Reckless in Ruins (Reckless Royals)

Chapter 1

U ther

My top security officer has bad news for me.

Apprehension clouds Edgar’s face as he exits the Bentley, carrying a letter from the palace.

I zero in on the queen’s tell-tale stationery.

The officer’s stride battles against the stiff sea wind sweeping over the grassy cliff, giving me time to remove any trace of shock from my face.

My men never see me appearing shocked. Or worried, or any other emotion.

I am the unflappable Captain Uther Nancarrow. The silent minder. Head of palace security, and the tireless bagman for the queen.

The public sees me as nothing but solely focused on the royal family of Gravenland, and that letter changes nothing.

Not until I open it.

I move into the shadow of the ancient stones to stave off the battering wind. Edgar hands me the letter. This is it. I’m fired. My years of unquestioning service to the protection and service of Queen Hilde are about to come to an end.

Strange that the queen would choose now and not the end of my shift. Have I been so derelict in my duties she needs to replace me immediately? In the middle of a security sweep ahead of a royal engagement?

“From the palace, sir.”

I rarely feel the urge to engage with sarcasm with one of my men. I resist that urge now, and simply thank Edgar before opening the letter.

Edgar stands there expectantly for a moment, as if I might share the contents of this missive with him.

“You’re dismissed.”

“Y-yes, Captain,” he says, his voice cracking. He leaves for the Bentley at the speed of someone being shot from a cannon, eager to avoid a dressing down.

At first glance, the queen’s handwriting seems shaky.

“Dear Uther,

It has come to my attention that you’ve missed three fittings with the palace stylist. Please make arrangements to meet with Sable today without delay.”

I squint at the lettering. An ordinary citizen would immediately recognize the queen’s sweeping S. The slash with which she crosses her T’s. But I am not an ordinary citizen. This is forgery. This letter did not come from Queen Hilde.

I know exactly which persistent person wrote this. Only one employee at the palace would dare try to get my attention this way, fearless of being put in handcuffs.

That insufferable woman .

Inexplicably, Sable is unintimidated by me.

She addresses me so haughtily with her red lips, while her judging eyes rake over my frame as if amused by my large, ape-like stature.

No doubt she’s thinking about dressing me up in something fashion-forward, as she does with the royal siblings.

Well, I’m not one of her paper dolls. My traditional kilt and suit jacket are perfectly suitable to carry out my duties, as it has been for the security detail of generations before me.

The palace stylist can’t seem to take the hint that I don’t need a change in uniform, not for me or for my men. Especially not from a woman with mocking eyes and a wry smile who can’t wait to get her hands on me, a peasant who rose through the ranks on his own steam and grit.

Sable is so determined, she’s deluded herself into thinking she can get away with imitating the queen?

All in the name of fitting me in some dandy new color scheme to make the queen’s Secret Service stand out.

What that tiny, flamboyant woman doesn’t seem to realize is the entire point of security is to blend in. We are bodyguards. Not backup dancers.

Sweat forms on my brow just thinking about all this harassment.

Still holding this ridiculous letter, I use the back of my hand to swipe at my forehead.

Hell, the paper even smells like Sable—that scent she designed herself in some exclusive laboratory in Paris, or so I’ve gathered.

The scent is an odd choice for a woman like her, conjuring images of rose petals and fresh bed linens.

With her long lashes, pouty lips, and pushy attitude, I would have thought her perfume would be spicier. Earthier.

What the hell is wrong with you, Uther? Thinking about perfume now? Get your head in the game.

With a snarl of frustration, I crush the letter in my hands. I stuff it into the leather sporran on my uniform kilt, stuffing it down along with my feelings about the letter’s author.

I stalk toward the perimeter of Skelside Ruins, scanning the coastline for any signs of danger, any signs of possible threat to Her Majesty the Queen.

How dare I let one tiny, annoying, beautiful woman wreck my concentration? How dare I allow anyone to interfere with my job?

Walking the field helps me regain my focus. I’m grateful for the battering wind sweeping over the cliffs, knocking the nonsense and silliness out of me.

Skelside Ruins is a two-thousand-year-old fortress that pre-dates the influence of mainland Europe on this tiny island country.

It is one of a few ancient sites in Gravenland that bears no mark from the centuries of rule from England, France, Germany, the Netherlands.

Today, it’s little more than a maze of stone staircases, a few damaged walls, a turret, and a sprawling stone foundation.

As I sweep the grounds, I begin to feel restored.

The connection to my ancestors girds me up.

I am proud to serve a monarchy that aims to preserve this site for future generations.

It doesn’t look like much, but Skelside Ruins was once one of many imposing structures that marked the territory of ancient tribes. Millennia of chieftains and warriors fought bloody battles on this hill, long before the Vikings and the Normans invaded.

Ensuring everything is ready for the queen’s appearance here this morning doesn’t take me long.

The media area is cordoned off, keeping nosy reporters from damaging the precious remaining structures.

I have two men at that location. A few members of the general public—mostly those whose work is related to historic preservation—have been invited to attend the ceremony.

I have one man at that station for crowd control.

The queen will soon arrive and I’ll escort her personally to the podium on the site that is thought to be the site of a former great hall.

Or an inner courtyard; the debate amongst archeologists continues.

Luckily that’s not my job to know. I just have to ensure safety.

When I’m sure all is ready for the public’s arrival, I take a moment to appreciate the view of the North Sea from the top of the turret.

The weather has taken its toll on this structure, and it seems that keeping random people away is the least of the queen’s worries.

In fact, it’s questionable whether I should even be up here myself, as the stone ledge of the round turret is hardly safe for the average tourist. I’m about to finish my security sweep before anyone spots me up here, when I hear footsteps on the winding staircase below.

Shit! I’m caught.

Instinctively I turn to the noise. No one is supposed to arrive for another ten minutes.

My hand goes to my sidearm and I barrel down the steps, intent on scaring the shit out of whoever this might be. A reporter? A wayward citizen? Yet another tourist bent on stealing something from a sacred site? I’m not having any of it.

I fly around the corner and smack head on into a short, black-caped woman, who lets out a shriek of surprise. She loses her footing on the mossy steps, and, on instinct, I lunge.

Pinning her to the stone wall, my shouting echoes in this dank space. “This is a restricted area. You are detained by the order of Her Majesty the Queen. What is your name?”

The black-caped woman lifts her head, and the weak sunlight bleeding in through the gap in the stones catches on long, dark lashes and red lips.

The same red lips that haunt my dreams every damn night.