Sorry, life got to me and I wasn't feeling very creative. Hopefully this chapter will be worth the effort of reading it.

XII:

1 June, 1916
Buckingham Palace
London
England

For all of her training in the ways of royal courts, the absurd silence was what unnerved Ruth the most. Once you were away from the tittering of the hecklers and the lobbyists and the courtesans, it was so terribly silent in a royal palace, with cavernous spaces meant to intimidate and offer the crown dominance. She waited in the empty room, assuming the worst of the possible outcomes already awaited her: a harsh judgement and a swift dismissal into exile.

For, as much as she was thrilled to bits to be Harry Pearce's wife (at bloody last), she had acted without approval or sanction from her monarch – be it the Danish one or the English one. And such actions had consequences. That the English king happened to be her natural brother had no bearing one way or the other, and she knew that she was treading dangerous ground.

The door burst open and King George came into the room. "Cousin," he greeted in his firm, crisp voice. "Well met – you do not look to be in very good health."

"Captivity changes a person, Your Majesty," Ruth greeted, dipping low into a curtsey. "My children have fared better than I have, I am afraid. War is a terrible thing."

"It is a terrible thing," George replied, "but sometimes it is a necessary evil."

Ruth bit her tongue; it simply would not do to contradict him. "You summoned me," she said softly, changing the subject.

"Yes, I wished to see if your intent was to stay in Britain or if you would seek to find your fortunes elsewhere," he said, appraising her with a stare that booked no argument. "George being my distant cousin, I believe that I must do what I can for his children –"

Ruth hesitated, then said, "I am not sure, sire, of where we will take shelter. My father may not wish us to stay with him. We are… not on the best of terms."

The King seemed to stare right through her. "I know why," he said. "And I cannot say that I blame him for his decisive action. Nor my father." He paused, then his eyes narrowed. "Our father," he amended. "Believe me, I know the stories and I know which ones hold truth."

"Then you should know that I have come back to the Church of England," Ruth said quickly, "and I have taken my name back. I cannot live as a princess when I feel as though I am no such thing."

"You are a lady of quality, despite being a by-blow," he said with something akin to respect in his tone. "And I know that they only meant to protect you."

"I didn't need protection," she said, her tone sharper and more scathing than she'd intended it to be. "I don't need protection. I survived being a prisoner of war," Ruth snapped. "I am not some debutante to be coddled and patted on the head and paraded about as a woman who does not know her own mind or how the world works. Maybe I was naïve then, but I am far from it now, Your Majesty. And I insist that you and my father respect that." Her hands were shaking, her mind racing ahead of her mouth. "And before you think to take me under your wing and marry me off to some country nobleman to keep me out of trouble, I am married already, to a man who believes me to be capable of caring for myself and my children. I left him behind in France, and I pray every moment that he will not be killed – that he will come home safely to me."

"Surely you weren't foolish enough to wed one of your captors," he said.

"No," she said quickly, attempting to disabuse him immediately of the very notion. "No, the man who brokered our release – General Henry James Pearce."

There was a long silence, then the King said, "I suppose that you are completely blind to the position you've put me in."

She set her jaw stubbornly. "Not completely, no. I feign no ignorance as to knowledge of what our father did to him," Ruth said in a dark tone. "He might as well have attempted to kill him outright the way he went about it."

"The intention was not to kill him, but to punish him for his misdeeds."

"Harry's only misdeed was to court me," she said; it was all she could do to keep her temper in check.

"Defiance is not attractive in a woman."

"No, it isn't," she agreed, "and even worse is to be pushed into defiance by a man who only knows the words of a father who laid on hands only when it suited him. I have married him in the sight of God. It was done by a vicar in the field and witnessed by Brigadier Adam Carter and his wife, who is a nurse with the Red Cross. It is a legal marriage, and binding – and it cannot be undone unless we divorce… or you dissolve it." Ruth stood there, feeling every inch the mousy young woman she had once been, but she was so much older, so much wiser, and ever so much more stubborn. She would not give in. But when he did not speak, she added, "I beg of you, Your Majesty, not to repeat the mistakes of our fathers. Please."

And, for a moment, she forgot to breathe.

26 June, 1916
France
near the Trenches
British camp

"So we've done it," Harry commented as the tent flap came down behind them and was tied off from the inside to discourage entry. "We've actually gone and done the impossible – we've been married."

"It wasn't impossible," Ruth murmured, "just… very improbable." She twined her fingers with his, loving how strong his grip was against her flesh; his hands were so much larger than hers, just like the rest of him. Even after starvation and near death in Africa, and a near death experience in France, he was still a robust man of action. She would not want him to be anything but: it was a part of him, and perhaps the best part. "But I am very, very glad that it did happen."

"I am not," Harry said, his eyes darkening.

"Well, blame yourself," she shot back. "You're the one who proposed –"

"I am not glad that you are married to me," he countered, "because I am a selfish old man and you are a vibrant woman with the best years of your life to look forward to…"

"Stop it," she murmured, squeezing his hand tighter and bringing it to her lips for a gentle kiss. "Stop, Harry, please. The best years of my life mean nothing if I don't spend them with you. I never believed, for a moment, that I made a mistake in loving you – no matter what my father and godparents thought."

He pulled his hand away and muttered, "Foolish sentiments…"

"Harry, you don't mean that," she said with the staunch conviction of a woman who believed. And a believer was a dangerous partner indeed.

"Don't I?" he challenged. "You'll lose everything now – your husband's money, your title, the houses and the jewels and the –"

"You never promised me a grand house or exotic furs or jewels," she reminded him gently. "You made no promises to me aside from that I would be loved. And I will keep you to that – but with the addendum that you just show my children the same regard."

"Do you think me to be so callous –"

"No, but I know that taking on my family will not be easy." She smiled sadly. "I wish… that we had been able to stay together. Maybe things would be different now."

"I am a man in exile – I serve His Majesty –"

"Your loyalty to a man whose father stabbed you in the back is commendable," Ruth breathed, "but you and I both know at what cost it comes. So we must be brave, together, or we must be frightened and alone. And I prefer together."

He exhaled and muttered, "Ruth, I –"

"I am not the naïve little girl you bedded," she countered. "I am broken and I have suffered unimaginable things, Harry. Things I can't begin to explain to you. You have no idea. You don't understand that you make me feel safe; like everything will be all right again."

"It won't be –"

"Don't talk to me like I am a child," she snapped. "I am not naïve and I am not foolish. This time, I will fight for what is mine. And you are mine. Mine, Harry. You are my husband."

There was no hesitation left between them; his lips crashed against hers with the force of a tsunami, and he pulled her close, flush against him. His intent was possession, and who was she to disillusion him when she wanted to mark him as hers as well?

And she prayed, Lord how she prayed, that come the end of the war, he would come home to her and they could live their lives in peace.

19 March, 1905
Drury House
London

Harry found himself bored with the weak punch, the lousy food, and the insipid company. Of the seven balls he had attended since his arrival in London, Lady Westchester's gala was the worst of them all. He felt his nose wrinkle in disgust when he saw one of the hostess's toy poodles pissing on a potted plant, and he began to turn away from the corner.

But a soft voice calling to the small dog in French made him pause. Of course, he knew the language – officers in the Army were expected to know French, German, and as much Hindi as they could wrap their heads around – but the voice enchanted him. He turned back to see a petite brunette in a dark grey evening dress bending low to the ground to pet the dog, a smile on her lips and such joy in her eyes.

Something deep in his gut tightened; he felt the stirrings of emotions long held back, dormant, begin to rise up, and he knew he should fight them – he knew he should not subject such an innocent, sweet girl to his lustful appetites. He was a man reformed by divorce, scandal, and –

The young woman rose back to her feet and reached delicately into her handbag for a fan.

He turned before she could notice he was staring.

Only to run into Constance Beauchamp, who had not been ignorant of his direction of gaze. "Lady Constance –"

Connie smirked at him knowingly. "For the right price, even my niece will succumb," she murmured close to his ear, bringing back fond memories of erotic dalliances past, when the world had been simpler and he had cared less for consequences and the word 'no'. "Come, let's negotiate over a tumbler of punch."

"No punch," he muttered. "And I am not in the market for a wife."

"So you said when you met Jane," Connie teased, taking his arm. "And so you said when you seduced me straight out of my husband's arms, dear Harry – you've not changed a bit."

He felt a sudden pang of disgust and pain when he realized that her words struck true. He was still the same selfish man he had always been, a thin veneer of charm his only defense against the world. And no young woman should be saddled to him.

But the pang of sharp desire did not abate.