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Perhaps he only had himself to blame. After all, what god checks in with his worshipers before divine action?
Ben took the familiar turning to the A303, the traffic light, well past the annual influxes of tourists to the South West, his mind churning with his depressing thoughts. But then, at a small swerve around a cyclist, he almost laughed out loud. When had henottaken this trip—Barton Combe to London, Barton Combe to Horse Tor Manor, Barton Combe to any bloody place—alongside thischosen companion of his life, without being in turmoil, thoughts angry and painful, confused and worried what Nikolas was thinking or not thinking, doing or not doing?
This disciple clearly needed to get another hobby.
He was making too much of this.
Possibly.
Probably.
Not for the first time in his relationship with this infuriating man, he wished he hadanotherNikolas to ask. After all, Nikolas was his lodestone, his true north—for good or bad, Nik was the one who steered his course. Nikolas was hisbest friend. He wanted to ask that other (better?) Nikolas about this one—why does he still do these things to me? Why does he not respect me? What should I do?
Ben knew with a sense of great certainty thathewas notNikolas’slife compass.
But did he need to be? Did Nikolas need anyone in that role?
Nikolas had created a bubble of perfection for them all to live beneath. Who needed directions in paradise?
Ben knew he’d shake off this despondency. Probably by the time they got home.
After he'd made Nikolas suffer sufficiently, that is.
But it was odd his other half was so silent. Usually, facing such interrogations as he must know were coming his way, Nikolas would already be laying the seeds of his defence. Scattering obscuration like flak.
Molly had quietened to an occasional hiccup of reproach. Perhaps she was only upset at not seeing a queen. But Ben suspected that, like him, she sensed Nikolas's cold mood, his emotional withdrawal from their presence. He sighed. By not talking to Nikolas,hewas contributing to her unhappiness now, and that was unforgivable.
It was more difficult punishing someone if that punishment affected the innocent.
He took the moral high ground and poked Nikolas in the thigh.
Nikolas would now catch his finger and give it a painful twist or squeeze, make a derogatory comment about him of some kind and then be very pleased the pressure was off and that he was forgiven. It's what they did. The tenor of their lives.
Before Nikolas could react one way or the other, his phone buzzed on the dashboard where it lay, tossed. Nik reached for it and glanced at the screen. Diverted between keeping his eyes on the road and trying to gauge Nik’s expression, Ben was forced to ask, “What now?”
Nikolas pursed his lips, a look Ben knew only too well. He’d been caught out and was now regretting some rash action.
He turned the screen towards Ben but realising perhaps he couldn’t read it and drive, commenced in a suitably theatrical tone to give him the gist of the message. “’EX-plosive new pictures…’ that’s E X in capitals as a play on me being the…ex. How witty. ‘EX-clusive pictures of the life Lady P gives up for love.’ Huh, that’s a bit harsh. ‘EX-traordinary glimpse into the family she abandoned.’” Nikolas snorted quietly to himself then twisted the phone around, apparently studying the pictures in landscape.
Ben cursed, and at the earliest opportunity pulled the vehicle over to the side of the road. Nikolas didn’t object when he plucked the phone from him.
“Bloody hell! How have they got this up on the net already? Doesn’t it take days or something?”
Nikolas gave him a look of wary incredulity and a raised eyebrow.Peyton bloody Garic. Ben ignored him and continued to scroll down the article. He froze at the first picture.
Above the caption ‘EX-quisite’ was Molly, caught as she rose towards the sun, defying gravity like an angel summoned home. Her hair flew around her, forming a foaming halo of shiny black encircling her beautiful, exotic features. And with hands raised up to intercept her eventual descent was Nikolas. Captured with his face in profile, a bright sun flare prevented any real recognition—a coincidental yet very fortunate flare from a far stronger sun than had been present on that December beach. But you didn’t need to see the features to feel a tug of longing, a stab of desire for this man. Laughing, the sun bouncing off shiny, windswept blond hair, the muscles in his arms tight and the skin tanned and smooth, he was the perfect foil for the tiny, fragile beauty just beyond his fingertips. More importantly, perhaps, he was a study in contrasts with what Philipa was to be greeted with at the end of her walk down the aisle.
Behind this perfect couple the waves crashed to the shore in almost translucent green perfection, their white plumes blowing off like dancing water sprites, adding to the intense animation of the whole picture. Ben had never noticed Devon waves were green, translucent or otherwise.
The article went on to extol the virtue of the woman who had given up her chance of such family happiness for love, for duty, for her country. Clearly, the journalist had an eye on some possible future knighthood: he wasn’t going to entirelydissthe future queen, despite the whole article being an entire fabrication anyway. Philipa and Nikolas had divorced long before Molly. Molly wasn’t Nikolas’s—she certainly wasn’t anything to do with Philipa. It was all so wrong and yet, on the face of it, so true.
Nikolas had stuck it to them in the most painful way possible. Although the article did not say as much, it was clear what Philipa had to look forward to: a barren, childless marriage for duty.A winter queen. And notthisman in her bed. The wedding looked a bit...sad now.
The phone rang in Ben’s hand.
Nikolas wrinkled his nose.
Ben suspected he was right: Nikolas was regretting his stupid, petty revenge.
