The Prince

“Where were you?” he asked as she scooted in next to him. He pulled her close and she melted into him, her back to his chest.

“Just ran an errand. Go back to sleep. I’m about to.”

“Good idea,” he said, pushing his hips into hers. Nora laughed softly. Kid had been having sex for all of one week and he’d already turned into a typical horny-in-the-morning male. And she loved him for it.

And she loved him for everything else, too.

And she didn’t have to leave him.

And since she didn’t have to leave him, that meant eventually she’d have to answer Wesley’s question.

Would she stay with Wesley? Or would she leave him…again?

NORTH

The Past

The fear that at the time seemed irrational, the fear that had nearly kept Kingsley from stepping into the chapel, had proved itself justified beyond all belief. One month from the day Marie-Laure arrived at Saint Ignatius and glimpsed Søren for the first time, she and Kingsley returned to the chapel, hand in hand again. Midnight on December 21…the time chosen by Marie-Laure. His birthday, she’d said, smiling. And the longest night of the year, Kingsley had said, staring at his sister until she blushed. Blushed...his sister who had taken half of Paris to her bed had actually blushed.

“Can you think of a better choice for a wedding night?” she’d finally said, and Kingsley’s stomach had churned.

And now he waited in the narthex of the chapel. Checking his watch, he mourned the time—one minute until midnight.

She looked beautiful; he couldn’t deny that. More beautiful than he’d ever seen her. A blizzard had kept the entire school trapped in their valley. There had been no opportunity for shopping for wedding dresses. Instead, she’d taken one of her own dresses and some of the old lace altar cloths and sewn a train and a veil by hand. She wore no makeup, as she’d run out a week ago and could not go anywhere to procure more. Her naked face had never shone so brightly, nor had she ever looked so innocent. Innocent…almost virginal. Her hands twisted together. Nerves? His sister who had worn next to nothing to dance on a stage before tens of thousands during her two years in the Paris Ballet Company? She was nervous?

Kingsley took her hand in his and held it. Her fingers felt like ice against his skin.

“Are you scared?” he asked, trying to feign support, affection, while anger lurked under his calm exterior.

“Oui…so much.” She took a breath in and let it out. A white cloud surrounded her face like a halo. The chapel was nearly impossible to keep warm in the winter, but she’d insisted they be married in the church. Kingsley prayed for a short ceremony or they all would die of hypothermia before dawn.

“Then why are you marrying him?” He asked the question with more honest emotion in his voice than he’d meant to betray. But Marie-Laure, lost in her own thoughts and fears, seemed not to notice.

“I’ve never met anyone like him. I’ve never...I love him.” She turned her face to Kingsley’s and the intensity of her smile brought light and warmth to the cold, candlelit chapel.

“You’ve known him one month.”

“It doesn’t matter. I loved him the moment I saw him. And I told him that.”

“Did he say he loved you, too?” Kingsley asked, fearing the answer. Søren had never even said those words to him, although they escaped Kingsley’s lips every time Søren entered him. He’d said “I love you” almost as often as he’d said “I hate you” to Søren. It never mattered which one he said—love or hate—as they meant the same to Kingsley. They meant “I am yours no matter what.” But he knew Søren loved him. He never needed the words—only the bruises and the welts and the memories of their bodies joined in the deepest hours of the night, when even God had given up and gone to sleep. And Marie-Laure…with his own money Søren had brought Marie-Laure to Kingsley. That had been love. And for once, Kingsley wished Søren had loved him a little less.

She shook her head. “No. Not in so many words. But he said something better than ‘I love you.’ He said, ‘We can be married.’ He didn’t hesitate, not a moment. It was as if he’d been waiting for me to tell him I loved him so he could ask.”

“What do you mean—”

“Shh…” Marie-Laure raised a finger to her lips. A light appeared at the altar; a single candle had been lit. “It’s time.”

She held out her arm and Kingsley took it. And in utter silence but for Marie-Laure’s shallow breaths, Kingsley escorted his sister to where Søren waited next to Father Henry. Father Henry, as usual, wore a smile. So did Marie-Laure. But Søren and Kingsley didn’t smile as their eyes met. Kingsley looked for something in Søren’s eyes—an apology, a hint of explanation, a purpose or a plan…something to explain this madness. But he saw nothing in Søren’s eyes at all.

Marie-Laure’s smile only broadened as Father Henry began to speak. Kingsley heard his voice, but his mind could comprehend none of the words. Another silence descended and Kingsley realized that he’d just been asked a question.

“I do,” he answered, remembering that he had one line in this farce—Father Henry had asked him who gives this woman to be married to this man. I do—two words. All Kingsley had to say. Seeing his parents’ bodies become ash to be stored in silver urns hurt less than those two words had. He knew he was to stand at Marie-Laure’s side now—as the only woman at Saint Ignatius, Marie-Laure had no one to ask to serve as an attendant. But Kingsley couldn’t do it, couldn’t stand with his own sister. He went to Søren’s side instead. Marie-Laure didn’t even notice his defection.