The Prince's Bride

by Julianne MacLean

  “Just my shoes, nothing more?” she asked.

  “Nothing more.” He knelt down on one knee before her.

  Resting a hand on his shoulder to keep her balance, she lifted one foot and allowed him to slide his fingers up under her skirts and cup her calf while he slowly, gently removed her silk shoe and set it aside.

  He looked up at her with a teasing smile as he took hold of her other ankle and she shifted her weight to the other leg. He removed the second shoe, then stroked the arch of her foot briefly before rising to his full height and pressing his lips to hers again in a light, intoxicating kiss that set her world on fire.

  It all happened as if in a dream. He eased her onto the soft bed and covered her body with his own, while leaving a trail of romantic, openmouthed kisses down the side of her neck.

  Throwing her head back on the pillow, she hugged him against her and wrapped her legs around his firm, muscular hips.

  He began to thrust in a gentle but steady rhythm. If it were not for the barrier of their clothing, she was not sure what would be happening. All she knew was that it felt natural and irresistible to move her body beneath him and cling to him, as if he held her whole life in his hands.

  He was going to give her back her home. He was nothing like d’Entremont. Nothing. And she did trust him to keep his promise tonight.

  But no matter how tightly she held him, she could not seem to get close enough. He, too, embraced her with an almost suffocating fervor until he drew back and gazed down at her in the warm, golden firelight.

  “I cannot believe how badly I want you,” he said, frowning with confusion. “You’re different from other women.”

  “Different? How?”

  Was it her innocence? Her virginity? Or was it the fact that she had been his captor and his enemy?

  “I’m not sure,” he whispered. “You feel out of reach.”

  “I am right here,” she replied, laying a hand on his cheek.

  “But what I want from you, I cannot have.”

  Véronique lay very still. “Because of the promise you just made?”

  “Partly.”

  It was sexual, then. He wanted to slake his lust, but she was not one of his easy lovers.

  “Well, there is nothing to be done about that,” she said, “for I do not wish to change my mind.”

  “I didn’t think you would,” he said, “which perhaps is what makes me so ravenous.”

  “You want what you cannot have.”

  He nodded.

  Véronique lifted her head off the pillow and kissed him again, slow and deep. “Are you sure it’s not because Pierre interrupted your supper?”

  He stared at her, then began to laugh and rolled to his side.

  She, too, rolled over, straddled him, and braced his wrists together over his head. “Now I have you pinned to the bed, Your Highness.” There was a hint of bitterness in her tone, for she had not forgotten what occurred in this room when she first unlocked his door.

  “You’re still angry about our tussle,” he said. “How, pray tell, do you intend to punish me?”

  Véronique was breathing heavily. “Is that what this is about? An hour of revenge for both of us? Then you will pay me what you owe me, and we will never think of each other again?”

  His eyes raked over her face and breasts. “I doubt I will ever forget you.”

  Still gripping his wrists, she tilted her head to the side. “I cannot imagine I will ever forget you either, Nicholas, or what has happened between us over the past few days.”

  Suddenly overwhelmed by a fierce desire that astonished her with its intensity, she leaned forward and kissed him hard on the mouth, her body ablaze with a shocking, tumultuous lust.

  Véronique released his wrists and let out a gasp when his arms circled her waist and he flipped her over onto her back.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Nicholas stared down at Véronique and cursed himself for making that promise to her—for he wanted to do whatever it took to force her into a complete sexual surrender.

  The desire was out of control, and he was bewildered by the ferocity of it, for he did not normally crave innocent young virgins. In fact, he avoided them like the plague … but there was something very unique about this luscious, golden-haired lady. He could not explain it. All he could do was press his mouth to hers again, and again, in the thick heat of the night.

  He made love to her for at least an hour, maybe more—but it wasn’t really lovemaking by definition, for he never raised her skirts or unfastened his breeches. Nevertheless, it was as passionate and sweaty as any full-blown fornication. Their bodies were locked together, intimately entwined in an amorous fever, thrusting violently. He stroked and kissed her breasts through the light fabric of her gown and ran his hands up and down her legs. It was enough to drive him mad with a lust that threatened to scar him forever.

  At the end of the hour, he could no longer endure the torment, and it appeared that neither could she, for she began to recklessly hoist up her skirts until they were tangled about her waist. Then she began to tug at the fastenings of his trousers.

  At last …

  He braced himself above her on both arms, refusing to contribute to this forbidden turn of events, but not putting a stop to it either, as he looked down at her frantic, fumbling fingers.

  When she tugged his breeches down over his hips and released his erection, he let out a breath of relief and dropped down onto one arm.

  Her open mouth roughly collided with his and he could have swallowed her whole.

  He tugged her skirts out of the way until their centers connected. He had promised he would not take it this far, but he was already thrusting his hips and pushing against her fragile maidenhead, while his body pulsated with painful, staggering need.

  He couldn’t think, couldn’t find any more strength to resist, until he realized Véronique’s eyes were open and her hands were pressing against his chest. It was a sobering moment, like a splash of cold water in the face, and he drew back instantly from the enticing wet heat of her virginity.

  “You want to stop,” he said shakily.

  “I’m so sorry,” she replied. “I don’t know what came over me, but I cannot do this.”

  He paused to gain control over the abrupt routing of his desires. “Do not apologize.”

  Then he reached down and quickly pulled his breeches up as he rolled off her. Lying on his back, he fought to catch his breath.

  She tugged her skirts down over her knees and covered her face with both hands, as if ashamed.

  “You did nothing wrong,” he said.

  “I could have. I came very close, but I cannot be that sort of woman. My family has lost everything, and now that we are so close to regaining our dignity, I cannot disgrace them in this way. What if you and I conceived a child?”

  He was always very careful about those things, but tonight had been unbridled and risky in every way.

  Véronique looked apologetically into his eyes. “There are still things you do not know, Nicholas, things about my sister. I cannot repeat her mistakes.”

  He sat up and contemplated her words. “What are you saying? That Gabrielle has borne a man’s child?”

  Véronique’s eyes were wet as she looked away to stare distantly toward the window. “She has not borne the child yet … but she will.”

  Nicholas laid a hand on hers, forcing her to look at him again. “Why did you not tell me this before?”

  “I only just learned of it myself.”

  “Who is the man?” he asked. “Tell me his name. If it is Pierre, I swear, there will be hell to pay.”

  “No,” she replied, sliding off the bed and rising to her feet. “It is not Pierre.” She went to pour herself another glass of wine and raised it to her lips. Then she turned to face Nicholas as he, too, rose from the bed and began to retie his cravat.

  “Do you remember when we were in the coach together,” she said, “and I told you that I had a sister who
was in love with a young man, but he could not marry her, because his father did not approve of the match?”

  “Yes.”

  She sighed. “His name is Robert. They have been sweethearts since she was fifteen, and they have been waiting a long time to marry. I believe he genuinely loves her, but since our father’s disgrace—and with the loss of our property—Robert’s father has threatened to disinherit him if he does not break their engagement.”

  Nicholas finished buttoning his waistcoat. “He cannot do that, not if there was a previous agreement between them, and certainly not if he had already claimed his husbandly rights.”

  “His father can do whatever he pleases,” she said. “He is a wealthy viscount and Robert is his only male heir, and we have no power. It was an unlikely match to begin with, for we are not aristocrats and the viscount is ambitious. Robert is not like that,” she added. “He is kindhearted and fair-minded. I do not believe he intended to put Gabrielle at such risk, but they are young and very much in love. I am quite sure he has not yet given up the possibility of marrying her, somehow.”

  “Does he know of the child she carries?”

  “Not yet, and I cannot predict what Robert or Gabrielle will do. There is a great deal of money and property at stake. She does not want to be the cause of his downfall. I am sure he will take care of her, but it may not be a respectable situation.” Véronique drained the rest of the wine from her glass and set it down. “So you see, I cannot allow the same thing to happen to me. I must be strong for my sister. She may need my help in the coming months. And years.”

  Nicholas felt rather flustered suddenly. It was a thorny situation to be sure, and now he understood her reservations about giving in to their passions just now, for she had the wisdom and experience to understand that sex—no matter how pleasurable—could be an extremely dangerous undertaking for an unmarried woman.

  His mouth went dry, so he poured himself a glass of wine and took a sip, swallowing heavily while his concern for Véronique’s welfare struck him like a punch in the stomach.

  The sound of the clock ticking on the wall seemed thunderous in the silence of the room as he stared at her, wanting desperately to take her into his arms and promise that everything was going to be all right, that he would take care of her and make all her problems disappear.

  He was going to return the property to her father. That had already been decided. But what about Gabrielle?

  Véronique gazed at him with searching eyes. “Was it a full hour?” she asked. “Did I fulfill my obligation? Will that satisfy you?”

  He could have sprayed his wine onto the floor. First of all, her question made him feel like a heel. And no, he was not satisfied. Far from it. She had left him throbbing and aching for more of her unfathomable sexual torture.

  “Yes, it was a full hour,” he said nevertheless, “and you may rest assured that in the morning, the deed to your father’s property will be in your hands.”

  Her eyes filled with tears. “Thank you, Nicholas. I am so relieved. This will help us tremendously. Perhaps there is still hope for Gabrielle’s marriage to Robert if we can become respectable again.”

  Her tousled hair was shimmering in the firelight. The flesh of her cheeks glowed like morning dew. Nicholas watched her shift uneasily on the spot, as if she wanted to leave his chamber now before any further licentious behavior could occur … for there was a definite note of danger and temptation in the air.

  He should let it go at this, allow her to walk out with a feeling of satisfaction and accomplishment, for she had achieved her goal, but something deep inside him could not allow that.

  He wanted her with an urgency that shattered his understanding of himself as a man. He had never deemed to care about a lover’s happiness beyond the pleasure of their sexual encounters. He prided himself upon satisfying his lovers in bed, but this was something else. He could not bear to think of Véronique’s sorrow after she left here. He did not want her to feel ashamed of her desire for him, nor did he want her to spend another moment worrying about her sister. He wanted sunshine and happiness for Véronique, every day for the rest of her life. He wanted to provide for her in every possible manner, and offer whatever it took to bring her to the heights of ecstasy in his arms, without shame or inhibition.

  His gaze came to rest feverishly on the soft pink heaving flesh of her bosom.

  Then their eyes met.

  She was distraught. He could see that she wanted to stay. She was still impassioned from their close brush with intercourse—which could very well have resulted in a pregnancy—and she feared the consequences.

  “I must go,” she quickly said, her cheeks flushed, her delicate eyebrows pulling together in dismay, as if she were nearly terror-struck.

  “No, please…” He reached out to take hold of her arm, but she slipped from his grasp and hurried to the door.

  Her hand wrapped around the knob and she pulled it open, but he crossed the room in a flash and shoved the door closed. Hard.

  “Don’t go,” he whispered in her ear, his boot braced against the bottom of the door while the front of his body pressed up against the soft back of hers.

  It was excruciating. He could smell the clean fragrance of her hair … feel its silken texture upon his lips.

  Astounded by the blazing heat of his desires, he ran his fingers lightly over her nape and squeezed her shoulder. Her body shivered.

  “Marry me,” he said.

  Good God. The words were out before he could pause to consider the lifelong ramifications of such a request, and what it would mean for his freedom. He had always lived for pleasure and could commit to nothing. He had never been faithful to one woman, nor did he ever imagine he would want to be. Nothing, however—no other woman from his past or present—existed for him in this moment, except for the delicious French creature before him, who was in need of a champion.

  He wanted overwhelmingly to rescue her.

  To possess her.

  To conquer her.

  Ah, God … She smelled of roses and made him feel light-headed. Inebriated. He brushed his nose down the back of her neck.

  Slowly she turned to face him. He pinned her tightly up against the door as his hand stroked over her shoulder and settled upon her full breast.

  “What did you say?” She looked up at him with those giant, shrewd green eyes, almost daring him to repeat it.

  “I asked you to marry me,” he replied.

  She took a deep breath—which caused her breast to fill his whole hand—and wet her lips. “It wasn’t a question if I recall,” she said, “but rather a very arrogant command.”

  His body filled with a need that felt heavier than lead. “Does it matter whether it was a question or a command? All you have to do is answer yes.”

  “But I do not believe you are truly asking,” she said. “This is something else. You are just trying to entice me into staying.”

  He couldn’t resist a devilish grin at the notion of spending the night with her. “Is it working? I hope so,” he added, “because I would most certainly enjoy your company if you were so inclined.”

  “If I did stay,” she replied, “would there be a marriage proposal in the morning? I think not.”

  He kissed her lightly on the cheek. Then he kissed her nose, eyelids, and forehead. “I suppose you think I propose to all the ladies who try to flee from my bed, before I’ve had a chance to pleasure them senseless?”

  She made a sound that resembled a hiccup, and he smiled. “Have I shocked you, Véronique? Or did I tempt you?”

  “Both,” she replied, letting her eyes fall closed as he laid a trail of kisses across her neck. “I fear you are trying to seduce me.”

  “Obviously, that is the case.”

  They were both breathing hard as he ran his hands down the voluptuous curve of her hips.

  Her eyes clouded over with desire as she gazed up at him. “This is madness.”

  “Without a doubt. But you must stay fo
cused, darling, and answer the question.”

  “So it was a question, then?”

  “If you insist.” He dropped to one knee, slid his hands up under her skirts, and stroked her calves, her soft knees, and the inside of her luscious warm thighs. He wanted to go higher but refrained—at least for the moment.

  “Will you marry me, Véronique?” he asked. “Be my wife and lover, and let me be husband and lover to you. I vow that I will set everything to rights in your life. Especially in bed.”

  He ran his thumbs across her knees.

  “But you are a prince,” she argued. “I am your kidnapper, and a nobody. Surely your brother, the king, will wonder what folly came over you if you take me as your wife. I cannot possibly accept.”

  “Yes, you can, because you want to. Face it—you need me, Véronique, and you want to love me.”

  There it was—the word he never imagined he would ever say aloud to any woman.

  Love.

  But this wasn’t love. He didn’t know what it was, outside of something that resembled a drunken madness, surely brought on by rage, lust, and captivity.

  She was right. He had lost his mind. But it was a delicious madness, and he wanted more of it. More of her—his fascinating captor, who affected him like no other woman ever had.

  To his surprise, she urged him to his feet, rested her forehead on his chest, and placed her hands on his shoulders. “I am not sure I can believe this is happening,” she said, her voice shaky and tremulous in the quiet of the room.

  “Trust me, it is,” he assured her as he lifted her chin with his finger to force her to look up at him. “I cannot explain it, but I feel a strong need to have you in my life. I cannot imagine leaving here and returning to Petersbourg without you, or abandoning you to any sort of peril. I want to help you, and I want to make love to you until you are ripped apart by pleasure and weeping with rapture beneath me.”

  Out of all that, she seemed to hear only one thing: “So we would return to Petersbourg? You would not stay here at d’Entremont Manor?”