And there's something different about him. He's still the Henry I know. The wild lad with a dirty mouth is still there below the surface. But the way he carries himself has changed, like there's a veneer of . . . nobility that wasn't there before.
He turns in a circle, noting my framed covers on the wall, running his finger along my prized bookshelf.
There's so much to say, but I can't for the life of me figure out how to start.
So I ask, "Would you like tea?"
"Yes, tea would be lovely."
I nod, and on jittery legs move into the tiny kitchen. And just like our first real conversation by that big tree on the hill, instead of going mute, I babble.
"I have peppermint and chamomile. But that's probably too bland for you, isn't it?" I take the pot and canisters out of the cabinets and set them on the counter. "I have this fruity, exotic blend that Annie convinced me to try--it's not my taste at all, but you may--"
Henry puts his hand over mine, standing so close behind me, I can feel the heat from his strong chest and smell the scent of his shirt.
"Sarah," he says against my ear, raising goose bumps along my neck. "I like peppermint tea."
And it's absolutely insane, but that small, insignificant confession breaks something open in my chest--which I didn't even realize I was keeping tightly shut.
I turn my head, looking at him over my shoulder, and he's right there, near and real and here.
"You do?"
Henry nods.
"It's not too plain for you?"
He shakes his head, swiping a tear from my cheek that I wasn't aware had fallen.
"It's my very favorite."
His arms come around me then. And I sink back against him. I feel his lips on my hair, as he inhales deeply--breathing me in.
"I've missed you so much," he whispers. "Every day."
"Where have you been? What took you so long?"
Henry straightens with a sigh, like he has to force himself to back away.
"Tea first. Then we'll talk."
I'm not sure I like the sound of that. But I put the pot on and a few minutes later, we're seated on the sofa, drinking peppermint tea.
Henry sets his cup carefully on the table and rubs his palms on his slacks, like he's nervous.
"I fucked up, Sarah. I thought I was doing the right thing for us at the time, finishing out the show, putting it behind us. But I was wrong. Just like . . . Mr. Rochester."
Warmth spreads through my chest. And I laugh out loud.
"You really did read the books."
Henry nods. "Every one." He reaches out, squeezing my hand. "It made me feel closer to you. Knowing you had read the same letters, that you knew the words by heart."
"But Henry, if that's true, why did you wait so long to come here? Why didn't you call or text or even write me a letter?"
"I had to be sure I was doing the right thing, I didn't want to risk hurting you again. And there were . . . arrangements that had to be made. Things I had to get in order."
"What things?"
He waves his strong hand. "That's not important now. What matters is that I'm here, for you. Nothing's changed for me and yet, everything is different. How I see the world, the part I want to have in it, it's all different because of you. And I'm ready now--I can be the man you deserve. Steady and consistent, unselfish and adoring. Your very own Colonel Brandon."
It seems so foolish now. A silly girl's thoughts. Henry doesn't compare to Colonel Brandon--he's so much more. He's real and true and wild and romantic, all the things I once thought only existed in books.
"I've spoken to Grandmother about us; she can't wait to meet you. And . . . I want us to be like Jane and Guildford . . . only without the whole head-chopping part."
I laugh and start to cry.
"I want to change the world with you at my side, holding your hand. I love you, Sarah, and whatever happens, I promise there won't be a day that I don't love you with all that I am."
He takes my hands and leans in close.
"Will you have me, love?"
I shudder in a breath and my face is wet with tears. I shake my head at him, silly boy.
"Have you? Are you mad? You are every dream I never let myself believe could come true."
And then I'm in his arms, kissing his face and holding him close. He lifts me up and carries me to the bedroom. He lays me down and strips me bare and I run my hands up and down his beautiful chest. And we make love, over and over again.
Outside the window, tiny snowflakes begin to fall, but we don't notice. Because we're lost in each other and no matter where we are, from this moment on--whether it's in a drafty castle, a grand palace, or a little flat in an old, quiet town--it will be Henry and I, together for always.
FOR THE NEXT SEVEN DAYS, my life is perfect, because I slip seamlessly into Sarah's. She still goes to work at the library--I meet her boss, Mr. Haverstrom, and her git of a coworker, Pat. I chat football with George the bachelor retiree and flirt with Maud, the nearsighted widow volunteer. But mostly, while at the library, I just watch Sarah--basking in the joy of seeing her in her element, soaking up every smile and laugh and committing them to memory.
I also fuck her in the aisles, late at night after closing--and the reality of it, the naughtiness of lifting the sexy librarian's skirt and pressing her up against the shelves, the way her moans and my grunts echo off the walls, like an erotic symphony . . . it beats the hell out of my fantasy.
And we don't stop there.
I make love to Sarah in her shower and she rides me hard on the floor of her parlor. I take her in her tight, tiny kitchen, from behind, with her beautifully bent over the counter, and she sucks the life out of me, on her knees in her hallway, while I hold her head and thrust wildly into her eager mouth.
Sarah cooks us dinner while I kiss and nibble and maul her . . . and she makes me hard with her blushes and dirty jokes while I wash up the dishes afterward. I play my guitar for her and she hums her little songs and some nights, she reads out loud while I drift off to sleep, with my head against her soft breast.
I meet Sarah's interesting mother and wiggle my way back into Penny's good graces. She likes me again, which is nice since she's leaving for the States soon--Los Angeles, to pursue her acting career.
One Saturday afternoon, we test the strength of Sarah's bed frame, fucking rough and loud and sweaty, but afterward, it's all tender touches and sweet whispers. On the radio, "Little Wonders" by Rob Thomas comes on and Sarah sighs.
"I love this song."
I brush my hand up her stomach. "I love your tits."
Sarah swats me on the head, laughing. But when I cover her nipple with my mouth, sucking and flicking with my tongue, her giggle turns into a long, serrated moan.
"And I'm glad you love the song, sweets."
And it's all so grand and perfect.
But the clock is ticking like a time bomb, and there are things I have to tell her that can't wait any longer. So the next day, Sunday, I make us peppermint tea and sit down in the chair in her parlor and put it all out there, as gently as possible.
"I have to tell you something. You're not going to like it."
She squints behind her glasses, cautiously.
"All right."
I pull her up and arrange her in my lap, her arse over my groin, her legs together, dangling over my thigh, my arms around her middle, holding on tight.
"I've reenlisted."
She goes very still and her lips pale.
"You're the Crown Prince . . . you can't . . ."
"Turns out, I can do a lot if I set my mind to it."
"But the Queen--"
"Is not happy with me, but she understands that this is something I need to do. It'll be a real deployment this time, in a regular unit. I'll be registered under an assumed name, so I won't put the other men in danger." I give her a squeeze and try to joke. "You'll have to help me come up with a fitting pseudonym--Finley Bigdick the Third or John Thomas Longho
rn."
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."
Something bends inside me, on the verge of breaking. And my eyes sting and blur. Because I have lost people I love--I know that it happens, and how it feels.
And I can't lose her.
"I don't want you brave; I want you safe. I want to lock you in a tower, like in one of your books, so no one can hurt you. And you'll be safe and happy and mine."
She rubs her thumbs in calming circles on the inside of my wrist. "Only the villains lock ladies in a tower."
"Then you make me want to be a villain."
She bites her lip, thinking of her response. She's come so far since the first time we met--she's already one of the bravest people I know. And the strongest. And even though this conversation scares the shit out of me, another part is of me so damn proud of her. For standing up, for not backing down or giving an inch--even to me. Maybe especially to me.
"Ask me why, Henry."
"I don't give a flying fuck why."
"Yes, you do. Ask me."
My throat gets too tight to swallow.
"Why?"
Sarah's dark eyes go shiny. She smiles as she replies. And it's beautiful.
"Because if I'm going to be a queen, I need to know how to be the voice for people who can't speak for themselves. To comfort people, be their friend and their champion. I want to change the world with you, Henry. To take what I know and what I have been given and make a difference." She blinks, and a tear falls from her eye to her soft cheek. "And I think . . . I think I could be good at it."
Cursing, I pull her against me, holding on too tightly.
"You'll be amazing."
After a time, I lean back and look into her eyes. "If anything happens to you, I'll die. I'm not exaggerating." My voice is strangled and wetness trickles from my eyes and I don't give a damn. "You are woven into my soul and you are wrapped around my heart. And if anything happens to you, both will wither and die and I won't even care."
"It's the same for me." She touches my face softly. Sweetly. My beautiful, sweet girl. "I guess we'll both have to make sure nothing happens to us, then."
I pull her against me, still terrified, but loving her enough to let her do this.
"What a pair we make."
Sarah tilts her face up and kisses me. "A perfect match."
Two days later, I have an itch for a new tattoo. Castlebrook doesn't have a tattoo shop--no shock there--so Sarah and I venture out, driving three hours north, close to the capital. I wear a cap and sunglasses to try and go undetected, but the presence of security men surrounding the shop would give us away if anyone was paying attention. Luckily, the place is empty when we arrive.
I pull up the photos on my mobile and show the artist the one I want. It's a close-up of Sarah's face--I took it a few days ago, on her balcony. The sun was rising and we'd been too busy fucking to even think about sleep. She's looking away from the camera, glasses on, her hair perfectly bed-mussed. It's the image that comes to mind whenever I've thought of her since, and it's the one I want on my right forearm, so I can gaze at it when we're apart.
I have the work done in an area cordone
d off by a black curtain, while Sarah waits, reading, on the other side. Because she's especially beautiful when she's surprised.
And I am not disappointed.
She gasps when she sees her face branded on my body, her pretty hand covering her mouth, making my cock go stiff and hard and aching for her.
I had new details added to the tattoos on my left arm as well. "The words have new meaning for me now," I say as she rests her head against my bicep, her eyes glinting and her cheeks flushed--because my ink makes her so very wet.
Duty is written beside the royal coat of arms, Honor beside the military crest, and beneath Sarah's picture, Love.
"Duty, Honor, Love," I tell her. "But the greatest of these is love. The Bible said that."
"Actually, First Corinthians says, "And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love."
I shrug. "Well then, I fixed it for them."
She laughs, her eyes drifting to the wall of tattoo photographs--examples and suggestions.
"I want to get one too."
"My grandmother is going to have a coronary." I shake my head. "It's one thing for the future king to have a tattoo; she'll see the future queen having one as something altogether different."
Her back straightens with quiet strength. "It's the twenty-first century. And that means what's good for the king is good for the queen. Her Majesty will come around."
I kiss her forehead. "If you want one, sweets, then you'll have one, whether the Queen approves or not. Do you have any idea what kind you'd like?"
"I do, yes." She grins, excitedly. "But you'll have to wait and see. No peeking."
She disappears behind the curtain, speaking to the tattoo artist in feverish whispers.
A bit later she reappears, a small white square bandage on her right wrist. She takes my hand and pulls me closer, adorably giddy.
"I wanted it right here, so I can look at it and touch it anytime I like," Sarah says. And then she peels back the bandage.
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.