Royal Inheritance

by McKenna James

  ROYAL INHERITANCE

  MCKENNA JAMES

  COPYRIGHT© 2019

  Royal Inheritance by Mckenna James

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted by U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, establishments, or organizations, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously to give a sense of authenticity. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design by Emma Rider at Moonstruck Cover Design & Photography

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  ALSO BY MCKENNA JAMES

  MEET MCKENNA

  CHAPTER ONE

  Raina

  My heart pounds painfully against my ribcage as I wait to be announced to make my grand entrance as the belle of the ball. This isn’t my first ball, and I’m sure it won’t be my last. Throughout the year, we have close to half a dozen balls, galas, and fancy affairs for all and any number of reasons, but I am still ridiculously nervous all the same.

  Because this one, this one is different on so many levels. You see, this is my coming out ball, to be presented to the royal society on a silver platter, but really, it’s an elaborate ruse for my family, my father and mother in particular.

  The difference? I’m the one doing all the courting. This is the ball where I’m supposed to select a potential suitor. Yes, according to my family, this princess needs a prince. Like yesterday.

  The long gavel bangs three times against the polished marble, and the swish of dresses along the floor and scuffing of shoes all sound in unison as no doubt everyone in precession turn toward the grand staircase.

  “Her Royal Highness, Princess Raina of Montenegro.”

  I take a deep breath and walk into view. Instead of releasing my grip on the lungful of air, I hold on to it like the lifeline it is and pause at the top of the stairs.

  Please don't fall on your face in front of everyone.

  I silently pray to myself as I slowly make my way down the decadent white and gold steps, faking an elegant swagger I don't feel in a stunning antique pink ball gown. My ridiculous elaborate crystal-studded heels make a tinkering sound against the marble with each pass of my stilettos and sway of my gown.

  I avoid taking hold of the golden handrail as I descend the grand staircase, my mother’s words ringing sharply in my head about showing no weakness in front of these vultures. Instead, I stand tall, my spine ramrod straight and shoulders back, holding my weight on the balls of my feet to avoid wobbling in these stupid high-heels.

  I reach the final step, my father awaiting me with his forearm outstretched.

  “You look wonderful,” my father says curtly, with a bare minimal movement of his lips. “We’ll be having a wedding in no time.”

  I reinforce my fake smile before it can falter and place my palm on top of the King’s hand. He moves us forward, leading me through a sea of endless faces, the who’s who of the royal world.

  Kings and queens, dukes and duchesses, and more princes than I can count from kingdoms near and far, some I’d never even heard of before this week. Their names and countries all blur and swim in my mind, but I smile as sweetly as I can muster under the circumstances, and meet each and every gaze with my own. Yet my awareness prickles, and my soul focus shifts to the man right behind me, his mere presence as familiar as my own. My silent protector, my bodyguard, Gavin, always at my side. Even tonight, he won’t be more than three paces behind me.

  “You can never trust the rich, and I won’t risk your safety for a second.”

  “I’m one of them, you realize.” Supposedly, anyway.

  “Exactly. I trust you least of all to stay out of trouble, Your Highness.” The grin in his tone was subtle, but I didn't miss it.

  Gavin hasn’t always been my personal guard, but he has been a permanent fixture in the palace these past few years, working for my father and the royal guard. The last six months, however, Gavin hasn’t left my side. And while he excels at his job, or so I’ve been told, I am living proof that he is still a complete enigma to me.

  Though I know very little about him, not from lack of trying mind you, a fierce pang of longing hits me square in the chest as my father turns us around at the end of the ballroom to face the crowd. My gaze instantly lands on Gavin, and I finally see him in all his fancy splendor as he makes his way to stand directly behind me to my right. His six-feet-three inch frame is exaggerated and magnified in his evening guard uniform of black on black on black. It fits him like a glove, or a second skin, and makes his rugged handsomeness even more overwhelming, overshadowing even, to everyone else in the room.

  How can I even think about these princes seriously when the man who guards me and holds my heart is so close, so formidable, so wonderful. Worse, I hate to think about these spoilt, entitled princes and how I’m to wed one of them. It seems my family wants to auction me off to the highest bidder, and I hate feeling like a piece of prime livestock on the auction block.

  I don’t want to marry one of them; I barely trust any of them either. Especially after spending all day in more meetings being carefully groomed on what to do, how to act, what not to say, what little to reveal, and warned I’d be questioned intensely after the ball. I feel like I’m on some covert mission, not the romantic notion I originally had in mind when finding a husband was put forth to me. But I have a duty to uphold.

  One by one, the princes are brought before me. I greet each with whatever I’ve been instructed to say, practicing nonstop until it became second nature, until I could perform in my sleep. The greetings, in the language of their country, were designed to elicit a particular response, endear them toward me and make it easier to swoop them off their feet. I’ve been training for this for weeks. My delivery has to be on point. My eye contact, my touch, my smile, all calibrated with a purpose.

  This isn’t just about finding a husband or a future second ruler to stand by my side. I’m not just to find a suitable suitor because it’s time to wed, or I’ve reached some magical marrying age. No. Instead, I am to marry to save the kingdom. For the good of my country. We are broke, skint, tapped out, and destined for ruin if I don’t choose wisely and quickly.

  Your country needs you to do your duty and do it well.

  The words of my father and his advisors from earlier have echoed on repeat in my head since I left the meeting room.

  We’re all depending on you, Your Highness.

  So who’s the wealthiest then? I’ll just marry him.

  You can’t mess this up, or treat it how you treat everything else in your privileged little world.

  What that is supposed to mean, I’m not sure. Cedric always appears to think little of me. I guess fun
is out of the question and not in my future. Not anymore.

  You need to step up and take your position seriously for once in your life.

  As if there isn’t enough pressure on me, the only heir of my father’s bloodline and the future queen of my country. Like that isn’t enough to contend with. Sure, just throw some more at me, why don’t you. Everyone wants to hear their country’s livelihood depends on them and them alone. Woo-freaking-hoo, I’m that damn important.

  It was hard enough accepting that I was yet another in a long line of disappointed princesses who would be trapped in a loveless union for the rest of their lives. And I wouldn’t even be the first princess who had romantic feelings for her bodyguard, or some member of her staff, I’m sure. I might, however, be the first princess who is going to do something about it before she’s shackled for the rest of her days. I just don’t know how or when. Soon, very, very soon.

  I tune into the madness in front of me as my father takes my mother’s hand and leads her to the middle of the room. The crowd parts, clearing a wide space to watch the two of them dance as the music starts up. They are something to behold, so elegant, so timeless, so in love.

  “Your Highness, may I have this dance?”

  I pull my gaze from my parents to the young man of twenty-five standing in front of me. His beady eyes devour me as he bows before me.

  “Ah, sure. I mean, Prince Aaron, it would be my honor.”

  I’ve barely raised my hand before he captures it in his clammy palm, tugging on it none too gently. I manage not to lose my balance as I take a few quick inelegant steps forward.

  We take our place on the makeshift dance floor, the rest of the attendants following our example. Aaron places his left hand rather low on my back as he leads me into a basic waltz, his steps sloppy and uncultivated. My eyes keep gravitating to his slicked-back hair as we spin around the room. His dark locks appear to look like ink, oily, too shiny, and incredibly unnatural.

  I can’t help but wonder if he dunked his head in a giant vat of gel, or even olive oil might have the same effect, and if at any moment it’s going to drip down his back and on to the floor causing anyone nearby to slip.

  A small chuckle escapes me, and the prince looks at me, puzzled.

  “Something amusing, Your Highness?”

  “Oh, ah, Lord Bolton stepped on Lady Blackwell’s toes, and they almost fell to the floor.”

  “Ah.”

  “I shouldn't laugh, it’s very improper, but it was a sight to see.”

  “No need to apologize. I’m sure it was.”

  The song comes to an end, and before anything more can be said between Aaron and me, we’re interrupted.

  “I do believe your next dance is mine; if you would do me the honor, Princess Raina?”

  “Thank you for the dance, Prince Aaron. Prince Branton, I believe I’m all yours.”

  Aaron reluctantly removes his hand from my waist and steps aside as the prince of … crap, I can’t remember, as Prince Branton takes my hand and replaces Aaron.

  “You look exquisite tonight, Princess. Not that you don’t look lovely on every other occasion.”

  “That's very sweet of you, thank you.”

  We continue to make boring small talk for the remainder of the song, which is a godsend as my mind is elsewhere. There are five Princes, in particular, I was told to focus on tonight, to work my charms on, to woo. It’s a struggle to remember all the details because the reality of my situation is hitting me hard. I have so much to look forward to, and I can barely stand it.

  For the next few hours, I’m passed from prince to prince, waltzed around and around the ballroom, my feet trodden on more times than I can count. I’ve lost track of the number of times hands lowered from the customary position in the middle of my back to the curve of my derrière. Sadly, breaking fingers would be ill-advised, so I tsk politely and redirect the offending appendage to my waist before being handed off to the next in line, repeating the process again and again.

  “I didn’t think I’d enjoy your company so well, Your Highness.” The prince of Ngrettre blurts out suddenly.

  “Oh, is that right?”

  “I mean no offense. It’s just that royals, in general, tend to be stuffy and boring,” Prince Alec says with an ironic grin. It brings a genuine smile to my lips for the first time all night.

  “Yes, they are.”

  I grin again as I’m twirled about, but I can’t help but lose the easy smile when I realize I could like this man if circumstances were different. He’s not stiff, and he doesn’t appear to be entitled like the others I’ve been dancing with tonight. There are, however, a few problems. His light golden hair is too light, too long. His jaw, though attractive enough, isn’t sharp in its angles, or with the roguish under shadow of needing to shave soon. He's tall; given the fact I’m in heels and not a short woman, we still manage to be eye to eye, unlike a lot of my potential suitors this evening, some who’ve barely reached my chin.

  I could see us being friends. Maybe down the line, we could grow to love each other, but there are two serious problems. His family isn’t wealthy enough to tempt my father into a union, and he’s not Gavin.

  I excuse myself early from our dance, apologizing for cutting it short, and make my way to secure a drink and maybe something to eat before someone else takes my hand and dances me off my feet.

  I’ve been on my feet in these ridiculous heels for so long that I am struggling to stay upright, even with a tightly placed hand at my back. How I long to slip them off my feet and wander around in a cute pair of ballerina flats. Why isn’t that a thing? I am five-foot-eight. It’s not like I need the height. And while heels make your legs look nicer, arses more pronounced, I am in a ball gown. No one could see my pins anyway, and my dress is cut in such a way that I could be a stick figure and still seem shapely enough.

  I must’ve started to falter, because I soon feel a warmth permeate me, as a comforting hand gently presses to my lower back, helping me to hang on a few minutes longer.

  “Do you need anything, Your Highness?” Gavin’s rough voice tickles the shell of my ear.

  I suppress a shiver that his proximity always causes.

  “Just a truckload of cash,” I mutter under my breath, but louder, I say, “I’m fine, just bored and tired.”

  The next in line finds me, and without any preamble, he captures my hand and drags me away. I manage to thrust my glass of bubbly at Gavin before I stumble and end up stuck with it on the dance floor. This prince from nowhere important, his name I can’t even recall this late in the game, is the total trifecta; short, fat, and balding. But sadly, loaded.

  I find it a cruel twist of fate that I was born in the twenty-first century, when gold wasn’t kept in the palace, locked up tighter than a nun’s virtue. And when you were getting low, you sent the guards to round up and collect more taxes, or waged war on neighboring towns to pillage.

  No, instead, I live in the digital world, where every penny is invested. No one owns any real physical money, only accounts with growing—or in our case, diminishing—numbers as proof of status and standing.

  It's ridiculous. It's also ironic that we hired an advisor to save us, and invest what was left of my inheritance to restore all that's been lost over the decades with climate control upgrades and new infrastructure required. Instead, he doomed us further, doomed me the most.

  And when did I learn about all this? At the same time I was told about the ball, about the country being destitute, about the need for me to marry. Immediately. The worst part, I understood.

  I want to please them, my King and Queen, my parents. I want to make them proud of me for once, but the need I have for Gavin—I want him more than anything. And even as I dance with all these princes, I can't help but wonder if there isn’t a way out. I wonder if any of it is true, or if I am being guilted into submission. My royal chains being yanked into line once and for all.

  I glance back at Gavin, not five feet away. His ste
ely blue eyes find mine within seconds. He only ever takes his gaze off me if he is studying someone else. He never says anything snide or calculating; he never says much of anything, really. But he's so intelligent, with a hidden sense of humor I'm dying to break out. The few glimpses I see of the man behind the uniform when we're alone are more than enough to give me tunnel vision.

  I reluctantly pull my gaze from him and continue to focus on my duty the best I can. He is so perceptive, never missing anything, I can't help wonder if he can see how deeply I'm in love with him.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Gavin

  My fingers almost fumble the champagne flute Raina thrusts at me seconds before she’s dragged off by another jackass. Thankfully, I have killer reflexes. One after the other, they parade her around the dance floor like she’s a prized mare. All chomping at the bit to secure her for their own. To claim the princess and all that comes with being her husband.

  I place the glass down as a waiter walks by, and turn my watchful gaze back to the mission at hand— keeping the heir to the throne safe. Happy, on the other hand, is not in my job description. Not today.

  I turn in time to catch her looking in my direction. One beat, two beats, three, and then she seems to reluctantly pull her gaze from me and back to the joke dancing with her. It’s the same look I see from her on the regular lately. I don’t miss the want in it, the longing behind her beautiful almond eyes. Or the misery in them.

  But she’s too young, too reckless. She doesn’t understand the importance of her position, the gravity of it. I can’t lie to myself—I want her too. Who wouldn’t? I’d be a damned fool if I didn’t. She’s drop-dead gorgeous. With a dancer’s physique, curvy and toned in all the right places, golden blonde hair, natural, not the fake bleached crap most women have these days. And a face that could launch a thousand ships—exquisite, soft, and warm. But only when she lets her guard down. I don’t think many see her gentle side.

  The truth of the matter is, the two of us, in no shape or form, can never happen. So I do everything in my power to ignore the attraction and repel her flirty innuendos. By God, she doesn’t make it easy, and I can’t help but fantasize about her more often than I should, as much as I fight it, and try not to. I’m only human, after all.