Crown Prince's Chosen Bride (12 page)

CHAPTER TWELVE

T
HE
SUNLIGHT
STREAMING
through the bedroom window told Gemma she had slept for several hours and that it must be heading towards noon. She reached out her hand to find the bed empty beside her, the sheets cooling.

But his lingering scent on the pillow—on
her
—was proof Tristan had been there with her. So were the delicious aches in her muscles, her body boneless with satisfaction. She stretched out her naked limbs, luxuriating in the memories of their lovemaking. Was it the fact he was a prince or simply because he was the most wonderful man she had ever met that made Tristan such an awesome lover?

She wouldn't question it. Tristan was Tristan, and she had never been gladder that she'd made the impulsive decision to take what she could of him—despite the pain she knew lay ahead when they would have to say goodbye.

Better thirty-six hours with this man than a lifetime with someone less perfect for her.

Her tummy rumbled to let her know the hour for breakfast was long past and that she'd had very little to eat the night before.

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafted to her nostrils, and she could hear noises coming from the kitchen. She sat up immediately—now fully awake. Tristan must be starving, too. How could she have slept and neglected him?
How could she have wasted precious time with him by sleeping?

She leapt out of bed and burrowed in the top drawer of the chest of drawers, pulled out a silk wrap patterned with splashes of pink and orange and slipped it on. She'd given the wrap to her grandmother on her last birthday and kept it in memory of her.

She rushed out to the kitchen to find Tristan standing in front of the open fridge, wearing just a pair of blue boxer shorts. Her heart skipped a beat at the sight. Could a man be more perfectly formed?

He saw her and smiled a slow smile. The smile was just for her, and memories of their passionate, tender lovemaking came rushing back. The smile told her his memories of her were as happy. They were so good together. He was a generous lover, anticipating her needs, taking her to heights of pleasure she had not dreamed existed. She in turn revelled in pleasing him.

All this she could see in his smile. He opened his arms, and she went straight to them, sighing with pleasure as he pulled her close and slid his hands under the wrap. His chest was warm and hard, and she thrilled at the power of his body. He hadn't shaved, and the overnight growth of his beard was pleasantly rough against her cheek.

For a long moment they stood there, wrapped in each other's arms. She rested her head against his shoulder, felt the steady thud of his heartbeat, breathed in the male scent of him—already so familiar—and knew there was nowhere else she would rather be.

‘You should have woken me,' she murmured.

‘You looked so peaceful I did not have the heart,' he said. ‘After all, you drove all the way here. And I only woke half an hour ago.'

‘I...I don't want to waste time sleeping when I could be with you.'

‘Which is why I was going to wake you with coffee.'

‘A good plan,' she said.

‘Hold still,' he said as he wiped under her eye with his finger.

‘Panda eyes?' She hadn't removed her mascara the night before in the excitement of planning their escape.

‘Just a smear of black,' he said. ‘It's good now.'

She found it a curiously intimate gesture—something perhaps only long-time couples did. It was difficult to believe she had only met him on Monday. And would be losing him by the next Monday.

‘You've been busy, by the look of it,' she said.

The table was set for a meal. She noticed he had set the forks and spoons face down, as she'd seen in France. The coffee machine hissed steam, and there were coffee mugs on the countertop.

‘I hope you don't mind.'

‘Of course not. The kitchen is designed for people to help themselves. No one stands on ceremony up here. It's not just me and my cousins who visit. We let friends use it, too.'

‘I went outside and picked fresh peaches. The tree is covered in them.'

‘You picked tomatoes, too, I see.'

Her grandmother's vegetable garden had been her pride and joy, and Gemma was determined to keep it going.

‘Are you hungry?'

‘Yes!'

‘We could have breakfast, or we could have lunch. Whatever you choose.'

‘Maybe brunch? You're going to
cook
?'

‘Don't look so surprised.'

‘I didn't imagine a prince could cook—or would even know his way around a kitchen.'

‘You forget—this prince spent time in the army, where his title did not earn him any privileges. I also studied at university in England, where I shared a kitchen with other students. I chose not to have my own apartment. I wanted to enjoy the student experience like anyone else.'

‘What about doing the dishes?' she teased.

‘But of course,' he replied in all seriousness. ‘Although I cannot say I enjoy that task.'

She pressed a quick kiss to his mouth—his beautiful, sensual mouth which she had now thoroughly explored. He tasted of fresh, ripe peach. ‘Relax. The rule in this kitchen is that whoever cooks doesn't have to do the dishes.'

‘That is a good rule,' he said in his formal way.

She could not resist another kiss, and then squealed when he held her close and turned it into something deeper, bending her back over his arm in dramatic exaggeration. She laughed as he swooped her back upright.

He seemed so blessedly normal. And yet last night he had worn the ceremonial sash and insignia indicating his exalted place in a hereditary monarchy that stretched back hundreds of years. He'd hobnobbed with the highest strata of Sydney society with aplomb. It was mind-blowing.

‘The fridge and pantry are well stocked,' she said. ‘It's a long way up the mountain if we run out of something.'

‘I have already examined them. Would you like scrambled eggs and bacon with tomatoes? And whole-wheat toast?'

‘That sounds like a great idea. It makes a pleasant change for someone to cook for me.'

‘You deserve to be cherished,' he said with a possessive arm still around her. ‘If only—'

‘No “if onlys”,' she said with a sudden hitch to her voice. ‘We'll go crazy if we go there.'

To be cherished by him was an impossible dream...

She was speared by a sudden shaft of jealousy over his arranged bride. Did that well-born woman have any idea how fortunate she was? Or
was
she so fortunate? To be married to a man in a loveless marriage for political expediency might not make for a happy life. As it appeared had been the case for Tristan's parents.

‘So—what to do after brunch?' she asked. ‘There are horses on the property that we're permitted to ride. Of course they're not of the same calibre as your polo ponies, but—'

‘I do not care what we do, so long as I am with you.'

‘Perhaps we could save the horses for tomorrow?' she said. ‘Why don't we walk down to the river and I'll show you some of my favourite places? We can swim, if you'd like.'

‘I didn't pack my swim shorts.'

‘There's no need for swimsuits,' she said. ‘The river is on our property, and it's completely private.'

A slow smile spread across his face, and her body tingled in response. Swimming at the river this afternoon might be quite the most exciting it had ever been. She decided to pack a picnic to take with them, so they could stay there for as long as they wanted.

* * *

Gemma woke during the night to find Tristan standing by the bedroom window. The only light came from a full moon that sat above the enormous eucalypts that bounded the garden. It seemed every star in the universe twinkled in the dark canopy of the sky.

He was naked, and his body, silvered by the moonlight, looked like a masterpiece carved in marble by a sculptor expert in the depiction of the perfect male form.

Gemma slid out of bed. She was naked, too, and she slid her arms around him from behind, resting her cheek on his back. He might look like silvered marble but he felt warm, and firm, and very much a real man.

‘You okay?' she murmured.

He enfolded her hands with his where they rested on his chest.

‘I am imagining a different life,' he said, his voice low and husky. ‘A life where I am a lawyer, or a businessman working in Sydney. I live in a water-front apartment in Manly with my beautiful party-planner wife.'

She couldn't help an exclamation and was glad he couldn't see her face.

‘You know her, of course,' he said, squeezing her hand. ‘She and I live a resort life, and she swims every day in the sea. We cross the harbour by ferry to get to work, and I dream of the day I can have my own yacht. On some weekends we come up here, just the two of us, and ride horses together and plan for the day that we...that we—' His voice broke.

He turned to face her. In the dim light of the moon his face was in shadow, but she could see the anguish that contorted his face.

‘Gemma, I want it so much.' His voice was hoarse and ragged.

‘It...it sounds like a wonderful life,' she said, her own voice less than steady. ‘But it's a fantasy. As much a fantasy as that party planner living with you as a princess in a fairytale castle. We...we will only get hurt if we let ourselves imagine it could actually happen.'

‘There is... I could abdicate my role as crown prince.'

For a long moment Gemma was too shocked to say anything. ‘You say that, but you know you could never step down from your future on the throne. Duty. Honour. Responsibility to the country you love. They're ingrained in you. You couldn't live with that decision. Besides, I wouldn't let you.'

‘Sometimes that responsibility feels like a burden. I was not born to it, like my brother.'

‘But you
will
rise to it.'

He cradled her face in his hands, looked deep into her eyes, traced the corner of her mouth with his thumb. ‘Gemma, you must know how I feel about you—that I am falling in lo—'

‘No.' She put her hand over his mouth to stop him. ‘Don't go there,' she said. ‘You can't say the
L
word until you can follow it with a proposal. And we know that's not going to happen. Not for us. Not for a prince and a party planner. I...I feel it, too. But I couldn't bear it if we put words to it. It would make our parting so much more painful than...than it's already going to be.'

She reached up and pulled his head down to hers, kissed him with all the passion and feeling she could bring to the kiss. Felt her tears rolling down her cheeks.

‘This. This is all we can have.'

* * *

Tristan held Gemma close as she slept, her head nestled in his shoulder. He breathed in her sweet scent. Already he felt that even blindfolded he would recognise her by her scent.

His physical connection with this special woman was like nothing he had ever experienced. Their bodies were in sync, as though they had made love for a lifetime. He couldn't label what they shared as
sex
—this was truly making
love
.

Being together all day, cooking companionably—even doing the dishes—had brought a sense of intimacy that was new to him. Was this what a
real
marriage could be like? As opposed to the rigid, hypocritical structure of a royal marriage?

What he felt with Gemma was a heady mix of physical pleasure and simple joy in her company. Was that how marriage should be?

There was no role model for a happy marriage in his family. His parents with their separate lives... His brother's loveless union... And from what he remembered of his grandparents, his grandmother had spent more time on the committees of her charitable organisations than she had with his grandfather. Except, of course, when duty called.

Duty. Why did he have to give up his chance of love for
duty
?

Because he didn't have a choice.

He had never felt for another woman what he felt for Gemma. Doubted he ever would. She was right—for self-protection neither of them could put a label on what they felt for each other—but he knew what it was.

She gave a throaty little murmur as she snuggled closer. He dropped a kiss on her bare shoulder.

The full impact of what he would miss out on, what he had to give up for duty, hit him with the impact of a sledgehammer.

Feeling as he did for Gemma, how could he even contemplate becoming betrothed to another woman in three months' time? He could taste the bitterness in his mouth. Another loveless, miserable royal marriage for Montovia.

He stayed awake for hours, his thoughts on an endless loop that always seemed to end with the Montovian concept of honour—sacrificing love for duty—before he eventually slept.

* * *

When Tristan awoke it was to find Gemma dropping little kisses over his face and murmuring that breakfast was ready. He had other ideas, and consequently it was midmorning before they got out of bed.

They rode the horses back down to the river. He was pleased at how competent Gemma was in the saddle. Despite their differences in social status, they had a lot in common, liked doing the same things, felt comfortable with each other.
If only...

He felt a desperate urgency as their remaining time together ticked on—a need to landmark each moment. Their last swim. Their last meal together. The last time they'd share those humble domestic duties.

He was used to being brave, to denying his feelings, but he found this to be a kind of torture.

Gemma had
not
been trained in self-denial. But she was brave up until they'd made love for the last time.

‘I can't bear knowing we will never be together like this again,' she said, her voice breaking. ‘Knowing that I will never actually see you again, except in the pages of a magazine or on a screen.'