Pregnant! By the Prince

Pregnant! By the Prince

Eliza DeGaulle

Copyright 2014 Darkest Secrets Publishing

Kindle Edition

-Chapter One-

Terror, sheer, absolute terror.

Sitting in a chair in a dark room. My wrists handcuffed behind my back. I squirmed - I knew I had no chance of escape, but I wanted to get them so at least they wouldn't be digging into my skin.

There were men around me. They were what was really making it terrifying.

They spoke to each other, their lips moving a mile a minute. I'd be much more comfortable if I could understand a damn thing that they said. Instead, it was gibberish that my best guest was Russian or some other eastern European language.

If I could understand them, I'd know why the heck I was under arrest to begin with.

Horror stories - I heard them all. Ignorant, backwards shithole countries that are stuck in the nineteenth century.

Dolotovya. I divined that much with the help of the pilot who accidentally flew me here.

Suddenly, the officers surrounding me formed lines, and put their hands to their heads in salute. It almost invoked some level of homesickness, seeing so many of my father's Navy ceremonies. Unlike the clean uniforms and white gloves of American service men, though, these men were in mismatched clothes that were only uniforms in the loosest sense.

Hole-covered pants, shirts, one even unfortunately had one in his shoe.

The door that I had been dragged through opened. Through the darkness, approaching me under the dim light that hanging, was someone who stole my breath away.

This was a filthy country. All the men didn't rank on my lust radar, but I couldn't blame them. This man, though, was something else completely. His uniform was clean, pressed, with a good deal of medals on his breast. The expert tailoring of his outfit gave me an idea what was hidden underneath. There was a strong, hungry part of me that wanted to confirm my suspicions.

His face. It was soft, yet sharp. His jaw was purely manly, he had the most beautiful blue eyes.

"Hello, Miss."

I could get lost in them. I wanted to. His hair was jet black, and parted perfectly.

"Miss?"

That voice was sweet, not harsh like all the others.

His hand waving in front of my face revealed no ring. How can a man like him not be taken?

He grabbed my shoulder and shook me. "Are you okay?"

My eyes widened, realizing I was daydreaming. "You - you speak English?"

"Yes, I do. This is why I was called in. I wasn't expecting to find restrained beauty here, though."

I blushed and turned away from him.
Stupid Bea, you're looking like a gibbering idiot.

He leaned in, his face close to mine. "We don't get many Americans here." He spoke with a light accent. It wasn't completely natural, I gathered, but he trained himself well. "May I ask
for your name? Perhaps tell me why you have visited my humble country?"

His
country?

***

My heart pounded, anxiety strong within me. Damn the endless delays. The plane from New York was held up an hour for whatever reason. That was annoying enough, but more annoying was my layover time was about that and fifteen minutes.

Through London's terminals, I ran as fast as I safely could through the crowds.

I had meant to meet up with my friends in Switzerland. It's where we were to start our summer journey together, seeing Europe, seeing the world. It was meant to be a good inspiration for my artwork - the best painters can only paint what they've experienced, not just seen in a picture. They need to capture the very feel of the sight. Its sounds, its smells, its sensations.

I was late, and told them I'd meet them during their travels. I felt terrible cursing my Grandmother's passing. I didn't want her to ever die, yes, but I especially didn't want her to die then. I was rushing from the funeral to the airport - the delay in New York was welcomed for the extra time.

There was the Zurich flight, finally boarding. I rushed in, and flashed the lady my ticket. She didn't want to fight my rush and just let me through.

Getting in the plane, I found myself shocked that the plane was a lot smaller than it seemed on the outside. I guess size had a way of messing with your head.

I let myself sink into the seat. Well, as much as one could on this particular plane's hard seats - I usually was more comfortable than this. I made it. I was going to get to Switzerland and meet with my friends. I'd be able to unwind, and everything would be fine.

The captain spoke in some language I didn't understand. I was slightly confused. The Swiss spoke German. I had studied it in preparation of this trip and being able to converse with the people there. Swiss were multilingual, I remembered. German is just dominant. It didn't sound like Italian or French. Maybe it was Romansh - I never studied that.

The flight took off and I did my best to take a nap in my seat.

I dreamed of all the wondrous countries we were going to visit. How it'd be so utterly different from America. New foods, new people, all the art museums. Nothing would ruin this trip for me.

Hours later, I awoke. I looked out the window. Snow. It was June, and I was seeing snow. I knew mountains allowed such things, but the plane was descending. More Romansh over the speakers. Were we almost there?

The plane shifted, confirming my thoughts - but it was still snowy. Zurich in June was hot and wet. A freak weather phenomenon?

The plane touched down. I expected to see countless other planes lined up, just like any other big airport in the world.

This, though, was a super tiny airfield. I didn't see a single other plane.

People started filing off, one by one. They were all pale skinned, dark hair, looking rough. Business suits that looked like they were from thrift stores.

I grabbed my bag and followed them off, having my passport ready.

There wasn't even a terminal. As I stepped off the stairs, the pilot just flung them up behind me - the plane I had boarded being about the size of a private jet. It had the size, but none of the glamor. Rust covered, it was not the plane I thought I had gotten on.

I shivered - I was dressed for summer. Shorts, a tank-top, sandals. I stepped slowly, knowing sandals were never meant for snow. I glanced to the pilot. "Is - is this Zurich?" I asked.

He glared at me.

I repeated my question in German. He understood it, and his response was heavy in accent. "Zurich? No, no. This is Dolotovya."

Confirmation. I boarded the wrong plane. Very much the wrong plane. I would have froze in shock if I wasn't freezing already.

Dolotovya - I saw it in a geography book once. It was a small country high up in the mountains. I realized the root of his accent. It was Eastern European. "Um, do you continue to Zurich?"

"No, no. I just make a weekly flight to London and back."

"You can't be serious."

"Dolotovya is a very private country. Our people view travel as something only done by necessity. Demand is low, so we do not fly more than one time a week."

"I need to be in Zurich," I said. I glanced at my cellphone. It had no service here, but it still had a clock. "I needed to be there two hours ago. That's not factoring in time zones." I taxed my brain trying to remember what little I read about the country, trying to figure out how to adjust the time. I quickly gave up.

"I will return to London in a week. You can board plane then."

"How much do I  have to pay to get you flying again?" I had no idea how much I could beg my father to wire me.

"Nothing you can pay me. I have another job. Piloting is something I do for extra income. I don't like flying that much, either."

"How much? Just name it."

He gave me no more attention and walked past me.

I cursed under my breath. I was shivering cold, in some bizarre foreign country.

Freezing my ass off wouldn't accomplish anything, so I followed the man. I figured I had to go through customs and the like.

Customs, though, didn't seem to be a thing. I looked around and found no office. Not even people selling plane tickets.

Was I truly trapped here? One pilot, one flight a week. Did they just give a flight to anyone who asked to board?

I put my curiosity away, and realized I needed to get indoors, and soon.

Two cars sat on a dirt path near the airplane. They looked like models from the 60s or 70s. Words were on them, but they were in some off version of Cyrillic. I connected the dots - they were taxis.

I dug some money out of my wallet. Still American, but movies taught me that Andrew Jackson was accepted everywhere. One jumped out, rushing to play chivalry for me. I just got in the one closest. The driver hopped back in and looked back at me.

He spoke in that language again.

I sighed. I tried German first. "Take me to an inn or hotel, please."

He raised an eyebrow. I repeated in English - and then Italian. I was out of languages, and made no progress in communication.

I showed him a $20. He laughed, shaking his head and pushing my money away.

The engine started and he began to drive anyway. He didn't look predatory, and he seemed more playfully amused by my situation than anything.

It was odd putting my trust in a strange cabbie, but at least the cab had heat. I tried to file through my mess of problems.

How would I get to Switzerland? I didn't want to think about staying here for a week, where apparently no one speaks English. Even that pilot speaking German may had been an aberration.

My dreams of travel. A tear rolled down my cheek. It wasn't just to see the sites. There was something much more that I wanted. There were exotic boys who wanted what to them was an exotic girl.

I heard all the rumors that foreign men in general were more generous lovers than Americans. They would make sure my first time was truly something worth remembering - something it was worth waiting past high school to surrender.

Dolotovya didn't seem like where I'd fulfill that fantasy. The first thing besides fields I passed in the car was a massive church. It was by far the biggest building I'd see - the rest were shacks and small cabins. The men themselves weren't ugly, but they seemed beat down by the world. The women hardly fared much better.

I wanted that fire and sweetness of a nice German boy or the romance of the French. There was no cultural stereotype about Dolotovyan lovers, so I had no idea what to expect.

The cabbie stopped in front of a building with a sign hanging down in front of it. A moon told me perhaps it was lodging of some sort. That or it was a mosque - but the clanks of glass and chatter from within told me my first thought was the right one.

The cabbie got out and opened my door for me.

I tried to give him the American money, but he shook his head and pushed it back at me again. I swallowed, and started to put it away. I hope this wasn't place where yes and no nods were reversed, or refusing payment is just part of etiquette but you're still suppose to pay them anyway.

He didn't hang around - he just pointed at the inn, and got back in his car, and wasted no time driving away.

The ground was still dirt, mud, and snow. I looked down the improvised road, and saw very few other cars. All of them, like the cab, were far older than I was. I stepped slowly toward the inn, still cold as all hell. I wondered if they would accept my money, or would I receive even more charity?

An ancient woman stood behind the bar, with many men sitting on stools drinking out of wood, glass, metal tankards. In the glass ones was a thick beer that stuck to the beards of the men drinking them. They chatted, and also watched a young woman standing on the makeshift stage. She was plucking a fiddle, and singing in words I still didn't understand.

Her voice, though, was beautiful. I took the time to admire her. Sure the place seemed to be stuck in the past, but natural beauty didn't need technology to flourish.

I looked at the old woman. I had given up on language, instead gesturing to the upper level, and putting my hand to my head to suggest sleeping. She understood, grabbing some sheets from under the counter. Again, I presented my American money. Just like the cabbie, she pushed my hand away, shaking her head.

She seemed genuine. A charity cab ride and now a charitable room. I guess kindness was a strong virtue here.

I got up to my room. The lady presented me a clean bed. She brought me to the window, and pointed down at a set of outhouses next to the building.

Outhouses. Great. Who needs the twenty first century?

I nodded and smiled, trying to express my gratitude without words. She returned the smile, and suddenly hugged me, patting my back gently. Empathy. She figured out I was lost and wanted to help me.