Rejar (19 page)

Lady Harcorte snorted behind her fan.

When she regained control, she eyed Prince Nickolai’s broad back with interest. He was hefting the girl about, barely exerting any effort, holding the chit firmly with one well-placed palm. Leona sighed at the sheer beauty of the masculine picture he presented. Ah, well, she reasoned, it shouldn’t take long for a man like that to get bored to tears with his provincial little wife. And when he did, she would be there—to reinstate excitement into his poor, passionless existence.

Leona Harcorte would have been mightily depressed if she had a glimpse of what was on Rejar’s mind at that moment. Rejar was thinking he liked his soon-to-be mate thrashing wildly against him; it signaled to him exactly how passionate Miss Devere was going to prove herself to be.

In just a few short hours, she would be thrashing under him. And alongside of him. And on top of him. And in front of him ...

Rejar displayed a wicked smile. Flipping her upright, he deposited her before the minister, positioning her to the appropriate place with a guiding clamp of his hands to her shoulders.

She was still reeling from the sudden change of perspective when he clasped her hand solidly in his own and took his place beside her.

Rejar nodded to the minister, a small, shadow of a man.

The minister swallowed once, then reluctantly began the service. In all his days, he had never seen such a spectacle as this. It didn’t appear the lady was quite willing. Perhaps he should ...

One searing look from the towering foreign Prince with the two different colored eyes and the minister speeded up his recitation of the vows. In fact, he was going so fast, no one could understand him. The guests turned bewildered faces to each other. Whispers of “what did he say?” flew about the room.

Agatha briefly thought of telling the gudgeon to slow down, but remembering her niece’s mutinous face, reconsidered. Best this was over with quickly.

When Rejar’s low, fluid voice said, “I will,” Lilac came to her senses. She threw Prince Azov a fulminating glare of disdain. Does he really think I’ll agree to this?

Rejar watched her speculatively from under lowered lids. The man who was marrying them had asked Lilac the question Jackie had warned him about—the question which must be answered in a positive manner for the ceremony to be completed. What an annoying requirement! he brooded. The men of his world would never tolerate such a loophole.

Lilac clamped her lips together, remaining stonily silent.

Unperturbed, Rejar’s eyes flashed with sudden mischief. Anyone who knew the Familiar usually became instantly wary when he displayed that particular expression. It meant Rejar was up for some sport.

While smiling innocently to the minister, he sent Lilac an offer she could not refuse in the form of a thought.

{Do you wish me to put a stop to this?}

Lilac, who had been staring straight over the minister’s head, naturally assumed the Prince had spoken out loud to her. “Yes, I do!” she yelled, stomping her foot in outrage.

“Then by the power vested in me,” the minister droned, “I now pronounce you man and wife.”

Lilac’s mouth dropped. “I wasn’t talking to you! I was talking to him!” She nodded in the Prince’s direction, but neither man seemed to be paying any attention to her. The minister dutifully told Prince Azov he could kiss his bride. Lilac tried to tug her hand free from his powerful grip.

He turned to her.

She was relieved when he released her hand, but her relief quickly turned to apprehension when his large hands cupped the sides of her head. Strong fingers sifted through her hair to commandingly tilt her face to his.

She expected his kiss of ownership.

What she did not expect was that she would become captivated by the arresting look in his beautiful, compelling eyes.

Those spiky, long lashes ... His eyes seemed to capture her into their spell until she did not think she could turn away even if he should let her. She stared up at him wordlessly, caught by his intense regard in a spellbinding moment.

All of a sudden, his scent seemed to envelop her, the cinnamon-bayberry scent she had come to associate with him. And that other more exotic hint underlying the overtones. The wild, provocative subtlety that sizzled her blood and heated her skin. He lowered his face close to her own. His spicy warm breath drifting across her, he spoke almost against her lips. The words he proclaimed seemed to vibrate with his personal eroticism.

“This Familiar takes you

And discards all others.

This Familiar will give himself only to you

And no other.

This Familiar unites with you now forever

For him there is no other.”

His strange, enigmatic eyes dilated. The silken lips parted slightly and descended in a what seemed to her, captured and captivated by him, a ritual of some kind.

Her eyes widened as those softest of male lips pressed lightly against her own.

And took her breath from her.

She could not breathe! Panicked, she clutched his shoulders, not sure whether she meant to throw him off or bring him to her. But he held her immobile beneath him, his mouth to hers. She grew faint in his arms from lack of air; black spots swam dizzily before her eyes. She thought it likely she would die of asphyxiation right then and there.

Then he breathed into her mouth. A warm, surging gush of air. Filling her lungs with life.

And somehow she knew in her deepest heart that this breath he gave back to her was not her own.

* * *

Lilac stood in her bedroom staring at the oak tree outside the window with a woebegone expression.

It had seemed such a perfect plan. What had gone wrong? How had he found out? Come to think of it, how did he find out everything about her? Where she was going, what she was doing, who she was with, what birthmarks she had. It was uncanny.

The meal had been a nightmare for her.

Byron held court at one end of the table, Brummell at the other. Each tried to outdo the other by spewing forth questionable remarks and obscure references regarding the forthcoming wedding night. Most of their meaning was lost on her, thank goodness, but others at the table found them wickedly amusing, snickering into their cups as they looked knowingly between her and the Prince.

On top of this, that idiotic fop, Creighton, had snuffled his way through the meal, inappropriate French phrases dropping from his lips like je ne sais quoi; while Lady Harcorte barely took her eyes off of Nickolai.

The worst, worst part of it was having to sit next to her hus—him the entire evening while he made a great show of being ever so solicitous of her needs. Filling her plate with the choicest morsels. Inquiring if she would like more wine. And when no one was looking, placing his hand on her thigh under the table in blatant ownership, his challenging, laughing eyes meeting hers.

When she finally had been able to excuse herself, she had rushed headlong back to her room only to find that her only refuge had been marred by the sheer, white, lacy nightgown Emmy had left draped across her bed. It waved at her like a white flag on the battlefield of defeat.

Lilac had tossed it out the window and proceeded to don her heaviest night rail. It dragged on the floor and buttoned up to her chin.

Lilac eyed the door to the connecting room warily. She had no intentions of sleeping with the lout even though he had informed her earlier that he had no intentions of sleeping in the connecting room. Uncivilized oaf! Who ever heard of a man and a woman sharing the same room! The same bed.

Well, she just wouldn’t do it!

He had tricked her! She hadn’t figured out how yet, but she would. Her shoulders slumped. Lilac honestly admitted to herself that she had sorely underestimated his capabilities. The man was exceedingly clever. It wasn’t sporting of him to hide all that cleverness under that beautiful facade.

His stunning looks had thrown her off; she wouldn’t make the same mistake again. As soon as he showed himself, she intended to toss him out—right on his taut, compact little rump! Lilac slapped her hands together as if the distasteful job was finished. She had worked herself into a fine lather. Just let him try to—

He stood in the connecting doorway.

He was leaning against the frame, arms crossed over his wide chest, idly watching her while she paced the room muttering to herself. A red silken robe and nothing else clung to him.

My word.

Irrationally, she fumed at how good he looked. There wasn’t a woman on the entire planet who could deal with that! The thought that he might be wearing the infamous robe written about in the Morning Post flickered across her mind before sanity returned. Under the circumstances, an offensive attack was best.

She whirled on him.

“You have what you want now—my property, my things, my house! Get out!”

Rejar viewed her calmly.

“I have no need of your property, your things or your house. But you are right”—his eyes did a slow survey from the top of her head to the tips of her pink toes peeking out from under the voluminous gown—”I have what I want.”

His blatant action made her blush to her pink little toes. Lilac threw her arms up in the air. “Why are you doing this?”

Because I cannot look upon another woman without seeing your face; because your scent follows me even into my dreams, because I want you beyond everything in my life. And because, my wife, you belong to me as I belong to you. He only replied, “I told you before—I have my reasons.”

As an answer, Lilac deemed it insufficient. A vase came hurtling towards his head.

He didn’t even blink.

Pottery crashed against the wall not two feet from his head. Not one muscle in that sculpted physique moved.

This infuriated the woman of logic all the more.

She clenched her fists. “I don’t understand you! I don’t understand any of this! How did you know all those things about me?” She gritted her teeth to ask the unaskable. “How did you know of the birthmark on my ... thigh?”

His eyes sparkled devilishly. He blinked twice, those ridiculously long lashes fanning his cheekbones. A dimple curved his left cheek. “Meow,” he whispered to her.

Lilac hesitated. Was he mocking her? Making light of her upset? How dare he! Another vase crashed against the wall followed by a screech of outrage.

* * *

Downstairs, Emmy raised her eyes to the ceiling. “Cor, what a racket! Is that ‘er cat a screechin’ like that?” she asked Jackie.

“Naw—‘t’is the mistress-ship ‘erself.”

“Is ‘e killin’ ‘er then?” Emmy worried.

Jackie snickered. “Yes, but a ‘little death’ ne’er ‘urt no one, eh, Emmy?” He elbowed the plump maid in the side.

Emmy smiled knowingly at him. “Listen—it’s gone quiet up there now.”

* * *

A first edition of Lady of the Lake sailed by him, landing on the carpet with a dull thud. Rejar was getting tired of this particular game. It was time to enlighten her on the facts of life and move on to the next level of play.

“Have you ever wondered why you have never seen your ‘precious’ cat around me?” He asked in a detached mien. “For that matter, why you have never seen us together? And why do you suppose it is that we both have the same eyes—one of each color?”

Lilac’s brow furrowed. What did this have to do with anything? “Not really. I will admit when I first met you I thought it an odd coincidence that you both had similar—”

“Not similar. Identical.”

“What are you saying?” she asked sarcastically. “That you knew my every move because you have some kind of strange communion with my cat?”

“No. I am saying, my Lilac, that I am your cat.”

She laughed hysterically. “Are you ill? I have never heard such a ridiculous tale in my life. Think up a better one, your Highness.”

He gave her The Smile.

A chill raced down her spine. If ever there was a man who reminded one of a ... She paled. “I am a woman of good sense and sound judgment! I cannot credit such a wild story. As I say—try again.”

The red silk material pulled taut over the muscles in his crossed arms. His long black hair slid forward to curtain his face as he inclined his head, patiently in wait. “Really?”

Lilac faltered for a moment. The picture he made was of an utterly sensuous man. An utterly untamed man. She tried to regain her composure. “Positively. Next you’ll tell me that the dreams—” She stopped abruptly, realizing what she almost revealed to him.

His head snapped up. With a sardonic grin, he abandoned his casual stance by the door and began a deliberate pace towards her. “Those dreams—my sweet, sweet Lilac—were not dreams.”

Her mouth parted in surprise. Did he know about the dreams as well? Her face flushed. How? “I don’t know what game you’re playing, but I do not find it amusing! You may leave.” She waved her hand as if to brush the debris out.

He stopped in front of her and pierced her with a steely gaze.

She swallowed convulsively. The Prince could be most intimidating.

Lifting his hand, he insolently ran the tip of his finger down the side of her face. He stopped his motion long enough to rub the pad back and forth over the sensitive spot in front of her ear. Excited nerve endings instantly sizzled to his expert touch.

Somehow, it did not surprise her that he knew this about her as well.

He continued to trace his fingertips lightly along the underside of her jaw to her chin. With a simple upward flick of his thumb, he positioned her mouth to his liking.

“Stop,” she whispered nervously.

“I think not,” he murmured.

Lilac watched those sensual lips coming near and her breath stopped in her throat. Odd—the small indentation below his slightly full bottom lip fascinated her. It was as if she somehow knew exactly what pleasure that sultry lip could deliver. She stood transfixed like prey caught in the hunter’s sight, feeling the heat of him, his warm breath drifting against her mouth. Poised to capture.

He lowered his mouth to hers very, very slowly. He was through waiting.

Instinctually, just a hair’s breath from touch, he hesitated. It was the false reprieve of predator to prey that signified the end of the chase.