Page 52 of Striking
Rhys’s thumb rubs soothing circles over my palm under the table, but it does nothing to soothe me.
“She’s a commoner,” another rounder, redder, possibly angrier man with a thick, gray combover gasps, like commoner is a four-letter word only to be whispered in dark alleys.
I was introduced to everyone when Rhys and I walked into the room, but the arguing started so quickly after we sat down, I can’t remember anyone’s name.
“She’s a bloody American,” yells Lord Dalton Armstrong, the only gentleman who’s name I do remember, and I half expect him to bless himself after, like he’s just seen the actual devil.
Joss wasn’t kidding when she said her father was an ass.
He looks so similar to her and her brothers, but all I see is a man who won’t accept that his daughter is in love with a woman or apparently, that his king is married to an American.
I might be a bloody American, but he’s a bloody asshole.
There is one remaining man sitting next to Atticus. He seems to be the oldest of the group and so far, the quietest as well. “Holbrooke,” Rhys challenges him. “You seem to be quiet over there.”
“I’m considering my words, Your Majesty, because I do not think you are going to like what I have to say.” He leans on a black cane as he pushes to his feet and faces Rhys. “You’ve broken the laws of your own country. The ones you’re charged with upholding as monarch. The Royal Marriages Act of 1772 states that the queen must be either a natural-born citizen of Mornea or must be of royal blood. If my understanding is correct, Ms. Bellamy Wilder is neither of those things.”
He looks at me with pity in his gray eyes.
“You cannot sit on the throne with her as your wife or your queen. I’m sorry to say, but you can’t.”
Rhys presses his palms against the table and rises, every muscle in his body strung tight as he looks around the room at his council. “Bellamy Wilder became Bellamy Windsor the night before my grandfather died. We were married by a Bishop ofthe Church of Mornea in the palace chapel. It was a legal and religious ceremony. She is my wife, and she will be my queen. In the eyes of God and the law, she is who I’ve chosen. So you had better figure out a way because I am not going to let a law that was passed two hundred and fifty years ago dictate who I spend my life with.”
He holds his hand out for me, and I slip mine in his and stand on shaky legs, stealing strength from my husband... my king.
“Your highness,” handlebar moustache man stops us. “This is bigger than us. You’ll need to get Parliament on your side.”
“Then I suggest you all start working on that.” Rhys’s arm slides around my waist and guides me out of the room and down the hall until we’re hidden in an alcove among paintings older than the country I grew up in.
His strong hands frame my face as he presses me against the wall under a painting of a group of men on horseback, swords raised in what I can only imagine was a rallying cry. “Was that supposed to be you asking for forgiveness?”
“Kings don’t ask for forgiveness, little bee. We tell people what we want done, and we let them make it so.” He presses his forehead to mine. “And I’ve wanted you from the first moment I saw you on the island. I’m not going to let a law from centuries ago determine whether you’re fit to rule by my side.”
I reach up and run my fingers along his temples. “What is it like?”
“What?” he asks with hooded eyes.
“Being so confident in who you are and what you want.” I’m not sure I’ve ever felt that kind of certainty. “Leading people.”
He kisses the corner of my mouth, then licks along the seam of my lips, demanding entrance. And this kiss... this kiss isn’t like the others.
This kiss is a claiming.
This is the kind of kiss that steals your senses and maybe just a little piece of your soul.
“Ask me again in six months, little bee. Now come on. We’ve got places to be.”
RHYS
“Why are we at a hospital, Rhys?”
I look up at the building in front of us and take my wife’s hand in mine as we exit the car. This hospital may have started out as a place I visited once because that’s what my mother had done before she died, but it quickly became more. “It’s not just any hospital, love. It’s a children’s hospital that I’m a patron of. I thought maybe you’d like a quiet moment before the storm. And this place always provides me that moment.”
“A children’s hospital?” I pull her black wool coat closed and tug her closer. “You find quiet moments in a children’s hospital?”
“It’s one of the few things I’m able to do without any press or fanfare. The staff has let me sneak in for years without alerting the media or any photos or quotes getting out. These kids are the ones who should need hope, but they’re the ones giving hope to me.”
Bellamy links her arm through mine and kisses my cheek with a beautifully soft smile pulling at her lips, like I just gave her the world. “And you want to share that with me?”
