The Princess Trap

by Talia Hibbert

  He chose his words carefully. “I think you could be forgiven for feeling unlike yourself, at the moment.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” she said dryly. “But the world keeps turning, and all that. I think I’ve wallowed long enough. It doesn’t really suit me.”

  “If you’ve been wallowing, it was the most graceful and glamorous wallowing I’ve ever seen.”

  She did laugh at that; an adorable little giggle that bubbled out like water from a fountain. She tried to hide it; he could tell. He couldn’t see her, but he’d bet money on the fact that she’d put a hand over her mouth. Didn’t matter. In the quiet of the night, and with the way she captured his attention so very thoroughly, he couldn’t miss it. And the sound made him bold.

  “I want to know you,” he said, honestly enough. But he clambered up the bed as he said it, finding the headboard with outstretched hands before settling down beside her.

  She tutted. “You think you’re so smooth.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  She tugged at the covers. “You’re hogging the blankets.”

  “I’m not even under the blankets.”

  “I should bloody well hope not. But you’re lying on them and it’s pulling them off me.” He felt her foot knock into his calf through the covers, a glancing blow. He wasn’t sure if she’d kicked him on purpose or if she’d come across him by accident and snatched herself away in the next breath. He wanted her to do it again.

  But that wasn’t why he’d come, he reminded himself sternly.

  “I think we should play twenty questions,” he said.

  Her reply was doused in sarcasm. “Oh, really? Are you going to ask me if I’ve ever kissed a boy?”

  “No. I save that sort of thing for truth or dare.”

  “You’re ridiculous.”

  “I certainly am. Shall I go first?”

  “You can ask. No guarantee I’ll answer.”

  “Fair enough.” He paused, pretending to think of a question. In reality, he didn’t have to think. His mind was nothing but a jumble of questions when it came to her; there were a thousand things he wanted to know, and as soon as his questions were answered he’d think of a thousand more. For some reason, he’d developed a mild fixation on this woman. Probably because she didn’t want him.

  But, once upon a time, she did want you. And you were no better back then.

  Firmly ignoring the voice in his head, Ruben said, “First question. Who’s your favourite person in the world?”

  “My sister,” she said immediately. “Who’s yours?”

  “Agathe,” he said, just as fast.

  “The housekeeper?” She sounded incredulous. “I mean, she is really lovely, but—”

  “She’s not the housekeeper,” he laughed. “She’s my grandmother.”

  “Um… What?” Her voice came out as a squeak. “Wow. We really do need to get to know each other. What the hell? Why does she do all your cooking?”

  “Because she’s my grandmother.”

  She scoffed. “I’ll ignore that. Why don’t you call her grandma? Or whatever you guys say?’”

  “Mormor,” he supplied. “And I never got into the habit. I only met her…” He calculated quickly. “Seven years ago.”

  “What?”

  “Well, no, that’s not accurate. I knew her for the first five years of my life. Then I didn’t. Then, seven years ago, I did.”

  She shifted beside him, the mattress rolling. He imagined she was looking at him now. So she hadn’t been before. “Forget twenty questions,” she said. “Explain that.”

  “Well… She’s my mother’s mother.”

  “Okay. And?”

  “Did you… Google me at all?”

  He could almost hear her eye roll. “You think that’s what I do with my free time? Research you?”

  “Truthfully, I had imagined you would. I mean, why wouldn’t you?”

  She paused. Then, with a huff, she admitted, “I kind of did. I started to, but the first thing that came up was—”

  “Kathryn,” he finished grimly. It may have been eight months, but that particular scandal would never fade. He wondered how much she’d seen. How much she’d read. If she’d watched...

  “I didn’t look,” she said quickly. “I wouldn’t do that. I just saw the headlines. And then I stopped.”

  “I see.” He lay back, staring up into the darkness. Waiting for questions. But none came.

  Apparently, she wasn’t going to push that particular issue. Still, he felt the need to move on before she changed her mind. “So, my brother, Harald. The king. And my sister, Sophronia. They’re my half-siblings. We have different mothers.”

  “Okay,” she said, softly. As if she was treading carefully. As if she could already tell this was a difficult topic. Had his voice given him away? He’d thought it was admirably steady.

  Actually, it was probably the fact that he’d been separated from his own grandmother for most of his life that clued her in. Yes. That made sense.

  “My mother was a maid. Then she met my father, and I suppose they fell in love. He divorced his wife, the Queen Consort—my brother’s mother. This is when my brother was, I suppose, fifteen, and Sophronia must have been thirteen. My father abdicated the throne, and my parents married. I arrived soon after.”

  “Your father abdicated,” she murmured. “Doesn’t that mean—”

  “Harald’s mother was Queen Regent for five years,” Ruben said. His tongue felt dull, numb, too thick for his mouth. “Then Harald became king.”

  “Only five years? That’s a lot of responsibility for a twenty-year-old.”

  “Yes. But there wasn’t much choice. After five years, Johanna—the Queen Regent…” He hesitated. “Well, she took her own life.”

  Cherry exhaled softly. It was barely a breath, but it contained a wealth of meaning. Before she could say anything, he forged on.

  “She did so the day after my father’s death. My father and my mother.”

  He heard her swallow. The tiny sound was loud as thunder in the stillness of the room. And then, out of the black emptiness, her fingers came to brush against his cheek. Tentative, searching. After that first contact, she touched him fully, her soft hand cradling his face as if he were a child. He realised too late that she would feel the dampness there. So much for keeping his voice steady.

  “What happened?” She asked softly.

  Ah, what a question. Still, he’d come this far in the spirit of honesty. And something told him Cherry valued that.

  Ruben recited the story that had changed his life with as little inflection as possible. “They liked sailing. Had a house on the coast. And my mother liked to sneak out—that is, she hated being watched all the time, followed all the time.” He hated it too, even if he understood the need for security. He should learn from his parents’ mistakes and stop trying to disappear.

  But then, if he wasn’t his reckless mother’s reckless son, he probably wouldn’t be here with Cherry right now. “They went sailing in the middle of the night, a storm struck, and they drowned. Tragic accident. Mundane, really.”

  “I see,” she whispered. “I… I’m sorry.”

  “They only married because of me. I was born six months after the wedding. Eight months after the divorce. And they only died because they were together—”

  “Stop,” she said softly. “That’s enough.”

  He sucked in a breath, familiar, dark thoughts like a jagged knife scoring his gut. Slicing open the same scar tissue. “Is it? I should tell you all the sordid details, really—”

  “Ruben.”

  “At least then you’ll understand why I can’t—why I have to avoid disgracing myself any further. The family name, you know. My existence alone already makes things… messy. If I could, I’d renounce my title completely. But I can’t. Because then I’d be just like—”

  “Ruben.”

  “I’m too much like my parents—like my mother, that’s what Ha
rald always says. Reckless. But I know that, and I handle it. I had everything under control. It was all going well, until I chose wrong.”

  Her breath caught, and her hand pulled away, and it took him a minute to realise what she thought he meant.

  “No, not you!” He caught her hand, tugged it back to his cheek. As if he needed it. As if he needed her. “I’m not talking about you. I meant something else. Before.” He didn’t want to say Kathryn’s name. He was tired of hearing it, even from his own lips.

  “Okay,” she said finally. The tension in her wrist eased away, and she touched him again. He fought the instinct to rub against her like an animal. He’d embarrassed himself enough for one night.

  They were silent for a while. So long, in fact, that he might have thought she’d fallen asleep, if it weren’t for the slow glide of her thumb over his cheek. Then, suddenly, she said, “I’ve been trying not to like you. But I’ve decided to stop.”

  He hesitated. “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean.” There was a smile in her voice. “I wanted to hate you for making everything so complicated, but honestly, I’m bored of it. Being angry all the time is exhausting. And you’re right; we need to get to know each other.”

  “We do,” he said slowly, fighting to calm the rapid beating of his heart. “But it’s easier like this, isn’t it?”

  “Of course it is,” she said simply. “Everything’s easier in the dark.”

  Ruben rolled towards her, wrapping an arm around her waist. And for once—even when he felt the soft curves of her body beneath the blanket—his mind stayed out of the gutter. He simply pulled her close and whispered against her forehead, “I’ll come back. If you want. Tomorrow.”

  He didn’t think he imagined the way she leaned into him. “Okay.”

  “Okay.” He pressed a kiss to her brow. Then he let her go, and got up, and left.

  It didn’t feel right, but he did it anyway.

  Chapter 14

  The next morning, Cherry spent an extra fifteen minutes on her makeup. Not for Ruben, she told herself hurriedly; men never appreciated winged liner. She was just in that sort of mood.

  Cherry blinked at herself in the bathroom mirror, the spotlights in the ceiling casting rather unflattering shadows across her face. But at least the light was good: white-ish, rather than yellow or orange. And her liner was razor-sharp. She was most definitely ready.

  She swept out of her en suite, pointedly ignoring her bed. The bed where, just last night, she’d actually talked to Ruben. Touched him. Comforted him.

  Also, where she’d thought about fucking his brains out. But that, she reassured herself, was a natural urge when faced with a painfully attractive, domineering arsehole. Well, for her, anyway.

  A weakness isn’t a weakness so long as you accept it.

  For the first time since she’d arrived, Cherry left her room without a feeling of overwhelming dread. She wasn’t afraid of bumping into Ruben in the halls, or sharing a meal with him. She wasn’t dreading the moment she’d have to push down all the feelings he caused in her gut and replace them with a show of disdain.

  Yes, she’d needed to be miserable for a while, if only for her own peace of mind. And yes, she had resented him. Because despite the fact that she had agreed to all this, it still felt like a trap.

  But this was her reality, and would be for the foreseeable future, so she might as well get something out of it. Like… flirting with a man who was gorgeous enough to make her heart stutter. Yeah, that felt like a solid benefit.

  And the money, of course. But currently, her parents were being awfully stubborn about taking it.

  She entered the kitchen in search of breakfast, her anticipation spiking when she heard someone rooting around in the pantry. But then the pantry door opened, revealing Agathe, not Ruben, inside.

  The old woman’s face split into a smile when she saw Cherry. It was almost sweet enough to make Cherry forget her disappointment.

  Almost.

  “Cherry! Good morning!” The older woman’s voice was rough, her sing-song accent soothing. “How are you? Did you sleep well?”

  “I did,” Cherry smiled. She studied Agathe’s face for echoes of Ruben’s and found a few; the hawkish nose, the thick brows—though Agathe’s were blonde.

  “Sit down, sit down. I’ll make you breakfast.”

  “Oh, no, that’s okay.” Cherry was sure that she’d put on five pounds in the week since she’d come here. Which would be fine, if her clothes weren’t so… tailored. Then again, she was rich now. She could buy more clothes. “Actually, that would be great. But I can make it.”

  “No, no, don’t be silly!” Agathe cried.

  “Really, I like to cook.”

  That gave the woman pause. “You do?”

  “Yeah. I mean, mostly baking, but—“

  “Oh, you bake?”

  “Yeah, I—“

  “Demetria!” Agathe bellowed, her raspy voice suddenly strong as a herd of elephants. Jesus Christ. Cherry resisted the urge to cover her ears as the woman shouted again, “Demetria! Come here!”

  There was a pause. Then the soft sound of feet padding down the hall. “What?” Demi cried, rushing into the kitchen. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing, nothing. Calm down. Cherry just tells me that she likes to bake.”

  Demi exhaled. “Agathe, we’ve talked about this. When you shout like that, people think something is wrong.”

  “Oh, hush. Your nerves are so delicate. Young people.” Agathe clucked her tongue and rolled her eyes heavenward. “Anyway, I know you want to learn how to bake, yes? But my baking is a steaming pile of horse shit.”

  Cherry blinked. Okay; so Ruben’s elderly grandmother, with her floral apron and love of cooking, had a potty mouth. Sure. Why not. Whatever.

  “You girls,” Agathe said, “neither of you have any fun. You should have fun together. Bake, ja?”

  “Um…” Demi winced down at her watch. “I’m kind of—“

  “Oh, stop. All my grandson does is pander to children all day. You cannot have so much work.”

  Children? Cherry realised that she’d never actually asked about Ruben’s so-called occupation. When he first mentioned it, she’d been desperate to get away from him—to end their conversation before he did something utterly adorable or unbearably sexy and ruined her decision to hate him.

  Maybe I can ask him about it tonight.

  But her mind didn’t envision their standing dinner date when it thought about ‘tonight’. It envision darkness, and the heat of his body and the low, smokey hum of his voice.

  “Fine,” Demi sighed. “I do want to learn how to bake.”

  Cherry shook her head slightly, pushing her highly inappropriate thoughts aside. The man’s grandmother was standing right there, for Christ’s sake. “Bake, as in?”

  “Cake,” Demi said. “I love cake. So I thought I should learn how to make it, but… Well, I’m not good at following instructions.”

  Cherry found that rather surprising, considering how great Demi was at giving instructions. But the prospect of having something to do other than play with Whiskey or text Maggie or avoid calls from Rose—who was much harder to lie to than Jas and Beth—made Cherry’s day seem brighter. “Okay,” she said. “I’d like that. When do you want to start?”

  Demi studied her watch. It was black and sleek and expensive and it had no numbers whatsoever on the smooth, shining face. “An hour?” She said.

  “Sure. An hour,” Demi smiled.

  As she left, Agathe slapped a plate of bacon and rye bread on the table with a grin. “There. Is all good, ja?”

  “Yeah,” Cherry murmured, something happy and hopeful blooming in her chest. “It’s all good.”

  Ruben came home in a foul mood.

  It was funny; he’d been so worried about Cherry for the past week, he hadn’t even noticed the fact that Hans was still pissed with him. But now that Cherry didn’t want to kill him anymore—he hoped
—his eyes were being opened to all sorts of things. Like the fact that his best friend was still on the edge of fury.

  “Will that be all, Your Highness?”

  “Stop Highnessing me,” Ruben growled, yanking off his hat and scarf and tossing them by the door.

  Hans sent the gloves a speaking look. “If you leave those there, Agathe will tidy them up.”

  “I keep telling her to stop fucking cleaning.” Ruben glared down at the pile wool. “I live here because I don’t want people tidying up my mess.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have given her a key.”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” He snatched the hat and scarf from the floor and hung them up by the door. “Happy?”

  Hans simply sniffed before letting himself out.

  Something had to be done. Bickering was one thing, but Hans was clearly still furious.

  Which was fair enough. If Ruben had listened to him from the start, none of this would be happening.

  He wandered down the hall, forcing his mind to focus on simpler topics—like the meeting he’d just had with a local headteacher. He didn’t want to speak too soon, but he rather thought he’d found another partner for his scholarship scheme here in Helgmøre.

  His trust had six international branches—so far—and he’d started offering scholarships nationally just last year. It was going well and growing fast. So he’d turned his sights to the U.K., his second home…

  And found Cherry. Cherry whose laughter floated down the hall like music. Ruben’s focus danced away, and his mind became a whirlpool of fantasy and memory, the two intertwined like lovers. Cherry in the dark, touching him out of kindness, became Cherry in the daylight, touching him because she simply couldn’t stop.

  Her laughter sounded like the ocean used to, when Ruben was a kid and his parents would take him to the coast. He’d roll down the window and listen eagerly for that distant, soft rush to grow louder and more powerful, excitement humming through him.

  His feet followed the sound and his mind didn’t bother to argue.

  She was in the kitchen, her back to him, an apron tied around her waist. The bow at her back draped over the swell of her arse and her curls bounced as she laughed. Ruben crossed his arms and leant against the doorframe, taking the opportunity to watch her undetected.