Royal Mistake

by Renna Peak

  “I assure you, Victoria, there is a story for you to write. Several stories.” He rubs his jaw for a moment, breaking our gaze. “I imagine this might be the kind of news story that would make you a celebrity yourself.”

  “Why me, then? You seem to have a special kind of hatred for me in particular, Andrew. And like I told you up there…” I motion with my arm to the office building behind us. “There are plenty of reporters who are probably more capable, more experienced…hell, more willing to sit in a room with you for an extended period of time.” I stare at him for a moment. “Why are you so sure I’m your girl?”

  “I’m not.” He keeps his face devoid of expression, something he seems to be a master at doing. “You’ve somehow earned the trust of my mother, and in my country, whether for good or not, that is the bottom line. At least for now.”

  “I see.”

  “We leave now.” He touches my elbow, pulling me gently beside him as we start to walk down the street again.

  There’s no question the electricity that pulses up my arm at his touch this time comes from him. It’s just too bad that whatever attraction might be here is pretty obviously totally one-sided. He doesn’t seem to be affected by me at all.

  Figures. That’s about how my luck runs with men.

  Andrew

  I can’t deny how relieved I am that she’s accepted my offer. While I told her I had a backup plan, I’m not entirely sure what I would have done had she refused me. Now, I’m eager to get back to Montovia and settle things as quickly as possible.

  I allow her a brief stop at her home to collect some of her things—though I assure her all her needs will be met while she works for me, she insists she needs some personal possessions. I try not to look too impatient as I wait for her to pack. We need to get to my country as soon as possible. I don’t have time to stand around and wait for her to decide which of her blouses she wants to bring.

  Calm yourself, Andrew, I think. You don’t want to risk angering her before she’s on the plane with you. It was difficult enough to get her to agree to come with you in the first place—she could change her mind at any moment.

  So I bite my tongue and pretend I don’t notice or care that it takes her an ungodly amount of time to gather her things. I remind myself why I need her, and that she’s the only one I can trust with this story.

  Finally, after what feels like forever, we arrive at the private airstrip where I’ve been keeping my plane.

  “Oh,” Victoria says as she steps out of the car and sees our mode of transportation. “I guess I thought we’d be flying in something bigger.”

  “My family prefers to use our own private aircraft,” I tell her. “You might have noticed the airstrip behind our palace when you were there for the state dinner.” I keep a small plane—much smaller than my brother Leopold’s luxury jet—but she’s a thing of beauty. Her name is Atalanta—a call back to my studies of Greek mythology—and she’s traveled most of the globe with me. A fine craft by any account.

  We walk over to Atalanta and up the small set of stairs to her tiny cabin. My brother has an entire living area in his plane, but Atalanta only has a couple of passenger seats.

  “Sit wherever you like,” I tell her. “There’s also a seat next to me in the cockpit, if you’d prefer some conversation.”

  Her eyes widen. “You are flying this thing? We don’t have a pilot?”

  “I received my pilot’s license during my time in Montovia’s military,” I tell her. “I have as many flight hours as any private pilot in my country.” And unlike Leopold—and certain other members of my family—I prefer to handle my own needs. In many cases, my own efforts are as good as—or better than—those of anyone I might hire to assist me. I’m not interested in having a bunch of simpering valets or private attendants running around me. I have a job to do, and the only person I trust to do that job properly is me.

  “I guess I’ll sit with you,” she says with a shrug. “I’ve never been in a plane like this before—it might be fun to sit in the cockpit. Plus I’ll probably get to see a lot more.”

  I suppose I should be grateful her mood has improved—I’d prefer not to conduct the rest of our business as we’ve conducted most of our interactions so far—but I’m still a little wary of her acceptance of my offer, which I only made in politeness. Still, I won’t make a fool of myself by retracting it now. Hopefully, she’ll fall asleep quickly and I’ll be able to fly the rest of the way home in peace.

  I say nothing further to her as I settle into my seat. She takes the one beside me, and within fifteen minutes, we’ve been approved to take off.

  There’s nothing quite like the thrill of taking off—the rush as the plane picks up speed, the jolt in my stomach when the craft first takes to the air. Knowing I have complete command over something of this size, that I’m defying gravity by controlling one of mankind’s most innovative inventions… Frankly, it’s a powerful feeling. Montovia doesn’t have much need for an active or even a standing military—our military is more a product of tradition and political status than a true martial necessity—but perhaps in another lifetime, I might have made a career of this.

  Beside me, Victoria looks like she might actually be enjoying herself. She leans forward, staring out through the windshield as we reach our cruising altitude.

  “This is definitely not like flying in a normal plane,” she says. “Even when I manage to get a window seat, it looks nothing like this. It’s like we’re right on top of everything.”

  “Well, in a way, we are on top of everything,” I say.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see her glance over at me. “Was that a joke, Your Highness?”

  “Hardly.”

  “I think it was. Maybe there’s a sense of humor in there after all.”

  “I assure you, Victoria, I have a sense of humor. Most of the time, however, I find it inappropriate to make light of things.”

  “Okay, we’re going to have to do something about this grumpy broodiness of yours when we do your story,” she says. “Assuming you want to come out of this with people liking you and taking your side.”

  I arch an eyebrow. “Are you suggesting the way to solve my problem is to make more jokes? Because if that’s the case, then perhaps my judgment was wrong about you.”

  “No, that’s not what I was suggesting. I’m just saying it wouldn’t hurt if you loosened up a little bit. Remind the world that you’re human. They want a sexy prince, not a robot.”

  “I think Leopold has the ‘sexy prince’ thing covered,” I say. “I’m going to be king someday. I don’t care if the world thinks I’m sexy. I need the world to respect me.”

  Victoria sighs and leans back in her seat. “If this is going to work, you need to trust me. We’ll get them to respect you, but sometimes you have to start with just getting them to like you.” She turns her head toward me again. “Of course, this would all be easier if you just told me what it is you did. What story are we trying to head off?”

  I shake my head. “We won’t speak of specifics until we’re in Montovia.”

  “Because you think your laws will protect you?”

  “Because once we’re there, you’ll be signing a contract confirming our agreement.” I tighten my grip on the yoke. “You might accuse me of needing to loosen up, but I’m not a fool. I won’t say anything to a reporter until I’m certain I and my family are protected.”

  “Well, that’s up to you. But this whole thing would be a lot easier if you trusted me.”

  I don’t answer. I don’t need to justify my sense of responsibility or caution to her. We’ve come to a large bank of clouds, and I check the instruments and radar in front of me as Atalanta is enveloped in a white fog.

  “How do you see through this?” Victoria asks me.

  “You don’t,” I reply. “You trust your tools.” I indicate the instruments in front of me.

  “Ah,” she says. “God, that’s sort of terrifying.”

  “Not
if you know what you’re doing.”

  “I never realized you flew your own plane,” she says. “Any other surprise talents I should know about?”

  “I’m not entirely certain I could guess what you’d consider a surprise,” I say. “I specialized in aircraft when I did my military training—that information is on public record.”

  “But military training for the royal family is more of a formality than anything else,” she says. “No one expects you to actually fly yourself everywhere. So what else do you do? Do you secretly hand make all your own clothes? Or play the accordion? Or make elaborate five-tiered wedding cakes?”

  “Are you amusing yourself?” I ask her.

  “A little.”

  “I assure you, everything I do is in the service of my country and my family,” I tell her. “I don’t have time for meaningless hobbies.”

  “Then what do you do for fun?”

  I glance over at her. “Are you going to pepper me with pointless questions the entire way to Montovia?”

  “First of all, that’s not a pointless question,” she says. “Secondly, we definitely need to find you a hobby. A fun, meaningless one.”

  I shake my head. I don’t have the time or patience for this—and I’m definitely regretting allowing her into the cockpit with me. One can only hope she exhausts herself soon and nods off before we reach the Atlantic. Otherwise, I might be tempted to throw her in.

  She seems to get the hint, though, because she falls silent for a little while, apparently amusing herself with staring out the windows at the solid wall of white. She settles back in her seat, making herself comfortable.

  Thank God.

  A short while later, she sits up again, and my hands tighten, afraid she’s going to start asking me inane questions once more. Instead, she simply takes off her jacket, balls it up, and props it behind her head as she settles back into her seat.

  I should be relieved that she appears to be preparing for a nap. Instead, though, I find myself suddenly on edge. I hadn’t paid much attention to what Victoria was wearing before—it was suitable for a professional environment, which meant it was inoffensive and forgettable—but apparently beneath her professional jacket she was wearing something much less work-appropriate. In fact, it’s little more than an undershirt—a black, strappy thing that leaves her shoulders and much of her upper chest bare.

  She’s from L.A., I remind myself. Women wear such things to the grocery there. And why are you even noticing, anyway? But in spite of everything, I find myself thinking once again that Ms. Victoria Simpson would be quite attractive if she weren’t so infuriating or saddled with such a distasteful profession. She turns her head, making herself comfortable on her makeshift pillow, and her dark hair falls down across her bare shoulder. A sigh escapes her lips, drawing my attention to the rising swell of her breasts—a lesser man might allow himself to be distracted by breasts like that, but I know better. She and I have business to complete, and I’m not interested in anything more than that.

  Still…

  Sometimes I wonder how my life might be different if I allowed myself to behave as my younger brother does—or used to, before he met Eleanor Parker. I wonder whether I’m missing anything by keeping my dalliances responsible and discreet. I am a man, after all—it’s not as if I haven’t thought about throwing caution to the wind and indulging my baser urges more often. But I have a responsibility to my country—as I am to be king, I must control my behavior. It is my duty to act in a way that befits a future monarch, and that includes all my personal affairs. My life is dedicated to my country—it is my responsibility to marry in a way that politically benefits us, and to ultimately produce an heir.

  So, naturally, any sexual thoughts about the woman beside me are unwise and ill-advised. It would be best to avoid them altogether—though even now, I feel my eyes being drawn back to her.

  Control yourself, I think, forcing my attention back to the instruments in front of me. You need to get to Montovia and settle everything, then be rid of her for good.

  Just as I’ve refocused myself, however, Atalanta suddenly shudders.

  I straighten, gripping the yoke. What is it, girl? This doesn’t feel like normal turbulence. Everything looks fine on the radar—

  Suddenly Atalanta jerks again, this time dropping. Something flashes on my controls.

  The wing. Something is wrong with the wing.

  Beside me, Victoria has jerked upright. “What’s going on?”

  Atalanta pitches forward, and my stomach leaps into my throat as she loses altitude.

  “I don’t know what happened,” I say, flipping a couple of switches, trying to help Atalanta stabilize. “There’s damage on the left wing. Maybe it was a bird strike.”

  “A bird strike?”

  “We might have hit some birds. Sometimes they get sucked into the turbines. It’s rare at this altitude, but—”

  Atalanta pitches again, and I focus my full attention on the controls.

  Beside me, I hear Victoria suck in a shuddering breath.

  “Are we crashing?” she asks quietly. Her voice is almost too calm, too even.

  “I’m going to make an emergency landing,” I tell her. “Make sure your seatbelt is on.”

  I’ve done emergency landing drills numerous times, but pretending to be in an emergency and actually experiencing one are two entirely different things.

  Focus, I tell myself. Remember your training.

  That’s a difficult thing to do, though, especially when Atalanta keeps pitching and dropping, fighting all my controls.

  We’ve dipped below the clouds now, moving quickly toward the ground below—too quickly. I try to bring Atalanta’s nose up, try to slow our descent as best I can.

  “You can do it, girl,” I mutter to her beneath my breath. “Just listen to me.”

  We’re still dropping too fast. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Victoria grip the armrests of her seat. She’s breathing hard and fast, clearly trying to keep herself from panicking.

  “I’ve done this before,” I lie. “I’ll get us safely down, I promise.”

  How, I have no idea.

  Atalanta jerks and drops again. This time, though, I manage to get her nose back up briefly. The higher her nose when we touch down, the better our chances of surviving—if we hit the ground at a sharp angle, there’s little chance of living through this.

  You can’t die here, I tell myself. Montovia needs you. I would die for my country—but a crash landing in America does little to serve my homeland. If anything, my death would spell disaster—none of my siblings are prepared to step in and take my place, to dedicate themselves to our country the way I have. Even worse, though, is how a tragedy of this scale would leave the people of Montovia—it is our national pride that holds our small country together. If I were to die, and if the people of Montovia were to learn of what happened that night in Prague without me being there to assure them of my love and commitment… It is the greatest betrayal to my country I can think of.

  I must survive this. I must.

  And save Victoria, too, I think. I dragged her into this—almost against her will—and if she dies as a result, I’ll spend the better part of eternity punishing myself for it. I may not like the woman, but she’s my responsibility now.

  The ground is still approaching too fast. Everything is happening too quickly—and at the same time, everything seems to be happening with an impossible slowness, as if time is stretching out in front of me.

  Get Atalanta down somewhere safe. Keep her nose up. Don’t kill anyone. Those three orders to myself keep circling through my head. Get her down. Keep her nose up. Don’t kill anyone.

  We’re low enough now that I can start to see the individual trees. Thank God we aren’t over a city or town—there are fewer people and obstacles to worry about. But landing on trees wouldn’t be good for Victoria or me—they’d tear us up on the way down. I need a field, or a—

  There—up ahead. A clear
ing along a stretch of water that might almost be called a lake. If I can get us there, get us to the flat, open ground—

  Atalanta jerks again, and beside me Victoria bites back a cry.

  “I’ll get us down,” I tell her again, though the words are more for myself than for her.

  We’re almost there, but I’m having more and more trouble controlling Atalanta. I need to keep her parallel to the ground, need to—

  The plane shudders as both Victoria and I are jerked forward.

  We’ve clipped a tree with the bottom of Atalanta. And now she’s not listening to me at all, not—

  Another pitch, and this one nearly wrenches the yoke out of my hands. We’re so close to the field…so close…

  We’re over the clearing now. I have to bring her down. Pray that she isn’t going too fast. Pray that her nose is high enough—

  We’re thrown forward again as Atalanta’s wheels hit the ground. She bounces once, twice, three times…and she keeps bouncing. She’s going too fast. I need to stop her. We don’t want to hit that lake.

  I do everything in my power to slow her, but I can tell it’s not going to be enough. Atalanta tries to obey me, but it’s not enough, not quickly enough.

  “Life vests are in the cabinet!” I shout to Victoria. It’s the first time during this whole ordeal that I’ve raised my voice, but I don’t have the strength to keep my tone calm anymore.

  It’s the last thing I say before the plane hits the water.

  Victoria

  I stare up at the gauzy white clouds for a few minutes—maybe it’s even longer than that—before I’m pretty sure I remember it wasn’t very long ago I was inside clouds similar to the ones I’m looking at. I suck in a painful breath that turns into a sputtering cough.

  I sit up, trying not to choke as I clear the water from my lungs. My head is throbbing and my chest aches, though I still can’t quite remember why—

  Prince Andrew.