Taken by the Prince

by Christina Dodd

  “He won’t be successful, will he?”

  “The money’s gone, out of the country, and Jean-Pierre believes I’m just a wild, worthless gambler and horse breeder who is thinking of emigrating to the Caribbean, where I’ll be safe from the rebels who are chasing away the travelers I make my living from fleecing… .” Raul looked up at her, boyishly charming and oh, so smug.

  Then, as his gaze searched her face, his smile faded.

  He caught a loose strand of her hair in his grip, held it as if it were made of gold.

  Suddenly, the midnight silence pressed in around them. Suddenly, she remembered that they were alone, that she was his captive, that he had pressed kisses on her unwilling mouth, had vowed to seduce her into his bed… .

  He remembered, too.

  Passion flared in the depths of his eyes.All trace of the boy disappeared, and wildness took possession of him.

  Danger. The warning reverberated along her nerves.

  Slowly, he sat up, never releasing her from his gaze.

  He became once more a man, a victor … in need of his woman.

  Slowly, she retreated, heart racing, hypnotized by his intensity.

  He followed, stalking her. Heat rolled off him in waves.

  Her back struck the back of the sofa. She clenched the blanket in her fist, holding it before her like a shield.

  He gathered her head into his hands, slid his fingers into her hair.

  The rasp of his skin against her scalp felt possessive.

  He kissed her. Kissed her as he hadn’t last night, forcefully, thoroughly, opening her mouth with his lips.

  The first thrust of his tongue startled her. The second warmed her. With the third, blood pulsed furiously in her veins, taking the desire he fed her and spreading it through her body. She caught her breath, too surprised to do anything … and unwillingly aroused.

  Like a warrior with a conquered woman in his bed, he possessed her with his mouth. He ran his hand down the contours of her body, acquainting himself with her as if he had every right to take her as a prize of victory.

  Of course, he did not. She knew that. She knew she should be outraged to be reduced to nothing more than a trophy, but he was so intent on her. He wanted her.

  When she felt him clench his fist against her hip, holding the material of her nightgown as if he feared to lose her, she found her own exultation rising to meet his.

  His revolution hadn’t even started, yet already he had won every skirmish. The enemy feared him, and didn’t even know who he was.

  He was, already, a victor.

  But he had not won the victory over her, and when his hand cupped her breast, when his thumb circled her nipple, shock rolled through her.

  She boxed his ears, swift and hard. “Sir, you go too far!”

  “Damn it!” The single candle barely lit the taut hollows of his face, the grim lines of fury as he struggled to contain his anger … and his lust.

  But when he felt her backing away, he lost the battle. Reaching for her, he snagged her wrists, pushed her back down on the sofa.

  She struggled, wanting nothing so much as to slap him again.

  Probably that wasn’t smart. Probably such an action would only goad him to further ferocity. But he wasn’t the only one whose temper was roused… .

  No, not her temper. What was roused was something else. Something foreign to the proper Englishwoman and governess Miss Cardiff.

  As he thrust her arms above her head, leaned into her, she fought because it felt too good, too right. Because his touch transformed her into a different person: earthy, lusty, a woman who heard the call of his body to hers and responded.

  Again he kissed her, thrusting his tongue in and out, in and out, until he had imprinted himself on her, until she was weak with need, until the gown she wore was a feeble barrier, too thin to keep them apart.

  When she moaned against his mouth, he said, “Yes.”

  He pulled his cravat from around his neck.

  And she was so foolish she didn’t realize what he was doing— until he tied her wrists together.

  “No!” She fought him anew.

  He held her with one hand now, and used his other hand to roam her body, exploring where he would: her breasts, her belly. He even pressed the cleft between her thighs, molding the cotton material to her until it grew damp from her arousal. Then her face grew hot with mortification and she lunged at him, throwing him off balance.

  He hit the floor flat on his back, dragging his cravat— and her— with him.

  They sprawled together, limbs tangled, and before she could catch her breath, he rolled on top of her. “You never learn,” he snarled, and, keeping her hands above her head, he put his mouth to her throat.

  He didn’t retaliate for her attack; she had thought he would. Instead he used his mouth like a sexual weapon, savoring the place where her vein beat against her skin, nipping at her earlobe, sliding his tongue in a slow loop around the shell of her ear.

  He was heavily muscled, weighing her down. The tufts of the rug easily penetrated her thin nightgown to rasp against her back, her buttocks, her thighs. He smelled of whiskey, of saddle and horse, and of Raul… .

  Why did she already know his scent? She didn’t want to, but somehow she knew she could find him anywhere: in the dark, in a crowd, across a continent…

  His wicked, knowing mouth roamed farther, down to her breast, where he tasted her through the material, drawing her nipple into his mouth and sucking hard, then, when she was whimpering, letting it go and blowing on the wet cotton.

  Now her struggles were not against him, but against herself. Because she wanted to wrap her legs around his body, take him inside, and learn how to move with him, mate with him.

  He suckled at her other breast, creating a madness that battered at her resistance, at her pride.

  How could she fight him when he enlisted her own body against her? He performed every depraved act, invading her privacy, showing her facets of herself she was better off not knowing. All these years traveling in Europe, she had imagined herself to be the embodiment of true spinsterhood, impervious to temptation. Now Raul stripped away her innocence, destroyed the lies she had told herself. She hated him for that … and wanted him regardless.

  His knee worked its way between her legs, compressing the nerves and making her tighten her thighs around him.

  “Burn for me,” he said, and pushed against her again, and again.

  She moved with him, panting with explosive need.

  “Please.” She didn’t know what she was asking for; she knew only that when she said that, he lifted his head from her throat.

  His eyes flared; his teeth clenched. He braced himself and watched as yearning and passion carried her past wisdom. He let her use his body to seek pleasure, showed her in tiny increments of knowledge how to inch closer and closer to orgasm. Pressing his hand between her legs, he gently squeezed.

  Flames engulfed her, and she did burn for him.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  In Victoria’s opinion, Raul knew more about torture than any de Gui gnard. Every night for six nights, he returned from his work with his troops. At dinner, he fed her from his own hand, insisted she drink from his cup; then, when the evening meal was over, he led her to his room … and seduced her.

  He never removed her clothes, or his. Instead he proved, over and over, that he could drive her mad with need.

  She resisted. Of course she resisted.

  He became very good at the use of a cravat to control her, and in a way, she didn’t mind that. At least when he tied her, she knew she was behaving in a manner befitting a civilized woman. When he tied her, she was fighting him.

  It was the times when he no longer needed the cravat that shamed her. It was when he drove her to the cliff edge of passion and then pushed her off. Night after night, he showed her that she could fly … and when she came back to earth, the ties were gone, her wrists were free, and he was observing her. He never sa
id a word, but they both knew the truth— he could far too easily destroy her resistance. She didn’t have to like him; he made her want him.

  She’d cried last night, begged him to take her.

  But no, that wasn’t what he wanted. He would not take her.

  He wanted her to give herself.

  She hadn’t yet sunk that far.

  The only thing that helped her survive the night torture was that he was suffering, too. Maybe he was suffering more. She didn’t know. She hoped so, because while every night she came again and again … he got no satisfaction at all.

  She hadn’t seen his easy smile in days.

  She was glad.

  If only she didn’t have to teach that horrible class today. She could only imagine how pleased Prospero would be to see her swollen eyes and hear her scratchy voice. She considered hiding in her room, letting Prospero crow in triumph.

  But she always spent the morning with the children.

  They eased her wounded spirit, made her remember that she was not one man’s plaything or another’s object of scorn, but a governess, beloved among those who mattered most— the children.

  These children were loved, but they’d been raised in adversarial circumstances. Every day they knew the de Guignards could brutally take their parents from them.

  Their education had been neglected as the adults concentrated on the necessary tasks at hand, first staying alive, and then winning the revolution. So they basked in Victoria’s attention, and more than that, they loved teaching her Moricadian.

  Every day she learned more words and more phrases, and every day she comprehended a little better. They, of course, learned English so quickly that she’d sought out the dilapidated schoolroom, cleaned it up, and started teaching them to read and write.

  Most of them absorbed everything eagerly.

  But not Prospero’s son. At first, Victoria thought he had been listening to his parents and was being deliberately stupid. Then she saw his expression when his four-year-old sister recited the words Victoria put on the slate.

  He truly couldn’t comprehend.

  She thought it might be his eyesight, but when she questioned him, she discovered he was the best shot of any young hunter.

  So, remembering the teachings of the Distinguished Academy of Governesses, she quizzed him about his numbers.

  The boy was a mathematical genius. When she recited long columns of numbers, he told her the answer almost before she finished— and he was always right. She taught him multiplication in one sitting, division in another.

  More important, he understood the concepts at work, his brain leaping from one conclusion to another— and everything she taught him, he kept in his head.

  He couldn’t write, but what did that matter? When she remembered Mr. Johnson and the work she’d done for him, she knew Prospero’s boy could hire someone to put down the numbers. All he had to do was figure them out in his head.

  She ate her noon meal with the children, and found great comfort in the fact that she never had to say a word about their manners. All she did was eat slowly, neatly, pass the dishes, carry on a polite conversation, and the children imitated her.

  That was a victory in which she could exult, and she was glad.

  She’d enjoyed no such victory with their parents.

  Every day was another withering defeat at their hands.

  And after that, every day she spent the late afternoon at the writing desk in the corner of the great hall, helping Thompson with the household accounts— she had, after all, learned a lot from Mr. Johnson, and she was glad to put it to use.

  “Victoria.” Raul’s warm, deep voice startled Victoria.

  She dropped her pen. Ink splattered across the paper.

  She caught up the blotter, and with a steady hand, she dabbed up the excess, trying to save the words she’d so carefully written. When she was satisfied, she turned to face him.

  He looked thinner than he had, and grimmer, his face gaunt, and she realized the warmth in his voice was a chimera, for his eyes were ice-cold. He smelled fresh, as if he’d bathed in a mountain lake, and perhaps he had, for his shoulder-length hair hung in damp strands, and the rough clothing he wore to work with his troops was wet across his shoulders, at his waist, and where the hem of his trousers tucked into his boots.

  “What are you doing?” He didn’t wait for her response, but reached for her letter.

  She moved it smoothly out of his way. “I’m writing my mother, giving a truthful report of the events here in Moricadia.”

  “All of them?” He lifted an eyebrow.

  “My mother feared I would come to a bad end, so I’ve refrained from telling her I sleep in your bedroom.”

  With her direct gaze, Victoria challenged him. “Even knowing I sleep on the couch would not comfort her.”

  If Raul experienced guilt for making her conceal the truth from her mother, Victoria saw no evidence of it.

  “Would you like Thompson to post your letter?” he asked.

  She laughed briefly, bitterly, folded the pages, and put them in the reticule that hung at her waist. “Thompson and I have had that discussion. I’ll take care of this.”

  “As you wish,” he said indifferently. “Hada is serving the evening meal. Will you join us?”

  She wanted to say no, that she would take a tray in her room, that she couldn’t stand to look forward into that room of sneering faces, then turn and see his unsmiling expression.

  But he presented his hand to her, and as she stared at the upturned palm, she realized his invitation wasn’t truly an invitation; she had no option. She would take her place at his side.

  She gave him her hand, and the shock of her bare skin against his stopped her breath.

  She wished she wore gloves. A barrier would make his touch less onerous … but then, the clothes between them at night hadn’t protected her from experiencing passion in his arms. Perhaps the only thing that could protect her from him was distance. If she could hold out for another week … and then another …

  No. She needed a different goal.

  If she could hold out for just tonight…that would be victory.

  With a desperate assumption of ease, she walked at his side to the head table. She nodded to Prospero— at night, they pretended to be on speaking terms. She murmured a greeting to Zakerie— she was glad to see him, for his easygoing manner put her at ease.

  Raul held her chair.

  She sat and braced herself for another evening spent pretending to eat while wishing she were elsewhere.

  He seated himself.

  The chairs next to her were empty as Thompson coordinated Hada and the women as they placed food on the table, poured ale and wine, and made sure their men were comfortable.

  Victoria didn’t know what made her speak. It was probably no more than the determination to carry on a normal conversation. Or maybe she was tired of trying to be invisible. “Raul?”

  “Yes?” He offered her his wine goblet.

  She took it, cradled it in her hands. “You said the women shoot better than the men?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are any of them in charge of … anything?”

  He viewed her as if she were speaking a foreign language.

  “The women go out all day, practicing to fight in the revolution like men. At night, they come in tired and dirty. But they don’t get to eat and drink and relax like the men. They have to fetch and carry and perform traditional women’s tasks.” Around them, the conversation slowly withered and died. “So I was wondering— in the field, are any of them in charge? Are any of them commanders, or are they subordinate to Zakerie and all the other men?”

  Raul stared at her as if she’d grown horns.

  Zakerie had his fingers pressed to his forehead.

  Prospero glared, his eyes as dark and shiny as obsidian.

  Thompson stood off to the side, watching.

  Victoria looked toward Hada, who stood unmoving, expressionless, a
pitcher of ale balanced against her waist, a platter of meat in one hand.

  Raul leaned back in his chair and laughed, a single note, harsh and derisive. “No, none of the women are commanders. They haven’t had the training needed.”

  Of all the things Victoria abhorred, it was bias and injustice, and this was prejudice at its most odious. And really, what could these men do to her if she spoke frankly?

  Imprison her? “You said so many have lost their husbands and fathers to the de Guignards that they have had to protect their homes and their families in any way they can. You insinuated that you admired the women who were willing to fight. And you said they were being trained to shoot. Can they not be trained to command?”

  The women who stood while the men sat looked at one another as if seeking support.

  “Are the men not also so trained before becoming sergeants and such?” Victoria insisted.

  “She’s right,” Zakerie said. “The men are trained, and I’ve got two women whom I leave in charge when I have duties elsewhere. They do everything I would do, and better.”

  Prospero slammed his goblet on the table. “A man’s nature makes him more able to lead!”

  “It seems that a man’s nature makes him more able to throw a tantrum,” Victoria said coolly. “Is that a leadership quality to be admired?”

  Thompson stepped to the table. “Mr. Lawrence, if Hada took over the entire household in the position of butler— and she is admirably capable of handling all situations and crises— I would be available to work in the field more often.” His voice was eager. “I do enjoy going into the woods and coordinating the operations there.”

  Babble broke out and swiftly rose to a roar as everyone offered their opinions.

  Raul relaxed back into his chair and asked indolently,

  “What have you done?”

  “All I did was ask a question.”

  “A question that needed to be asked, obviously.”

  Picking up her hand, he kissed her fingers.

  Almost at once, the furor faded and Victoria once more found herself the center of curious eyes.