Princess In Denim (21 page)

William left her side then and circled the table. "Once we have these memorized, the wedding gifts will probably begin arriving."

Her mouth dropped open, she was sure. "Wedding gifts? Wh-what are these?"

"Engagement gifts, of course."

Chloe stood on a low pedestal in the middle of the sewing room. She watched the minute hand on the clock creep around the dial twice while three women measured and pinned and stitched. It seemed like two days, not two hours. Her back ached. Her head reeled. Her stomach rumbled.

"Oh, no no no!" Brigitte, the head seamstress, said. When she'd arrived from Paris, Chloe had thought her accent delightful. Now she was sick of it. "You must not eat. If you do, you will soon be bigger than I can let out."

Along with a less active life-style, Chloe blamed the rich food she'd been served at every meal for the five pounds she'd gained. She admitted she had a sweet tooth, and it had never been so well indulged in all her life.

"I need a break, ladies."

"Just a little longer."

Emma patted her hair, and Chloe insisted. "Unbutton me now."

They treated her dress as if it were made of blown glass, all three of them lifting it off her instead of letting her step out of it.

It
was
beautiful, and it wasn't even finished yet. The ladies had sewn on a zillion pearls already, but insisted there were as many more to go. The veil had been attached to William's mother's tiara and sat on a higher pedestal in a corner of the room, as if it were on a throne.

Chloe slipped into her jeans and sweater, ignored the fact that the jeans had grown uncomfortably tight in the waist, and headed for the garden for some peace and quiet. Emma followed silently.

Chloe stretched out on her back on the low wall circling the fountain. The cool stone pressed her vertebrae back into alignment. The gurgling water drowned out the French voices that still echoed in her head. The breeze teased her hair and carried delicate floral scents to her nose.

It was with some surprise that she felt something cold and damp against her cheek. It reminded her of Friday's nose, and Chloe wasn't too surprised when she turned her head and stared into the large brown eyes of a German shepherd. Its leash led up to Louis.

"How are you today?" he asked.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Emma making strange hand gestures that had nothing to do with their pre-arranged signals. Chloe decided it might be wise to get her face out of the dog's reach before she got slobbered to death, so she sat up. "Fine, Louis. I didn't know you had a dog."

He grinned and sat beside her. "He is for you." He patted her knee. "I worry about, you, Moira. I agree with Father. I think you're in danger."

"So you're giving me a dog?"

Emma nearly twisted her necklace off. It didn't matter, though. Chloe wasn't ready for another dog; she was still considering flying Friday to Ennsway.

"He'll make you feel safe."

"He catches chandeliers and stops rockslides?"

Louis petted the dog's head and ignored Chloe's sarcasm. "He doesn't frighten you, does he?"

He glanced at her then, and Chloe noticed that he didn't really see her. It was as if his eyes looked right through her.

"No," she replied, and thought,
He
doesn't scare me.

"When you were twelve, I remember you would shudder at the mere picture of a dog."

Emma cleared her throat. "They have wonderful therapists in the United States. Your Majesty, you mentioned that you wanted to freshen up before lunch."

That
signal Chloe could understand. "Yes, thank you, Emma. Louis, your concern is very touching, but I can't have that dog following me around. I suggest you take him back wherever you got him. Now, if you'll excuse me..."

Louis took the hint and left. The dog lagged behind and took one last look at Chloe over his shoulder, with eyes that threatened to melt her heart and change her mind.

"Be strong," Emma said.

Chloe chuckled. "You know me too well."

Emma's face was transformed by one of her rare smiles. "Yes, Your Majesty."

"So—" Chloe pinned her with an unwavering gaze. "I figured Anna thought I might take her puppy away because of something her mother had said. And I thought Hilda might have been under the mistaken impression that I didn't like dogs for some reason that escapes me now. But when my brother sneaks up on me with the biggest German shepherd I've ever seen and asks if I'm afraid of it, and you're standing across the room flailing your arms around like a helicopter, it makes me suspicious."

Emma looked at her toes and turned slightly away, as if she'd have liked to flee but knew her place. "Suspicious, Your Majesty?"

"Now would be a good time for you to tell me why I'm supposed to be afraid of dogs."

"Very well." Emma took a deep breath and looked Chloe in the eyes. "But first I must tell you that it is only recently that I put two and two together. You must believe that I would not have put you in this position otherwise."

"Try me."

"Her—
your
fear of dogs stems from an attack by one of the guard dogs when you were twelve. She— you never knew—I never knew, Your Majesty, I swear—that King Albert suspected the attack was an attempt on your life. That's why he sent you away. To keep you safe. I think he originally planned to bring you home again, because he banned all dogs from the country."

"Then why didn't he?"

"Good question. Maybe he never found who was responsible. I swear, I had no idea your life would be in danger. I'm so sorry."

Chloe glanced at the door through which Louis had exited. "Surely my father didn't think it was Louis."

"I'm sure he wouldn't have sent for you if he had. What worries me, Your Majesty, isn't that your brother was responsible, but that he is suspicious that you are so completely over your fear of dogs."

Chloe whispered, "You think he suspects?"

"Perhaps, when
she
came for the funeral, he saw her. Perhaps there was something familiar about her, something a brother would see that we didn't think of."

"Great. William thinks someone's trying to kill me, and you think Louis is on to our ruse. I'm not so hungry after all."

William, taking Leonard's advice again about being romantic, had planned every last detail, except for the clouds obscuring the brilliant nighttime stars he had hoped for. He circled the small table for two on the balcony as he waited for Moira's arrival. The tall white candles flickered, casting a soft light that was, in itself, very pleasing. The bouquet of fresh white roses had been chosen for their mild scent, so as not to compete with the meal.

His staff buzzed around, getting every last detail absolutely perfect

"Leonard, is it my imagination, or have the staff been whispering among themselves a great deal?"

"Gossip, Your Majesty. Think nothing of it"

"About the wedding?"

"About the bride."

"What about her?"

"It's nothing, Your Majesty." Leonard held out beneath William's glare for all of thirty seconds. "Oh, all right. There's a rumor circulating that she isn't the same person who left here sixteen years ago."

"Of course not. She has grown into a remarkable woman."

"They mean it literally, Your Majesty."

"That is absurd." It was a simple matter for William to dismiss such a ridiculous thought. He had better things to think about. The evening ahead, for instance. And the night.

The small balcony on the third floor of Baesland Castle had been chosen for its intimacy. A nearby heater stood ready to ward off the evening chill. The dining chairs were positioned close to each other, so that when he reached for her hand, it would seem casual and natural. Maybe she would even reach for his.

Just inside the door, where the music could float softly outdoors, sat a harpist. Elsewhere in the castle was a small troupe of town criers, ready to run through the village with their announcement when Moira accepted the engagement ring still burning a hole in his pocket.

If all went well, they would end up together in his suite tonight.

Harp music began with a flourish, then settled into a soft, angelic tune. William thought that was ironic, since his thoughts were anything
but
angelic at the moment. He wanted Moira to wear his ring. He desired her in his bed even more.

Sure, he had originally wanted her, regardless of her looks or disposition, because of the property she would bring him. But now that he had observed her kind manner with small children, he knew no one else could be the mother of his heirs. Now that he had received the sharp edge of her tongue in the dungeon, he knew she cared for people as much as he did—and that she would bring more passion to their marriage than he had dreamed.

And now that her arrival had been announced, he wanted to tell her all that as he proposed, so that she could have the illusion of choosing, as she wanted.

Moira stepped put onto the balcony. One glance at the small table set with candles and flowers, his staff vanishing through the doorway, and her smile told him she knew he was up to something. It did not matter if she knew. What mattered was that she was there, that she was beautiful inside and out—especially out, tonight, in a little black dress that reminded him of his devilish fantasies—and he was prepared to get down on one knee in a proper manner.

"Aren't you afraid we'll get rained on?"

"It would not dare."

A low rumble of thunder answered him. He started to pull out her chair so that they could proceed with the meal before they got drenched, then realized he must be nervous, because he had forgotten his manners. She had not, though. She stepped up to him and waited.

He had kissed the cheeks of hundreds of people. Perhaps thousands. Never had he anticipated one person as much as he did her. Never had his palms sweated before.

"Is something wrong?" she asked.

He brushed his hands against his jacket as casually as possible and hoped the motion went unnoticed. "You will not hold it against me if I enjoy looking at you, will you?"

"Depends on what you're thinking while you're doing it."

"I am thinking how lovely you are. And how happy I am that you accepted my invitation."

"Really, William, you would have hunted me down—"

She fell silent and her teasing smile disappeared as he dipped his head and lightly touched his lips to her cheek. Was he imagining that she turned toward him, that she leaned into his kiss, pressing her cheek more firmly against his mouth? He thought not. Of their own volition, his fingers found their way beneath her chin, tipping it upward so that, on the way to her other cheek, his lips brushed over hers.

He never made it to the other cheek.

Her lips were as soft as he remembered, and, as they parted for him, he hoped there were no ancient vases around for her to knock to the floor and interrupt them again. Her hands, which had flown to his chest the moment he detoured, slipped safely up around his shoulders. When her fingers crept into his hair at the back of his head, he realized he was embracing her so tightly that neither of them could breathe.

He pulled back a hairsbreadth. "Moira, my love *

Her hands slid down his jacket sleeves as she eased away. "Goodness, is that how you greet all queens?"

He clutched her hands in his, keeping contact. Only the confusion in her eyes told him that she was more affected by his kiss than she would let on.

"You can let go now. I won't break anything, I promise."

Perhaps he had only imagined her confusion, out of hope that her desire matched his. "Are you as hungry as I am?"

"Famished."

He dragged her against him again.

"What are we having for dinner?"

"Dinner?"

She glanced at the table. "Yes, I'm sure you invited me to eat."

He dropped his arms at his sides.

"Or were you hoping I'd be the main course?"

He hung his head and hoped he had not smiled at that suggestion.

"William, I told you I'd marry you, but I won't sleep with you."

He raised his eyes to hers to see whether he could determine just how serious she was about that. If the heat he saw there was any indication, she would soon melt.

Reassured, he grinned as he reached for the back of one of the chairs. "Then we shall dine before it rains."

He was out of luck on that count. They were in the midst of their third course when raindrops plopped into their wine. "We will move inside."

"Actually, I'm finished."

"You eat like a —"

"I know. A finch. You've told me, but it's not true. I'm not used to marathon meals, which by the way, aren't good for you."

"But I am fit."

She eyed his shoulders and chest appreciatively, and he was glad to draw her attention back to him, though he was still trying to decipher the connection between a meal for hot sweaty runners and an intimate dinner for two. The hot-and-sweaty part renewed his fantasies.

"Well, if you are finished, perhaps you would like a tour of my castle?"
Say, my suite?

"I stayed here, remember?"

"Ah, but you did not see everything."

"Such as?"

An indirect route would be best.
"The gallery holds many fine works of art."

Her brow arched. "You're asking me to see your etchings?"

He wanted to start at the crease on her forehead and kiss her all the way down to her toes, but, knowing how much she appreciated fine art, he answered her straightforwardly. "I do not think there are any etchings there."

She laughed with delight. "It must be an American expression."

He did not care what had made her laugh; he was the one privileged to lean back in his chair and relish the sparks in her eyes that came from more than candlelight, her teasing smile, the tiny pulse point in her throat.

"Okay. I'd love to see your gallery."

She scooted her chair back, and William jumped up to help her with it. Not that she needed it. She was quite the independent American woman, with a mind and muscles of her own. It was all the more to lo... like about her.