“Forget your sunglasses?”
“I did. I guess I left them in my rental car.”
His fingers rub my back. “I’ve got an extra pair.”
“Do you really?” I ask as he kneels and opens his pack.
He pulls out two cases, handing me a pair of what turn out to be Ray-Ban Aviators. He’s wearing his own pair.
“Are these your booty call Aviators?”
“My what?”
“You know, for your lady friends,” I tell him as I follow him through the bright green grass.
He gives me a serious look. “You’re not a booty call, Lucille.”
“I can’t believe you used that awful, ugly name.”
“You don’t like it?”
“Hell no I don’t. It’s an old woman name. It reminds me of Lucille Bluth. Do you know who that is?”
“Of course.” He smiles.
“You do?”
“I watch TV, Lucille.”
“You better watch yourself, or I’ll start calling you Willahelm.”
“You know my name.”
“I totally do.”
“You’re making fun of it.” He wraps an arm around me, pulling me close as we approach a little bridge over the stream.
“Lucille and Willahelm.” I lean into him as we walk. “I think it fits.”
He gives my shoulder a squeeze, then nods ahead, to a huge, stone building shaped like a box. “We’re headed to the stables. That okay with you?”
“Of course.”
“I thought we could ride down to the beach.”
“Perfect,” I tell him, even as my stomach somersaults up through my head, then plummets down into my thighs somewhere.
“I had the staff pack food and wet suits.”
“Wow—is it that cold?”
He nods. “The water here is always cold.”
We’re met at the entrance to the stable by a middle-aged woman in a pale gray uniform. She wears her hair in dreads and has a friendly smile.
“I’ve got Peg and Eeyore ready for you.”
“Thanks, Sara.”
She nods, and disappears behind a big, wood door.
“Does she manage the stables?” I ask as I follow Liam down a hay-scattered hallway.
“Yeah. Her father did before her.”
I’m going to ask more questions, but I’m mesmerized by all the horses we’re passing.
“You have a beautiful stable. One of every kind almost,” I marvel.
“You know we breed them.”
“Yeah. I heard that.”
“My horse, Pegasus, is a white—well, gray—Arabian. You’ll be riding Eeyore, an Anglo-Arab.”
“Is that a cross between an Arabian and…a Thoroughbred?”
He nods.
“What color is—”
I stop as we reach a holding pen where I see a large white-gray Arabian with an eventing-style saddle and a gorgeous, chestnut brown horse that must be Eeyore; he’s saddled similarly.
“Wow. I feel like that’s all I say here.” I laugh.
“They’re both mine. And Sara’s. I have a crew of people overseeing the breeding. Sara is everyone’s grandmum. I guess that makes me the weird uncle.”
I laugh. “Yeah—you’re not the dad, I guess.”
“Definitely not. So Eeyore is a little lazy, needs to be pushed sometimes. But he’s got a steady temper. And he’s fast. Peg is fast for an Arabian, but I think Eey is a nose faster.”
We lead the horses out of the barn, and Liam watches while I mount Eeyore before climbing up on Pegasus.
As soon as I’m up on Eeyore, I start feeling queasy and a little dizzy.
You can do this, Lucy. At the beach, just tell him.
I tell myself he won’t freak out too much. He won’t lash out at me or say mean things.
Remember how he was that night. How nice he was.
When I was a kid, I thought well-bred men would never hurt a woman. Bryce changed all that. I suck a big breath back, noting that we’re walking now. We’re moving through a vibrant field. The woods frame us in, not a forest, more like lots of smaller groves. I hear birds caw, the clomp of the horses’ shoes on mud and fluffy grass. Liam, I realize with a start, is riding slightly behind me.
I turn back to him.
“What are you doing back there?”
“Watching you.” He grins.
“Does my riding meet your standards?”
He smirks. “That’s not what I’m watching.”
I feel my face heat up.
“Are you blushing, Lucy Rhodes?”
“I’m embarrassed for you.”
He laughs. “For me? And why’s that?”
“You’re so…forward.”
“Did you just call me ‘forward’?” He’s grinning.
“Maybe. That’s a Lucille-ism.”
He gets another good chuckle out of that.
“How did you know my clothes size, anyway?”
“How do you think?”
“I’m going to guess it’s not your good eye.”
He puts a hand to his thick chest, as if I’ve wounded him.
“Did you ask someone?”
He smiles. “I have a friend at Balmain. The fashion house.”
“Which location?”
“Paris.”
“I was there a few years back.”
“I heard,” he says.
“Who’s your friend there?”
“Olivier.” He says it almost ruefully.
“Rousteing?”
He nods.
Olivier Rousteing is the head of the French fashion house, which is notable in part because he’s only about our age. “How did you meet him?”
“At a party a couple years back.”
“Is he nice?”
“Yeah. Driven.”
He comes up so we’re riding side-by-side and points at a shady grove ahead of us. “The beach is through those trees and down a little trail.”
Liam lets me go first, which I don’t mind, because I’m not nervous about traversing the rocky shore on horseback.
The beach is gorgeous, with amber and almost black grains of sand. The shore is strewn with big, brown-black boulders. The ocean crashes to the sand in frantic waves, sending up a spray that makes the air taste salty.
If I squint, I think I can see an island out ahead of here.
“Sheep Island,” Liam offers.
“Lots of sheep?”
“No sheep. Not anymore. Generations ago, if the island—Gael—was under threat, the family would be shuttled there and hidden with the sheep. Woman and children, anyway.”
“What happened to the sheep?”
“The families who raised them—or rather, one family—they moved inland.”
“So it’s deserted now?”
“That’s right.”
“That’s really neat. How much history your family has.” I feel light-headed as I think about the relevance of my statement. I know I should tell him. Tell him now!
I wonder how many mistresses other princes and kings had. I wonder if any of them got knocked up. I wonder what he’ll say when I tell him.
“Lucy?”
His horse moves closer to mine, and his hand grazes my arm. “Hey—you okay?”
I nod, gasping. Damn me, I can’t breathe.
“You want to get down off that horse?”
I get my breath and shut my eyes, shaking my head. Damnit. What the hell is wrong with me?
I hold my hand out, a signal that I’m okay and just need a minute. I’m still worried I might pass out when I feel a brush of something heavy at my left side, then a weight behind me, then an arm around my waist.
“Lucy… Lucy, Lucy…” His voice beside my ear is soft and gentle. Deep and low.
His arm around my waist is heavy and secure. He wraps his other arm around my shoulders, locking me against him.
“It’s okay…”
I feel his chin against my shoulder, feel his f
orehead brush against my hair as his arms gently squeeze.
For one long second, everything inside me bucks against him and the waves of horror rise. Then it feels so good that I can’t fight him. My muscles slacken and I relax against him, letting myself give in to the careful, whispered words and strong strokes of his hands along my arm and hip.
“Lucy Rhodes…I can’t believe you’re here. It’s gonna be okay. Whatever’s wrong…”
I shut my eyes. “Why do you like me?”
“What?” His tone is surprised, but his body doesn’t stiffen.
“Why?”
“What do you mean, Lucy?”
“You wrote me a letter one time,” I say hoarsely.
“Yes.”
Why did you do it? My throat is so tight, I can’t get the words out.
“Why do you like red, Lucille? The color red.”
“Because it’s festive,” I rasp. My voice is unsteady. How embarrassing.
“So is yellow.”
I shake my head. No, “yellow is bright.”
“Festive,” he says.
“Cheery. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?”
“Yes.” I laugh—because it’s so ridiculous, this conversation. The location of it, and the circumstances. “Did you get off your horse and onto mine?” I ask him, even though it’s clear he did.
“Learned it in the circus.”
“What?” I laugh.
“It’s true. I had a crush on this woman once. I was younger. She was a trapeze artist.”
“Seriously?”
“Oh, yes.”
I lean my head back, feel his cheek against my cheek. Then his lips against my cheek. The kiss is gentle. Undemanding. And yet, it makes me shiver.
I put my hand over his, over the one that’s cupping my hip. “Yellow is way different than red,” I murmur.
“I know.”
“You do?”
“Of course. That’s the point that I was making, Lucy. You like red because you like it. And you don’t like yellow. Not the same way.” His voice is husky, sending shivers over my arms. “I like you because I like you. I like that you eat your cereal dry and wear those little ribbons in your hair. I like that you ride well and your skin smells sweet like flowers. I like that you eat too much candy corn at Halloween.”
“You know that because of the show.”
“And?” His fingers brush over my hip.
“That’s cheating.”
I can feel him shrug behind me. “I don’t think that you’re the ‘feisty’ one. I don’t see you as one of the Rhodes. I understand what’s television.”
“Yeah…”
“Don’t be worried. Not here, while you’re with me. I’ll take care of you. I’ll give you what you need if you can tell me what that is.”
Stinging tears well in my eyes. “What if I can’t?” I whisper.
“I’ll figure it out.”
I feel his lips brush my temple. Then he makes a clicking sound, and Pegasus steps away from Eeyore. Liam slides down, then mounts his horse and reaches for my hair. He catches a stray strand. His eyes on mine are clear; impassive. Watching me the way one might an animal.
“You want to run the horses?”
“Okay.” I wipe my eyes.
And we do run. Down the beach, like in a movie. The horse’s hooves kick up sand that pelts our cheeks. My horse is so fast, my eyes water against the spray of the surf and the whip of the wind. Gulls caw overhead. The horizon tips as I sail over sea dunes. I feel like I’m living in a kaleidoscope.
And then it’s over. Liam and Peg slow out in front of Eeyore and me. Before I even know it, Liam has turned to face me. He is waiting on a rocky stretch of shore. His hair is down, blowing around his face. His lips look impossibly gorgeous; those stark cheekbones; the tanned face. And his eyes. They blink at me, an owl’s eyes, beautiful because they ask for nothing.
I smile. Liam smiles back.
“Horses on the beach,” I say.
“One of the best things.”
“Yeah.” I rub my hand over my wind-tossed hair, feeling soft and bare and shy.
“Are you cold?” he asks.
I shake my head.
Liam holds up a hand. “Stay there, okay?” He pulls his phone out of his pocket. Takes my picture. I don’t smile. Not until he’s finished.
“Why’d you do that?”
He smiles at me, doesn’t answer. The phone goes back into his pocket. Then he just…looks at me.
“You’re staring,” I say, feeling self-conscious.
He smiles again, softly. “I know.”
“Do you stare at all your guests?”
His lip twitches. “I never stare.”
“Too busy getting stared at?”
He shrugs, and somehow it’s not the moment it should be. He looks a little sad, a little bit some other way I don’t know how to name. He doesn’t look like a manwhore. My heart pounds anew because, again, I’m realizing how little I know about him.
“Do you want to see something horrible, Lucy?”
I can’t help laughing. “Something horrible?”
He nods, solemn.
“Are you serious?”
Another nod.
I walk Eeyore over to Peg and reach out to swat at Liam, even though I can’t reach him. “You and your looks.”
His lips twitch, making him look younger. “What’s that mean?”
“You’ve got a lot of intense, serious looks. I can’t imagine how you ended up with a party boy persona.”
“You know what they say about the quiet ones.” He winks.
“Do you consider yourself quiet?”
He shrugs. He turns his horse around, moves a little bit ahead of me, and looks over his shoulder. “Do you want to see?”
“I can’t say ‘no’ to that.”
He nods once, then starts walking Peg around the rocky bend of the shore. I follow, going slowly on Eeyore, although he doesn’t seem thrown off by the rocks.
Liam looks back. “I trained them here when they were yearlings.”
“I want to hear how you trained them—later,” I say over the wind. He nods.
I follow him down a long, straight stretch of shore, into a grove of big, mossy trees that’s strange right by the ocean. Also strange: the way a thick, beige-green grass infringes on the sand around them.
Liam gets down off Peg. He ties the horse to a tree trunk, then comes over and leads Eeyore to another. He stands by Eey as I slide down, then takes my arm.
“It’s rocky,” he says, even though it’s not that rocky.
I clasp his hand; we twine our fingers together without a word, and Liam leads me into the trees.
“Gotta tell you, this doesn’t look horrible so far.”
He gives me a small, grim smile. “We’re not there yet.”
EIGHTEEN
Lucy
“Should I be creeped out?”
“If you weren’t with me, maybe. If you were an enemy of the crown.” His thick brows wiggle.
“Wow. I’m super curious now.”
I follow him up some stone steps, built into the sandy, grassy ground. Then we reach a grass plateau. Liam moves a log and reaches into the grass and looks into my eyes and then he’s pulling up the ground. He’s pulling up a door in the ground, revealing stone steps leading downward.
“Oh my Jesus! Liam…”
“I’ll go first. You don’t even have to come down if you’re claustrophobic. Actually…” He shuts the door. His mouth is tucked into a grimace. “I shouldn’t take you down there.” His gaze finds mine, holding. “I meant it when I said it’s horrible.”
“It’s a dungeon.”
He nods.
“The only thing I can think about, about a beach dungeon…” I swallow.
“Yes.” He nods.
“Damn…”
“They used ocean water,” he says, giving voice to my theory.
“The dungeon is clearly u
nderground. Would it flood during high tide?”
“It would. Barbaric,” he adds quietly.
“How long ago was this used?”
“Two hundred years. Mostly for traitors. Those who set to poison the king or in one case, tried to steal one of the baby princes. A cannibal was killed here. Someone who shot my great-great grandfather with an arrow in the shoulder; had been aiming for his throat.”
“So it wasn’t for beggars and whores and stuff like that?”
“Oh, no.”
“They didn’t know when they would die.”
“That’s right,” he says. He shakes his arm around. “No manacles.”
“Not necessary. Geez.”
“I know.” He stands up, reaching for my hand. “I’m sorry that I brought you.” He looks at me, serious, almost curious. “You make me do strange things, Lucille Rhodes.”
I hop up. “I hope one of them is go into the dungeon, because you know we have to now. I can’t resist a build-up like this. As long as you’re positive no one will close the door on us!”
He reaches into his pocket, bringing out a small, brass-looking piece that reminds me of a fat screw-driver.
“State secret.”
“You have a key to this door.”
“Of course.” He smiles smugly. “People still love the idea of locking us inside. I had a friend put me in there when I was little. There’s a key like this in one of the walls. I knew where it was. Out by dinner.” He winks.
“Did the tide start rising?”
“Yes. It was rising a little. As I recall, my shoes were wet. I had to take them off.”
“I’m surprised that you’ll go back inside!”
He shrugs. “Can’t be afraid forever.”
He opens the trap door again and steps inside. “You sure about this?”
“Oh, yeah.”
I follow Liam down some stairs, into a single room about the size of a master bedroom in an American house. Sand is all over the floor, crunching under my shoes. The walls—very tall, maybe more than twenty feet—are made of stone that’s stained by moss and mold. In the top part of the walls are small, round, barred windows, leaking sand into the room.
As I stand staring at one of them, a tiny pile of dark brown sand falls to the floor.
“So weird.”
I look around the room. It’s just sand and stone. No way to tell that anybody died here.