Page 29 of Royal Love
“You didn’t have to do that,” I protest weakly, though relief floods through me. The thought of sitting through diplomatic meetings while fighting the urge to vomit was not appealing.
“I absolutely did.” His voice is firm but gentle. “Dr. Bennett said you need rest, and for once, I’m going to ensure you follow doctor’s orders.”
I push myself up against the pillows, wincing at the dull ache in my lower back. “What about the press? They’ll notice if both of us disappear.” Although he’s told me he’ll be unavailable. It still worries me.
“Parker’s handling it. A mild case of exhaustion for the queen. Nothing concerning, just requiring a few days of rest.” His fingers trace circles on the back of my hand. “The country can survive without us micromanaging it for seventy-two hours.”
The fact that he’s here, that he’s rearranged everything to take care of me, makes my heart swell. Seven months into our marriage, and he still finds ways to surprise me.
“What’s all this?” I gesture to the tray.
“Ginger tea with honey. Plain toast. And—” he reveals a small plate of saltine crackers with a flourish “—Dr. Bennett’s recommendation for keeping the nausea at bay.”
I take the tea, sipping it carefully. The warmth soothes my throat, and the ginger settles my stomach almost immediately. “You’re too good to me.”
“I’m exactly as good to you as you deserve.” He kicks off his shoes and stretches out beside me, arm curling around my shoulders. “Now, I was thinking we could start with that show you’ve been wanting to watch. The one about the chef.”
“You hate cooking shows,” I remind him, nestling against his chest.
“I hate seeing you miserable more.” He reaches for the remote. “Besides, I might learn something. God knows the palace chefs could use some competition.”
I laugh, then immediately regret it as my stomach protests. Tristan notices my discomfort and pulls me closer, his handresting protectively over my round stomach. The gesture is so tender, so intimate, that tears prick my eyes.
“Hey,” he says softly, noticing the wetness on my cheeks. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I whisper. “Just…pregnancy hormones.”
He doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t push. Instead, he turns on the television and finds the show. We settle into comfortable silence, broken only by my occasional commentary on the contestants’ techniques and Tristan’s good-natured complaints about the judges’ expectations.
By midday, I’m feeling well enough to take a shower. Tristan insists on joining me, claiming he’s concerned I might faint. It’s a flimsy excuse, but I don’t call him on it. Not when his hands are so gentle as they massage shampoo into my scalp, not when his lips press tender kisses to my shoulders.
“Better?” he asks as he wraps me in a plush towel.
“Much.” I lean into him, inhaling the clean scent of his skin. “Though I could use a nap.”
He carries me back to bed despite my protests that I can walk perfectly well and tucks me in as though I’m made of glass. It should be annoying—I’ve never been one for coddling—but there’s something deeply comforting about letting him take care of me. About not having to be Queen Amelia for a few precious days.
I drift off with his hand stroking my damp hair, and when I wake, the room is bathed in the golden light of late afternoon. Tristan is seated by the window, reading through papers, his brow furrowed in concentration.
“I thought you were taking time off too,” I call, my voice husky with sleep.
He looks up, his face softening. “Just reviewing a few documents. Parker dropped them off an hour ago.”
“Come back to bed.” I hold out my hand to him. “The documents can wait.”
He doesn’t need to be asked twice. Within seconds, he’s beside me, his warmth enveloping me as he pulls me against his chest. His lips find mine in a kiss that starts gentle but quickly deepens. My body responds to his touch as it always does, a slow heat building within me.
“Tristan you might get sick,” I breathe against his mouth. “We can’t…”
“I know,” he murmurs, his hands slipping under my nightgown. “But there are other ways I can make you feel good, and I don’t give a fuck about myself. You should know that by now. I survived a war.”
And there are. His fingers and lips work magic on my sensitive skin, drawing gasps and moans from my throat. He’s attentive to every response, every shiver, every whispered plea. When I finally come apart under his touch, it’s with his name on my lips and his steady gaze holding mine.
After, as we lie tangled together, his hand rests gently on my stomach.
“I can’t believe there’s a baby in there,” he says, his voice soft with wonder. “Our baby.”
The thought sends a thrill through me, a mixture of joy and nervous anticipation. “And this virus is certainly not making it any easier,” I admit with a small laugh. “At least Dr. Bennett assured me it won’t affect the baby.”
