The Royal and the Rebel (Royally Pitched 2)

2

23 January

Xavier Hall

Rowan managed the seven steps from the bed to the chair, using the walker the nurse had left for him. The sweat soaking his shirt was laughable. On average, he used to run about ten kilometers a match, and now, seven measly steps reduced him to a damp, shaking mess. The metal contraption on his leg continued to disorient him. The weight of it, coupled with the horrific sight of steel embedded in his bone, made it seem as if it didn’t belong to him. The pain meds provided relief and distance. He breathed heavily, and as he pulled the lever on the side to gently lift his legs, he leaned back on the headrest. Closing his eyes, he willed his heartbeat to slow and his breathing to regulate.

When the door opened, he sucked in a breath and waited, hoping it was the only person in this place he could tolerate. The light footsteps and delicate cotton-candy scent allowed him to relax.

Violet plopped ungracefully onto the couch and sighed. “You don’t look so good,” she said.

He found her honesty refreshing, and he didn’t try to hold back the grin pulling at his mouth. He heard a shuffle and then felt a cool, damp cloth on his forehead. Small bits of tension eased further.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

Between the doctors and the nurses, the constant monitoring of his leg to make sure the new artery was working, sleep was fitful. He’d lost muscle mass and weight. Comfortable positions were hard to come by, making his mood as black as the darkest night.

In the six weeks since his injury, this slip of a girl had become his lifeline. She spent part of her days sequestered with him, providing commentary on everything from her favorite romance books to the tulip garden on her father’s estate. She was clever and entertaining. He waited for her visits, and when she left, his mood would flatten like a slashed tire. It was ironic, he knew, that he had avoided this girl for the first fifteen years of her life, and now, she was the only person he could tolerate.

“So, I have news,” Violet announced as she returned to the sofa.

She’d taken to bringing the newspaper in with her every day and reading it to him, cover to cover. It was the most informed, of world and national events, he’d ever been.

When she didn’t immediately pull the newspaper from her bottomless sack, he turned his head to look at her. Instead of speaking, when she met his gaze, he merely raised his brow in question.

“It’s so cool you can do that!” she exclaimed with overbright enthusiasm. “Father can do it, but none of us can.”

Rowan narrowed his eyes on her.

She rolled hers. “You can deny him all you want, but he is your father,” she reminded.

He scoffed. “Biological, at best.”

“Yes, well, that’s all it takes in our world.”

“I long for the days when bastards were forgotten or ignored.”

She fought a smile. Which made him fight one of his own.

“Knowing that, this news I have to share will probably make you happy.”

“That’s a tall order.” He gestured at his leg.

At this rate, he couldn’t imagine what would make him happy. Maybe to wake up from this nightmare he was trapped in. Or if not that, perhaps to be back in charge of his own life. He missed his friends and his flat and his dogs. Because he didn’t want anyone to know of his connection to the Barrington name, he couldn’t share where he was. And his isolation put him at the mercy of a teenager.

“If not happy, less mad.”

Rowan thought about that. So many things had made him mad recently that he wasn’t sure he could pick one thing that might ease his burden. He’d lost his career, his friends, his independence. His recovery was being dictated not by his team, but by his parents, as they’d virtually stolen him out from under the care of his club. He’d done his research though, and he couldn’t argue with the credentials of the doctor whose care he’d been entrusted to.

“He’s leaving, so you don’t need to worry about seeing him for a while.”

Rowan nodded. “You’re right. I’m a little less mad, knowing that.”

Violet smirked. “I know.”

Rowan chuckled. This kid. “So, where’s he off to?”

Vi shrugged. “I don’t know. He’s always going somewhere.”

“He is?”

Rowan paid no attention to this part of his past. When his father was mentioned, Rowan turned the other way. There was nothing he wanted to know about the man. But now, with Violet next to him, he was curious.

“State business, Queen business, Parliament business. He’s often gone. He was only here now because of you. Maybe he thought he could convince you to take up the mantle now that your career is over.”

Fuck, that hurt.“Right.”

Violet bit her lip and looked away from him. “Bugger. I’m sorry.”

Rowan waved away her concern. “It’s the truth.”

“Right, well, I think he thought it might all mean something to you now that football is …”

“Over,” he filled in.

With an audible gulp, she said, “Over. And with your big birthday on the horizon, time is ticking.”

Rowan flashed a genuine smile. “I know.”

Violet studied him. “You really don’t care about any of it,” she said as if she hadn’t really considered he could truly want to denounce his ties to this family. She looked almost hurt by the realization. “I mean, it’s not really my business, but I sort of thought you’d come around at some point.”

“What would give you that impression?”

She pursed her lips, thinking about what she wanted to say. “It’s your history, your right. These titles have been passed down over generations. And you just want to let them go?”

Rowan shifted in his seat and winced as pain radiated up, jarring him. “One of the titles and the lands associated with it was bestowed in the year 1745 to Winston Abbington. He was a tradesman who supplied ships to slavers. He got a cut of the sale of men to the Americas. Literally, his fortune was tied to human slavery. How can I be proud to carry the Earl of Abbington as one of my titles? The sugar plantations belonging to this family in the Caribbean were stolen from the natives and worked by slaves. I am not going to take money, shoulder titles, and own land that was built on the misery of other people.”

Violet’s eyes were huge, and her coloring had paled. Guilt rumbled through him at her stricken features. But he couldn’t be sorry. Theirs was a legacy of brutality and thievery, and the sooner she realized it, the better.

For some inexplicable reason, the titles of his father passed to his firstborn, bastard or not. But if he wasn’t married by his thirty-third birthday, some of the titles—twenty-three in all—would pass to the crown. Frederik, his half-brother, was much more suited to the ducal life. He’d already completed his military service, and he would soon take his place at their father’s side in government. Once that happened, Rowan was certain he would be left alone. He was literally counting the days.

Violet shook her head, like she could scatter the awful truths into the ether. “You’ll get a week’s reprieve before he’s back and they begin parading potential wives in front of you and Frederik.”

That was the other thing—maybe for a while, the bigger thing. The marriage to strengthen the family. Not only had his injury stolen his career, but it had also set him up for the marriage mart, which Rowan had avoided for the last ten years. He didn’t intend to ever be married, and this, coupled with things he knew of his ancestral history, had driven him away from this life a long time ago. But Frederik would do as he was told—out of ambition or obedience, Rowan couldn’t know. He knew things about his half-brother, but he didn’t know him. Maybe he’d find, like he had with Violet, that he liked Frederik. But he wasn’t interested in giving him the chance. The knowledge of the whole family descending on the manor made Rowan feel the noose tightening around his neck.

He almost hated to ask. He wasn’t the least bit interested, but Violet seemed to have information, and it was probably better to be prepared. “Women are coming here?”

Violet nodded. “Oh, yes,” she said.