The Runaway Princess (3 page)

Just as gravity caught her, hands yanked her back.
Evangeline screamed, loud and shrill, as the stranger dragged her inside. Her skirts tangled around her legs. Her rump thumped hard on the floor, and the impact knocked the breath out of her.

The big man slammed the window shut on her last cry. Silence, ominous silence, fell.

She looked up to find him towering above her. Towering. Again. She scooted back, but he grasped her arm and wrenched her to her feet. She swung her fist at his chest; he caught both her wrists and clasped them in the loose bracelets of his fingers.

She hated this. The helplessness, the futility, the fear. “Who
are
you?” she demanded.

He ignored her question and her attempt to escape as if both were unworthy of his notice. Holding her left hand up to the light, he said, “Henri said, and he was right, that he did not believe you had ever been wed, for no sign of a wedding ring existed.”

Her toes curled in her silk slippers, but what good would it do to kick him? She'd do no more
than hurt herself against his boot. “What kind of sign?” Her voice was breathless, tight; she hated hearing the proof of her anxiety.

“A marked paleness. An indent in the skin.” He shook her hand until her fist loosened. “Any proof that gold encircled your finger and marked you as some man's wife.”

“I wasn't married long.”

“I would imagine not. No experienced woman would have fled the dining room in such flurry.” He leaned over her, and she tilted her head back, watching him until her neck ached from the angle. “Not just because I looked at her.”

She didn't know how to answer that. The more she scrutinized this man, the more she suspected he was right. Women didn't run away when he looked at them; they ran toward. He had a certain animal appeal, a disciplined touch, and he smelled like warm leather and fresh air.

And he hadn't killed her—yet. “How much did you bribe Henri?”

“Enough to find out what I wanted.” He looked down at her hand clasped in his; his grip loosened, and he sounded amused when he said, “He likes you, you know.”

Maybe the stranger wasn't planning on killing her. In fact, now that she considered him, he didn't look like a murderer. No, he looked more like one of the men Leona had told her about. Strong, manly, impatient with a maiden's protestations. Maybe he was planning a simple ravishment, in which case she would be well advised to submit.

After all, she was returning to England, and she ought to have
something
to remember. “Henri likes me?”

“Yes. It took more than simple profit to ensure his cooperation.”

“What else?”

“My bodyguards threatened to thrash him.”

She snatched her hands from the stranger's grasp. What had she been thinking? That because a man held her, he wished to make love to her? She needed to find out what this crazed barbarian wanted before she found herself lying at the bottom of that cliff outside.

If only she hadn't trapped herself between the wall behind, the bed before, and
him
.

“The only thing that's keeping Henri from getting help is Rafaello and Victor and their large and able fists.”

Her gaze fixed on the stranger's hands. He didn't have them coiled into fists. In fact, his fingers seemed remarkably relaxed. His fingernails were clean, well-trimmed, and broad. Dark hair sprinkled the tan skin, and a tracery of veins and chords lifted the flesh. Large hands; desirable hands, if what Leona had told her was true. She blushed at the path her mind had wandered, then paled as she realized that this man could crush her as easily as he could crush a louse. His reference to Henri's fear increased her own, and she said, “I understand. You're intimidating me.”

“A princess of Serephina is not intimidated by anyone,” he said haughtily.

“Then that proves I'm not the princess.”

He ignored her. “I only told you because you looked so lost when Henri deserted you.”

Lost. Pathetic. Yes, that was she. “I am not a princess.”

“Then you're a whore.”

Scandalized, she gaped at him.

“A very expensive whore.” His face grew cold. “What other kind of woman comes to a spa alone, without a chaperone, without even a maid?”

The kind of woman who never had a maid, and who didn't want someone snooping into her background.

“And as a whore, you are available for my pleasure.” The broad hands she admired clasped her by the elbows, and he pulled her close, curving his body over hers like a wolf protecting its mate. His head lowered toward hers, and she ducked.

“No,” he whispered, pressing her against the glass and tilting her face toward his with his fingers under her chin.

Belatedly, she remembered her Chinese techniques. She tried to smash his nose with her forehead. But he, apparently, had not forgotten her early maneuver, and gripped her jaw firmly.

“I have money to pay you whatever you want,” he said. “A whore is in no position to refuse money.”

“I am, too!” she cried.

“But you're not in the position to have all the tourists informed of your profession.”

She stiffened at the thought of her carefully cultivated mystique dissolving, at the people who resided here looking at her with contempt.

He chuckled, soft and deep, the sound of his laughter grating as painfully as a shredder across
her knuckles. “They're already talking about you, little girl. Wondering about your background. If not for Henri and his steadfast support, the gentlemen would already be knocking at your door. Didn't you think of that?”

She hadn't, and she wished he hadn't told her.

He angled his head, and his mouth touched hers, a light salutation.

She almost choked. A kiss. Her first kiss, delivered by an angry maniac who imagined her first a princess, then a prostitute.

“Relax,” he whispered.

His breath played across her face, fanning the sensation of intimacy. The protruding windowsill cut into her lower thighs. The cold of the window seeped through the thin silk of her gown and petticoat. She shivered, and he gathered her closer, sliding his hand across her back, kneading the chill away.

“I can keep you warm.” His voice was smooth, hypnotic. “A woman of your experience needs a man to keep her warm.”

Wedging her arms between them, against his chest, she said, “I'm not—”

His lips pressed more firmly to hers, cutting her protests. His eyes were closed, those ridiculous lashes shadows on his cheeks, and he looked serious, as if this kiss required his concentration.

Concentration. That was what she required to remain calm. He was kissing her, true, but whatever he expected from her, she did not have to give. She didn't know what it was, for one thing. She didn't want to arouse the beast, for another. Leona had said
kissing, when done right, could overcome a man with baser needs. Leona had said—

“Close your eyes.” He lifted his head and stared, holding her, all of her body crowded against all of his, by the strength of one arm. The other hand still held her chin, but moved to stroke her cheek “Such eyes,” he whispered. “So reproachful. So revealing. They ravish my soul.”

“Are you being funny?” she asked suspiciously.

His nostrils flared with disapproval. “You are not at all polished.”

“You're forcing yourself on me, and complaining of
my
manners?”

“A most exasperating woman.” He sounded sanctimonious, and he looked bedeviled. She expected him to thrust her away, but instead he smoothed his lips over her eyelids until they closed. “Now keep them closed.” And he kissed her once more.

Apparently annoyance did not dim his ardor; indeed it seemed to have the opposite effect. This time his lips were warmer, more insistent. His body heated hers like a stove.

Lovers. She had seen lovers kissing among the alpine flowers on one of her walks, and surprise had made her stare in vulgar fascination. Their mouths had been open to each other, they'd strained with some obvious fervor, and desolation had sent her hurrying in the other direction. At that moment, she had feared she would never know such familiarity.

Now she was here, in the arms of a violent madman despoiler murderer, and she was inclined to continue. That sinful something unloosed on the
day she left her former life now whispered,
What harm in knowing?

She puckered her lips and relaxed into his arms.

And his tongue touched her mouth.

With the edge of her hand, she shoved him hard, right on the Adam's apple. “Yuck!”

He dropped her and grabbed his throat.

Sidling away from him, she demanded, “What did you do that for?”

“What?” he asked hoarsely. He coughed slightly, then repeated, “Do what? I was just kissing you.”

She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth in the most offended manner she could devise. “You licked me.”

She had hoped to insult him. Instead, hand on his throat, he stared down at her. The brilliant cobalt of his eyes faded to a thoughtful shade of slate. “One would think you have not made your fortune by prostitution.”

“I am not a whore. I told you, I'm Evangeline Scoffield, an Englishwoman. I inherited money from the . . .” She stared up at his domineering features in despair. She didn't want to tell him about her silly fantasies. Especially not now. When he laughed at her, the humiliation would wither her, and all her memories of this time would be tainted.

Only, nothing but the whole truth would do. Otherwise, how would she save herself, as a proper Englishwoman should do?

“I'm listening.” He folded his arms across his chest.

Obviously, passion had not overcome him. Probably, he'd never lost his discipline, for she wasn't a creature of irresistibility. She sagged with
private, contraband disappointment. This week had proved that. She was only—“Evangeline Scoffield. I'm an orphan bought from a foundling school. I worked for a lady . . . who . . . died.”

“What kind of work did you do?”

“Leona had this incredible library”—incredibly musty—“and she wanted a . . . well, I suppose you could call it an inquiry aide.”

“A dull occupation for one so vibrant as you.”

“Oh, no!” She shifted away from his searching gaze. “At least, not at first. I was eleven when I went to her, and hungry for knowledge, not to mention skinny and pathetic.” Smiling, she invited him to picture the child she had been, but he stood stoically. “She taught me Greek, Latin, French, Spanish, Slavic, and an obscure dialect called Baminian.”

“You speak it like a native,” he commented.

“Yes, well, Leona was a skilled linguist!” Was she getting through to him? She couldn't tell. “I can translate Mandarin Chinese and German. I know how to make fireworks, how to break a horse, how to ride a camel.”

Or rather, she knew how to do those things
in theory
. She had no practical experience. She and Leona had gone nowhere, done nothing but read and learn. Letters and drawings had come from distant scholars, and Evangeline had rubbed the ornate ink strokes with her fingertips and wished she could go to those places. Her adolescence had slipped by, frittered away on dreams of freedom and travel.

But she didn't think it would be wise to admit that to this cynic. “I could even dissect a human body,” she said triumphantly.

“I will make sure I keep all knives away from you while you're around me.”

In any other man, Evangeline might have thought that was humor. In this man, she considered it a warning.

She ought to refuse to explain herself any further. After all, he was waiting without a visible flicker of interest for her to finish. Hastily, she continued, “My knowledge was limited only by Leona's interests, and Leona was interested in everything. And I was grateful to be there.”

“In East Big Mouthie, Cornwall.”

“East Little Teignmouth, and yes, I was grateful. Anything was better than the alternatives.”

“What alternatives were those?”

“Governess, starvation, or, your favorite, prostitution,” she said in a clipped tone. She wasn't getting through to him. It was as if he could comprehend none of the languages she spoke. Perhaps if she spoke in a really low baritone . . . “She wanted me to have her money, so when she . . . died . . . I, um, inherited it.”

The proportions of his face thinned with disapproval.

“I bought these trappings and came here playing a role because I couldn't bear to expire without ever having tasted the wonders of the world,” she concluded rapidly.

“You call that the truth?” His nose, a craggy edifice, grew pinched, and his lips compressed. “I had hoped you would see your error. Did not the good sisters teach it is a sin to lie—Your Royal Highness?”

Had he been hoaxing her with his accusations of prostitution? Looking at him now, all dignified
censure, she thought he had. He'd been testing her, trying her out like a rider with a new horse.