“Look at me,” he insisted.
She did. And the naked love reflected back at her stole her breath.
“The Boritanians believe in fate,” he said. “We believe that there are certain parts of our life that are preordained, always meant to be. And from the moment I saw you that first day, with your bare feet and your folio, I knew you were my destiny. Nothing has changed that. Not war, not four months, not resuming the throne. I love you, Pamela, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I never want us to be apart again.”
Her heart was simultaneously breaking and rejoicing. She was a calamitous mix of hope and despair, of love and joy and fear.
“I’ve missed you, Theo,” she confessed. “Every moment of every day we’ve been apart. And I love you desperately. But so much has changed.”
“I haven’t changed,” he said firmly. “And nor has my heart. Marry me, my love. Everything I’ve fought to reclaim is for naught if I can’t have you at my side.”
She was perilously near to accepting his proposal. To believing they could have a future despite everything.
“I don’t know what to say,” she said, overwhelmed.
He smiled. And it was a beautiful, slow, thorough smile. One that made her remember how very handsome and charming he could be and just how easily he could bend her to his will with his clever hands and lips.
“Say yes.” His head dipped before she could answer, and his mouth angled over hers in a kiss that was voracious and intense, a kiss that made her knees threaten to buckle. “Please,” he added when they were both out of breath and her heart was pounding so furiously that she swore he could hear it.
There was only one answer she could give, she realized as he held her in the circle of his arms. He had come back for her, he loved her, and she loved him.
“Yes,” she told him.
He gathered her close, burying his face in her throat. “Thank you, my love. You won’t regret it. This, I vow.”
And she knew in that instant that she’d made the right decision. Because Theodoric Augustus St. George was more than just a king. He was also a man who kept and fulfilled his word. A man of unimaginable strength and perseverance. A man who had survived the unfathomable and who had triumphed over evil.
He was the man she loved, and her home was in his arms.
EPILOGUE
Through the crack in the partially ajar door, Theo saw his wife’s toes.
Bare, without the veil of stockings or slippers, illuminated by the fading glow of afternoon light and an accompanying brace of candles in the solar. They were the toes of a queen who preferred to sketch in her bare feet, without hindrance of stays and petticoats. And he loved that rebelliousness in her, that hint of wildness beneath her calm demeanor of icy decorum, just the way he loved everything else about her.
He stood at the threshold, pleased with the changes she had wrought in the three months since they had wed. Together, they had stripped the palace of the ostentatious display of greed and wealth with which Gustavson had draped it, until every last hint of him was gone. Even his mother’s garden had been restored.
Gold had been melted and repurposed. Paintings and furniture and instruments and jewels had been delivered to the best auction house in the capital and sold. The funds they had received in return had been used to lower taxes and rents, to repair roads which had badly needed paving, and to rebuild the once great Boritanian navy.
The people were happy. The kingdom, like Theo and his sisters, was slowly beginning to thrive again, beyond the pall of Gustavson’s decade-long grip on the throne. They had formed a solid ally in King Maximilian of Varros, an island nation to their east. And Theo himself was well and truly content.
Content for the first time in as long as he could recall.
But there was one primary source for his contentment, above all others—though his love for his homeland and the Boritanian people was strong—and she was seated on a chaise longue, frowning down at the folio in her lap as she worked on her latest sketch. Theo lingered at the threshold for a moment, enjoying the rare opportunity to watch her as she worked. Between the immense fanfare of their traditional Boritanian wedding and settling in at the palace, along with the daily struggle of restoring the land to its former glory, their lives had been a whirlwind. He’d spent far too much time in parliamentary meetings and his privy council and not nearly enough time admiring his beautiful queen.
And what a queen she made. His mother, had she lived to see it, would have been proud. Pamela had adjusted to her role with ease and grace. She was beloved by the people, and he well understood why.
At last, he pushed away from the threshold and entered the chamber, closing the door at his back for privacy. Pamela looked up at his entrance, snapping her folio closed and placing it and her porte-crayon at her side before rising to her feet.
“My love,” she said, speaking to him in Boritanian.
Her efforts to learn his native tongue pleased him, and he couldn’t hide his grin. Deus, smiling was becoming quite commonplace to him these days. Happiness and joy, too.
“My queen,” he returned in the same, reaching for her hand and bringing it to his lips for a kiss, chalk-smudged fingers and all.
“I didn’t expect you so soon from the privy council,” she said. “If I had known you would be joining me, I would have made a greater effort with my dress.”
She was wearing a Boritanian gown of white linen that hugged her ample curves in all the right places, and he wholeheartedly approved.
