by Tamara Gill
“Oh, William...” Lucy used the backs of her hands to swipe silly tears.
The brandy went back to the side table, then he was once again warming her toes. “Might I be so bold as to assume your tender smile means you feel the same?”
For some reason unable to speak, she nodded before piling herself onto his lap. “I d-don’t deserve you,” she said, sobbing messy tears all over his tidy V-necked sweater.
“What’s this?” he asked, easing her head back, then notching her gaze to his with his fingers beneath her chin. “You don’t deserve me?” He laughed. “That’s quite amusing considering the fact I feel much the same about you.”
“Really?”
“Of course. Why else do you think night after night I instruct Cook to prepare such delicacies as beef stew, meat loaf and spaghetti?”
She shrugged. “I thought you just had great taste in food?”
“I do, but it runs more along the lines of foie gras and beef Wellington.”
“So all of these dinners have been specially prepared for me?”
He nodded and Lucy’s heart swelled. Had there ever been a kinder, more generous man?
The prince might have looks going for him, but if he’d taken a few lessons from a true nobleman like William about a thousand years earlier, he wouldn’t be in the bind he now claimed to be in!
Listen to me, as if I believe for one second any of that nutcase’s story is for real.
The heat of the fire, the duke’s gentle foot massage and a happy bellyful of stew culminated in a sleepy yawn. “Mmm,” Lucy closed her eyes. “I could get used to this.”
“Good. That’s exactly the effect I’ve been hoping for.”
***
An hour later, standing outside Rose Cottage beneath the light of a moon intent on scurrying behind high clouds, William wished for more rain: not because Cotswold County needed it, but because it would give him an excuse to once again take Luce into his arms.
After more fireside chatting, he’d walked her home, holding her small hand tucked safely into his. If only he could keep her in his life forever and ever, all the meaningless drivel his station forced him to contend with might suddenly make him whole.
No—it wasn’t the work that would make him whole—it was Lucy with her bright blue eyes, ever alight with passions he could only begin to imagine. Lucy and all of her minxish charm that, to his mother’s way of thinking, was the very embodiment of all things he ought steer clear of.
A fortnight ago, his mum had lectured him at length—a solid two hours on the virtues of Mother knowing best and an assorted pot of additional rubbish. But here, now, gazing upon his Lucy’s freckled complexion, dancing eyes and naughty strawberry blond curls, William, the eighteenth Duke of Cotswold, thought his mother, the great Dowager Duchess, positively daft. For if she couldn’t see Lucy’s many obvious and assorted charms, then she must be long overdue for a visit to her optometrist.
“You look lovely,” he finally said, taking the liberty of tucking a runaway curl behind her left ear.
“As you would say—rubbish. I look a mess.” Though a grin lit her eyes, she wrinkled her button nose before planting a warm kiss to his cheek. Her hands still on his chest, her barely there lily-of-the-valley perfume wrapping him in temptation, she added, “But thank you for being such a gentleman as to make me feel just the opposite.”
“You’re most welcome.” When she once again smiled, William felt ready to burst. What the woman did to him with merely a smile! Despite her fault of not even remotely fitting into his world, they shared a laugh, then granted the few hardy songbirds still about entree into their conversation.
The night had fallen so silent, that from clear across the valley came the howl of Moony Richardson’s basset hound demanding to be let in for the night. “Well, then,” William finally said, finding himself in a similar rut with the dog. “Do you, ah, mind if I come inside?”
“Inside?”
William frowned. In the past, such a question had never prompted a coughing spell.
“Are you quite all right?” He landed a series of hearty pats to her back.
“Sure,” she finally caught her breath. “I just—wow, must’ve swallowed a bug.”
“Well?” he asked again.
“I, um...so then you’re still wanting to come inside?”
“Just for a short while. You know, maybe to properly say goodnight in a more private setting.”
Again came the coughs. “You know, I think I might be better off going straight to bed. Maybe I’m coming down with something.”
“You were fine a few minutes ago.”
“True, but you know how these damp nights can, um, affect the lungs.”
Lungs? Of any woman he’d ever known, Lucy had an exceptionally healthy—not to mention, loud—set!
“Okay, then, guess I’ll settle for this.” Before she could refuse, he settled his hands about her waist, drawing her close for a lingering kiss.
“Thanks,” she said when he drew back. “Now I can sleep happy.”
“Are you happy, Luce?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, happy here in your cottage? At the school... Perhaps most importantly—with me?”
“Oh, William,” she cupped his cheek. “Of course. If I’ve done or said anything tonight to have given you a different impression, please forgive me. I—well, it’s been a downright nasty day, and I’m tired. Worried about how to best deal with Grumsworth in the morning. You know how it is when you have a lot on your mind.”
He nodded. Did he know! Endless legal matters and contracts; distant relatives claiming all that was rightfully his was theirs. At least now he knew his tender spot for Lucy was one issue over which he needn’t worry.
“Thank you for understanding.” Pressing her lips to his, she added, “I hope I’m not being slutty in admitting this, but—”
Now he was coughing. “Honestly, Luce, where do you come up with these unseemly terms?”
“Sorry. Guess I should’ve said something more along the lines of forward. But as melodramatic as this may sound, sometimes I think you’re quite possibly the only appealing thing in my life.”
If that were indeed the case, then why all of the sudden did her eyes well with tears and lips faintly tremble? “Judging by your expression,” he said, “I’m not entirely sure this is a good thing.”
Through her misty, unfathomable expression, she smiled, easing his doubt-filled heart. “Trust me, my lord,” she butchered her old English accent. “Tis a good thing. A very good thing, indeed.”
***
After William set off whistling across the moonlit lawn, Lucy closed the door to her cottage, then leaned against it, kicking first one red mule, then the other, across the cramped mudroom before rubbing her face with her hands.
What a disaster this night had been!
Yet on the other hand, what a delight!
In spite of her close call with the prince, William had all but admitted he loved her.
Even better, she thought, creeping her way through the silent house and into the living room. The fire had faded to glowing embers and, thankfully, so had the prince—not that he was dead and glowing, but at least he no longer resided in her living room.
Exhausted, Lucy collapsed onto the sofa.
Even if no one else in their right mind would understand what she was trying to get at, she did. Bottom line, William still loved her and the prince seemed to be well and truly gone, and to that she mumbled, “Good riddance.”
The man was a menace—not just to her body, but her soul.
In him she sensed all things wild and forbidden.
Her most secret wishes.
Buried hopes and desires.
But the part of her life wherein she’d allowed herself such fantasies of all-consuming love and career success was over. Her dreams of becoming a world-renowned biologist, or of ever earning her father’s professional respect, had long since faded. Now, she had d
ifferent dreams.
Simpler.
Dreams of home, hearth and family that weren’t wrong—just unfamiliar in the wake of hopes long since past. She no longer sought thrilling passion, but easy contentment. And she was fine with that.
Now was the time for her to buckle down.
To marry a good and true man like William who wasn’t handsome in a rugged, intoxicating way, but in a gentle, family-guy way. William was the kind of man who’d stick by her in times of crisis. Who’d always ensure she never went to bed hungry or wanting for warmth or shelter.
The prince, on the other hand?
Well, discounting the fact he was obviously mad, he seemed the sort of bad boy who was only out for a good time. Not that she wouldn’t have enjoyed a good time as well as the next lonely girl, but honestly? She was relieved he’d moved on.
Leaning her head against the downy sofa back, she sighed and on her next breath inhaled him: the prince; his musky, bold, utterly intoxicating flavor that, in the breadth of a single raging heartbeat, turned Lucy into a liar.
He was gone.
And that upset her more than if she’d returned home to find him still there. Which was wrong! She loved William. He was good and decent and everything she was looking for, not just in a man but a husband. A best friend, a lifelong partner with whom she planned to share babies, christenings, weddings and funerals.
The only thing she’d shared with the prince was frustration. So far, the man had brought her nothing but angst and embarrassment so keen it was akin to pain.
Still, she crept her fingers to the rose-colored satin throw pillow upon which the prince had so unwillingly rested his head.
Though her fingertips smoothed cool satin, her mind recalled his chest. Hot, coarse with thick black hair that reminded her she was all tender woman and he was all virile man.
Swallowing hard, fingers slightly trembling, she eased the pillow to her face, breathing him in: the pond, damp, musky earth. Hundreds upon hundreds of years’ worth of primal instinct, shattering her with unfamiliar need.
No.
The prince was gone.
She loved William. She would always love William. He understood her. Accepted her in ways no one before him ever had. Lord, how she appreciated that. She’d return the favor with heartfelt loyalty.
All of this nonsense about the prince was just that—nonsense. Not only because he’d probably been nothing more than a vagrant, but because he was gone.
After fluffing the satin pillow, she nestled it just so in the comer of the sofa where it belonged, then pushed herself to her feet, locking up and turning out lights.
When she’d dowsed all illumination but the lamp at the bottom of the stairs, Lucy trudged to the cottage’s second floor. All she needed was a good night’s rest for this unpleasantness to fade like a bad dream.
In the morning, she’d feel fresh as a daisy.
Sunshine fresh.
Er, maybe not that fresh, or she’d become the living embodiment of a personal hygiene commercial!
Rounding the corner to her bedroom, she flicked on the overhead light, drinking in the peaceful garden of her room.
White-washed walls made way for a wildflower-strewn down comforter. Cornflower blue asters and yellow daisies lived happily amongst the faint blue stripes and gingham of the ruffled curtains and hand-painted, two-drawer nightstands on either side of her bed.
One thing Lucy loved about being single was that she could decorate all of her rooms to be as girly as she pleased. When she and the duke one day married, she supposed she’d have to tone down her penchant for floral chintz but, until then, she saw no need to bend to anyone’s decorating tastes other than her own.
The duke ran in pretty lofty social circles. Wonder if he knew any offspring of the late, great Laura Ashley? If so, would they give him a wedding discount?
Lucy wound her way to the bathroom and flicked on that light, only to gasp.
Sprawled in her oversized tub, dead to the world, was the great big prince—still naked.
And still packing it down below—not that she looked!
Her first instinct was to not just wake him, but hurl a shampoo bottle, screaming at him to once and for all vanish from her life. But then she paused to look at him—really look at him, and saw that in his sleep he’d traded his commanding presence for a surprising air of vulnerability.
His closed eyes were shadowed and ringed from, she presumed, lack of sleep. He’d settled his lips into a grim line, causing his crudely shaven features to register exhaustion laced with physical pain. His shoulders were so broad, they filled the width of the oversized tub. His long, lean legs hung over the opposite end. Even more disturbing were the scars—almost too many to count, each more savagely healed than the next.
She’d noticed them earlier, but maybe the rain, the dark, or the mental effort it’d taken to keep up with his barrage of sexual banter had kept her from realizing the full extent of his previous injuries.
Whatever the case, if the man ever suffered from cash flow issues, he really ought to sue whoever’d stitched him up.
Across his chest were three long slashes—each a good twelve inches in length or more. The top two were the worst. They formed a crude elongated X centering near his right nipple. The third crossed his abdomen with such cruelty that tears caught at the back of Lucy’s throat.
In this day and age, what could have caused such a mark? Gang warfare? A motorcycle wreck? Horrific abuse as a child?
She swiped at a few renegade tears, sweeping her gaze politely past the dark thatch between his legs to incredibly muscular thighs. But even as splendid as they were, they, too, weren’t without marks. Crosshatches of angry red tattooed them. Still more marred his shins. Even his feet bore witness to past pain both with scars and the fact that he was missing the tip of his right little toe.
A wave of nausea crashed through her just imagining the kind of pain he’d suffered. No wonder he had such an indefatigable spirit. He’d apparently needed it just to survive.
Once again sweeping her gaze upward, she saw that his arms were not without scars. And now that he’d shaved and was in brighter light, she could even make out a few etched onto his angular face. One ran beneath his right eye, another slashed across the foot of his chin. Yet another trailed across his right cheek.
His lips twitched.
Touching her own still sensitive lips, Lucy willed them to stop tingling from the all too recent memory of their kiss. A savage kiss that’d been nothing like the sweetness of William’s.
Pulse surging, Lucy fell to her knees on the thick white rug in front of the tub.
Fingertips burning with an unfamiliar yearning to comfort and soothe, she reached for the prince’s chest, tracing one bumpy red half of the scarred X, then the other. Initially, his skin felt cool, but then, beneath her palm grew warm, so warm.
On an altogether different level, his spirit had warmed, too. In sleep, he was different than he’d been before. His vulnerability made him approachable.
If she were truly a good girl, she should’ve called police. At the very least, given him his privacy. She should’ve been put off by his continued lack of cover. But either she’d grown used to it, or she no longer cared. Maybe in the moment, she wasn’t a good girl, but a curious girl.
A hungry girl.
A girl who no longer wanted to be a girl, but a full-fledged woman being ridden hard by a full-fledged man.
No, no, no!
Lucy’s hands flew to her flaming cheeks. What had gotten into her? This was lunacy!
Right this very second she should be on the phone with the authorities. She should be running for William—the safety found within the circle of his arms.
Yes, that’s what she should be doing, but then she looked at the prince again, only to be hypnotized by his sheer masculine beauty.
His angles and planes, inky dark hair gleaming with tepid water. Suddenly she no longer wanted safety but to be back in the New Guinea
jungle—only not by herself, but with a thrilling enigma like him. Living life fully. On the edge. Anticipating that just around the next campnosperma tree awaited her next miracle in the form of her very own frog.
Today, she thought she’d had that, but it turned out that castle lane frog must’ve only been a dream.
And if that were true, what did that say about the prince? Was he a dream too?
His chest rose and fell with a mortal enough pace, but then so had the frog’s and he was long gone.
Heart pounding, Lucy licked her lips before easing her trembling hand toward the prince’s forehead. A lock of his hair had spilled over his right eye and she wanted it gone. She wanted to see all of him. Feel all of him.
Know him as only a lover would.
No!
Oh, yes...
Slowly, slowly, almost there, she crept her hand still closer, fearing her heart’s hammer would surely alert him to her presence. But on he slept, his chest rising and falling, rising and falling, and she was almost there. Close enough for his radiant heat to vibrate and hum beneath her sweating palm. Almost there, close enough for her conscience to cry, turn back now, while her heart cried equally loud to forge full speed ahead.
Following her heart, she slipped one yearning, burning fingertip beneath his dark hair, then—
“Arrrrrgh!” the prince yelled, fierce as any battle cry. “Ye’ll not be killin’ me tonight!” Merciless hands gripping her waist in one incredibly strong, fluid motion, he vaulted her over the side of the tub, landing her with a great splash—and even greater scream—atop him.
CHAPTER FIVE
Wolfe might have been trapped in a frog’s body for a millennium, but one thing he would never forget was how many men would stop at nothing—even murder—to keep him from one day wearing the kingdom of Gwyneddor’s crown. For a damned intolerable row of minutes, he had lain in the wench’s bathing pool awake, aware, awaiting her to declare her intentions. But finally, when she had gone for his head, he declared the end of her explorations.