Page 47 of A Queen and HER Bad Boy
“If it rains much more,” Bris observed, “we’re looking at serious flooding.”
“Not forus,” Polly said, her voice carrying concern as her gaze lingered on the crowded buildings below, as if those people down there were more than strangers to her. “Though the city of Ilion might be in real trouble, especially the tenements.”
Tenements? From this distance, the area looked like a quaint Mediterranean village. But as Bris’s gaze sharpened, she could make out the difference between the sturdier stone buildings and the ramshackle structures of corrugated tin and scrap metal that looked as secure as paper doll houses ready to collapse in the growing wind.
Her hands tightened on the leather reins. This was the crushing poverty she’d feared existed here. “How do we get down there?”
“Oh no, Your Royal Highness!” Polly appeared genuinely horrified, though something flickered in her dark eyes—approval, perhaps? “That’s a very rough area. My mother never allowed me near the marketplace, said it wasn’t safe for young ladies.”
“How dangerous can it be?” Bris asked, her curiosity only growing stronger. “People will just assume I’m a tourist.”
Polly shook her head firmly. “Not riding these horses—they’re clearly palace stock.”
Realizing her lady-in-waiting was more like her lady-who-made-her-wait, Bris nodded to avoid further argument while mentally planning her next move. She led her horse along the worn path that followed the wall, searching for another opportunity to cross into the real world. She found her excuse when they came across a Gothic church built from ancient stone, its spires reaching toward the storm clouds. The structure sat just outside their protective wall, accessible by a narrow stone bridge.
“Is this church open to visitors, Polly?”
“Indeed, it is!”
Nestor Pappas, the priest who’d married her to Achilles, had mentioned running a parish nearby. This had to be where he served. “Is this Priest Pappa’s church?”
“I believe so, yes.”
“We must visit. I promised Nestor that I would stop by.” And it would give her a legitimate reason to cross that bridge into freedom.
Polly’s eyes widened with what might have been alarm… or anticipation. Bris suspected she wasn’t the only one who wanted to escape the confining palace.
“You can’t possibly believe the priest will mug me, can you?” Bris joked, hoping to ease her companion’s nerves. She noticed a medieval bridge leading to the ancient building and worked on her best debate skills. “Nestor is a friend of the family.”
“He’s a good man,” Polly admitted with obvious reluctance.
“Let’s see if he’s returned from England yet.” Guiding her horse forward, Bris approached the bridge. An ornate iron gate blocked their way, but after a moment it creaked open with mechanical precision. Turning, she caught Polly’s hand withdrawing from a hidden alcove in the stone pillar where she’d clearly entered some sort of access code.
Polly was just the friend she’d been searching for. Exchanging conspiratorial glances, Bris rode through the opening, and her cousin obediently nudged her mare across the bridge after her into the lush gardens surrounding the church. Ancient olive trees and wild lavender created a natural maze alongside man-made stone arches covered in climbing roses.
Through the trees, she glimpsed the church itself—a masterpiece of Gothic architecture with flying buttresses and stained-glass windows that caught the filtered sunlight like jewels. It felt like stepping back centuries in time as they dismounted and secured their horses to a wrought-iron hitching post.
Stone steps, worn smooth by countless visitors, led up to massive wooden doors scarred and studded with iron bars from a more brutal era—when Ottoman forces had tested every fortification on the island.
Should they knock?
To the side of the entrance, the priest was performing the very ordinary task of watering his roses with a garden hose. Sweat trickled down Nestor’s neck beneath his white clerical collar despite the cool day. The man was already attending to his pastoral duties after his trip to England. The plump crimson roses were the better for it.
“Oh, they’re gorgeous,” Bris exclaimed, breathing in their heady fragrance.
Nestor startled, the hose slipping from his grip to spray wildly across the flagstones. “My dear child!” He wrestled the hose backunder control, his sober face breaking into a delighted smile. “I’m thrilled that you’ve come to visit. Where is your husband?”
After his night of drowning his sorrows in expensive wine?“Still asleep, most likely.”
“I can’t imagine he’d let you out of his sight for one moment,” Nestor said with obvious surprise. He glanced at Polly for confirmation. “I never saw a man more in love with his wife.”
The guy must not get out much.Polly shifted uncomfortably in her riding boots while Bris managed a smile that probably looked too bitter. She quickly changed the subject: “I’ve been eager to see the church and meet some… people.”
“People?”
“Yes.” That sounded vague, didn’t it? “I know this is just one village in our country, but I don’t even know the local culture.”
Astonishment spread across his lined features. “My dear, that is… wonderful beyond words. I’d hoped you’d take a genuine interest in the land of your birth.”
