Page 20 of The Wicked Prince

Robin glowered at him from across the table. The other side of a very long banquet table.

“The servants are starting to talk. If we want the people to believe you’re here of your own free will, we need to be seen voluntarily spending time together.”

That was actually true. Prince John had been receiving reports that the prevailing theory behind his marriage to Robin was that he’d forced her to marry him and was keeping her prisoner despite the stunning wedding and passionate embraces he’d included as part of the show. That theory was not helping decrease the number of people that would like to see his head roll.

He had his money on her ragtag ruffians spreading that like wildfire. He should have made silence a condition of their pardon.

“Then they’ll believe a lie,” Robin snapped.

How could a criminal be so naively idealistic?

“Says the woman with an alias who was pretending to be not just a man, but an old man in order to win a golden arrow.”

Robin stared at him with those captivating blue eyes. “Dinner. Only. And I sit here, as far away from you as physically possible.”

“Obviously you sit there. That’s where the queen sits.”

Her fingers twitched on the silverware and he could see her debating whether she’d be able to throw the fork she was holding far enough to reach him all the way on the other end.

That night, he’d pulled out his sketchbook and drawn as fast as possible, trying to capture the scene from dinner before it faded from his memory.

Now that his hand was better and the whole wedding business had settled down, he could draw again. He didn’t truly have the time for it, but that hadn’t stopped him before.

He woke up before dawn broke, and as soon as he’d dressed—he never cut corners getting ready, he had an image to maintain, but he did have it down to a science so it took him the minimal amount of time—he was accosted by officials and nobles who all wanted his ear before he received the stack of matters that could no longer be put off another day and John set to work. He paused only for dinner, otherwise taking his meals in Richard’s study, and after dinner he went back to Richard’s study for a few more hours, and then to his own room to retire.

He didn’t know how his father had always made it look so easy.

Or how Richard had. Richard had spent half his time sparring and training and still managed to stay on top of everything that a king was required to do in order to keep a kingdom running.

John had cut all the extraneous things from his schedule—he wasn’t that sad to stop listening to petitioners or giving speeches with how they always ended—to focus wholly on what was necessary to keep the kingdom functioning, but the work was never ending and always growing.

Even if he wanted to be as much of a thorn in Robin’s side as she’d been in his, he didn’t have the time.

He heard about what she was up to from her guards, he saw her at dinner when she glared at him while she stabbed her dinner with far too much force, and then if he could keep his eyes open by the time he retired to his room, he sketched in the candlelight.

Two weeks after Robin had found Richard’s training grounds, one afternoon he had a splitting headache, and he couldn’t stand the squawking of everyone around him demanding his attention, wanting him to do something to help them, and when he did someone else started squawking about how he’d harmed them. It was never ending.

No one was ever happy.

He couldn’t think straight.

He just wanted one hour.

John couldn’t remember the name of the official standing in front of him, but it didn’t stop him from snapping at him, shoving the stack of papers toward him, and telling him to figure it out. He stormed off and headed for his room. He’d close his eyes for just one hour and hopefully the headache would at least stop trying to split his skull in two.

He breathed out a long sigh as he stepped into his room and everything was quiet.

Almost.

He heard soft huffs and the sound of wood tapping.

He moved to the window and pushed the curtains out of the way to see Richard’s sparring grounds below.

Robin was the source of the noise.

He smirked.

He’d made sure there weren’t any breeches in the castle she could get a hold of. He wanted to see how long until she would swallow her pride and just ask a servant for them. Or if she would resign herself to wearing a dress while practicing archery. He’d made sure there were at least two in her wardrobe that would allow her arms that range of motion.

---