Like some lovesick fool.
Like her lovesick fool.
But as I move from the bedroom on silent feet—so I don’t wake Peter or Josie down the hall—it’s difficult to keep my brain from turning back to Holyrood.
I’m out, still.
Somehow still welcomed within the fold, out of familial obligation, but no longer a member of the pack, the tribe to which I’ve always belonged. I’m the first Godwin in over a century to have been booted from Holyrood.
Quietly, I slip into my office. Close the door first before flicking on the overhead light.
I sit at my chair, run my fingers over my desk, and gaze upon the computer where I’ve spent thousands of hours working.
It sits blank now, unused.
A soft knock comes on the door, and I turn, already knowing who it’ll be.
“Come in.”
Isla enters with our blanket wrapped around her shoulders and her hair in complete disarray. Christ, she’s stunning. Beautiful in a way that sometimes feel otherworldly. Voice still raspy from restless slumber, I ask, “Couldn’t sleep?”
“Not without you next to me.” Instead of waiting to see if I’ll offer an invitation, she settles herself in my lap, her legs swung over mine, her head tucked into the crook of my neck. I sense her eyes wandering the setup before us. Then, with a hand pressed to my chest, she says, “You miss it.”
It’s not a question. She’s entirely too perceptive, but that alone is one of the reasons I fell in love with her. She sees me when no one else does, and never casts judgments, even when maybe she should. I’ve never claimed to be a good man, but fuck, I want to be one for her.
“I don’t know what I feel.” Pressing a kiss to her temple, I wrap my arms around her and prop her head up higher on my chest. “I broke the rules. Fuck, I didn’t just break them. I treated them like they didn’t even exist. For you, I would do it all a million times over.”
“But?” she prompts.
I turn my gaze on the blank-screened computer. “But Holyrood is in my blood. I feel . . . I feel itchy to do something. Anything.”
“Can you show me Alfie Barker?”
I furrow my brows. “Now?”
She nods against my neck. “Yes.”
Despite knowing that I probably shouldn’t, I fire up the computer and sort through the various files until I’m clicking on the security cameras at the Palace. Apparently, Damien hasn’t scrubbed my clearance yet because within seconds, I’m selecting Room 2’s video. The small loading symbol appears. A second passes. And then there’s nothing but black . . . and the telltale sound of Alfie Barker snoring somewhere in the cell. Immediately, my gut clenches at the thought of how I’d put Isla in there. Guilt, potent and real, snatches away some of the happiness I’ve found.
“It’s dark,” she says softly, as if reading my mind, “a place where a person can easily lose their mind. How long has he been there?”
I count the number of days back, to that first morning when Isla and I met. “A little over three weeks.”
“It’s a long time to admit to nothing,” she murmurs idly, drawing her finger down the length of my arm. Back and forth, back and forth. It’s peaceful, affectionate. Familiar heat tugs at the base of my spine. “Whatever you think he knows, I don’t think that he does.”
Resting my head against the chair, I drag my gaze down to her beautiful face. “Hypothetically,” I start, voice steady, “what would you do with him? Let him go?”
She scrunches her nose then turns back to the computer. Reaches out to graze a single finger down the side of the monitor. “Hypothetically,” she answers, tapping the screen, “I would be open with him. Transparent. He lost his wife last year during one of the Easter riots. Now he’s locked in that cell while his two girls are alone in the world. He’s a father, Saxon, a caretaker. To get back to his daughters, you might be surprised at what he would be willing to agree to, given the opportunity.”
It’s not the way I would go about it.
Brutal intimidation. Mental tactics designed to see a person spiral then break. It’s what I do—what I did. Now, I . . . Well, I guess now I speak in hypotheticals about an organization I no longer serve.
“I love you,” I whisper into the strands of her hair. “And you’re probably right about Barker.”
She snuggles deeper into my embrace, hiding a yawn behind the back of one hand. “I love you more,” she replies, a tired but content smile gracing her face, “and I’m usually right about most things.”
A small grin tugs at my mouth. “Anything else you want to see before I drag you back to bed?”
Her blue eyes peer up at me, and already I see the wheels turning. My Isla is a sweetheart, the fiercest sort of protector, but she’s cunning. As ruthless as I am savage. And I know exactly what she wants before the words even leave her mouth: “The queen.”
She doesn’t bother to deny it. “Show me her.”
Isla props one forearm on the desk while still maintaining her spot, sprawled across my lap. I hook one arm around her waist, dragging her ass back so that her spine is flush with my chest. She tosses a knowing glance over her shoulder at me, and I don’t bother to apologize. I want her. I always want her. But I get with the program, hand to the computer mouse, and sift through a series of locations throughout the country that we—Holyrood—closely monitor for the queen. Windsor Castle in Berkshire. Dunrobin in the Highlands. Countless others that I’ve seen only in camera footage but which I have never visited in person. Finally, I settle on Buckingham Palace.
“I used to visit every year,” Isla tells me, as I flick through the public rooms on the first floor. At this time of night, there’s no one afoot. “I didn’t always hate the monarchy, you know.”
“No one ever does. The misgivings come later, after you’ve been burned a time or two.”
Sliding her the mouse, I give her free reign to peruse the palace. Once upon a time, these rooms were open to British citizens and people from all over the world. They sit empty now, with white fabric draped over priceless antique furniture and the ghosts of past kings and queens roaming the halls. The only set of rooms actively in use are Queen Margaret’s apartments and those used by her staff.
I feel Isla shift on my thigh, her spine going ramrod straight. “Saxon? What time is it?”
Languidly, my gaze moves to the digital clock on the desk. “Just before three. Why?”
The image on the screen jumps backward, rewinding from room to room. Isla shoves her finger toward the monitor, tapping the glass in the upper right-hand corner. “Watch the clock. It doesn’t . . . If these are security cameras, wouldn’t they be live? But the time, it’s not—”
“Changing,” I finish for her.
And they aren’t changing, not at all. All are frozen at 2:21:15 AM. Frame to frame. Room to room. Despite the fact that she’s been virtually touring Buckingham Palace for the past twenty minutes. A quiet chill of foreboding skirts down my spine as I debate the merits of calling Damien. I’m no Holyrood spy, not anymore. My obligations to the queen ended the moment I chose Isla over Margaret. But still, better safe than sorry.