Three Nights With the Princess Read online

  “By all means, demoiselle, do continue,” he said in a taunting tone, leaning back on one leg and stroking his beard with a big, sinewy hand. “I am just waiting for the rest of your gown to give way. It should prove most . . . entertaining.”

  There was no doubt he was smiling this time; she could see a flash of something light in the midst of his beard. The odd realization that he seemed to still have teeth distracted her momentarily from the suggestion in his words.

  “You’ll have a long wait, barbarian,” she declared. “I’ll hang here until Doomsday before I give you that satisfaction.”

  “Oh, I doubt it will take that long for you to decide to satisfy me, my fiery demoiselle,” he said with what passed for a laugh. “Who are you? What is your name?” When she remained stubbornly silent, he turned to search out the source of light in the chamber.

  Their refuge was a kitchen of sorts, and the meager illumination was provided by a single tallow lamp and a brazier of glowing coals on an upraised stone cook hearth. He took down the hanging lamp and carried it over to get a good look at her. But as the light poured over her, he stopped in his tracks.

  Her fitted gown was stretched tightly over long, supple curves; high, full breasts; a virgin-narrow waist; and straight shoulders. Then his gaze traveled upward. Her eyes were startlingly blue, the color of rare, polished sapphires. Her skin had the texture of cream, and her hair was a light, burnished brown . . . the exact color of cinnamon. Without his summoning it, the memory of the smell and taste of that luxurious spice bloomed in his senses, and his mouth began to water. He scowled as he felt the gnawing of hunger in his belly and an all-too-familiar thickening in his blood, and he smothered those instinctive reactions with irritation.

  He had business to conduct here. The haughty witch owed him something for her rescue, and he was determined to collect. As he edged closer, his gaze fell on something he hadn’t seen before: a necklace, a delicately worked band of plate links that appeared to be real gold and was inlaid with colored stones. The lust-driven Slavs had apparently missed it. His eyes slid the short distance to her breasts again, but this time he made himself concentrate on the fabric that covered them. White was a color reserved for the wealthier classes, and the silk was the finest he had seen since his days in the merchant wars of Venice.

  “Who is it that suffers the scrape of your sharp tongue and still buys you silk gowns?” he demanded. “An aging father? A rich, limp-timbered husband?” Annoyed by her continued defiance, he finally came straight out with it: “Who would pay well to have you returned, demoiselle?”

  Still she would not answer, and his humor began to fade. “Dieu, you are a stubborn one. Whoever he is, he has not taken a strap to you often enough.”

  But in truth, it was not defiance that kept her from answering; she simply could not speak with a frozen throat. The lamp he held up had allowed her a thorough look at him as well. His shoulder span was a full yard across, his arms bulged like ale kegs, and his legs looked to be the size of tree trunks. Dark hair hung past his shoulders in a wild tangle and his face was covered by a wide, thick beard, both of which gave him a feral aspect. The only other parts of his face clearly visible were heavy, bristled brows that centered above a strong nose that ended in a blunted point.

  His clothes—what he wore of them—were like nothing she’d ever seen before. His heavily muscled chest was bare behind a crisscrossed pair of wide leather braces that were fastened in the center by a metal boss, and his waist was banded tightly by a wide leather belt with a huge bronze buckle. On his bottom half, he wore a bloused skin garment resembling loose-fitting hose, and from the knees down his legs were covered by tall, fur-banded boots that were laced to conform to his leg. As he turned away to prowl the chamber, she watched his powerful, animallike movements and felt her knees go weak.

  “Where were you when the Mongol-Slavs took you?” he asked, trying a different route to uncover the source of her obvious wealth. “In your home? The streets? A tavern perhaps? Surely you are eager to get back to your family. Or husband. Or perhaps a rich lover.” Still she would not answer.

  With a sidelong glance, he turned away to give the silence and her fears a chance to loosen her tongue as he investigated the jars, crocks, and bundles on the lone shelf along the far wall. He lifted lids and sniffed the contents until he was surprised by the sweet, waxy fragrance of honey. Grinning at that unexpected windfall, he dipped two fingers into the jar and transferred a huge scoop of dark honey to his mouth, holding it there, savoring the way it melted on his tongue. Licking his lips, he stole another bite, then swaggered back to his stubborn captive.

  “So, you still will not give me the name of someone from whom I may claim a reward.”

  “You dare claim a reward for assaulting both my person and my senses . . . for destroying my garments and taunting and tormenting me?” she said, jerking her face away. “You’ll get nothing from me, barbarian, but trouble.”

  “Oh, but I will, demoiselle. Lacking any other source of profit, I fully intend to take my reward from your person.” He stalked closer, watching her eyes widen and shift back to him, though she stubbornly refused to move her head. “Now, what do you have, demoiselle, that would be worth your virtue, your health, and perhaps your very life?”

  His eyes fell to her necklace, and he was about to name it when she turned her face back to him with a look of disdain so potent that he felt it like a physical slap. Instead of the necklace, he demanded something he sensed would cost her far more than a scrap of gold.

  “A kiss,” he demanded. “I believe I will have a kiss of you.”

  Her eyes widened, then narrowed furiously. “I’d sooner kiss a snake.”

  “Truly?” he said with a wicked grin. “Then you possess surprisingly depraved tastes in passion for a demoiselle. Your confessor must have an interesting time of it.”

  “Barbarian,” she snapped.

  “Yea. A vile, bloodthirsty barbarian,” he growled quietly. “Count yourself fortunate that I have already had my supper this night.”

  He closed the distance between them in two long strides and intercepted her frantic hands, forcing them down to her sides. Then he pinned her squirming body more firmly to the wall with his. As his shaggy head lowered, she strained her face away, and he released one of her hands so he could seize her face and force it back.

  “Now, demoiselle,” he murmured hotly, “close your eyes and pretend I am a snake.”

  He covered her lips with his, and there was no escaping his possession. The heated smell of him assaulted her, filling her head and lungs with the vinegary tang of male sweat, the metallic air of oiled steel, and odors of horse and leather. She refused to inhale, feeling that he would somehow invade her on the very air she breathed. But he must have sensed her strategy, for his kiss went on and on, until she grew breathless. When her lips finally parted in a gasp, his slanted over them, taking advantage of the softening of her mouth to engage her lips more intimately.

  The force of his mouth on hers eased, and she was surprised by the curious hard-soft quality of his lips against hers. Then he began to move his lips against hers, slowly, deliberately, in changing combinations of alignment and pressure, as if he were searching for something. And suddenly he found it . . . a certain pressure, a certain blending of contours and motion that produced a shiver in her shoulders.

  Her determined resistance was eroded by wave upon wave of new sensations, things she could never have anticipated: the tickle of his beard against her face, the firm but pleasant pressure of his mouth against hers, the sensual flexing of his lips as they shifted against hers, the salty-sweet taste that somehow seeped into her mouth. She stilled and his grip on her jaw gentled to something more like a caress.

  So this was a kiss, she thought frantically, caught totally off guard by spreading ripples of unexpected pleasure radiating through her. She had received motherly kisses of approval, respectful kisses of homage, and ceremonial kisses of state, but never in
her memory had she received a personal kiss . . . a kiss that generated feeling in her. And this was indeed a personal kiss, an intimate encounter that stirred a tangle of emotions in her and somehow demanded a response.

  He shifted his shoulders against her, flexing, seeming to caress her body with his as he probed the inner borders of her lips with his tongue. With a will of its own, her body began to relax against him, allowing that shocking intimacy and exploring it. Then his arms slid around her and pulled her harder against him so that their bodies molded tightly together, and her hands fluttered up his sides, hovering.

  A soft moan rolled from the depths of her throat, both pleasure and distress. He parted her lips farther, invading them with long, liquid strokes of his tongue, and to her utter surprise, she tasted honey. Sweet and dusky, laden with the taste of sunshine and meadow flowers, the heavy succulence of fertility and bounty . . . he tasted of honey. At that disarming discovery, she yielded to his possession, opening to him, feeling his shocking oral caresses sending trickles of pleasure through her body.

  Engulfed in a warm mist of newborn feeling, she felt his hands moving over her back and sides, working a curious magic under her skin. Half-formed desires were rising up in her, swirling sinuously through the most sensitive areas of her woman’s body. As if he sensed it, his hands flowed to those places that had begun to ache and tingle strangely.

  Whether it was the feel of his touch on her breasts or the brief separation of their bodies that had allowed his hands to slip between them, a disturbance rippled through the pleasure fog shrouding her wits. Coming slowly back to her senses, she found her fingers clenched around the leather braces that crossed his broad back and her body molded so tightly against him that her gown clung to his bare skin as she pulled away. Her lips felt thick and swollen, her heart was racing, and her body seemed sluggish and awkward. Alarmed, she peeled her hands from him and shoved back against the wall, jarring the sensual haze from her mind.

  The dark heat of his eyes and the heaving of his chest mirrored her own arousal. The sense of what had happened to her, and of the humiliating way she had participated in a kiss meant to humble her, doused her like a pail of cold water.

  “You’ve had your price, barbarian,” she whispered, trying desperately to convert the heat pouring through her veins into energizing anger. “Now let me go.”

  He raised his hand, but as she shrank from it he grasped the hilt of one of the daggers that held her to the wall and pulled it free. With her gaze caught in his, he removed the other blade and settled the pair into the empty loops at his sides.

  She jerked her garments back into place and crossed her arms over her chest, holding her gaping gown together with trembling fingers. In that moment she had a vague sense that he had claimed something more from her than just a kiss.

  As she slid along the wall to the door, he followed and clamped his hand over hers on the bar. She held her breath, frantic that he might try to prevent her from going. But his other hand slid to her throat, touching her gently, raking across the nape of her neck, then releasing her with one last, brushing caress. The door creaked as it swung open and, without a look back, she clutched her gown and darted out into the darkened street.

  Saxxe stood inside the opened door, letting the cool air wash his overheated body. He tore his eyes from the darkened opening and lifted the jeweled necklace he held, watching it wrap seductively around his fist . . . the same way impressions of her soft breasts, silky lips, and cinnamon-kissed tresses were wrapping around his slumbering desires.

  “The Prince of Fools you are, Rouen,” he muttered with a snort of disgust. “She was worth a small fortune, and you let her slip through your fingers. When will you finally learn to wring some advantage from the troubles of others?”

  He gave the necklace a stroke, then tucked it into his belt, feeling a strange quiver of excitation as his fingers brushed his bare waist. His skin was wildly alive, hungry for sensual contact. And as he took a steadying breath, he felt a throbbing fullness and heat in his loins. Closing his eyes, he could still see her . . . tousled, flushed, her gown clinging to her moist skin. On his next breath came the scent of attar of roses, and in his fingertips he recalled the costly textures of silk and alabaster-smooth skin. She was the very sight, the very scent, the very feel of luxury.

  His haughty demoiselle was the embodiment of the world of the nobility . . . with all its privilege, wealth, beauty, and promise of pleasure. She had roused desires in him that he had thought well buried: not just the need for physical passion, but troublesome cravings for a share of that noble estate for which he had so often spilled his lifeblood.

  “Nay . . . you were right to get rid of her, Rouen. The little witch spoke the truth. She had nothing to give you except trouble. And trouble, my friend, is the one thing you have no difficulty finding on your own.”

  * * *

  Every darkened doorway seemed a looming chasm to Thera as she hurried through the streets. Here and there she met people hurtling by, bearing blankets stuffed with belongings on their backs. But they seemed as eager to avoid her as she was them, and she made herself go on, searching the houses and shop fronts.

  Just as her fears and fatigue threatened to overcome her, she spotted three gilded pills on a signboard overhead. In the graying light she managed to make out the red of the shop front over which it hung, and her heart gave a lurch. She began to walk, then run down the street.

  Around a curve she saw a number of torches moving her way. With a caution born of her recent terrors, she ducked into a doorway and waited with her heart beating frantically for them to pass. As the torchlit forms crept stealthily by, she recognized the Earl de Peloquin’s chief steward and called out to him. In a trice, she was surrounded by torches and servants and safety. Keeping a harried watch up and down the street, they trundled her quickly toward the earl’s house.

  Some distance away, in a modest tavern near the wrecked market square, the Duc de Verville was receiving a report from his captain that made his face darken and his fists clench. “What do you mean they lost her?”

  “We found the Mongol-Slavs . . . but not the girl,” the captain stated warily, watching his lord’s mounting ire. “They lost her to some other soldiers in a fight . . . now she is nowhere to be found.”

  “Lost her in a fight? My Mongols bested in a fight?” The duc shoved to his feet, hurling a tankard to the damp, reed-strewn floor. “Damn their black souls . . . probably too drunk to raise either swords or pizzles. They’re not worth a brewer’s fart when they’ve got a skin of wine in them!”

  “Perhaps another demoiselle,” the captain offered cautiously, eyeing de Verville’s tightening face and narrowing eyes. “There are any number of young girls in the market square, mon duc.” But even as he said it, he realized it was a mistake.

  “The spawnings of common brutes?” the duc said, turning a jaundiced eye on Scallion. He had no taste for the common trull or even the lowborn virgin. It was the daughters of the nobility he craved, and only the most beautiful among those. To slake his passions he chose only the choicest morsels of femininity, young girls guarded and pampered . . . demoiselles both beautiful and refined, who could satisfy his epicurean tastes for beauty as well as the driving need in his loins. In every small barony or castellany he conquered, his hard-fighting mercenaries seized and saved for him the daughters of the local knights and lords.

  “I shall overlook that nauseating suggestion,” he said tautly, drawing on his heavy leather gauntlets. Then he roared: “I want that demoiselle! Search house to house if you—” He halted as it occurred to him: “Someone in the crowd tonight must know about her, who she is, where she lives. Start in the square itself. And this time, I shall come along to see it is done right.”

  A quarter of an hour later, Drustane de Verville sat astride his mount in the wrecked market square watching his soldiers question the hapless citizens who had been trying to retrieve their damaged wares or had been dragged from their home
s in the nearby streets. He ground his teeth in frustration, watching as one after another of the townspeople was shoved aside. By the time his captain approached, he was in a foul mood indeed.

  “They say they know nothing of her, seigneur,” he said, dropping a nod of salute. “I have said that we seek to rescue her from the marauders, but still they swear oaths that they have never seen her before this night.”

  “A likely story,” the duc snarled. “They protect her.”

  Suddenly a pair of his soldiers dragged a trembling shopkeeper across the square by the scruff of the neck and held him up before the duc, demanding: “Tell our seigneur what you told us.”

  “I-I w-was there,” the fellow mewled, “a-and I heard the one who tugged on her cloak call her ‘Princess.’”

  “‘Princess’?” The duc scowled, rocking back in his saddle. “Princess.” New interest rustled through him as he considered it. “There is no royalty in these parts. What do you know of this ‘princess,’ old man?”

  “N-nothing, seigneur, I swear. I only heard the one with her beg her to come a way and call her ‘Princess.’” He raised gnarled hands in supplication. “Please, seigneur, I have children to feed.”

  The duc eyed the quaking townsman, reading truthfulness in the fear-widened whites of his eyes. “Reward the good fellow, Scallion, so that he will know that the Duc de Verville is a man of compassion.” And as the little man scrambled away, clutching a handful of silver deniers in his fist, the duc watched with a cynical twist of a smile.

  “A princess. If she truly is royalty, then I must indeed find her,” he declared with renewed determination. “If she is one of the king’s daughters, then she offers more than just a diverting bit of bed-sport. For to rescue a beautiful princess would be a noble act deserving of . . . a great reward.” His dark eyes darted as he considered it. “Perhaps even the lady’s hand in marriage.”

  There was no better way to become royalty than to marry it, the duc knew. And becoming royalty was the consuming goal of handsome Drustane Canard. Born the fifth son of the impoverished Duc de Verville, in the Alps of France, he had survived the illness, injury, and obligation to serve the king in battle which had stricken down three of his brothers who stood between him and the title. And when his eldest brother, the heir to their aged father’s holdings, returned from King Louis’s Crusade, he contracted a mysterious wasting illness . . . which left Drustane heir to the all-but-landless title.