RELUCTANTLY ROYAL

By Erin Nicholas writing as

Erin Nicolle

 

 

CHAPTER ONE

Torin

 

“We will announce the engagement in six months. Do what you need to in order to prepare.”

I bite back the first four things I want to say and consciously work to make my tone calm, almost bored. “You mean, tell Samuel to get my best suit dry cleaned? Get a haircut? Hit the gym? That kind of thing?”

“I’m not in the mood for your jokes today.”

The thing is, my grandfather is never in the mood for my jokes. He doesn’t find me amusing in the slightest.

I assume he finds humor in something, but hell if I know what it is. The man hasn’t smiled in my presence since I was about thirteen years old.

I’m now thirty-two.

“So, then I assume you mean that I should actually discuss this with a woman? You know, propose to someone so that there’s an engagement to announce?” Now my tone is much less bored and calm. There’s a definite edge to it.

He appreciates my sarcasm even less than he appreciates my humor.

He turns from the tall window behind his desk and clasps his hands behind his back.

The man standing in front of me is wearing a light blue button-down shirt and navy blue pants. He’s not wearing a tie or a jacket. He’s not wearing a crown. But I have no question that I am talking to King Diarmuid. Not my grandfather.

He’s not scowling at me, however. He’s giving me a look I hate even more. He looks at me with a condescending lift of one eyebrow as he says, “That’s not really necessary. That was taken care of years ago. She’ll be ready.”

I grind my back teeth together.

She is Lady Linnea Olsen, the eldest granddaughter of the late Alfred Olsen. He was a billionaire, a duke, and my grandfather’s best friend. And favorite man to sit across from at a poker table.

She’s been my sort-of fiancée since I was five.

When my grandfather lost me in a poker game.

The agreement was written up on the back of a whiskey-stained playbill when my grandfather got too far in on a poker game and had to come up with something of ‘value’.

Alfred won, and the fate of King Diarmuid’s heir was sealed.

The “arranged marriage” has always been something of a family joke.

Until now.

Until I returned home to take my place as crown prince and my grandfather determined he didn’t trust me and couldn’t take me seriously, but that Linnea really would make a fabulous queen.

Oh, and Alfred died.

So there’s no going back on the agreement. Linnea and I will be married.

That’s what my grandfather has told me approximately a thousand times in the past two years.

We won’t, though.

We definitely won’t.

“I’m not marrying Linnea,” I tell him, pushing up from the chair in front of the monstrous desk that has been in this office all of my life. Four generations of kings have sat behind that desk.

I’ve said exactly those four words to him repeatedly over the past two years I’ve been back in Cara.

“The day you marry her, the throne is yours.”

I stop halfway to the door. I take a deep breath.

The entire reason I’m living in Cara, my home country, is because my grandfather is eighty-two years old, has had three heart attacks, my father is dead, my oldest brother is an asshole, and if I don’t, my niece—my sister’s oops-out-of-wedlock-adorable-spitfire-will-do-great-things-with-her-life-but-should-by-God-get-to-choose-her-own-destiny little girl—will have to take over the throne on her eighteenth birthday.

She’s only twelve, but if he dies before her eighteenth birthday, she’ll still have to take over. Of course, then my sister, mother, and grandmother will all have to be there every step of the way guiding and helping her. Which still won’t be enough.

The country will be in turmoil.

As they should be if they had a twelve-year-old American who has only spent holidays in Cara sitting on the throne. Or a fifteen-year-old. Or even an eighteen-year-old.

So, I rescinded my abdication two years ago and came home.

And the old bastard has been giving me hell ever since.

I turn back. “It’s been two years,” I tell him. “I’m ready. I don’t need Linnea.”

Now he scowls. “The country needs her.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

I do, of course.

Linnea is beloved in Cara. She’s a celebrity of sorts. She put Cara on the world map.

She’s the agent for two elite athletes from Cara who are now living in the US. One is an upcoming NHL star. A good-looking, charming, talented, all-around good guy. The other is a gymnast. Cara’s first and only Olympian.

They are also Linnea’s younger brother and sister. Their fame is because of Linnea’s skills in PR. She also makes sure the fact that they are from the tiny island nation of Cara is mentioned in every story about them.

Now eighty percent of American sports fans can actually find Cara on a map. Probably eighty percent of those people could even tell you two or three facts about our country.

Three years ago, that would have been impossible.

National pride has soared, my grandfather installed a new satellite system so he and everyone else on the island can watch Alex’s hockey games, and if Linnea wasn’t his favorite grandchild before, blood or not, she is now.

Who am I kidding? She was totally his favorite grandchild before.

Now he wants to make her officially a part of the family.

“I can’t keep waiting for you to take this seriously,” my grandfather finally says. “We need a plan. We need the people to know that there is a plan.”

I feel my heart rate quicken. I need to keep my cool but…

“You’re waiting for me to take this seriously?” I repeat. “I have been here for two years. I have attended every meeting, dinner, reception, and conference you have asked me to. I have listened to you, Emil, and Grandmother go on and on and on about our history and traditions and expectations. I have read every goddamned book, ledger, and piece of paper you have put in front of me!”

I am not successful at keeping my voice calm, but he’s expecting this. All of our meetings end up with one, or both, of us shouting.

He waits, then takes a breath. “You’ve been back for two years. A miniscule amount of time. Linnea has lived in Cara her whole life. You, on the other hand, left Cara when you were still a boy, and hid out in the US for a decade.”

I open my mouth to protest the ‘boy’ part. I’d been nineteen.

Also, the ‘hid out’ part. He’d assigned me and my two siblings each a bodyguard who kept tabs on every move we made. There was never a moment when he didn’t know exactly where we were and what we were doing.

But he keeps going. “You marched into my office, lectured me about all of the ways a monarchy was an archaic, problematic institution, and gave me a dissertation on why we should change it.”

I’d even had an impressive video presentation and colorful handouts. I’d worked on that presentation for months. At that point, my older brother, Declan, had already abdicated and left the country, so I was next in line. I knew I was the someday king. I’d always been interested in world politics and history, and I’d truly believed that Cara should transition from a hereditary monarchy to a representative government. My presentation had outlined how that could happen over the course of ten years.

My grandfather had laughed.

But he’s still not done. “Then, when I didn’t immediately embrace the idea with enthusiasm and thanks, you abdicated your title and left the country in a colossal tantrum. With your siblings in tow.”

It hadn’t taken much encouragement to convince my sister, Fiona, and my brother, Cian, to abdicate as well. They’d been eighteen and seventeen at the time. They’d liked my presentation. They’d been fully on board.

Of course, I’d fully believed that once we left, the king would realize how serious we were, and he’d come after us—okay, he’d send people after us—bring us back to Cara, and have an actual conversation about my plan.

He hadn’t.

He’d won that game of chicken, no doubt about it.

It wasn’t as if we were in exile. We’d all lived happily in the US for ten years as undercover royals. We could have returned to Cara at any time. In fact, we did come back for holidays and such. But…we hadn’t officially returned. Cian and Fiona are still very happy in the US.

But when I’m completely honest, I can admit that I was unhappy. I hadn’t expected to be away from home for ten years. I hadn’t expected my grandfather to be so fucking stubborn. I hadn’t expected him to just go on without us.

“The entire country knows how you left, Torin,” he says.

Of course, they do. Even if we weren’t a very small country, news like the three grandchildren of the king—the only heirs—suddenly leaving the country would have spread.

“There’s been underlying unrest ever since you left. There have been questions about succession. More questions arose after Saoirse’s birth was uncovered. Then my health concerns worried everyone even more. The country has been upset not knowing what’s going to happen, and what the future holds.”

Of course it has! I want to shout. He could have fixed all of that by reaching out, by talking to us, to me. I would have come home before this. But he would have had to meet me partway.

Diarmuid O’Grady doesn’t do that. Apparently.

“I’m here now,” I say, trying to stay calm so we can actually finish this conversation. “Tell them I’m ready, and crown me before you have another health scare.” My mother and grandmother and his physician have told him this same thing, repeatedly. “You need to willingly, happily hand over the crown before you have to so the country knows that you have confidence in me, so they can as well.”

I don’t say the part about how if he dies and I take the crown because there’s no choice, it will be harder for everyone to trust that I’m truly ready.

He knows this. Very well. He took the throne after his father’s unexpected passing from a massive heart attack at the age of sixty-one.

That has, of course, also added to everyone’s anxiety about his heart condition and the what-ifs.

He has to give me the crown.

And fuck, I want that.

I am an intelligent, well-traveled, highly educated man who loves his country and family enough to give up the life he knew, turn everything upside down, and come home to lead.

I love this country.

I loved it enough to advocate for a representative government because I thought that would be best for the people, and then abdicate the throne to show how serious I was.

I loved it enough to swallow my pride and come back when it became clear the country, and my family, needed me.

“You returned only when you feared Saoirse might be called upon to come to Cara,” my grandfather says, equally frustrated. “And now you jet off to America every time you get bored or don’t get your way.” He points a finger at me. “The people see everything, Torin. You have to remember that. If you’re to be the leader, you have to accept that your actions, attitude, and words matter. All of them.”

The media in Cara amounts to one newspaper and a radio station that has a broadcast that is also a podcast that posts on social media and blogs in addition to their three hours on air every day. The podcast is hosted by two women in their late twenties, Lindsey and Jen, who discuss everything from the weather to new recipes, women’s health issues, relationship advice, politics, and celebrity gossip. The last two overlap often when it comes to the royal family of Cara, it seems.

The following for the podcast Wait ’Til I Tell Ye increased substantially after Astrid and Alex became known internationally. Now people from around the world, but particularly Americans, follow their podcast and social media posts.

Unfortunately, my grandfather is not wrong when he says they pay attention to me. The news that the crown prince of Cara had been in hiding in the US and had suddenly returned home to take the throne had been a huge story.

And the idea that I fly around on my private plane, reportedly partying in Louisiana and shirking my duties in Cara, has been getting a lot of traction lately.

But I do go back to Louisiana regularly. It’s where my siblings are. Where my closest friends are. My best friend, Jonah, finally came to Cara after staying behind for the first year. Thank God. That first year was rough. I haven’t been back as often since he’s been here but…

Fine. I do leave Cara a lot.

I feel so damned useless here.

He’s also correct to point out that I rescinded my abdication for my niece.

Saoirse was the only O’Grady who had not officially abdicated. That had put her, technically, in the line of succession.

None of us had thought anything of that until my grandfather’s third heart attack. They’d called my sister back to Cara to discuss with her the very real possibility that Saoirse could inadvertently become Cara’s next ruler if our grandfather’s heart finally gave out.

“I stepped up because Saoirse is a child,” I say. “I did it to protect her, yes. If she was old enough to make the decision, and she’d chosen to come to Cara and take the throne, I would have let her. But as it is, I was the only one in a position to rescind my abdication.”

My brother Declan should have. But he washed his hands of the throne long ago. He hasn’t even returned to the island to visit. He’s only in touch with us, his siblings, on occasion, and our mother. Most people also consider him the most successful of us. He’s a self-made millionaire. Hell, he might even be a billionaire by now.

He owned and sold a professional football team. He owns a pro hockey team—incidentally, the one Linnea’s brother plays on—a major tech company, a movie and TV production studio, and a few other things I don’t remember off the top of my head.

He’s obviously able to get things done and lead. But he has no interest in being an actual king.

He’s got all the perks—money and power—without the pressure of affecting people’s lives in a real, direct way. Why would he give that up to come to a windswept, remote island in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean?

My sister could have rescinded her abdication as well, but she has a life in the U.S. She’s in love, living in a town where she has friends who are like family, and where she runs an animal sanctuary saving neglected, abused, and abandoned animals.

She’s actually making a difference. Living a good life that makes the world a better place, and raising a daughter who will do the same.

Neither of them should be forced to give all of that up and come back to Cara.

And my younger brother, Cian, is…not ready to be a king.

He’s still finding himself. And having a hell of a good time doing it. He doesn’t want a crown, a throne, and a bunch of responsibilities.

So that leaves me.

I have no kids, no wife or even serious girlfriend, no tech or sports empire, no animal sanctuary. But I do have a head full of ideas and a desire to make a mark on the world, and…I have an opportunity to do so.

I am an O’Grady, a direct heir of Diarmuid, King of Cara.

Literally, five people walking the planet can say that.

I’d be stupid not to take this chance to make my life matter, to create a legacy, and to give my family and my country someone they can depend on.

“You came home to protect Saoirse. Not out of loyalty to me or Cara,” my grandfather says.

He can believe what he needs to. I’m here now. I’m willing and able to take on this responsibility.

"While Linnea has been nothing but loyal, right?” I guess.

He doesn’t even blink. “Yes. The people know she loves the country, and they will see her as steady, loyal, and serious. She is articulate, sophisticated, intelligent, kind, and beautiful.”

Linnea Olsen is all of those things. She is definitely princess material. As Lindsey and Jen often remark.

He wants her to be my wife because she’s adored by both Cara and Denmark, she will keep me in check, and it will give her the power to do amazing things for his country. And it will keep her close to him.

But there’s a problem. Well, other than us not having even an ounce of chemistry.

And other than neither of us wanting to be forced to marry someone simply because our grandfathers were idiots when they played poker drunk.

Linnea is in love with someone else.

My best friend, to be exact.

But my grandfather doesn’t know that. Because it’s possible, very possible, that my grandfather will be so angry about it that he’ll fire Jonah and banish him from Cara.

He might even banish Linnea.

And just to really piss everybody off, he’ll live forever and never let me be king.

“And you honestly think I can’t do this without her?” I ask.

“You haven’t shown me that you can.”

I scowl at him. “You haven’t given me the chance. You haven’t approved a single one of my plans or ideas.”

“You talk and talk about your ideas and plans,” he says, pacing behind his desk. “You go on and on about how we need new relationships, we need to be less dependent on Denmark—”

“Constantly having to travel to kiss ass and wine and dine men and women from another country with the hopes that they’ll give a shit about us in the midst of their own issues and relationships with countries that can actually offer something in return is no way to deal with our people’s security,” I say.

He sighs tiredly. “Making and maintaining relationships will be important if you wear the crown. Whether it’s with Denmark or another country.”

I don’t miss the ‘if’.

“Of course. But being fully dependent on the goodwill and whims of a group of people that changes regularly and has their own responsibilities that have to come before ours is not a secure situation for our people,” I reiterate. “We need to be more independent. We need to import less from Denmark. We need to expand our network or supply our own needs. We need to create jobs. We need to make our people feel secure, feel self-reliant, feel like we are our own country and not just an adopted child of Denmark.”

Diarmuid moves around his chair and takes a seat. “You’re a great talker, Torin,” he says. “You’re charming and confident. You create impressive presentations. You can write and give impassioned speeches on probably any topic. But I don’t know that you can actually act on any of it or follow through on anything. Linnea gets things done.”

I take a deep breath. I acknowledge that my grandfather actually included a few compliments in there. I try to see things from his point of view. I tell myself that he loves Cara. He’s been the king for the past forty-three years. He has to be sure that his successor is up to the job.

“What do I have to do?” I finally ask.

“Show me that you’re serious. Show me that Cara is your priority. I need to see commitment. That you will give your heart to Cara.”

I open my mouth to declare that I’ve already done that, but I shut it again without a word.

Clearly, I haven’t. Not to him.

Show him that I will give my heart to Cara.

Well, what the fuck does that look like?

“How long will it take to convince you of that?” I ask.

“Well, I suppose,” he says, reaching for a folder on the side of his desk, a sure signal that our meeting is coming to an end. “If you don’t want to marry Linnea, then you’d better hope that it takes less than six months.”

 

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