Lois Greiman (25 page)

“You need to learn.”

“I told you…” He was standing too close. She could feel heat radiating from his body. “I will create a fictional malady of some sort.”

“Every lady should know how to dance,” he said, and though it almost seemed that he tried to keep his hands to himself, he reached up and brushed a coil of hair from her cheek. His knuckles grazed her ear.

She closed her eyes to the hot sensation and refused to press her cheek against his hand. “You forget,” she said. “I am no lady.”

“If you are not,” he murmured, and skimmed his fingers down her throat, “then no one is.”

She shivered. “My lord—”

“Nicol,” he corrected, but his voice was gritty, as though he fought some battle of his own.

“Nicol.” The name sounded far too much like a caress, but there seemed little she could do to correct it. “I cannot do that again.”

“What is it you cannot do?”

“What…” His eyes were steaming, frying the thoughts from her brain, but she straightened her back with a snap and stepped back a pace. “I cannot sleep with you again.”

“I believe I was the only one who slept,” he said. “A fact for which I have yet to thank you.”

She remembered how he had looked, his lashes soft as a child’s, but his bare chest as hard as whittled oak. She had not, until that moment, realized how truly beautiful he was. But beauty meant nothing to her. Survival was everything.

“You did a good thing,” he said, and, skimming his hand down her arm, retrieved her hand and kissed her knuckles. “With the lad.”

Frizzled sensations sparked up her arm. She licked her lips and tried to focus. “I cannot…” she began, but the words were pathetically weak though she tried to strengthen them. “I cannot…be with you again.”

A muscle jerked in his jaw, but he bowed perfunctorily. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”

But she didn’t wish. Yet she could not afford to lie with him again, to feel the magic and know his grip tightened around her heart every moment she spent in his arms.

“But you must learn to dance.” There was something in his eyes. An intensity yes. A command. But there was more. An uncertainty. Almost a pleading. Or did she imagine it? “Leave your door open for me tonight, lass,” he murmured.

She tried to object, but he turned her hand over and kissed her palm. Hot emotions sizzled like wildfire up her arm, and suddenly she could form no coherent words, could think of nothing but the feel of his skin against hers, the heat of his kisses as they trailed down her body.

Still she was about to refuse, about to be strong, but in that moment he turned and left her.

M
egan tried to convince herself to lock her bedroom door, but it was all foolishness. After all, he had made no objections when she refused to lie with him again. Indeed, he had not spent a single breath trying to convince her otherwise. Had she been a disappointment? Not that she cared. Indeed, it would be best if he had no desire ever to see her again, she decided, and, slipping into her nightgown, left the door unlocked as an oversight. Almost.

She was sitting at her desk, reading, much as Tatiana must have down, when she first heard the music begin. It wafted up to her in haunting melodies. A few minutes later Nicol stepped inside.

She turned, feeling breathless and idiotic as he closed the door behind him. He looked delectably rakish. His dark hair curled over his forehead, and his shirt was open at the neck. It was all she could do to keep from rushing across the room and snatching him into her arms, but the memory of his torn shirt made her blush. Perhaps that was what a lady of quality
would do differently—allow his clothing to remain intact. Self-conscious under his gaze, she set the book primly aside and rose with a scowl. “Don’t you ever knock, my lord?”

“Of course.”

“But not with me.”

“I feel we’re beyond that, lass,” he said, and silently crossed the floor. She couldn’t help but notice that he wore no shoes. Still, when he stepped up to her, she had to tilt her head back to look into his eyes. They were dark and deep and shone like polished onyx in the firelight.

“And what about you and the princess?” she asked. “Do you knock for her?”

“I knock every time I come to her room in the small hours of the morning.”

Her stomach churned. She stepped back a sharp pace, bumping into her chair. The corner of his irresistible mouth quirked up. “Is something amiss, lass?”

“Nay,” she said, and actually considered slapping him, but she kept her hands to herself and straightened her back. Her nipples felt strangely sensitive against the soft fabric of her simple gown. “Of course not.”

His gaze dropped for an instant, and his nostrils flared, but in a moment he raised his eyes and lifted his hands to shoulder height. “Shall we dance?”

Panic struck her. The bed was so close. He was closer still, and she couldn’t seem to get certain images out of her mind. Images of his nipples hard and flat pressed against her naked breasts. Images of their bodies straining together amidst tangled sheets.

“I have been thinking,” she said, and paced away. But even with her back turned she could feel his hot gaze. The room was silent except for the haunting strains floating up from below. She turned finally. “I am certain you are
wrong. There is no reason for me to learn to dance.”

“Lass—”

“I am the princess,” she said, pivoting toward him. “If I say I am in no mood to dance, there is no need for me to dance.”

“But Anna would say no such thing.”

“How do you know?”

“I know her well.”

“How well?” she snapped and wished she hadn’t spoken, or at the very least had kept her tone as cool as his always seemed to be.

He stepped up to her, his expression quizzical. “Tell me, lass,” he said, his voice quiet. “Might you be jealous?”

“Jealous!” She laughed, but the sound was not quite so refined as she had hoped. Indeed, it came out as something of a wild snort.

His lips twisted as he stepped toward her, but she turned stiffly away. “I’ll not dance with you.”

“You’d make the musicians labor away for no reason? After I told them the princess was having difficulty sleeping and would dearly appreciate their masterful—”

“I never have difficulty sleeping.”

“’Tis a strange thing,” he murmured. “I’ve been sleeping better myself of late.”

His voice was low. Memories stormed in again. His touch, his eyes, the hard play of muscle beneath his hot skin. She licked her lips.

“Dance with me, lass.”

She tried to shake her head, but he was already taking her hand, was already wrapping his arm around her waist, and somehow they were dancing—without conscious thought, without volition. They were simply sweeping across the floor together. If she made any mistakes, she was completely unaware of them. As it turned out, dancing was life set to
music. And life was warm, full, pulsing with possibilities.

“Lass.” His voice was soft against her cheek. “You must have done this before.”

She tried to respond, but he was so close. She could feel the heat of his chest through his shirt, could feel the fluid shift of muscles in his shoulder beneath her hand.

“Tell me the truth,” he said.

“I have not.”

“Another first then,” he murmured against her ear. The sound shivered like a lightning bolt to her heart. “Why?”

She tried to think coherently, forced her lips to move. “I had more important things to occupy my time.”

“Such as stealing infatuated men’s watches?”

She tripped. He tightened his grip, bearing her back against his chest and watching her face.

“In…fatuated?”

“I’m not speaking of myself of course,” he said, and drew her marginally closer so that the hardened tips of her nipples brushed against his chest. Dear God. “I’m far too elegant to feel such mundane emotions.”

She told herself not to speak, to ignore his words, but she could just as well have commanded herself to stop breathing. “What did you feel?” she whispered.

“When I first saw you at the market?” He spread his fingers across her back. Excitement raced down her spine, tingling off in a thousand directions. She forced a causal nod, but in a moment she realized he had gone silent, realized he was watching her in silent contemplation, and in that instant she knew she had finally failed to see his trap.

She tried to pull from his arms, but he kept dancing, drawing her along with him. “Is everything you do calculated to wring a confession from me?” she demanded.

“I don’t resent the loss of the watch.” His words were
quiet, his eyes intent. She felt herself falling into their depths, but she yanked herself out of the trance.

“Good!” she snapped. She should be silent, or deny, or plead ignorance, but anger and fidgety frustration drove her beyond those careful precautions. “Because I sold it the very next day.”

His lips quirked again as if he were thinking things best left unsaid, but finally he spoke again. “Why me?”

He was so arrogant, so beguiling, so irresistible, and he knew it. The thought made her crazy. “Because you wouldn’t leave me be,” she gritted.

“So ’tis the men most attracted to you who lose their valuables.”

She glanced into his eyes, then snapped her attention away, refusing to be drawn into his snare, refusing to allow her mind to settle on his haunting words. Refusing to care. Maybe he truly was attracted to her. But what difference did it make? Many men were attracted to her. He was no different, chasing every skirt that crossed his path—just like her own father, in fact. “It is only the men who hope to use me who tend to lose their valuables.”

“I had no intention of using you, lass, only of becoming acquainted with you.”

“Of course.”

“You still don’t trust me.”

“If I don’t trust, it is your fault, my lord. After all, I am what you made me.”

“I did not make you a seductress, lass.”

“I am not—”

“Of course not,” he murmured, and kissed her. Desire roared through her. She stumbled again, and he steadied her, drawing her back into the circle of his strength. Her nipples brushed his chest again, like flint on steel. “I would ask a favor of you, lass.”

She couldn’t pull herself from his gaze.

“When dancing with the duke perhaps you could refrain from pressing your breasts against him.”

She jerked back and he shook his head, his eyes entrancing.

“I did not say you should do the same with me.”

Snatching her hands away, she glared at him. “Get out of my chambers.”

“We’ve yet to master the quadrille.”

“If I mistake a step, I can always resort to blatant seduction,” she snarled.

He grinned at her, but there was something in his eyes. “You forget,” he said. “The princess is not one to flaunt herself.”

“And you forget,” she said, leaning in. “I am not really the princess.”

“No. I do not,” he argued and stepped closer, but she jerked cautiously backward.

“Get out,” she repeated, and though somewhere inside her she desperately hoped he would refuse, he kissed her hand with lingering heat, then turned on his heel and departed.

The days creaked by. Nicol tended to state business, doing his best to keep a certain thief out of his mind and keep himself out of her bedchamber.

He had sent three loyal spies to Teleere, telling them to look for a woman named Linet Mulgrave. Word had returned that such a woman had been found in Laird MacTavish’s castle. She was safe and healthy, and though he had not yet heard why she remained in Teleere, everything seemed to be going well enough. Why, then, did he feel so fractious, so irritably out of sorts? Rumor had it that the duke of Venge had arrived that morning. It was also said that the princess had welcomed him as though he were God’s own messenger. Damn, he had trained her well. She was a diplomatic genius. There was no reason for Nicol even to remain at the palace.
Perhaps he should sail for Teleere and look into Anna’s well-being himself. Perhaps he should meet with his spies. Perhaps he should call on an old paramour.

But as he stood before his beveled mirror that evening, he knew he would do none of those things. Instead, he buttoned his silk burgundy waistcoat, yanked on his charcoal-colored tails, and made his way down the endless corridors to the ballroom.

The grand hall was lit with scores of candles, but still the room seem dimly lit, casting a romantic glow over everything. Diaphanous red-and-gold streamers swept like royal banners from hooks high in the beamed ceiling and amidst the endless yards of flowing material, a surprisingly lifelike eagle soared in effigy.

Nicol snagged a glass of champagne from a passing servant and noticed that a river of sorts had been constructed upon the tables that ran the length of the room. The tiny stream wound across the surface, bordered by miniature hillocks festooned with moss and dried flowers. Then, at the eventual end of the watercourse, a golden cascade splashed down to a pool that rippled beside a tiny replica of the duke’s tree-shrouded manor. A group of gawkers hovered about, awed by the masterpiece.

“Drink up,” Will said, and, leaning forward, dipped his glass into the cascade. It was not until that moment that Nicol realized it was a river of champagne.

“You’re here early,” Nicol said, and the baron raised his glass.

“No point waiting for a drought.”

“How does Jack fare?”

The baron drank. “He’s opinionated, perverse, and difficult.”

“Like a son then,” Nicol said, and winced at his own foolishness. “My apologies.”

Will shrugged, but his eyes were dark as he drank again.
“Looks like every poor bugger with a title to his name is already here.”

“And not too insulted by the lack of formal introductions.”

“You jest.” Cask shouldered his way through the crowd. “We are, every last one of us, far too curious to miss the gala. ’Tis said the princess hopes to marry this duke fellow,” he added, turning his gaze toward Nicol and falling silent.

Nicol drank again, still eyeing the crowd, and Cask laughed.

“He’s always been a close-mouthed bloke. Aye, Will?”

“Aye,” Will agreed. “Never a slip-up from Cole.”

Nicol shrugged. “I’m not privy to the princess’s plans. She will marry whom she will.”

“And I suppose it won’t matter to you either way,” Cask said, but there was sarcasm in his tone.

Nicol turned to stare, and the other shrugged. “Royal princesses are hardly expected to remain loyal to their husbands these days.”

“What are you suggesting?”

Cask eyed the crowd. The room was packed with overdressed nobility. The air was charged with a thousand emotions. Cleavage showed pale and high above frilly, pastel bodices. Men boasted, and women flirted. Liaisons were carried on with the barest of subterfuge.

“She’s little more than a child. The duke is old and none too well favored by all accounts,” Cask added. “She’ll be in need of a…friend.”

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken about my relationship with her,” Nicol said, his tone cool, and Cask grinned.

“Of course,” he said, but before he’d raised his glass in an impromptu toast, a voice rang over the crowd.

“Hear ye one and all.” The mob fell into hushed anticipation. The majority of the guests had not yet seen the new
princess and waited breathlessly for that opportunity. “Make ready for Her Majesty.” The speaker paused, letting the anticipation grow. “Tatiana Octavia Linnet Rocheneau, royal princess of Sedonia, God’s chosen one.”

The orchestra struck up the royal anthem of the Rocheneaus. The guests bowed their heads and sank into obeisance, then, through a doorway draped in scarlet, Megan entered the room.

For a moment there was absolute silence, then, as the crowd got its first impressions of her, a murmur began.

“Lovely.”

“A bit thin.”

“Cool.”

“So young.”

But Nicol found it impossible to speak. Indeed, he was transfixed by the sight of her. She wore a gown of gold satin that stood out among the pastels like the sun in an azure sky. Her pale arms were bare, her expression somber. In her hands, she bore a scepter and upon her head a crown gleamed with a dozen rare gems, but each jewel was dulled by her beauty, and for just a moment the irony of the situation struck him—a thief with a crown—but the thought would not stay. For she seemed so right, so perfect as she made her way between the riven crowd. She held her head high, and now and then she would nod regally to a subject until she ascended the stairs to her waiting dais. Once there, she turned with sober cadence and received the crowd’s adoration.

The steward remained silent for several moments, letting the orchestra complete the stirring anthem and the crowd still somewhat. Then a new song began.

“Honoring us from Denmark, our esteemed ally, Sir George Orwall, the duke of Venge.”