The Wild Heir_A Royal Standalone Romance

by Karina Halle

  And I still need Jane. I’m not doing this on my own. I’m going to be completely out of my element and need as much moral support as I can get.

  “So why do you get to take two weeks off again?” a voice asks from my doorway and I look up, bras and undies in my hands, to see one of my flatmates, Michelle, staring at me with a dry expression on her face.

  “I have some, um, business to attend to back home,” I tell her, feeling my face grow hot from the lie. When I approached the school and told them that I needed two weeks away from my classes, I couldn’t very well tell them that I was figuring out if I wanted to marry the Prince of Norway or not. But they let me take the time off, regardless, probably because of my upbringing. When I was at boarding school, it was the same kind of thing.

  “Must be nice,” she says with a tight smile. “Well, have a nice time, Ella. Sorry. I mean, Princess.” She walks off down the hall to the kitchen.

  I sigh. She says it the same way Magnus does, but with less warmth. Whatever progress I’d made with them before the wine and cheese night has now been erased. It’s like I’ve gone backward, no longer someone they tolerate tagging along, but someone they don’t want anything to do with. If (when) I come back from these two weeks, I know I’m going to have a very lonely year ahead of me.

  In the end, I throw pretty much everything I own into a giant suitcase, check with Jane to make sure she’s packed too, and then try and get some sleep. Our flight to Oslo is fairly early. When I said I needed two weeks, I didn’t know that the clock would start ticking so soon.

  But I barely sleep.

  I toss and turn.

  When I do fall asleep, I have dreams.

  Those same dreams again about the whales beached on the pebbled shoreline, cold wind in my hair, oil filling up the ocean.

  And just like last time there is a man walking toward me. I can’t see his face—it’s too hazy, too blurry—but he’s in a suit.

  His arm stretches out for mine.

  And just before the haze around his face seems to clear, when I can grasp his features, the oil slides up over my mouth, my eyes, and everything is black again.

  I am alone.

  That loneliness clings to me when I wake up, my throat dry, my head feeling like it’s stuffed with soggy cotton balls. It doesn’t help that the weather in Scotland has taken a turn for the worse again and when I learn on the plane that it’s sunny in Oslo, I feel a twinge of excitement for the first time. If anything, maybe the next two weeks will be a nice break from my normal life.

  That’s why I’m doing this, isn’t it? A chance to be someone else, to be someone in general, just for a while?

  “That’s the spirit,” Jane says beside me as the plane descends over sown fields and raging rivers, doing a wide arc toward the runway.

  “What?” I ask. As far as I know, I’ve been keeping everything inside my head. Where it belongs.

  She studies me for a moment and then shrugs. “Oh, nothing. You just looked hopeful for one moment. Must have been the light in your eyes.”

  I ignore that.

  It’s not long before we get our bags and step into the limo that the family has sent for us. The drive to Thornfield Hall (officially known as Skaugum Palace, but it’s Thornfield to me now) is about an hour, along wooded mountains and rolling countryside, the leaves in the trees now red and gold. While the sun is warm, there’s a distinct chill when you’re in the shade.

  After we drive down a narrow road, passing fields full of horses and a large red school with children playing outside, the driver guides the limo between a pair of gates that it barely fits through. The Royal Guards nod at us from their station house and we continue on our way down a tiny, bumpy road covered by fallen leaves from the trees above.

  Then the trees diminish.

  I’m not sure what I was expecting at all but I don’t think this was it. It’s actually a lot more like the Thornfield I had imagined in my head while reading Jane Eyre, rather than an opulent palace fit for royals.

  It’s an L-shaped white building, two stories high, with some groomed grounds and landscaping around it, set up on a hill at the base of a bigger mountain. Simple and classy, but other than the vast view over the farmlands below, it’s nothing to write home about.

  “It’s quaint,” Jane says in a chipper voice in case the limo driver will report her. Then she leans into me. “It’s definitely no Vaduz Castle.”

  Vaduz is where I grew up and where my father still resides in Liechtenstein. It’s a legitimate castle with turrets and the works, built into the side of a cliff in the eleventh century.

  “Definitely not,” I tell her. But actually, even though the idea of being in Magnus’s apartment put me off, the thought of being in a big, cold palace wasn’t too inviting either. This place seems right in between, the Goldilocks effect.

  But there are no bears in this fairy tale. Instead, it feels like I’m about to step into the den of the very big, very bad wolf.

  Nine

  Magnus

  Growing up, I spent a lot of summers at this estate. It was paradise, a respite from the restrictions of school, the forced learning, the structure. Here I was finally free, surrounded by fresh air and summer sun, and I had nothing to do all day except precisely what I wanted.

  Which, when I wasn’t terrorizing my sisters, included a lot of sports. If I wasn’t beating Cristina’s ass at tennis matches, I was playing soccer or rugby against various butlers and guards. The only thing I didn’t do here was horseback riding—I left that to my sisters. I don’t get along with horses.

  This morning, I’m on a long run through the woods and up the mountain right behind the house. I know Ella and Jane are expected at any minute and then the two-week countdown begins, but the amount of nervous energy I have coursing through me has to go somewhere.

  So I run several laps around the small lake nearby until sweat is pouring off of me and my heart feels like it might burst through my chest, and finally, finally my thoughts cease. I’m no longer worried about anything—having to live with Ella for two weeks, not knowing what’s going to happen after—none of that matters. My mind is blissfully blank.

  By the time I get back to the house, my damp shirt is off and bunched up in my hands, my skin slick, my hair sticking to my forehead.

  I see a limo parked in the driveway.

  They’re here.

  And so it begins.

  I run up the front stairs and through the main doors and hear voices coming from the parlor room.

  Ella and Jane are talking to Ottar about the crown moldings or something and I can only guess he’s pretending to know what he’s talking about.

  “Sir, you’re back,” Ottar says, then frowns. “And you’ve lost your shirt.”

  I hold up the shirt. “Didn’t lose it. It’s right here.”

  Look, I know what I’m doing. I know I’ve worked my ass off for this body and I’m not afraid to use it. It’s at least working on Lady Jane, who is staring at my abs and chest in a very unladylike way.

  Ella, however, immediately averts her eyes the moment she takes one shocked look at me. But I’m not blind. Her cheeks are going pink. She likes what she sees even if she wouldn’t be caught dead admitting it.

  I can work with that. For the next two weeks, I can definitely work with that.

  “Do you run?” Lady Jane asks, finally tearing her eyes away from my body and up to my eyes. “Like, as exercise?”

  I nod. “There are a lot of trails around here. Hiking trails too, right to the top of the mountain. You should go at some point.”

  Jane laughs, a kind of belly laugh that shakes the whole room. “Please. My idea of exercise is a good brisk sit. Preferably with a hydrating beverage in hand. Chardonnay is best.”

  “Chardonnay isn’t very hydrating,” Ottar comments, which I’m pretty sure causes everyone to roll their eyes. He can be quite the literal one.

  “She’s joking, Samwise,” I tell him. “So, how was your flig
ht?” I ask her, making small talk now. As Jane chatters away about the plane, I walk further into the room, purposely passing close to Ella as I grab an apple from the fruit bowl that the help must have laid out for us. I stand right behind Ella, staring down at her delicate neck.

  Her hair is up in a messy bun, but there are a few loose strands with a bit of curl to them, which makes me wonder if her hair is naturally curly or not. The nape of her neck is pale and there’s a tiny freckle just behind her ear.

  I wonder what it’s like to kiss her there. If I’ll ever get a chance.

  The thoughts are fleeting but they’re there. Usually I don’t have to work so hard to wear a woman down, but this is a whole new ballgame, and at this point I can’t expect anything.

  What I do know is that the next two weeks will become a lot more interesting if I make it my goal to get under her skin. Whether she likes it or not, I think provoking her might be my next adrenaline sport. She wants to see if we’re compatible? I’ll show her we’re combatable.

  She can tell I’m staring at her too, from the way she adjusts herself in her seat like she’s uncomfortable. She’s not listening to Jane at all. Her focus is entirely on me, whether she wants it to be or not.

  Finally, Ella whips her head around to glance up at me with a dirty look, and I smile and open my mouth to take a smooth chomp out of the apple.

  Only to realize it’s fake.

  Wax.

  Oh god.

  I keep the smile plastered on my face, frozen mid-bite, until she turns back around. Then I spit the apple out.

  I glance up to see Ottar staring at me with his brows furrowed, having seen the whole thing.

  “Sir?” he asks with concern.

  I ignore him. “So,” I say to everyone, clearing my throat. “Now that everyone is here, I guess we should go over the rules.”

  “What rules?” Jane asks suspiciously.

  “The rules,” Ottar says.

  “Ottar is a huge fan of rules,” I point out. “I like to break them but I do think some of them have merit. The big one, of course, is that Ella, you’re not allowed to leave the estate at any point. I’m still public enemy number one and on the paps radar and there are Russian twins who are crazy enough to set up camp outside the main gates. We’re just lucky that word hasn’t traveled yet that I’m staying here, but it will.”

  “It’s like being trapped on the moors,” she says quietly.

  “If it makes you feel any better, then yes. Just pretend I’m Heathcliff.”

  “Like you’ve even read Wuthering Heights.”

  “Hey,” I tell her, gesturing to my muscles. “Just because I look like this doesn’t mean I’m stupid.”

  Ottar stifles a laugh and I give him a look to shut his face.

  Ella twists in her seat to face me. “Okay. So have you read Wuthering Heights?”

  “Well, no.”

  “Any books at all?” She looks so fucking smug, like she knows I’m going to admit that I don’t read.

  I automatically narrow my eyes at her. “I’ll have you know that I’m a huge fan of audiobooks.” When I can find the time and the patience to listen to them, of course. Somehow I found the time to listen to The Lord of the Rings numerous times but I’m not sure admitting that I love Tolkein will impress her enough. She seems like the type who would only be impressed by someone who has been dead longer than he has.

  “Back to the rules,” Ottar says. “Can we have a no quarrelling rule in there because it’s making things awkward for the rest of us.”

  “Speaking of the rest of you,” I tell them, “both you and Lady Jane have your own quarters in the servants’ house next door. For the sake of Ella and I getting to know each other, there should be a rule that you aren’t to pop by here after eleven at night.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Ella says, getting to her feet. “You make it sound like there will be something going on here for them to interrupt.”

  I give her a quick smile. “Well, don’t count that out.”

  “Sir,” Ottar says to me, this time in Norwegian, “I don’t say this to be a cockblocker, but I think it would be best that her lady-in-waiting be able to stay here for the princess’ piece of mind.”

  “You’re always trying to be a cockblocker, Ottar,” I tell him, also in Norwegian.

  “Wait a minute,” Ella speaks up. “What are you both talking about?”

  “Nothing,” I say quickly in English.

  “That should be a rule too,” she says. “English only. No Norwegian. I don’t want to hear your secret language and you can bet I’m going to be Googling what kuk means.”

  “You won’t be surprised,” I tell her dryly. “Okay, fine. No Norwegian. We wouldn’t want you to feel stupid.”

  She shakes her head slightly and sighs. “Anything else with these rules or is that it?”

  “Not really. I’m sure you’ll get used to see the royal guards walking about. My personal bodyguard is Einar, so you’ll probably see him a lot. I don’t know where he is right now. Probably hiding where no one can see him.”

  “I’m right here,” Einar says from behind me, making me jump.

  “Jesus,” I yelp, seeing him sitting in an armchair in the corner of the room. “How long have you been there?”

  He doesn’t say anything. Also he’s wearing those damn sunglasses inside.

  I shake my head at him and then face Ella. “So that’s Einar.”

  He nods at her.

  “There are also a few cooks and cleaners,” Ottar tells her. “But they’ll mostly be staying in the other house.”

  I clap my hands together. “So there we have it. That’s how the next two weeks are going to go. I can’t promise that we’ll be friends by the end of it, let alone engaged, but I can promise you that you’re about to get really, really bored.”

  Ella and Jane exchange a look. “And where do I sleep?” Ella asks. “It’s not going to be with you.”

  “I wasn’t offering,” I tell her. “And you can sleep in any of the bedrooms upstairs. Maybe avoid the ones that are haunted.”

  “Haunted?” she asks, eyes wide. “Which ones are haunted?”

  I shrug. “I can’t remember. You’ll find out soon, I’m sure. Okay, I’m off to take a shower.” I walk past the fruit bowl and toss the half-bitten wax apple back into it before heading upstairs. “Don’t eat the fruit. It’s fake.”

  To say that my first day with Ella is awkward as fuck is an understatement. She does her best to avoid me, spending her time with Jane by her side, and even when we pass each other in the halls, she barely looks at me.

  Which makes me wonder why bother going through with this two-week plan at all if she’s not going to make the effort? Why didn’t she just say she wasn’t interested when she had the chance? No one would have held her accountable to anything, except for her father, and that’s her business, not mine.

  I keep thinking this as we have dinner together. I was planning on it being just us two originally, but when she was insistent that Lady Jane eat with us, I insisted that Ottar and Einar join us too. The more the merrier, the more to take the pressure off both of us.

  She didn’t say much during the meal, which meant most of the conversation was dominated by Jane and Ottar, who seemed to get along like long lost relatives. I know I have a tendency to float away and become locked in my head and couldn’t help wondering if Ella was doing the same. She just picked at her food, lost in her thoughts.

  It could be that Ella is shy for the most part. I’ve seen her be bold, especially with me. But this has taken her out of her element. She’s no longer in university, living on campus. She’s no longer a student. Instead she’s here, at this isolated estate in a foreign country, where she’s to remain for the next two weeks as she decides whether she wants to marry me or not.

  I mean. Fuck.

  I actually feel sorry for her. I certainly feel sorry for myself for being in the same stupid situation, but at least this is my home and
it’s my life that she’s come into. She’s got Jane here and that’s it.

  Though it makes me wonder if it’s the same thing back in Scotland. Is she the life of the party? Does she have a large group of friends? Is she involved in sports teams or does she tutor other students or was she seeing someone before all of this shit blew up? Does she moonlight as an exotic dancer with the name Pantyless Princess?

  I know nothing about her.

  And if I don’t do something about this, I’ll still know nothing about her by the time she leaves.

  And as much as my ego hates being taken down a notch or two, I have to man up here and provoke her a little more than I had intended.

  Once dinner is over, she immediately retires to her room while I try to place a call to my friend Viktor, the Crown Prince of Sweden. I haven’t told him yet about the developments in my life and I could honestly use a friend and some advice from someone outside of this royal family, and Ottar doesn’t count. He’s under my father’s payroll, after all.

  But with Viktor not answering (not that I blame him, he’s been busy with his own fiancé), I start roaming the halls like a ghost. Too much restless energy than I know what to do with.

  Finally, I go to her room and rap on the door. Naturally she’s chosen the room at the opposite end of the hall from my bedroom, as far away as possible.

  “Who is it?” I hear her ask through the door.

  “Prince Fucking Charming,” I tell her.

  I hear a muffled laugh, probably Jane, and a few long seconds tick by before the door opens.

  Ella stands there looking unimpressed, dressed as she was before in black leggings and a pale blue sweater that falls off one shoulder. Her blonde hair has been braided to one side, her face bare of any makeup. She looks astonishingly pretty.

  Except for the fact that she’s glaring at me. “What do you want?”

  I raise my brow and stare at her expectantly.