The Prince's Bride (Part 1) - J.J. McAvoy Page 0,85

to be a little bit messy. You might want to take off your jacket and...and don’t make any sexual innuendoes.”

“Yes, ma’am, I would not dream of it.”

The look on his face said he already had. Luckily, he kept it to himself as he pulled up his sweater and shirt at once. Every one of his six-pack abs and the deep V that ran into his pants was now on display. I noticed he had a gold medallion-shaped multi-pointed star with an eagle in the center, and on that eagle was some sort of crest.

Unable to help myself, I touched it, running my hands over the groves in the gold. “What is this?”

“An ancestral protection medallion.”

“What?” I questioned, looking back up to him.

“I told you my people are a little bit superstitious, my mother, especially,” he replied, touching the medallion. “It’s been in my family for generations. And usually, it’s given to someone who needs the most luck and protection.”

“And that is you?”

“Apparently.” He snickered. “I’ll explain more after we are finished. Unless you wish to keep touching my chest.”

“Right.” I quickly gave him my soft pink towel. “S-sit down.” Was that my voice? What in the world? I sounded like a chicken.

“I am in your care,” he said gently, taking a seat.

I stopped speaking to give my voice the time it so clearly needed to take care of itself. Taking the oil, I massaged it into his temples first, then back around his ears, and his shoulders went up.

“Are you okay?” I asked, not sure what was wrong.

“I am fine. I just did not realize I was getting a free massage.”

“Who said it was free? I still want to hear all of these secrets.”

He became quiet, and it took a few more seconds before all the glue melted, and I could finally take off the wig. I still couldn’t believe he had gone that far just so he could go out in public. But today, we had gone around town and even went to the street market. Putting the hair on the counter, he wiped away the oil dripping down his face then scratched his head, sighing in relief.

“You get cleaned up, and then we can talk over wine.”

“We are starting a tradition, I see.” He chuckled.

“Late night conversations and wine,” I remembered. “Do you want something light or strong?”

“Strong.”

I wondered if he needed something strong because of the conversation.

When he came back down, he was towel drying his soaking-wet bronze hair. He’d also changed into jeans and a long-sleeved shirt.

“What are we having?” he asked when he came over to me on the couch.

“A 2014 Monastrell,” I said, showing him the bottle, and he made himself comfortable. “Careful, it does sneak up on you. You might end up in some guy’s bed dressed as Cinderella, rambling.”

He grinned. “Ah, so this is that wine.”

“Yeah.” I still couldn’t believe I had done that.

He poured for me before he poured for himself, and I watched him taste it and nod. He leaned back. “It is good. Very smokey, though. Is it your favorite?”

“Why do I get the sense you are stalling in whatever it is you need to tell me?” I asked, crossing my legs underneath me.

“Because I partially am, and you are too blunt just to let me ease into this conversation.” He chuckled, but his eyes didn’t hold any laughter or joy or teasing in them at all.

“Is it that bad?”

“This is going to sound callous, but what is worse? Losing your father suddenly or knowing he is going to be gone soon.”

Guilt, pain, and sadness washed over me as I understood the reason behind his question. “Your father is dying?”

“His brain is,” he whispered back, looking down at his wine. “No one knows yet. The minute they do, he’s going to have to abdicate. My brother has been taking care of everything for months now anyway, so that is not the worst part. The worst is watching as his brain slowly disappears. It is a family trait.”

“Does that mean you...”

“Arthur and I do not show signs of it. My grandfather was married to his second cousin, which is why they believe he has it so quickly and so severe. Days are just rewinding in his mind.” He glanced over to me. “That was the biggest reason I agreed to marry you, to come here. He is the one who put us in debt.”

“How much?”

He shook his head. “Millions, Odette. Millions. I have thought about how that could be possible