Taming the Prince (11 page)

“The clothes belonged to their children, who’ve grown and moved away. Enrique said we can wash up in a bathroom upstairs, and that they have a spare room for us up there, as well. I told him we’d rather clean up before we eat, so do you want to have a go?”

Shane shook his head. “Nah. Ladies first.”

And never in his life had the phrase held more truth than it did in that moment. Because even filthy and ah, malodorous, her hair tangled and her clothing torn, Sara Wallington was the classiest lady he’d ever met in his life, and she was definitely first and foremost in his thoughts—and had been since he’d first laid eyes on her. When she stood up from the chair, it was with the imperiousness of a monarch, and when she offered another quiet
“Gracias”
to Enrique, she did it with such dignity and nobility that she might very well have been Queen of Penwyck herself.

Man. What a woman.

No sooner had the thought formed in Shane’s head when Enrique spoke it aloud in his native language. Shane chuckled and, in what he hoped was correct Spanish, managed to agree. The two shared a stilted dialogue about the area,
the weather and how dastardly highwaymen could be, but when the conversation turned to how enjoyable the newlywed state was, and what a lucky man Shane was to have landed such a wonderful girl, he forced himself to change the subject. Not that he didn’t agree that Sara was a wonderful girl—
au contraire.
And he didn’t doubt for a moment that the newlywed state could be exceptionally enjoyable—for those who were that way inclined. And he was indeed certainly a lucky man—for a variety of reasons.

So it wasn’t the actual subject matter of Enrique’s conversational side trip that Shane objected to. It just made him uneasy to group all of those thoughts together into one conversational side trip, especially one that included Sara. He knew it was necessary for them to lie. If they’d told the truth, the Santoses probably wouldn’t have believed them. Or, worse, the Santoses
would
have believed them and been terrified for their own lives. And Shane truly didn’t think the elderly couple was at risk—if he thought that, he wouldn’t be here endangering them, and he and Sara would have suffered another night on the road.

So it wasn’t the lie itself that troubled Shane. In fact, it hadn’t bothered him a bit to perpetrate the fabrication before he’d entered the house. Now, however, for some reason, the lie was making him feel wholly uncomfortable. And perpetrating it on Hilda and Enrique suddenly didn’t seem right.

Fortunately, Sara returned surprisingly quickly from her shower, dressed in the clothes the Santoses had provided, courtesy of their daughter. Now a full, flowered skirt in a dozen shades of green and blue danced around her calves, and a loose-fitting shirt the same pale green as her eyes scooped low over her breasts. Her hair was still damp, but she had smoothed it back from her face and braided it, the long plaited tresses falling over one shoulder and nearly to the neckline of her shirt. A few errant wisps curled around her face, and coupled with the more feminine clothing than the tailored look she’d worn before—pink sweater notwith
standing—she seemed to have a softer, more ethereal appearance. Seeing her like this now, she looked so much younger, so much sweeter, so much more ingenuous, so…so…so…

Wow.
That was the best word Shane could think of in that moment to describe what she was. She just looked really, really
wow.

“Bath’s all yours,” she said. But although the remark was clearly intended for Shane—it was spoken in English, after all—her gaze ricocheted wildly around the room, as if she were looking at everything
except
him. As if she felt too nervous to meet his gaze. As if she were uncomfortable for some reason. But how could that be? he wondered. Right now, she should be feeling better than she had in days. Somehow, though, she seemed more anxious than ever.

Shane turned to Enrique to thank him again for his hospitality, then back to Sara. But she still wasn’t looking at him, still seemed to be very apprehensive about something. She toyed with the end of her braid and shifted her weight from one foot to the other then back again. So he only smiled and said, “Thanks, I won’t be long,” and headed for the stairs. And when he passed by Sara, he tried not to notice how good she smelled, all womanly and fresh and warm. And he tried hard not to think about how the Santoses had promised them a room for the night—singular. And he tried very hard not to worry about how it was probably going to be a long, long time until morning.

O
h, dear. Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dear.

Sara couldn’t believe how nervous she was, just because she was in the same room with Shane—a kitchen, no less, probably the most harmless room in a house when it came to social hazards. And it wasn’t like they were even having any potentially hazardous social interaction, either. No, he was simply seated across the table from her, sipping his gazpacho with utter calm, as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Yet that seemed to be the very thing that was making her feel so anxious and uneasy. Here she’d been through all manner of uncomfortable, even dangerous, experiences in the last few days, but never had she felt more apprehensive than she did now, seated at a dinner table across from a handsome man, watching him eat.

And, truth be told, she could pinpoint the exact second when that apprehension had begun: the moment she’d stepped out of the bathtub and realized that her underwear
was much too rank to put back on, so she’d have to do without it completely.

Oh, dear. Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dear.

Enrique, apparently, hadn’t thought about undergarments when he’d gone in search of clothing for her and Shane to wear. And Sara, for some reason, was hesitant to ask Hilda about it. She didn’t know if it was because of some misplaced modesty, or if it was because the question might seem odd coming from a newlywed, or if it was because she felt as if they’d asked the couple for too much already. Maybe it was because of something else entirely that she was better off not thinking about. In any event, it left her sitting here looking at Shane and wearing no underwear, and somehow, the combination just made her feel—

Well…best not to think about that, either.

And then, to make matters even more difficult, as Sara had exited the bathroom, she’d bumped into Hilda coming down the hall, and her hostess had told her she’d just made up a room for the honeymooners.
Un dormitorio,
she had said. A bedroom, Sara had translated.
One
bedroom.
Por los recién casados.
For the newlyweds. For her and Shane. To share.

What it had amounted to was two people, one room, zero underwear. And that added up to trouble.

Oh, dear. Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dear.

She really should have thought a little further ahead when she and Shane had concocted their story, she thought now. But it had sounded so likely and credible the first time. It still did. A good number of honeymooners came to Europe to drive through the mountains. And being set upon by thieves wasn’t
too
awfully wild a scenario. The problem was that honeymooners, Sara was reasonably certain, stayed together in the same room when they traveled, regardless of what country they happened to be visiting, especially in Europe, where—one could very realistically argue—romance had been born. Ergo…

Ergo, she should have realized upon conceiving the story
that she and Shane would be spending the night together in the same room. The same bed. And she, at least, wouldn’t be wearing any underwear. Nor, it was probably safe to conclude, would he. Of course, it probably wasn’t realistic to think she might have anticipated that last bit, regardless of how farsighted she might have been in dreaming up the rest. And had they actually
been
honeymooners, the lack of underwear wouldn’t really have been a problem. But she and Shane weren’t honeymooners.

Not yet, anyway.

Not
ever!
she immediately corrected herself. There was no way she would be performing any deeds with him—tonight or any other night—that might be misconstrued as honeymoon behavior by anyone. Well, except maybe holding hands and smiling in a simpering fashion, just to make it look convincing to the Santoses. But once the two of them were behind closed doors, with one bed and zero underwear…

Oh, dear. Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dear.

Oh, why hadn’t she made it clear to Hilda that they would need separate rooms? Sara asked herself as she lifted a spoonful of the spicy cold soup to her own mouth and tried
very
hard not to look at Shane and think about how she wasn’t wearing any underwear and, probably, neither was he. Why couldn’t she have come up with the idea that they were bickering honeymooners? That they’d been arguing when the thieves set upon them, and now they were picking up where they’d left off and weren’t speaking to each other? All right, she supposed perhaps that might have been stretching it a bit. Still, she should have realized how badly she was about to step in it before she let her foot hit the ground.

Goodness. Hindsight really was twenty-twenty.

And now she would be spending the night in a room with a man whom she found much too attractive, and she wouldn’t have any underwear to keep her warm. Not that warmth was really her primary concern with regards to the
undergarment. Maybe Shane would do his best to help keep her warm….

Stop it,
she commanded herself.
You’re behaving like a schoolgirl.

Of course, maybe that was because Shane Cordello made her
feel
like a schoolgirl. One just bursting with hormonal pubescent awareness of everything that happens between a boy and a girl, especially when they’re stranded in a room together with no under—

Stop it, Sara!

The mental declaration was so loud as it reverberated through her brain that Sara actually lost her grip on her spoon, and it went tumbling to the floor. Hilda began to rise, to pick it up, but Sara stopped her and scooped up the utensil herself, replacing it on the table with trembling hands. By then she’d nearly finished the entire bowl of gazpacho—her second—anyway, and a big chunk of hard brown bread besides. On top of her nervous queasies, she really had had more than enough to satisfy her. Enough food, anyway. She wasn’t hungry anymore. Not in the traditional sense, at least.

Oh, she really did have to get a grip.

“Finished?” Shane asked from the opposite side of the table.

She flinched at the question in spite of herself, then nodded in response. But she didn’t look at him. She didn’t have to. The image of him was imprinted staunchly at the forefront of her brain. Most specifically, the image of him returning from his own bath earlier was imprinted staunchly at the forefront of her brain. He’d come downstairs still completing the act of donning his shirt over loose-fitting khaki trousers that hung low on his hips—evidently Julio Santos, the Santoses’ son, was a bit broader at the waist than Shane was. The shirt, too, fashioned of brown and gold madras plaid, was loose fitting, something she’d noted as he’d buttoned it up while approaching her.

Before she’d forced herself to look away, though, Sara
had been privy to a generous glimpse of dark hair coiling across his chest and abdomen, disappearing into the low-riding waistband of his trousers, along with a set of perfectly delineated abdominals that had left her mouth dry. He’d swept his still-damp, dark hair straight back from his face, but one wayward curl had fallen over his forehead. He had shaven, revealing a long slashing dimple on each side of his mouth when he smiled, traits she hadn’t noticed until then, traits that made him seem even sexier somehow. His eyes had looked even bluer, too, though she was certain she must have only imagined that. All in all, he offered a very appealing package. One she’d found herself wanting very badly to open.

Especially since she assumed there was no underwear beneath it.

Oh, do stop, Sara. You’re embarrassing yourself.

She heard him moving on the other side of the table and braved a glimpse at him from the corner of her eye. Immediately she regretted the action, as he had launched himself into a full-body stretch that thrust his well-hewn chest forward and his arms to his sides, arms that were corded with muscle and sinew. Arms Sara couldn’t help recalling had felt so wonderfully tender when he’d held her the night before.

“Well, I don’t know about you,” he said as he relaxed and pushed his chair away from the table. He turned his attention directly to Sara, and she was helpless not to meet his gaze. Then, very softly, very meaningfully, he added, “But I think I’m ready for bed.”

Oh, dear. Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dear.

“Ah, yes. Yes. Sleep would indeed be very welcome,” she agreed. Then,
Liar,
she immediately berated herself. Sleep was the last thing she had in mind at the moment. She just hoped Shane’s intended use for a bed didn’t echo the one her own feverish brain kept replaying.

She explained to her hosts that they wanted to turn in, and Hilda and Enrique—with knowing little smiles that
re
ally
made Sara nervous now—nodded and said their goodnights. Hilda added that their own room was downstairs, toward the back of the house, so if she and Shane needed anything—wink, wink, nudge, nudge—they’d have to come downstairs to find them. That, of course, only made Sara even
more
anxious, as she realized now how very secluded she and Shane would be upstairs. In the bedroom. With one bed. And no underwear.

Oh, dear…

She stood with so much speed and clumsiness that her chair went careening backward and crashed to the floor. The Santoses both started at the action, but Shane only smiled. Smiled knowingly, too, Sara couldn’t help noticing. Then she realized she
was
noticing, which meant she was looking at him, which meant that her mouth went dry, her brain went numb and the rest of her went hot all over.

Had she thought herself nervous before? Goodness, that was nothing compared to what she felt now.

Because now Shane was gazing at her in a way he hadn’t ever gazed at her before, with an intimacy and erudition that weakened every muscle she possessed. Her heart began to race, speeding blood through her body at an alarming rate, and she found herself feeling a little light-headed. She felt almost as if she were walking through a dream when she moved to right her chair and circle the table to where he stood waiting for her. He held out his hand at her approach, and automatically she took it. Then, after each of them uttered a soft
“Buenos noches”
to their hosts, they left the kitchen, moved silently through the living room, up the stairs and down the hallway, and finally into their bedroom.

With one bed.

“I can sleep on the floor,” Shane said as he closed the door behind them, when he must have realized what she was thinking. “God knows it won’t be any worse than sleeping in the dirt last night. At least we’ll be warm here. And safe.”

Sara turned to face him…and immediately wished she hadn’t. The only light in the room came from the pale yellow halo of a small lamp near the bed, and it washed Shane in such a hazy glow that he seemed almost unreal somehow. Certainly more approachable than he had seemed before. Softer, gentler, more tender, less intimidating. Shaven, he didn’t appear quite as dangerous as he previously had, but in some ways that made him more dangerous still, as Sara wanted more than anything to draw nearer and lift a hand to touch that fine skin. In place of the rebel’s jeans and T-shirt, he wore the clothes of a student, and that, too, seemed to make him less threatening. He was leaning back against the door as if he were trying to keep out all the world’s frights. And his smile… Oh, his smile. His smile held the promise of unearthly delights. She only wished she knew if he were capable of making other promises, as well. And more importantly, was he capable of keeping them?

“No,” Sara said, surprising herself. “You don’t have to sleep on the floor, Shane. Especially since you did sleep in the dirt last night. It’s a big enough bed for both of us.”

Barely,
she added to herself. It didn’t even appear to be a traditional double-size mattress. It was, however, larger than a single. Sort of.

His smile broadened, and something in her chest constricted tight. “Especially if we squinch up real close,” he said.

And, oh, how she wished he hadn’t. Mainly because it was exactly the same thing she was thinking herself. “Shane…” she began. But she really wasn’t sure what she wanted to tell him. There were too many thoughts tumbling through her head for her to latch on to any one of them and try to understand what they meant.

Which really didn’t seem to matter to Shane, as he cut her off before she could say any more. “Look, Sara,” he said, “about what happened last night.” But then he, too, halted, as if he weren’t any more certain of what to say than she was.

“What?” she asked. “What about last night?”

He blew out a long, low breath, then pushed himself away from the door, covering the space between them in a few slow strides. When he stopped in front of her, he shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his trousers, as if he didn’t quite trust himself not to touch her. Which was funny, Sara thought, because she didn’t quite trust herself not to touch him, either. But—damn her luck—she didn’t have pockets to retreat to.

“I guess I should apologize for what happened last night,” he said, his expression earnest. “I guess I should tell you I’m sorry, and that it only happened because I was tired and not thinking straight.”

“Should you?”

He nodded. “I should. But I won’t. Because that would be lying.”

Sara’s heart began to thump madly then, and she crossed her arms fiercely over her midsection. She told herself to say something, but no words would come to her rescue. So she only continued to watch him in silence, hoping maybe he could clear it all up for both of them.

Evidently spurred by her lack of response, he continued. “I’m not sorry it happened. And I wasn’t tired. I could have gone all night, and fully intended to. Hell, I was thinking straighter than I’ve ever thought about anything in my life when I kissed you. And dammit, I won’t apologize for it.”

Something wedged tight in her throat as he spoke, making it difficult for her to speak. All night with Shane… It was just too much to think about. Somehow, though, she managed to tell him, “I—I don’t want you to…to apologize.”

He eyed her warily. “You don’t?”