Taming the Rebel Prince

by Victoria Hart

  Taming the Rebel Prince

  The Royals of Rogandal

  Victoria Hart

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Afterword

  Also by Victoria Hart

  Copyright © 2017 by Victoria Hart

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, events, and incidents are the products’ of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously, and or not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Chapter 1

  Eric lay motionless in the sand. Bright, merciless sunshine burned his eyes and there was a relentless pounding in his head. A wave of nausea crashed over him as he listened to a man screaming at him in obnoxiously loud broken English.

  “You! American, who is going to pay? You pay!”

  Eric thought about vomiting as an answer to the strange man’s demands for money. He opened his eyes very slowly and tried to shield his face from the beams of light emanating from the sky.

  “You pay, now!”

  The nausea was too strong to fight any longer. Eric rolled over and emptied the contents of his stomach onto the sand and the man’s feet. The aroma of last night’s whiskey sours and chicken curry were more than he could handle, and he slumped back onto the sand and considered falling into a deep sleep.

  The sound of cussing was unmistakable, even in a foreign language, and it jolted him back to reality. He opened his eyes and realized, slowly and vaguely, that he was lying in the sand by a pile of his own vomit, being yelled at by a short man holding a wadded up piece of paper. Vowing never to eat chicken curry again for the rest of his life, he sat up and looked at the man.

  “Yes, angry person, whatever you want. Just tone it down, please.”

  The man threw the wadded up paper at him, and reiterated his original statement: “American, you pay!”

  The paper was a long, itemized bill written in Thai. Eric skipped to the bottom line and saw a total of $15,000 in U.S. dollars. The amount seemed awfully high for a few drinks at the bar and dinner. Struggling to get to his feet, he held the bill in his hand and handed it back to the man. “Why is it $15,000? What was in those drinks?”

  “Not drinks – my bar, look!” said the man, pointing wildly at the structure behind them.

  Trying to focus in the glaring light of the tropical sun, he saw a blur that resembled a beach bar – then he concentrated and looked closer. The roof was intact, that was good, but the bar and two walls were oddly blackened. Burned to a crisp, actually. Several sad singed tables and chairs completed the picture.

  The smell of smoke was on the breeze and a small group of firemen were standing off to the side, coiling up a hose and getting ready to leave. Eric was confused about why the man was yelling at him, and how the bar had caught fire.

  “Whoa, what happened here?” he asked, bewildered, as he brushed an unruly strand of blond hair from his face.

  “You, your friends, pay and don’t come back!” said the man whose face was now a violent shade of red.

  Friends. Eric had forgotten all about Gunter, Hans, and Balder, also known as Ben. He looked around the beach and didn’t see them. “My friends, where are they?”

  The angry man pointed at the dock. Eric slowly turned his head and saw three men seated on the wooden dock with drinks in their hands.

  “Salut!” said Hans.

  “Way to go, Buddy!” laughed Gunter.

  “Hope you have the money, old boy!” added Hans.

  “Guys, come on. Did we do this?” He walked towards the dock, with the red-faced man trailing behind him.

  “Afraid so. It was someone’s idea to do firebombs with 180 proof last night, Your Highness.” Gunter answered, finishing his Australian beer in one long gulp.

  “I should probably pay, then. Is that what you’re saying?” asked Eric.

  “It’s that or jail. I think the owner there may be related to the head honcho of local law enforcement, if you get my drift. You know how these little islands are,” Hans said with a smile.

  Eric sighed. “Fine. Does anyone know where an ATM is?”

  “ATM? Your Highness, you need a bank!” said Ben, choking back a laugh.

  “That’s right, I have one on the boat. I think I have enough in the safe,” Eric said to himself, quietly trying to remember how much money he had left and whether he needed to ask his parents for more.

  “Come on, and I will get your money,” he said, nodding and gesturing for the man to follow him to his boat.

  “American, no funny stuff! You pay?” the man asked him in an uncertain voice.

  “Yes, yes. Just come with me; no funny stuff.” Eric answered as he climbed the wooden steps to the dock.

  He was subjected to cheers and applause as walked past his friends and stumbled down the dock. The boards swayed as he and the angry bar owner walked along, and the motion of the dock made him acutely aware that he was still very nauseous and unbalanced.

  He could hear the raucous laughing of his friends as he staggered out towards his boat. She came into focus in all her glory; she was not merely a boat, but a one-hundred-foot sailing yacht. The yacht boasted a crew and a captain, and she also held a speed record for her class. Freja was the name painted on her side.

  The captain greeted Eric as he came on board, “Your Highness, has your guest been checked through security?”

  “Probably. Gunter didn’t stop him, so he must be alright.”

  “Yes, your Highness,” the captain answered.

  “Wait here with Captain Jorlsen. Understand?” Eric said to the man who had followed him on board.

  The man no longer appeared to be angry, but was biting his lip as he stared at the crew of the yacht. He nodded his head in agreement.

  “Good. I’ll be back.”

  Down below, walking slowly through the salon, he tried to keep his balance as the boat swayed in the current of the bay. The motion made his head pound and his stomach churn. He was not prone to sea sickness but a hangover was a different story altogether. Holding onto the wall of the corridor, he inched his way to his suite.

  He pushed open the door and collapsed on his bed. The gently swaying motion of the yacht wasn’t so bad with his eyes closed. As he began to drift into sleep, he remembered the man demanding payment for his bar. Eric rolled out of the bed and landed on the floor in a heap, with a loud thump.

  He crawled to his desk and opened a door, revealing a safe. Punching in the digital code, he opened the door to shelves that were empty except for a small pile of American money and a stack of Euros behind his passport and papers. Sighing, he realized that he was having to dip into his emergency stash of cash; he would need more money soon.

  He counted out the money and shook his head. After paying the man for the damage to his bar, he would only have $3000 left in cash. That was hardly enough money to cover the dock fee. Crawling to the bed, with the money clutched in his hand, he righted h
imself once more and arduously made his way back on deck to pay the man.

  He thought about asking his friends for a small loan until he could reach a bank somewhere in civilization.

  “American, good. Don’t come back!” said the man, as he gripped the money in his fist and shook it at Eric.

  Eric stood up to his full height of six feet one inch and glared at the angry – and much shorter – man. “Sir, you have it wrong, I am not American, and I am properly addressed as His Royal Highness, Prince Eric of Rogandal!”

  Chapter 2

  The snow blanketed the courtyard of the palace, and the footman tried valiantly to keep his footing on the icy cobblestones. It was a shortcut that he often chose to take despite the treacherous weather. Running across the frozen granite pavers was tricky business and he did not intend to slip in front of the smoking hot new maid who stood freezing in the cold, texting on her phone.

  Reaching the north wing of the palace, he ran up the steps and threw open the heavy wooden door. He shivered involuntarily as he entered the heated kitchen.

  “Slow down; it can wait!” said the cook’s assistant as the footman sped past and up a second set of stairs leading to the private living quarters of Her Royal Highness, the Princess Eirinia Brenna.

  Stopping only to straighten his uniform, the footman resumed his pace as he climbed the third set of stairs. His footsteps echoed through the open hall as he raced up the staircase. Reaching the top, he took a deep breath and walked at a quick pace down the hallway, the eyes of past royal persons gazing down on him from priceless oil paintings as he passed.

  He knocked at the white and gold gilded door and waited patiently, catching his breath until a voice bid him to enter.

  Walking into the private chambers of the princess was part of his job that he never tired of, especially when she was still in her lingerie and dressing robe.

  Seated in front of a large mirror and dressing table was the princess of Rogandal in all her golden splendor. Her long blonde hair shone in the morning light and her rosy complexion seemed too magical to be real. He caught her gaze in the mirror as she was attended by a lady-in-waiting who was selecting the jewelry for the day.

  “What is it?” she asked in a bored tone.

  The footman bowed and said, “Your royal highness, your father, King Eric, requests your presence at breakfast.”

  “Tell him I will be there,” she said as she turned to her female companion. “Honestly, you’d think my father would just text me; this is ridiculous.”

  “Yes, your highness,” the footman answered, waiting for her to notice him.

  “You’re still here, whatever for? You are dismissed.” She waved her hand and barely acknowledged him.

  “Yes, Your Highness,” he said, and backed out of the room.

  The door closed and the princess was alone with her lady-in-waiting once again. “Ingrid, why does my father insist on sending footmen for his messages? He uses a computer and a phone, what’s the point of all of that?”

  “He hangs on to the old ways, Your Highness,” said the petite woman as she unlocked a case and opened the lid. Inside the case, diamonds twinkled as the light from the window bathed them in the diffused soft glow of winter.

  “Is that why he continues to allow my brother to get away with murder?”

  “It’s not for me to say, but you may be correct in that assumption,” Ingrid answered.

  “It’s the only explanation that makes sense. I’m far more capable of ruling than he is, yet my father insists that my brother wear the crown next. And why? Because he is a man and older than me.”

  “Your highness, is there any law that says that the ruler of Rogandal has to be a man?”

  “No, there isn’t. There have been ruling queens in the past, but my father will not be content until he has permitted Eric every possible opportunity to embarrass himself and this family with his escapades. If it were left to me, I would have already changed the line of secession.”

  “Your brother is still behaving as a young man at university?” Ingrid asked as she selected a set of diamond solitaire earrings and a matching necklace.

  “Ingrid, you have a talent for understatement. To say he is behaving as a young man is correct, but he is no longer so young – he’ll be turning thirty in less than a month. His childish antics have gone on long enough.”

  “Your Highness, may I suggest the pale blue dress? It will go with your eyes and reflect the cold weather.”

  “That will be fine. I have decided to wear my hair up, to suggest maturity. Perhaps if my father sees me as older, he may consider making a few changes.”

  “Your Highness, a braided updo will be an elegant choice for this dress. It will invoke a goddess of old, will it not?”

  “I like that; good idea,” the princess said, as she pulled her hair up and looked at her reflection in the mirror.

  She had waited for years for her parents to grow tired of her older brother’s antics; maybe it was time to make it harder for them to ignore them – and her – anymore. Reaching for her phone, she scanned the international headlines. As expected, Eric had managed to get his name in the news, this time for burning down a bar on a little resort island in Thailand. Scrolling through the pictures, she saw her brother passed out in a pair of board shorts, without a shirt and wearing flip flops.

  “Ingrid, what do you think of this picture? Do you think it will make a proud addition to the portraits in the great hall?” She sighed as she showed her lady-in-waiting the compromising picture.

  “Is that building on fire in the background?” Ingrid asked.

  “Seems to be; I think he tried to burn down a bar. It says here he has been escorted off the island by the authorities and ordered to never come back.”

  “The king should be informed, should he not?”

  “My thoughts exactly. What is this now, five islands he is no longer allowed to visit? Not bad for a single season on his yacht.”

  * * *

  Breakfast at the palace was a small, casual gathering of the immediate family, which was perfectly suited to the princess’s plans. Breezing into the room, she sat down beside her father, across from her mother.

  “Good morning, Father, Mother.”

  “Good morning, Eirinia,” they both said.

  She preferred her middle name, Brenna, but this morning was not the time to have that discussion. Today, she wanted the spotlight to fall squarely on her brother and his latest shenanigans.

  “Father, you sent a footman this morning, what is the urgency? I hope all is well?” she asked as a footman poured coffee into a priceless china cup in front of her.

  “It’s not urgent but it is important. We need to talk about your brother,” the king said.

  Brenna smiled. This was the moment she had waited for; her parents were finally growing tired of Eric’s behavior. “I am in agreement, we do need to discuss Eric. It is important to the country that we do.”

  “I’m so glad you agree; it is important that we make a plan that will benefit the country,” her mother, Queen Gyda, said with a warm smile. “Eirinia, you have a natural talent for arranging social events and galas. Your fashion sense always lands you on the front cover of the magazines. I would be grateful, and so would your father, if you would oversee the plans for your brother’s thirtieth birthday celebration.”

  Brenna could hardly believe her ears. Her brother had just embarrassed the entire nation of Rogandal, again, and her parents wanted to plan his birthday party. Casually, she powered her phone on and scrolled to find the video of her brother vomiting on a man on a beach in Thailand, obviously inebriated. With a smile, she handed the phone to her father. “Yes, I think we should choose a beach theme and serve Thai food since he loves it so much. What do you think?”

  Her father looked at the phone and his face turned red with anger.

  “Father, do keep scrolling. There is much more than just that one insignificant little video – you should see what the BB
C and the New York Times are saying about him!”

  “Eirinia, this is highly inappropriate for the breakfast table! What is the meaning of this?” her father thundered.

  “There, there, Father dear, it’s only the fifth island he has been expelled from this season, I was sure you were aware of that.”

  “Eirinia, this is not what I asked you here to discuss,” her father said with a scowl.

  Brenna looked at her father and barely managed to conceal her disgust. Something deep inside her finally snapped. She was sick to death of being the reliable child, the princess they could count on, the good daughter. She had nothing to lose, so she threw caution to the wind.

  Brenna glared at her father and said, “Yes, Father, I am well aware that you invited me here to plan the party for a thirty-year-old man who cares for nothing but spending money and partying. What has he done for this country? What international favor has he garnered, or trade deals has he brokered? Not a single one. Meanwhile, I have a degree and brain in my head and all you want me to do is be pretty and fashionable.”

  “Eirinia, we thought you enjoyed being the beautiful princess of our land!” The queen was distressed.

  Brenna held her chin up in defiance. “No. That’s the part you would have me play, but it’s not who I am. It sickens me to think that’s all you two think I’m capable of. I am more than a pretty face. Send me to foreign countries and I can do far more for Rogandal than Eric could. At least I am sober.”

  Her father slammed his fist on the table. “I will hear no more of this. Eric is going to be king, and that’s final.”

  Without flinching, Brenna answered. “That really is all you care about – your son becoming king? I hope you enjoy being the laughingstock of the world. How pathetic, a thirty-year-old man is acting like a teenager, and his own father can’t see the truth. Don’t expect me to help you glorify a man who hasn’t been home in months to see his people…or his king.”

  “That’s enough. I said I will hear no more of it,” the king growled.