Page 61 of Thrones We Steal

“Do you give that caveat every time you make a move on a woman?”

“You don’t regret that kiss as much as you wish you did.” His lips dance with the hint of a smile.

I hate that he’s right. That kiss has me lying awake for hours and wakes me in a tangle of sheets and sweat. I hate that in spite of everything, sparring with Henry is actually a great distraction from what has become of my life.

“Fine. I will go with you on whatever evil errand you’re on, but may I remind you that I am perfectly capable of removing your favorite appendage if you try anything.”

This produces a chuckle from him, one of those that warms your insides just listening to it. I stick close to him as we make our way to the opposite end of the palace. I’ve never been into many of these rooms before and, as evidenced by the map in his hand, I don’t think Henry has spent much time in them either.

We stop outside a set of double doors, not unlike the hundreds of others we passed on the way here. Henry opens the door, then steps inside to flick on the light. I walk in after him, still unsure of what I’ll see.

Yellow silk damask covers the walls of the large bedchamber which has evidently not been redecorated since the nineteenth century. A massive, curtained bed dominates the room. Several pieces of antique furniture, including a hand-painted French armoire and a Victorian dressing table with curved mirror, hint that the room once belonged to a woman. There’s a stale, forgotten odor in the air, reminding me of the archive room of the Historical Society.

“Why are we here, Henry?” I move closer to the armoire with its exquisite floral designs.

“This,” he says, sweeping an arm around the room like a showman, “was Queen Helena’s bedchamber.”

“You’re joking.”

“Nope. This is where my great-great-great-grandfather was conceived.”

“Gross.”

“I thought you might want to look around. You’ve always been interested in Helena.”

The room does hold a certain appeal, not the least of which is the fact that my personal hero and ancestor spent considerable time in it. When will I get another opportunity like this?

“That’s a nice way of putting it,” I say.

“You’re right. Borderline obsessed would have been more accurate.”

I narrow my eyes at him before continuing my exploration of the armoire, but there’s nothing inside other than some old linens that have yellowed with time.

“The craftsmanship on this armoire is incredible.” I rub my hand over the intricate carvings in the corners. “It looks mid-eighteenth century. It was probably made right before all the forest fires in 1761.”

“Should I get your laptop so you can write a blog post?” My face heats, but he’s smiling. “Come here,” he says.

I brush the dust from my hands onto my silk robe. The whole time I’ve been inspecting the armoire, Henry has been fiddling with the dressing table that stands between the two windows on the east-facing wall.

“See how this seems too wide to just be the back side?” He sits back on his heels and looks up at me as I join him. He reaches his hand inside the open drawer, and there’s a faint click. Whatever he pushed releases the back panel of the drawer to reveal a hidden compartment.

But the compartment isn’t empty. A stack of papers bundled together with ribbon is nestled in the opening.

“Are those letters?” I say as Henry reaches in and tugs them out.

“Looks like it.” He offers the stack to me.

I run my hands over the thick stack. They tremble like I’ve just had an entire pot of coffee. “They’ve got to be hers, right?”

He grins and my heart jolts. When did his smile start doing that to me? “Only one way to find out,” he says.

We settle ourselves on the floor against the foot of the bed. The bed itself would have been more comfortable, but I trust a used car salesman more than I trust myself on a bed with Henry right now.

I pull on the ribbon, but Henry’s hand stops me.

“Isn’t that the same thing as your bracelet?” He touches the silver ring threaded onto the ribbon binding the stack together, then reaches for my wrist.

“Yeah, it’s a claddagh,” I say. “They’re Irish.” His fingers sear my skin, and I hope he can’t feel my pulse snag. I gently tug my hand free, then carefully open the first letter and begin reading aloud.

---