Page 40 of Royal Affair
"James," I said. The rare use of his first name stopped him as he turned to go. "I really am sorry."
Something flickered in his eyes for a moment—a vulnerability I'd rarely glimpsed beneath his professional exterior. But it vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
"Get some rest, Princess. You've been through a traumatic experience."
As he walked away, I noticed something in his posture—a hesitation, perhaps even reluctance. Despite his professional distance, I sensed he was struggling, too. The past months had changed us, whether we acknowledged it or not.
And then he was gone, his broad shoulders disappearing down the corridor.
After an hour of restlessly pacing my suite, I decided. If words didn't fix the damage between us, actions will have to be taken. James was a man who valued competence and thoughtfulness over grand gestures or empty apologies.
The kidnapping had stripped away my illusions about safety, about control, about the luxury of waiting for the perfect moment. Life was fragile, time was limited, and James would be gone tomorrow. If I were going to act on these feelings that had been building for months, it had to be now.
I'd noticed his appreciation for the training facilities during his previous stay, particularly the palace's historic armoury. With a few calls to Dara, I arranged for a private tour of the rarely-accessed royal weapons collection—including several 18th-century military pieces I knew would interest him based on comments he'd made months ago.
It wasn't much, but it was something genuine—an acknowledgement of the man beneath the professional exterior, the person I'd come to know during our months together, the person I wasn't ready to lose despite knowing I should be.
The note I wrote to accompany the invitation was simple: For everything you've done. For everything I haven't said.
When evening came, I dressed with particular care—a simple navy dress that was elegant without being overly formal, my hair loose the way I'd noticed him watching it once when he thought I wasn't looking.
I arrived at the armoury five minutes early, heart racing inexplicably as I waited. What was I doing? This man was my security detail, nothing more. In a few days, he would return toLondon, to his life, and I would remain here, bound by duties and secrets he could never understand.
Yet when he appeared in the doorway, perfectly punctual, the sight of him still made my breath catch. He'd changed into a charcoal suit. The formal attire somehow emphasised his military bearing rather than softening it.
"Princess," he said, his expression carefully neutral as he took in the private exhibition I'd arranged. I could see the war between duty and personal interest playing across his features—the soldier drawn to military history battling against the professional who should maintain distance.
"I thought you might appreciate this," I said, gesturing to the collection. "The curator has prepared detailed information on each piece. Some date back to the Napoleonic Wars."
He moved towards a particularly fine cavalry sabre, his fingers hovering just above its polished surface. "This is unexpected."
"Consider it a thank you. And an apology."
"Neither is necessary."
"Both are," I countered. "Please, James. Just... accept this small gesture."
Something in my voice must have reached him, because the rigid line of his shoulders softened slightly. For the next hour, we moved through the collection; the curator explained each weapon's historical significance whilst James listened with genuine interest. Occasionally, he would ask knowledgeable questions that revealed his military background, and I watched his face, the rare animation that transformed his features when something particularly impressed him.
After the curator departed, we stood alone among the historical artefacts. Our silence was different now—expectant rather than accusatory.
"Thank you," he said finally. "This was... thoughtful."
"I pay attention," I said simply. "Even when you think I don't."
His eyes met mine, holding for a long moment. "I never thought you didn't pay attention, Princess. I thought you didn't care."
The honesty in his voice caught me off guard. "I've always cared. Too much, probably."
I was about to respond when my phone buzzed with a text from Dara: "Halliwell arrived early. Looking for you both. He said something about wanting to 'scope the premises.’" I showed James the message, and his jaw tightened.
"He's supposed to be reviewing security protocols with the palace team," James muttered. "Not wandering around unsupervised."
The door opened abruptly before he could say more, and a voice boomed through the quiet space.
"There she is! The princess herself!" A tall man with sandy hair and a too-wide smile strode in. "Ran into Dara in the corridor—she mentioned you might be here. Hope that's alright."
He wore an expensive suit that seemed designed to emphasise his athletic build, and his handshake was aggressively firm as he reached for mine.
