The Runaway Princess Page 15

  “You say they are devoted to me. Yes, I had thought so.” His thumbs probed the gash again. “Everything’s out of this cut. I’ll check it again in the morning.”

  Wisps of steam and darkness teased her, concealing him from her scrutiny. Frustrated, she said, “Tell me about Victor and Rafaello.”

  “You know what I think, or you wouldn’t have asked. We are not at the village of Chute although I made it appear we were going there.” With a groan, he threw out his arms and splashed back into the pool.

  Not even the tip of his nose showed above the surface, and she wished she could pummel him for throwing out such an interesting tidbit and then disappearing. Groping under the water, she found his extended leg and curled her fingers around it.

  He came up at once. “What?”

  “Why aren’t we in Chute?”

  The muscle in his calf tightened to whipcord constriction beneath her palm. “Because either Victor or Rafaello, or both, are betraying us to Dominic.”

  Her jaw dropped, but she never thought to argue with him. If Danior thought so, then Danior had reason. “You don’t think it was an accident that the rebels found us at Château Fortuné?”

  “I did at first. Not any longer. We—Victor, Rafaello, and I—learned to lose trackers in the best school possible in the war, with Napoleon’s huntsmen hot on our trails. We took chances no one else would take, and if we had been unsuccessful, we would have been dead.” Leaning on one elbow, he wiped his dripping hair out of his face. “Now, suddenly, we cannot shake Dominic? No.”

  “But your brothers have been with you all this time! Why would they betray you now?”

  “Before we were fighting for our families and our country. Now we’re fighting for a way of life many remember as oppressive and barren. The countries haven’t been prosperous for the last fifty years. My father ate well for a man whose people were starving. Your mother dressed fashionably for a woman whose people shivered in the cold. No one knows how I’ll rule as king, or if you’ll be compassionate as queen. I’ve promised my brothers a just reward for their services, but perhaps one of them sees a chance for more.” Sitting up, he scrubbed his face as she had done, and rubbed at his shoulders, arms, and chest. “Perhaps if you and I were out of the way, there would be a place on the throne for a royal bastard.”

  For years she had lived in a small village, surrounded by people she greeted by name, people who watched her every action, people who immediately recognized a stranger and made it their affair to discover his business. She had thought she liked being away from that constant, gossipy watchfulness.

  No man-made surroundings could compare to the grandeur of these mountains, glowing faintly in the moonlight, to those stars, a swathe of silver scattered across a black velvet sky, to these pines, tall, primal, satiated with fragrance.

  Yet the sweet hush of silence that enveloped the pond seemed suddenly menacing and oppressive. This place made her aware of her insignificance, of how easily her essence could be extinguished by in-different nature or by unrelenting enemies. She strained to hear any sound beyond the occasional slight rush of the stream, then very, very quietly, she asked, “Are you sure we’re safe?”

  “After I left you here, I backtracked. No one has followed us. I took care to leave no sign of our passing. And few know of this place, certainly not Victor or Rafaello.” Danior’s voice deepened and became warm, enfolding her as surely as the water itself. “We are safe for as long as we wish to stay.”

  What layers of meaning were wrapped inside his words? “That can’t be too long,” she said nervously. “You must get to Plaisance in time for Revealing in, what, three days?”

  “We must get to Plaisance for Revealing, difficult though that may be. No one said the way to the throne would be easy—Your Highness.” His hands disappeared under the water.

  She realized he was scrubbing everything. All of him. She didn’t want to think about what that entailed, and hastily she removed her hand from his calf and looked anywhere but at him.

  Yet she could still hear the splash of water and feel the faint current created by his ablutions. She feared enemies of the royal family, known and unknown, it was true. But more than that, she feared Danior. One instinct urged her to flee. Another instinct told her that any movement, however slight, would attract his attention. And in the base of her being she knew that if she stayed, he would inevitably reach for her.

  Slowly, taking care to make no noise, she began to stand, to inch away from him, from his too-close proximity and his watchful, beckoning gaze.

  But his hand landed on her collarbone. “Wait. I don’t want you to put that foot down. Let me get the ointment and the rags to dry and wrap it.” His fingers massaged the joint of her shoulder, then slid down to her elbow. “Trust me, Evangeline. I’ll take care of you.” He didn’t sound stuffy or princely or superior.

  He sounded seductive.

  The air seemed thin, sucked into the vacuum by this man’s flagrant sexuality. The way he looked at her in the moonlight, the possession inherent in his touch, the authority in his voice, all made the truth clear to her. He might as well just have said it. This prince who was built like a peasant wanted her.

  Her thoughts careened as she stared at the broad hand that held her in place.

  All right. He wasn’t built so much like a peasant. More like a warrior, with thick forearms that could swing a weapon and broad shoulders that could lift a princess.

  He frightened her, yet at the same time some unfamiliar sentiment moved within her. His strength, his boldness, his maleness brought forth a corresponding feminine softness in her.

  “Do you trust me, Evangeline?” he asked.

  “I do,” she answered. When he laughed, deep and overly pleased, she realized how much that had sounded like a wedding vow. “I mean, of course I do, or I would have clobbered you by now.”

  Unoffended and certainly unworried, he relinquished his hold on her and stood. Water streamed off of him, pressing the drawers close to his legs, and she looked when she should not. He was strong, muscled . . . aroused. Aroused, just as he had been in her bedchamber at the château, just as he had been in the storage chamber at the convent. Did the man live in this erect state day and night?

  He stretched, his hands reaching for the stars, and she realized his condition didn’t embarrass him. Subtlety was beyond him.

  As was duplicity?

  Oh, yes. He thought she was the princess, his to take and make his own. He wouldn’t woo her if he didn’t. Yet if she didn’t convince him of her true identity, who was the duplicitous one?

  Gathering his tools, he strode toward the shore. He wrapped them and placed them in the bag, then drew out several lengths of material. Beckoning to her, he commanded, “Stay low and keep your foot up, princess. Don’t drag it across the bottom.”

  She couldn’t hide in the water all night, so moving like a crab, on her hands and one foot, she crept toward him. “I’m truly not the princess,” she said.

  “After tonight, I don’t blame you for saying so.” He squatted in the pool and held out his hands, material draped between them.

  “I mean it.” Cautiously, she held out her injured foot. “I’m Evangeline Scoffield of East Little Teignmouth, Cornwall. What will it take to convince you?”

  “You know that very well.”

  “I do?” She stared at him as he dried her foot with care. Uncorking the bottle, he applied a poultice of mashed leaves. A faint, minty scent teased her nostrils as he wrapped rag strips around her arch.

  “Any time you want to show me the proof, I’m more than willing.” Leaning over her, he slid his arms around her and warned again, “Keep your foot up.” He lifted her out of the water, up against his chest. Her arms went around his neck, grabbing instinctively, desperate not to fall. But her hands found the soft, wet curl of hair at his neck, and the corded muscles that shifted as he walked with her to the shore.

  Misgivings deluged her. This was too real. The air
was too cold, the water plastered her chemise too closely, his glance was too confident.

  How had she come to this moment? What thread of fate had she plucked that wove her into this royal tapestry? She gave a convulsive shiver.

  “I have a towel of sorts to dry off with and a rug to wrap up in.” He stood her on a flat stone that raised her to his level.

  Tentatively, she put her weight on her foot. The wound was better. Much better. “Where did you get all that?”

  “When I was a lad we had a hunting lodge not far away where we summered.” He spoke carelessly of the kind of wealth she could only imagine. “I found this place. I would bring up supplies and hide them in a hollow tree, wrapped in an oilcloth.” He shook out a blanket. “The clothing no longer fits me, the hardtack is no longer hard, and this rug is musty, but I shook it and aired it on the trek back here.”

  “Very helpful.” Her teeth were chattering now, from nerves and from cold.

  Handing her a length of cloth, he said, “This is from the bag. I’ll hold the rug. You take off your garments and dry yourself.”

  She remembered the signs of life in his drawers. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “You can’t sleep in those wet clothes. You have to take them off so I can hang them to dry. Now do as I tell you.” He raised the material between them.

  “Why can’t you just turn your back?”

  “Why can’t you do as you’re told?” he asked in a muted roar.

  Surely his temper was a good sign. She stared at the wool weave and fingered her chemise. Why was she suspicious of him and his intentions? He moved without stealth. He performed every task openly. He’d been in the water with her and managed to keep his hands to himself.

  Well, except for that moment when he’d held her face and said he could see her body. Now that the ordeal of purging her wound was over, she conjectured his threat had been nothing more than a ruse to extract bravery from a coward.

  If Prince Danior planned to seduce her, she imagined he would inform her before he started, and probably keep her apprised every step of the way.

  And tell her she lied if she didn’t respond as he expected.

  She grinned and lifted the makeshift towel.

  “Are you getting out of your clothes?” he demanded.

  “I’m drying my hair.” Her voice had just as much snap as his did, and she told herself he couldn’t be both aroused and irritated.

  He sighed like a long-suffering martyr.

  She draped the towel around her neck and loosened her chemise. The damp made the fabric stick to her flesh, and her fingers shook, but as quickly as she could, she pulled the garment over her head, tossing everything across a bush. The branches swayed and groaned under the weight of the wet material, and without volition she glanced warily at the blanket. It remained immobile. A warrior stood behind it, but he behaved like a gentleman. As quickly as she could, she rubbed herself down, trying to subdue the goose-bumps with briskness, but nothing helped. The ground might be warm, but the air was frigid.

  I’m done. A mixture of embarrassment and excitement kept her silent. Hand me my clothes. She should have fetched them before she stripped and found herself holding this feeble excuse for a towel. Its thin length wouldn’t even cover the important parts, so reluctantly she draped it around her hips and held it with one hand. The other arm she pressed across her breasts, and she cleared her throat. “I’m done?”

  She didn’t mean for it to come out like that, quavering and unsure, but it didn’t matter anyway, because this time when she looked at the blanket, she saw Danior. He still held it out at arms’ length, but he had lowered it enough to look at her. At her body.

  And he was smiling.

  Twenty

  Evangeline had never seen the prince smile like that. As if he were astonished and proud and relieved, a man facing his fate and finding it wonderful.

  “My clothes?” she rasped.

  “You won’t need them tonight.”

  The wound in her foot must have weakened her more than she realized. She heard him, and she didn’t mind. He stared at her, and she liked it. He planned to debauch her, and she wanted it.

  “Danior?” she whispered.

  To answer, he enveloped her in the rug, picked her up, and walked toward the pine bough bed nestled in the hollow just at the edge of the forest. His face was close to hers, close enough that the warmth of his breath touched her cheek, and in the moonlight she saw the faint, anticipatory glimmer of his eyes.

  “Danior?” she whispered again.

  He pressed his mouth to hers. A day’s growth of beard scraped her chin. He smelled damp and tasted clean. Water clung to him and seeped through the rug, carrying the heat of his determination.

  A simple man. She’d seen him as incapable of wily enticement. Nothing had happened to change her mind. There had been nothing wily about his conduct; to a simple man, a bath together in God’s most romantic setting must naturally be followed by their coupling.

  The worthless little towel fell from her fingers.

  Lifting his lips, he murmured, “Evangeline, I want you.”

  Remembering his earlier laughter, she asked, “Do you really want me?” Madly, truly, uncontrollably, she meant.

  “My God, woman, what do you think this is all about?” Taking the last steps to the bed, he laid her down and lay atop her.

  He blocked out the sky. He weighed her down, and the woven wool confined her movements. But before the old panic could set in, he freed her from its constraint.

  “Stay there,” he admonished. “And I mean it this time.”

  He must not have felt sure of her, for he didn’t move far. Just to the foot of the bed, where he stripped off so quickly she scarcely had time to note she lay on the cloak, the pine boughs beneath her were deep and fragrant, the trees surrounding them gave them shelter and shadow, and she was trembling. Trembling from cold, and trembling from nervousness.

  Oh, Leona had allowed her to read amazing Oriental texts describing the most outrageous acts men and women could perform together. But much like descending a tower on a rope, knowledge lent little to reality. This adventure, more than all the others, required courage, and her meager store had been depleted.

  She clenched her teeth, clutched her fists, locked her knees together. She kept her eyes wide and fixed on the specter that was Danior, and concentrated on maintaining her composure. She couldn’t yell, she couldn’t run away, so she would endure.

  Cold air rushed in as he lifted the cover and slid beneath. Then the goad of flesh against flesh brought a flash of heat. Their bodies pressed together along every inch possible. Above her head was his, outlined against the stars and the silhouette of the branches. Below her feet were his, stretched beyond the reach of her toes. He surrounded her in every way, yet he leaned on one elbow to regulate his weight.

  He remembered what she feared, and with the rough glide of his palms up her arms, she realized he also remembered what she desired.

  “Evangeline, you are my wife, my only.”

  She could see nothing of him; the trees protected them from any vagrant beams of moonlight, and his face was a mystery to her. But his voice was deep and inexorable; he bound himself to her, whether she wished it or not. Haltingly, she tried to tell him the truth one last time. “I’m just a woman who sought adventure. I never expected to get this—love at a poolside with a prince. And I know it can’t last.”

  “But it will last.” His voice became the murmur of a sweetheart in the darkness of the night. “All my life I’ve waited for you, and for this.”

  Did she believe him? She should; he never wavered in his beliefs, he never lost his head. Yet beneath the exceptional control he displayed, she detected signs of volcanic emotion. It was evident in his body, in the way his hips nudged against hers.

  And he was big. No matter what the books said, at this moment she didn’t believe he would fit inside her. This basic act seemed absurd, a jest played by som
e deity. Some male deity. She’d made Danior lose control once before, and the results had almost swept her, swept both of them, away.

  His emotions seemed firmly clamped down, but before a woman dared let a man garn access to her body, she needed to be sure of the man and his passions.

  “Danior?” Her voice quavered. “Will this be . . . safe?”

  “Safe.” One of his hands stroked a lock of her hair back over her ear. The other hand held her waist, pressing her against him. “I live to keep you safe.”

  “Because I’m the princess?”

  He took a breath. She knew he did, because she felt the inhalation against her chest.

  “Because you’re the princess,” he agreed.

  Then he held his breath. She felt that, too, and the waiting tension in him. The wretched man wouldn’t lie. Probably didn’t know how to lie. And she, like a fool, found that more attractive than false and honeyed words.

  Her fists had unclenched. Her hands lifted, her fingertips touched his chest. “I’m not the princess. Will you still keep me safe?”

  The query was a luxury, bought with bemused certainty. She’d traveled on his back for miles, for hours. She’d touched and been touched by him more than any other human being in her life. She knew him from the words he’d spoken, from his acts of valor, but more important, she knew him with her instincts. Danior would keep the lowest peasant safe. Even when he discovered the truth—no, when he’d had the truth hammered home to him—he would never abandon her. Somehow, somewhere, he would keep her safe.

  And he knew the question required no answer, for his laugh rumbled through him—rumbled through her—and he pressed a kiss on her forehead. “Forever.”

  She knew his form, but this nakedness was different: shocking and comforting, not enough and yet too much. The muscles that flexed beneath her palms were covered not by cloth, but by skin and hair. He rubbed his legs along hers, and they, too, were rough with hair. She wondered if his whole body was hairy, and why that intrigued her, and if she would discover for herself.