Harry’s litter could not move fast enough for him. He was giddy inside over surprising her and taking the upper hand back, if he ever had it in regards to her. His rounded chin quivered as he barked out orders for more speed, but it was his great heft that slowed them down.
He damned his appetite, he damned his mangled leg, and damned his own hands for scaring her by always touching her in the brief moments they’d had. If he had been patient, maybe she would have stayed and not left. Maybe she would have found him infinitely superior to his damned brother.
Isabella—how he missed her. And those duckies . . . how he longed to kiss them and rub his erection all over them while he showed her his true affection for her.
She was his light in the darkness, and would be his warmth in his bed and heart. She was what he wished he had known as his first and only wife. England never had such a humble, honest queen, and they deserved to know her. But Isabella wanted none of that—baffling woman.
And he was selfish—willing to have her without sharing her with the masses as long as she would turn away from Edward.
He bunched his fists and stared at his servants with an evil glint.
If they cared at all about his mental health, then they would find a way to make this litter fly.
When the carriage finally slowed and stopped, he roared, “Get me inside there at once, and if Isabella escapes out a back door there shall be nothing but fire and brimstone rained down upon all your heads!”