Page 23 of The Unlikely Spare (Unlikely Dilemmas #3)

“I think the evidence is quite conclusive,” Callum says. “While the British built some important infrastructure like railways and governmental systems in the colonies, the main purpose was always to extract resources more efficiently rather than benefiting local populations.”

“We essentially installed plumbing in houses we were actively robbing,” Oliver adds.

“Good god,” I breathe, feeling rather nauseated. “Maybe next time I’m at a Commonwealth reception, I’ll just skip the pleasantries and open with ‘So, about that systematic pillaging of your natural resources…’”

But it appears Callum is just getting started.

“Do you know that the Indian economy went from comprising nearly twenty-three percent of the world’s GDP before British rule to less than four percent by the time we left?

And in the 1930s, people were literally starving in Nigeria while being forced to grow cotton for British mills.

Hundreds of thousands died while British textile mills reported record profits due to cheap raw materials. ”

One thing you can also count on from Callum is a detailed dissertation when he’s passionate about something.

“And to make it worse, so much of the evidence of what happened was destroyed,” Callum continues. His face is serious, no trace of his usual good humor. “Files documenting torture in Kenya, massacres in Malaya, concentration camps in Cyprus were all deliberately destroyed or hidden.”

“They destroyed government documents?” I ask, though I’m not sure why I’m surprised.

“Systematically. British officials were given instructions to destroy any colonial documents that might—and I quote—‘embarrass Her Majesty’s government.’”

Bloody hell.

I’ve spent my whole life wrapped in the comfortable fiction of our noble history.

How many state dinners have I attended where we’ve toasted our “special relationship” with former colonies?

How many speeches about our proud history have I sat through, applauding politely while the truth rotted beneath the floorboards?

“There’s something else that often gets overlooked,” Oliver says. “The British didn’t just steal resources. We exported our Victorian morality too, which included criminalizing homosexuality across the Empire.”

The room spins slightly. “What?” I manage.

“The British imposed anti-sodomy laws everywhere they colonized,” Callum says.

“Most of those countries still have those laws today. And the saddest thing is, many pre-colonial societies had completely different understandings of gender and sexuality. Some honored third genders, others had same-sex traditions. We destroyed all of that.”

Bloody hell. I feel slightly sick.

“How do you stand it?” I ask. “Knowing all this and still being who we are? Visiting former colonies and representing the crown, knowing it committed such atrocities against the local people.”

Oliver and Callum exchange one of those married-couple looks that contains an entire conversation.

“By trying to do better,” Callum says simply. “By using our platform to make amends where possible.”

Oliver is looking at Callum with such affection, and he leans over and presses a quick kiss to Callum’s temple. They’re so disgustingly in love. It’s like watching a live-action greeting card. One that makes you simultaneously want to say “aww” and throw something at them.

I find myself having to look away from the screen.

“Anyway, I must go,” I say brightly. “I’m sure you both need to practice your ‘we’re having a royal baby’ faces. Oliver, try for something less ‘negotiating with hostile foreign powers’ and more ‘joyful expectant parent.’”

Oliver’s lips twitch. “I’ll work on it.”

“Call again soon,” Callum says. “I mean it, Nicholas. If you ever want to talk, we’re here.”

“Of course. Talk soon.”

The screen goes dark, and I’m left staring at my own reflection.

Outside the window, the desert sunset is spectacular, but my thoughts are pinging between what Callum disclosed about colonial atrocities and the intimacy I witnessed between Oliver and Callum. They’ve found purpose—in each other, in their child-to-be, in their respective roles. While I…

I play the part assigned to me. I charm and deflect and smile until my face aches, unwittingly participating in trying to gloss over centuries of systematic theft and the blood-soaked foundations of our wealth with a well-timed joke and platitudes about “shared heritage.”

And at the end of the day, I return home alone.

I sprawl on the sofa, loosening my tie even further.

Dammit.

Why on earth do I have a pressing need to talk to Officer O’Connell about my thoughts right now?

Eoin.

Is it because I know he’ll give me an honest opinion without any sugarcoating whatsoever? He’s Irish after all, and I’m quite certain they learn 800 Years of English Oppression: A Comprehensive List before their times tables in school.

I think of what he said to me at the coral reef when I talked about how all the environmental issues feel so overwhelming.

“You start where you are. With whatever piece is in front of you. You can’t fix everything, but that doesn’t mean you fix nothing.”

The problem is, it’s hard to feel like being on this tour, giving palace-sanctioned speeches at palace-sanctioned events, is fixing anything.

And now that my mind has let thoughts of O’Connell in, they arrive in a deluge, overtaking everything else.

His rare, almost-smile this afternoon when I compared him to that disgruntled camel. The unexpected revelation about his brother. The way his eyes lingered on mine for a heartbeat too long before I climbed into the car.

I’ve always prided myself on maintaining control in every situation, but something about that stubborn, principled Irishman keeps throwing me off balance.

This ridiculous…whatever it is…needs to stop. O’Connell is my security detail, nothing more. Even if he is attracted to men—and that’s still a significant if based on one fleeting look when I was in a wetsuit—he definitely doesn’t appear to be my biggest fan.

And pursuing anything with a member of my protection team would be catastrophically stupid, even by my occasionally questionable standards.

I get to my feet. I’ll have a shower, try to rinse off the day, and distract myself.

The marble bathroom is unnecessarily enormous. I turn the water to scalding and step under the spray, letting it pound against my shoulders.

I try to focus on thinking through the schedule for tomorrow, but my traitorous mind immediately conjures the image of O’Connell’s forearms as he rolled up his sleeves in the heat today.

The way his muscles flexed beneath tanned skin, the light dusting of auburn hair.

The broad expanse of his shoulders straining against that fitted shirt.

“Christ,” I groan, turning the water temperature down with a vicious twist. Cold. I need cold.

It doesn’t help.

Now I’m just shivering while thinking about how his voice deepened when he told me about his brother. How, for one unguarded moment, those gray eyes held something other than disapproval when they looked at me.

This is beyond ridiculous. I’m behaving like a teenager with a crush on the school rugby captain.

And one part of my body is particularly engaged.

I shut off the water and step out, dripping onto the tiles. The shower clearly can’t be trusted.

Neither can I, apparently.

I dry myself off and wrap my towel around my waist. I’m just wiping condensation from the mirror when I spot something dark moving across the pristine white marble floor.

I freeze.

It’s a spider.

But it’s not one of those delicate, barely there spiders you find in English country houses that can be dispatched with a tissue.

No, this is a proper Australian nightmare. It’s a fat black beast with legs like gnarled fingers, scuttling across the floor with alarming purpose.

I’m not generally afraid of spiders. But I’ve been in Australia long enough to know that roughly everything in this country is venomous, fanged, or otherwise designed by evolution to cause maximum distress to humans.

And this particular specimen is heading straight for my bare feet.

“Bloody hell!” I yelp, leaping onto the nearest surface—which happens to be the edge of the bathtub. It’s not my most dignified moment.

The spider pauses, as if affronted by my reaction, then continues its determined approach toward me.

The bathroom door bursts open with such force that it bounces against the wall. O’Connell fills the doorframe, gun drawn, eyes wild. He scans the room, his gaze scanning every shadow and corner before landing on me.

“Sir?” His voice is tight. “What’s the threat?”

I realize with painful clarity what this must look like: the spare heir clinging to his towel while balanced precariously on the edge of a bathtub.

It’s hardly the dignified royal personage they advertise on the commemorative tea towels.

“Spider,” I manage to say, pointing at it. “Rather sizable one.”

O’Connell’s expression shifts from high alert to something else entirely. He tucks his weapon back into its holster, his mouth twitching.

“You yelled because of a spider?”

“Not just any spider,” I say. “An Australian spider. Which means it’s likely to be carrying enough venom to kill a small village.”

O’Connell glances at the spider, then back at me, his eyebrow arched in a way that makes my stomach flip strangely.

“So I’m to understand that the second in line to the throne is being held hostage by a spider the size of a fifty-pence piece?”

“It’s definitely larger than that,” I reply with all the royal dignity I can muster while standing on the edge of a bathtub clutching a towel around my waist.

Which, all right, might not be very much.

“And may I remind you that your job description is to neutralize threats to my person. This creature is most certainly a threat.”