Total pages in book: 23
Estimated words: 22425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 112(@200wpm)___ 90(@250wpm)___ 75(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 22425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 112(@200wpm)___ 90(@250wpm)___ 75(@300wpm)
Because there will be dark, cold days in his life—of that I am certain.
And he will need her light to comfort him.
We leisurely ride side by side up a hill.
“How did you two first meet?”
I already know the answer, but I want to hear her telling of it.
“Well . . . I was outside the library one evening, waiting for my ride. The rain had been coming down all day, but it was just tapering off. A lorry drove by and splashed a muddy puddle on me.”
“Oh, dear.”
“It was horrible,” she laughs. “Just like in a movie. I pushed my wet hair out of my face and my books slipped from my hand. And then Thomas was there—picking them up for me, and asking if I was all right.”
“Did you know who he was?”
“Yes,” she answers shyly. “Though the professors call him Pembrook, as he’s asked them to, everyone on campus knows who he is.”
I nod and she continues.
“As he’d handed me my last book, I thanked him—and a photographer snapped a photo of us. I asked Thomas if the picture might end up in a paper, with me looking like a drenched rat—and he said probably, but that I needn’t worry because I was the most beautiful drenched rat he’d ever seen.”
Cheeky boy. He gets that from his father.
“Then he insisted that I let him take me to lunch the next day. To make up for having my photo taken. I said yes, and . . . that was that. We haven’t really been apart since.”
I bring my horse to a stop at the top of the hill, overlooking a rushing stream below.
“How do you feel about my son, Calista?”
Her eyes meet mine and her voice takes on the same solemnity as Thomas’s last evening.
“I love him, Queen Lenora. I love him so very much.”
“Why?”
She grins in the way one does when a silly question is asked. When the answer is so abundantly clear.
“He’s funny and smart, adventurous and honorable. He’s romantic and sweet but also bold, and sometimes a bit wicked. He’s good. Not perfect, but so very good down to his core. And I love that he can be silly with me—that he can just be with me. That I’m able to give him that.”
“If things continue to progress between you and my son, it is not an easy life you are signing up for,” I tell her. “You must understand that.”
“I do.”
“There are people who will hate you. Passionately. For who you are, whom you’re married to, and at times for no reason at’all. Are you strong enough to bear it?”
Calista looks at the reins in her hands, contemplating my question before lifting her eyes to mine.
“Every life has hardships, Your Majesty. I have no illusions that Thomas and I will be immune to that. Whatever trials come with who he is . . . he’s worth it. The way he makes me feel, the way I make him feel . . . that is worth anything.”
“It’s just that simple, is it?”
And the only daughter on earth I will ever have tells me, “Yes. When it comes down to it, it’s the simplest thing in the whole world.”
Calista
I’m awakened on Christmas morning by the feel of Thomas’s lips pressed against the crook of my neck. He slides his mouth upward, his breath tickling my ear as he whispers into it. “Happy Christmas.”
I turn onto my back so I can look up at him. With his green eyes dancing and his smile devilish, he is almost too handsome to be real. I run my hand across the broad expanse of his shoulder and down the muscular swell of his arm.
“Happy Christmas, Thomas.”
He kisses me then, his mouth warm and firm, making my body tingle decadently—making me yearn for his weight and the touch of his hands. Thomas has such wonderful hands.
When we arrived, the staff provided me with a full schedule of our visit. Today it’s breakfast in the dining room at nine, then the exchange of presents under the tree in the blue drawing room, clay pigeon shooting on the grounds, then a fireside tea in the great hall, and finally a formal Christmas dinner this evening.
But it’s early still and Thomas seems well aware of this, as he tugs at the ribbon that holds my satin nightgown together.
“Of all the presents on all the Christmas mornings I’ve received, I’ve never unwrapped one as glorious as this.”
He parts my nightgown, the cool air brushing my bare skin. And my breathing turns to pants as he kisses slowly across my collarbone.
And I don’t want to break the mood, but can’t resist saying, “I’ve been thinking . . .”
He hums hungrily against my skin.
“Me too. I’ve been thinking all sorts of filthy things while waiting for you to wake up. You tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine.”