My Forbidden Royal Fling

by Clare Connelly

  ‘Games?’ I respond sharply, thinking only of my uncle. ‘You do realise that’s part of the problem? People think it’s all fun and harmless but it’s not. “Games” is a misnomer, if ever I heard one.’

  A muscle jerks in his jaw. ‘And because of your personal animosity towards gambling you are determined to keep it from your society for ever?’

  ‘That’s not possible,’ I say quietly.

  ‘No.’ We’re in agreement and yet I feel like the air between us is sparking with tension. Electricity fills my fingertips. ‘Perhaps at some point, but not in the twenty-first century. People travel easily, play online.’

  ‘“Play”,’ I say with a shake of my head.

  ‘What would you prefer I say? Dice with danger?’

  ‘It would be more accurate.’

  ‘Your hatred makes no sense.’

  ‘Not to you perhaps.’

  ‘So explain it to me.’

  I bristle, swallowing to bring back moisture to my dry mouth. ‘There’s no point. It hardly seems to matter. My personal feelings on the casino are by the by. I’ve accepted that your development will go ahead. All I care about now is making sure my country gets the utmost financial reward from the endeavour.’ Again, I hear the words, and they are laced with condemnation. I wish I could control my emotions but a hatred for gambling—and an awareness of its evils—has been drummed into me for a very long time. I cannot think of my uncle or my parents without being conscious of the enormity of this betrayal.

  My breath burns in my throat.

  ‘It is not by the by to me.’ His nostrils flare with the statement and for a moment my stomach swoops with something like pleasure. His interest is flattering and dangerously addictive. I quickly remind myself that it has nothing to do with me and everything to do with Santiago: he has to understand people, things, problems. It’s in his nature to know everything he can about a person.

  ‘Tell me,’ I murmur. ‘When you first began trading in the phantom stock-market scenario, how did you do it?’

  The conversation change annoys him. I wonder if he’ll brush the question aside to return to interrogating me but he doesn’t. ‘I researched trends. I watched carefully. I immersed myself in everything I could on the matter. Why?’

  It’s just as I suspected. He has to understand everything and, right now, he’s trying to understand me––but only so he can turn me to his advantage. It has nothing to do with wanting to know me, or caring about me as a person.

  As a child, I was winded once when I fell off a horse. I landed on my back and all the air was drummed from my body, so I lay staring up at the clear blue sky, stars dancing on the lids of my eyes. My nanny’s terrified face had hovered on the periphery of my view with me unable to offer any form of reassurance for many minutes, until slowly my lungs remembered their purpose and accepted air once more. I feel that again now, without the provocation of a fall. Several realisations slam into me at once, each on their own with the power to knock my lungs to oblivion.

  I want him to care about me.

  I have had no one to care about me for a very long time.

  I care about him.

  I feel the colour drain from my face and quickly drop my face to look at my toes. In a rare tilt of the cap to vanity, I had them painted a pearly pink before coming to Barcelona. What was that if not an admission that I’d hoped my toes might be seen by this man?

  ‘You look as though you’ve seen a ghost,’ he murmurs. ‘Do you disapprove of my techniques? Were you hoping my answer would somehow make your argument for you?’

  I’m glad for the reminder of our discussion, and even more so for the lifeline he’s thrown me. ‘In some ways, it does.’ My voice is a little hoarse. ‘You are highlighting the differences between gambling and trading, though I’m not sure it matters. I wasn’t the one who drew that comparison in the first instance.’

  ‘No, it was me. Risk and reward, the story of life. Here’s another expression that is bandied about––“nothing ventured, nothing gained”.’

  My eyes fire to his. ‘Surely it could also be, “nothing ventured, nothing lost”,’ I point out, my uncle heavy in my heart.

  ‘That is a very boring way to live.’

  ‘What you call boring, I call safe.’

  ‘Safety from the privileged perspective of your palace is a very different consideration.’

  I feel that judgement again, the same vein that had run through our first meeting and that has reared its head again here. ‘You dislike the fact I’m royalty.’

  His sneer shouldn’t have made him more attractive, but somehow it does. ‘I dislike any form of social elitism.’

  ‘Says the man with the million-dollar yacht?’

  ‘Bought with money I earned.’

  ‘You don’t think I earn my money?’ And out of nowhere I feel rage and frustration boiling through my blood. I stand up, needing to throw my words not only at Santiago but into the sea, the sky, to have them heard on some elemental level.

  ‘I have given my life over to my people,’ I say angrily, stalking towards the yacht’s railing. ‘I have no privacy, no personal life, and until twenty-four hours ago I had never taken a lover. Did you know, Santiago, that you are the first man who’s ever so much as kissed me? You have no idea what I have given up because I am royal. You talk about the privilege of my position without having any idea of what I have sacrificed.’

  His expression gives little away, but he stands and walks towards me, his eyes raking my face, his body moving closer to mine.

  ‘Don’t you think I live every day with a horrible resentment right here—’ I press my hands to my ribs ‘—at what is expected of me?’

  ‘So why do it?’

  My laugh is scoffing. ‘What choice do I have? I have no siblings, no cousins. There is no one to take up the mantle I wear. I cannot abdicate—that choice is not for me. And, even if it were, that’s not the way it’s done. Not in my family, and not by me. My parents raised me to understand my responsibilities and I would never shame them, disappoint them, by turning my back on this. I am the Crown Princess of Marlsdoven and in less than a year I will become her Queen.’

  ‘And then you will marry the man your parents chose for you,’ he says quietly, and I wonder at that same sense of pain sliding through my abdomen.

  ‘Yes.’ I tilt my chin in defiant acceptance. ‘These are all the things I do because I’ve been born to this position. So do not talk to me about privilege when your life is not hemmed in at every turn by expectations and obligations.’

  It is as though a small electrical storm is raging between us, arcs of lightning threatening to incinerate me. I suck in air, but it burns in my mouth, the acrid taste of electricity palpable all the way down.

  ‘You have been born to your position but you are the only one allowing those expectations to define you.’

  I shake my head. ‘You don’t understand. It’s not your fault; how could you?’

  His eyes narrow. ‘How could I? A nobody who was born in abject poverty, do you mean?’

  ‘Please don’t do that,’ I snap. ‘Don’t make me a snob because it suits your narrative.’

  ‘And what narrative is that?’

  Our argument has clarified everything for me. I understand now the expression I see in his eyes sometimes, and why he arrived at the palace that day with a monumental chip on his shoulder. ‘The one where I somehow think I’m better than you and everyone else just because I was born a royal. I don’t. If I had my way, I’d abolish the whole damned idea of royalty. But to my people, it matters. The institution matters.

  ‘It’s dehumanising and grotesque. I am not a person to anyone in my life, Santiago, I am a figurehead. Can you even imagine? My face is on tea towels and mugs and postcards, sold at corner stores and airports for tourists to snap up. My parents’ faces are emblazo
ned across those same postcards and tacky souvenir pencils. We are not people to anyone; we are property of the Marlsdoven people. That is as it is. It has always been this way, but at one point there was more actual power and far less intrusion. Now the role involves smiling at commemorative events and never putting a foot out of line lest I am accused of being ungrateful and a freeloader. That is my life. That is my so-called privilege.’

  Sympathy stirs in his expression but his response is tougher than nails. ‘So fight it.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘What would happen if you started to live your life as you wish? If you dated and wore jeans and spoke out about the things that matter to you? Would you be fired?’

  ‘I can’t be fired.’ I shake my head. ‘It’s constitutionally impossible.’

  ‘Then you would be criticised,’ he says. ‘And you hate the idea of that.’

  I jerk my gaze away in agreement.

  ‘But that is your choice. Risk and reward. You do not take the risk and so cannot enjoy the rewards.’

  ‘I’m not at liberty—’

  ‘You are a human being with inherent rights and the ability to choose how to live your life.’

  ‘You just don’t get it.’

  ‘Don’t I?’

  ‘No. Until I can forget my parents, I can never forget what they expected of me.’

  His eyes lance mine. ‘And that’s for you to be miserable?’

  ‘I’m not miserable,’ I deny, but the words lack conviction even to my own ears.

  ‘It is for you to marry a man you’ve never met, who by your own admission you feel no desire for?’

  ‘Sex isn’t important.’

  His laugh is sharp. ‘Careful, querida, or I will show you exactly how false that statement is.’

  His words—and the image they evoke—make my legs feel hollowed out. I fight the tug of sensual need, though it bombards me from every direction, I’m desperately clinging to my train of thought.

  ‘The marriage agreement was formed a long time ago. It’s binding.’

  ‘And were you part of this agreement?’ he prompts, with a hint of cynicism in his tone.

  ‘I didn’t know anything about it until my parents died.’

  His eyes flash. ‘So they never spoke of this to you?’

  ‘I’m sure they would have,’ I respond defensively. ‘When I was old enough.’

  ‘Then how do you know this is what they wanted?’

  I blink at him, confused.

  ‘You say they made this arrangement many years ago. What if their intentions changed?’

  ‘Then they would have torn up the contract. It was kept in the family safe with all their most important documents.’

  ‘Isn’t it possible they simply forgot?’

  I shake my head. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘So you will live your life as they dictated many years ago. But this is a decision you make. You are complicit in your fate, Freja.’

  ‘I know that. Why do you think I’m here with you?’

  His eyes pierce mine.

  ‘Rebellion.’ I answer my own question. ‘A taste of freedom before I return to the palace and take on all that is expected of me.’

  A muscle in his jaw flexes but he says nothing. I feel his disapproval and for the first time in my life see my decisions as exactly that—decisions I’ve made.

  ‘What would you have done? If your parents had laid out this plan for you?’

  His lips tighten into a grimace. ‘Run a mile in the opposite direction.’ He moves closer. ‘But it’s a poor comparison. I am not close to my parents and generally choose to feel the opposite to them about everything.’

  ‘Oh.’ It’s enough of a revelation to pull me out of my own angst. ‘Why aren’t you close to them?’

  His shrug is a study in indifference, but I see beneath it the harsh resolution, the determination to push me away. ‘Many reasons, querida, all of them boring.’ He holds out a hand, his eyes sparking with mine. ‘And I’d much rather help you rebel.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THE SUN IS low in the sky, a golden orb blazing across the horizon spreading purple and peach colours into the heavens.

  I know that we need to go back soon, that my security will be wondering where I am, worrying about me, and yet my limbs are heavy, filled with a reluctance to leave this sanctuary. If embassies are slices outside of a country’s borders then this yacht is like a fragment of life existing beyond my reality. Here time has stopped and, even though I know that’s not possible, I’m almost incapable of caring about the outside world right now.

  ‘I have a question for you.’

  In the kitchen, Santiago pauses, looking at me through shuttered eyes before returning to the platter he’s arranging.

  ‘Go on.’ There’s hesitation in his voice and I dip my head to hide a smile. He can read me like a book yet he pushes me away at every opportunity. It’s frustrating and hurtful––yes, hurtful.

  ‘You’re...how old?’

  Relief lightens his eyes. ‘Your question is to ask my age?’

  ‘I’m going somewhere with this,’ I warn.

  ‘I see.’ He sips his beer. ‘I turned thirty-one a few months back.’

  I nod thoughtfully.

  ‘And?’ he prompts, lifting a wooden board off the kitchen bench and bringing it to the coffee table in front of me. The décor in the yacht is striking. Instead of the white leather and chrome I might have imagined, the interior is stylish and minimalistic, with light timber and cream fabrics. He takes a seat beside me on the lounge, so close our knees brush and, although we’ve spent the afternoon in bed, my pulse goes haywire at the innocent touch.

  ‘Well, the first time we slept together...’ my cheeks spread with warmth ‘...you said something about always taking precautions. That you don’t want children.’

  He dips his head once in silent agreement but there’s an inherent tension to him. He’s instantly wary, as though my line of questioning is the last thing he wishes to discuss.

  ‘Why not?’ I reach for an olive. It’s plump, salty and juicy, and I have to bite back a moan of pleasure as I swallow the flesh.

  ‘You think it’s strange?’

  ‘Why are you answering my questions with a question?’

  ‘You ask a lot of questions.’

  ‘No, I think I’ve just asked one you don’t want to answer.’

  He weighs that up, his lips compressed in a tight line, and I wonder if he’s just going to ignore me. Time drags. Tension grows inside me. Finally, he responds, the words curt. ‘I have never wanted children.’

  His tone leaves me in little doubt that this matter is closed, at least so far as his willingness to answer my questions. I consider pushing him, but know it would be futile. I’ve hit a brick wall.

  ‘I’ve always known I would have to have children,’ I explain. The full force of his attention is on my face, his eyes studying me intently. ‘And more than one. I’m an only child and it’s put a lot of pressure on me—I’m the sole surviving heir to the throne.’

  ‘So, when you are married this will be high on your agenda?’

  I nod, but the idea suddenly fills me with a drowning sensation of panic. I will need to conceive almost immediately, and that will mean having sex with my husband, a man who leaves me cold. My eyes widen as I look at Santiago and what I see on his face stills my pulse. There is a coldness in his face, a look that sends a shiver down my spine.

  ‘And your fiancé agrees with this?’

  ‘He’s not my fiancé. I’ve told you.’ My voice shakes a little. I take a deep breath to calm my nerves. ‘And we’ve never discussed any of this.’

  ‘Then what if he doesn’t want children?’

  ‘That’s not an option.’

  ‘How well do you k
now this man?’

  ‘We’ve met a handful of times.’

  ‘Then you know nothing about him.’

  ‘I know that his parents—’

  ‘And your parents were friends. But beyond this?’ His disapproval is obvious, and it frustrates me now just as much as ever.

  I shrug. ‘I don’t know if it matters.’

  ‘That is insane.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you’re talking about marrying the guy. Shouldn’t you at least see if you’re compatible?’

  ‘Sexually?’

  ‘Sí, of course, but I actually meant in any way. What if his politics differ completely to yours? What if he has a twisted sense of humour? Or wears his underpants on the outside of his clothes?’

  ‘Like a superhero? I’ve always had a bit of a Lois Lane fantasy, you know.’

  His eyes hold a contemplative glimmer. ‘I am sure there are other ways to indulge that.’

  ‘Oh? Such as flying off a building?’

  His lips flicker in a half-smile, but he’s not easily put off the conversation. ‘What if you hate him?’

  Anxiety trickles down my spine. ‘I...won’t.’

  His scepticism is obvious, and makes me feel about an inch tall. ‘Because your parents knew his parents?’

  I swallow past a suddenly constricted throat. ‘Because I can’t hate him. I have to make it work.’

  His silence speaks volumes.

  ‘You think I’m crazy.’

  ‘I think you obviously loved your parents very much.’

  The observation is so unexpected it takes my breath away. I nod, looking away quickly.

  ‘Losing them must have been very difficult.’

  Tears threaten. I swallow quickly, then reach for a piece of cheese. ‘That’s an understatement.’ And, even though I’m sure he knows what happened, even though I know Santiago will have done his research before coming to Marlsdoven, I say quietly, ‘Their car rolled while travelling in Africa. It was a freak accident—the first of its kind to happen to the tour company. My father died instantly, my mother two days later—just long enough for me to fly to her side and be there when she took her last breath. I’ll never forget what she looked like at the end. So pale and weak. It was awful.’