Page 83 of A Prince Among Pirates
Henry huffs and pushes me back into the chair for Thomas. “Running away from home isn’t a crime.”
“I—”
“Your Highness,” Thomas insists.
I shut up.
“You will be crowned Prince of Wales before the court. I won’t delay any longer. The queen no longer bleeds, and I won’t have my father’s throne usurped by some Hanoverian pretender because I failed to provide a legitimate heir.”
I stare up at the ornate ceiling of my bedroom as panic rises in my chest. I can’t be the heir to the throne! I wasn’t raised for it! I barely speak any Latin, I have no decision-making skills at all, and after my last appearance at court I’m certain I would rather be keelhauled than engage in polite conversation with another spineless nobleman.
As a towel slides across my skin, I move to sit up once more. “Your Majesty—”
“You can call me Father in private, Christopher-Henry.”
“Your Majesty.”
He levels a look at me, and I level one right back. I’m not ready to make that leap yet.
He squints but doesn’t challenge me. Every day I see myself more and more in his features. It scares the living shite out of me, if I am being perfectly honest. But… it’s also a strange sort of comfort. I could almost pretend I haven’t lost everything in the gaining of this one thing.
“I don’t even know how tobea prince.”
“It’s quite simple, really,” Henry says as he sits on my sofa and reaches for his cup of tea. “You look charming, you kiss babies… you lay your hands on the poor and have discreet affairs with wealthy married women.”
The old Christopher-Henry would have absolutely loved that. I shift my gaze to Thomas, who is being very careful about his facial expression as he cleans up from shaving my jaw. I reach up to touch my cheek and slide my fingers along the silky texture of my skin.
“Well done, Thomas,” I say as I rise to join my father in front of the fire.
Thomas cracks a smile. “Thank you, Your Highness.”
“Much better,” Henry says as he studies me. “You were beginning to look a little too rakish.”
“Thatisthe effect I was going for,” I note as I lift my own tea. It’s an unusual blend, with bits of flower petals floating in it. Henry has a great love for the teas of the Orient, and this is one I have never tried before. “Speaking of… It’s been weeks. Please, Your Majesty, can you not finally tell me the fate of my crew? I think I’ve been patient long enough. Surely, you must know what’s become of them.”
Henry sips his tea and gives a low sigh. “I have no intention of dying anytime soon, Christopher-Henry.” Again he has ignored my question, and I feel a familiar frustration rising in me. “There is plenty of time for you to be prepared for the throne. But I will have you legitimized, and what better day to do it than Christmas?”
I can think of about 364 days better than the celebration of the birth of Christ for my rechristening, but I don’t say so. Instead I watch Henry as he sips at his tea with a content expression on his face, and my frustration falters as an unfamiliar warmth swells in my chest. In these quiet moments, when he seems to truly love me as a son, my grief begins to feel a little lighter. The nightmares begin to feel a little farther away.
I could do this. I could have a real family—a family by blood.
I could be the man he wants me to be, if I try.
“All right, Father,” I say at last, and I am startled by how much the smile on his face when I call him Father makes my heart ache. He wants Christopher-Henry, not Mr. Kit. And for the first time I wonder if I should let theDeliverancego. Without them, I am the only one holding on to a person I can no longer be.
Henry sets his tea down and rises to his feet. I rise too, because I’m fairly certain I am supposed to stand when he does. Before I can wonder what I should do next, his arms are around me. He hugs me to his chest, pressing his cheek to the top of my head.
“Excellent,” he says into my hair. “I know you’ll make me proud.”
I stiffen, and there is a moment when I want to pull away from him and run from the room. But I take a slow breath and push that feeling away, allowing myself to just be held by my father. My true father.
Somewhere deep inside me, the Christopher-Henry that I used to be is weeping tears of joy.
Fine. I hate to admit it, I truly do… but Iamrather dashing in this white wig.
I turn my head to the side as I study my reflection in the ornate mirror of my bedchamber. I don’t recognize myself, but I don’t hate what’s staring back at me. I could do this. I could be the Prince of Wales—I could be someone’s beloved son. Even if it leaves the taste of bile and metal in the back of my throat.
“You may be the most conceited man I’ve ever met,” Thomas says from across the room.
