Day Leclaire’s The Royals Bundle

by Day Leclaire

  This was a man who’d lived a life of dangerous pursuits. Ruthlessness blazed in his eyes and was echoed in the grim lines etched into his features. Any hint of gentleness had been carved away long ago, honing his appearance to the bare essence of a man who eschewed softness and compassion and all things temperate, who couldn’t be swayed by a woman’s love, and certainly didn’t compromise or yield, no matter how overwhelming the odds.

  He backed her against a tree trunk, holding her with only his hand clamped to her mouth and the sheer force of his personality. The rough bark bit through her gown and clawed at her back. “I’ll release you if you promise not to scream. Otherwise, I pull out the duct tape. Clear?”

  She gave a careful nod. One by one his fingers lifted away, his hand hovering a mere breath from her mouth. Tilting her chin she forced herself to meet his leonine gaze without flinching. She wouldn’t plead, she refused to beg. But she’d demand answers before she took another step.

  “Why?” She breathed the single word from between numb lips, allowing a hint of outrage to underscore the question.

  He shrugged, his black shirt pulling taut across broad, well-muscled shoulders. “You’re a pawn. A pawn I intend to remove from the playing field.”

  Her heart pounded in her chest. How did he plan to remove her? Did he mean…by killing her? A bubble of nearly uncontrollable hysteria built inside her chest, pressing for release. “Isn’t there some other way?” She forced the words past her constricted throat, despising the hint of entreaty they contained.

  His expression remained unrelenting. Merciless. This wasn’t a man who could be affected by a woman’s tears. Nor pleading, nor demand, nor wiles. What would happen had been predetermined by him and she was helpless to change that.

  “I can’t allow the wedding to go on.” He hesitated, and to her surprise a hint of distaste gleamed in his odd golden eyes before being ruthlessly extinguished. “I need your gown.”

  The demand caught her off-guard. “My what?”

  “Your wedding gown. Take it off.”

  “But…why?”

  “Wrong answer.”

  She shook her head. Her hair, loosened when he’d ripped the veil from her head, cascaded to her shoulders, cloaking her. “Then you won’t like this one any better. I can’t remove it.”

  She was right. He didn’t like her answer. Hard furrows bracketed his mouth and tension rippled across his frame. The lion stirred. “Pay attention, Princess. Either you take it off or I do. Your choice.”

  For some reason his response angered her. She didn’t have a clue what hidden wellspring it erupted from, or how it managed to overcome the fear that held her on the very edge of control. She simply recognized that she had two choices. She could give in to the fear and start screaming, knowing full well that once she started, she’d never be able to stop—not until he silenced her, perhaps permanently. Or she could choose to react to an impossible situation with a shred of dignity.

  She looked Merrick square in the eye. “I’m telling you the truth. I can’t remove my clothing. I’ve been sewn into my wedding gown. I gather it’s the custom in this principality. So, if you’re going to kill me, get it over with.”

  “Kill you?” Something flashed in his eyes. Surprise? Annoyance? Affront? “I have no intention of killing you. But I do need that dress. It’ll draw too much attention to us. So, if you can’t remove the damn thing, I will.”

  She heard the distinctive scrape of metal against leather and, unable to help herself, her gaze darted downward. He’d pulled a knife from a scabbard strapped to his leg. It was huge and serrated and gleamed wickedly even in the shadow of the massive oak. The breath hissed from her lungs and she discovered that she couldn’t draw it in again. Darkness crept into the periphery of her vision but all she could focus on was that knife and the hand that held it—a hand that fisted around the textured grip with unmistakable competence and familiarity.

  “No—”

  She managed the word just as the knife descended in a sudden, swift arc, the edge biting into the bodice of her gown. For a brief instant she felt the repellent coldness of metal against the swell of her breast before it sliced downward through the silk straight to the hem. He shoved the ruined gown from her shoulders, allowing it to pool on the verdant tufts of grass at their feet.

  She turned ashen, every scrap of color blanching from her skin as she struggled to suck air into her lungs.

  Merrick watched her reaction with a bitter distaste for the necessity of his actions. He despised what he’d been forced to do, what he’d been forced to become because of von Folke. And yet, despite everything he’d done to her, her recovery was as swift as it was impressive. The panic and fear rapidly faded from her expression and renewed anger glittered in the intense blue of her eyes. He applauded her spirit, even as he realized it would make his job all the more difficult.

  The instant her breathing stabilized, she attacked. “You son of a bitch.”

  He conceded the truth with a twisted smile. “So I’ve been told before.”

  She stood with her spine pressed against the rough tree trunk, her arms folded across her chest. Seeing her without her gown answered two of his earlier questions. She had, indeed, the creamy complexion he’d imagined, perfect in every regard. And she was more goddess than dynamo.

  For such a petite woman her breasts were surprisingly full, overflowing the low cut demi-bra she attempted to conceal with her crossed arms. A tiny pink bow rested between the cups holding them together, though how it managed to remain tied defied explanation and tempted him beyond reason to release the pressure keeping all that bounty in place.

  His gaze lowered and he almost smiled. Damned if she wasn’t wearing a petticoat, no doubt another custom of the region. But then, he supposed it was necessary given the gown she’d worn. The layers of white silk and tulle belled around her, whispering in agitation in the light breeze.

  His amusement faded. Time to set the tone for their relationship from this point forward. Distaste filled him again, but he forced himself to do what he knew he must. “Don’t move,” he ordered.

  He lifted the knife again, giving her a full ten seconds to fixate on it before driving it through the voluminous skirting at her hip and deep into the tree trunk, pinning her in place. Then he reached down and snatched up the shredded wedding gown, crumpling it in his fist. Deliberately turning his back on her, he carried the gown to the silver SUV and tossed it inside. His men would dispose of it.

  Merrick paused, interested to see what the Sutherland woman would do next. Her choice would determine how they spent the rest of their time together. He didn’t have to wait long for his answer. Nor was he surprised by her decision. The sound of rending silk signaled her response.

  Turning around, he was just in time to see her stumble free of the knife and run—as best she could given her three-inch heels—back into the woods, her petticoats fluttering behind her. To his relief, it didn’t occur to her to scream. He retrieved his knife before giving chase, running in swift and silent pursuit. Her hair streamed behind her like a golden flag of surrender and her breath came in frightened pants. She’d kicked off her shoes at some point and the tear in her petticoats where she’d ripped free of the knife gave her plenty of legroom, allowing her to run more easily and making her far more fleet than he’d anticipated.

  Merrick gritted his teeth. Miri’s disguise would only hold up for so long. Before von Folke discovered the deception, he needed to have his princess whisked far away from here. Putting on an extra bit of speed, he closed the distance between them. He waited for her to take a couple more steps so that he could control their fall, and then he launched himself at her.

  He twisted so he’d take the brunt of the landing. Hitting the earth with a thud, he skidded a foot or two in the leaf litter and tree bracken before coming to rest in a grassy section free of rocks and sticks. He wrapped one arm around her body and the other around her neck, controlling her air supply. She struggled f
or a brief minute before giving up the fight with a soft moan of surrender.

  “You don’t listen very well.” He spoke close to her ear. “That’s going to cost you, Princess.”

  “You don’t understand.” His choke hold prevented her from speaking above a whisper. “I have to get back to the chapel. I have to go through with the marriage. If I don’t—”

  “If you don’t, you won’t get to be Her Royal Highness, Queen of Verdonia. Is that it?”

  “No! You don’t understand. My mother. He has my mother.”

  “If your mother is anything like you, I’m sure she’ll be able to fend for herself.”

  He released his choke hold and rolled, reversing their positions, which might have been a mistake. Seeing her splayed beneath him against the grass-sweetened earth, her tousled hair fanned around her beautiful, treacherous face was more provocative than he could have imagined. And though honor kept him from touching, he sure as hell could look.

  Her petticoats belled around her, nipping in at her narrow waist. The tear in the endless layers of tulle allowed him to catch a glimpse of a lace garter and silk stockings—stockings that seemed to glisten along every endless inch of her leg. And then there was the practically nonexistent bra she wore with the tiny bow that tempted a man almost beyond endurance, begging him to tug at the ends and allow the feminine scrap to drift from her body.

  Merrick’s body clenched, reacting to a powerful need with frightening predictability. He was infuriated to discover that it was beyond his ability to control the automatic response. Not even a lifetime of training enabled him to overcome the temptation of this particular woman. It defied explanation.

  Beneath her silver wedding gown she’d been dressed to seduce, to provoke the ultimate possession, to make a man forget everything but the desperate need to mate. She stared at him with wide aquamarine eyes and in that insane moment he saw what it would be like to have her. He saw them locked together in the most primitive dance of all. A give and take that went much further than mere sex. He saw the ultimate possession, a sharing he’d never dared allow himself with any of the women he’d had in his life. White-hot passion. Basic driving need. A mindless surrender. Blind trust—something he’d never known in all his twenty-nine years. He saw every last detail in eyes rich with promise.

  And he wanted as he’d never wanted before.

  He forced words past a throat gone bone dry. “Von Folke must have caught one glimpse of you and thought all his dreams had come true.”

  To his surprise she shuddered. “If he was attracted to me, he never showed it.” She squirmed beneath him, which thrust her breasts and pelvis up against him in a provocative brush and swirl. “Please let me up.”

  He wanted to refuse her request, wanted it with a raging fervor that proved to him that man was still at heart a creature of wanton instinct, an unleashed animal lurking beneath a thin veneer of civilized behavior, ruled by emotions barely kept in check and not always within his ability to control. He fought with every ounce of willpower. Endless seconds ticked by before intellect finally managed to overcome base desire.

  “Very well, Princess.” Or maybe intellect hadn’t fully won out because he found himself saying, “But I warned that running would cost you. Time to pay.”

  With that, he took advantage of her parted lips and dipped downward, possessing the most lush, sumptuous mouth he’d sampled in many a year.

  Two

  Alyssa sank beneath the powerful onslaught of Merrick’s kiss. She’d never felt anything so all-consuming, so fierce and passionate. This wasn’t remotely similar to what she’d experienced during her lighthearted collegiate years, untutored kisses that tasted of beer and youthful enthusiasm. Nor did it resemble the well-practiced embraces from the men she’d dated in the years since, embraces tainted with calculation and ambition.

  This was an experienced man with an experienced man’s skill and knowledge. A dark desire underscored his breaching of her lips and the sweeping possession of his mouth and tongue. He consumed her, igniting a fire she’d never known existed until he’d fanned it to life.

  Heat pooled in the pit of her stomach, a finger of flame scorching a path downward to the most intimate part of her and she moaned in protest. She shouldn’t want this—didn’t want this. And yet she remained still beneath him, offering no resistance. His fingers forked into her hair, tilting her head so he could deepen the kiss. He softened it, coaxing where before he’d subdued, tempting instead of demanding. Teasing. Enticing. Daring her to respond.

  And she did respond, her blasted curiosity getting the better of her.

  Her mind screamed in protest while her body softened to accommodate a taking she didn’t want, yet somehow couldn’t resist. Her jaw unclenched and her lips relaxed beneath his, parting to offer easier access. Maybe she surrendered so readily because it would keep him off guard and allow for the possibility of escape when he least expected it. But in her heart of hearts she knew the excuse was sheer self-deception. She couldn’t explain her response to Merrick. She reacted to him in ways she hadn’t with any other man, in primal ways that overrode rational thought and intellect in favor of reckless impulse and base desire.

  And it horrified her even as it thrilled her.

  One of his hands slid from her hair and followed the line of her throat to her shoulder before settling on her breast. That single brushing stroke branded her, marking her his in some inescapable way. He cupped her in his palm, his thumb grazing her rigid nipple through the thin layer of silk.

  Her breath escaped in a soft cry of shock, the sound absorbed by his mouth. His hand shifted, hovering above the bow that held the cups of her bra together. Before he could pluck the silk ribbons free, the urgent clatter of church bells rang through the forest while a pipe organ bellowed forth the first few triumphant notes of the wedding march prelude. The change in Merrick was instantaneous. He levered himself off of Alyssa in a flash, his scar standing out bone-white against his tanned face.

  “What the hell…?” With a quick shake of his head, he focused on her, the passion scoring his face dying a rapid death. “Clever, Ms. Sutherland. Very clever. You’ll do whatever necessary, even seduce the enemy, to make sure you wear the crown of Verdonia, won’t you?”

  The breath hissed from her lungs and she glared at him as she shoved herself upright. “Seduce you? How dare—”

  To her surprise, he whipped off his shirt and thrust it at her. Beneath it he wore a black stretch T-shirt that clung to his muscular form, emphasizing every hard bulge and angle. “Put this on.”

  “You kissed me, not the other way around,” she reminded him as she thrust her arms into the overlong sleeves.

  “And you fought me every inch of the way, didn’t you?”

  Hot color flooded her cheeks while the unpalatable truth of his accusation held her silent. She searched for a sufficiently quelling retort as her fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt. Not that she came up with anything. Perhaps she had so much difficulty because his distinctive scent clung to the black cotton, distracting her with his crisp, woodsy fragrance. Or perhaps it was because she kept sneaking quick glances at Merrick—or rather how Merrick filled his impressive T-shirt.

  Regardless, she worked each button into each hole with a stubborn doggedness until she’d fastened her way straight to her neck. The instant she’d finished, he reached into his back pocket and to her horror pulled out a flat roll of duct tape. Before she could utter a single word of protest, he’d slapped a piece across her mouth and wound another length around her wrists.

  “Note to self,” he muttered, his mouth twisting into a humorless smile, “from now on, no kissing the bad guys.”

  She shook her head in furious denial, her angry protests stifled by the tape, though she didn’t doubt for one moment that he understood the gist of what she’d attempted to impart, if not the full flavor. Standing, he lifted her with ease and slung her over his shoulder. A strong, calloused hand held her in place, grip
ping the backs of her thighs. She shuddered beneath the intimate contact even though it came through layers of tulle, hating herself for the sizzle of heat that vied with her terror at her predicament.

  Within minutes he’d retraced the path they’d taken in her desperate flight through the forest, carrying her with long, swift strides to the SUV that idled on the side of the road. Opening the back door, he tipped her onto the floor.

  “Keep silent and still,” he instructed. “Don’t make me take more drastic measures than I have already. Nod if you understand, Princess.”

  She fought a silent inner battle for five full seconds. With no choice but to acquiesce, she jerked her head up and down. Satisfied, he tossed a blanket loosely over her and closed the door. An instant later the driver’s door opened and he climbed in. Without wasting another moment he put the car into gear, driving swiftly from the scene of her capture.

  They continued for what seemed like hours, the route twisting and turning, the roads rough and bumpy. She could tell that many were either dirt or gravel. As the sun crept lower and lower in the sky, she worried endlessly about what was happening back at the chapel.

  It hadn’t been difficult for her to figure out that the woman who’d been part of Merrick’s group had taken Alyssa’s place. But how long would the woman’s disguise work? Even more imperative—why had Alyssa been kidnapped and what did Merrick plan to do with her? Clearly, Verdonia had political problems in which she’d somehow become embroiled. Her abduction must be related to those problems.

  Of even more concern was what Prince Brandt had done when he’d discovered the switch in brides. Had he taken his fury out on her mother? Was her mother safe? Although the prince hadn’t leveled any specific threat against her when she’d been brought to his palace, the implication had been loud and clear. If Alyssa didn’t marry him, her mother would meet with an unfortunate accident.

  She closed her eyes, fighting her tears. So now what? She had to find a means of escape, that much was obvious, though even if she succeeded in freeing herself, how could she rescue her mother? The worrisome questions swirled through her mind, increasing her fear and desperation while offering no practical solutions.