AllFreeNovel
Share Us
You need to stop mooning over him.
Oh, she did. If the last three months had taught her nothing else it was that.
Gathering her courage, she met his gaze. ‘I need six months off, sir,’ she said bluntly, since there was no other way to say it.
His expression didn’t change. ‘Excuse me?’
‘I need six months off,’ she repeated. ‘Six months of annual leave. I believe I’m owed it.’
His gaze narrowed, that sharp, turquoise blue searching her face. ‘Six months? You seriously want me to give you six months off?’
Winifred forced aside the nervousness gathering tighter and tighter inside her. This was always going to be a challenge, which was why she’d delayed asking him. And what was also going to be a challenge was her own instinct to acquiesce to his wishes, a habit that she’d spent five years cultivating.
She could feel the words already forming in her mouth:No, it’s fine, sir. I don’t need to take six months. I don’t need it at all.
Except she did need it and she couldn’t say those words. Instead, she said, ‘You make it sound like I’m asking for the moon.’
‘The moon would be easier to deliver.’ Augustine’s tone was flat.
‘I’ve accrued enough leave, sir. The provision for it is all in my contract.’ And it was. They both knew that.
He was silent a moment, then he reached for the heavy crystal tumbler that contained the cocktail the barman had made for him. It was a dark, rich red and looked incredibly alcoholic. He took a sip, his gaze still on her and still sharp. There was a tightness around his eyes and a faint crease between his brows, which usually indicated a headache. Hopefully not one of the migraines that would strike sometimes whenever the light was too bright, but it was difficult to tell; he was very good at hiding it when he had one of those.
Still, if he was in the bar, it usually meant he needed darkness and quiet, while at the same time allowing himself to be seen. No one knew he still suffered from the debilitating effects of the head injury he’d sustained nearly ten years ago in the car accident that had killed his father. It was a secret he guarded jealously.
The King of Isavere had to be seen to be strong and in command.
‘Why?’ he asked, a sharp edge in his voice. ‘What could you possibly be doing that you need six months off for?’
Winifred gave a silent curse. She should have ascertained his mood before coming straight out and asking him for something he didn’t want to give. When he was in pain, he was difficult, and no doubt he was going to ask her all kinds of questions she didn’t want to answer. Though to be fair, he’d have probably asked them anyway.
Six months was alotof time.
‘Well,’ she said briskly. ‘I haven’t had a holiday in the five years I’ve been working for you. And I thought I might take one now, when things are relatively quiet.’
‘If you want a holiday, you can take next week off.’ He took another sip of his cocktail. ‘I can spare you for a week, Freddie, but no more.’
Of course, he couldn’t spare her. She’d made herself invaluable, that was the issue, and he needed her. She organised his schedule, liaised with palace staff on his behalf, dealt with his email, wrote his letters, assisted him in reading aloud reports and any other material he needed for his infrequent visits to parliament.
And she did all those things, because he couldn’t.
The head injury prevented him from being able to read or write, or concentrate for long periods of time. He also suffered from light sensitivity, fatigue, headaches, and shortness of temper. Complicating all of that was the fact that he’d hidden his symptoms from everyone for years. His father, Piero, had been a great believer in the strength of kings and so naturally Augustine did too.
No one could know the extent of his disabilities. She herself had only found out once she’d accepted the job and had signed the intensely restrictive NDA he’d insisted on. That had been fairly shocking—not so much what he couldn’t do as how long he’d successfully managed to hide it—but he hated pity and so they never spoke of it.
She still didn’t know the details of the accident, or at least only what had been reported on in the press, and she’d been curious. But it wasn’t her place to ask and so she hadn’t.
Yet it had made this particular situation even more difficult. She’d lined up a replacement for herself, but the man didn’t know the truth about Augustine, and six months was a long time to keep it hidden.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ she said, trying for calm. ‘But I’m afraid I do need the six months.’
Enough time to go away to the little cottage in the south, where Isavere’s vineyards were, where she could spend the remainder of her pregnancy out of sight. She’d already engaged a midwife and there was a hospital nearby in case of any emergencies. Six months would also give her time to review the list of families she’d compiled. Families who would adopt her baby. She already had a few excellent candidates in mind who’d give her child the best start in life.
How can you give your baby up? How?
Pain gripped her, but she ignored that too. She couldn’t keep the child, she’d known that the moment the pregnancy test—against all odds—had come back positive. She’d sat on the edge of her bath in her apartments in the palace, and allowed herself a small breakdown. Because it shouldn’t have happened, it just shouldn’t. He’d had a vasectomy—she’d booked it herself for God’s sake—andthey’d used a condom.
What were the chances of that kind of failure?
