Once a Princess

by Johanna Lindsey

  "With your blessing?"

  "Certainly," he said magnanimously. "I'll even make recommendations if you like."

  "Wait, let me guess. Your dear cousin?"

  Vasili shrugged. "For some reason I can't possibly fathom, he's not as adverse to you as he should be. Yes, you would do well to cultivate his interest, instead of his fury. He does, after all, carry a great deal of influence at court."

  A choking sound was heard from Sasha, who had been standing quietly through all this. Tanya couldn't believe she was even having this conver­sation.

  "Enough!" she said is the same commanding tone she'd heard Stefan use. Vasili's brows went up, hear­ing it. "I don't know why you think you have to continue this farce, but we both know you don't want me along, no matter the destination. So why did you stop me from leaving?"

  "Duty before preference, Princess," he replied simply. "You'll learn."

  "Like hell I will!"

  Again he shrugged, then motioned Sasha to pre­cede him out the door. But he paused there and gave Tanya a smile that was full of wicked humor.

  "Stefan's mistress is fond of telling one and all how he frequently takes his anger out on her whether she's to blame for it or not. The way she puts it, he pounds the hell out of her. You shouldn't have long to wait."

  How diabolically cruel of him to leave her with that parting shot to think about. But then Vasili had to be the most hateful man she'd ever met in her life. He was, amazingly, even more detestable than Dobbs, and that was saying a lot. At least Dobbs only beat her, then went about his business, not giv­ing the beating or her another thought. But Vasili was making a point of stinging her with his barbs at every single opportunity. And she was supposed to like the idea of marrying that jackassed peacock? They should have told her Lazar was king, or Stefan. Stefan . . .

  So he had a mistress, did he? What sort of woman would want to make love with that moody, dark devil? she wondered. You almost did, missy. You were so lost in that kiss you participated in, it could have been done and over with before you knew it even happened.

  She flamed crimson with the thought. Her only consolation was that at least this time no one was there to see her blush.

  Chapter 14

  The Lorilie was one of the larger riverboats that plied the Mississippi, double-decked, with a full-sized din­ing room, a separate gambling room, a small library, and well-appointed cabins. The one Tanya had been left in was medium-sized, certainly much bigger than the room she was used to sleeping in, and much, much nicer.

  The bed was covered with a flower-sprigged quilt, the table beside it with white lace. On the table sat a lovely stained-glass lamp, already lit when she had been brought inside, since there were no portals in the cabin. There was a thick-piled rug of Oriental design on the floor, and in a corner an ornate wash­stand painted white with gold leaf, with a fine por­celain bowl. Fluffy white towels monogrammed with an L for Lorilie were stacked underneath.

  There was a shelf built into one wall to set things on. And two trunks were stacked one on top of the other against another wall. To put things in? Or did they belong to one of the men? There was also a single well-padded armchair. Drawn up near the small table with the lamp, it would be an ideal place to sit and read. When had Tanya ever had time for such a luxury since Iris had taught her to read? All that she read now were the account books and the bills that came in.

  The door was solid wood, and of course locked. That was the first thing she found out, before looking over the cabin. She thought about banging on it, but that just might bring Stefan that much sooner, so she didn't.

  She sat in the chair now, feeling her apprehension mount as she waited. But she wasn't completely dis­couraged. So her second attempt to escape had failed just like her first. If she could walk—pounds the hell out of her?—when Stefan was done with her, then she would try again. Vasili's damned "duty before preference" had ruined the whole plan this time, but next time she wouldn't make any assumptions about any of them. She had probably even been wrong in thinking that the possibility of missing the boat would deter them from giving chase, since they had already put so much effort into her abduction.

  She still couldn't understand why they had chosen her—unless some brothel owner had hired them spe­cifically to find an exotic dancer. That would explain why they hadn't given up when she didn't believe their fairy-tale story, or when she started causing them difficulty. But still, all this trouble and expense just for one girl? Or were there more, already tucked away in other cabins, girls who had come willingly, believing the ridiculous tales they'd been told?

  She'd find out when the boat docked, wouldn't she? No, she couldn't wait that long to escape. The farther away they moved from Natchez, the harder it would be for her to get back.

  He pounds the hell out of her? she mused.

  She had fair warning before the storm arrived. "Not now, Sasha!" she heard just before the door opened and closed quietly behind Stefan.

  That soft entrance was deceiving, however. Tanya wished he'd slammed the door like before. The slam­ming of doors at least expended a little of one's anger. And looking at Stefan, she had no doubt at all about the state of his emotions. He was absolutely livid, eyes filled with that mesmerizing golden glow, jaw and fists clenched, scars whitened, more prominent, body taut with whatever restraint was being prac­ticed—not much, she'd wager.

  His boots, cravat, and jacket were gone. Someone had given him a towel, which he'd used on his face and hair, but it now hung around his neck, forgotten. His lawn shirt was clinging wetly, delineating every muscle across his chest and arms, pointing out that she had merely guessed at his strength before. Too tall, too lean and hard, too damn masculine, and much too angry.

  Against her will, Tanya dropped her eyes to his hands again, which looked like large iron mallets right now. Pounds? Pounds!!

  Panic rose suddenly and drained the color from her face. She shot to her feet and was behind the chair in seconds. But her movement set him in mo­tion, too. Restraint gone, obviously too angry even for words, for he said not a one, he closed the distance between them before she could even think to scream. And then she was so terrified at having her only barrier violently knocked aside, all that came out of her was a gasp, followed by a mere whimper as she was lifted and tossed through the air. But she landed with a soft bounce that told her the bed had caught her fall.

  No sooner did her relief register the fact that she hadn't been thrown through a wall than it felt as if one had dropped on top of her. Stefan—his body fully covering hers.

  Unprepared for the sudden weight of him, she had her breath knocked out of her, then stolen further as he took her mouth with fierce demand. It wasn't a punishing kiss, but it was too impassioned for her, an innocent, to appreciate. She was stunned, and did not understand. Why wasn't he pounding her to dust with his huge fists?

  And then she knew, instinctively, that it wasn't his fists he was going to pound her with, but his body. Relieved laughter bubbled up in her, but it never got past their joined lips. And the urge to laugh was gone as quickly as it had come. There was no playfulness to this kiss, no sensual exploring, no sense that she could end it if she tried. He was dead serious about what he was doing. He was actually going to make love to her—in anger.

  She began to fight him with everything she had. Weighted down as she was, it wasn't much. But he didn't seem to feel anything, not her punches, not her yanking on his hair, certainly not the little bit of pushing she managed. He continued kissing her, tak­ing full possession of her mouth, his breath becoming her breath, his taste her taste. It was draining, de­bilitating, but stirring, too. All the emotional energy she'd expended in her struggle left her wide open to his passionate onslaught.

  But she was afraid. She had avoided this kind of contact with a man for so many years, and had done everything possible to make herself undesirable to men. Yet this one wanted her despite her looks and was going to take her despite her wishes. She wasn't even sur
e he knew exactly what he was doing. That was what frightened her the most. He was too pas­sionate, too out of control in his fury. He didn't even seem to be aware of her resistance.

  And he was so hot! Instead of a cold clamminess from his dunking, heat emanated from him in waves, soaking through her own clothes like wet steam. It made the barrier of their shirts seem like nothing between them . . . Lord help her, she was starting to feel things other than fear.

  It was the first downward thrust of the huge paddle wheels, setting The Lorilie to motion, that was jarring enough to draw Stefan's attention away from her. Suddenly Tanya's mouth was hers again, free to let her scream and rail. But she didn't make a sound, for he was staring down at her, his eyes still aglow, his expression so intense she even feared to breathe, afraid it might disturb his tenuous control. But control of what? She couldn't tell which emotion he was still in the grip of, which passion he was restraining, the desire to take her or the urge to beat her.

  And then he turned his head slightly to look at his hand, which held her hair in a tight fist, then his other hand, holding her wrist tightly. Instantly he released her hand as if it had suddenly become hot enough to burn him. He reared up on one arm at the same time.

  "Go!" Stefan commanded. "Get away from me before. . ."

  She needed no more urging and was grateful he didn't elaborate, for she simply didn't want to know what came after "before." However, he wasn't ex­actly making it easy for her to flee him, still half covering her body as he was, and making no effort to move. But she managed to pull herself out from under him, all but her now sodden skirt, which took some tugging. The moment it gave, she rolled to the side of the bed—about one second too late.

  "No, by God!" she heard behind her as his hand caught her trailing skirt to jerk her to a halt. "You'll at least have what you deserve."

  She took that to mean only one thing. She'd re­ceived a reprieve from his angry lovemaking, but not from the beating she'd been expecting. At the mo­ment, she wished he hadn't come to his senses.

  She wouldn't beg, however. Begging had never stopped Dobbs. But she wouldn't just accept this punishment either. She couldn't. She had to be hale and hearty to get off this boat, not broken and bed­ridden.

  As he moved to the side of the bed, she had the leeway to get off it. Her feet were on the floor, but her skirt wasn't giving, and neither was his grip on it. She tried to twist loose, but turning around she saw how determined he was—and still so very angry. Lord help her, he was going to hurt her.

  Instinctively she reached for the knife on her hip, but before she gave her intention away, she recalled that it was no longer there. But she had another one in her boot. Not as long-bladed and impressive, but it would still serve her purpose, which was just to hold Stefan off until he could be reasoned with. But as she bent for it, she saw his hand come up.

  She reared back reflexively, raising her arms to block her face from the coming blow. It didn't come. He caught one of her arms instead to pull her over his lap into a position that was self-explanatory.

  Tanya's eyes flared wide. Oh, for God's sake, he wasn't actually going to spank her, was he? Unbe­lievable. Was that all she'd had to worry about? But she was forgetting the raising of her skirt, which he did with swift efficiency. No, even that didn't matter now, not after what Vasili had led her to anticipate. She'd been fearing the worst, and this spanking was nothing in comparison.

  She felt like laughing, her relief was so great, but all she did was smile, wince slightly when the first smack came, then smile again. Resisting the urge to tense her muscles, she relaxed to lessen the sting, and busied herself thinking about how she'd like to torture Vasili very slowly for the anxiety he had de­liberately put her through. Her seat got hot, then quickly numb—Stefan took this business seriously and no doubt wouldn't finish until he'd got some of the anger out of his system. Better a spanking than his other means for expending it, though. Imagine anger making him want to make love. What kind of habit was that for a man to get into?

  Chapter 15

  Stefan's hand felt engulfed by flames. He couldn't begin to imagine what the girl's backside felt like. And yet not a single sound had he heard from her. Her tears had to be silent ones. He wished it were otherwise, for he couldn't bear the sound of a woman crying. He would have stopped sooner . . .

  He resisted the urge to gather her in his arms and comfort her. He was not to blame. She had been warned. Her present behavior could not be allowed to continue. She had to be made to understand that it was her duty to return to Cardinia, that she mustn't try to avoid it again.

  But the method he had chosen to instill this lesson had been too harsh. He could see that now. Her backside was cherry bright. But as usual, he was careless in his anger and sorry too late. That didn't relieve her pain. It merely made him ache with regret that he couldn't even reveal, or the lesson would lose its effect . . . To hell with that.

  Stefan carefully turned her over and drew her up against his chest, tucking her head beneath his chin and holding her tenderly. Still she made no sound. But she didn't reject his offer of comfort either. She just sat there with her head bowed, her hands in her lap, and let him soothe her.

  Stefan held back a sigh. She confused him more than ever, this girl. From the moment he first saw her, she had stirred up powerful emotions in him. And each time thereafter it was the same. Lust, shame, fury, frustration—and possessiveness from the moment he was certain who she was. And right now confusion, remorse, and tenderness were tearing him up inside.

  He had never intentionally hurt a woman before. What had made him think he could do so now with indifference? He knew from experience what kind of guilt the tiniest bruise would cost him, yet he had inflicted more than that on this delicate girl. How much worse could it have been if he had made love to her instead? That, at least, she was accustomed to. But it would have served no purpose other than to rid him of his anger. He still would have had her attempted defection to deal with.

  Clearly, he didn't know how to deal with her. She was a royal princess, yet she wouldn't believe it. He would prefer to treat her as such, but she wouldn't let him. And when she finally cleaned herself up, he was afraid she was going to be as beautiful as her mother had been. Yet she didn't want to reveal her true self, even though they had already guessed the truth. And quite frankly, he was dreading the moment when she would reveal her beauty.

  He had wanted her in all her unremarkable plainness. Beauty was for single instances of pleasure and no more. Beauty wouldn't return affection. But for some reason he had thought that this plain-looking girl could, possibly because she didn't seem to notice his scars when she looked at him. But she wasn't plain. He didn't know what she was, or why she hid it, but it wasn't going to be unremarkable, of that he was sure. And just because beautiful women no longer found him desirable didn't mean he wasn't attracted to them. He still wanted this girl—and was bound to suffer for it.

  The situation was hopeless, no matter how he looked at it. Maybe he should just let her go as she wanted.

  His arms tightened around her, his whole being rejecting that thought. This caused her to move finally, squirming in protest at the strength he was applying. He immediately loosened his hold, his hands soothing her again, caressing her back, her hair, her cheek—which was dry

  Stefan frowned and tilted her chin up. "Where are your tears?"

  "What tears?"

  "The ones that should have left gray streaks along your cheeks."

  "Oh, those tears," she said with a shrug. "I wiped them off."

  "Liar."

  "Well, that makes two of us, doesn't it? No, don't start scowling at me again. You want tears, get a stick. On second thought, that probably won't do it either. My tears dried up years ago when I figured out that Dobbs liked the sound of them."

  "What has that to do with—"

  Her laughter cut him off. "You seem to forget where you found me, Stefan. I'm not saying my life with Dobbs was all hardship and
misery. It wasn't. But my defiant nature did bring frequent beatings. That tends to harden the soul, as well as the flesh."

  He paid less attention to what she was saying than he did to what it meant. She hadn't cried. It was doubtful that he had even hurt her a little bit.

  He asked her as much. "Did that spanking even hurt you?"

  "Certainly." His eyes narrowed, so she added, "Well, not much."

  He stood up so fast, she was dumped on the floor. "Of all the . . . what I went through . . . damned impudent wench! So your skin is as tough as hide, is it?"

  "Are you going to get a stick now?"

  "No."

  "Then what are you ranting about? I got your point. You don't think I want to go through that again, do you?"

  "Why not?" he replied with dripping sarcasm. "You didn't feel it."

  "I felt it," she grumbled as she picked herself up off the floor, starting to rub her backside, then thinking better of it. "It just wasn't as disabling as what I'm accustomed to."

  Stefan stiffened, the rest of what she had said clarifying in his mind. "Jesus, he beat you?" She blinked at him as if she didn't understand the question, so he rephrased it. "Did Mr. Dobbs beat you, Tatiana?"

  "I thought I already said as much. I also told you I don't like that name."

  "Devil take the name!" he snapped irritably. "How did Dobbs beat you?"

  "Now, what difference does that make? A stick, a hand, the intention is the same—to hurt me."

  There was a wealth of bitterness in that statement that Stefan understood very well. Bitterness was his own constant companion.

  "I'm sorry for adding more unpleasantness to your life, Tanya. It was not my intention to hurt you—"

  "You could have fooled me," she snorted.

  "—merely to impress upon you not to try to leave us again."

  "So consider me impressed."

  She wouldn't even allow him to assuage his conscience with an apology. Just as well. He didn't want to forget what his temper had wrought this time. If she had not learned a lesson, hopefully he had.