Arranged Marriage, Bedroom Secrets

by Yvonne Lindsay

  “You make an interesting point,” he eventually conceded, dragging his gaze from her face and looking long into the distance as if that could erase the growing need for her that unfurled inside him.

  “Of course I do. I’m a woman. I know what I’m talking about,” Angel said lightly, then punctuated her words with a small shove at his shoulder. “You should listen to me.”

  He laughed. “I’m listening. Now, tell me more about how I am to seduce my bride’s mind.”

  “Be interested in her, genuinely interested.”

  Thierry was taken aback. “It’s that simple?”

  Angel groaned in response. “Of course it is. What do women do when they meet someone?”

  He looked at her blankly. How was he supposed to know that?

  “They ask questions,” Angel said, a thread of irritation evident in her voice. “They show an interest. Like this for example. Your horses are beautiful, do you buy them yourself or does your stable master do that for you?”

  “The horses here at the lodge are all handpicked by me or bred through the breeding program I have established at the palace stables.”

  “See? It’s as easy as that. With my question and your answer, we’ve opened up a dialogue that could keep us in conversation, discovering similar interests, for some time. And it branches off from that. For example, did you get that scar beside your right eyebrow while riding? It’s so faint as to barely be noticeable but—” she lifted her hand and caught his jaw with her fingers, turning his head slightly to one side “—when the light catches you just so, it’s visible.”

  Thierry tried to ignore the sensation of her fingers on his jaw. He hadn’t shaved this morning and the rasp of her skin across his stubble sent a tingle through him. If he moved bare millimeters, he would catch her fingertips with his lips. He slammed the door on those thoughts before he could act on them. A lifetime of analyzing his every thought and action gave him the strength he needed right now to bear her touch without showing her how it affected him. He drew in a breath, waited for her to release him and let the breath go in a long steady rush of air as she did so.

  His voice was calm when he answered, “Very observant of you. Yes, I wasn’t paying attention one day when out riding. My mount was a rascal, prone to dropping riders whenever he felt like it. I was so busy talking to my companions as we rode that I didn’t notice a low-lying branch. It collected me and dumped me quite unceremoniously on my royal behind. Of course, there was a major panic when everyone saw the blood, but, despite the scar it left, the wound was minimal and the experience taught me to be more aware of my surroundings at all times.”

  “How old were you when it happened?”

  “I was eight years old. My father scolded me soundly for being so careless even while my mother fussed over me as if I had a life-threatening injury.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry? Why?”

  “The contrast in the ways they treated you tells me that you were probably left very confused afterward.”

  Confused? Yes, he had been confused and sore. But how had she known that? Most people asked him how many stitches he’d had or joked about him making a royal decree to have the tree chopped down or, worse, have the pony destroyed. No one had ever come to the conclusion Angel had just now. Something in his chest tightened as her care and understanding worked its way past his defenses.

  Angel lifted her hand again, one finger tracing the silvered line that ran from his eyebrow to his hairline. Her eyes were fixed on the path of her fingertip, her expression one of concern and compassion, but all of a sudden her expression changed and she let her hand drop once more. This time her fingers curled into a fist before she crossed her arms firmly around her, almost as if she couldn’t trust herself not to touch him again. The thought intrigued him and made him step forward a little, closing the distance between them to almost nothing.

  “And you?” he asked. “Do you have any interesting tales to tell about any scars you might have hidden upon your body?”

  Angel lifted her chin, her lips parted on a breath. “I...”

  Suddenly she stepped away and walked over to where Henri was now grazing and gathered up the reins.

  “You’re getting the hang of it,” she said.

  “The hang of it?” He was momentarily confused.

  “Getting to know someone. Shall we carry on? We can talk while we ride.”

  Why was she creating distance between them all of a sudden? he wondered. It was she who had suggested he ask questions and probe his conversational partner to discover more about her. And yet, when he asked one simple thing she backed away as if she was afraid to answer. The thought intrigued him and he stowed it away to explore further another time.

  “Certainly, if that’s what you want. We can head back to the lodge for breakfast.”

  “That sounds like a good idea.”

  He drew close beside her and squatted down to offer her a boost onto the horse. This time he couldn’t help but notice how the fabric of her riding pants clung to her thighs and buttocks as she bent her leg and put her foot in his hand. She sprang up into the saddle and gently guided Henri away from him, as if she was determined to create some distance between them.

  Thierry wasted no time in mounting Sleipnir. “We’ll take a different path back,” he called to Angel, leading the way again.

  Back at the lodge she dismounted quickly and led Henri into the barn and began to undo the girth strap of his saddle. Thierry hastened to her side and put his hands at her waist to gently pull her aside.

  “Leave that. It will be taken care of.”

  “I’m not a delicate flower, you know. I can help.”

  “Fine,” he replied, letting her go before he did something stupid like give in to the urge to pull her hard against his body and rediscover what it would feel like to hold her in his arms. He nodded toward the tack room. “Get the brushes while I remove the saddles.”

  She did as he asked and he took the opportunity to watch her walk away. She held herself straight and tall and moved with an elegance that was at odds with her attire. He tore his gaze away from the ravishing picture she made and put his attention back toward the horses.

  * * *

  In the tack room Mila took a moment to steady herself. Being with Thierry was proving insightful and immensely difficult at the same time. She ached to tell him the truth about who she was and remove the veils of subterfuge she’d wreathed between them, but she couldn’t. She doubted he’d take too kindly to being tricked like this but she wished—oh, how she wished—she could be herself with him. There’d be time enough for that once they were married, she reminded herself, and looked around the room for the brushes he’d sent her to find.

  Grabbing two, she went back out into the barn. Together they finished tidying up and grooming the horses before returning them to their stalls. Once they were done, Mila dusted her hands off on her pants. The atmosphere between them had been easy enough while they attended to the horses, but right now she felt awkward.

  “Shall I go and see what I can put together for breakfast?” she asked.

  “You don’t trust me to cook?” Thierry lifted one eyebrow, as if punctuating his question. Her heart did a little flip-flop in her chest.

  “It’s not that,” she protested.

  “It’s okay. I am man enough to take advantage of your offer. I’ll go and shower while you do your thing in the kitchen.”

  Mila narrowed her eyes at him. “Are you being sexist again?”

  “Again?”

  “Like you were in New York.”

  He snorted a laugh. “Not at all, at least I didn’t mean it to come across that way. To make up for any offense I may have caused, I’ll provide the rest of our meals today. Is that punishment enough for my apparent lapse of manners?”


  She couldn’t help it—she smiled in return and inclined her head in acceptance. “Thank you. That would be lovely.”

  “And that is the perfect example of how I should have responded,” he commented.

  “You’re a quick study,” she teased, feeling herself relax again.

  “I’ll need to be if I’m to ace all my lessons with you.”

  And in an instant, there it was again. The sensual tension that drew as tight as an overstretched bow between them. Mila felt as if every cell in her body urged her to move toward him. Did he step closer to her? Or she to him? Whether it was either or both of them, somehow they ended up face-to-face. She felt his hands at her waist again, hers suddenly rested on his chest. Beneath her palms she felt the raggedness of his breathing, the pounding of his heart. And when he bent his head and pressed his lips to hers, she felt her body melt into him as if this was what they should have been doing all along.

  No more skirting around the subject of getting to know a person. Simply a man responding to a woman. And what a response. She flexed her body against his, relishing the hard muscles of his chest and abdomen against her softness, purring a sigh of pure feminine satisfaction when she felt the hardness at his groin. The concrete evidence that he found her attractive.

  All the years of feeling as though she’d never be anything to him but the gauche teenager she’d been all those years before fell away as if they were nothing.

  His hands were at her back, pressing her more firmly to him. Her breasts were pressed against his chest and she welcomed the pressure, felt her nipples harden into painfully tight points that begged for more of his touch. The restrictions of her bra and clothing were too much, and too little at the same time.

  Thierry’s lips were firm against hers, coaxing. She opened her mouth and gave a shudder of delight as he gently sucked her lower lip against his tongue. The heat of his mouth against that oh-so-tender skin made her fingers curl against his chest, her nails digging into the fabric of his shirt as if she needed to anchor herself to him, to anything that would stop her from floating away on the tide of responsiveness that coursed through her.

  And then, in an instant, there was nothing but air in front of her. Mila almost lost her balance as she opened her eyes and realized Thierry had thrust her from him and taken several long steps away.

  “H-Hawk?” she asked, reaching out a hand.

  “Don’t!” he snapped in return and wiped a shaking hand across his face. “Don’t touch me. I should not have done that. I apologize for my actions.”

  “But...why not? What is wrong? I’m here as your courtesan, am I not?”

  Confusion swirled through Mila’s mind as she fought to understand.

  “I must remain faithful to my promise. I cannot touch you like that again. This was a mistake. Being here with you, of all people—it’s making me weak.”

  There was genuine pain in his voice. Pain laced with disgust. At himself, she recognized, not her.

  “Your promise to marry the princess?” she probed, seeking more clarity.

  “Yes, my promise to her. And my promise to myself.”

  “Tell me of your promise to yourself,” she asked softly.

  “I can’t—not right now. Please, go inside the lodge. I just need some time to recompose myself.” He looked at her, his eyes as stormy as a mountain lake on a cloudy, windswept day.

  But she didn’t want to let it go. Not when her entire body still hummed with the effect of his kiss.

  “No, tell me now. I’m here to help you. How can I do that if you shut me out?” She walked toward him and caught him by the hand. “Hawk, let me understand you. Please?”

  She watched the muscles in his throat work as he swallowed. He held himself so rigid, so controlled, that she feared he would reject her overture. But then, millimeter by scant millimeter she began to feel him relax. He drew in a deep breath and then slowly let it go again. His voice, when he spoke, was raw, as if his throat hurt to let go of the words.

  “Fidelity is everything to me.”

  “As it should be,” she said softly.

  “No, you don’t understand.” He shook his head.

  “Then tell me. Explain it to me,” Mila urged.

  “I grew up watching my parents live side by side but I never saw them as a couple, not in the true sense of the word. By the time I was old enough to notice, they barely even liked one another, but they couldn’t live apart because of their position. They spent years barely tolerating one another, with my father putting every other obligation and concern ahead of his wife’s happiness until my mother could no longer put up with it. She followed her heart into a relationship with someone who she believed would love her—and it destroyed her. I will not put my wife through anything like that.”

  “And yourself? What about what you want?”

  “I just want to be the best I can be, at everything, and ensure that no harm comes to my people...including my wife.”

  “Hawk, that is admirable, but you have to realize that you can’t control everything.”

  He pulled away. “I can. I am King of Sylvain. If I cannot control the things within my sphere of influence, what use am I? I won’t be my father. I won’t just stand by and allow my inadequacies as a person to lead to others’ misfortune. I will have a successful marriage and my wife will love me.”

  “And will you love your wife equally in return?”

  Twelve

  Thierry felt her words as if they were a physical assault.

  “I will respect her and honor her as my consort and I will do everything in my power to make sure she is happy. Isn’t that enough?”

  Angel looked at him with pity in her eyes. “What do you think, Hawk? If you loved someone and respect and honor was all you could expect from them for the rest of your life, do you think that would be enough for you? Isn’t that no more than your father offered your mother?”

  Thierry snorted. “He did not respect her nor did he give a damn for her happiness. She was a vessel for his heir—no more, no less—and when she refused him and wouldn’t share his bed he found others more accommodating.”

  She looked shocked. Clearly she had not heard the rumors about his father’s many affairs. None of them proven, of course, but Thierry knew they had happened. Discreetly and very much behind closed doors. Where else had the idea of a courtesan come from but his father? Hell, the man had even offered to arrange one for Thierry. He studied Angel carefully.

  “I would never treat my wife so cruelly,” he assured her. “I will ensure that she is always treated with the dignity due to a princess.”

  “But you want more than that from her,” she argued. “You want her to love you. Yet you won’t offer her love in return?”

  “I...cannot promise her that,” he choked out.

  The shock had faded from her face, but now it was replaced with disappointment.

  “Then I am sorry for your bride,” she said eventually, her voice hollow. “Because I could not live without love.”

  She turned and went inside the lodge and he watched her every step feeling as if, piece by piece, slices of his heart were being torn from him. She could not live without love? He didn’t even know what love was. He’d never experienced it firsthand. But he did understand attraction and how it could lead to trouble.

  He turned and walked away from the lodge and headed back into the woods, stopping only when he could no longer feel the pull that urged him to follow her. To apologize for the things he’d said and to tell her that—

  That what?

  That he loved her? The idea was ridiculous. He was drawn to her, but that was all.

  He should have stuck with his decision last night and sent her away. This whole exercise was a waste of time. He was not achieving his objectives, only complicating ma
tters. With the thought firming in his mind, he returned to the lodge. The words telling her that her services were no longer required hovered on his tongue until she turned to face him and he could see she’d been crying.

  Pain shafted him like an arrow straight to his heart and he crossed the floor to gather her into his arms. She resisted a little, at first, then gave in to his embrace.

  “I am sorry,” he murmured as he pressed his lips to the top of her head. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “Y-you didn’t,” she hiccupped on a sob. “It was me and my stupid ideals.”

  “It isn’t stupid to want to be loved,” he countered.

  As he said the words, he realized that he meant them. That they weren’t the hollow uttering of a man so jaded by his parents and so many of the people in his sphere that he’d lost all belief in love. When he was with Angel, he wanted to believe that love was possible. But he couldn’t even begin to contemplate such a thing with her. She was his courtesan, not his princess. Which begged the question, why did she feel so right in his arms and why did every particle in his body urge him to simply follow his instincts and to revel in all she could offer?

  Angel pulled loose from his arms and stepped back.

  “It isn’t the role of a courtesan to be loved,” she said bleakly. “But I do think you should at least be open to loving your wife if you expect to have a long and happy marriage. You seem to have this idea that you must keep her happy, which is admirable. But should she not also provide that same service to you?”

  Her question raised an interesting point. “I hadn’t considered that necessary until now,” Thierry conceded.

  “So now you believe it is necessary?”

  He nodded. “I do. You have a lot to teach me, Angel. I’m glad you’re here.”

  She hesitated before speaking. Her eyes raking his face—to see, perhaps, if he was telling her the truth. He would not have thought it possible, but every word he’d told her had been truthful. And now, having begun to understand how he felt, he realized just how much he wanted what she had suggested. Could he hope to achieve that with Princess Mila?