Road To Fire (Broken Crown Trilogy #1) - Maria Luis Page 0,102

the architect had done to commemorate Henry’s marriage to Catherine of Aragon.”

Peter releases a boyish chuckle. “I bet that didn’t pan out well in convincing Henry to come on by for a wee visit.”

“It didn’t, but it’s been”—Saxon brushes his thumb over his mouth—“in our family since the late nineteenth century.”

“Like a home base?” Josie asks curiously. “Do you belong to a secret organization, Saxon?”

The car slows to a stop. And then, “Something like that.”

More unexpected honesty.

Something unfurls in my chest, an emotion I’ve never felt before, and I reach for his hand on instinct alone. Crazy or not, I feel like I could take on the entire world, so long as he’s with me. A team. An unstoppable unit. Saxon balances out my rashness. Reckless, he once called me.

I suppose he was right.

But he’s not as cruel or savage as I once believed him.

“We’ll get out here,” he murmurs, squeezing my hand before letting go.

As one, we follow as he leads us down a gravel-paved path sandwiched between neatly mowed grass and untamed green ferns. The grounds are a treat for the eyes, a beautiful blending of acutely designed parterre gardens and wild foliage allowed to grow free of heavy hands and sharp shears. If I believed in fairy tales, then this would certainly be the one I wished to live in.

And then my jaw actually does drop when the medieval-styled manor house comes into view.

I stumble to a stop. “There’s a moat.”

Peter brushes past me, our duffel bag looped over one shoulder. “Bloody hell. Is that a drawbridge?”

“My brother had it installed as a joke about five years ago,” Saxon murmurs, his fingers thrust deep into the front pockets of his joggers. “We all had a good laugh, and then we promptly locked him out for the night. Couldn’t even swim over because these walls were built over five-hundred years ago. There’s no scaling them when the bridges are up.”

“Was it Guy you pranked?” Josie asks, skipping forward with her arms spread wide.

“No.” A small pause. “My brother Damien.”

“Oh, the mad one,” she singsongs, turning back to us with a wriggle of her brows. “Or that’s what I’ve heard, at least. But since I heard that you killed the king, and obviously you didn’t, I’ll withhold judgment on the Mad Priest. For now.”

Saxon mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, “You really shouldn’t,” before speaking louder, “Why don’t you and Peter go ahead? Guy will be waiting in the Great Hall. I want to show your sister something.”

Peter and Josie require no further encouragement.

Like the children they once were, they race each other over the wooden bridge. With a shove at the front door, which looks like heavy oak, they disappear inside. Only then do I turn to Saxon. “You’re full of surprises.”

His green eyes land on my face. “I have another to show you.”

I lift a brow. “Oh?”

Removing his hand from his pocket, he holds it out for me to take, palm up. “After your grand reveal today, I thought this might interest you. Come with me.”

He doesn’t need to tell me twice.

As we walk, I take in the elaborate garden that spans from the back of the house to a building that looks like it was once used as the estate’s stables. Tall and constructed of brick and exposed wooden beams, it’s a more modest version of the Palace. Smaller, though not by much. My palm is sweaty within Saxon’s when I murmur, “I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you earlier . . . about the king, I mean.”

“You’ve already apologized.”

Rueful, I shake my head. “I know. I know. But I should have told you sooner. The world thought you did it and I never corrected the assumption.”

“You would have been dead,” he replies stiffly. “Correcting the world would have done nothing but put a mark on your head.”

“Which has happened, anyway.”

Saxon falls silent as he props open the door to the building and releases my hand so I can pass him. I go willingly, only pausing once I’m inside.

Dark-paneled walls.

Slate flooring.

I turn in a semi-circle. “You’ve clearly done some restoration work in here. It’s not at all what I expected.”

“It’s where we work.” Saxon’s hand claims its spot at the base of my spine. “Our headquarters.”

Curious, I slant a look at him. “Are you admitting that you aren’t just a pub owner? That you’re actually as Josie said—a secret agent or something?”

He meets my stare with no hint of hesitation. “Surprise,” he says on a husky