Page 24 of Royal Darling
He shakes his head. “I’m not an expert.”
“Come on, I’ve been waiting all morning for this.” I glance over at the clock. “It’s nearly nine o’clock!”
“What time did you get in here again?”
“Not that long ago,” I fib. “Now play.” I try to hand him the guitar, but he won’t take it.
“I’m not some trained monkey you can order around.”
“I know. You’re a rock god.”
His jaw clenches. “Not anymore.”
“You’re a trained musician,” I say through my teeth.
“Self-taught.”
“Are you going to teach me or not?” I burst out. Oops. I hope I didn’t wake Lucas.
He stares at my cleavage. “Did you nick that dress from the woman who lives here?”
I glance down to see my lace cups showing a bit. I adjust the dress and meet his heated eyes. My body flushes with heat in response, my nerve endings crackling to life. “I’m not a criminal.”
“You broke into my houseboat.”
“That was part of a clandestine escape. It doesn’t indicate a life of crime. This dress was a gift from Queen Anna.”
His voice is rough. “It suits you.”
I smooth my hair in its neat chignon. “Thank you.” I turn to the guitar and pluck a few strings. There’s some dots on the neck of the guitar, so I press those with my other hand. A bunch of sounds come out, but it’s not the scale. He reaches around and adjusts my fingers, saying the notes as I pluck them. My pulse thrums through me, heat flashing through every part of me all the way up to my scalp. God, I hope he can’t tell.
He drops his hands. “Do it a few times, saying the notes.”
I can concentrate a lot better when he’s not touching me. I run through the scale, forgetting halfway, and he corrects me. It doesn’t take long until I can hear when it’s right.
“Now I’ll show you a couple of chords.”
I like those. They sound like real music. “Do you have any sheet music? I can read music. I used to play flute when I was younger.”
“No. We should get you some, find some easy songs you’d like to learn.” He thinks we have all week. I fear we only have this morning now that word has gotten back to Anna and Gabriel that Jackson is here with me.
“Can you teach me something simple right now?”
He’s quiet, staring at the guitar. Just when I think he’s going to refuse, he takes the guitar from me. “This is Bob Dylan’s version of ‘House of the Rising Sun.’” He plays for me, his eyes closing as he sings along in his deep gravelly voice.
The hair on the back of my neck rises, goose bumps breaking out over my skin. It’s beautiful and moving, his voice deeply resonant.
He finishes and opens his eyes, his expression more relaxed than I’ve seen since we met. “That song was originally an old English folk song about prostitution, which made it extra exciting to fifteen-year-old me.” He gives me a lopsided grin that squeezes my heart. “It was the first song I ever played.”
“It was wonderful!” He hands me the guitar and tells me the chords. I start slowly, his agile fingers helping me along. I manage to get through the first verse.
“Good,” he says. “Now sing along.” He recites the lyrics for me.
I play again, concentrating on my fingering, humming along, too embarrassed to sing in front of him.
“It’s more fun if you sing it too,” he says, and repeats the lyrics for me.
“I can’t sing.”
