Those intense gray eyes, so often veiled and wary, were now openly warm and smiling. He must have recently shaved, for his face looked deliciously smooth, glowing with a combination of good health and the golden tan acquired from spending long days outside beneath the sun.
Moving lower, Miriam’s gaze came to rest upon his mouth. Her stomach fluttered wildly. How well she recalled the caress of those lips. How many nights had she tormented herself by reliving the bliss of kissing him. The taste of him…
She sighed wistfully. That lower lip of his was looking particularly tempting tonight, full and sensual, just ripe for sucking… or biting.
Anselm sent her a knowing wink and raised his goblet in silent salute, his mouth curving into a heart-stopping smile, one that left Miriam even hotter and more flustered than ever.
He looked like a bloody courtier, sitting there so well groomed and primped to perfection—and she certainly didn’t need any more of those simpering creatures in her life. Or in her bed, for that matter
She wanted someone quite different. Someone wild and untamed. A man she could respect. A man who would never allow her to ride rough-shod over him, her royal status be damned.
Her heart already knew who it wanted—had known it for a very long time—and she was looking right at him.
Anselm. Her Northman.
Miriam sucked in her lower lip, battling to resist a sudden overwhelming urge to go over to where he sat, to force her way onto his lap and to kiss him senseless in front of all the great and the good of Stanrocc.
Her fingers itched to muss up that perfect golden hair, to restore it to its usual glorious disorder. One thing was for certain, Anselm wouldn’t be half so neat and tidy by the time she’d finished with him… and neither would she.
As if he could hear her thoughts, Anselm’s smile broadened. A combination of warmth, teasing, tenderness, and something more besides. The way he was looking at her now was positively laden with promise. A delicious, wicked, promise of how he would—
“Princess!” Lord Bertram’s hand touching her arm shocked Miriam from her love-struck stupor more effectively than a slap, such was her shock. Never had a touch been so unwelcome. “Do you actually know that… person over there?” The irate lord jerked his head in Anselm’s direction. “His blatant admiration is becoming quite unseemly. Perhaps I should have one of the guards eject the insolent dog—”
“You’ll do no such thing!” Miriam snapped, rounding on Lord Bertram. “Sir Anselm is a great friend of my family, especially to Catherine and me. We both owe him our very lives, so I would advise you to speak of him with a little more respect in future, m’lord.”
“Oh, so that was him, was it? I had no idea.” In an instant, Bertram’s mood changed from outrage to fawning submission. “It was an honest mistake. Pray, forgive me, my dear.”
“No. Not until I’m quite certain you understand, m’lord. Every person seated before you in this mighty hall tonight is important to my family in some way or another. Every single guest was carefully selected. Each of those faces down there represents a deed of past loyalty, kindness, or friendship to my family.”
Miriam took a quick breath to steady herself, for her voice had become rather too impassioned and she was beginning to draw one or two curious glances. “To some of our guests, though—such as Sir Anselm and his friends—we owe them an even greater debt, one that can never be repaid.”
Lord Bertram nodded thoughtfully. “I see.”
Miriam regarded him coldly. “Do you?” Never had she disliked him more than at that moment. “So you understand why I found your remark so offensive?”
Instead of directly answering, Lord Bertram propped his elbow on the table and rested his chins on his hand, subjecting Miriam to his oiliest smile. “So we’re all important to you, are we?”
Vile man. How did he manage to infuse such lechery into those few innocent words? Trust him to try and turn the tide to his advantage.
“As your father’s representative? Yes, Lord Bertram, even you,.” Rising smoothly from her seat, Miriam regarded her escort with all of her regal disdain. “Now if you’ll excuse me…” Without another word, she walked away.
She had to leave. At once. It was either that or make a scene by punching Lord Bertram on his silly bulbous nose. At Miriam’s approach, the guards quietly opened the doors, too well trained to display any surprise at their princess’s sudden retreat from the feast.
When the doors had closed quietly behind her, muffling the sound of merrymaking, Miriam glanced about to make sure there was no one around and, having assured herself that she was quite alone, she hitched up her skirts and ran.
Spurred on by the need to escape, she sprinted down the labyrinthine maze of corridors, wishing she could lose herself. But the smooth soles of her slippers were ill-designed for such exertion, and as she turned a corner Miriam’s feet skidded wildly upon the highly polished marble like skates on ice, almost propelling her into the opposite wall.
Cursing beneath her breath, she continued along the portrait gallery. The stern faces of long-dead ancestors looked down at her from their lofty heights, regarding Miriam’s progress with frank disapproval, but still she didn’t slow her pace. Like a panicked deer, she kept going. On and on until she could not breathe and her poor heart threatened to burst.
At last, her strength was spent.
Gasping for air she leaned against a pillar and rested her fevered forehead upon the cold, unyielding stone. She ought to return to the feast. But she couldn’t. Not yet.
Her current discomposure couldn’t all be blamed on Lord Bertram’s odious company. The man might be a boor and fool, but usually, she could handle his kind well enough. Indeed, he held no real power over her.
Not like Anselm.
Seeing him again had fractured her carefully erected shield of control.
Ever since the day he’d ridden away from Stanrocc, Miriam had striven to conceal her true feelings, burying her sorrow deep down in a secret place where no one would ever see it. Retreating behind a mental wall of logic and reason, she had somehow prevented her brittle heart from shattering into a thousand painful shards.
It hadn’t been easy, but over time the desperate yearning for Anselm had gradually eased. The searing flames of passion he had ignited were finally smothered into just a few glowing embers. Safe and secure within her inner armor, Miriam had drifted through the countless days, unfeeling as any marble sculpture.
Until now. Until Anselm’s return.
With just a glance he’d smashed through her defenses, powering his way back inside her heart with disturbing ease. In a mere instant, the fire’s of her heart were ablaze, the dark shadows banished. All of the tender feelings she’d ever tried to hide had suddenly come bursting forth in a wild rush of emotion, almost too powerful to bear.
Little wonder she had run away from the feast.
But surely the worst was over now that the shock of their first encounter had eased? Yes. She simply needed a little time to compose herself, time to re-embrace the calm that had kept her grounded during his long absence.
Closing her eyes, Miriam took a deep shuddering breath and then slowly exhaled, attempting to slow her mind with quiet reflection. Unfortunately, her mind stubbornly refused to cooperate. Instead, it presented her with a perfect image of her dear one’s face; a picture as clear as any of those frowning portraits back in the gallery.
Nothing had really changed, though. Anselm was still beyond her reach. But her foolish heart was in no mood to be reasonable, not now it had sensed his presence again. Indeed, her very blood sang in her veins, so joyful in the knowledge that, at long last, he was near.
Smiling like the besotted fool she was, Miriam hugged the marble pillar and surrendered to the delight of allowing herself to think of her love. How well he looked tonight. So alive, so vital, and more handsome than ever,
if such a thing were even possible.
But what of his dining companion? Miriam frowned, quite unable to remember—for she had not looked beyond his face. Had Anselm brought someone special to the feast?
What if she’d been deceived by his smiles? What if someone else had taken her place within his heart? What if… he’d replaced her?
No. That could not be. Were they not two halves of the same whole? No one else would ever fit, not for either of them. Whatever trials the upcoming days contained, the joy of Anselm’s presence would sustain her.
How could she be morose when he was here? More importantly, why was she wasting time hiding herself away when she might be feasting her eyes on him?
Hurriedly smoothing her skirt and hair into order, Miriam returned to the feasting hall. The queen turned to look at her as she passed by, kindness glowing in her eyes.
“Is everything well, dearest? You seemed to depart rather suddenly. I hope Lord Bertram has not—?”
“Oh no, m’lady. Nothing of the sort,” Miriam assured her. Such was her inner happiness, she even felt charitable toward Lord Bertram. “It seems the fish course didn’t agree with me, that is all.”
“Hmm.” Her sister-in-law didn’t appear wholly convinced but, thankfully, she let the matter drop. “Then, I shall detain you no longer. Return to your escort and see if you can smooth his ruffled feathers. The poor fellow has been twitching horribly in your absence.”
From his place down the hall, Anselm watched as Miriam gracefully resumed her seat, smiling sweetly at the bastard who had the good fortune to be seated beside her.
How lovely she was. The long months of separation had done nothing to blunt his affection. If anything, his love had increased tenfold. Far too much love for one mortal heart to comfortably contain.
The servants arrived with the next course, but Anselm gave up the pretense of eating and waved them away. What need had he for mere food? The hunger afflicting him was of a very different kind, and it would not be easily satisfied. Instead, he sipped at his wine without really tasting it and gazed at the woman he loved.
“You’re staring again,” Aunt Lulu commented in that peculiar sing-song way of hers, leaning across the table to speak to him. “The king and queen are beginning to take
notice. Time to look away, Hansel.”
It took all the strength he had to do as Lulu bade him.
“There now,” she said brightly. “That’s better. You don’t want all the world to know your secret, do you?”
Didn’t he?
Perhaps it was the influence of the wine, but telling the world he loved Princess Miriam suddenly seemed like an extraordinarily good idea. The boundaries keeping them apart seemed less well defined tonight. Positively blurry, in fact. Yes, it most definitely had something to do with the amount of fine wine he’d been pouring down his gullet.
As if reading his thoughts, Lulu thrust a hunk of finely milled white bread into his hand. “Eat this,” she said. “All of it, now.”
Anselm obeyed. He didn’t even object when she exchanged his goblet for hers.
“What’s this?” he asked, sniffing suspiciously at the contents.
“Water,” she replied. “Ooh, I saw that. Now don’t you be giving me any of those black looks, young man. This is for your own good, remember? Unless, of course, you want to look like a drunken feckin eejit in front of your lady love.”
Well, when she put it like that! “Thank you. A drink of water would be most welcome.”
Nothing had changed. Not really. Miriam was still well out of his reach and she always would be. Wishing for the moon and stars was all well and good, but it didn’t mean he’d ever have them for his own.
No. He must be grateful for these few precious days, for the opportunity to engrave his dear one’s likeness deeper into the flesh of his heart. It would be a great comfort to him in all the lonely years ahead.
So Anselm ate the bread and drank the water. He even managed to pay decent attention to his fellow dining companions.
If he truly loved Miriam he had to let her go. He must allow her to live the life she’d been born into, without complaint. There was no use constantly wishing for the unattainable. He had to move on and allow Miriam the same courtesy.
And if that meant accepting that fawning bastard at Miriam’s side as her future husband then, as much as it would pain him, Anselm would endeavor to do so.
“Ooh. More acrobats!” Lulu cried, clapping with glee. “I haven’t seen any proper ones since I was a girl when the circus came to town.”
“The circus?” The tales of Lulu’s other life were often entertaining and, by the spirits, Anselm was sorely in need of a diversion right now.
“You know, with clowns, tight-rope walkers, lions, elephants, and suchlike. My favorite act of all, though, was the lion-tamer.” Lulu smiled, her eyes soft and warm, lost in remembrances of long ago. “How brave those young men seemed, facing down those snarling beasts.” She chuckled. “I swear, I’d miss half the act by burrowing my face into Father’s coat, too fearful to look at what I most admired. Of course, that was back in the days before the laws against animal cruelty came into force.”
They had laws concerning ownership and treatment of animals? My. What a singular world theirs must be.
Lulu must have caught his incredulous expression for she added, “It’s all quite true, I assure you. Animals have rights now… and so they should, in my opinion.”
Once the feast was over, the tables were cleared—except for the wine, ale, sweetmeats, and those delicate honeyed pastries of which the king and his household were so fond. Up in the gallery, the musicians struck up the first notes of a popular jig, the perfect choice to set toes a-tapping. Most guests seemed eager to stand up with their partners, embracing the chance to dance off their large dinner.
Anselm, however, had no intention of dancing. He was content to sit back and watch his friends having a good time.
Dear old Hugh. While he wasn’t the lightest of men on his feet, his wife’s delicate elegance loaned him a veneer of passable proficiency. Vadim and Martha, meanwhile, were caught up in a world of their own design, a world that contained just the two of them. Forsaking the bouncing steps of the jig, they kept to the edge of the dance floor and swayed to their own slow rhythm as they gazed into each other’s eyes.
Even Aunt Lulu had abandoned him, snatched away by an aging court dandy sporting a daringly-cut tunic in claret and cream—the claret a perfect match for Lulu’s painted fingernails.
Surreptitiously trading Lulu’s water goblet for a frothy tankard of ale, Anselm soon reached that agreeable stage of drinking where the world resembled a cheery canvas of bright, happy colors. Humming to himself, he held his tankard aloft and swayed it in time with the music.
Just then, Percy swept by with his promised bride in his arms, a comely red-headed girl with a smile as generous as her maidenly attributes.
“Why aren’t you dancing, m’lor—Anselm?” Percy paused his dance for a few beats so that he could speak to his former master who was currently much occupied by conducting the orchestra with his ale.
“I’m not in the mood to dance. Go. Enjoy yourselves, my dears. Don’t spare me another thought.”
“For shame,” Percy cried with a wicked glint in his eyes, “And there stands Princess Miriam all forlorn by her sister, and sorely in want of a dance partner.”
Anselm turned and followed the trajectory of Percy’s stare. To his astonishment, he saw Percy was correct. While Catherine and Lord Radleigh were head to head in the confidential murmurings of lovers, Miriam stood slightly apart from them, looking everywhere but at her sister. The poor darling looked like a third wheel, so awkward and uncomfortable did she seem.
Where the devil was that inflated buffoon who’d been sitting beside her at dinner? But Percy had danced away before Anselm could ask h
im. A quick survey of the dance floor revealed all he needed to know. There he was—the noble toe-rag—cavorting with some fresh-cheeked maiden. The girl was gazing up at her partner with the light of blatant adoration burning in her eyes.
Silly wench. ’Twas to be hoped her guardians would make haste and rescue her from her own folly before it was too late.
Annoyed beyond reason, Anselm set down his tankard and rose, somewhat unsteadily, from his comfortable seat. If the other gentlemen of the assembly were too weak-livered to approach the king’s younger sister, then he would simply have to dance with Miriam himself. Whatever he might suffer later for his actions, he couldn’t bear to see his beloved standing all by herself like that. Such abhorrent neglect was intolerable.
With a slight sway in his step, Anselm wandered over to where the royal sisters stood.
“Princess Catherine. Lord Radleigh,” he said sweeping the betrothed couple a bow so low it made his head spin. “May I extend my heartfelt congratulations on your forthcoming union? Indeed, I wish you both truly happy.” He dared not look at Miriam. Not yet.
“Ah, Sir Anselm. The very fellow I’d hoped to see.” With a broad grin, Radleigh took Anselm’s hand and pumped it vigorously, up and down. “It seems I have you to thank for restoring my future bride to the bosom of her family… and to me. Such a dreadful business, that. Blasted pirates, eh?” Still shaking his hand, Radleigh continued, “I am deeply in your debt, m’lord. Indeed I am.”
Even Catherine looked happy to see Anselm again for she beamed at him with uncustomary warmth and boldly took his free hand, holding it between the two of hers. “How lovely to see you, m’lord. Thank you again for all you have done. I am so grateful.” All of this she said with the prettiest of smiles. Her gratitude appeared so sincere Anselm was left to marvel and wonder at the transformation wrought by a match forged with love.
“If there is ever anything we can do for you,” she said softly, “you need only ask.”
“Most kind of you both,” Anselm inclined his head in a bow—nothing too vigorous, however. His swimming head couldn’t take such abuse. “I’m only glad we were on hand to offer our aid.”
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