Impulsive Prince
By Tiffany Squires
Copyright © Tiffany Squires 2019. All rights reserved
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
A Message From Tiffany Squires
Chapter One
Brice
Tomorrow is a big day. For my family. And for me. It’s big because tomorrow is the day that I’m to meet my intended, Princess Madeline Lottisham of Blundell.
I sit, I stand, I pace, and I sit again. But nothing I do calm’s my restlessness. Am I ready for this? I should be. The King thinks I am. The Queen thinks I am. The entire royal court thinks I am. They’ve primed me for this since the day I came into the world. But that doesn’t stop dread from lining my stomach.
I don’t even know her. Sure, I’ve seen pictures, and from the handful of images I’ve seen she looks ok. She dresses conservatively. She smiles serenely. She fits in. My advisors tell me she’s the perfect match for a prince next in line to the throne. They say she’s polite and proper, that she is trained in the qualities needed to support a king. Apparently she’s humble, forgiving, and doesn’t expect special treatment from others. But is that what I want in a wife? She sounds like a fucking doormat.
I look at the clock. It’s 9pm and I should turn in soon. I look at my bed. The staff have turned down my sheets. They’re crisp and clean. Just like the woman destined for it. I growl and rip at my hair. I’m done with crisp and clean. I don’t want crisp and clean anymore. I want dirty and rough. Shouldn’t a man get to experience at least an element of fire before settling down?
I’ve spent my entire life doing the right thing. I’ve behaved myself. Attended public functions and smiled through the drabness of it all. I’m bored out of my tree. Impulsiveness rushes through me and instantly I know what I need to do. I need to get out of here. Let my hair down. Live like a free man. Just one time. I kick off my shoes, rip off my suit, and search my dressing room for something inconspicuous. I change into a pair of faded old jeans and a tatty old t-shirt. I lace up my ancient trainers and head for the door, picking up the keys for my Ducati on the way.
My heart thunders in my chest as I strut down the palace corridors. Thankfully, there’s not a soul to be seen or heard, and I’m able to slip into the darkness of the royal garages unnoticed. I shrug into my leathers, grab my helmet, and slide it on my head. It’s while I’m buckling the thing on that somebody flicks on the overhead lights. Shit.
‘Where do you think you’re going at this hour?’
My nerves settle. It’s only my younger brother, Prince Magnus, the most rebellious of all four of us princes. ‘None of your business,’ I say, throwing my leg over the bike and type the garage door code into my phone. The door slides open with barely a grumble but Magnus stands between me and freedom with his arms across his chest.
‘Don’t make me tell Mother you’re absconding. Because you know she’ll be very disappointed.’
I lift the visor of my helmet and glare at him. ‘Really? With the dirt I have on you? You wouldn’t dare.’
He laughs. ‘Don’t tell me the good prince has finally gone rogue? I knew you had it in you, old chap. I’m just surprised it’s taken you until the eleventh hour to break the chains.’
His smirk grates on me and, not for the first time, I want to pull him down a peg or two. But can’t because that’s not what good princes do. Yet another thing I can’t do because of my social status. ‘Don’t make me knock you down.’
‘I’ll move when you tell me where you’re going.’ He steps closer, showing off his brass balls.
I sigh. ‘Magnus, just move, I’m not in the mood to play your stupid games.’
He opens his mouth to argue but the sound of my 1198cc V-twin engine firing up drowns out any sounds that pour from his pathetic face. I turn the throttle and race into the night, leaving Magnus to do and tell who he pleases, because right now I don’t give a fuck. I can taste freedom. And it tastes great.
Madeline
I feel like a fish out of water and suspect I’m not disappearing into the crowd as much as I would like to. What am I even doing here anyway?
The bar is heaving, and if I blow my cover, the media will have a field day. I can see the headlines already, Princess Madeline of Blundell Gets Drunk in Cheap Pick-up Joint. The thing is, I’m not drunk. Nor am I out to pick anybody up. Especially considering tomorrow morning I’m meeting Prince Brice Henley of Marea. The next in line to the throne. The most eligible bachelor in the world. And my husband-to-be. My stomach flips at the thought and I take a massive gulp of my Jack Black to settle it but that only causes me to cough and splutter the concoction all over my chin. Classy. I reach for a serviette, but there are none. There’s not even paper in the loo so why I thought something as grand as a napkin would be at my disposal I have no idea. My naivety obviously knows no bounds.
Two hours ago I’d given my chaperone the slip and, with the bag of supplies my lady-in-waiting handed over that afternoon, disappeared into the night with a belly full of anticipation.
Claudia, my best friend, and faithful companion had handed over the rucksack with eyes full of fear. ‘Madeline, you know I love you and understand why, but are you sure you want to do this?’ she’d said.
Yes. I wanted to do this. I wanted to escape. Just for one evening. I wanted to spend a few hours in her shoes. Enjoying all the things she got to do when she wasn’t at the palace keeping my sorry self company. I wanted to wear clothes that didn’t scream pompous old prude. I wanted to go to bars. Get drunk. Flirt with men. Be normal. Just once. Is that too much for a twenty-year-old to ask?
I’d spent my entire life doing the right thing. Mother and Father had made a deal many years ago that their first-born daughter would marry King and Queen Henley’s first-born son. It was a union designed to fortify both country’s positions in the modern world and had been, by all accounts, foolproof. Mother had dedicated her life to training me. Turning me into the perfect wife. Or rather perfect lap dog. I’d gone to finishing school. I’d learned to play polo. I’d kept my head low and my virginity intact. And I loathed it. All of it. Especially the virginity bit. I only hoped Prince Bloody Henley appreciates the sacrifices I’d made for him even before we met and married. I knock back the Jack Black, managing not to spill it this time, and slump my shoulders over the bar. I’m a fool. A darn fool. I should just leave and present myself to my security team, who are probably turning the city upside down looking for me. With a heavy heart and feeling like a failure, I slip off the barstool and trod on a pair of steel toe capped shoes.
‘What the actual fuck!’ The burly owner of the shoes bellows.
I look up to see that the shoes are owned by a guy twice my size with pitted skin and a belly so big he looks ready to give birth. ‘Oh my goodness, I’m terribly sorry, I didn’t—’
‘Terribly sorry are ya?’ A grin spread across his ruddy face, revealing nicotine-stained teeth. He cocks his head to one side. ‘Exactly how sorry, Missy?’
My eyes dart around the venue looking for my protection team. But of course, they’re not here. ‘So, so incredibly sorry,’ I splutter and rummage around the clutch bag Claudia packed for me. ‘Please, let me buy you a new pair. I have money—’
‘Don’t need no money,’ he says and slides closer, overwhelming me with the stench of body odour mingled with alcohol and cigarettes. ‘I do got other needs though.’
I try to swallow, but my mouth has dried. ‘Please, sir. Let me pay for a new pair, then we can both be on our way. No harm done.’
He reaches up and
strokes my hair. I’d deliberately worn it down to avoid recognition tonight, now the urge to declare my status is stronger than ever before. But I can’t. Falling back onto my royal title was not what tonight is all about. I need to suck it up and find another way out of this sticky situation.
‘You’ve got a pretty little mouth haven’t you, Sweets. How about we forget the money? Money don’t talk in my world but I’ll tell ya what does. Cock-sucking.’
Bile rises to the back of my throat. Is this what happens to normal girls? Or just stupid little rich girls who bend the rules? I open my mouth to answer but before I can formulate the words a third man joins us. Great. Gang rape. Obviously a befitting punishment for a wayward princess who should have known better.
Chapter Two
Brice
I’d ridden the Ducati around in circles for an age and deduced that freedom of choice actually comes with no choice at all. I’d left with no plan and nowhere to go. I was just about to head home when I’d spotted it. A run-down old bar with neon lighting and a clientele who probably didn’t even know Marea’s rich list existed, let alone studied it. Nobody would look for a missing prince in there. It was perfect.
I parked the Duc under a streetlight and walked into the bar with the confidence of somebody who belonged. The confidence came easily, as it does when one is born into money and power. I just needed to make sure I toned it down. I’d ordered a beer at the bar then sat at an alcohol splattered table in a discreet corner and watched. The place was rammed with punters drinking the night away. Men and women pranced about like peacocks hoping to land a mate, for the evening at least. It felt liberating just being there. I envied them. Their freedom. Their ability to make shit choices and suffer no bigger consequences than a day or two of guilt.
Then she’d walked in and I’d frozen. On the surface, she looked the part. A sexy young thing wearing tight-fitting jeans, a scandalously low cut top, and over-the-knee boots with heels definitely not designed for walking. Her chestnut hair cascaded down her back and a sweeping fringe obscured half of her face from view. That was a pity. But from what I could see she had a delicate upturned nose and rosebud lips. She was slim looking, but not in a chain-smoking-regularly-missed-meals kinda way. No. She was fit and strong. With thighs that could control even the most unruly stallion.
She’d burst through the door with her shoulders back and chest up but as soon as she was inside her confidence had wavered. She’d disappeared into the bathroom for a minute before reappearing wearing a fresh layer of hot-red lipstick and slid onto a vacant bar stool where she sat with an apologetic posture. The barman had grown impatient waiting for her to decide what to drink before fixing her some kind of fancy looking cocktail. Odd. This was not a cocktail kinda bar.
I’d contemplated approaching her. But hesitated. She looks like she’d pull a canister of pepper spray out of her bag if anybody dares to approach so I sat quietly, admiring her from a distance and dreaming of what could have been. Until now. Thank the Lord my opportunity struck. A less than savoury character was bothering her and she looked petrified. Somebody had to help. And that somebody has to be me.
I down my drink and stand. My intention is to be her knight in shining armour. Oh, the irony. I’m here to escape all things regal and yet can’t shrug off the monarchical references.
I strut towards them and stand behind the lump of turd just in time to hear him make unsolicited requests for services that the little mouse wasn’t the type to do. Blood drains from the damsel's face and she looks like she’ll pass out any second. It looks like I got here just in the nick of time.
‘Excuse me,’ I say. ‘Is this man bothering you?’
Relief visibly washes over her and she nods furiously. ‘Yes, he is. I trod on his toe. I’ve tried to apologise but he won’t accept.’
The slimeball turns his shoulders and glares at me with murderous intent. ‘Fuck off,’ he sneers. ‘We were just coming to an arrangement, weren’t we, Doll?’
She gulps and shifts uncomfortably. ‘No, I don’t think we were. I think that—’
‘You think nothing,’ he says, still with his eyes burning into mine. ‘Girls don’t come here to think. They come here looking for some. And some is what I was offering. So go find your own pussy to fuck.’
I roll my eyes and puff out my cheeks. If he wants to play rough, then I’m sure I can lower myself to that. As part of royal training, my brothers and I have had years of self-defence lessons. It’s an unnecessary requirement in a world where we face kidnap threats on an almost weekly basis. We need to be prepared in case our security isn’t around when we need them most. Not that it happens often. We can’t even take a shit without constant observation. It’s exhausting.
‘Listen, Sir,’ I say, stepping forward so we’re nose to nose, every nerve in my body is on high alert but I remain steady as the sun. ‘I think you’ll find the lady has said no. So maybe it’s you who needs to fuck off and find some pussy elsewhere.’
I don’t have time to register how great it feels saying such words out loud in public before I sense his arm move. Reflexes kick in and my arm shoots up as a barrier, his punch lands square on the bone of my forearm. It hurts, but not as much as it would have done had it landed on my face. I hear the pretty lady squeal when my right fist plants itself into his podgy gut. The guy doubles over. And I shake my head in disbelief. How could that have hurt with all the padding around his gut? I don’t have too much time to ponder because he charges at me, head first, like a battering ram. Too easy. I simply step to the left, the crowd which has gathered to watch the spectacle also sidestep, and he tipples headfirst into the vacant space on the sticky floor. Everybody laughs.
‘That’s enough now. Nothing to see here everybody.’ Security is finally here to disperse the mass. They grab the lady’s tormentor by the scruff of his neck and guide him outside leaving me and the pretty young lady alone. How I escaped that fracas without detection I’ll never know.
I look at her. She’s looking at me. Damn. She’s prettier up close than she was from afar. Albeit a little shocked. ‘Can I get you a drink,’ I say and gesture for the barman.
Madeline
He’s acting so normal? How’s he acting so normal? Standing there waiting for the barman as though nothing just happened.
‘What’s that interesting-looking thing in there?’ He points to my glass with just a dribble of liquid left in the bottom.
‘Erm, it’s a…’ I rack my brains, I know what it is. The barman gave it a name, a name which fails me, just like every other simple thought at the moment. ‘A Jack Black, that’s it. Jack Daniels, Tia Maria and Coke… I think.’
He arches an eyebrow in amusement. ‘Interesting. But ok, if that’s what you want.’
I take a moment to look at the man who just saved my bacon. Tall. Broad. Dark. His hair’s dishevelled but looks like it may otherwise be well-groomed. His face is hard and handsome with smooth skin. He’s not a rugged outdoorsy type. I couldn’t imagine him doing MMA or anything like that, regardless of the skills he just displayed. His honey-brown eyes are lined with thick luscious lashes. He’s not exactly dressed the same as everybody else either. He’s more put together. Or could be. There’s something about him that just doesn’t tally but I can’t quite put my finger on what.
‘Your Jack Black,’ he says, handing me my glass. When I accept it, our fingers graze. Just slightly. But enough to melt the ice cooling my drink.
He sits and drinks from his glass not once removing his compelling eyes from mine. ‘Are you not going to take a seat?’
I realise I’m in a complete stupor and shake myself out of it before sliding on the barstool. Our knees are so close they feather against one another, and despite the fabric between them, my body squirms delectably at the human touch. I’m mortified to find that I have absolutely no idea what to do. I make small talk with people all the time, but there’s usually security barriers and bouquets of flowers between us. This is different. Right no
w there’s nothing between me and the handsome stranger. Nothing at all. For the first time in my life I can say what I please, speak out of protocol, but without guidelines to follow, I can’t think of anything to say.
‘Do you come here often?’ He finally asks and I laugh along with him. It appears I’m not the only person who can’t come up with anything unique.
‘No, actually, this is my first time. You?’ I turn my head and regard him through the thick fringe I had cut into my hair especially for tonight. A disguise of sorts.
He cocks his head to the side and smiles warmly. Melting my middle. ‘First time for me too.’
For a moment there’s an awkward quiet between us. I drink. He drinks. Then we talk. Small stuff and before too long the words are flowing between us like old friends.
‘Tell me,’ I say. ‘How did you learn to fight like that?’
He shrugs and stares at his empty glass. ‘Just picked it up from places.’
I slit my eyes at his vague answer. ‘Places?’
‘Yes, places. Here and there. I’ve had to learn how to look after myself from a young age.’
A glazed expression washes over his face and sympathy swells in my heart. ‘Hard childhood?’
He pauses, then nods. ‘Something like that.’
Obviously, he’s not about to go into more detail and I don’t press for information. It wouldn’t be fair of me to encourage the most enigmatic stranger I’ve ever met to open up deep wounds before skipping off into the distance never to be seen again. Which is exactly how this evening will end. The thought fills me with a yearning. I’ve wanted things my entire life. Like my freedom and normality. But the longing that the man sitting dangerously close to me is stirring in undiscovered parts of my body feel alien.
‘If it helps at all, I’m sorry.’ And I am sorry. Sorry that such a special person has endured hardships worse than any I could imagine. Sorry that I’ll never hear his story because I’ll never see him again. Sorry that any minute now I have to make like Cinderella and leave. Sorry that I am marrying another man.
Impulsive Price Page 1
