Page 19 of Coronation (Royally Forbidden #1)

Ten

Zelda

“ W ell, if the hungry animals don’t do it, my security will certainly finish me off for this stunt.”

Despite his wry words, Benedict looks at ease as we stroll down the darkened lane which leads to the house, moving in the direction of the small village we saw as we arrived this morning. Our hands are laced together, swinging casually between us in the warm evening air.

We’re breaking the rules.

Today, I learned there are a whole host of things kings are and aren’t allowed to do. As one of the few remaining members of the royal family, the precautions put in place to keep Ben safe are stricter than is typical. One of the big no-nos is going anywhere without a security team.

By the time we woke up from our sex coma, it was late in the morning, and it became apparent that the property manager didn’t have time to stock the kitchen.

The cupboards were barren, and the fruit basket left for us was very kind, but one can only subsist on pears and grapefruit for so long.

Apart from that, the only other option was tinned fish, which prompted an amusing discussion with Ben about being vegan.

I tried to ignore my underlying hunger, and for a while, I could.

If I’d gone back to the hotel this morning—or worse, not gone to the party at all—no doubt I would be deep in a self-pity hole right now, replaying my horrible workday in between bouts of crying and panic texting my agent.

Instead, I spent the day exploring Fernmoor House and beating Ben at Go Fish—I had to teach him the rules—four times in a row. I can hardly remember the last time I had such a simple, happy day.

My stomach had started growling audibly by late afternoon, and Ben completely ignored all insistences that I was fine, proposing we head into the village to get something more substantial to eat.

He waved off my worries about security, assuring me it would be fine, so long as we were discreet.

After all, what could they do, fire him?

Discretion was easier to come by than expected.

We discovered a whole wardrobe of old-fashioned garments in a back bedroom, and it was actually a lot of fun to put together our disguises for the evening.

In his knit hunting cap pulled low and moth-eaten sweater—or jumper, as he called it—Benedict really only resembles the king he is if you look hard enough.

My own ensemble, a polka-dotted wrap top and cigarette pants, doesn’t do much to disguise my identity.

All in all, the result is questionable, but we’re counting on the darkened light, chaotic atmosphere, and overconsumption of alcohol at the village pub to work in our favor.

At the very least, we should be able to sneak in for a hot meal—one not consisting of long-expired green beans—without having our pictures splashed all over the cover of every tabloid in the world .

Who would suspect the king to be dining at a three-star pub in the middle of nowhere, wearing old clothes and accompanied by an American actress? Not me, that’s for sure.

“We did a service to the sheep of Stelland this very morning,” I tease, my heart full to bursting as the lights of the village come into view, shining between the trees in the distance. “Surely we’ve earned ourselves some goodwill from their countrymen.”

Benedict offers me a withering look that only makes my smile widen. “Ever the optimist, Miss Flowers.”

“Ever the pessimist, Your Highness.”

His hand tightens on mine, and I suck in a sharp gasp of surprise as he pulls me around unexpectedly, my shoes shuffling over the dirt road as I find myself against his broad, hard chest. Our lips meet in a soft kiss, and my heart’s low, steady pulse feels like a warning call.

Never have I felt so comfortable with someone I just met, nor have I so easily been able to dismiss the omnipresent blanket of anxiety, which seems to cling to me day and night.

It’s been twenty-four hours.

We barely know each other.

This isn’t a fairytale.

God, what is wrong with me? I went out looking for unattached sex, and this is not unattached. On the contrary, I am getting far too attached, far too quickly, and no amount of self-directed scolding makes even the slightest difference.

There are too many reasons to count why it would be so foolish to even hope this could be something real, something that would last beyond a few secret nights, but I can’t help it.

Especially now, as I’m warm in his arms, butterflies erupting in my stomach as he kisses me in the middle of this quiet country lane, a blanket of stars scattered over our heads.

It’s no use. I’m doing it. I’m hoping.

My stomach’s loud growl has Ben pulling back with a quiet chuckle, and he releases me so we can continue on our way, our hands swinging casually between us.

It isn’t difficult to find our destination.

The Drystone Arms, a small pub located at the edge of Fernhill Village, looks exactly as I imagined it would.

The building itself has to be about as old as Fernmoor House, constructed of the same weathered stone and covered by a slate roof.

Warm light shines through every window, and when the large, wood front door swings open for a couple to leave, the sound of voices, laughter, and a fiddle can be heard clearly from where Ben and I have paused to survey the scene.

It’s a world away from the polished event of last night, and when I look at Ben, I see his expression is wary.

If I had to guess, the king’s social life has been a lot like mine, and considering an experience like this will be a first for me…

“Come on.” I squeeze his hand and smile when those dark eyes meet mine, endeavoring to appear more confident than I am. “It’ll be fun.”

He allows himself to be pulled forward, but still looks as though we’re heading for a root canal. “The last time someone said that particular combination of words to me, it was my brother, and I ended up with three pins in my wrist.”

“You survived, though, right?” I giggle, and even the nerves aren’t enough to lessen my smile.

Ben is saved from coming up with a scathing reply to this as the pub door opens yet again as we approach.

The man leaving is intent on lighting his cigarette and barely glances in our direction as he holds open the door with his shoulder, mumbling something in greeting under his breath as he clicks the lighter.

As the door swings shut behind us, Benedict and I pause just inside, taking it all in.

The entire pub seems to be included in one large room.

Iron lanterns hang over a line of booths at one end of the space and above the glossy wood bar on the other.

A set of stairs to our right leads to more seating on a balcony, which winds around the entire perimeter of the room, overlooking the area that’s been cleared for dancing.

A few dozen couples are mopping their brows or fanning their flushed faces, all wearing breathless smiles. In the corner, a four-piece band is gearing up for another song, taking swigs of beer, and talking amongst themselves as their audience recovers.

Ben leans down to speak directly in my ear.

“Come on,” he mutters, wrapping an arm around my waist, keeping me close to his side as we edge forward.

I can feel the tension in his body as we make our way through the noisy crowd of pub-goers to the single, empty table just off the makeshift dance floor.

The top is sticky with beer residue, and, shoved off to the side, a tiny LED tealight sits dark in its stained holder.

No sooner have we taken our seats than a red-bearded man appears, a pad and pen at the ready. “What can I get you?” he asks in an accent so thick I can barely understand him, waving a large hand toward the board of food options above the bar.

I crane my neck around him to see, but Benedict saves me from having to scramble for something to order, telling the man we’d each like a pint of a beer I’ve never heard of, without looking up at him even once.

“And to eat?” the man prompts us with an air of impatience that we haven’t memorized the menu.

I lean past him, peering at the menu, and my heart lifts at the sight of a single vegan option. I order the dish eagerly, and I’m surprised when Ben asks for the same.

“You didn’t need to do that,” I blurt out as the man vanishes into the crowd. “You should have something you like.”

Ben dismisses this comment with an exasperated look. “I’m sure I’ll like this fine. ”

In the corner, the band kicks off another lively song, prompting cheers from the pub-goers around us as more people flood into the center of the space to dance. A part of me wants to turn and watch, to take in the new culture I’ve stepped into, but I don’t.

Instead, I bite my lip and lean back in my chair, gazing at the man across from me.

The disparity between this man’s public image and what I’ve seen from him so far is kind of astounding.

Since arriving in Stelland, and even a bit at home, I’ve seen plenty of commentary on the new king, and very little of it is positive.

“Are you normally this sweet?” I ask, and Ben snorts, shaking his head in disbelief.

“I’m not sure there’s a single person on this planet who would call me sweet, Zelda.”

There is now.

Sliding my hand over the grubby tabletop, I lace my fingers through his, and my heart flutters at the way his expression softens. “You can be prickly all you like, I’m not fooled, Benedict.”

“Oh dear, my full name?” His lips twitch. “This must be a very serious matter.”

“What is your full name? Do kings have surnames?”

He snorts. “Of course they do.”

“Well?”

Clearing his throat, Ben leans closer, his expression full of poorly suppressed amusement. “Benedict Alexander Hugo Ashwell.”

“That is extremely fancy. Wow, with your accent and everything? I’m wildly intimidated right now.”

Ben scoffs. “No, you certainly aren’t. Alright, California, what’s your full name, now that we’re on the topic.”