The Prince Kidnaps a Bride (13 page)

Swords clashed. Men shouted. The ambush that had waited for Rainger included his men.

“Welcome, young prince.”

At the sound of that urbane voice, Rainger’s head jerked around. From behind the drapes, Count duBelle strolled forth. Women called the usurper handsome: blond hair, blue eyes, athletic body he kept well trained, and a sense of fashion that displayed all of his perfections. At the age of thirty-three, he was a man in the height of his power. Now he stood, slapping his palm with his leather whip, gloating over his new acquisition.

“I do believe we’ve snared the most important pawn in our game of chess.” Count duBelle was smiling. He was smiling as if he’d won the war.

But he didn’t know the facts. Rainger wouldn’t allow him to take Julienne, to run her through with the rapier he held in his hand.

Oh, God. Oh, God. His foolishness had killed a friend. Maybe... all of his friends.

He faced death, and he wasn’t romantic. He wasn’t righteous. He wasn’t heroic. His heart raced and his hands trembled.

Yet he could be gallant. He could protect Julienne.

He reached back for her, needing the reassurance of her flesh against his palm.

But while he had listened to the fight below, she had slipped past.

“Julienne!” he shouted.

With a teasing glance over her shoulder, she sashayed toward Count duBelle.

Count duBelle caught her around the waist and pulled her toward him. Together they faced Rainger.

They were smiling.
Both
of them were smiling.

Rainger struggled to comprehend this horror.

“My darling, you weren’t lying,” Count duBelle marveled. “You hold him by the ballocks.”

Rainger’s bile rose.

“Isn’t he sweet?” Countess duBelle placed her hand on her cocked hip. “Even now he can’t take his eyes off me, and he’s erect and ready.”

She had betrayed him. Julienne had betrayed him. And his men. Below the window, the sounds of the fight had faded. Not, he knew, because his men had won the day. Because they had been vanquished.

A trap. His men had tried to tell him, but he’d been too stubborn and too lustful to admit they were right.

She
had trapped him. And he’d let her.

Count duBelle’s gaze slithered down Rainger’s body to his genitals, and his smile tilted down on one side. “Young Rainger proves the royal family didn’t win their position by their impressive size.”

“Darling, I told you that.” Countess duBelle caressed her husband’s arm. “He’s nothing but a straw boy compared to you.”

She had said those exact words to Rainger about Count duBelle.

She was naked in front of Count duBelle’s men, and they acted as if the sight were a common one. Count duBelle stroked her flank, then slipped his hand behind her, manipulating her until she squirmed. For more than two years, she’d enticed Rainger, first subtly, then openly. She’d seduced him, taught him how to make love to a woman, flattered him, entrapped him.

She had meant nothing she said to him. She’d given her body carelessly because she valued her body not at all.

“You’re nothing but a whore,” Rainger realized.

She laughed, a frivolous ringing sound. “Everyone knows that except you, my darling. Everyone except you.”

Count duBelle’s men advanced, their swords out, flashing amused smiles.

If Rainger had any honor, he would impale himself on the points.

But he didn’t have the courage. Even if his men were dead. Even if he’d ruined the nobility of his house, of his father, of his name—he was only seventeen years old. He was young. His whole life stretched before him. Surely something would happen to save the day. Surely somehow he would rise to achieve his revenge and win back his honor.

Count duBelle must have seen Rainger’s brief surge of hope, for he strolled out onto the balcony. “Ahhh. Two of your men appear to be dead. One is bleeding. Well, no. Let me take that back. They’re all bleeding, but that one’s wound seems to be rather messy.”

Rainger started toward the window.

The sword points stopped him.

“Don’t hurt yourself, darling.” Julienne stepped in front of him and sank her claws into his chest. She left five small red crescents. Taking the blood on her fingertip, she licked it in a lavish display. “That’s our task.”

Catching her arm, Count duBelle jerked her to the side. To his guards he said, “Take His Highness Prince Rainger to the dungeon. Chain him to the wall. I’ll be down... soon.”

The men grabbed Rainger by his arms.

With Rainger in Count duBelle’s hands, Richarte’s army of noble soldiers would be forced to acquiesce to his demands.

Rainger—and Richarte—faced defeat. And it was all Rainger’s fault.

Slapping his whip in his palm, Count duBelle smiled thinly. “When I’m done with you, you’ll lick my boots and beg for your life.”

Rainger struggled against the guards. “I will never beg you for
anything.”

But he’d been wrong.

W
hen Sorcha woke, it seemed hours had passed. She sat up in alarm, unease prickling along the nerves under her skin.

Were they safe? Had the assassins found them?

But when she glanced at the sun, it was still high in the sky. Apparently, she’d slept only a few moments.

Yet Arnou was gone.

She spotted him standing at the crest of the hill, the place where she had stood to look across the countryside and where she had imagined she could see all the way to Beaumontagne.

Like her, he’d discarded his outer garments. He stood in his thin wool shirt, absorbing the sunlight, his head tilted up, his arms outstretched.

He didn’t notice her, but she took the moment to study him: his broad shoulders, his narrow hips, his long legs. He was obviously a fisherman, his strength inherited from years of lifting nets and fighting storms. He was strong, brave, and gallant. Perhaps not clever, but the royal princes she’d met were not necessarily brave and almost never valiant. She was lucky to have Arnou.

Making her way to his side, she slipped her hand in his. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

“It’s more than beautiful. It’s crucial.” Arnou’s fingers felt cold and still. His voice was harsh with agony. “A man must lift his eyes to the horizon or the whole world shrinks to the size of a coffin and life becomes nothing more than a living death. A man can pound his fists on the unforgiving walls until his hands bleed and cry for help, until he has no voice, but without the wind and the sunshine, the grass and the birds, he’ll never break free.”

She didn’t understand his words. Didn’t understand his mood. “It sounds as if you were in a prison.”

Gradually, he turned to look at her. His single eye seemed not a window to his soul, but a shutter to hide his pain. Then, as he stared at her, he came to life. His voice grew rich and benign like the Arnou she knew. “There are prisons of rock and prisons of the soul. A man can chip rock away, but only a miracle opens the prison of the soul.” His fingers hovered the barest space below her chin. His thumb stroked her cheekbone, a slow, steady motion that soothed and aroused her.

“What kind of miracle?”

To answer, he kissed her. Again.

He spoke to her with his lips, but without words. He spoke to her of all the marvelous wonders Madam’s ladies had promised, and he used his tongue to express nuances they had not mentioned.

His tongue... he pressed it between her lips, opening her to his breath and his taste. He taught her things with his tongue. He drew her out, showing her how to duel and how to soothe. She would start to feel comfortable, think she understood what to do. Then he’d angle his head differently, use his teeth, change the pressure... and she followed as if he were her professor and she his student.

After long moments of suspense and exhilaration, he drew away, apparently satisfied with such an imperfect contact. He smiled as if he’d conquered some special madness. He pinched her cheek as if she were his favorite cocker spaniel.

Didn’t he know? She couldn’t stop now. His kiss was temptation itself, drawing her into him. She pressed her body against his, seeking the warmth he promised.

His arm hovered above her, then reluctantly slid around her waist. “I shouldn’t... ” he muttered.

“Only for a moment,” she coaxed. “Just show me again.”

He lifted her up on her toes, up against him, her chest against his chest, her hips against his. Layers of clothing separated them—his clothing, her clothing, but that didn’t seem to matter. After so many years of the cool, cloistered isolation of the convent, touching another human being, really
touching
him, was part delight, part torture. Her hands rested on his forearms.

She stood on her toes to return his kiss, and at first that was enough. Gradually, she moved her hand up his biceps, exploring his strength. It wasn’t an actual thought process, more of an instinct that made her want to hold him in her arms as he held her.

Sinking her fingers into his shoulders, she kneaded them like a cat and moaned into the sweet cavern of his mouth.

Something broke in him, some restraint he’d put on himself, for he yanked her more tightly against him. He deepened the kiss and moved her hips against his, a slow grinding motion that seemed animalistic—and embarrassingly arousing. She broke the kiss. She whispered, “Arnou, I don’t think we should do this.”

“I don’t think you should think.” He kissed her again, his tongue creating a steady rhythm into the depths of her mouth and somehow, that rhythm echoed in her belly.

She wrapped her leg around him, trying to get close enough to alleviate the itch between her legs.

With a gasp, he lifted his head.

He stared down at her. The skin of his face was taut across his cheekbones. His chin thrust forward determinedly. And his eye was dark and focused—on her. Ruthless—about her. Determined—
to kill her.

She caught her breath in an onrush of fear.

No, not to kill her. To take her.

Yet her body seemed unable to make the distinction. Violence shimmered in the air around him, and she was afraid. Her blood darted about frantically, seeking oxygen from nonfunctioning lungs.

He wanted,
meant
to take her. To put her under him, to thrust inside her and possess her.

The ladies had told her about that. They’d described sex and all the trimmings in great detail. But she hadn’t understood until now. Intimate? Yes. Beyond any imagining. She backed away from him, pressed her knees tightly together, trying to keep him out... trying to relieve the anticipation that built regardless of the fear.

It didn’t work. Rather, this Arnou dominated her, taking her on a journey whether she wished to go or not. He stared as if he wanted to devour her.

Her anticipation built. And she was still afraid, but for once in her life, she faced her fear and the challenge life presented her.

Was she willing to follow Arnou’s lead? Was she willing to take this man into her body and find pleasure, give pleasure in equal measure?

She had to marry a prince, yes. She had to have children for her country. She had to sacrifice the rest of her life to duty. But she was trained to be a princess, to recognize opportunity and use it to her advantage.

This
was a moment of opportunity. The sun shone. The breeze blew. She was alone in the middle of the wilderness with a good man, an honest man, a man she liked and who, it seemed, worshipped her.

Opportunity
. She would seize it.

Or rather—he seized her. He pushed her over onto the grass. There was no finesse about his gesture; he moved efficiently and without any worry for her delicate sensibilities. When she was stretched out, he knelt beside her and took away her clothes. The two shirts, the breeches, the hose, the shoes. She was naked in the sunshine, not knowing where to look, how to act, where to put her hands.

Yet at the sight of her reclining before him, his wild, fierce expression faded. Touching the silver cross that hung from the chain around her neck, he said, “Pretty.”

She touched it, fingering it uncertainly. “My sisters wear one, too.”

“A timely reminder.” Sitting back on his heels, he looked at her body.
Stared
as if she had lived in his dreams and now lived in his reality.

She thought she saw the glint of tears in his eye. Lifting herself onto her elbows, she scrutinized him. Yes, those were tears. In a voice soft with concern, she asked, “What’s wrong? Are you weeping?”

“Have you ever cried for pure pleasure?” His voice rasped as it dragged across a powerful emotion. “I have never seen anything as beautiful as you are today.”

Flattering? Exhilarating? Yes, and yes. He was so kind, so gentle. The lump of her fear melted.

He gave her what she wanted before she realized that she wanted it.

She wanted this place and this time, hidden from real life and guarded by standing stones. She wanted to be nude, bathing in sunshine, reveling in the wonder of her warm skin on the cool grass. She wanted to display herself for Arnou and see this rough-edged, straightforward man wipe the tears from his face.

He was handsome. And tortured. And desperate... for her.

Reaching out, he used one finger to leisurely circle her breast.

That single contact raised all the tiny hairs on her body. Her nipple contracted. Her eyes half closed and she was aware of every smell, every sound, of the heat of the sun above and the cool of the ground below. This man sharpened her perceptions, and through his touch she could feel the earth rotating, the seasons changing, the stones around them aging in a process so slow no one could know it.

But she did.

Because of him.

From beneath her, the scent of crushed grass rose around them. She let the weight of her braid tilt her head back, lifting her face to the sun.

She heard him take a deep breath.

She lifted one knee, knowing full well she lured him in a manner he couldn’t resist.

He chuckled, a sound of pained amusement. At once, as if he feared her thoughts, he said, “I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughing at myself. I’m laughing at this day. My God, how did we get here? To this moment?”

“We rode here.” Digging her toes into the grass, she waited and watched him.

His breeches bulged in a marvelously demanding way—the sign, Eveleen had told her, that meant arousal. Yet he seemed frozen in place, staring, clenching his fists... .

Arnou was trying to gain control! This sweet, simple man didn’t believe he had the right to touch her.

Placing her palm in the middle of his chest, Sorcha asked, “Would you like me to blow the hornpipe?”

“Blow the... you want to... Dear God.” His heartbeat accelerated beneath her palm. “Yes.”

Sliding her hand down, she pressed it against that bulge. Through the layers of clothing, she explored the length of him from the tip to the base. There was more than she could have imagined, and the thing moved beneath her touch, growing longer.

Arnou groaned and thrust into her palm. A sweet madness seemed to possess him. He rose onto his knees, caught her around her shoulders. He tipped her backward so she was off-balance. He cupped his hand against her throat.

He stopped. He wrapped his fingers around her chain. He looked at the cross in his palm—and a pang crossed his face.
“No!”
He rubbed his eye as if trying to block the sight of her. “Stop. Don’t offer something you know nothing about.”

“But I do know about it. Madam’s ladies told me, and if it would relieve your discomfort—”

Lowering his hand, he fixed her with a gaze so wickedly intent she caught her breath. “Did the ladies also tell you that a man can blow a woman’s hornpipe?”

Just when she thought Arnou seemed smarter than he appeared, he said something as ridiculous as that. In a patient tone, she said, “Now, now. You shouldn’t discuss matters you don’t understand. Women don’t have a hornpipe.”

“You’d be surprised.” Placing his finger on her breastbone, he gently slid the tip down, down into the small nest of red curly hair between her legs and into the naked flesh hidden within.

Holding her gaze, he lightly touched the nub there. “There’s a bit of a hornpipe here and when a man plays this instrument, his woman sings.”

“I don’t think that you ought to touch me like that.” She wet her suddenly dry lips.

“Watch me.” He wasn’t challenging her. He was commanding her.

What had started out as a simple impulse had grown into an event far beyond her puny experience. Her insides rioted with a frantic tempo. It was amazing to discover, after all those sterile years, that her body was susceptible to the physical. That her body, in fact, had a vitality of its own, disengaged from her brain and defiant of reason. Caught by disbelief, she watched as, with great deliberation, he placed his hands on her knees. As his rough palms glided along the inside of her thighs, he flushed as if heat had flashed through him.

She understood that, because his touch sent a surge of warmth through her veins. Her skin grew sensitive to each brush of the breeze. Her nipples tightened to the point of pain. And her... her hornpipe ached with anticipation. “Arnou, don’t.” Her voice was so faint the wind blew it away.

“An almost silent protest.” He slid between her legs and in the sunshine, he could see her private parts. “When you were alone, did you ever... ?”

“Yes,” she said hastily. Of course she had. She thought, sometimes, that that was the only thing that kept her sane in the isolation of the convent. But she didn’t want to
talk
about it.

Unfortunately, he did. He caressed her thighs, breathed on the tight curls, touched her so delicately she almost couldn’t feel him... and had never felt anything so acutely. “So at the convent, you touched yourself. Like this?” He slid both his thumbs along the crease of her womanhood.

She jumped. “Really, Arnou, I don’t think you should... or I should... ”

As she stammered out her protest, he watched his own thumbs moving, swirling, probing. “Should what?”