Royally Endowed (Royally 3)

My hands are on his neck, his jaw, pulling him closer. And the horror of what he’s saying seeps into my mind and swells in my throat. “Oh no! I’m so sorry, Logan. I came here, for you—I didn’t know. You didn’t lose me. I’m here—I’m right here.”

And I’m crying now, tears streaming down my face with the rain.

Logan opens his beautiful brown eyes and sparkling drops of water cling to his heavy, dark lashes. And his voice is clear and deliberate.

“I think of you.”

My breath catches. “Really?”

He brushes my wet hair back, his forehead still pressed to mine.

“All the time.”

Logan strokes my cheek. “I like you.”

And then I’m crying and smiling at the same time. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

He sweeps his thumb across my lower lip and looks into my eyes.

“I feel it too, lovely Ellie.”

“You do?”

He nods against me. “I always have. From the very first.”

My fingers skim the stubble on his jaw, his chin, his neck—I just want to touch him.

And then, so gently, Logan takes my face in his hands and kisses me. It’s a whisper of a touch, at first, a soft stroke of his lips. I reach up and press against him, kissing him back, feeling his soft, full lips, taking as much as giving, savoring every sensation. I sigh when I feel the stroke of his tongue. Slow and exploring but firm against mine. It slides and flicks and my lower stomach clenches in the most desperate, amazing way. Logan covers my upper lip with his, sucking just a bit; then, with a breath that feels regretful, he pulls away.

His hands move down my hair to my shoulders, over my arms, like he can’t stop touching me.

“We have to go to the palace. Your sister . . .”

“Oh God—Liv—she must be a mess.”

I’m the worst sister ever. Someone needs to get me a plaque.

“I have to call her.”

Logan stands us up, keeping hold of my hand, and walks me through the rain to his car in the muddy driveway. “I have my phone—call her on the way.”

THERE ARE TEARS AND HUGS when I get Ellie back to the palace. We go to the yellow drawing room, because the Queen herself would like to see that Ellie is alive and well. Henry and Sarah are there too, as are Prince Nicholas and Olivia. She tackles Ellie the moment we walk in, sobbing, and then Ellie is sobbing too. And apologizing. The way she tells the story, she left The Goat to get some air, wandered off and got lost. Then, hours later, she just happened to pass me on the street as I was walking home from the hospital.

It’s the biggest crock of shit I’ve ever heard. It doesn’t even make sense . . . but they’re all just so happy, so relieved that she’s safe, that no one questions it.

I don’t confirm what she says; I remain straight-faced, neutral. I won’t lie to Nicholas—ever. But there are conversations he and I need to have—and I have no intention of having them tonight.

I have other plans—important plans—and I’m eager to get started.

Those plans are delayed when the Queen calls for wine. Albert, the butler, hands me a glass and I take it, join in the toast and drink—but it’s completely bizarre. To be drinking with this group of important people, like I’m one of them. Like I belong inside this room instead of outside, watching the door.

I push the thought aside when Ellie uses Olivia’s phone to call their father in New York. And there are more tears. Eric Hammond will be coming to visit in a few days’ time, but now that Ellie has been found, the mad, grieving rush to get to Olivia can be delayed.

After Ellie hangs up and the wineglasses are cleared, it seems like it’s time to disperse. Call it a night. Put my plans into motion.

But they’re delayed again.

And this, I’m not expecting. I don’t think anyone is.

“We want to get married,” Henry tells the Queen, holding Sarah’s hand.

Her Majesty nods. “Yes, of course you do. But the time will go by quickly and there is still much to be done.”

“No.” The light-haired prince shakes his head. “We want to get married tonight. Here. Now.”

I don’t think I’ve ever seen the Queen look confused. I don’t think anyone has ever seen the Queen look confused—or surprised. But at the moment she’s both.

“What?”

“Ellie could have died,” Henry tells her in a clear, calm voice. He’s thought this out; he knows what he wants and he’s determined to have it. “Mum and Dad died young, and the only consolation was that they had all those years together. Life is so short, Granny. It goes by so quick.” Henry pulls Sarah closer against his side. “I don’t want to spend another minute longer than I have to, not being Sarah’s husband.”

“No one else has to know; it’ll just be for us. We’ll keep it a secret,” Lady Sarah offers. “We’ll still have the service and the reception as planned, of course.”

“That day will be difficult for her,” Henry explains. “She’ll do it because we both understand it’s expected, but there will be worry and anxiety. But here, now, there will only be joy.”

Sarah leans forward, eyes begging. “Please understand, Your Majesty.”

And Henry adds, “Please say yes.”

She could easily say no. Members of the royal family need the Queen’s permission to marry—it’s a law. An outdated one, but still a law.

But I’ve long suspected something about the Queen that no one else has: despite her steely exterior, Her Majesty, Queen Lenora of Wessco has a soft spot. It may be small and rarely used . . . but the bugger’s there.

Her eyes shift between Henry and Sarah, then she puts her hand on each of their shoulders. “It’s a fine idea. Very romantic.”

She folds her hands in front of her. “Christopher, tell the Archbishop his services are needed now. Do not tell him why.”

Christopher bows and scurries off to fulfill the command. The Queen returns her gaze to Lady Sarah. “You will need a dress.”

“I have one,” she assures the Queen excitedly. “It’s white and perfect, and I’ve never worn it.”

“Good.” Queen Lenora nods. “Then all you need is a tiara. Thankfully, I have a few to spare.”

And that is how the future King and Queen of Wessco end up getting married in a garden, beneath a clear sky after a rainstorm, at midnight.

Old Fergus, the cantankerous butler who first served Nicholas and now Henry at Guthrie House, plays the violin as Lady Sarah walks herself down the lantern-lit aisle. She’s holding a bouquet of wildflowers, her hair long and straight, her dress sleeveless and snug at the waist, with a short, puffy skirt.

She looks like a fairy princess who wandered out of a storybook.

And when the Archbishop asks her if she takes Henry as her husband, the answer sounds as if it bursts straight from her heart.

“I do . . . I do!”

Later, when Henry is told he may kiss his bride, and he takes her in his arms . . . I’ve never seen such a look on a man’s face. Like he’s holding a star, a cherished, sacred piece of heaven, in his very hands.

It’s in that moment that I realize and accept—when Ellie walks down the aisle to me, and we say our vows and trade our rings . . . I’ll be looking at her in exactly the same way.

I look at her that way now.

And I can’t remember what I was thinking—why I’ve been fighting so hard against it—why I thought any of it mattered. But that stops now. Tonight.

Ellie stands across the garden, watching the ceremony. I drift over to position myself behind her, close enough to breathe her in, but not so close that it seems out of place.

“I’m coming to your room tonight.” I whisper against her hair. “If you don’t want that to happen, tell me now. I can’t stop myself, Ellie.”

“I don’t want you to stop, Logan. Not ever.” She turns around, her blue eyes shining in the moonlight. “Come to my room . . . I’ll be waiting.”

I LIGHT THE CANDLES IN my room, the long ivory sticks on the fireplace mantel, the subtly scented votives on the nightstands beside the bed. I dim the overhead lights and brush my teeth, running my hands through my hair, tucking one side behind my ear. I’d already switched my damp blue dress for a short nude pleated chiffon gown when we got back to the palace, and I strip that off, leaving me in only a champagne silk slip, bare and braless beneath it.