Sound of Madness A Dark Royal Romance - Maria Luis Page 0,175
reveals that Gregory has proven resourceful yet again. He’s managed to sneak a blade past security. A blade that he now holds to the underside of my father’s chin. If he moves, he dies. If he speaks, he dies. I hold Father’s stare for a prolonged moment, tasting his anger as if it were my own, before snapping my gaze away to give life to the sinister truth.
“Ten years ago, I was my father’s pawn. And before you tell me that you’re not here for a familial war, let me say this: I know your secrets.” My smile is slow and merciless as I spin in a semi-circle, my gaze slipping from one troubled-looking MP to the next. “Oh, yes. Every smile that I gave you, every word of praise that I whispered in your ear, was the work of a woman who was told to bring you to your knees.” I search out the first man who protested. “I’m a hermit, Mr. Willer, because I chose to walk away from the deceit—but the man who ordered me to act never left the public eye. No, he climbed the ranks of Parliament, knowing full well what he’d done to me and all of you.”
A broken, defeated noise comes from behind me, and remorse . . . Remorse stiffens my shoulders. Bound by blood or not, Edward Carrigan will pay. I do not glance back at him. I do not allow myself to recall the few and far between memories of a man holding his daughter high up on his shoulders while hiking the land surrounding their Golspie cottage.
I do not.
I do not.
And yet, my body doesn’t obey.
The heels of my pumps turn in place and my hands become trembling fists at my sides. With hate and disappointment flourishing in my veins, I meet my father’s gaze. His blue eyes scream fury and a bead of blood trickles down the length of his neck.
“Here before you stands a man who murdered his wife.” Silence reigns, not even a single gasp to be heard. “Here before you,” I continue, hearing only the roar of blood in my ears, “stands a man who sentenced his thirteen-year-old daughter to die. Money. Greed. What forgiveness goes to a man willing to damn his own wife and child for a piece of property? In my heart, there is none.”
Father’s lids fall shut.
Look at me! I want to scream. Look at what you’ve done!
But he doesn’t open them, and he doesn’t acknowledge my pain. He doesn’t even acknowledge me.
“For those of you who don’t believe me, I have no living proof.” Silas Hanover’s body was dumped in the Channel six days back and he’ll be halfway to Calais by now—if not lost to the sea forever. “And for those of you who are struggling to reconcile your knowledge of the prime minister with what I’ve told you, then I give to you Caren Fitz, a man who disappeared three years ago only to be found at Broadmoor Hospital last week . . . along with over a hundred other known anti-loyalists who have gone missing since the Westminster Riots. Mr. Fitz, if you would please—”
The far doors fling open.
And then, one by one, all begin to rise.
The Imperial State Crown adorning her head glitters under the Victorian chandeliers. An ivory satin gown clings to her frame, the collar high around her throat, the sleeves cinching neatly around her wrists. Matching gloves sheath her fingers and the heavy, ornamental Collar of Esses drapes her from throat to breastbone in a brocade of gold and gemstones.
Queen Margaret has arrived.
Flanked on either side of her are eight armored bodyguards, their black, glossy helmets shielding their identities—but one glimpse at the man standing at Margaret’s right shoulder and I know him instantly.
The deadly, broken gait.
The breadth of his shoulders and the thickness of his thighs.
His helmet shifts, just a bit, and I feel the heat of his gaze even now.
I see you, Damien Godwin. I see all of you.
It’s not the opening day of Parliament, and we aren’t in the House of Lords, but as Margaret sweeps past me, there’s no mistaking the crimson Robe of State that descends from an ermine cape at her shoulders to span the length of five meters behind her. Damien’s gloved hand brushes my arm as he follows his queen to the Speaker’s chair.
And then, in a haughty tone that would make King John proud, she says, “I’m in need of a throne, Mrs. Bartholomew.”