The Princess and the Marquess

by Aliyah Burke

  He reached out to touch her shoulder. Only his lightning-quick reflexes saved him. One second she was dead to the world, lost in the throes of a nightmare, and the next she had knocked him off the bed and was lying on top of him with a knife that moved smoothly into his neck.

  “Ciara.” He gasped as the tip slide farther into the flesh under his chin.

  Recognition poured in. She retreated and dropped the knife. “Oh my god! What have I done? I am so sorry. Sorry. So sorry. Are you all right?”

  “Do you think you could get off me? Normally I would love to have you on top of me but right now I think we need to talk.” He struggled to keep his voice even, but he shook with untold emotions. A near-death experience was never a good thing. She moved like the wind.

  She slid off his body and stood. When she offered her hand down to him, he ignored it and rose on his own. He knew she felt the slight but she did not say anything. When he regained his feet she said, “By the fire.”

  He went first, Kosse next, followed by an ever-watchful Faolan. He had taken a seat by the fire when she came out of her room. She wore a gown of bright colors like the hangings in the cabin. It was form-fitting and worn thin from so many washings. He groaned as he shifted in the chair to hide his arousal as he traded one pain for another.

  She walked toward him, heedless of how she affected him. He noticed her hair was down. It cascaded down her back and framed her face like a lover’s hands.

  “What was that all about?” His tone was firm—it was the tone he used to give orders and have them followed to the letter.

  “Sorry. Can I see to the wound?”

  “Later. Tell me now. What happened that you would react so strongly like that?”

  He was angry, and he knew she picked up on it. “I have always had a knife when I sleep, since we moved here. I am not used to having someone sleep in this cabin so when you touched me… Well, you were there, you know what I did.”

  “That is not an answer.”

  “Why did you come into my room?”

  “You were crying in your sleep. I thought to wake you from your nightmare.”

  “Thank you for that at least.” She rose and got a cloth to put on his neck. He sat completely still as she moved to be sandwiched between his thighs to administer to his wound. “I am sorry. It won’t happen again.”

  He gripped her hand and applied pressure until she raised her eyes to meet his gaze. “It was a nightmare. It may happen again. It is nothing to be ashamed of. Tell me what it was about.”

  Her eyes, which had been so full of remorse for what she had done, hardened. “No.” It wasn’t a ‘please ask again and I will tell you’ type no—it was a flat refusal. “I would ask for your forgiveness for my actions, but I will not speak of it. Not to anyone.”

  Lucien slid a glance to the wolf on the floor that watched him. His free hand tipped her face to his as he spoke in hushed tones. “I will forgive you. I do forgive you. I would ask for but a kiss in return.”

  “You don’t forgive someone and then ask them to give you something.” Ciara pulled away from him.

  He stood as well. His eyes were hooded as he stared at her. “I don’t ask because I gave you my forgiveness. I ask because I want to taste you.” His voice lowered. “I wish a kiss, Ciara. Nothing more. Just a kiss.”

  Lucien did not take his eyes off her. His body thrummed with need. He had to touch her. Taste the sweetness he knew she contained in her dusky rose lips. He wanted her to touch him of her own accord. He took a step toward her and heard a low growl.

  It was Faolan. Lucien stopped. He didn’t look at the wolf but kept his eyes solely on Ciara. “The kiss? I am asking. Will you kiss me? Your wolf will not let me closer to you. The choice is entirely yours, Ciara.”

  Ciara stepped toward him. When she was in front of him, he stood tall so as not to touch her. His hands clenched into fists to keep them from delving into her thick tresses that tantalized his senses with every movement she made. She looked up at him. He was too tall. “You are too tall.”

  “Kiss me.” His soft command pulsed through the air. She reached up and put her hand behind his head and tugged. He bent, but as soon as she paused he stopped moving.

  She pulled his head down so she could reach his mouth. When his lips were a breath away from hers she pressed them together. Briefly. It lasted only seconds. It was nothing more than a chaste kiss, but she did it on her own. It was a small victory in his eyes.

  Ciara released his head and stepped back. He straightened, never once breaking eye contact with her. He blinked and gave a small, secretive smile before he spoke. “Goodnight, princess.”

  Lucien sat back on his bed after she had disappeared into her room. His body was wound so tight that even if he went out into the cold he didn’t think it would cool his ardor for the embodiment of perfection that slept in the next room.

  * * * *

  When Lucien woke the next morning it was still dark. The fire blazed and there was the smell of food in the air. He looked for Kosse or Faolan. When he didn’t see either, he rose and dressed. He went to her room and saw Kosse asleep on the floor but there was no sign of Faolan or Ciara.

  Lucien muttered as he looked to the door. Her cloak was gone. The wind strained against the cabin and he shuddered to think of her out there. He pulled on the boots and coat to go to take care of his morning ablutions as Kosse followed in his wake. The chill took his breath away as he held on to the rope. He cursed the weather. This was why she had said she wouldn’t be going anywhere till spring. The weather turned with the drop of a hat.

  On the way back, he noticed Faolan was on the porch. The wolf entered in front of him and headed for the fire, Kosse trotting underneath his belly, protected from the precipitation that came down. As he closed the door behind him, he heard a voice say, “Don’t close the door.”

  He watched as Ciara stumbled into the cabin, covered in the snow and rain mix that was falling. He had to push against the door to shut it, the wind was so strong. Ciara had gone to stand by the fire as she stripped from her cloak.

  He removed his things and joined her by the fire. “Morning.”

  “Good morning, Wolf.” Ciara looked into his gaze and gave him a small nod. “I will have breakfast ready soon. Just give me a few seconds to warm up.”

  “Whenever. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  Was this him? A marquess who offered to help with the making of food? No one back home would believe it.

  “You could set the table. That, and get some water on for coffee. I am freezing.”

  Lucien did as she’d asked. He liked this feeling of comfort, closeness. When he had been in England, his family harbored the opinion that servants were nothing. That all they cared about was money. They were beneath his notice. As he set the table he realized this was what it must feel like to be part of a real family.

  Breakfast, a simple affair, still filled him up full. After, as Ciara cleaned up, Lucien went back to work on his plans.

  Chapter Ten

  “Ciara? How did the reputation of the bay get out? This place is very remote so how did people find out about him?”

  “Baltimore.”

  “Baltimore?”

  “Baltimore. He used to be a racehorse there. Someone stole him from the farm where he was kept and released him out here. None of those dandies from the city can get close to him. When he raced no horse could touch him. A legend in his time.”

  “How did he get here? Do you know who took him?” Lucien wondered what sort of troubles this would cause him.

  “I don’t know who took him. I never wanted to know. I suspect he fell in with a wild herd.”

  “When were you in Baltimore? I thought you said you lived here the whole time.” He grew cold at the thought that she had a man back east.

  “I did. I never said I lived there. I said that is where his name was made,” Ciara mumbled, deliberately obtuse.

  “Tell me the whole story. There are some
dark rumors surrounding that horse, are they true?”

  “The ones about him being a man killer? Aye. Those are true.”

  “How do you know so much about him?”

  “I was there when he was born. He was born out here and taken to Baltimore by a man who was determined to turn him into a racer after he had been seen running free across the plains. Once he started racing, his name became legendary for no horse could touch him. I am sure you know all that.” She stopped her sewing and took a deep breath, holding his gaze.

  “Anyway. His jockey was a mean bastard. He loved to saw on the reins and take a whip to him. During what turned out to be his final race, he was winning, but apparently not fast enough to suit the jockey. The jockey took his whip to him for no reason. Everyone agreed that there was no way any of the other horses would catch up to him.”

  Lucien could hear the disgust in her tone.

  “What happened next, or rather why, is really anyone’s guess. The jockey was thrown. Instead of running off, Colonial Star—that was the stallion’s name—charged him, trampled him to death under his hooves.” She fiddled with her hands.

  “Everyone knows that the track is no place for a killer, so they were going to kill him. That night someone stole him and took him away. I guess that even though he is a killer they figured that as long as he wasn’t there it was all right for him to still be alive.”

  Ciara looked at him with assuredness in her gaze that smacked hard. She knew what she talked about on a personal level. “He has been here, running free. I don’t know how you got sent in this direction to get him. I don’t want to know. Don’t get me wrong. With the right trainer he will be once again the legend he was before. I have known of only one horse that was faster than—” She broke off as if she had said too much.

  Lucien sat as he digested her information. It sounded like the perfect horse for his father. Mean. No problem for he handled being under a saddle, maybe it was just other horses that bothered him. He had been well-behaved on his ride, up until the other horse appeared, and of course the bear incident. But one can’t really hold that against a horse. What horse wouldn’t run from a bear?

  Then it hit him what she had said—one that was faster. Who was faster? In town they had mentioned the same thing. “Which horse was faster than he was? Tell me? If there is a horse that you say can beat him I could take him for my stable.”

  Whiskey eyes glinted with a hard vigilance he had not seen before. “No. You will not take him. I will not let you.”

  “Who is it?” He ignored her protest. His tone once again belonged to the haughty marquess who did not believe there were those who would dare disobey his command.

  “His sire. Nyama. The black.” Resignation tinged her voice.

  “Why are you so sure that he is faster? Maybe you are just saying that to get me to leave the bay.”

  In an instant a change came over her. She did not raise her voice but even an idiot could tell that she was beyond angry. Livid. Her words were sharp and had a hint of a brogue in them. “I am sure because I was there. I was riding the black when we beat his son. That is how I know. By all rights, the bay is mine. I agreed to the sale, for the sake of the town. Unlike you and your damn society, I don’t lie. I wouldn’t make a deal and then go back on it.

  “Besides, anyone who knows horses would know that while the son is fast, he is merely a combination of what his parents were. The black—his father, Nyama—was brought here from the Barbary Coast. He is nothing but speed and endurance. Combine that with the heartiness of the dam, a mustang, and you get the son. Nyama can beat his son any day of the week carrying me while his son carries none.

  “I know that most of the horses in England are of the Byerley Turk and such lines but they are more weakened lines than those of the Arabians which they date back to. The Barbs may not be as old as the Arab but they are still just as pure. Colonial Star is of mixed descent and he is not as fast, but the mare was not the best either. I may be a female, but I am an intelligent one. Don’t ever question my loyalties, my honor or my word again.”

  Lucien sat still as he stared at her. How come she knew so much about horses? He was not sure how to proceed and so he mistakenly did so in the arrogant way he would handle someone who tweaked his anger at home, with sarcasm and menace. He fixed her with the most autocratic look he had.

  “How did you get a horse that was from the Barbary Coast? Whose horse is it?”

  Ciara’s Irish overpowered her tenuous hold on her temper. She set down her sewing and rose from the chair. “Listen to me and listen well for I will say this to you only one more time. Nyama is mine. Given to me by my father and my mother. The day you take that horse from me will be the day that I draw my last breath. Are we clear on that? Nyama is mine. Mine.” She trembled she was so angry. Faolan had risen beside her and had leaned against her leg to offer quiet support while Kosse sat by Faolan, copying his seriousness. Lucien would have laughed at the kitten if the situation hadn’t been so precarious.

  Unrelenting, he continued to badger her. “Where did they get him? You said yourself that your mom was a slave and your father a poor Irish farmer. How would they be able to afford a bloody horse like that?” His tone was snide. He wanted answers and she swore he believed that she, this little person, an upstart colonial at that, wasn’t going to stand in his way. At least that was his thought.

  “Listen, you condescending bastard.” Venom dripped off each word. “You have no right to speak of my parents in that tone of voice. I never said my father was a poor farmer. I said he was a farmer. The fact that my mother was a slave holds no bearing on this whatsoever. I suppose that to most men of your station anyone with dark skin is considered to be inferior.

  “I mean even you have said as much. ‘Skin the color of rich cream and hair like golden wheat,’ those were your own words to me after you grabbed me—not that I look like that—and kissed me. My parents knew a love that went beyond skin color. The love they had was real. Something I am sure you know nothing about. But that is not what you wished to know, is it? Fine. I will tell you.

  “On the way here from Ireland they stopped off in Africa in Côte d’Ivoire. Don’t know why, for I wasn’t born. Anyway, that is where they got Nyama. They proceeded to land somewhere, maybe Baltimore, I am not sure. By the time I was born, they were out here. We went from Paradise Cove to Baltimore with Colonial Star but Mom and I came back out here while Dad stayed there.

  “One day he showed up here in Paradise Cove. He had a bunch of other people with him and that is when the town really began. There was an incident in town and he moved us out of there. We came to this spot and helped build this cabin. The trek always takes a couple days because he didn’t want anyone to know where we were.

  “Two people other than you know of the cabin’s location. They took that secret with them to their grave.” At the look on Lucien’s face, she continued on in a tone that was sharp enough to cut him but devoid of any emotional feeling in the words she was saying. “Not enough for you? What, would you like me to tell you how my parents died?

  “How I found them? My mother, cut, bleeding from having been raped and tortured. My father tied to a tree with his lids sewn open forcing him to watch as they raped and tortured my mother—the love of his life—before they finally killed her, releasing her from her pain? What more do you want me to tell you? Would you like to know what they did to my father, what they cut off of his body? More details for you? Or is that enough to satisfy your curiosity?

  “Nyama is mine. I agreed to sell his son. Don’t make me regret that decision any more than I already do.” Ciara still quivered with anger and sadness as she left the room to go lie on her bed, Faolan and Kosse with her. She curled up in a thick quilt, and as her body was racked by sobs, she cried herself to sleep.

  Lucien felt like he had been hit upside the head with a tree branch while he rode a horse at top speed. The wind had been knocked out of him and he tried without success to find hi
s bearings. The conversation was not supposed to take that kind of turn. She was just supposed to bend to his will like the others of his acquaintance. He was a marquess, he demanded respect.

  She was nothing like the people he knew. She was real. She didn’t put on airs, or try to be someone she wasn’t. She was Ciara. And he was the ass that made her cry. Not only that but he was the one that had made her relive the horror that happened to her parents.

  His head dropped into his palms as he sat in the empty room and groaned aloud. He’d messed this up. She would never trust him. All thoughts of seducing her vanished. It was not important to make her another one of his many conquests—all that was important was getting her to forgive him.

  Not being close to his parents, Lucien couldn’t even begin imagining what she’d felt when she had lost her parents. Now that he realized how she’d found them, it made his guilt even heavier. This was not something that could be fixed in his usual way, by buying some meaningless bauble for the offended party, because she wasn’t like that. Not to mention he had no way of buying her anything stuck up here on the mountain.

  And this high-handed way just cost someone more pain than he had ever wanted to deal with. Lucien did not remember saying anything to her about ‘skin the color of rich cream’ or ‘hair like golden wheat’ at any time. He had hurt people before—and not cared—but this was more. He had slandered the memory of her parents for no good reason.

  Even now he wished to know what had caused them to leave Paradise Cove and move out here. Was it connected to the ones who had killed her parents? Lucien realized he needed to protect her.

  She was right. She was different. Her skin was darker, and that only made her all the more beautiful to him. She was alive and not afraid to be outside, a place Lucien loved to be instead of in the city. She was so full of life, so unconventional and refreshing. It was like inhaling a breath of fresh air around her. Ciara loved life and it showed in everything she did.