Chapter forty-six
He'd realized the ugly feeling since Nax's death. The feeling where you knew you were wrong somewhere but not exactly sure where.
Philip wiped the tear at the side of his eye and turned around to watch the lady being treated by the Royal medics.
Monica had not yet awoken, neither had her wounds stopped bleeding. It was a difficult thing to watch for the Duke of Anfield.
With a sigh, he looked back to the sky and searched deeper within himself.
What was happening?
It seemed like the right thing to do if Kilmarnock was returned, but now the thought came like a pain in his chest.
He was not used to having his mother against him, neither did he enjoy getting so many warnings at the same time.
But there was Monica again, fighting with every sweat she had to regain the happiness she once had, going through untold pain just for that.
The least he could do was help her fulfill that one dream of hers; and the urge to do that sadly blinded his sixth sense.
There was a voice in his head warning him against it, one he heard clearly. But with his sight on all she went through because of his family, he pushed the voice aside and vowed to make her happy.
"Philip," he heard his name as a squeak minutes later.
Turning back to the bedroom, the lady was fully awake, gasping as though she's seen a ghost. She pushed herself up to sit and sent a glare to the medics around her, "Get your hands off me! Don't…touch me. Leave! Now!"
The Duke rushed in from the balcony and stalked to her side of the bed. Sending a nod to the group of personnels, he gave a silent order for them to comply. Slowly, they bowed and made their  exit, pulling the door shut afterwards.
Immediately, Monica wrapped her hands around him possessively  and sobbed, "I thought I'd die."
He smiled lightly and rubbed her hair,"You're a strong woman. Now be careful before you bleed again." He tried pulling her arms gently but ended up falling helplessly to sit by her side.
Now they shared breaths with their bodies a hair breath apart. Philip met her gaze, green and sad, obviously begging him for something he'd taken away. Now her hands came up to cradle his face as she uttered an order in the softest of tones, "Stay with me."
Philip didn't answer, but his next move made it clear he planned to obey.
He kissed her, long, soft and soothing. While their tongues tangled, Philip realised this was all he needed to clear his mind of all thoughts that ate at it. She was the one for him, and she had gone a long way to prove that.
But then she began tugging at the buttons of his waistcoat, forcing them open to reveal his inner chemise. And his hands came up to stop her from going further.
"No Monica," he gasped against her lips, "When everything is over, we'll do this the proper way." His tone was pleading, silently reminding her of the wounds she still suffered from.
But as he feared, she did that thing with her eyes again, one that showed pain of being denied something that was hers. Before he knew he was doing it, the grip around her hand softened, making the lady's eyes take up a new kind of glow.
Instantly, she retrieved his lips in hers possessively and suckled it in ways Philip never knew existed. And by God, he was going to learn. It was not long after that he flowed with it, letting her undo his buttons completely before shrugging his waistcoat off.
But it wasn't going to be fair if only he stripped, was it?
The Duke reached down and placed a hand at the curve of her hips…then paused.
It was skin…bare, smooth and soft. He cradled the flesh innocently…and he was sure he heard the lady groan in response against his mouth.
She was responsive. That he liked. And the thought made him want to devour her.
The lady seemed to have read his thoughts. Monica pushed the blankets off her body and knelt upon it, giving him view of her almost naked self.
She had a few straps of loosely fixed garment around her chest and hips.
By then, Philip stopped kissing her and just watched what she so readily offered.
She was beautiful…and he wasn't looking at her face when he said that. Of course he'd seen her naked before. But this time…
She was his to devour.
She began to work on getting his breeches off. But annoyingly, he stilled her motion and looked up at her. "Why do you want this?"
Monica paused at the question, her eyes full of emotion. She returned the stare while her breathing softened. "Because I love you Philip Forland."
The Duke shook his head helplessly, certain enough he was going to cry if he kept on staring.
Automatically, their lips entwined once more, and they were reaching for each other's touch.
Monica laid herself upon the duvet and pulled Philip with her, still securing the trading of tongues with him even with the biting pain in her arm.
Now she reached for his breeches again. And this time…he didn't stop her.
***
King Louis was in his office slightly before dawn, signing and writing letters just to get his mind off things, just for a while.
His hands moved quickly, writing, signing, blotting and keeping aside before he reached for another sheet and repeated the actions. His intentions weren't achieved though.
Frustrated, he put down his quill pen and braced both elbows upon his desk, letting the bad mood show in his eyes and breaths.
Under the same roof with him, Maitland's daughter lived, the greatest form of insult and belittlement.
As much as he wanted to get it off his mind, he knew the lass knew of those behind her father's death.
But here she was, in his home, acting like a well-wisher without bad intentions. That was even what scared him more. She didn't look like someone to forgive and forget that easily. Not that he was scared of course.
The King swallowed and raised his fingers to his temples, massaging them and hoping to sire his headache. Unknown to him though, today was going to be the worst day of his life.
The heavy green doors creaked open, making him look up from his table to find his intruder.
And there was a fine lad, just at the doorway, smiling warmly at him. He also had a pistol in his hand.
The frown on the King's brows remained while his intruder staggered into his office in a drunk like madness.
"Who are you?" Louis finally broke out of his state of confusion, eyeing the lad with a glower. His eyes followed the young man's direction, watching him ignore his question and take a seat without permission.
His voice came out as a thunderous snarl towards the doors, "Guards…!" However, he stopped when the unwanted visitor aimed the pistol at him.
"Your guards have gone on a holiday My King," said Earl Robinson to the man whose face had suddenly turned white.
The Marquess kept his smirk on the man who went on yelling orders that died down in an echo seconds later. An uncomfortable silence took over as the expectant King awaited a response to his orders.
When none came, he returned his fearful gaze to the Marquess who gave him a greater dose of his deep red smirk and pushed his gun closer, "Why don't we have a pleasant chat before your guards return."
Just then, more lads came in through the doors, two of which were his youngest sons. The other two were a blond and a black haired one. In all, he was sure five of them were Monarchs.
It was after a moment of confusion he figured they were friends to the Duke of Anfield.
"Shall we," Earl asked with a tilt of his head.