Page 23 of Guarding the Princess
This must be the King.
I eye him while he’s focused on Charlotte. His smile looks genuine, like he’s pleased to see her. He doesn’t take his arm off her shoulders, even as they walk to the waiting limousine. She’s been gone for years, so I can understand why he doesn’t want her out of his sight. I follow behind and tamp down the negative thoughts bubbling up to remind me that this trip was a bad idea. I don’t belong here.
“Ryker?”
Charlotte’s head strains to the side, trying to see around her father’s arm. She reaches out her hand, which I eagerly grasp, and pulls me in front of her.
“Father, this is Ryker Duke, my bodyguard and friend. Ryker, this is my Father, King Johan Isaksson.”
Her father reaches out to take my hand, his smile sliding into more of a squinty-eyed assessment that makes my blood run cold. Even colder than it is already in this frigid weather. I grip him firmly and hope he can see my sincerity.
“Nice to meet you, sir. Your daughter speaks highly of you.”
“Huh. So she’s been lying to you?” His serious face splits into a grin. He sends a wink my way and hugs Charlotte tighter when she protests his accusation.
I hold back a huge sigh of relief, feeling like I passed some sort of test.
“I am confused though. I thought the American was to stay in America.” He looks from me to Charlotte, waiting for an explanation for my presence here in Regora. His accent is thicker than Charlotte’s and a little hard for me to understand.
Charlotte lays a hand on his chest. “Yes, Father. Those were the terms of Mother’s contract with Ryker. I hired him myself and asked him to come with me.”
“For how long?”
Charlotte and I glance at each other, neither of us having a good answer for that one.
“I see,” her father states quietly.
And I fear that he does.
“Come on. Let’s get in the car before poor Ryker freezes to death. He’s a Californian and therefore not accustomed to an actual winter.” Charlotte smiles brightly, but I can tell she’s amped up the wattage to cover the pause in conversation. She waves us into the car and I climb in after her, sitting next to her in the limo, while her father sits across from us.
The perfect seating arrangement for a fatherly interrogation.
* * *
“Ryker, there’s the palace.” Charlotte lays her hand on my arm and directs my attention away from her father and toward a huge sprawling mansion the likes of which I’ve never seen outside of a Google search.
Not a moment too soon either. The King put me through a game of twenty questions on the drive over, ending it by nonchalantly telling me he’d be combing through my background check to make sure my answers matched. Perhaps I hadn’t passed the test earlier after all.
The palace has a stone facade with dozens of windows equally spaced out and stands at least three stories tall. Perfectly manicured green hedges line the long driveway. Sprawling lawns spread out in all directions, most of the grass covered by a layer of glistening snow. Garland is draped across the palace, heralding the upcoming holiday.
“Oh, Father, it’s lovely this time of year.” Charlotte’s voice comes out on a sigh, her gaze trained out the window, her eyes taking in the home she’s clearly missed.
To think she tried to run away from all this is crazy now that I see how much she missed the place. Her thumb is also absentmindedly stroking my arm. Her father looks at her hand and then up at me, his expression unreadable. I can only imagine what he thinks because I’m not too sure what to think either.
The car comes to a stop at the front of the palace and we all exit. I take one step toward the bags being hefted out the back of the limousine before Charlotte stops me with a quick shake of her head. I join her instead and we make our way up the stone stairs to the entrance of the palace, her father two paces ahead of us.
The grand double doors, taller than any I’ve seen and decked with artful sprigs of greenery, sweep open dramatically and the staff are lined up at attention on both sides of the hall. A woman stands in the middle of the hall, her nose at the same lofty angle I see from Charlotte every time I tease her. She walks toward us, her posture the most confident I’ve seen. Men in politics, rock stars. They all have nothing compared to her ramrod straight back and regal head tilt. My stomach drops and I’m beginning to think the King’s interrogation was child’s play compared to what lies ahead.
“Charlotta. You’re finally home.” Her stern face finally cracks with a soft smile. She holds Charlotte by the shoulders for a moment, her gaze sweeping her from head to toe and then she pulls her into a hug. The Queen’s eyes close briefly but not before I catch a sheen to them that show her true emotions at the homecoming of her only daughter.
“Hello, Mother,” Charlotte says while hugging her mother back. Despite her harsh criticisms, Charlotte softens into the hug like she wants to be there.
The Queen disengages and sweeps her hand down the hall. “Everyone is so excited you’re back. I’m sure you must be tired from the trip over so get settled today and then tomorrow we’ll celebrate your return.”
“Oh, you don’t need to do that—”
“Nonsense! I’ve already arranged for friends and family to come for dinner tomorrow to welcome you back. Just a small affair.” The Queen steamrolls right over Charlotte’s objections and I can tell from the tilt of her head, Charlotte isn’t pleased.
