by Nora Roberts
“We said we’d start early today.”
“So we did.” Now she smiled fully. “I wasn’t sure that still held, after last night.” Since he wasn’t coming to her, she stepped to him. Lifted a hand to brush at his hair. “How do you feel?”
“I’m okay. Listen, about last night …”
“Yes?” She rose on her toes, touched her lips lightly to his. And wound his stomach muscles into knots.
“We didn’t lay out any of the … Look, there are no strings here.”
A little bubble of temper rose to her throat, but she swallowed it. “Did I try to tie any on you while you slept?”
“I’m not saying—” He hated being made to feel defensive. “I just want us to be clear, since we didn’t get into any of it last night. We enjoy each other, we’ll keep it simple, and when it’s over it’s done.”
“That’s very clear.” It would be undignified to strike him, and she didn’t believe in resorting to physical violence. Particularly against the mentally deficient. Instead she smiled easily. “Then there’s nothing to worry about, is there?”
With her expression pleasant, even patient, she ran her hands up his chest, lightly over his shoulders and into his hair. And fixed her mouth on his in a long, smoldering kiss.
She waited for his hand to fist in the back of her shirt, then nimbly stepped away and left him vibrating. “I’ll fix omelets, then we’ll get to work.”
Her eyes sparked with temper and challenge as she started up the path. And smiled in the friendliest of manners as she turned, held out her hand.
Baboon, she thought—with some affection—as he took her hand to walk back to the cabin. You’re in for one hell of a fight.
Chapter 8
They had a week of relative peace. Camilla decided peace would always be relative when Delaney was involved. His grumpiness was just one of the things about him she’d come to count on. In fact, it was part of his charm.
She raided his books on archaeology. Though he muttered about her messing with his things, she knew he was pleased she had a sincere interest in the field.
When she asked questions, he answered them—and in more and more detail. It became routine for them to discuss what she had read. Even for him to suggest, offhandedly, another book or section she might want to study.
When he gave her a small Acheulean hand ax from his collection, she treasured the crude, ancient tool more than diamonds.
It was more than a gift, she thought. Much more than a token. It was, to her mind, a symbol.
He hardly complained at all about driving her back into town to pick up her car. And he took it for granted that whatever her plans had been before, mobile or not, she was staying awhile.
They were, Camilla thought, making progress.
She’d managed to peel a layer or two away as well. She learned his father was English, also Oxford educated, and had met his mother, an American, on a dig the senior Dr. Caine had headed in Montana.
So he’d spent some of his childhood in England, some in Vermont, and the bulk of it in trailers and tents on various sites all over the world.
The hand ax he’d given her was from Kent, and one he’d unearthed when he’d been a boy. It made the gift doubly precious to her.
He could read Sanskrit and Greek, and had once been bitten by a coral snake.
The scar just beneath his left shoulder blade was from a knife wielded by a drunk in a bar in Cairo.
However foolish it was, Camilla found all of this fabulously romantic.
She drove into town to mail off the first of his reports and correspondence. Their reports, she corrected, smugly. She’d contributed more than typing skills and he’d managed to indicate just that with a few approving grunts when she’d suggested a change or another angle of approach.
They made a good team.
When they made love, it seemed there was nothing and no one in the world but the two of them. Past, future were distant and irrelevant in that intense and eager present. She knew by the way he looked at her when they joined, the way his eyes would stay so vivid on hers, that it was the same for him.
None of the men who had touched her life had brought this kind of impact. To her heart, her body, her mind. She hoped—needed to know—that she brought the same to him.
No strings, she thought with a quick snort. Typical. If he wanted no strings why had he begun to take walks with her in the woods? Why did he answer patiently—well, patiently for him—when she asked questions?
Why did she sometimes catch him looking at her the way he did? So intense and direct, as if she were a puzzle he was trying to figure out?
And why did he, at the oddest moments, simply lean over and capture her mouth in a kiss that sizzled her brain?
The man was in love with her, and that was that. He was just too boneheaded to realize it. Or at least to admit it.
She’d give him a little more time, then she’d tell him she was in love with him. When he got used to the idea, she’d explain about the other part of her life.
It all seemed so reasonable as she ran her errands. Her mood was mellow when she strolled into the antique shop. She would try Sarah first regarding the watch, she decided. It was mortifying to be so low on cash, and have Del hand her money every time something was needed for the cabin.
Besides, if she could pay her way a bit more, she could fairly demand that he pull more weight on domestic chores. It was time he washed a few dishes.
“Good morning.” She beamed a smile at Sarah as she wound her way through the antiques.
Sarah turned over the magazine she’d been paging through. “Good morning, ah … Miss Breen.”
“I noticed you have a selection of secondhand jewelry and watches.”
“Yes.” Sarah answered cautiously as she studied Camilla’s face.
“I wonder if you’d be interested in this.” Camilla took off her watch, held it out.
“It’s lovely. Um …” Hesitantly Sarah turned the watch over. She ran her fingers over the smooth gold, watched the tiny diamonds wink. “It’s not the sort of thing we usually …”
She trailed off, then simply stared at Camilla.
“It’s all right. I thought I’d see if you might be interested in buying it. I’ll try the jeweler.”
“You are her.” Sarah barely breathed it, her eyes wide and dazzled.
There was a hard clutching in Camilla’s throat, but her face remained perfectly calm. “I beg your pardon?”
“I thought … when you were in the other day … I knew you looked like somebody.”
“Everyone looks like someone.” With a steady hand, Camilla reached for her watch. “Thank you anyway.”
“Princess Camilla.” Sarah pressed her fingertips to her lips. “I can’t believe it. Princess Camilla, in my shop. You’re right here. And, and here!” Triumphantly now, she flipped the magazine over.
And there, Camilla saw with a sinking heart, was her own face being touted as one of the most beautiful in the world.
“You cut your hair. All that fabulous hair.”
“Yes, well.” Resigned, Camilla sighed. “It was time for a change.”
“You look wonderful. Even better than—” Catching herself, Sarah paled. “Oh. Excuse me. Um. Your Highness.” She dipped in a quick curtsy that had her blond tail of hair bouncing.
“Don’t. Please.” Struggling to smile, Camilla glanced toward the door and prayed no other customers would come in. “I’m traveling very quietly at the moment. I’d really prefer keeping it that way.”
“I taped that documentary on the royal family. After you were in last week, I kept thinking and thinking, and then it hit me. I watched it again. But I thought I had to be wrong. Cordina’s Crown Jewel doesn’t just drop in to my store for old bottles. But here you are.”
“Yes, here I am. Sarah—”
“That Del.” Overwhelmed Sarah babbled on. “I know you have to pry news out of him with a crowbar, but this is taking it too far. He’s got
royalty staying at his cabin, and he doesn’t say a word.”
“He doesn’t know. And I’d prefer to keep things that way as well, at least until … Oh, Sarah.”
Having a princess in her shop was one thing, having one who looked so miserably distressed was another. “Golly.” Biting her lip, Sarah hurried around the counter, but stopped short of taking Camilla’s arm. She didn’t think it was done. “Would you like something to drink, Your Highness?”
“Yes. Yes, thank you, I would.”
“I’ve got, jeez, I’m so flustered. I have some iced tea in my office.”
“That’s very kind of you.”
“It’s nothing. Just let me, boy … I’ll put the Closed sign on.”
She hurried to the door and back again, then wrung her hands and couldn’t stop herself from doing another curtsy. “Behind the counter. It’s not much.”
“I’d love something cool.” She followed Sarah into the little office and took a seat on a swivel chair while Sarah fumbled with the door of a small refrigerator. “Please don’t be nervous. I’m no different than I was the first time I came in.”
“I beg your pardon, Your Highness, but you are. Of course you are.”
“You needn’t address me by my title,” Camilla said wearily. “Madam or ma’am is sufficient, and in this case, I’d prefer you just use my name.”
“I don’t think I can. You see I’ve read about you and your family since I was a kid. We’re almost the same age, and I used to imagine myself living in a palace, wearing all those beautiful clothes. Being a princess. I guess most little girls do.”
She turned back to Camilla, eyes shining. “Is it wonderful?”
“It can be. Sarah, I have a great favor to ask you.”
“Anything. Anything at all.”
“Would you not tell anyone?”
Sarah blinked. “Anyone? At all?”
“Just for a little while. Please. Sarah, it can be wonderful being a princess, but there were times, you see, when I was a little girl, that I dreamed of being just that. Just an ordinary girl. I want time now to live that dream.”
“Really?” It sounded beautifully romantic. “I guess we always want what we don’t have.” She handed Camilla a glass of iced tea. “I won’t tell anyone. It’ll kill me,” she admitted with a wry laugh. “But I won’t. Could you, would you mind, ah, madam, signing my magazine?”
“I’d be happy to. Thank you very much.”
“You’re nicer than I thought you’d be. I always imagined princesses would be, well, snobby.”
“Oh, we can be.” Camilla smiled, sipped. “Depending.”
“Maybe, but, excuse me, but you seem so … normal.”
The smile warmed, as did her eyes. “That’s the nicest thing you could say to me.”
“Classier of course. I noticed that right off, too, but …” Sarah’s eyes popped wide again. “Del doesn’t know?”
Guilt circled, nibbled at the back of her neck. “It hasn’t come up.”
“It’s just like him. Oblivious.” Sarah threw up her hands. “The man’s oblivious. When we were dating, I think he forgot my name half the time. And forget noticing the color of my eyes. Used to make me so mad. Then he’d smile at me, or say something to make me laugh, and I wouldn’t mind so much.”
“I know what you mean.”
“He’s so smart about some things, and so lame about others.” She picked up her own glass, then nearly bobbled it when she caught the dreamy expression on Camilla’s face. “Holy cow. Are you in love with him?”
“Yes, I am. And I need a little more time to convince him he likes the idea.”
It was just like a movie, Sarah thought. “That’s nice. Really nice. And it’s perfect, really, when you think about it.”
“It is for me.” Camilla admitted, then rose. “I’m in your debt, Sarah, and I won’t forget it.” When she held out a hand, Sarah quickly wiped her own on her slacks before taking it.
“I’m glad to help.”
“I’ll come in and see you again before I leave,” Camilla promised as she started back into the shop.
When she picked up her watch from the counter, Sarah bit her lip again. “Your Highness, ma’am, do you really want to sell that watch?”
“Yes, actually. I’m embarrassingly short of liquid funds, just now.”
“I can’t give you what it’s worth, not even close. But I could … I could lend you five hundred. And, well, you could have the inkwell you liked so much.”
Camilla looked over at her. The woman, she thought, was nervous, intimidated and confused. But it didn’t stop her from wanting to help. Another gift, Camilla thought, she would treasure.
“When I started out on this quest of mine, I wanted to discover … To find parts of myself as well as see … I’m not sure what now—maybe just things from a different perspective. It’s such a wonderful bonus to have found a friend. Take the watch. We’ll consider it a trade, between friends.”
* * *
Del walked out on the front porch and stared at the rutted lane. Again. How long did it take to run a few errands? That was the trouble with women. They turned a couple errands into some sort of pilgrimage.
He wanted his lunch, and a fresh pot of coffee, and to answer the half-dozen e-mails that had come through his laptop that morning.
All of which, he was forced to admit he could handle for himself. Had always handled for himself.
What he wanted, damn it, was her.
His life, he thought jamming his hands into his pockets, was completely screwed. She’d messed everything up, scattered his focus, ruined his routine.
He should’ve left her stranded in the rain that night. Then everything would be the way it had been before. He wouldn’t have some woman cluttering up his space. Cluttering up his mind.
Who the hell was she? There were secrets tucked inside that sharp, complicated brain of hers. If she was in trouble, why didn’t she just tell him, so he could deal with it?
He needed for her to tell him, to confide in him, to depend on him to help her.
And when the hell had he started seeing himself as some knight on a white charger? It was ridiculous, totally out of character.
But he wanted to fix whatever was wrong. More, he realized, much more, he needed her to trust him enough to tell him. Trust him enough to fix it.
Because he’d tripped over his own unspoken rule and fallen flat on his face in love with her.
And he didn’t much care for the way it felt, he mused, rubbing a hand over his heart. It was a lot more uncomfortable than a few bruised ribs. And, he feared, a lot more permanent.
He’d had to go and say no strings, hadn’t he? Of course, she’d had no problem with that, he thought now. Bitterly. That was just fine and dandy with her.
Well, if he was going to have to adjust, then so was she.
Besides, no strings didn’t mean no faith, did it? If she didn’t believe in him enough to even tell him her full name, where were they?
He paced into the house, then back out again.
Maybe he should go check on her. She’d been gone nearly two hours. She’d already had one accident, which meant she could easily have another. She might be sprawled over the wheel of her car, bleeding. Or …
Just as he was working himself into a fine state of agitation, he heard the sound of her engine. Disgusted with himself, he slipped back into the house before she could catch him keeping an eye out for her.
He circled the living room twice, then paused and considered. Adjustments.
Romance.
That was something she appeared to believe was vital in any culture. Cultures were made up of relationships, rituals and romance. Maybe he should try a small foray into that and see where it got him.
He strolled into the kitchen as she set a bag of groceries on the table. “I have your receipts for the overnight mail I sent,” she told him.
“Good.” Since he wanted to anyway, he brushed a hand over her hair.<
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She gave him an absent smile, and turned away to put a quart of milk in the refrigerator. “There were some letters in your post office box.” Frowning, she rubbed at her temple where a tension headache nagged. “I must have left them in the car.”
“No problem.” He leaned down to sniff the side of her neck. “You smell great.”
“I what? Oh.” She patted his shoulder, reached for the bag of new potatoes she’d bought for dinner. “Thank you.”
Determined to make an impression he dug a little deeper. What was it women always … ah! “Have you lost weight?” he asked, feeling truly inspired.
“I doubt it. Probably gained a couple if anything.” She took coffee out of the cupboard and prepared to brew a fresh pot.
Behind her back, Del narrowed his eyes. Since words weren’t getting him anywhere, he’d move straight to deeds.
He scooped her off her feet and started out of the kitchen.
“What are you doing?”
“Taking you to bed.”
“Well, really. You might ask—and I haven’t finished putting the groceries away.”
Del paused at the bottom of the steps and stopped her mouth with his. “In certain cultures,” he said when he eased back, “women indicate their desire for intimacy by stocking the pantry. I’m merely picking up on traditional signals.”
Amusement nudged at the gnawing worry inside her. “What cultures?” she demanded as he continued up the steps.
“Mine. It’s a new tradition.”
“That’s so cute.” She nuzzled at the side of his throat. “I think you missed me.”
“Missed you? Did you go somewhere?” When she huffed out a breath, he tossed her on the bed. When she bounced, he rolled his shoulder. “Got a twinge from hauling you up. Maybe you have gained a couple pounds.”
She shoved herself up on her elbows. “Oh, really?”
“That’s okay. We’ll work it off.” And he dived on her.
Her first reaction was laughter. Playfulness wasn’t his usual style, and it caught her off guard. As he rolled her over the bed, she forgot to be worried.
“You’re heavy.” She shoved at him. “And you haven’t shaved. You have your boots on my clean linens.”
“Nag, nag, nag,” he said, and dragging her hands over her head, took her mouth with his.
He felt her pulse jump, then race, and her hands go limp in his. Her body gloriously pliant.
He skimmed his lips over her jaw. “You were saying?”
“Shut up and kiss me.”
He cuffed her wrists with one hand, used the other to unbutton her shirt. “So, are you indicating your desire for intimacy?” He trailed a fingertip down the center of her body, toyed with the hook of her slacks as he watched her face. “Just want to get my signals straight.”
Her breath was already backing up in her lungs. “Your pantry’s been stocked since I got here, hasn’t it?”
“That’s a good point.” He lowered the zipper, brushing his knuckles over the exposed skin. “Had the hots for me all along, haven’t you?”
“If you’re going to be arrogant—”
“Maybe you were hoping I’d come into your room one night,” he continued, and traced the dip between her center and her thigh. “And do this.”
“I never …” Her hips arched, her breath hissed out as he cupped her. “Lord.