The Accidental Princess by Michelle Willingham Page B

of miles between them. He’d be back with the Army, fighting the enemy and obeying orders until he met his own end. Men like him weren’t good for much else.
    The troubled expression on her face hadn’t dimmed. Instead, a bright flush warmed her cheeks. ‘Thank you for agreeing to help me.’ Hannah reached up to her neck and unfastened the diamond necklace. ‘I want you to have this.’
    ‘Keep it.’ He closed her fingers back over the glittering stones. An innocent like her could never conceive of the consequences, if he were to accept. Her father would accuse him of stealing, no matter that it had been a gift.
    ‘If you’re planning to keep watch over me, then you’ll need a reason to return.’ She placed it back in his palm.
    He hadn’t considered it in that light. ‘You’re right.’ The necklace did give him a legitimate reason to return, and so he hid the jewellery within his pocket.
    ‘Return in a day or two,’ she ordered. ‘And I’ll see to it that you’re rewarded for your assistance, whether or not it’s needed.’
    He wouldn’t accept any compensation from her, though his funds were running out. ‘It’s not necessary.’
    ‘It is.’
    In her green eyes, Michael saw the loss of innocence, the devastating blow to her future. Yet beneath the pain, there was determination.
    She crossed her arms, as if gathering her courage. ‘I won’t let my father destroy my future.’ Her expression shifted into a stubborn set. ‘And I won’t let him destroy yours, either.’
     
    The older woman wandered through the streets, her crimson bonnet vivid in the sea of dark brown and black. Michael pushed his way past the fishmongers and vendors, minding his step through Fleet Street.
    Mrs Turner was lost again. He quickened his step, moving amid sailors, drovers and butchers. At last, he reached her side.
    ‘Good morning,’ he greeted her, tipping his hat.
    No recognition dawned in her silver-grey eyes, but she offered a faint nod and continued on her path.
    Damn. It wasn’t going to be one of her better days. Mrs Turner had been his neighbour and friend for as long as he could remember, but recently she’d begun to suffer spells of forgetfulness from time to time.
    He hadn’t known about her condition until he’d returned to London last November. At first, the widow had brought him food and drink, looking after him while he recovered from the gunshot wounds. He’d broken the devastating news of her son Henry’s death at Balaclava.
    And as the weeks passed, she began to withdraw, her mind clouding over. There were times when she only remembered things from the past.
    Today she didn’t recognise him at all.
    Michael tried to think of a way to break through to her lost memory. ‘You’re Mrs Turner, aren’t you?’ he commented, keeping up with her pace. ‘Of Number Eight, Newton Street?’
    She stopped walking, fear rising on her face. ‘I don’t know you.’
    ‘No, no, you probably don’t remember me,’ he said quickly. ‘But I’m a friend of Henry’s.’
    The mention of her son’s name made her eyes narrow. ‘I’ve never seen you before.’
    ‘Henry sent me to fetch you home,’ he said gently. ‘Willyou let me walk with you? I’m certain he’s left a pot of whisky and tea for you. Perhaps some marmalade and bread.’
    The mention of her favourite foods made her lower lip tremble. Wrinkles edged her eyes, and tears spilled over them. ‘I’m lost, aren’t I?’
    He took her hand in his, leading her in the proper direction. ‘No, Mrs Turner.’
    As he guided her through the busy streets, her frail hand gripped his with a surprising strength. They drew closer to her home at Peabody Square, and her face began to relax. Whether or not she recognised her surroundings, she seemed more at ease.
    Michael helped her inside, and saw that she was out of coal. ‘I’ll just be a moment getting a fire started for you.’ Handing her a crocheted blanket, he settled her upon a rocking chair