Page 26

B remerhaven

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 traveled 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 before sinking into oblivion.

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 seemed to know something about Michael’s past. Something ominous.

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

“What if you are royalty?“ she asked. “Would that 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?”

He leaned back in the coach. “Mrs. Turner has slowly been losing her wits over the past year. Nothing she says can be trusted.”

But it only sounded like an excuse. Hannah pressed further. “She was singing about a lost child last night. What if she was talking about you?”

Michael seemed to dismiss the idea. “She was singing about her son, Henry.” He 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.” She wanted to understand him—especially the darkness of his past that he was intent on avoiding. And maybe talking about it might help him to heal his own invisible wounds.

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.” There was a raw ache to his voice, even as he stared outside.

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

His fingers tightened over hers. “Only because I fell beneath Henry’s body. When the enemy soldiers stabbed their bayonets into the dead, they stabbed Henry. Not me.”

Dear God. Her heart broke for him, even as she asked, “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 Fate can determine who lives or dies.” Hannah reached out to take his other hand, holding both. “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 a second chance,” she suggested. “A way25141 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 guilt cloaked him. “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,” she answered softly. “And because you’re bullheaded enough to do it.” She released his hands, 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 nodded. “But it’s not too bad, yet. Sometimes if I take the laudanum soon enough, it keeps the headache from becoming worse.”

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 caress, made her relax.

The circling movement of his thumbs and the light pressure on her scalp eased 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. “Or this.”

The languid heat of his mouth against her skin was tantalizing. 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, after 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 crossed 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. She had to remember that.

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? She already knew there was no future for them.

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.

But a few moments later, the coach came to an abrupt 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.

She strained to hear the men talking. Perhaps the Graf’s coach had gotten mired or a horse was having difficulty. It was likely nothing more than that.

But when she heard the sounds of gunfire, she ducked down below the window, grabbing Mrs. Turner and pushing her against the seat. The widow opened her eyes briefly, but in her drugged haze, she wasn’t aware of what was happening. Moments later, she started snoring again.

The men were shouting, and more gunfire erupted. Outside, Hannah heard the coachman abandoning his seat, joining in with the others.

Oh God, what was happening? It hurt to breathe, and Hannah closed her eyes, praying that no one would be hurt.

It was a foolish thought, for the fighting continued outside. She tried to glimpse the men from the window but could see nothing. When the shouting stopped and the voices grew low, she suspected the worst.

More minutes passed, but she didn’t leave the coach. Michael had ordered her not to.

But what if he’s dead? her mind offered. Or wounded?

What if they needed help, and she was doing nothing but cowering inside the coach? Hannah took a deep breath, then another.