my lips, imagining his kiss, because he hasn’t kissed me since the wedding. Not once, and the oversight fills me with disappointment.

  “If you’re agreeable, I’d like to get you pregnant before our first anniversary.”

  My stomach flip-flops at the idea of children when I’m not even sure if I’m going to remain married. Sex is a mandatory part of our agreement, but a child? My voice is breathless. “Was that in the contract? Because I don’t remember reading that.”

  Amusement curls his mouth. “Yes. It was. Page thirty-two. I need a son to inherit the throne.” His scrutiny slices down my legs again, filled with undeniable lust. “There are provisions in the contract based on offspring. You don’t need to decide right now, but I’ll need a commitment from you—one way or the other. If you get pregnant in July, we could have a child by late spring of next year. That would work well with the projected events calendar.”

  Lucky me. My core muscles flutter. He didn’t use a condom last night. It was the first time I’d ever had unprotected sex in my life. Even my ex-husband insisted on using a condom to prevent any “accidents.” He’d said he wanted to wait for children until we were more settled. In reality, he’d gotten his mistress pregnant a few months before our honeymoon. Bastard. A chill descends over my heart. On second thought, I’m grateful Henry hasn’t kissed me. Kisses represent love. Kisses are for fools. And I’m not a fool. Not anymore.

  “Aren’t you worried that I might be a bad mother?” I’ve always wanted children, but not like this. Not as a cold, calculating contract negotiation.

  “Not really. You don’t have to do anything but give birth. The nannies can do the rest.” His shoulder lifts in an unconcerned shrug, reminding me that he holds all the cards in this game—money, wealth, power, and a royal title. “I’m going to enjoy knocking you up.”

  “Can we discuss this later?” Talk of the future has my nerves standing on end. My children won’t be raised by strangers as long as I have breath in my body.

  “No.” He downshifts, casting a side-eyed glance in my direction. “Make an appointment with the Royal Surgeon. You’ll need his input. I want you in tiptop shape. Are you on the pill or do you take a shot?”

  “I’m on the pill, but I can stop.” A wave of acceptance blankets my emotions, followed by defeat. If I become pregnant, I’ll have no option but to stay in Androvia. I could never abandon my kids. Never. My throat tightens. I blink back tears. I’m not stupid. He won’t ever stand for a divorce. This is real. This is forever.

  “There. Through the trees. That’s Wasserfell Castle.” He gestures to his left.

  Pushing aside the disappointing revelations about my future, I strain to see my new home. Tall stone walls block the view. Henry stops the car at the arched opening of a guarded gatehouse. Two soldiers in resplendent red and green uniforms approach the car. Henry lifts a hand. The iron gates swing open. At the end of a tree-lined avenue, the white turrets of a fairytale castle gleam in the mid-morning sunshine.

  “This is where you live?” Disbelief vibrates through my voice. In all my travels, I’ve never seen anything so picturesque. Wisps of fog hover at the foundation of the stone walls, making it appear to fl
oat in the air.

  “Home sweet home.” Deep dimples give his aloof face a boyish air and make my stomach dance. Maybe there will be benefits to this new life after all. Dimples and babies. It’s not the worst thing to happen to a girl. “We’ll live here in the royal apartments.”

  His words are an uneasy reminder of the many ways my life has changed in forty-eight hours. No more Manhattan apartment. No more walks through Central Park. No more nightclubs. No more food from street vendors. No more drinks with friends. I brush aside the negative thoughts. If I’m going to get through this, I need to concentrate on the present, live in the moment. I’ve always been good at compartmentalizing. The idea washes away a tiny bit of the pain.

  The Bugatti’s engine whines as it climbs the steep, winding drive to the castle. We cross over the moat on a narrow bridge and come to a stop inside an enclosed courtyard. Two footmen approach the car. Henry exits, leaving his door open for someone else to close, and leaves me scrambling to catch up. The moisture disappears from my mouth as I gape up at seven stories of ancient architecture. The walls are pitted and scarred, an echo of the way I feel inside. Behind me, iron gates clang shut. I flinch. The sound affects me in a way I hadn’t anticipated. Like it or not, I’m stuck here.

  Our footsteps echo as we walk through a shadowed hallway. Austere portraits of long-dead people stare down at us. Henry strides quickly, forcing me to trot a few paces behind him. At the end of the hall, we pass through enormous double doors into what must be the Great Hall. Even Henry looks small beneath the heavy wood beams of the arched cathedral ceiling. Butlers and footmen hover with silver trays in their gloved hands. A dozen guests mill about the room and lounge on sofas. Their chatter ceases as they jump to their feet, heads bowing in respect.

  Near the enormous fireplace, a woman studies the dancing flames. A thin ribbon of cigarette smoke winds around the silver hair coiled at the base of her slender neck.

  “Henry, thank goodness, you’re here. I’ve been a wretch without you.” She leans forward to receive his kiss, tilting her silver cigarette holder to one side.

  “I came as quickly as possible.” The slope of his nose matches hers. They have the same regal carriage, the same authoritative stance, but her gaze is flat, lacking his intensity.

  “It’s been a madhouse here. No one understands what I’m going through.” Her attention drifts over his shoulder to meet mine. “Who is this?” Her fingers toy with the emerald necklace around her throat.

  “This is Everly.” Henry turns and extends a hand, motioning me forward. “Everly, may I introduce you to my mother, Princess Marie.”

  I step forward, curtsy, and smile. “It’s an honor to meet you, Your Royal Highness. I’m so sorry for your loss. Please accept my heartfelt condolences.”

  Her glance sweeps over my frizzy hair, tired eyes, and wrinkled dress before returning to her son. “This isn’t an appropriate time to trot out a new plaything, Henry.”

  “She’s not a plaything, Mother. She’s my wife.”

  A collective gasp swirls through the room. Shock pulls her features into an ugly scowl. Anxiety twists my insides. I assumed his family knew about our marriage. At the least, he could have forewarned me about their ignorance. Instead, I’m forced to maintain a neutral expression while unpleasant emotions flit across the princess’s face.

  “Please tell me this is a practical joke. I don’t think I can take this kind of mischief right now.” The irritation in her voice brings the servants to a standstill.

  “I never joke, Mother. We’re legally married. I have the certificate to prove it.”

  “The court has not approved this union.” She waves a bejeweled hand through the air, like she’s wiping away our marriage.

  “The court of Connecticut does.” He’s unruffled by her temper. I remain silent, my stare bouncing between them, fascinated by the complicated dynamics of their relationship.

  “Annulments are easy to obtain. See a royal barrister about it. I’m sure we can rush it through. The Church will understand.”

  “Absolutely not.” Henry squares his shoulders, giving his mother an equally stubborn glare. In the corner of the room, a maid drops the bouquet of flowers she was holding. The glass vase shatters. Henry’s smile turns smug. One of his arms steals around my waist. He pulls me into his side. “The news should be hitting social media and the tabloids about now. And, besides, Everly isn’t Catholic.”

  “Not Catholic?” The bitterness in her laughter lifts the hairs on the back of my neck. “Have you lost your mind? The king is barely cold, and you waltz in here with a divorced, Protestant commoner as your wife, and one involved in a recent scandal.”

  As much as I hate to admit it, her arguments are valid. I’m all of those things—disloyal, rebellious, a wreck. No wonder her face has turned a deep shade of scarlet. Her son, the new King of Androvia, has dropped a bomb on her. I wish I could crawl beneath the aged planks. It seems even the isolated country of Androvia is aware of my family’s drama.

  “Yes, Ms. McElroy, I recognize your name. I know who you are and what you’ve done. Your father is no stranger to this court.” Her pale stare bores into me. Sharp words bubble to my lips. I bite the inside of my cheek to hold them back. She leans forward to lock gazes with me. “Well? Have you nothing to say for yourself?”

  “You don’t have to explain anything to her.” Henry’s voice buzzes close to my ear. He mistakes my silence as fear when it’s anything but that. Addressing the room, he adds, “And the appropriate address is Princess Everly. You can refer to her as Her Royal Highness.”

  The new title brings a lump of anxiety to my throat. I appreciate his support, but I’m not going to let her disparage my character in front of me. “With all due respect, Your Highness, I did what I had to do to protect the ones I love. You, of all people, should understand that.”

  “And in the process, you’ve destroyed your family name and reputation.” Her slender brows draw together over her nose. “You should know that I also protect the ones I love, and I will not let your drama taint the House of Von Stratton.”

  “My father tried to send Roman Menshikov—an innocent man—to prison for something he did.” The longer I talk, the hotter my temper flares. Henry’s grip tightens on my hip, but he doesn’t try to stop me. “If I let him ruin more lives, I’d be just as guilty as he is. I may be a divorced Protestant, but I am not a heartless bitch.” The princess recoils, glancing at Henry for his reaction. He moves closer, spurring me on with his body heat at my shoulder. “The true victims are the people damaged by his narcissistic actions.”

  “I would hardly call Roman Menshikov an innocent.” Her companions twitter in amusement. “He’s more powerful than all of us combined. Some people call him the devil.”

  “That devil is married to my best friend, and he’s been nothing but good to me.” Emotion thickens the walls of my throat. “My father framed Roman for murder. Don McElroy is the monster.”

  “If killing mistresses was uncommon, half the royal family would be behind bars. I’m quite certain that Henry’s ancestors buried a few beneath the stones of this courtyard. King Gustav certainly had a few I’d like to kill.” Amusement twitches her mouth. “Then again, whatever would we do with all the bodies? We’d need a new annex to house them all.” Laughter echoes off the dark, medieval beams of the ceiling, halting the moment she lifts a hand.

  “It’s easy for you to stand there and judge me, but you have no idea about the depth of his treachery.” The words fly from my lips. My father—decorated war hero and philanthropist—is the man behind the recent upsurge in third world terrorism. Princess Marie’s eyes bulge at my impudence. Henry’s fingers bite into my side, ready to silence me. “I don’t know how it works in Androvia, but in my country, we don’t allow such things. Turning evidence against him was the right thing to do. I stand by my decision.”

  “I’m sure you do, dear.” Her fingers stroke along the jeweled chain like it’s a beloved pet. “Whatev
er you need to tell yourself to get past this is fine by me. I only wish you’d left Henry alone. He loves to sort out messes, always bringing home stray cats to tame, only to infest the castle with fleas.”

  I draw a breath, preparing to singe her ears with my wrath.

  “Easy, spitfire.” Henry’s lips brush against the curve of my ear. His breath prickles along my skin, lifting the tiny hairs. “It’s your first day. You have plenty of time to infuriate your mother-in-law.”

  The flit of Marie’s hand through the air dismisses me like I’m a pesky fly to be shooed. “Enough of this nonsense. The folly of your country is none of this court’s business. Someone take her away, please.”

  “With all due respect, ma’am, you should care because your country is what started this mess.”

  “Everly.” Henry gives me a tiny shake, like he’s trying to knock some sense into me.

  A mixture of disbelief and curiosity flickers in her eyes. The room has grown silent again. Even the servants have stopped working to gape at me. Heat climbs up my neck, spreads across my cheeks, and stops at the tips of my ears. Because I’m a redhead, I’m cursed with fair skin. Every time my temper flares, my face turns red.

  “Is there anything else?” Her thin eyebrows lift higher.

  “You said I was a commoner, but I’m not. My mother is a cousin to the Queen of England.”

  “But you yourself are not titled.”

  “No. I’m an American. We don’t need titles.”

  “Thank you for that explanation.” Her lips thin into a sneer. She eases onto the cushions of a nearby loveseat. The faded green velvet upholstery contrasts perfectly with her peach skirt and jacket. Her attention returns to her son, signaling the end of our conversation. “Henry, you’ve always been willful, but I never expected this kind of disobedience from you. What will Lady Clayton think? The poor girl will be heartbroken.” One of the footmen pops forward when she flicks her cigarette, catching the ashes before they fall on the rug.