The Accidental Princess

by Michelle Willingham

  It was then that he saw the enormous slice of chocolate cake on the plate beside Hannah. She took a bite of the dessert, as if defying the etiquette for proper breakfast food. Watching her devour the cake reminded him of the expression on her face last night when he’d showed her the pleasures of her secret flesh.

  He hastily took a seat to hide his reaction to the memory.

  Mrs Turner dealt out the cards to each of them. ‘I know you’ve played before.’

  He let his gaze rest upon Hannah’s face while she ate her cake. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then you’ll be able to teach Lady Hannah all that she needs to know.’

  He made no response, watching as Hannah’s tongue slipped out to lick her fingertip. There were many things he wanted to teach Lady Hannah, and not a single one of them having to do with cards.

  Hannah picked up the hand dealt, a sheepish smile upon her face. ‘I’m not very good with cards. I was never allowed to play.’

  He picked up his own cards, barely glancing at them. ‘Why not?’

  ‘My mother believed that any cards were a form of gambling. She didn’t want me to risk eternal hellfire.’

  ‘There are far worse ways to sin,’ he pointed out.

  Hannah’s face turned scarlet, as though she were thinking of the time she’d spent in his arms. She forced her attention back to the cards.

  ‘Which of us will be the dealer?’ Michael asked Mrs Turner.

  ‘Why don’t you take on that role? Let Lady Hannah draw first.’

  Michael deferred to the widow’s wishes and dealt the cards. He picked up his hand, studying the two jacks and the queen of spades amid the other numbered cards. ‘Were you wanting to wager on the game?’

  Mrs Turner beamed. ‘Well, of course we should have a wager. That’s what makes playing cards so entertaining. And wicked.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with a bit of wickedness…once in a while.’ Michael shifted his cards, laying them facedown on the table while he waited for Hannah.

  When she glanced up, her gaze settled upon his mouth. He spied the traces of chocolate upon her lips. Right now he wanted to lick it off, devouring her mouth and pulling her close.

  ‘What should we wager with?’ Hannah asked, a faint blush of colour upon her cheeks. ‘Money we don’t have?’

  He knew she was referring to the fictional thousand pounds he’d offered in return for her handkerchief last night. ‘Not for money.’

  ‘What, then?’

  A flash of inspiration struck him, and Michael signalled to one of the ships’ waiters. After a brief discussion, the waiter nodded, disappearing behind closed doors.

  ‘Wait and see.’

  When the waiter returned, he held a tray of miniature pastries, caramels and confections.

  ‘We’ll play for sweets,’ Michael said.

  ‘Lieutenant Thorpe, you are a man of genius,’ Hannah breathed. Her face beamed with anticipation and a new determination to win.

  He rested his wrist upon the table, watching her as she focused on her cards. Mrs Turner explained the rules, urging Hannah to choose five cards to exchange from her hand.

  ‘The seven is the lowest card and ace is the highest,’ the widow explained. ‘You should try to exchange the most cards, in order to hold the advantage. Then you will count the number of points in your hand.’

  Hannah’s mouth was pursed, as though she were contemplating the best combination to discard. After she picked up her new cards, Mrs Turner explained more of the rules while Michael exchanged his own cards.

  ‘The winner of each trick will receive her choice of confections from the tray,’ the widow said, reaching for one of the chocolates. ‘I had best sample these to ensure that they are of good quality.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we each sample a bit?’ Hannah offered, eyeing the sweets.

  ‘Not unless you win.’ Michael arranged his cards. ‘That would be cheating.’ After she’d arranged her hand, he asked, ‘What is your opening bid?’

  Before she answered, Hannah took another glance at her cards. ‘What penalty will the loser pay, for losing a trick?’

  ‘There’s no penalty for losing. The winner gets the sweets, and that’s fair enough.’

  ‘No, Lady Hannah is right,’ Mrs. Turner said. ‘The loser should pay a forfeit.’

  ‘I will not bleat like a goat. Or sing.’ He didn’t care what the women wanted; some things were beneath his dignity.

  Hannah offered him a stunning smile. ‘I think it should be answering questions. The loser has to tell the winner the truth, no matter what is asked.’

  ‘Even better,’ Mrs Turner said. ‘We will take turns playing against one another.’ From the bright colour in the woman’s cheeks, it appeared that she had not suffered unduly the night before. Michael wondered if she had any memory of what she’d done. Probably not.

  Hannah won the first trick. Her lips curved upwards with victory as she chose one of the caramels. Her eyes closed as she chewed the confection. ‘I could eat a hundred of these,’ she breathed.

  And didn’t he want to be the one to give them to her? The exquisite expression on her face was like a woman in the throes of sexual fulfillment.

  Michael focused his attention back on his cards, ignoring the rigid arousal he was forced to hide beneath the table.

  ‘Time for your forfeit,’ Hannah demanded. She reached for a glass of lemonade that the waiter had brought earlier, thinking to herself. After a moment, she asked, ‘How did you and my brother Stephen become friends?’

  Her question surprised him. He’d expected her to inquire about Reischor or about the journey to Lohenberg.

  ‘I met Whitmore at school, years ago.’

  Her face turned curious. ‘I didn’t know you’d gone to Eton.’

  Michael dealt the next set of cards, shrugging. ‘I did receive an education. My mother insisted on it, though it was an unnecessary hardship.’

  Mrs Turner’s face turned serious. ‘It was important to Mary. She wanted our Michael to have a better life than they could give.’ With a smile, she added, ‘He was the best student there.’

  ‘Really.’ Lady Hannah’s mouth softened in thought as she arranged another card.

  Michael sensed the unspoken questions. Common men rarely attended schools that educated the upper classes. The truth was, he didn’t know why he’d been allowed to attend. The headmaster had never made mention of it, though Michael was certain his fellow students had suspected his humble beginnings.

  Knowing that each day he spent at school was another coin taken away from his parents, he felt he had no choice but to excel at his studies. And though he’d learned Latin and French, he’d found little use for it. A gentleman’s education didn’t amount to much without a title.

  In the end, he’d followed the path of several friends, joining the British Army. Whitmore had been his closest friend and had considered a military career as well, before he’d become the heir.

  Mrs Turner played against him in the next round, and Michael spied Graf von Reischor approaching. Though he nearly lost his concentration, he managed to win the trick.

  When Hannah offered him the tray, he chose a chocolate-dipped cream.

  ‘Take it,’ he bade Hannah.

  ‘But it was your win. The sweet belongs to you.’

  ‘My win. My choice.’ He held it out, and Hannah smiled before she slipped the confection inside her mouth. The pleasure on her face made the decision worthwhile.

  ‘And what question would you have me answer?’ Mrs Turner prompted. She eyed the confection tray with a forlorn look.

  He thought a moment. ‘Tell me the earliest memory you have of my mother.’

  The Graf greeted them, pulling up a chair. ‘I hope you don’t mind if I join in your conversation.’

  ‘Not at all.’ Mrs Turner beamed.

  Michael tensed, unsure if he wanted the Graf to hear stories about his mother.

  ‘Mary Thorpe was my closest friend, you know.’ Mrs Tur
ner’s expression turned distant as she remembered. ‘She and Paul worked hard and always remembered those less fortunate than themselves.’ She rubbed her chin, smiling wistfully. ‘They loved you very much. After so many years of being childless, you were their gift.’

  In the fraction of a moment, her voice faded to a whisper. ‘You were only three years old.’

  He saw the Graf’s face narrow. ‘Three years?’

  The widow frowned at the Graf. ‘Until you have won a trick, you are not allowed to ask questions.’ She sent the Graf a stern look. ‘I believe it’s your turn to deal, Lady Hannah.’

  Michael chose another sweet off the tray and passed it to the widow, as a silent means of thanks. The elderly woman popped it into her mouth.

  ‘Later tonight, we will arrive at the home of Lady Hannah’s cousins,’ the Graf informed them. ‘They live inland, a few hours beyond Bremerhaven, near the Lohenberg border.’

  Michael saw Mrs Turner’s hands begin to shake. ‘Lohenberg?’ she whispered. ‘You never said we were going to Lohenberg. You said Germany.’

  He hadn’t, because he’d suspected she would react in this way. ‘We are passing through Germany,’ he admitted. ‘But the trip to Lohenberg will only be for a few weeks. There’s nothing to worry about.’

  ‘No.’ She stood up, raising her voice. ‘No. You can’t go back.’

  Go back?

  Mrs Turner had turned deathly white, wringing her hands. Turning on the Graf, she demanded, ‘You can’t force him to go.’ Muttering to herself, she pushed the cards away, overturning the tray of confections.

  Michael caught her before she could run off. Hysteria was etched in her face. ‘Why?’ he asked softly. ‘Why can’t I go?’

  ‘Because they’ll kill you if you do.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Later that evening

  The coach jostled across the rough roads, while outside, clouds obscured the landscape. The ship had docked at Bremerhaven, and now they were journeying towards her cousins’ home near the border.

  Hannah had sent Estelle to travel with the Graf and his servants in another coach while she travelled with Michael and Mrs Turner. She didn’t want to agitate the older woman after her outburst earlier. It had taken most of the day and a dose of laudanum to calm her down. Now, the slight noise of Mrs Turner snoring was the only sound to disturb the interior of the coach.

  In the meantime, Hannah’s head was starting to ache, but she pushed away the pain. Only a few more hours, and she could sleep in a real bed. She imagined soft pillows and warm covers.

  Michael looked as though he were on the way to his execution. There was a grim cast to his face while he stared out the window.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Hannah asked. ‘Is there something I can get for you?’ There was a basket of food and drink at her feet, which neither of them had touched. Mrs Turner hadn’t yet awakened to take her share of the meal.

  ‘I don’t need anything,’ he said. But his hands were curled into fists at his sides, his gaze staring out the window.

  ‘You’re hoping that this turns out to be nothing,’ she predicted. ‘That you have no ties to Lohenberg.’

  He nodded, his face dark with tension. Though he might deny it, she wasn’t so certain his past was that simple. Someone had tried to strangle him after dinner. Not only that, but the widow knew something about Michael’s past. Something ominous.

  Whenever Hannah had tried to ask Michael about his own journey to Lohenberg, he’d redirected her questions. He, too, was holding secrets.

  ‘What if you are royalty?’ she asked. ‘Would it be so bad?’

  He shook his head. ‘There’s no evidence of that. Any resemblance to the King is a coincidence.’

  ‘What about Mrs Turner?’

  ‘Mrs Turner has slowly been losing her wits over the past year. Nothing she says can be trusted.’

  ‘She was singing about a lost child last night. What if she was talking about you?’

  ‘She was singing about her son, Henry.’ Michael stared outside the window. ‘It was her child who was lost. And it was my fault he’s dead.’ The heaviness in his voice suggested he felt responsible for the widow’s madness.

  ‘How did he die?’

  Michael rested his hand on his knee, tapping at his hat. ‘It was at Balaclava.’

  ‘Tell me what happened.’

  He glanced over at Mrs Turner, as though reluctant to speak of it or remember the day.

  ‘Please,’ she whispered. ‘I want to know.’

  At last, he lowered his voice. ‘Men were shot down around me, by the hundreds. Myself included.’

  ‘You lived.’

  ‘Only because I fell beneath Henry’s body. When the enemy soldiers stabbed their bayonets into the dead, they stabbed Henry. Not me.’

  The desolation and bitterness in his voice made her reach out to take his hand. Though both of them wore gloves, she tried to offer him the comfort of touch.

  ‘He was already dead, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes. But I should be the one dead, not him.’ He shook his head in disgust.

  ‘It wasn’t your fault that he died. Only God can determine who dies and who lives.’ She reached out and took his hand in hers. ‘Don’t punish yourself for being one of the lucky few.’

  He gripped her palm. ‘Can’t you understand? If I am proven to be the Prince, Reischor wants to place me upon the throne. Why would a man like me deserve a fate like that?’

  ‘Perhaps it’s an obligation. A chance for you to make changes that will help this country. What if you could protect others from dying at war?’

  He looked away. ‘I don’t want it, Hannah. I’m not a man who can lead others. It’s not in me.’

  He exhaled, and the breath was filled with guilt. ‘I couldn’t even look after my own men, Hannah. How could anyone believe I could look after a country?’

  ‘Because you care about others. And because you’re bullheaded enough to do it.’ She released his hand, leaning back against the coach.

  The throbbing of her headache started to bother her again, and she reached for the vial of laudanum she had given to Mrs Turner.

  ‘Are you having another of your headaches?’ Michael asked suddenly.

  She shook her head. ‘I hope not. Sometimes if I take the laudanum soon enough, it keeps the headache from becoming too bad.’

  After she measured out two drops, she closed her eyes, resting her head against the side of the coach. When the bouncing of the wheels made her clench her teeth, she lowered her head into her hands.

  A moment later, she heard Michael removing his gloves. He reached over to her bonnet and untied it, lifting it away. She didn’t protest, not wanting to wake Mrs Turner.

  With his bare hands, Michael covered her hair, his thumbs massaging her temples. The gentleness of his touch, his desire to take away the pain, made her breath catch.

  His thumbs were rough, his fingers slipping into her hair, framing her face. The effects of the laudanum, coupled with his gentle caress, made her relax.

  The circling movement of his thumbs and the light pressure on her scalp helped her forget about the headache. She grew less restrained, leaning into his touch.

  ‘I shouldn’t let you do this,’ she whispered. The more she allowed him liberties, the worse she would feel in a few days when he was gone.

  He lifted her hand to his mouth, removing her glove before kissing her hand. ‘Nor this.’

  The languid heat of his mouth against her skin was tantalising. Seductive. She wanted to sit in his lap, as before, and pull his mouth down to hers.

  ‘If you were a Prince,’ she breathed, ‘you wouldn’t look twice at a woman like me, with all the scandalous things I’ve done.’

  ‘If I were a Prince…’he nipped at her fingers, sliding the tip of her thumb into his mouth ‘…I would make you a Princess.’

  He caressed her palm, adding, ‘I’d lock you up in a tower and come to you at night.’ A dark smile cr
ossed his face. ‘I’d forbid you to wear anything at all, except your hair.’

  She jerked her hand away as if it were on fire. Her skin certainly was. His evocative images made her body ache and her mind imagine things that weren’t going to be.

  They would never be together, no matter what the future held. The words were part of a game, nothing more.

  Michael reached for her hand again, his long fingers twining in hers, almost as if he drew comfort from her presence.

  Hannah stared at the door to the coach, knowing she needed to break free of him. Last night, she had allowed him intimacies that only a husband should know. The pleasure could not eradicate her guilt.

  ‘I’ll be arriving at my cousins’ house tonight,’ she said, unable to keep the sadness from her voice. Gently, she pulled her hand away and put on her glove. ‘I shouldn’t see you again.’

  ‘You’re right.’ He rested his forearms on his knees, glancing outside at the clouded scenery.

  The evening light was fading, night slipping soundlessly over the land. Barren fields overshadowed the greenery, ploughed in preparation for planting. The dismal landscape darkened her mood even more.

  What had she hoped? That he would ask her to stay with him? He wouldn’t. Not ever, for she doubted if she meant anything more to him than a distraction.

  The tiny space inside the coach was starting to close in on her, as though the bars of her exile were shutting out the rest of the world.

  Michael didn’t look at her again, and Hannah closed her eyes so she wouldn’t dwell upon it. The anger and hurt brimmed up inside. Her headache was starting to fade, and she drifted into sleep.

  Abruptly, the coach came to a stop. Hannah stared at Michael, wondering what had happened. ‘Stay here,’ Michael ordered. ‘I’ll find out what it is.’

  ‘Did something happen to the Graf’s coach?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m going to find out.’ He stared hard at her. ‘But do not leave this coach.’

  She forced herself to nod, though she could hear the edge in his tone. Fear penetrated her veins, and she rubbed her arms to warm them.

  Hannah looked over at Mrs Turner, who hadn’t woken up. That was good, for if there truly was a threat, the widow would only be more frightened.