Page 68 of Reign
“Your Majesty!” she exclaimed as Beatrice stepped out of the car. She sank into a curtsy, which looked especially ridiculous given her ratty old fleece and dirt-streaked jeans. “I’m sorry to be so casual; I’ve been at the stables all morning,” the duchess went on, reading the queen’s mind. “One of our mares is foaling!”
“That’s exciting.” Beatrice felt an answering smile on her own face. There was something unpretentious about the duchess that had always set her at ease, though she knew that beneath her warm exterior, Anna had a backbone of steel. Itwas notoriously difficult to change her mind once she’d set out on a course of action.
“Roger is still in Houston with José and Christina,” the duchess went on, naming her husband and children. “I thought it might be best if it was just the two of us. I hope you don’t mind.”
So she knew Beatrice wasn’t here on a social call.
“Of course, though I’m disappointed to miss them,” Beatrice replied. José was only a year younger than she was, and had been on her parents’ list of “approved” royal consorts for Beatrice—the same list that had led her to Teddy.
“I’m sure you want to rest. I’ll show you to your room,” the duchess began, but Beatrice shook her head.
“I’d love to join you with the horses, actually.”
She had changed before the plane landed, and was wearing what she thought of as her royal ranch outfit: dark jeans, a long-sleeved shirt stitched with embroidery along the cuffs, and her cowboy boots. They were simple brown ones, as soft as butter, despite the fact that Beatrice only wore them twice a year to agricultural fairs or rodeos.
Anna smiled and led Beatrice to the stables out back. The skies overhead were a brilliant blue, and Beatrice shrugged out of her jacket in surprise. It was so much warmer here than in the freezing capital.
She kept glancing around, her nerves on a low hum of alertness, but she didn’t see Connor anywhere.
When they reached one of the stalls, Beatrice let out a little cry of delight. The newborn horse inside was already trying to stand on shaky legs. The duchess smiled and opened the stall door to slip inside. “Isn’t it miraculous? She’s not even an hour old.” Her hands ran along the mother’s withers. “This is Peppie’s third, and they’ve all been strong.”
“Peppie?” Beatrice repeated. The mare huffed out a breath, as if irritated so many humans had come to bother her.
“Her real name is Dr Pepper, but we’ve always called her Peppie.”
“As in the soda?”
The duchess seemed amused by the question. “Yes, as in the soda.”
Peppie wandered over to Beatrice, ears twitching with idle curiosity. Beatrice grabbed a handful of oats and let Peppie nip them off her palm. The duchess watched her, seeming to reach some decision.
“Would you like a tour of the ranch? It’s best seen by horseback. If you ride, that is.”
“I’d love that.” It had been a few years since Beatrice was in the saddle, but surely it would come back to her.
“Excellent. Connor!” Anna called out.
The smile slipped from Beatrice’s face, and a roar of white noise filled her ears. She should have been prepared for this—she hadknownhe was here—yet nothing could have readied her for the sight of Connor again.
He turned a corner and drew to a halt, his blue-gray eyes meeting hers.
Her first thought was that he’d changed. He looked so unlike the Connor she knew, in his faded jeans and cowboy hat. A line of stubble grazed his jaw, something he could never have gotten away with at the palace, but standards seemed to be looser here.
Connor bent forward into a bow. “Your Majesty.”
Somehow Beatrice managed to find her voice. “It’s good to see you again, Connor. You look well.”
“Oh yes, I keep forgetting, you two know each other!” Anna exclaimed, oblivious to the tension. “Connor, weren’t you the queen’s personal security detail?”
“Her Majesty was still a princess then.” His expressionwas impassively polite, as if Beatrice were nothing but a former employer, not someone he’d once saidI love youto.
Beatrice watched as the grooms began saddling a bay gelding for her. Connor disappeared into a neighboring tack room, then emerged with a black velvet helmet. “Your Majesty,” he said gruffly.
Beatrice would rather have worn a cowboy hat, like he and the duchess were doing, but she clipped on the helmet without complaint.
She sucked in a breath, surprised, when Connor knelt down next to her horse, lacing his fingers into a makeshift stirrup. He was standing so close that she could smell him, the familiar scents of spicy soap and deodorant but also new ones, horse and hay and sunshine. It was disorienting.
Connor’s gaze moved over her face, watching her. “Are you ready?”
