The Wild Heir

  I pause and can see her shoulders stiffen, anticipating where this is going.

  “So,” I continue, “I was just curious. Are you a virgin?”

  Oh man, if looks could kill. She’s trying to incinerate me on the spot and I know she’s going to tell me it’s rude, it’s crude, it’s none of my business, but the fact of the matter is, she has to answer truthfully, and honestly, I have no idea what she’s going to do.

  Finally she raises her chin and looks me dead in the eye. “Is this relevant to the marriage?”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, am I supposed to be a virgin?”

  “Oh god no.” I laugh and then quickly compose myself. “Not that there’s anything wrong with being a virgin. I mean, hey, that’s always a trip. But this isn’t that kind of marriage. There are no ancient royal Viking laws or anything that say the queen has to be a virgin. Vikings knew how to have fun.”

  She slowly raises a brow at that. She’s not impressed with any of this.

  “Not that it’s any of your business,” she says slowly, getting to her feet, “but I am not a virgin. And to save you the trouble of bringing this up again in future questions, I can tell you that it happened at boarding school, his name was Malcolm, I was sixteen. We were together until the summer after we graduated when he went to Oxford and I took a year to find myself.”

  “And did you? Find yourself, I mean.”

  “No. Is that all?”

  “So he was the only guy you slept with?”

  “Is this another question or are you just curious?”

  “Just curious?”

  “Then you can keep wondering,” she says, walking past me and plunking her empty glass down on the table. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Wait,” I call after her before she heads down the hall. “You have to ask me another one. It’s the rule.”

  She looks utterly dejected as she pauses in the doorway, leaning against it. Then she straightens up and looks at me over her shoulder.

  “Do you really think this marriage is ever going to happen?”

  Damn. She’s caught me off-guard. I don’t even know if I have an answer for this one.

  “I don’t know,” I admit. “I guess I haven’t given much thought to what happens when the two weeks are over.” The truth is, sometimes it’s hard for me to concentrate on anything else except the here and now.

  And all I see right here, right now, is her.

  But she doesn’t object to my answer.

  She just nods. “See you in the morning.”

  Ten

  Ella

  I’ve been at Thornfield Hall for five days and I’m starting to lose my mind.

  At first I thought it was poetic and romantic. I tried my best to fully immerse myself into the Jane Eyre atmosphere, picking up old books from the bookshelves and trying to read them by the fire until I realized I couldn’t read Norwegian, talking to Jane as if she were Mrs. Fairfax, and wandering the grounds as if they were the moors and I were awaiting Mr. Rochester’s lofty arrival.

  Only there is no Mr. Rochester, and if there is he’s a lot more insufferable than the one in the book.

  Magnus is everywhere I look, all the time, except when he’s not. He’s either purposely trying to annoy me or he’s gone, and I don’t really have a clue where he goes except he gets into the chauffeured car with Ottar and Einar and they disappear for a few hours. Usually this happens at night, and when Magnus comes back he’s good and drunk.

  It pisses me right off. Mainly because I’m the one who is stuck in this place, and with the weather turning cold and spiteful, I feel especially imprisoned. Meanwhile Magnus is able to go out and do what he normally does. Or who he normally does, I would think.

  It doesn’t bother me, that part. The fact that when he leaves at night I’m certain he’s going out in Oslo and getting laid. We don’t owe each other anything at all. He’s free to do what he wants, be who he is. Why should I stop any of that? If anything, this might be the last time he has to sow his wild oats, if wedding vows mean anything to him at all.

  Except that the longer the days go by, the more I’m bothered by it.

  Just a little.

  The way he looks at me sometimes…

  It does something to my stomach, turns it inside out and in knots.

  I know he’s conscious of it. But it doesn’t stop his eyes from burning into mine, even when he doesn’t say anything.

  Maybe especially when he doesn’t say anything.

  That’s when I feel him the most.

  But we do talk, and often it’s that fucking question time.

  So far I haven’t instigated any of the sessions—it’s all been him.

  And the questions for me have been all over the place.

  Question: Have you ever shoplifted?

  (No. But my friend did when I was seven and I didn’t stop her.)

  Question: Have you ever climbed a tree?

  (Yes. Weirdo. I was young, and I can’t remember the age but my brothers were there giving me the leg up.)

  Question: What’s your favorite movie?

  (The Princess Bride. I always wanted to be Princess Buttercup instead of Princess Isabella.)

  Question: Pet peeve?

  (People who have false humility.)

  Question: Bucket list band or artist?

  (Elton John, without a doubt.)

  Question: favorite drink?

  (Chai tea latte.)

  Question: favorite alcoholic drink?

  (Red wine—I’m not too picky about the variety.)

  Question: Have you ever had a threesome?

  (What do you think?)

  And in return I had to volley questions back at him. Some I put little thought into because I just wanted things to be over with, others I was genuinely curious about.

  I wanted to know what his worst subject in school was (math), which sister was his favorite (he didn’t hesitate, it was Mari, followed by Britt), what his favorite band was (Deftones), what his worst accident was (breaking his collarbone and arm during an ATV race), what his favorite dessert was (crème brûlée ), what his favorite vacation spot was (Azores), what his favorite thing about Norway was (the people, the history, the land…he wouldn’t shut up), who his first girlfriend was.

  Interestingly enough, this question stumped him for a second. It’s not that he couldn’t remember her. It’s that I get the feeling she did a number on him. Her name was Lise and he was rather young, only twelve. He didn’t say anything more than that but it intrigued me that she might have gotten under his skin.

  I’ll have a follow-up question for him later.

  But today, the clouds have cleared and the sun is beaming down full-strength.

  All of us—Jane, Ottar, Einar, the help, and Magnus, have all wandered outside at some point or another to soak up the morning sun and blink bleary-eyed into this clear October day.

  “Fancy a game of tennis?” Magnus asks me as we stand on the stone patio at the back of the house that overlooks the fields and the distant town of Asker. Both of us are cradling cups of coffee in our hands. I’m normally a tea drinker but this place has made me up my caffeine intake.

  “Fancy a game of tennis?” I repeat with a smile, making fun of his proper phrasing.

  As is usual with him, he’s not wearing much. Just thin heather grey sweatpants and an old Ministry band t-shirt that he must have gotten from a thrift store. The sun may be warm but it’s not that warm and more often than not he’s barely dressed.

  I know he does it to bug me.

  Who knows why a half-dressed man should bug me so much but he does and he knows it.

  I guess what it comes down to is the fact that I want to stare at him. He’s like the bloody sun, and while only quick glances are allowed, you wish you could just stare unabashedly and really soak it all in. Every solar flare, every dancing flame, every burning storm.

  But that’s what Magnus wants so I have to constantly avert my
eyes and pretend that I always see men that are built like him.

  The fact is, I don’t. I haven’t. That’s pretty obvious. The only man I’ve seen naked is Malcolm and while I was madly in love with him at the time, the teenager mind didn’t care that he was skinny as a rake and freakishly smooth.

  My twenty-two-year-old mind and untested hormones are being tortured by the fact that Magnus and his ridiculously toned body is everywhere I turn and I have to keep on pretending that I don’t see him. I have to keep pretending that I don’t wish for a moment that I could take my time dragging my eyes over his tattoos and his sinewy muscles. I have to pretend that he’s of no interest to me.

  Sometimes I think I’m trying to fool myself of that as well.

  “Yeah, you afraid?” he asks, crossing his arms. The muscles in his forearms bulge. The man is fucking built like a tank, I swear.

  Don’t you ever let him know that, I chide myself. Eyes up.

  I look him in the eyes. Dark, intense, always hinting at something sexual. “Afraid?” I ask. “Of tennis?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is this an official question?”

  “No,” he says, biting back a smile. “You think I’d waste that on tennis?”

  I shrug. “I have no idea what your priorities are.”

  Ain’t that the truth. Part of the reason why I spend a lot of my time trying to figure him out is because sometimes I can’t. One minute he seems super focused on something, the next it’s like it never even existed. The other day he seemed absolutely obsessed in getting a vintage billiards table for the place, spending hours online scrolling through ads and stores to get just the right one. The next morning, though, when I asked him about it, he shrugged it off like it was nothing and I haven’t heard a peep about it since.

  Which explains a lot when it comes to women. He’ll be interested in one for a time and then he’ll move on to another. At least that’s what I speculate. I guess I should be somewhat flattered that it’s been almost a week now and he’s still staring at me with those wicked eyes like the day we first met.

  Maybe even more so.

  All in your head, I remind myself. And that’s the last thing you should want.

  Well, other than the fact that wanting this is kind of my agenda for these two weeks.

  Honestly, this is quite the bloody mess when you think about it.

  “Sure, I’ll play,” I tell him. I haven’t played tennis in years but I figure any sort of exercise will work off the excess energy and nerves I have. I can’t tell if it’s my isolation here or Magnus’s questions or what but every morning I wake up feeling like I might run down the street and never look back.

  Magnus tells me he hasn’t played tennis here since he was a teenager and though he said the court—which is located on the other side of the servants’ house—was in good enough shape, he didn’t know where the rackets were or what condition they were in. So while he looks for them, I run upstairs to my room and change into running tights, a sports bra, and a loose t-shirt, practically crashing into Jane as I leave my room.

  “Sorry!” I apologize, running past her.

  “Where are you going?” she calls after me.

  “To play tennis with Magnus.”

  “Uh huuuh,” she says after a beat and I don’t have to turn around to see the expression on her face. She’s been ogling him, stalking him, harping on about him since we moved in. You’d think she was the one who might be getting married.

  I head out of the house and into the courtyard and stop dead in my tracks when I see Magnus there in front of me.

  Gone are the sweatpants, which should be a relief since I have to battle with my brain to keep my eyes from staring at the ever-present outline of his dick. But now he’s shirtless and the pants have been replaced with way too small green athletic shorts, the kind you’d see on tennis players in the eighties, and instead of a mere outline, it looks like he’s smuggling an anaconda in there.

  “Oh my god,” I exclaim, stopping where I am and covering my eyes. “Where did you find those?”

  “In storage with the tennis rackets,” he says. “I think these were my father’s when I was little. They’re very kingly shorts, can’t you see?”

  I peer through my fingers, unable to keep from smiling. It’s not just the tightness of the shorts, or the fact that they’re so short and tiny that they show off his muscled thighs, the skin pale with a tan line near the top. But he’s also found a red terry-cloth headband and has put it around his head. Combined with his wild hair, he looks exactly like Luke Wilson from the movie The Royal Tenenbaums, if he’d lost his shirt somewhere and was covered in tattoos.

  I tell him this and he smiles. “I was going more for Björn Borg. He’s a famous tennis player from Sweden.” He holds out a racket for me. “In fact, I believe he’s taught my father a few lessons.”

  I pause before I take the racket. If he’s had famous athletes teaching his father, there’s a good chance they’ve taught him too. “So how good at tennis are you?”

  He shrugs and I can tell he’s playing it down. “I’m okay.”

  “You haven’t played since you were a teenager?”

  “No, I haven’t played here since I was a teenager,” he says, his eyes trailing around the surroundings. “But squash is more my game these days.”

  “What isn’t your game?”

  “Not much,” he says. “You afraid you’ll lose?”

  I laugh. “I know I’m going to lose.”

  “That’s not a very good approach to life.”

  “Well, first of all,” I say, taking a step back and pointing at him with my racket. “Look at what you’re wearing. If this isn’t a tactic of distraction, then I don’t know what is.”

  The grin that spreads across his face is so smug I regret saying anything. “You find my body distracting?”

  My eyes tilt to the sky. “As if you haven’t been playing that game this last week. We all know why men wear sweatpants.”

  A wicked gleam comes over his eyes. “Oh you do, do you? Please enlighten me. I thought I wore them because they’re comfortable.”

  “You wear them because they show off your…your…” Okay. Cheeks are going red. I really need to stop talking.

  “My love muscle? My middle leg? The steamin’ semen roadway?”

  I burst out laughing in an extremely unladylike way, a combination of a horse snort and a hyena, and I have to turn my back to him to compose myself.

  “Am I close?” he goes on. “It shows off Big Dick and the Twins?”

  I thrust my palm out toward him, trying to catch my breath. “Please, stop.”

  “Are you sure you want me to stop? It seems like you’ve been wanting to talk about this for a while.”

  I take in a deep breath and turn back around to face him. “No more talking about your dick.”

  He covers his mouth mockingly, eyes wide. “Oh my god. You said dick. Have you ever said that word out loud before?”

  “You are such an asshole.”

  “Drittsekk,” he says.

  “What?”

  “It’s Norwegian. Means asshole. Though direct translation is shitbag, which I think is more elegant. I think it’s about time you start learning the language, don’t you?”

  “How about we play some tennis first?”

  “Oh you want to get your losing over with? Fine by me.”

  We head over to the courts and my eyes stay trained to his ass nearly the entire time. He’s got a damn good one, round and muscled and bouncy, completely showcased in those teeny weeny shorts. It’s like looking at the sun again but this time I can stare unabashedly.

  He knows I’m staring too. He has eyes in the back of his head. I swear he even wiggles his butt a little.

  The court is on the small size, nothing fancy, and it doesn’t look like there’s been a lot of upkeep with fallen leaves scattered all over it. I suppose the estate doesn’t always have a bunch of full-time staffers if there’s no one st
aying here.

  Magnus goes to the opposite side of the net, pops open the canister of tennis balls and sticks all but one in his pockets. Now he looks even more ridiculous.

  “Quit staring at my balls!” he yells at me.

  “I can’t help it,” I tell him, heading over to center court and trying to adjust my grip on the racket. “You look lumpy.”

  He glances at the tennis balls bulging out the side of his shorts like goiters. “It’s a glandular problem.” He straightens his shoulders, flexes his pecs, then throws up the ball.

  Before he even hits it I know I’m in big trouble.

  The look of utter focus and determination on his face is something to behold, like he’s playing against an Olympian and not me in my baggy shirt and tights.

  The ball meets the racket with a satisfying thwack and then whizzes past me at the speed of light, landing right in the lines. I didn’t even have a chance.

  I look back at him. “Nice shot.”

  He just nods, his jaw set firmly, his brows drawn in concentration. It’s odd to see him so serious.

  He serves up the ball again, and again he muscles through with a powerful swing, this time the ball nearly taking me out. I have to sidestep out of the way to save my kneecaps.

  “You know you’re supposed to hit it back,” he says to me, fishing another ball out of his pocket and bouncing it up and down with such ease it makes me think he’s used to playing tennis with his eyes closed.

  “You know that I’m rubbish at this game compared to you,” I tell him. “Maybe don’t try and murder me with each serve.”

  “Maybe step up and try to hit it back,” he says.

  I glare at him. Fine. I’ll try. But I know he’s just trying to humiliate me.

  I take my stance, legs apart, butt out, and do my best to channel Serena Williams. I tense my thighs, tighten my grip on the racket, and wait, my heart beating loudly in my chest. I don’t know how but Magnus has somehow managed to turn tennis into a high adrenaline sport.