Page 35 of Lone Spy (Starstruck Thrillers #2)

Chapter Thirty

I lean forward, my body in sync with the galloping mare under me. Each hoof fall is a beat in the rhythm of our dance. My gloved fingers are wrapped in her mane, the wind whipping it against the bared skin at my wrists. My cheeks ache from how hard I'm smiling.

The mare slows to a trot as we reach the top of the hillside.

She snorts, slowing to a walk, stretching her neck down.

I reach forward to pat her—strong muscle under soft fur.

"Good girl," I huff, my breath catching up with us still.

"That was amazing." An urge to wrap my arms around her almost unbalances me.

The mare’s name is Dream, which is so fitting. She is gray with a black and white mane, gentle brown eyes, and a powerful body. "Dream's a sweetheart," the groom, a deep-voiced, big-bellied man with auburn hair had assured me. "She will take good care of yen."

And she had. We'd been exploring the grounds of the castle for the last hour, Omar on a black Friesian named Falcon and me on Dream. We'd mostly walked until this hill, where Omar told me they usually canter to the top.

Dream had begun to prance, excited for the fun. Omar held back his mount, waiting for my agreement, and when I grinned at him and leaned forward, Dream took off like a shot. I grabbed her mane, and she carried me to the top of this hill—it felt like flying.

Omar's horse slows to a walk next to us. He's grinning as big as me. "You seem to be remembering how to ride," he says.

I laugh, leaning forward to pat Dream's neck again. "She's taking very good care of me."

Omar nods. He looks so handsome on his dark steed, the Scottish countryside rolling behind him. We are on a well-groomed trail. "I'm happy to see you enjoying yourself so fully," Omar says, his dark eyes roaming over my face, his own smile broad.

"Thank you," I say, "for inviting me. This is amazing.

" The trail dips down and into a wooded area, the tall evergreens casting chilling shadows.

I'm glad for the thick tweed riding outfit that was found for me.

It fits very well—they must keep one in every size for guests.

Which is wild. Unlike the landscape here, which is as tamed as Dream.

The path through the forest is just wide enough for us to ride side by side. "Have you thought about what we discussed last night?" Omar asks, his tone even, as if we didn't discuss my lead protector betraying me last night.

"Yes," I say. "Of course I've thought about it.

" I worry my lower lip. His focus falls to it just the way I planned.

We come out of the woods and back out under the cloud-thickened sky.

A wind whips over the grassy hill, ruffling the short green blades, and tugging at my braid.

"I appreciate your offer to help. I do."

"But…"

I look over at him, letting a sad smile tug at my lips. "I don't think you can help me. No one can."

"You're in grave danger. I can provide protection."

"How?" I ask, meeting his gaze.

"Be with me."

"Be with you?"

"I could keep you safe."

"Omar, I have a life. I'm going back to LA tomorrow. I have more promotion to do for my current film and am committed to my next project."

"I would never ask you to give up your work.

" He sounds almost insulted, but there is something else in his tone.

He'd never ask me to give it up. But if I wanted to give it up…

if I wanted to let him take care of me, he would.

"But I would gladly provide security for you. If you were under my protection, there would be serious consequences if you were hurt.”

"Omar, that's…" I'm not sure what it is. Sweet? Crazy? Confusing? "I don't know what to say."

"You can trust me, Angela."

"But can you trust me?" I ask. "When I have so much to gain from a connection with you?"

Omar's smile broadens. I'm once again the student who exceeded my teacher's expectations. "I don't think you're the type of woman who would betray a man she's romantically involved with."

I blink, surprised. He…I… Clearing my throat, I turn my tone flirty. “Are we romantically involved?" I tease.

"I hope so." His smile turns wolfish. Hot. No iceberg here. The prince knows what he wants.

I, on the other hand, have lost the thread of why I'm here. My impulse was to take action—do something. Talk to Victoria, give her the compass, and then figure out my next move. But Omar’s revelations and subsequent offer have thrown me off kilter.

American politics feel far away from this manicured environment. Could a connection with Omar save me? Or would I be trading one devil for another?

"I appreciate your offer," I say, because I do. "But I'm satisfied with my security."

"Ash Fraser is dangerous." Omar's voice is suddenly stern, serious.

"I know." But not to me. I don't say that part out loud. "He's the devil I know." I look over at Omar again. He's watching me, frowning. A spear of sunlight breaks through the low clouds and lights up the hill behind him for a brief moment before shadowing again.

"I'm the devil you don't know?"

"Yes." It's a challenge—and I get the sense His Royal Highness, Prince of Jordan, Omar bin Rami, enjoys a challenge.

Princess Victoria is chatting with Gordon, the groom, when we return.

She waves to us, a broad smile on her pretty face.

"Angela," she says, head tilted up, eyes shielded by large tortoiseshell sunglasses.

"I'd like to show you my garden if you have a half-hour to spare.

" The breeze toys with Victoria's ash-blonde hair, brushing the tips against her tweed jacket.

"Of course." I smile back, relieved to finally get some alone time with her.

Victoria and I chat about my ride, Dream is a dream! , the beauty of the region, so gorgeous! and other innocuous things, dinner last night was delicious! as we walk.

When we reach the stone-walled garden scented of rosemary, we fall silent. The crunch of small stones under our boots and the quiet symphony of nature are the only sounds as we navigate the paths between the herb beds.

"It's beautiful,” I say, breaking the silence.

"Yes.” There is a smile in Victoria’s voice. "They are all medicinal plants. It's been here for generations. Even before my family bought the property."

She stops, stooping down next to a bed of knee-height flowers with strong, slender stems and feathery fern-like leaves.

The white blossoms are small and clustered close together.

"This is yarrow, achillea millefolium ." The Latin name rolls off her tongue like she was born speaking that dead language.

"It grows wild in fields and can be used to stop bleeding.

" Victoria looks up at me. "It can also help with fevers. And infections."

"You eat it?" I ask. "How does that stop bleeding?"

She smiles, her gaze falling to the flat-topped flowers. "You make it into a poultice or powder. You can even chew it and apply it to the wound. It contains chemicals that speed blood clotting. Achilles, who the plant is named after, used it on his soldiers’ wounds."

"That's amazing." The scent of the yarrow wafts to me—herbaceous and sweet, like oregano and honey.

Victoria stands and points down the row to another bunch of flowers. They are rangier, their yellow flowers faded and not as tightly knit as the yarrow. The leaves are longer, and faded in the early fall. "Chamomile," Victoria says.

"I've had the tea," I say with a smile.

A crow caws, drawing my attention to the far side of the garden, about fifty yards away. The black bird perches on a low stone wall. It ruffles its feathers. Another lands next to it. They both dive behind the wall, disappearing.

"They are eating the wild carrot seeds. Daucus carota ." Victoria starts to walk toward the birds. "It's commonly called Queen Anne's lace."

It occurs to me that Queen Anne might be an ancestor of Victoria's. "Why is the flower named after her?" I ask.

"She was a wonderful lace maker, known for her incredible craftsmanship.

The flowers are usually white or purple, and at the center of each one is a tiny cluster of red flowers.

As if a drop of blood spilled on the lace.

Queen Anne lost seventeen children—so they say the spilled blood is her sorrow at the center of the flower. "

“Oh, that’s so sad." I’ll never look at the pretty white cluster the same again.

Victoria nods her agreement.

A crow hops back up on the wall, its obsidian eye watching our approach. "Hello." A woman's voice comes out of the bird’s beak, stunning me into stopping.

Victoria stills as well. "Amazing, isn't it? They mimic perfectly. Better thanparrots."

"Victoria," the bird says, bobbing its head and taking a few side steps.

"It knows your name."

"And speaks in my grandmother's voice." Victoria starts walking again and I trail after her. The crow speaks in the queen ’ s voice? “It's almost enough to make you believe in magic—in ancestors watching over us."

"Almost," I agree, though I don't know that I really do. Victoria is a princess; it makes sense the world is magical to her. But then again, she’s as trapped as me. Caught in a spider’s tacky web.

Two more birds join the first on the low wall as we reach it. Running parallel with the outer wall for about ten feet, it creates a partition for the plants growing on the other side.

Victoria pulls a plastic bag out of her pocket. "Nut, please, Victoria," the first crow says.

"Please, Victoria," another one says in the same voice—a queen's posh British accent.

The princess holds out a shelled peanut to the first, who takes it gently with its sharp beak. Then it shuffles away and the second comes for its prize.

A breeze swoops through the garden, fluttering the plants on the far side of the wall. The Queen Anne's lace has started to go to seed—the flowers gone, the thin stems that held them closing in on themselves. Like a goblet. Or an aging hand.

My grandmother's claw-like fingers flutter through my mind, there and then gone. And I'm back in the garden, enshrined in the scent of this place.

More crows drop into the garden, landing on the wall, each lining up for a peanut.

"Queen Anne's lace is an abortifacient." Victoria doesn't look at me when she says it.

My chest tightens, that word spiking fear in my gut.

"All the plants in this area of the garden are.” Victoria says it quietly.

Calmly. As if she isn't casually feeding a murder of crows and talking about abortion.

"I didn't know that."

Victoria glances over to me, her eyes still obscured by her sunglasses. She looks so pretty. So strange. With the black birds lined up elegantly in front of her.

“The queen cannot show emotion." She changes the subject as her attention returns to the birds. "She must be stalwart. The ideal of masculine power. Neither peaceable nor bloodthirsty. Unaffected.”

"That makes sense, I guess."

"Another, please,” a crow says.

"You already had yours, Felix."

"Another." The bird bobs his glistening head. "I dance." Victoria laughs but shakes her head. "I'm almost out and Winston still hasn't had his."

The bird sighs, sounding so human it's truly bizarre. And also super fucking cool.

We are alone except the birds. I reach into the inside pocket of my borrowed tweed riding jacket and wrap my hand around the compass. Inhaling I pull it free, keeping it mostly hidden in my gloved hand.

Victoria glances over at my movement. She straightens, and I open my palm. The bronze cover glows dully in the cloud darkened afternoon light. Victoria’s smile is subtle, almost sad, as she takes it from me, disappearing it into her pocket.

“You know what this is?” I ask.

She nods, turning back to the waiting birds.

"What are you going to do with it?" I go on, emboldened by the intimacy of this moment.

"Use it to convince my grandmother we need to do something."

"Do you think she’ll take action?"

"Honestly, I don’t know." Winston, I'm assuming, arrives, landing next to Felix and pushing him slightly away.

Victoria offers him the last peanut. "My grandmother does not think we should interfere in other countries’ elections.

" Her tone is even but there is something underneath it.

Her grandmother won't always be in power.

She's in failing health. Soon Victoria’s father will be king… unless something happens to him.

"You think interference is warranted?"

"We have done such things in the past—not that our past is something to emulate.

But Russia is hard at work destroying American democracy.

They've come after ours as well. I don't think we can sit on our throne and wait for it all to sort itself out.

Mis and disinformation—lies are easy to spread.

Easy to believe." She pauses. "They always have been. "

"What can we do about that?"

Victoria folds the plastic baggie and slips it back into her pocket.

She slides off her sunglasses and meets my gaze.

There are fine lines radiating from her eyes and a furrow in her brow.

No botox here—no hiding age. But she is hiding power.

I thought she was meek, a tool for the Crown. I was wrong.

"I want a new world order. And so does Rebecca Levi."

My heart crawls into my throat. "What does that mean?

" And should we be talking about this in front of the crows?

Wow, that's not a thought I ever imagined would cross my mind.

Then again, I never knew I'd want to murder a man—that I'd crave it.

Yet, here I am. In a walled garden at a royal castle, surrounded by a queen's herb garden, lusting for an unattainable freedom and a man's blood on my hands, worried that crows will spill my secrets.

She smiles. "It means we stop anyone who is in our way. No matter the cost."

Oh fuck. The princess might be as bloodthirsty as me.