Royally Knocked Up by Pamela DuMond
Chapter 16
The full moon glowed over the volcano casting an eerie glow on our tiny room.
I sat on the bed holding a thin, white sheet below my chin, and gazed up at Nicholas. He stood shirtless in front of me, a flush to his cheeks, a fullness to his lips. His eyes darkened.
“I bet that bracelet looks even better on you when it’s the only thing you’re wearing.” He tugged at the sheet, pulling it from my hand until it fell onto the bed. He kissed the top of my head. “I, Prince Nicholas Frederick of Fredonia, claim you, Lucy Trabbicio, for an eternity. No matter what we go through, you will always be the princess that owns my heart.”
“And I, Lucy Trabbicio, will defend your honor, body, soul, and your very sweet heart, Nicholas.”
“I love you, Lucy.” He eased me back on the bed, kissed me, and took my breath away. “I’ll always love you.”
Afterwards, we lay on the simple bed on this island in the Tyrhennian sea, and collapsed into each other’s arms. It felt like time had paused and the outside world no longer existed. There were no kings or queens; no dukes or duchesses; no interlopers, charlatans, liars, crooks, or asshats. The world was simple for a change, consisting of two people who couldn’t keep their hands off each other, of two people who were in love.
But there was a tick-tock in my brain. We’d have to return to reality soon. I pushed myself out of bed and walked to the dresser. I grabbed my phone that was charging next to my purse with my valuables. I texted Esmeralda but the message wouldn’t deliver. I turned to Nick. “Where are we meeting Cristoph?”
“He’s sending a helicopter here in the morning. Let’s get some shut-eye.”
“I need to check in with the ladies. The wifi sucks up here.” I pulled on my jeans and a top, grabbed a sweater and my purse, when I realized my ruby bracelet was missing. I panicked for a second but quickly spotted it on the white sheets next to Nick. The safety had broken.
“This bracelet… we need to fix it.” I slipped it back in the velvet bag resting on the nightstand. “I’m going to the lobby to text Esmeralda.”
Nick pointed a finger to his mouth. “Kiss me goodnight, Lucy. Lips miss you already.”
I sat next to him on the bed, ran my hand up his arm, and stroked the black hair off his forehead. Then I leaned in and kissed him on the lips.
“Mmm.” He smiled, and closed his eyes.
He looked so innocent and beautiful naked, half covered in the white cotton sheets. I traced his full lips, and grazed my index finger down the cleft in his chin. He shifted. I pulled the blanket up, tucking it over his shoulders. “I love you always, Nicholas.”
* * *
The cell reception was better in the lobby and my message to Esmeralda was promptly delivered. “Glad everyone’s okay. We’re safe and sound. See U tomorrow?”
“See you back in Fredonia,” she replied. “Don’t watch the news.”
“Right.” I wondered if the shit was hitting the fan, and if so, how badly. I made my way to the bar and stared up at the television sets with the sound turned down. Two of the TVs were showing soccer games, but Fredonia Cable News was filled with the headlines of our confrontation and the subsequent shooting of Michael Charles Perris of Knottingwood.
Watching the skirmish play out on a TV screen over a tiny bar on a volcanic island off the coast of Sicily felt completely different than actually being at the event. During the clash I heard the gun fire but did not actually witness Michael Charles Perris getting shot. But now could see everything in detail playing on the TV. “You lying, cheating, shitty, petty thief. I’m done,” Doris said and shot Perris somewhere in the vicinity of his balls. He collapsed and screamed.
Oh holy crap. What happened to our twelve-hour window?
“Hey,” I said to the bartender, “Could you turn that up, please?”
“Signora?”
I pointed at the TV and jabbed a finger toward the ceiling.
He picked up the remote, aimed it at the device, and clicked.
On the screen, panicked people scurried away from the man lying on the ground writhing in pain. Only one person ran toward Perris. Unfortunately, that person was me.
“Someone call 911!” I said. “I hope you’re okay, you big asshat! Hey! Does someone know how to say ‘Call 911!’ in Italian? Stop screaming, Knottingwood! It’s probably just a flesh wound. Press your hand on top of it. Oh crap there’s blood everywhere!”
“Step away,” Nick said off camera, as the screen went black.
“Oh, fuck,” I said under my breath, my hand flying to my mouth.
The news station replayed the video footage. It looped over and over relentlessly. I felt nauseated, like I’d been talked into riding one of those stupid roller coasters that travels at breakneck speeds, races upside down in a circle, and then makes you want to hurl. I clutched my stomach and leaned my forearms onto the back of a bar chair.
“Stai bene?” the bartender asked. “You okay?”
“No stai bene.”
To make matters worse, an earnest, blonde, coiffed, twenty-something Fredonia news anchor interviewed Archbishop Causesdesperdues via Skype. “The video was shot by an onlooker attending the Three Kings Festa parade in Messina, Italy. The only two people identified in the footage are the victim, Michael Charles Perris of Knottingwood, and Lucy Trabbicio, the wife of Prince Nicholas of Fredonia.”
“Correct on the identity of the two people in the video.” Archbishop Causesdesperdues said. “But incorrect on the marital status. We believe Ms. Trabbicio is currently married to Prince Cristoph of Fredonia.”
“Oh,” the coiffed reporter said, lifting a judgmental eyebrow. “So the husband-hopping rumors are true?”
“It appears so.” The archbishop’s greasy chins wobbled down his neck until they disappeared into his opulent, clerical robes.
“Let me get this straight,” the reporter said. “A few years ago we first were introduced to Lucy Trabbicio when she pretended to be a royal; romanced crown Prince Cristoph; but then announced she was an imposter and left him at the altar.”
“Yes.” Causesdesperdues said, sniffling.
“A short time later she seduced, and subsequently wed Cristoph’s brother, Prince Nicholas of Fredonia, in a lavish ceremony.”
“And who paid for that?” The archbishop twisted his gold pinky ring. “The good people of Fredonia don’t need to be footing the bill on expensive royal weddings with commoners.”
“Wasn’t the priest who conducted that ceremony her friend?”
“Yes. He was also a poser, not sanctioned to conduct royal marriages. Ms. Trabbicio quickly resolved that issue, turned the tables, and married Prince Nicholas yet again,” Causesdesperdues said.
“I find it suspicious she keeps marrying into the royal family but none of her marriages seem to stick,” the reporter said.
“Maybe she craves the spotlight,” Causesdesperdues said, dabbing his sweaty face with a linen handkerchief. “That kind of attention can be addictive. Or perhaps it runs deeper than that for Ms. Trabbicio. She could have psychological issues or a narcissistic borderline personality disorder.”
“Fascinating,” the reporter said. “Did Lucy Trabbicio even want to marry Prince Nicholas?”
“Where did Michael Charles Perris come up with the idea to scam the Fredonia royals? Perhaps Perris simply fell prey to the gluttony and greed of one Lucille Trabbicio, American commoner, part-time princess impersonator, but at the end of the day—simply a petty thief.”
“Do you think the Royal House of Timmel will be able to survive this scandal?”
“I don’t know. But if it is revealed that Prince Cristoph or Nicholas were involved, one or both of them could be discredited, and the very existence of the monarchy will once again be called into question.”
“Thank you for talking with us at such short notice, Archbishop Causesdesperdues. Any final words?”
He stared straight into the camera, his piggy-shaped eyes crossing, his fat cheeks sucking air in and out like a giant, wrinkled, worn bellows. It was almost as if he could see me through the screen, and I shivered. “As long as Lucy Trabbicio stays involved with either Prince of Fredonia, the Royal Timmels will be a laughing stock, the joke at every table.”
Ice water poured into my veins. My hands went numb. A humming penetrated my ears, the world squeezed tight around me I knew what had to be done.
I grabbed a napkin from the stash on the bar, borrowed a pen, and scrawled, ‘Nicholas in #3B’ on the front. On the back I wrote, ‘I’m so very sorry. Lucy’. I pulled a few Euros from my purse and passed them and the napkin to the bartender. “Please give this to Nicholas, l’uomo in 3B.”