The Barefoot Princess (10 page)

The damned leg felt better, but Jermyn was frantic. He hadn’t seen the sun in a week. Every day he had been given hot water to shave and sponge off, but he hadn’t had a change of linen. He had given up on wearing his cravat, and he knew his friends would be horrified by his rumpled appearance.

“Look around you. Everywhere you look you’ll see women who love their husbands and their children so fiercely they’ll do anything to protect their family. To condemn all women because of one lady’s behavior is stupid.” Amy didn’t mince her words, didn’t bother to use a conciliatory tone.

“So you’re saying my mother
didn’t
really love us.” Which he knew, but he didn’t like having her rub his face in it.

He had been kept like an animal for a stupid scheme of revenge. And he was sick to death of being stuck here with little to do but occasionally when frustration got the better of good sense, pound on his manacle.

Amy frowned fiercely at him, obviously unconvinced. “Did your mother say anything the last time she saw you?”

“Say anything? What do you mean, say anything?” Why had he started this conversation with Amy? Why would she understand? She had proved her tactlessness again and again. “Of course she said something.”

“Did she hold you against her, give you advice for the future, tell you that she loved you but she had to go?”

He knew exactly what his mother had said. After she was gone, he’d repeated her remarks over and over again, trying to squeeze some indication of warmth and loss from her words. “The last thing she said to me was, ‘Darling boy, behave for Miss Geralyn until I get back.’” He mocked himself, his mother, and Amy. “Miss Geralyn was my nursemaid.”

Amy stared at him blankly. “That’s not the way a woman acts, especially not a woman who loves her son and is leaving him for the last time.”

“Nevertheless, she did leave me.”

“I’m telling you, your tale doesn’t make sense. You were just a lad. You don’t know all the details. And one thing is clear, my lord. If you’re going to blame anyone for your current problems, you shouldn’t blame your mother or me or any other female.” The color rode high in her cheeks. Her green eyes sparkled with frustration.

“I shouldn’t blame you? You abducted me!”

“Yes, but I would have released you by now. Please, my lord, blame your uncle, who won’t pay your ransom. I’ve heard nothing but ill of him—and you—and it appears it’s all true.” Her bosom heaved under the influence of her aggravation. “Perhaps you should be more concerned about the rot in your character and that of your uncle than bemoaning my treachery.”

Damn her. In her sentiments he heard the echo of days long gone.

At the same time, he observed the faint, erotic jiggle of her breasts with a need that brought his cock swelling against the buttons of his trousers. An opinionated, cheeky female in dreadful clothing gave him the cockstand of a lifetime while she, apparently innocent of any feeling for him, made aspersions about his worth. The situation could no longer be borne. “Where is Miss Victorine?”

“She’s taking her nap.”

“Good. Good.” He placed his feet on the floor. Slowly he stood, rising to his full height closely against her, allowing her to feel his heat. His ire.

Her eyes widened.

He lunged.

She leaped away.

Too late. He caught her around the waist. Triumph roared through him.

The chain snapped to its full length. The manacle grabbed at his ankle. He fell. Twisted. Landed atop her on the cot. Beneath him, her breath whooshed out.

They were sideways—she had one foot on the floor, one on the bed, and he glimpsed a long expanse of stockinged calf and bare thigh. He had both feet on the floor and enough energy igniting in him to start a blaze.

For the first time in six days—no, six months, maybe six years—he was completely and vibrantly alive. He tussled with her, lifting her completely onto the mattress, using his weight to control her kicking feet and his elbow to block the strong punch to his head with her right fist. When he had her where he wanted her, with her head on the pillow and that softly curved body beneath him, he cradled her head in his hands. And kissed her.

Damn it, it was what he had wanted to do for six days. Hold her beneath him, master her struggles, and kiss her.

He pressed his lips to hers.

She bit at him, a hard nip that broke the skin and brought the taste of blood to his mouth.

Lifting his head, he smiled.

A full-bodied, vengeful smile that made her eyes widen, then narrow. “Let go, you—” She swung hard enough and with enough precision to slip under his guard and give a glancing blow to his cheek.

His head snapped sideways.

She shook her hand, flexed her fingers. “Damn it to hell, that hurt!”

She spoke like a lady, but swore like a sailor.

Who was she?

She wouldn’t say. Yet before this affair ended, he would know.

He shifted them, bringing her whole body completely onto the cot, making sure his weight still trapped her.

She fought against him, of course. As much rage as he felt in being confined, she felt in being mastered. A drop of blood from his lip splashed onto her face. She jerked her head aside as if she could avoid the results of her actions.

“It’s far too late for that,” he told her.

And by God, she appeared to comprehend what he meant.

But she didn’t believe him, and she wasn’t resigned. She brought her claws into play, slashing at his face with vicious swipes that aimed right for his eyes.

He caught her hands. Stopped smiling. Stared down into her savage gaze and said, “You’re exactly the woman I prayed I would never find—alive, unafraid, determined…untamable.” He kissed her again, a hard pressure on her lips. “More trouble than I could ever imagine.”

Chapter 11

“D
amn you.” Damn him! Amy should have been afraid that this caged beast, this being who at the same time bled and smiled, would rape her. Hurt her.

She wasn’t afraid.

She comprehended Northcliff’s rage.

All her life, she had felt rage like it, rage at the fate that had made her a princess in the first place, rage at the war that ripped her from her family and thrust her into the world, rage at Clarice for so long refusing to recognize that their royal life could never be recovered.

All the tumultuous emotion in Amy leaped to meet Northcliff’s fury. They met and clashed like two storms, in violence and in yearning.

Amy pressed her thumbs hard against Northcliff’s throat over his windpipe, cutting off his air.

With a gasp, he lifted his head. He stared down at her, silently demanding she let him go.

But he didn’t grab her hands. He didn’t overpower her.

And the mania to hold him off succumbed to the need to hold him.

Sliding her hands around his neck, she pulled him close and kissed him as boldly as he had kissed her.

His lips opened on hers, and he tasted of blood and frustration, rage and need. Everything about him found an echo in her. It was a response she’d never experienced before, the weight of a man’s body on hers, and the fire of passion he ignited gave her skin a sensitivity that scorched her—and made him moan as if he felt the same burn. Her nipples grew taut and painful against the cotton of her chemise, and she pressed herself against him, trying to ease the ache.

He pushed his fingers into her hair, massaged her scalp, the shells of her ears.

She curled her nails into his skin, not hurting him, but keeping him in place as if he were trying to get away…when nothing was further from the truth. In fact, he slid his tongue into her mouth, over and over, and her own body beckoned, demanded she reciprocate. She sucked at the tip of his tongue, making a humming pleasure sound. She thrust her tongue into his mouth, too, needing to pierce him as he pierced her.

His large hand slid down her neck, down her chest, and his palm cupped her clothed breast, holding the weight and testing her heat.

For one moment, pleasure thrummed through her veins.

Then shock blasted through her mind.

“Damn you!” She shoved at him, knocking his touch away.

He lifted his head, his lips damp from hers. He stared down at her, his eyes narrowed and hot. “You don’t know anything about kissing.” He made his pronouncement as if he had discerned everything about her past and her experience.

“I do, too!” She didn’t, but he made it sound as if she were stupid. And she was, for remaining here, for kissing him…dear heavens, her skirt had ridden up and bared one thigh. Grabbing the hem, she struggled to make herself decent.

He caught her hand, halting her before she could cover herself. “No, you don’t. You’re a virgin.” If anything, the heat in his gaze grew fiercer. “I’ve been kidnapped by a nineteen-year-old virgin who doesn’t even know how to kiss.”

His tone of self-disgust gave her pause and gave her direction. She knew what to say now. She didn’t have to reveal herself. She could attack him. His weaknesses. She could save herself. Derisively, she said, “How mortifying for you, kidnapped by an old woman and a girl. The noble Lord Northcliff, drugged, imprisoned, kept for days in a cellar—and his own uncle won’t even send the ransom to free him. And it’s your money he refuses to pay. Isn’t it?” She projected the kind of false compassion sure to infuriate him.

She succeeded.

He gripped her shoulders. “No woman has ever made me angrier than you do. You speak to me without respect. You dare where no other woman would. And sometimes I agree with you, that I should be mortified to be tricked by a simple girl like you—and then you do something as rampantly stupid as anything I have ever done.”

“What, my lord, would that be?”

He smiled down at her, his white teeth gleaming. “You bait the trapped wolf while you’re still in his paws.”

Her breath caught on the splinter of panic and desperation. He was right. She had been stupid.

She tried to slide out from under his weight and sit up.

He pressed her harder into the mattress, giving her no quarter, holding her in place with his weight and his strength.

She had to
think
. She couldn’t fight her way free, so she used her wits to slash at him. “What are you going to do, my lord? Rape me? I can hardly believe your grand ego would allow you to force a nineteen-year-old virgin.”

“You’re not particularly alarmed yet, are you?” He ran his thumb over the pulse at her throat. “You don’t know how to kiss. You don’t know anything about men. You can talk like a stevedore, yet you have had the most sheltered upbringing of any girl I’ve ever met.”

“Sheltered?” She laughed in a short and bitter burst. “My sister and I were thrown out of boarding school when I was nine because my father could no longer pay the price. I’ve wandered England ever since, homeless. Don’t call me
sheltered
.”

“Your sister must have done everything to protect you, then.” His mouth replaced his thumb on her pulse. His lips moved against her skin. “Because you’re a little idiot.”

She doubled up her fist and smacked at his head.

Still he remained on top of her.

My wits. Use my wits
. “So worse than being imprisoned by a nineteen-year-old virgin,” she said, “you’ve been trapped by a little idiot.”

He caught her wrists in one hand, smiled that lazy, intense, toothy smile at her again. “Yes. And you’ve been trapped by your own stupid victim.”

He was still furious. He was much stronger.

Perhaps she
was
a little idiot.

He kissed her.

But not like last time. Last time had been two foes caught up in a struggle for…for something.

For dominance. Yes, that was it. For dominance.

This time she was struggling, but ineffectually, while he taught her a leisurely lesson about an emotion she didn’t recognize…or want to.

She was still fuming, ready to fling blows and words, but he gathered her hands in a grip over her head. He trapped her legs in heavy wool petticoats and the gathers of her skirt. When she tried to slide sideways, he pushed his knee closer between her legs so that her movement spread them wider.

And where was she to go? The wall was on one side, he was on the other.

Worse than her helplessness was his calm. He seemed intent on her body, uninterested in her hostility. He slid his tongue in her ear, dampening it. Then he blew softly in the cavity, raising goose bumps on her skin. Taking her lower lip lightly between his teeth, he opened her mouth and kissed her…and this time their kiss wasn’t war. It wasn’t a lesson to be taught. It was mating.

He was male and she was female. He thrust and she received. The chill of goose bumps gave way to the warm slide of her thigh against his, to a softening deep within her. And still his tongue slid in and out of her mouth, creating an artistry of restlessness.

He slid his free hand beneath her neck, tilted her head back, and opened her body to whatever attentions he chose to bestow. His lips left hers to glide across the skin on her throat. He was almost caressing her with his lips, tasting her with his tongue.

Somehow he lulled her with his patience, with his unhurried pleasure in her.

He untied the scarf from over her bosom and untucked the ends from her bodice. Gradually he slid the cloth away from first one side, then the other.

The modest neckline and the expanse of creamy skin seemed to please him, and his gaze caressed the hidden mounds of her breasts. “Beautiful,” he murmured. “The barest hint of provocation offered like a precious gift wrapped in faded muslin.” He opened her bodice one button at a time, pausing between each one.

Each time she inhaled, his gaze grew more focused and she knew…she knew what he intended to do. But he held off, savoring the sight of her, tormenting her with expectations.

At last, when she was on the verge of shouting at him to let her go—or to hurry up and touch her—he lifted his hand and eased his fingertips beneath the fragile material of her chemise. He turned it back, baring her breast.

Her lids were suddenly too heavy to hold up, and as she softly sighed, her eyes closed.

Delicately he touched her, his fingertips summoning response from her bones, her blood, her soul.

His thumb circled her nipple, and it puckered tightly.

She hated that he anticipated her reactions, knew where to look, where to touch, what to say. He taught her eagerness…

Lowering his head, he pressed a kiss on the place he had touched.

In the silence between them, she heard her own rough breath.

The tip of his tongue made contact, branding her with warmth, then as the moisture cooled, with memory.

And she was relaxed, waited for next move.

When, like a shock of ice water, his hand touched her bare thigh.

Her eyes flew open. She jumped. She said, “Stop it, Northcliff!”

“No.” His expression hadn’t changed. He still looked lazily intent.

She simply hadn’t realized what he was intent upon.

“You can’t do this!” She kicked at him.

“I can.” He subdued her with his leg and the weight of his body behind it.

“I’m going to scream.”

“I don’t think so.” His palm slid up to her hip. “I don’t think Miss Victorine could hear you to begin with, and I know you don’t want her to rush down the stairs to rescue you. You don’t want her to see you on the cot with me. She might realize you haven’t been struggling as hard as you should.”

“You’re despicable.” And he was right.

“I know. But although you’re a virgin, I think you understand that you’re safe as long as my trousers are firmly fastened.”

“Yeah? So?” She didn’t let him see her relief, only her enmity.

But he knew she needed the reassurance, for he said, “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m just going to show you exactly what it is you’re in need of.”

“What do you mean?” He was such a jackass! “The only thing I’m in need of is your ransom!”

He chuckled with real amusement. “And that proves how incredibly uninformed you are.”

“I despise you.”

“Almost as much as you want me.”

He was a brash fellow with an overweening ego, fostered from too much money and power and—her breath caught as he stroked her lower belly—a very real charisma that made her weak and compliant when she should be fighting…

She locked gazes with him, mutely resisting what she couldn’t physically repel. The silence between them was profound, fostered by the weight of the earth around them. His fingers combed through her curls at the top of her cleft, then between her legs, each contact teaching her to forget her innocence. The tension of waiting made her skin grown tight, as if it were shrinking with each hushed breath. Her heart pumped in little leaps of anticipation as she fought the need to escape as soon as possible. Now.

Yet his gaze constrained her. She felt as if she were falling into his mind, sensing all his frustration, his anger, his need.

Then he slipped his finger between her folds and along the soft inner skin.

She whimpered with desire, then bit her lower lip to hold back any more of those revealing sounds of pleasure.

But he’d heard her, for gold flamed in his brown eyes, revealing a satisfaction as great as hers.

Lightly his finger circled the entrance to her body.

She thought she would jump out of her skin in anticipation.

But his finger glided up, up to the sensitive, swollen nub. He caressed all around, not quite touching.

She tried to keep her gaze on his, but she had lost the ability to concentrate, and random thoughts swirled through her mind—that she had never seen so fierce an expression on a man’s face, that she had never been so overwhelmed with pure sensation, that he was almost beautiful in his ruggedness, that she
wanted
with more intensity of emotion than she had ever imagined. He no longer restrained her with force, but invisible bonds of desire held her in place. Her knee lifted. Her hands clenched the pillow. Her body wanted more than he had given her, and she was in thrall to her body.

Then he touched her. A subtle, direct touch. And glory flashed through her. With an incoherent cry, she arched into his hand. He caressed her, increasing the pressure, maintaining a rhythm, forcing her to become a creature desperate for pleasure. And one mad thought stuck in her mind—
he was the only one who could give her fulfillment.

He hugged her against his body, moving as if the same desperation that pervaded her also filled him. His heat warmed her. His need encouraged her. She wrapped her arms around him, binding him to her. His thigh replaced his hand, and she rode him, moving her hips to prolong the agony. To extend the bliss. He pressed against her. She pressed against him. Each sought pleasure with feverish desperation until they shuddered together, relieved—yet frustrated still.

Long seconds later—or was it years?—the waves of delight diminished. She drooped in his embrace, drawing in shuddering breaths, trying to return to the normal world…and all the while knowing the world would never be normal again.

Frustrated ardor rode Jermyn. He wanted to seize Amy. His body ached to mount her, enter her, relieve the pressure in his cock with a short, intense ride to satisfaction.

And he couldn’t. He had promised.

He had promised for good reason. A man didn’t take a virgin like a pillaging Viking, but my God! It took all his willpower to remain still.

Her eyes fluttered open, then shut, then open—and they focused on him.

He did not have the willpower to hide his triumph.

He saw the moment she realized what she had given him. What he had taken. Thought supplanted feminine satisfaction; Amy’s usual hostility replaced her languid pliancy.

He smiled victoriously—and at once realized his mistake.

Resentment flared in her eyes. With both hands planted flat on his chest, she pushed, shoving him off the cot.