He lost sight of her during the movie’s after party. She was cool toward him when he caught up to her after the showing. But rightfully so. He’d left her behind, and for the life of him, he couldn’t reckon with his rude actions.
After all, he did invite her to the premier. But suddenly she felt all too close, too real, and the memories of her soft skin beneath his and the flame of her kisses nearly distracted him from the opening scene where King Stephen I and his men rose from the southern bay like sea monsters, surprising King Henry VIII’s army as they slept on the beach.
As the film credits rolled and the audience rose to their feet with abandoned applause, the theatre spotlight swung to his box and Corina stepped into the shadows.
He walked with her to the after party, but he was swarmed as they entered the room, and she was gone.
Stephen perused the food table, choosing a smoked salmon on toast point hors d’oeuvre.
Impulse. That was his superpower. What he did well. When he hesitated or overthought something, people got hurt. Joy became sorrow. Peace became war. Friends became enemies.
So tonight, when Corina suddenly appeared to be the perfect wife for him—comfortable in his world, acquainted with the likes of Laura Gonda and Martina Lord, and charming the “wow” out of Clive the cad—he panicked. Moved away from her because his impulses stirred.
Marry me. Again.
So Stephen created distance between them. He didn’t blame her for being upset. Finishing his hors d’oeuvre, Stephen moved through the crowd, greeting guests, who prattled on about how “it was such a fabulous film.”
But he was ready to go. This wasn’t his scene. Despite his rugged, rugby-man reputation, any and all exploits with wine, women, and song were merely unchallenged legend.
Why disappoint people with the truth? The Prince of Brighton was a homebody. A wounded, unworthy man.
He’d tried numbing his pain with drink after his tour but quickly discovered he had to choose. Be drunk or be disciplined.
Modern rugby demanded he stay fit and on top of his game, mentally and physically. Drinking made him the opposite. Rugby turned out to be his only true salvation.
Just over his shoulder, he saw Corina working through the crowd, the people responding to her. She looked divine under her sparkling tiara. Bravo for defying royal protocol.
“Sir?” Thomas tucked in next to him. “It’s nearly midnight.”
“I’m ready to go.” After midnight, the music changed dramatically, and previously well-mannered citizens with a sense of decency lost their minds, and maybe a piece of their souls, with raucous music, strong drink, and backroom antics. “Let’s collect Corina.”
“She’d said she’d take a taxi.” Thomas shouldered his way through the crowd, making room for Stephen, nodding to the protection officers waiting by the door.
“Not again.” Stephen stepped faster. He’d just seen her, so she couldn’t be too far.
“The limousine is coming round,” Thomas said.
Through the doors and into the clear cool night, illumined with roaming spotlights, Stephen slammed into the wall of tenacious paparazzi.
“Prince Stephen, this way. What did you think of the film?”
He quickened his gait. “Quite splendid.” Where’d you get off to, Corina? “For a moment, I almost called Clive Boston ‘Granddad.’ ”
The laughter slipstreamed along the night air.
“Your Highness, where’s your lady friend?” A photographer ducked under the media rope and ran alongside him. “Corina Del Rey, if I’m not mistaken. Are you two an item?”
“No, we’re not.” Clear enough? But the truth of the matter gnawed at him. They were an item. A couple. Man and wife. Why couldn’t he just say it? Be free of it? But we’re getting an annulment.
Because then the “why” questions would come.
Thomas intercepted the photographer, urging him to move on, just as Stephen spotted Corina at the taxi stand, her hand raised, hailing a cab.
Breaking away from the protection detail, his tightly wrapped ankle tired and burning, he limped toward her.
“Stephen, where are you going?” Thomas’s voice barreled after him.
“For a stroll.” Stephen linked his arm through Corina’s and, without a word, moved her away from the curb and into the shadows of the giant spotlights. “You were going to leave without saying good-bye.” At the curb, Stephen checked the motion of the traffic, then dashed across the thoroughfare as headlights from the oncoming lane sped toward them.
“Gee, Thelma, what’s your hurry?” Corina pulled away from him but kept up with his stride.
“I’m in the mood for some puffs.”
“Puffs? At this hour.”
“Puffs are grand at any hour.”
Thomas appeared off Stephen’s right shoulder, relaying commands through the com tucked into his jacket sleeve. “Bring the limo round. Heading east on Bakery Row.”
“Home of the best bakery and eateries in all of Europe.”
“Thomas, how could you box me out? I thought you of all people—”
“Sorry miss, my duty is to the prince. When we’re in large crowds—”
“Blame me. Not Thomas.” Stephen slowed as they stepped up onto the sidewalk, into a triangle streetlamp glow. “Is it too late to apologize?”
“For what?” She sighed, glancing away. But he caught the soft sheen in her eyes. “I’m starting to think you’re right. We should’ve never happened.”
“I’m sorry, Corina. I just don’t want a lot of prying questions. What do you say? A box of Brighton’s best pastry? A cup of hot sweet tea with thick cream?” He loosened his tie, unbuttoned his collar, pointing to the lights of the old Franklin Bakery. “We came here on our first date, remember? You had your first taste of puffs.” They’d gone to dinner with friends. His mate Harry had leaned over during the first course and said in no small whisper, “Marry her. And I’m not kidding. Find a way.”
She drew up, slowing her step. “They weren’t my first puffs. I vacationed here as a kid. Please tell me you’ve forgotten the stories of—”
“Yes, your maid, Ida Mae, trying to converse with the locals.”
Corina laughed low, a melody that lingered with him longer than the movie’s dynamic score. At least in this moment. “She’d come in from the shops. ‘I declare, Horatia, but I think I got yet another weddin’ proposal.’ ”
“Because grocer colloquialism said, ‘If ya make me a spry dish with what here I’m selling ya, I’ll make ye my bride.’ ”
“Which meant, ‘I’ll give you the best house deal next time you come into the shop.’ ”
Their laughs blended with the sound of the night, the scuff of their heels. Corina stopped, leaned on his shoulder, and popped off her shoes. “Ah, finally. They were killing me.”
“Thomas!” Stephen snapped with a flare. “Carry milady’s shoes to the motor car.”
“Oh good grief, I’m not going to ask the man to carry my shoes.”
Thomas held up his hand. “I don’t mind at all.”
Corina dropped the spike-heeled shoes to his palm. “Then thank you very much.”
With a light press of his hand on her back, Stephen urged her forward. “That night we dined at—”
“Ten Bluedon Street.”
“Precisely. Then we went for puffs.”
“Franklin’s has the best in the city, so much so they never close,” he said, leaning to see around her sheen of hair. “Come on, I mean, you’ve spent the better part of the night with me.”
“Yes, and I’m starting to be concerned for my reputation.”
He laughed. He liked who he was around her. Relaxed, himself, unaware of his princely stature. But yet, didn’t she make him want to be all he could be as a royal?
“So, a walk to Franklin’s for a box of puffs?”
“I don’t know . . .” She chewed on her bottom lip in contemplation, and he thought he might just slip her into his arms and taste her lips.
“Tell you what . . .” He retrieved his mobile. “I’ll ring your brother. Ask his permission.” He dialed as she laughed. “Carlos, chap, this is Stephen. Yes . . . your sister . . . doing splendid. We’re debating going for a box of puffs . . . at Franklin’s . . .” He glanced at her in the ambient light of 10 Bluedon Street and his heart slipped a little over love’s edge. “Might I have your blessing to coax her along? All right, sounds like a fair offer. A box of puffs, chocolate, for the brother.”
“Carlos, you’re a rotten big brother.” She held up her finger and mouthed “by one minute.”
“He says a man has to eat.”
“I miss him,” she said, chewing on her bottom lip, like that night so long ago.
Her soft confession speared his heart. Clearing his throat, he walked round her. “Puffs it is, then.” What was he doing? Let her go. Be done with it. Did he think he could dance around the truth forever? That he’d not impulsively spill it all?
No matter how he sliced it, Corina Del Rey came attached to her brother, and alive or dead, he would always be a part of their relationship.
Around the corner, Stephen stopped in front of the bright window of a small bake shop. The sign above the door read Franklin Bakery. A Brighton landmark.
“Shall we?” He opened the door. Thomas entered first, then Corina, followed by Stephen. Along the curb, the limousine slowed then stopped.
Stephen approached the counter as the proprietor came round the corner, dusting flour from his hands. “Prince Stephen.” The surprise in his voice displayed in his eyes. “Your Highness, welcome to Franklin’s. Lovely to see you. A box of puffs?”
“You know me well, Mr. Franklin. And a couple of boxes for my friends out there.” He tipped his head toward Thomas and the limo lads. “Add a round of teas.”
“Coming right up. Cinnamon?”
“The best kind. But toss in a few chocolate.” Stephen peeled several pound notes from his money clip and set them on the counter before turning to Corina. “Shall we choose a table?”
She chose one by the window, and when Thomas nodded his consent, Stephen led her over.
“What did you think of the film?” he said after a moment.
“Are you asking the woman or the amateur critic?”
“Whichever one wants to answer?”
“The critic thought it was well done. The cinematography was stunning. The acting . . .” She waffled her hand in the air. “Martina as Magdalena and Laura as Gillian were excellent, but Clive as King Stephen . . . He was just too much like his super spy Scott Hunter character. Jason Bourne meets James Bond in 1552, you know? I felt like it was a Bond-Hunter-Bourne flick only with a serf army wielding bow and arrows instead of CIA spooks trained to take out their opposing asset with the back of a cell phone and wad of chewing gum.”
Stephen chuckled. “Well said.”
“However as a woman and premier reporter, I loved every minute of it. King Stephen was so noble and heroic. I thought Magdalena was beyond courageous.”
She glanced up when Mr. Franklin—an heir much like Stephen, only to the bakery world, the son of sons of sons of the founder—who regularly worked the night shift, appeared with their puffs and tea. And Stephen’s money.
“On the house tonight, Your Highness.”
“Are you sure?” Stephen hesitated, then reached for the pound notes. “Thank you.”
“In honor of the premier.”
“For the premier.” Stephen stood, shaking the man’s hand.
Corina pulled one of the light pastries from the box and dipped it in her tea, just like he’d taught her the first time they shared puffs.
“It’s the only way to eat a puff. Dipped in hot sweet tea.”
“What about you?” she said. “Did you enjoy it? What was it like watching your ancestor come to life on a movie screen?”
“Eerie, inspiring. I thought the film was well done.” He reached for his napkin, dusting the cinnamon from his fingers. “There were moments when I found it hard to believe that the blood of a brave chap like King Stephen I, even though Clive was a bit too Scott Hunter, runs in my veins.”
“Why is that hard to believe? You fought for your country same as he did. Perhaps you’re more like him than you realize.”
“Or less.” King Stephen I had loved Magdalena without reserve or fail. Even in the difficulties when his council stood against him. Stephen peered over his cup of tea. How could he love Corina faithfully when he bore her brother’s blood?
She could never forgive him. Rightly so.
“I’d like to think I’d pick up my fallen brother’s sword, if I could.”
Stephen dipped his puff in his tea. This conversation edged on danger. Just let it go.
Dusting cinnamon from her fingers, Corina reached up to work the tiara from her hair. “I shouldn’t have worn this out with you. I only dug in my heels because you demanded I take it off. I’ve probably further offended your family.” But the crown would not budge. “That Adelaide . . .” Corina growled low. “Did she glue it on? She’s going to have to cut this out of my hair or I may have to wear it all week.”
Stephen stretched across the table, touching her hand. “Leave it be. It’s becoming.”
She settled back, swirling her finger through puff crumbs. “Do you realize this was our first public outing? At least officially.”
“I suppose, yes. I never considered it.”
She drew a long breath and dusted the cinnamon from her fingers. “No one ever knew.”
“We hid our relationship well.”
“And it was fun but . . .” She peered at him. “But when a girl gets married, she wants the whole world to know.”
Stephen shifted in his seat and heard his heart kerplunk. From his proposal to the secret marriage, he’d robbed this woman of everything romantic. Everything a woman desires.
Maybe impulse was his nemesis, not his superpower.
Yet she did it all willingly. Gladly. Because she loved him.
A slow perspiration started across his forehead, heat sinking into his face and neck. And how did he repay her? With an abrupt end and cold silence.
“It’s odd . . . this thing between us.” In the quiet moments, his heart popped open on its own. A small thread unraveling in his carefully brocaded emotions. “Married but not married.”
“Very odd.” She leaned on her elbows and dipped her puff in her tea again.
“I’m sorry.” His clipped confession floated out on a cloud of shallow emotion. He could offer a world of apologies, but would it still be the balm her wounded heart demanded?
She sighed. “Can we just enjoy this?” She offered up her half-eaten puff. “Why spoil the evening with the conversation we’re not going to have?”
He smoothed his hand over his napkin. “All right. But tell me about the business of you tweeting during Madeline and Hyacinth’s show.”
She pinched her lips, but her laugh leaked through. “I don’t know . . .” Her golden-brown eyes snapped. “I felt ornery.”
“What were you trying to do? Alert the media?”
“No,” she said with a defensive air. “I wanted to alert you, then watch you proclaim the glories of your boorish rugby.”
His laugh rolled. “Boorish rugby.” He slapped his hand over his heart as if truly speared, then regarded her, awash with humility. How did she offer him such patience and kindness? It disrupted him. Knocked at his soul.
“Yes, boorish. I mean, what’s it all about? Running up and down the field in a line, tossing the ball behind you?”
“It’s about being the most superior, toughest sport in the world.”
She made a face, wrinkling her nose. “Yeah, I’m not getting that.”
He snorted, pressing his fist to his lips. “Rugby is far superior to your American football, darling.”
From across the room, Thomas spoke out. “Careful, Corina, you’re talking to one of the world’s best wingers.”
“Thank you, Thomas,” Stephen said, puffing up, anchoring his arm on the back of his chair. Indeed, one of the best. It felt good to have someone proclaim his excellence in front of his wife. Not that “wife” mattered in the long run. Don’t let loose too much, mate. She’s going back to America.
“Best winger in an inferior sport. Does that really even count?” Nonchalant, she shoved a puff in her mouth, chewed, and swallowed before going on. “Thomas, I thought of you more as an honest man, speaking the truth. Even to your prince.”
“I am, ma’am.”
Oh, now the lass was just begging for it. “Tell me how many countries play your brand of football?”
She shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.”
“Over a hundred and seventeen nations play in the Rugby Union. And your American football? A dozen, perhaps?”
“See, that’s why it’s superior. It takes time, talent, training, money to play. And since when did quantity equate with quality?”
Thomas laughed. “She has you there, sir.”
“Hush, or you’ll be on palace foot patrol.”
Thomas winked at Corina and headed for the door. “I’ll just join the lads and leave you to it, Corina.”
“Stephen,” she said, leaning toward him once Thomas had gone, holding her teacup in her long, slender hands. His lips buzzed with a desire to kiss her fingers. “Have you ever played American football?”
“You mean the game with the lads under a helmet, wearing all sorts of protective gear? No. A game for the ladies.” He caught her mid-sip. She snorted and spewed a small shower of tea. “Ah, lovely. Spitting on your date.” He brushed his tux with exaggeration.
“Not my date.” She dabbed the table with her napkin. “No, you made that clear. Anyway, why do you think they wear the gear? Because—”
“They’re weak,” he said, letting the date comment slip past, choosing instead the soft ground of a sporting debate. “And I said I was sorry.”
“Weak?” She jutted out her chin with a challenging gaze. “And oh no you did not.”
“I think I just did. I’m sorry for any rudeness.”
“Listen, American football is a full-on, run-at-each-other-like-freight-trains contact sport. In rugby, y’all just hug each other down to the ground, and apology accepted.”
He jerked forward, eyes wide. “Oh no, you didn’t. ‘Hug each other to the ground?’ ”
“I think I just did.”
“All right.” He rubbed his hands together, well aware he was treading on familiar ground, venturing into fall-in-love space. “How about a little wager?” Beyond the window, the protection officers paced, passing around the box of puffs, sipping from paper cups. The hour had grown late and Stephen didn’t want to make them wait too much longer to go home, but he wasn’t quite ready to leave Corina’s company.
“What kind of wager? And no sucker bets, like name the all-time leading scorer in rugby.”
“Dan Carter, New Zealand. He’s a hundred caps. I was aiming for half of that by now.”
She glanced down at his bandaged ankle. “Will you be able to play soon?”
“The fall Premiership is my goal.” He didn’t mention how he pushed himself this morning on the pitch and ended up with his foot in an ice whirlpool for ten minutes, enduring a stern lecture from his physiotherapist.
“What’s the bet?” With that, a lock of her black hair bounced between her hazel eyes, twisting to the tip of her lean nose.
“The first day we spoke . . . where were we?”
“That’s the bet?”
“That’s the bet.”
“Do you want to lose?”
“I aim to win.”
“And if I win?”
“I will declare, in the city square—my city, mind you—that American football is the most superior sport in the world.” He winced. Could his soul endure such a thing? Such a lie? Even for her? For true love? “Isn’t that what you Americans really believe?”
“Absolutely. It’s true.”
“But if I win,” he said, leaning toward her, propped on his elbows, inhaling the intoxicating scent of her skin, “you must stand in the square, declaring that rugby is the most superior sport in the world.”
“You’re kidding.” But her smile told him she loved the wager. “You must not believe in your sport very much, Stephen.”
“I believe wholeheartedly in my sport and this, shall we say, throw down.”
“Deal.” She stuck out her hand.
“Deal.” He hesitated, then took her hand in his. As he feared, her touch blew passion over his dormant fires. He didn’t want to let her go. How easy it would’ve been to pull her into him and reacquaint his lips with hers.
“Professor Reuben’s class. When you sat behind me. That was the first time we spoke.”
“As I suspected. Wrong.” He slapped his hand on the table. Dates were not typically his specialty, but he’d never forget the first time he saw her, spoke to her. He could count every day he spotted her crossing the oval, her hair floating behind her. “Off with you now to the city square.”
“Wrong? I remember expressly—”
“Do you remember the first day of fall semester? Outside the registrar’s office? You came out the door so fast you ran into someone, dropping your books.”
She gasped. “That was you?” She made a face, refusing to believe. “No, that man was . . . nice. He picked up my books, asked if I was all right. Apologized even though it was my fault.”
“Did he say something like, ‘Afternoon, miss. I’m so sorry. I seem to be in the wrong place at the wrong time these days’?”
She crossed her arms with a defiant chin raise. “What was I wearing?”
“Not fair. I’m a man, Corina. We don’t notice outfits.”
Her eyes twinkled as she leaned toward him with smug confidence. “What was I wearing?”
“A pink top. Jeans. Flip-flops.”
She froze, eyes wide. “It was you.”
Stephen popped another puff in his mouth, took a long, satisfying sip of his tea, and pushed away from the table. “Well, we’d best get on with it.”
“You never said anything.”
“Some memories are just mine to treasure.”
“I can’t believe you.”
“Crack on. Enough stalling.” He offered her his hand.
She rose slowly from the table, her eyes like blipping saucers. “You’re serious? You want me to shout in Cathedral City Square that rugby is a superior sport? I’m a woman of society. An heiress. Never mind a journalist for the noted Beaumont Post.”
“I’m the Prince of Brighton and a star winger. If the situation were reversed you’d show me no mercy. We’d best hurry.” He glanced at his thick, jeweled watch. A gift from his paternal grandfather, King Kenneth III. “It’s half past midnight. Timely for the late dinner crowd driving home past the square.” He led her to the door, threading his arm through hers. “What do you say? The roundabout? It’s a central place. Best start warming up your voice. I want this declaration loud and clear.”
“You seriously want me to shout a lie in the middle of the city square. From the roundabout.”
“No, I want you to shout the truth. It’s only a lie to you because you refuse to believe it.”
“Or . . . because it’s actually a lie. At least to me.”
“Corina, really now, warm up your voice. Me-me-me-me-me.”
“Oh, I’m warm.” She crushed her clutch bag between her hands. “My declaration will be loud. And very clear.” She snarled at him, stepping into the night. He muted his laugh. Muted the simmering stirrings of love.
“Don’t be angry, love. To the square,” he said into the night. Thomas and the security team shuffled along beside them.
“Where are we going, sir?” Thomas said. “Corina, your shoes, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Thomas.” She snatched them from him, pausing to slip them on, propping her hand against Stephen’s shoulder for balance.
“We’re off to the roundabout in the city square, Thomas,” he said, walking on when Corina was ready.
“Now? The traffic will be substantial.”
“Of which I’m most grateful.” He glanced at Corina. She was silent. A bit too silent. He could almost hear the cogs of revenge cranking in that beautiful brain of hers.
Stepping off the curb, the five of them dodged the traffic of Bakery Row toward the thick roundabout thoroughfare.
“Again, what is this all about?” Thomas, the ole mutt with a bone.
“Corina is going to declare truth.” He cut across a side street lined toward the park, ducking through the shadows of Victorian brownstones and ancient, thick-trunk trees burdened with leafy fat limbs.
“What sort of truth?” Thomas pressed his hand into Stephen and Corina’s backs, urging them across another side street and finally onto the grassy roundabout in the center of the six-lane Broadway thoroughfare. A river of headlights flowed toward them.
“Just you wait, Thomas,” Corina said. “You’ll see.”
Stephen halted midstride. Something was amiss. “What do you mean, ‘Just you wait’? Not sixty seconds ago, you were protesting.”
“You wanted a declaration of truth. A declaration of truth is what you’ll get.”
“Stephen, sir, please, we’re in the middle of the lane.” Thomas motioned for the other officers to get Corina to the roundabout.
Hurrying as quickly as he could, ignoring the twinge in his ankle—he’d pay for this tomorrow—Stephen landed on the grassy roundabout center, inhaling, deciphering the feelings flowing through him. Fun? Happiness? Joy? All of the above? He’d not felt such textures in so long. “Corina.” He focused on her. “Repeat after me, ‘Rugby is the most superior sport in the world.’ ”
“Rugby is the most superior sport in the world.” Stiff, straight-laced, and staring into the wave of white headlights moving toward them.
“Very nice, but with more meaning.”
“Rugby is the most superior sport in the world.” Corina repeated the words in a flat, meaningless tone.
“Love, listen, I won the bet. Fair and square. Don’t you agree?”
“I was set up.”
“But you made the bet. Face it, you thought you were going to win. So, please, with a bit more vim and vigor. After all, you’d demand all that from me and more. Perhaps a dance or some such.”
“Sir, is this really necessary?” Thomas positioned his team facing north and south on the circle, watching the roundabout, but he was nervous. Agitated.
“Yes, it is. Now . . .” Stephen flattened his palm against the carved marble base of the King Leopold II statue, leaning, taking the weight off of his sprained and complaining ankle. “Which way should she face?” He gazed north, then south, ignoring how the wind brushed her hair against his cheek. Nevertheless, the subtle encounter with her sent a wrecking ball against the wall of his heart.
Meanwhile, Thomas gave low commands to the limo driver through the com in his sleeve. “Pull round to the west corner of the side street. We’ll dash over when this business is done.”
“South I think,” Corina said, turning round, her hip grazing his arm. “More oncoming traffic.”
Another touch like that one and he’d be engulfed. “Well then, give it your best go.”
She inhaled and started to let go, but then glanced back at him. “You know this is ridiculous.”
“I know nothing of the sort. Quite the contrary, this is most antiridiculous. So crack on. Let’s hear it.” He folded his arms, hobbling, balancing on one foot, his heart beating in two directions.
Did he want to merely laugh at what will be her weak declaration of rugby’s superiority? Or take her in his arms and kiss her?
“This will make you feel better?” She asked, glancing at him through the threads of approaching headlights, her tiara sparkling.
“I think so, yes. But you see, it’s the matter of the bet.” He slapped his hand against the base of the statue. Like King Stephen I, King Leopold II rescued Brighton from a Russian conquest in the Great Northern War.
Stephen glanced up at the marble image of his great warrior ancestor. Another man like King Stephen I who fought for Brighton’s freedom with might and courage.
“It’s late. We best get on home. Come down from there. You don’t have to do this.”
“What? Why?” Corina snatched his arm, jerking him round among the shadows. “What about the bet?”
“What do you want me to say? Yelling some trite words about rugby will truly undo the damage that’s been done between us? Why bother?”
“Because some things are worth fighting for. Stephen, since when did you give up so easily? If you want something to change about these last years,” she gripped his arms, shaking him, “do something about it. Come back to me. Let’s work this out.”
“Impossible.” He withdrew from her. “If you only knew.” He stepped off the curb, watching the traffic, Thomas aligning on his right.
“Then tell me!” She lived in a world of subtle secrets between Adelaide and Stephen. It was starting to get on her nerves.
“Corina, to the limo.” Thomas broached no room for protest.
A growl came from her, so low, so vicious, Thomas actually stopped in the middle of the thoroughfare. “I’m so sick of the secrets. So sick of the cloaked meanings and shaded answers. What in tarnation happened in Afghanistan?”
Stephen turned back toward the roundabout. “Please, let’s go.”
Arms stiff by her side, tucked against her shimmering skirt, Corina tipped back her head. “Go Georgia Bulldogs! Go Georgia Bulldogs! Go Georgia Bulldogs! G-E-O-R-G-I-A! Go Dawgs! Sic ’em! Woof, woof, woof!”
Thomas snorted, then breathed deep, swallowing his laugh.
“Corina,” Stephen hobbled back up on the roundabout, “no, no, no!” He clapped his hands, gaining her attention. “That’s what you were planning all along, weren’t you? Not ‘Rugby is the most superior sport in the world.’ ”
Still stiff, and slightly trembling, she belted again into the night. “American football is the most amazing sport in the world.” A few of the motors slowed, honking their horns.
“You do not follow directions well at all, do you?” Stephen said, which, truly, he found was one of her most endearing qualities.
She leaned into him. “Go Dawgs. Sic ’em. Woof, woof, woof.”
“Did you just woof at me?”
“Woof!”
“You’re a welsher. That’s what you are . . . a first-class welsher.”
She exhaled, pushing against him. “Me? A welsher? Look who’s talking. I think you made a promise to love, honor, and cherish—”
Impulse. The spark of his existence drove him to grip her to him, tightening his hand around her waist.
In the ghostly light of traffic, his lips captured hers, the familiar curves of her body beneath his hands. The heat of her skin soaked into every pore.
Her reaction was stiff and cold upon first touch, but after a long breath, she let the tension go and swooned against him, wrapping her hand about his neck, her lips softening, warming.
He was at once home. In the very intimate, enveloping world of her love. And he wondered if he’d be able to escape this time.
What are you doing?
He broke away, the tooting of car horns startling him into reality. Stepping back, he corralled his need to kiss her again with a big gulp of air. He felt buzzed, stunned, encountered by a true force.
“W–why did you do that?” Her breathless question came without guile.
“We best get on, Corina.” He released her and started for the limo. That force? Of a loved woman? Was one he could not combat. He’d tasted it and even the nightmares of hell were not strong enough to resist it. “It’s late.”
But resist he must.
What right had he to enjoy life, make love to his wife, rear children, holiday on the shore, while the families of the men who died for him tottered on, trying to rebuild their lives? Sons and daughters being raised without their fathers. All because of him.
No, he was not worthy of the happiness of her kiss. And that was his burden to bear.