Two chapters posted at once? Sure! A flashback as an epilogue? Why not?
LadyDuchess82, I agree: I also think they sneak dances in private. :)
Last flashback, not quite two years ago.
It was a brush with mortality that finally cracked their resolve.
Genovia was proud to host the regional economic summit, and welcomed the visiting dignitaries and heads of state with impressive pomp and circumstance. The event was bound to bring publicity for the small nation, and everyone sought to rise to the occasion.
The event, or rather one particular prime minister, also brought a disgruntled constituent. Luckily for the prime minister, his would-be assassin had bad aim.
Luckily for Queen Clarisse, she had Joe.
The bullet missed the prime minister completely and headed straight for Clarisse.
Anyone with a bodyguard was flattened to the ground. Clarisse found herself falling underneath Joseph, his unbuttoned coat flying out to the sides as he covered her with his own body. The security staff in the crowd quickly located the lone shooter and apprehended him easily.
It was when Genovia's monarchs - shoved into a waiting limousine, Joseph on the seat across from them - were hurtling back to the palace, that Joseph saw Clarisse's widening eyes fixed on his abdomen. He looked down, and slipped his finger through the hole in his jacket. He knew it had been close, but as he saw her body begin to tremble, he realized she had not known just how close. Rupert saw his wife's frame overtaken by silent sobs and, naturally thinking it was a delayed reaction to the event, turned to put his arms around her and draw her near to him.
Joseph watched the king comfort his wife, and felt a desolation rivaling that which death itself had threatened. Then he noticed her eyes were still on him, and their gazes connected with a frightening intensity.
The next few days passed by in a blur. The palace went into lockdown the moment security there received word of the attack, allowing only the staff and the royal couple in. At least, until midnight.
Despite assurances that their parents were safe, the princes insisted on returning home. No amount of persuasion on the part of Antoine and Victor, or threatening phone calls from David, could keep them away. They burst into the entrance hall of the palace just as things had been settling down, and fired off another surge of collective adrenalin.
The semblance of normality returned as quickly as the next day, but everyone moved through their chores with a heightened alertness and nervous energy. The fear of what could be and the retroactive fear of what might have been lay heavily on the palace's inhabitants.
After a few days, Clarisse convinced the boys to return to school; they agreed to do so on the condition that they would be home again before the end of the month for a long weekend.
Rupert and Clarisse both balked at the restrictions confining their movements to inside the palace walls. Paperwork during the day and drinks at night were not enough to quell their minds or redirect their thoughts.
Finally, by the end of the week, the princes had returned to school. David lowered the alert level a notch. The staff had begun to relax back into their routines. Downtown Pyrus, its distinguished guests long gone, had swept away the last remnants of the conference. As edgy as everyone still was, normalcy was needed for the sake of sanity. It was time to move on.
Clarisse picked up a shawl from the back of a chair, then walked over to open the doors to her balcony, letting in fresh air as she stepped out into the cool evening. It was her first foray into the outside since the lockdown. She tipped her head back and closed her eyes, reveling in the simple act of breathing.
She was alive. Her family was safe. No one had suffered injuries or worse for her sake. She shuddered at the thought…then shook her head. She was exhausted from entertaining all the possible scenarios from that day. Instead, she willed her mind to clear everything out of itself.
She was surprised when it worked. She stood, thinking of nothing at all, and simply breathed in and out. It lasted about thirty seconds.
With the mental clutter gone - the danger, real and imagined; the anxiety and uncertainty of the first few hours after the shooting; the nerve-wracking tedium of what she had come to view as house arrest - there left plenty of space for whatever would be the first thing to wend its way back in.
Joseph was the first thing. The first and the last. He took hold of her mind and filled her. She let the thought of him expand until he dominated every level of her consciousness.
Without him, she might be dead. He might have died saving her. Either way, one or the other of them could have left this world without…
She opened her eyes. Suddenly, everything came into sharp relief. She could discern every streak of fading color in the dusky sky, and the stars popping out shone brighter than they ever had before. She watched the gardener gathering his tools, making a final round through the garden, and every motion was like a dance step, every lingering caress on leaves and branches was an act of devotion. She closed her eyes again and inhaled the scent of the rosebushes, adorned with the last blooms of the season; the smell of freshly turned earth. The scent of her own perfume as it melded with the warmth of her skin.
She wanted him, had always wanted him. Now, in this state of heightened awareness, she knew her experience of him would be unequalled, and she had no strength, no will to deny herself.
She opened her eyes and went back inside, closing the doors behind her. She dropped the shawl back onto the chair before leaving her suite.
She was at Joseph's room in no time. She looked down the hall in both directions as she knocked on the door.
He answered almost immediately, as if he had been expecting her, and pulled her inside quickly. He closed and locked the door, then turned to her.
She studied him as he came close to her, taking in every detail of his face as though she were seeing him for the first time. She leaned into him and smelled soap on his skin, still slightly damp from a shower; his cologne, lightly and newly applied; a hint of whiskey. Her senses were so full of him already, she was almost afraid to touch him, certain she would be overwhelmed. But slowly, she lifted her hands to his shoulders, smoothing them down over his arms and back up his sides, over the soft cotton of his black t-shirt.
He stood very still, watching her as she watched him, touched him, breathed him in. He dared not speak as he waited for her.
Finally, her hands coming to rest on his shoulders, she broke the silence.
"I wish you were mine."
He smiled. "I am," he answered simply.
"I wish I were yours." She saw pain and sadness flicker in his eyes, pulling at the corners of them. He had expected a different response, but all she could give him was honesty.
She stepped closer to him, and he managed another smile. He slid one arm around her waist and took one hand from his shoulder to hold it in his own. Her head came to rest in the crook of his neck as he swayed her slightly. Tucked against him, she could feel his pulse in his neck, his heartbeat in his chest, his warmth wrapping around her. He kept her close to him as he turned them in rhythm to music that played only in their shared memory. His hold on her relayed his determination to protect her from anything that could hurt her, anything - even his love for her. She knew his battle because it was also her own, but greater than that was her fear of a love turned inward and locked away. Unshared, unexpressed, unfulfilled.
Enough fighting.
She stopped the dance and stepped far enough back to make sure he could see her properly. She waited until he was looking fully into her eyes.
"Make me yours, Joseph."
It was all he needed to hear. Her words freed him from every doubt, from the struggle, and gave him permission to let go of the sadness. Nothing remained for her to see except love and desire.
"You are sure?" he asked, but it was only a formality. They both knew the answer.
"One time, just one time, so that no matter what happens, we will belong to each other, and nothing can change that. Nothing can separate us."
His eyes darkened, and she was surprised to hear him laughing quietly. "One night," he corrected her. She looked at him, questioning him with an upraised eyebrow. "We may only have one night, but you may rest assured it will be more than one time."
She smiled at his bravado as he reached for her.
He made good on his promise.
It had been a harrowing week. All Rupert had wanted to do was slip away for a small amount of time - away from the palace, away from the media, away from reality, even away from his feelings. None of that was simple for a king, but doable, if he had a sympathetic bodyguard.
Not David. He would have a fit. But Francois understood.
He hadn't been gone long, nor had he gone far. Upon their return, Francois entered through the garage door first to make sure the coast was clear. Then he signaled the king, who slipped in and nodded his gratitude toward his co-conspirator. They parted ways silently.
The least conspicuous route to his suite from that point took him past the servants' wing. He assumed most of the staff who resided in the palace should be asleep by this time of night, as many of them started their days at an ungodly hour of the morning. He barely cast a glance around him as he approached the hall leading to the servants' quarters - and nearly collided with his wife.
"Clarisse!" he exclaimed, guilt suddenly washing over him like a bucket of ice water dumped on his head.
"Rupert!" she breathed, her hand covering her heart in startled surprise.
"What are you doing here?" He immediately regretted the question, knowing it opened the door to her responding in kind.
"I couldn't sleep. I've been wandering around aimlessly, trying to tire myself out."
Mercifully, she didn't ask him the same question. Sorrow followed the guilt as he realized she had learned not to ask. "Shall I walk you to your suite then?"
She gave him a small smile. "Thank you, but I think I need a cup of tea." She tipped her head in the opposite direction, toward the kitchen.
He nodded, cursing himself for feeling relieved that she had given him a chance to escape her company. Earlier, he could not wait to break free of the confines of his suite. Now he only wanted to be settled back in.
"Tea will help," he said lamely. Would it? He honestly didn't know what helped her sleep.
"I think so," she said. "I'll see you in the morning then?"
"Yes, good night, dear." He leaned in for a perfunctory kiss on the cheek. He felt her stiffen slightly, but she smiled and patted him on the cheek, not unlike the way she would show affection for their sons.
The perfume of his mistress still lingered in his sated senses, and he didn't catch the whiff of cologne on his wife. He hastened on his way back to his chambers, taking with him an unregistered image of Clarisse with a guilty, glowing countenance much like his own, that would not resurface until far into the future. A snapshot that would be produced by his memory nearly two years later as he watched her eyes flutter open, a profession of love for someone else still lingering on her smiling lips…
The End
I am not convinced they engaged in any inappropriate behavior while Rupert was alive, but I couldn't resist the what-ifs.
Thanks for reading along. I hope I kept you entertained. And thanks for the reviews - I hang on to your every word. Truly, they make me very happy.