The Trouble With Princesses (24 page)

He shook off the musings, wondering at the extreme thoughts suddenly possessing him. He wasn’t acting like himself at all tonight. Usually he was coolly rational, practical, logical, taking the time to consider every angle, to weigh each decision for its merits and ultimate benefits. He tried his best to be a good monarch, his nation’s welfare his only true concern. To that end, he did what was necessary, regardless of his personal wishes. His own happiness always came last on his list of considerations. But tonight he was tired of denying his own needs and desires. Tonight he wanted to do what felt right for himself—and for Ariadne.

Now he just had to decide precisely what that might be.

He took a long drink and set down his glass with a snap.

Ariadne sent him a curious look, her gaze languorous from too much wine and a lack of proper sleep over the past few days.

“It’s late,” he said. “You should get some rest.”

“I’m not tired,” she insisted. A yawn caught her seconds later, promptly ruining the effect.

“Ah, so I see.”

“Not much anyway,” she amended with a sheepish smile. “We haven’t had dessert. Don’t you want a sweet?”

“Not especially.”

Not the kind she meant anyway. The only sweet he craved was her. His shaft swelled inside his trousers, his mind crowded with images of licking and kissing her, starting with her mouth and working his way down to her toes. Now that was a sweet treat both of them would enjoy.

But he’d promised himself he would let her sleep tonight, however much he would rather keep her otherwise occupied for the next several hours.

She yawned again, confirming his opinion as to her state of wakefulness. “I suppose I am rather tired after all,” she admitted.

“Then, come,” he said. “Let me walk you to your room.”

He stood and offered his arm.

She took it, giving him a quiet smile that shot straight through his chest and down to his loins. He did his best to ignore both sensations.

At her door, they stopped.

“I’ll say good night, then,” he told her, reaching out to push the door wide.

“Oh, you’re not coming in?”

“I wasn’t. You need to rest.”

Her fingers tightened on his arm. “But I assumed you’d stay. I know I would rest better if you did.”

He laid his hand over hers. “There’s no cause to be afraid. You’re safe here. I spoke with the innkeeper and he assured me that no one comes inside without his knowledge and that he locks every door and window before he retires for the evening. We’re the only guests tonight, so no one else is here to worry you.”

“Of course, yes, you are right. I am just being foolish and shall be fine tonight on my own.”

He scowled, hearing the anxiety in her voice. Suddenly he realized he was the one being ridiculous. She’d been kidnapped, for heaven’s sake. Drugged and transported under threat of harm across half the English countryside by a blackhearted scoundrel who had terrorized her with the threat of an unwanted marriage. Of course she didn’t want to spend the night alone. If he left, she probably wouldn’t sleep a wink.

“On second thought, I shall ring and have the maid attend you; then I will return.” He threaded his fingers through hers, lifting her hand to press a kiss to her palm. “You are not to worry, Ariadne. Not about anything.”

A happy smile curved her mouth, her green eyes shining with pleased relief. “Don’t be long.”

“I won’t. Lock the door after the maid leaves. I’ll let myself back in with the key.”

“I shall be waiting.”

He kissed her palm again, then turned and strode away.

•   •   •

With her face washed, her hair brushed, and her teeth scrubbed and tasting pleasantly of the cinnamon and clove tooth powder she’d been thrilled to find in her valise, she sat on the bed, waiting for Rupert.

The maid had come and gone already, staying long enough to assist her out of her dress and into her fine lawn nightgown. The girl had left pitchers of hot and cold water and a small stack of new towels, then wished her good night.

As instructed by Rupert—though she most certainly would have done so on her own—she locked the door securely after the servant, then padded over to the bed.

The sheets were turned down neatly, the pillows plumped in invitation for a comfortable night’s sleep. She smothered another yawn with a hand, eyeing the bed with interest.

But she didn’t want to be asleep when Rupert arrived. She wanted to talk. And maybe if she managed matters right, he would make love to her. She wanted that closeness with him, needed to be held and kissed and swept away on a sea of pleasure, one that would make her forget all about the recent unpleasantness.

Rupert had started something between them in the coach and she wanted to continue it. She could sleep later. Right now, she wanted him.

But as she sat, her eyelids began to droop, weariness washing over her. She yawned again, blinking against the moisture that gathered in her eyes. Maybe she would lean back against a couple of the pillows for just a minute, and close her eyes as she listened for Rupert’s key in the lock.

Unable to resist the idea, she scooted over and propped herself up against the plumped goose down.

Just a minute. Only one, then she would sit up again.

The room dulled around her, the rain that drummed idly outside creating a soporific effect. She listened to the pattering drops, even as she listened for the scrape of a key.

But one minute melted into two and despite her best efforts to rouse herself again, her eyelids refused to lift. Sighing, she turned her head and knew no more.

•   •   •

Rupert let himself into Ariadne’s bedchamber, then closed and locked the door behind him. Night shadows obscured much of the interior, the darkness broken only by a solitary candle that had dripped down to a half stub inside its blue-and-white-glazed pottery holder.

Taking it in hand, he crossed to the bed, then stood gazing down at Ariadne where she lay deeply asleep. It was what he’d wanted for her—a peaceful night of uninterrupted slumber from which she would wake refreshed.

And yet he had to confess that he was disappointed.

Had he secretly been hoping he would find her awake and waiting for him? Had he wanted her to reach out a hand and draw him with her onto the sheets, where they could spend the night making love?

He shook his head at his own folly, ruefully considering all his so-called noble intentions to leave her alone tonight. But as it happened, the wine and her weariness had taken care of the matter for him.

He supposed he ought to return to his room; she would sleep far better if she had the full width of the bed to herself. Then again, he’d promised he would stay, had vowed that she would not have cause to wake and be alarmed in the night.

His shaft throbbed in complaint at the idea of lying next to her and doing nothing but sleep. He wasn’t in the habit of sleeping with women. He coupled with them, then left to seek his own bed for rest. He’d kept to that same pattern with Ariadne over the course of their affair—coming to her bed to pleasure her, then going back to his own room to get a few hours of sleep.

Tonight will be a first.

Resigned, he set the candle on the bedside table, then bent and scooped her gently into his arms. She sighed and snuggled against him, but did not wake. Carefully, he moved her so he would have enough room to slide in next to her, pulling the sheets over her.

He removed his dressing gown, his erection straining insistently against his drawers. Ignoring it, he climbed in beside her, then leaned over to blow out the light.

Lying back, he closed his eyes and hoped for sleep.

Chapter Twenty-one

A
loud clap of thunder brought Ariadne abruptly awake.

She lay for long seconds, listening to the drumming rain, unsure of her surroundings. Staring into the darkness, she was unable to see more than a few dim outlines of the furnishings in the room.

In the next moment, she became aware that she was not alone in the bed. Rather than fear, however, relief washed through her—and pleasure.

Rupert.

She would know him anywhere. The shape and sensation of his long, powerful body lying next to hers. The vital warmth of his skin, which always carried a trace of bayberry and lime and some unique something that was utterly masculine and utterly him.

She smiled and moved closer, resting her head next to his on the pillow and placing her hand on his bare arm. He didn’t so much as twitch, clearly asleep, his breath moving slowly in and out.

She had no memory of his arrival, yet here he lay, exactly as he’d promised he would be.

Obviously he’d let himself in the room, only to find her asleep. He could have left. She was glad he had not, even if the emotion might make her seem weak.

She’d spent her life doing her utmost never to appear vulnerable, never to be anything but strong and resilient, as if nothing in life could bring her low. She was independent and self-reliant, knowing how to keep her head even when the world might seem to be crashing down around her ears. Not even the death of her parents and siblings had caused her to waver. However anguished and alone she had felt inside during those dark times, she’d made sure others couldn’t glimpse her misery. And later, when Teodor, the cousin she’d loved as a young girl and with whom she had had an understanding, had tossed her over for a princess of greater wealth and position, she had smiled and sent him her best regards on his coming marriage.

Never had she allowed anyone to see her pain—or her fear.

Not even Emma and Mercedes, who knew and loved her better than anyone, truly saw beneath the resilient facade she wore like a shiny suit of armor.

So it was curious that she couldn’t seem to hide her feelings, or herself, from Rupert. With him the pretenses fell away whether she wished them to or not. There were no secrets, no intimacies they could not share or which she would deny him.

She wasn’t sure, even now, how she felt about him. He was her lover—and yes, she supposed, her friend. But there were times when he could still be Emma’s annoying older brother. Infuriating, willful, and far too filled with the pride due his rank and lineage.

Yet he’d ridden after her without a moment’s hesitation. He’d fought for her today and made sure she was safe. And he’d come here tonight because she’d needed him and he’d understood that she couldn’t bear to be alone.

With a sigh, she stroked her hand over his warm, bare chest, threading her fingers through the short curls that grew there. She loved the feel of him, never tired of exploring, of running her hands over and along his exquisitely formed body.

Lower she went, trailing her fingertips across his firm pectorals, along the faint ridges of his rib cage to the taut plane of his stomach. She kissed his shoulder, then ducked under his arm so she could gain easier access, dotting his skin with random brushes of her mouth and tongue.

She found one of his flat nipples and nuzzled it, licking the tip with her tongue. It hardened, peaking as though eager for more of her touch. She hadn’t kissed him like this before, but she’d thought about it. If her touch felt even half as good as his did when he used his mouth on her breasts and nipples, then he ought to find this quite stimulating. She raked her teeth over one small tip, then opened her lips wider and began to suckle.

A low moan slid from his throat.

Pausing, she listened to see if he had awakened. When he made no new movements or sounds, she went back to what she had been doing. Below, she continued to stroke his chest and stomach, gliding slowly back and forth, then back and forth again.

After a short while, she transferred her attentions to his other nipple, smiling when she found it as hard and ready as its brother. Tonguing him, she moved her palm lower, stopping only when she reached the edge of his drawers.

He was hard inside them, his shaft straining against the cloth in a way that threatened to pop the buttons off. With a few deft movements that he had taught her himself, she unfastened the buttons and let him spring free.

Still kissing his chest, she closed her hand around his rampant length, stroking him from base to tip in just the way he liked.

His hips arched and she looked up to see if she had roused him to wakefulness. But despite rolling his head on the pillow, he slept on, as if caught in some dream from which he could not seem to wake.

Does he imagine my caresses aren’t real?

Then
perhaps she ought to provide him with more reason to separate illusion from reality.

She hesitated, having done what she was thinking to do only one time before, and then for just a few moments. At the time, he’d pulled her up and away, ravishing her mouth as he pleasured her into a kind of drugged oblivion.

Maybe now it was her turn to do the same to him.

She liked the idea of him needing her as much as she did him.

Gathering her nerve, she slid down, caressing his stomach and his hair-roughened thighs before curving her fingers around his erection.

It pulsed inside her palm, the skin warm and velvety yet hard, with long veins that were engorged with blood. She ran a thumb over the tip and found it already moist, another bead of semen leaking out at her touch.

She wanted to taste him, wanted to find out if the experience was as satisfying as before. Hesitating only a few seconds more, she leaned down and took him in her mouth, shallowly at first, taking her time.

Learning.

He tasted better than she remembered—sweet and salty at the same time, rather like a marvelous treat. Closing her eyes, she swirled her tongue around, then gave a tentative pull.

His flesh throbbed against her lips and tongue, seeming to grow even harder and larger.

Caught up in the moment and filled with increasing confidence, she opened her mouth wider and took another inch. She suckled again, hard enough that her cheeks hollowed out around him.

A harsh moan filled the air, his hips bucking beneath her again as he arched upward. She leaned back slightly and might have pulled away, but suddenly his hands were on her head, fingers wrapped in her hair as he held her in place.