Page 1 of Royally Drawn

PART ONE

Concept

Sun and Sand

INGRID

The sun and sand of Aruba provided a healing distraction from a fall off my mount at an event in Wellington the week before. I basked in the sun on a quiet day aboard a yacht, setting aside the stress of riding horses in the Florida sun. Preparations for a summer of competitions, weddings, and social obligations before me would still be there when I returned to them.

The company didn’t hurt, either.

Cecilia, Crown Princess of Norway, invited me and my sister, Astrid, to her bachelorette weekend. Tall, statuesque, and charming, Cici was my big sister in the horse world, and I couldn’t wait to celebrate her wedding to Prince Isak of Denmark. The yacht—a massive floating town—was his parents’ prized possession. They liked to rub their brand-new, shiny yacht in the face of their Norwegian counterparts. Norway had its own yacht—a classic, sedate, older vessel. Vintage boats were lovely, but there was something extraordinary about relaxing in a hot tub on the bow of a brand-new yacht.

“Refills?” Isak asked in Danish.

A total gem, he appeared to wait on Cici.

“Beer, please,” Cici answered in English.

“Can weplease, pleasestick to English, Isak?” Cici’s cousin Betty asked.

Betty, Cecilia’s youngest cousin, was the baby of the Norwegian royals. As the fourth of four daughters—nearly a decade younger than my oldest sister, Queen Alexandra—I related to her. She also trained with our eventing coach in Wellington.

“Learn, Dansk,” Isak teased.

“I can read it. But I cannot understand a word you say..” Betty pulled a face. “And let’s think of Ingy.”

“Ingrid speaks Dansk,” Isak said.

“It’s a weird, bastardised version,” I giggled. And I only read it well enough to cause trouble.”

“Your swears are legendary,” Cici giggled.

“Blame Rick,” Isak said.

Isak knew my brother-in-law, Rikard of Lundhavn. Lundhavn was a tiny Scandinavian nation that spoke a Danish dialect. I’d learned quite a bit from him on sailing holidays, where I took to the water gleefully. It was our thing. Now, we were joined by my nieces and nephew. He was sharing that bit of himself with us—the side otherwise drowned out by the Francophone Neandians.

“Indeed. You can take the prince out of Lundhavn but not take the Lundhavn out of the prince.”

Prince Lars popped into view, coming to see what was going on. Lars was Cecilia’s cousin and Betty’s older half-brother. A fellow equestrian, he’d always hang around and help with the horses whenever we visited Norway.

“I would like an Old Fashioned,” Betty announced with a flourish,

“No, you don’t,” Lars told her. “You’ll have a beer. You don’t even know what that is.”

“It’s posh,” Betty said.

“It’s not,” Cici laughed. “It’s whisky, and we’re on a yacht before noon. Go for the beer.”

Betty pouted but said no more.

“Ingrid, what about you?” Lars asked.

“Uh, I’ll take another mimosa if you will deliver it. I’m not getting out yet.”

Cici laughed and laid her palm against her forehead, pretending to faint. “You messy basic bitch! I’m not leaving this hot tub, so bring me a mimosa.”

“If the Princess wants a mimosa, she gets one,” Lars said. “Who am I to judge?”

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