Someday My Prince Page 3

  He didn’t move or indicate his displeasure in any physical way, yet the air perceptibly cooled. “If I had decided to kidnap or harm you, Your Highness, the job would be done already.”

  Rubbing her palms over the goose bumps that had formed on her arms, she thought she would like to learn this trick of influencing the atmosphere. He was efficient, she knew. He wouldn’t have bungled it; she would be gone, and no one would know it yet. No one had even come looking for her.

  Then a large, dark form stepped into the doorway of the study from whence she had come and looked out. Francis.

  And despite her uneasy thoughts about Dom, she wished Francis would go away.

  He didn’t, of course. He stepped out onto the veranda and asked, “Laurentia? What are you doing out here? Everyone’s wondering if you ran away from your own party.”

  “I did,” she said.

  “Bad form, dear.” That this always proper nobleman allowed himself to chide her spoke volumes. That he stared with offended dignity at the man beside her said even more. “You’re out here with a ... gentleman.”

  On Francis’s lips, the word “gentleman” sounded like an insult. An insult which seemed to affect Dom not at all, but raised Laurentia’s hackles. Francis took too much on himself. He always had.

  Easing her bottom backward on the marble railing, she made herself at home beside Dom, and swung her feet in a parody of relaxation. “Yes, this is Dominic of Sereminia. He’s the brother of King Danior of Sereminia and one of my suitors.”

  As soon as she’d said the words, she wished she could call them back. The brother of King Danior of Sereminia, indeed.

  Francis moved closer, out of the light, dismissing Dom and concentrating on her. “The brother of King Danior would be a prince.”

  “No, Lord de Radcote,” Dom said. “Not without the bonds of holy matrimony to bless my parents’ union.”

  Dom didn’t sound offended that she’d placed him in the position of declaring his illegitimacy, but she put her hand on his arm anyway. He looked down at her with what she thought might be surprise, and she saw the shadows around his mouth deepen. He was smiling at her, and her heart sang a funny little trill.

  “The princess and I have just been discussing my star-crossed debut on the wrong side of the covers and how it will influence my courtship.” Dom laid his hand over hers, trapping it against the warmth of his arm. “I shall have to be extra gallant to convince her I am the man she seeks.”

  She stared at him, unable to tear her gaze from the dim-shadowed face. She knew he said so just to worm his way into her affections, and probably— no, definitely—to annoy Francis. Nevertheless, that combination of danger and charm worked on her like Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. Her pulse pounded in her trapped hand, her breath quickened. She felt if she opened her mouth, her every thought would be expressed in the chorale “Ode to Joy”— and she couldn’t carry a tune in a coal scuttle.

  “How touching.” Francis, not surprisingly, managed to sound both stern and disapproving. “But I’m sure Her Highness would agree it would be best if she came inside and led us into supper.”

  Supper. Dom had asked to take her into supper. Now he held her hand, and patiently waited for her decision. Damn him. The man read her ... as well as she read him. He knew that if she didn’t accept his invitation, she’d feel guilty for rejecting him and discontented with Francis.

  What had been totally acceptable an hour ago— declaring Francis her favored suitor—now seemed the act of a woman who worshipped the dull and predictable. Even the cowardly. She ought, really ought, to give the others a chance. After all, many of them had traveled over mountain and river for a chance to woo her. With Dom at her side, she could tease and flirt in one last grand gala before settling down to the serious business of being a wife, princess, and that which she prayed for, mother.

  Never mind that she could do so equally well with a little sensible caution and without Dom dancing attendance.

  “Is it time for supper already? Thank you for reminding me, Francis.” Sliding off the balustrade, she faced Dom. “Shall we go in?”

  He pushed away from the railing and walked away from her, leaving her feeling foolish and abandoned. But he only stubbed out his cigar in the dirt of a potted plant before returning and offering his arm. “Your Highness, you do me great honor.”

  The guilt she dreaded reared its head before they’d taken a step, and she said, “Come along, Francis. I must introduce Dominic to His Majesty, my father.”

  “Yes, Francis, come along.” Dom couldn’t have sounded more patronizing or more unceremonious.

  Francis despised a lack of ceremony, and he hurried to catch up as they walked into the darkened study. “Your Highness, you have not been properly introduced to this gentleman, thus you should not be going into dinner with him.” Then the light fell on her, and he gasped, “Your Highness!”

  Confusion brought Laurentia to a halt. “What?”

  “Look at yourself.” He pointed to one of the mirrors lining the walls. “You look like a trollop!”

  She did. The struggle with her attacker had left her gown askew, her glove smudged from her fall, and her hair was more than just loose, as she had fondly supposed. Tendrils straggled over one shoulder and the whole exquisite creation listed to one side.

  She stopped in her tracks and stared at her reflection. “Oh, my.”

  “Yet, my Lord de Radcote, I would hesitate to use the word ‘trollop’ in conjunction with Her Highness.” Dom sounded amused, but with an edge that effectively chided Francis.

  Francis found himself in the unusual position of being in the wrong, and his apology lacked conviction. “ ‘Trollop’ was indeed an unfortunate choice of words on my part.”

  “I find her disarray charming,” Dom said.

  “Of course. You would. I’m glad I didn’t come out sooner, Your Highness. I would not have wished to interrupt your romp with this fellow.”

  For a moment, she didn’t understand what he meant by a “romp.” When she did, she experienced a confusion of indignation, amusement, and, lurking beneath it all, a totally unjustified self-consciousness. Because she hadn’t been “romping,” yet in the depths of her mind, she rather wished she had been. Certainly it would have been better than being attacked and landing too hard on her ... dignity. “Francis, no! I was—”

  “Barely saved from tumbling over the railing. By me.” Dom gripped her elbow. “I think perhaps Her Highness has had a little too much to drink.”

  She rounded on him. “I beg your pardon!”

  “Deny it if you like, Your Highness.” He dipped his head in respectful salute, but his eyes watched her meaningfully. “But how many glasses of wine have you imbibed?”

  For some reason, he didn’t want her to reveal her ordeal, but his false accusation meant nothing now.

  Not when the light fell full on his countenance and showed her ... showed her ...

  His forehead was broad, his jaw was a powerful statement of obstinacy, his cheekbones were broad and classically Sereminian. His nose jutted out in a most imperious manner. That scar divided his face into uneven portions, a white streak through rough, tanned skin. For no reason should he have been called handsome.

  But he was. He was splendid. Stunning. Magnificent.

  Deep in her mind, an alarm sounded.

  Black lashes any young lady would envy formed a frame for his eyes. Eyes of pure blue, virginal in their clarity, piercing in their intensity, overwhelming in their sensuality. In his eyes, she could see every slight, every compliment, every battle, every lust, every cruelty. A woman could fall into his eyes and travel the routes to his soul.

  Slowly she stepped back.

  His mouth ... his wide mouth hinted of a heated afternoon spent in exchanging long, slow, shudderingly sweet kisses.

  A faint dampness trickled across her palms, and she formed fists to dry them on her gloves.

  She already knew he was tall and broad-shouldered. But sh
e hadn’t realized how his body defined his clothing, making them superfluous decorations on a perfect form.

  This man was a stranger to her, but she recognized his breed. He moved, ate, and spoke like a normal man.

  But he was a walking, breathing heartache.

  Chapter Four

  “Laurentia, are you intoxicated?”

  Francis’s furious question pulled her back from the brink of worship, despair, and resolution, and into the real world.

  “What?” She tore her gaze away from Dom and stared at Francis.

  “I can’t believe it of you,” Francis said furiously. “What were you thinking?”

  “Thinking?” She’d been thinking she was a woman who learned from her mistakes, that’s what she’d been thinking.

  “You imbibed unwisely on this, your special night?”

  She stared at Francis for one more dazed moment. Then her brain snapped into action—but she didn’t dare look at Dom. Fortitude was a fine thing, but she already knew she was susceptible to the idiocy he induced. “I was thinking,” she answered. “Or rather, I wasn’t thinking. I’m better now. The fresh air has done me good, and I’m sure the food from the supper will correct any lack of coordination...” She was rambling, confirming her intemperance and deepening Francis’s appalled amazement.

  Unable to resist any longer, she cast a helpless glance at Dom and lost momentum. He was smiling at her, and she staggered from the almost physical impact. Deep in those tanned and rugged cheeks resided dimples.

  Two.

  Devastating ones.

  If she had known what he’d looked like when she stood outside with him, she would have been speechless. Instead she’d snipped and teased, proving she could be coherent, and that left her looking even more silly right now with candlelight bathing him in a glow and she as blushing and tongue-tied as any green girl.

  “Your Highness.” Francis broke into her garbled thoughts. “I assume you would prefer Mr.—”

  “Dom.” The mercenary’s broad hand still held her close to his side. “Just Dom. We bastards don’t have the luxury of surnames.”

  Francis flushed; he hated being placed in a position in which he didn’t know the proper protocol. “Your Highness. You would prefer Dom to take you into supper, I presume.”

  “It might be better,” Dom said. “I’m an old hand with these cases.”

  Indignation crashed through her. “These cases?” She watched Dom give Francis a manly, fraternal nod, and after a moment of surprised indecision, Francis returned it. Executing a military turn, he strode off, leaving Laurentia and Dom alone.

  “These cases?” she repeated, torn between chagrin and mirth. Even when she knew she should be wary, Dom disarmed her.

  He watched until Francis had cleared the doorway. Then he pushed her toward the mirror and stood at her left shoulder. With the delicacy of a lady’s maid, he plucked the pins from her hair, and she caught her breath as she wondered, for one spectacular, unwary moment, if he intended to seduce her.

  Madness. Did it now affect her, too?

  “Hold these.” He dangled his hairpin-filled hand over her shoulder. “I’ll put your hair back up. I have experience in these matters.”

  Experience. She would wager he did, and she knew how he’d got it. Cynicism made her clearheaded. Cupping her palms, she accepted the pins and demanded, “How could you insinuate those things about me?”

  “I didn’t want you to tell de Radcote about the abduction attempt.” Taking her hair in his palm, he scraped it into a tail at the back of her head and twisted it. “We don’t know for sure the nature of the beast, and if I’m going to be your bodyguard, I don’t want the palace in an uproar.”

  Her bodyguard. She looked in the mirror and his virile beauty struck her again. Wary or not, cynical or not, if she made him her bodyguard, she wouldn’t be able to act on anything but instinct, like a jellyfish floating on an inexorable current. Maybe even the fundamental performance of a jellyfish would be beyond her, since she seemed to be having trouble breathing. Not that jellyfish breathed— She cut herself off before her thoughts could ramble further. “His Majesty, my father—”

  “Should know.” Leaning forward, he plucked three of the pins from her hand. “For one thing, if there is a threat it may extend to him.”

  That hadn’t occurred to her. Panic cleared her mind of any other thought, and she tried to walk away, to go to her father.

  Dom stopped her. “Stand still! I don’t want to jerk your hair out by the roots!”

  She clutched her fingers around the pins, and several sprang into the air and landed with tinny pings on the table and floor. “My father—”

  “Is fine. Abductors are cowards, and stupid ones at that, but they’ll not attempt anything in a ballroom in front of everyone. They would be caught and executed.”

  “Yes.” She swallowed. “Of course.”

  “His Majesty is under no more threat than he ever is.” Dom used up the hairpins, and pried her fingers open for more. “You did realize he—and you—were always in danger.”

  “Yes,” she said, but her voice was small.

  He scowled, unimpressed. “Listen. Before the union of Serephinia and Baminia, there were several groups of revolutionaries operating in both countries, and they were almost successful in overthrowing the government.”

  She knew the story. Every ruler in Europe knew that story, and the tales of all the revolutions spawned by Napoleon’s shake-up of the old kingdoms. “But in Serephinia and Baminia, the rulers were corrupt and the economy weak. The people were starving, and starving people will revolt.” She grasped his wrist as it dipped down for more pins. When he met her gaze in the mirror, she said, “In Bertinierre, our people are not starving.”

  “You’re naive if you think that’s all there is to it. There’ll always be someone who wants the biggest slice of the cake. You fare well in Bertinierre. Did you think no one would notice?”

  On the veranda, he’d soothed her with his patter. Now intensity radiated from him, convincing her she’d been living an illusion of invulnerability.

  Ruthlessly she cleared the veil of pernicious desire from her mind. She was the princess, responsible for her country, and Dom seemed the voice of reason. She would listen and decide. Letting go of his wrist, she offered a hairpin. “Who?”

  “I don’t know.” He plucked the pin from between her fingers and used it to anchor another swath of hair. “That idiot tonight, he was an amateur, but an almost successful amateur. If he hadn’t underestimated you, and if I hadn’t been conveniently in place, you’d be gone.”

  Very conveniently.

  Not that he could have known she would go outside, or that she really thought he had planned a fake abduction just to ingratiate himself as her suitor. But despite his opinion, and her own baffling reaction to a too-handsome face, she was nobody’s fool.

  Or at least she hadn’t been for almost five years.

  Holding up a pin, she watched it. Steady, without a tremor. “So you think the attack was a plot?”

  He plucked the pin from her fingers. “Not at all. It could have been—probably was—just that smelly mullet-head with a slapdash plan and a lot of nerve.”

  She handed him another pin. He inserted it, and her hair took a familiar shape as she watched him pinch and twist. “That would be best.”

  “By far. But the arseworm ... excuse me ... scoundrel—”

  He paused, waiting for her to laugh. Inviting her to laugh.

  She didn’t, and after a brief look of surprise, he continued. “The scoundrel could try again. Or this could be the first volley from the discontented.”

  “Perhaps.” Certainly, this explained her father’s penchant for extraordinary precautions and plans.

  “Or it could even be another country, envious of Bertinerre’s wealth.”

  She started.

  It would be too much to expect that he wouldn’t notice. Taking her shoulders, he turned her to face him. “
That’s it, is it?”

  “Maybe. No, surely not. That was years ago.” Right after Beaumont’s death, and she remembered so little of that time, yet vaguely she recalled a conversation between her father and their most trusted servant, Chariton.

  Dom waited, but she didn’t confide her country’s secrets in anyone, especially not men she had the good sense not to trust.

  His eyes narrowed, his lashes a sooty fringe. “You’re not as innocent as you appear.”

  “Ignorant,” she corrected him gently. “I’m not as ignorant as I appear. I’m going to be queen. My father consults me in every matter, tells me his opinion, and asks my advice.”

  A subtle tension around his mouth relaxed. “That explains much.”

  “Explains what?”

  “Why someone would try to take you. You’re privy to the nation’s secrets.”

  He answered easily, but his air of satisfaction, hastily concealed, made her regret confessing her authority. Yet everyone knew; it was common knowledge throughout the kingdom she was His Majesty’s most valued emissary. Hiding her capabilities would gain her nothing.

  “Stand still for just one moment more. I’m almost done.” He turned her back to the mirror and set to work. “I have connections. I’ll ask around down by the waterfront tomorrow and see if anyone is talking.”

  “If they are?”

  “Then I’ll have earned my still-unnegotiated wage.” He grinned at her, all dimples and allure.

  Desire rushed back, a giddy aphrodisiac against which she had no defenses, and she almost dropped the last of the pins. But if exposed often enough, a person could get callused against such charisma. “You are no longer a suitor, then, but a servant?” she asked.

  He still held a smile, but the character of it changed to tempered steel. “I am never a servant. A servant is someone who waits upon another’s pleasure. I am free to come and go, destined to work outside of your tiresome protocol.”

  She smiled, too, flint to his steel. “Very well. You agree you have decided to take this assignment, and if my father concurs, and we are pleased with your credentials, I agree you should be hired.” She allowed him one moment of triumph before putting him firmly in his place. “And I must know the amount you demand as reimbursement.”