Falling Hard for the Royal Guard

FALLING HARD FOR THE ROYAL GUARD Megan Clawson Copyright Published by AVON A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk First published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2023 Copyright © Megan Clawson 2023 Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2023 Cover illustrations: Shutterstock.com Megan Clawson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library. This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins. Source ISBN: 9780008554415 Ebook Edition © April 2023 ISBN: 9780008554422 Version: 2022-12-19 Dedication For Gingers/Red Heads/Carrot Tops/Gingas/people that are told they look like every ginger celebrity ever, Because we deserve to be the main character every once in a while. Freckles and all. Author’s note The Tower of London has seen many residents over its millennium, but it’s frequently the unwilling guests that we remember. Most people don’t realise that beyond the moat, the fortress walls, and the portcullises, there is a village and there always has been. Even now in 2022, a whole community of people hang out their washing in the places that royalty once walked, park their cars on top of the gone-by sites of executions, walk their dogs through a moat now far more welcoming than the cesspit it previously was, and come together in a bar just like their predecessors in every century before. The beefeaters themselves are, in my eyes, the Tower of London personified. Without them, the Tower would lose the beating heart that they have maintained and nurtured for the last five hundred years. They are a constant in our nation, something we can so easily take pride in. Beyond their Tudor bonnets and ruffs, they are men and women who have served the most part of a lifetime in uniform, men and women who aren’t made rich by their devotion but still carry out each of their duties with impeccable discipline – they are our culture. The King’s Guards are at the very beginning of this long service. Despite being one of the most iconic images that springs to mind when you think of Great Britain, the guards are still mystery to many. Contrary to popular belief, they aren’t statues, they can A Map of the Tower of London Chapter 1 The sun always leaves the East Casemates first. It gets swallowed up by the western side of the White Tower, locked in its dungeon and liberated at dawn to the sound of the ravens’ cries. To move through the castle at this time is to be undisturbed. Residents hide at the hearths of their fires and don’t bother to distinguish between passer-by and wandering spirit. There is little difference anyway. I wander the south lawn alone, the dew-soaked strands of grass slip between my bare toes and around my ankles as I glide freely under the moonlight. Standing in her shadow, I drink in the glowing stone of the White Tower and lose myself in the shadowed arches of the windows as the twilight breeze pushes me further towards her. Only the sound of soft laughter disturbs me. I whip around, my damp red hair cloaking my face in the motion. But I see no one, I feel no one. The sound crescendos until it becomes abusive, only growing louder, more animated as I begin to squirm. Laugh, lick, laugh, lick. I open my eyes with a start, before quickly clamping them shut again as the bright sunlight claws abusively at my vision from the window. The dampness on my feet spreads up my bare legs until it finally settles on my face. Working up the strength to prise open my eyelids again with a groan, I come face