Page 40 of The Royal's Pet: A MMF Ménage Royal Romance

“Is it the queen’s job to tell you everything?” I ask. You can get away with a lot with an air of lofty entitlement.

He murmurs another apology and then asks, “Your Highness… I must ask. Is this a matter of national security?”

I check his name tag. Reginald. Reginald is an older gentleman with a balding patch at the top of his head, and he’s been waiting for nearly ten years for a royal to step through the hangar doors. By the look of him, maybe he’s been waiting his whole life. This is his lucky day.

I put my hand on his shoulder. “I assure you, Reginald. It’s a matter of life and death. How quickly can we get that bird in the air?”

Reginald’s eyes look like they might pop out of their skull. He looks equal parts excited and terrified. A look of solemn duty sweeps over his face, and he says, “Right away, Your Highness.”

“Good man.” I reward him with a pat on the shoulder, and he immediately pops off to bark orders at his men.

Rory appears in his place. She’s clutching the olive straps of her backpack and staring openmouthed at the jet. “Is that for us?”

Impressing her doesn’t get old, I’ll admit that. She’s just so damn sweet about it, and I can’t help but smile. “It is. Do you want to explore?”

Those are the magic words. She bites her lip and races up the short ladder. As soon as her flaming red hair vanishes into the plane, a boulder of anxiety that I’ve been keeping at bay rolls freely in my chest.

Ben stalls beside me, his eyes on the body of the jet. “Are you sure about this, sir?” he murmurs lowly so no one can hear him question the prince of England. He’s holding me back like a stubborn dog pulling at its leash, its floppy ears scrunched around the taut collar. Ben has always been my conscience when I least want it.

“I’m sure,” I say firmly and toss my bag over my shoulder.

I talk a big game, all right. But the second my foot hits the steps, my muscles go paralyzed. Suddenly, I can’t climb the rest of the way. I can hear my mum’s warnings, as clear as if she were whispering in my ear: We’re not like other people. Normals go to the pub, get a cuppa, or take a stroll without looking over their shoulder. We’re not normal, dear. We’re royals. And royals get killed.

My heart abuses my rib cage with hard, thumping beats. A cold sweat breaks over the back of my neck. A sniper could be on me. On us. Right now. Any second, a bullet could rip through my forehead. Or a sniper could shoot us out of the sky. Like they shot my father down.

Through the haze of my thoughts, Rory’s hand appears. She’s offering it to me with a large smile plastered over her mouth. “Come on,” she says excitedly. “The stewardess said they’ve got Cadbury chocolate in there. For free!”

She’s like a child in a candy store, so full of innocence, so damned easy to please. Her enthusiasm rubs off on me. It’s infectious, and my worry slides off my shoulders like a limp scarf.

“We can’t keep that sweet tooth waiting,” I tell her and take her hand. It’s soft and warm, and her touch sends tingles through me. Rory needs me to be strong. I can do this. Linked hand in hand, we board the jet.

It smells strongly of mint in here, and it chills my sinuses. A stewardess with a plastic smile helps us with our bags and then offers a flute of champagne. I take it and tilt it to my lips. Bubbles burst and explode on my tongue. It’s barely noon, but I need the liquid courage.

They’re preparing the jet for takeoff, so I take my place in one of the plush white seats. The wide belly of the jet sits three across, and I instinctively take the middle. Ben would tell me it’s because I need to be the center of attention at all times. Truthfully, I’m more insecure than that; it’s a primal comfort to be pinned in on both sides. Is it possible to crave fresh-aired freedom and the tight security of a confining space simultaneously?

I try to breathe. Rory’s fingers entwine in mine, and she squeezes.

Ben boards after both of us. When he takes his seat to my left, I notice that the front of his shirt is spotted with sweat as though he’s been jogging. “Everyone’s been vetted,” he reports. “The personnel has been checked out. I did a loop around the hangar. There’s no one for miles.”

It’s as though he’s read my mind. As paranoid as I am, Ben is twofold, and I bloody love him for it.

Yet I feel inclined to rib him about it. “A bit of overkill, don’t you think?”

He looks at me blankly. “You’re safe.”

Ben will go to the ends of the earth to protect Rory and me. That’s all that matters.

The jets begin to roar, and the flight attendant announces that we’re preparing for departure. My stomach clenches when the wheels roll forward.

Rory, on the other hand, squeals and keeps her eyes peeled out the window. “This is my favorite part.”

Her thrill for adventure is charming. I finish off my glass of champagne, tilt my head back, and close my eyes. “Wake me up when we’re there.”

Cheerio, good old England.

23

Rory

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