Her Cowboy Prince

by Madeline Ash

  If the master of the household had been given more lead time, he’d have packed enough furnishings for a semi-permanent mountain residence.

  Perhaps that would have been better. More things for her to hide behind.

  Frankie brought up the rear of the ten-strong group, well away from him, but the distance didn’t ease her nerves. Buck and Bull moved up and down the line, occasionally sticking their noses into her palm, demanding a pat. That helped a little. As she scratched behind Buck’s ear, breathing in the sweet, citrusy smell of coniferous trees and focusing on the bird calls and the hum of insects, she still couldn’t shake her growing sense of exposure. Like she was hiking toward a fight with surgical markings around her weak points. Just strike here, here, or here, and I’ll buckle like a broken marionette.

  Kris knew her weak points now.

  One swipe of his thumb and she’d collapse around him.

  The thick heat of the summer evening hung heavy in her chest as they passed through a clearing of pink and yellow wildflowers. There was too much opportunity out here for her to lose her head. Kris was most dangerous in his natural environment, potent with sure-handed competence and cowboy swagger, and it made her both furious and frightened to doubt her strength to resist him if they ended up alone. Simple solution: stay among her team.

  Nerves settling, she glanced up—and almost tripped to find Kris looking back at her over his shoulder. His gaze was steady, locked on her through the people and packs between them. She slid her attention away, keeping her features uninterested. God, would he stop doing that? Literally everyone could see.

  As if on cue, Hanna slowed her pace, dropping back to Frankie’s side.

  “So, I was wondering,” Hanna said, fingers curled around the straps of her overnight pack and coiled bedroll. “Could you hide behind a tree the next time he does that? I’d love to see his reaction.”

  “Funny,” she answered.

  “I’m so sure it would be.”

  Frankie didn’t respond. Her pulse stuttered, wary of Hanna’s observations.

  “Last night’s tension seems to have gone,” the guard said, voice quieter.

  “Yeah.” Replaced by a different kind of tension. Frankie adjusted the tent bag on her back and slowed her pace so no one overheard. “Did he speak to you?”

  “First thing this morning.” Hanna’s glance was speculative. “He apologized for exploiting his authority—and for putting a hand over my mouth. And he said he wouldn’t override your orders again.”

  Frankie snorted.

  “He stuck to it the whole day,” Hanna said in his defense. “He ate lunch in silence.”

  Oh. Well that was a pathetic image.

  “Be honest,” Frankie forced herself to say. “Do you think I’m being too strict?”

  “It’s your job to be strict.” The blond woman raised a shoulder. “But King Markus and Prince Tomas’s guards don’t have these rules. Could chatting now and then be so bad?”

  “I don’t know,” she said with a frown. “Maybe I can be a bit . . .”

  Hanna leaned forward to better peer at her. “Harsh? Stubborn? Uncompromising?” She paused as Frankie cut her a narrow-eyed glance. “Terrifying?”

  “I was going to say cautious.”

  “Not even in my top-ten guesses.”

  With a roll of her eyes, Frankie smiled.

  “I know his safety is your utmost priority.” Hanna’s tone became careful. “But it’s mine, too. Sometimes it feels like—I mean, like maybe you don’t trust me to do my job.”

  Stricken, Frankie’s amusement vanished. “I do trust you, and Peter.” Her gaze found the back of Kris’s black hat at the front of the line. I don’t trust him. “Behave however you deem appropriate. Just stay vigilant and don’t, for the love of God, laugh when he thinks he’s being funny.”

  “Little chance of that.” Hanna grinned. “Race you to catch up?”

  “Sure.”

  After a burst of speed and burning lungs, Frankie joined the line two steps ahead of her.

  “Damn it,” Hanna said, breathing fast. “I’m really fit.”

  “Let it go, Johansson,” Frankie said, clapping her on the shoulder. “You’ll never win.”

  “I will. One day. I can feel it.”

  Frankie smiled again, shaking her head.

  The sun was slipping from the sky when they arrived at Kris’s intended camping site. A grassy ledge that protruded from the mountainside, backed by pines with a perfect view of Kira City far below. Unease quickly took hold of Frankie as his shelter was erected first—an absurdly large lotus tent that must have been arranged by someone who genuinely didn’t know that Kris had lived most of his life as a free-ranging cowboy. She wasn’t sure how anyone within Kiralian borders could have missed that memo, but the proof was in the extravagant cotton-lined, lantern-strung, here-sleeps-the-prince pudding.

  There was no room for a second tent, let alone the whole camp, so all other tents were set up on a clearing just below the outcrop. It breached protocol to separate the primary from his protection, even such a minimal distance, so after setting up her tent faster than Hanna—“You can’t be human,” Hanna declared, pointing a peg at her—Frankie chewed on the inside of her cheeks and approached Kris.

  He’d just erected a tent for a blushing non-outdoorsy attendant, and was standing back with sleeves bunched at his elbows.

  “I’m not comfortable with you sleeping up there, Your Highness.”

  He tensed, turning to face her, his blue gaze like a finger flick to her heart.

  “There’s no one to watch your back,” she added.

  “There should be room for at least half of us up there,” he said, taking off his hat and running his fingers through his thick waves. “It’s not my fault I have to sleep in a giant, posh marshmallow.”

  She pressed her lips together. “I’ll have it moved down.”

  “No. Leave it.” Attention on the ludicrous tent, he angled his head to one side, stretching his neck. “You’re my bodyguard, right? Sleep in there with me.”

  Her level gaze was waiting when he looked back to her. “That would be inappropriate.”

  “Ask yourself why,” he said, angling his head to the other side, tempting her with the bold cut of his jawline. She resolutely held his stare. “I’d be surprised if it has anything to do with doing your job properly.”

  She sucked in a breath—held it when she realized he was right.

  “You made your bed on this one, Frankie.” His grin came slowly as he slid around her. “Meet you up there.”

  Fuck.

  She delayed as twilight turned to night, briefing her team on various eventualities and preparing them for their pre-dawn departure. By the time she collected dinner from the kitchen hand in charge of supplies, an uncomfortable truth had settled in her mind. She’d let Kris get away with that flawed logic. Assigning Peter or Hanna to stay with him overnight would still have been doing her job properly.

  She wanted to do it.

  Her plan to stay among her team had been practical, but too much like pulling a coat over a little black dress because the weather was cold outside. She’d wear the wool for a little while, avoiding a winter chill, but the moment she reached the party, she’d be all slinky fabric and skin. She wouldn’t have worn the dress otherwise.

  And she wouldn’t have assigned herself as his bodyguard if she hadn’t secretly wanted something like this to happen—even though she knew it couldn’t.

  She was so screwed.

  With nerves multiplying in her belly, she walked the short incline to the bulbous tent that glowed warm and cream like the moon had eaten too much and had fallen into a food coma on the forest floor.

  Cresting the slope, she resolutely ignored the shadow that was Kris sprawled on his back in the slim patch of uncovered grass. Instead, she nodded at Hanna and Peter. “Go have dinner, you two.”

  “Would you like us to return, ma’am?” Peter’s hands stayed clasped behind
his back.

  “No,” she said. “I’ve got it from here.”

  “Very well.”

  “Sweet dreams,” Hanna said, and the pair retreated to the main camp. Silence filled the space they left behind, and Frankie stood holding a stack of containers, plates and napkins, wishing she knew how Kris intended this night to go.

  He shifted in the muted light of the tent, propping himself up on his elbows to look at her.

  Averting her eyes to the dogs lying nearby, she asked, “Where would you like to eat, Your Highness?”

  He rose to his feet, running a hand absently over his ass. “You know what I realized earlier today?”

  Her thoughts jammed at the sight of his powerful shoulders tapering to his hips, enhanced against the shadowed forest. Clenching her teeth, she gave a disinterested hum. She could get through this. She had years of practice being sensible. Last night she’d been too tired, too easy to disarm, and it had clearly encouraged him. But she didn’t have to play into his hand after a few bare-hearted words—not again. She could wear the dress and the coat.

  “You haven’t actually said sorry,” he said.

  “Out here or in the tent?” She kept her voice steady. “I think it’s finger food.”

  He moved toward her, and her skin crackled at his searching gaze. “Now why wouldn’t you have apologized?” He took the containers from her, fingers brushing hers, and she snatched her hands away. “I can’t figure it out.”

  “Does it matter?” she asked. “Your Highness.”

  His bristle was almost palpable, raising hairs along her arms. “That’s the last time you call me that.”

  She splayed her palms over her hips, blaming the sweat on the heat. “You’d like to get a head start on Your Majesty?”

  “No. And that tone isn’t going to work on me. Not anymore.” He scanned her features. “Use my name.”

  She turned her face aside, gaze on the first stars dotting the horizon.

  “Now,” he said.

  “Now?” she asked, frantically trying to think herself out of this, but he stood so close and smelled like safety, and all her mind managed was the possibility he’d sleep without his shirt on.

  “Say my name now.” It wasn’t arrogance in his voice, but a low plea, and it stripped the moment bare.

  Kris, she wanted to beg. Don’t.

  “Please, Frankie.”

  “I don’t know what you think changed last night,” she said. “But we’re not back where we started. You’re my superior, and I’m here to protect you.”

  “I agree.” He shifted closer. “We’re never going back to where we started.”

  She bit her tongue.

  “You said because you sleep in the servants’ quarters, it doesn’t matter what you want. But it matters to me.”

  “Don’t do this,” she said quietly, withdrawing a step.

  His brow lowered. “What am I doing?”

  “Cornering me.” Accusation tinged her words.

  “I’m not cornering you.” He sounded insulted. “I’m trying to talk to you. Every time I ask how you feel, you accuse me of intimidation. You think I’m trapping you, but did you ever consider that’s just how it feels to let yourself be vulnerable?”

  She shook her head, running a hand down her throat. She didn’t want conversations like this. Eventually he’d make her say too much and she’d never find her way back.

  “Let’s eat inside,” he said roughly. “The bugs are getting bad. They’ll eat you alive.”

  With a curt nod, she opened the flap and ducked into the tent.

  The interior was ludicrous. The thick, cream canopy draped in lustrous folds of fabric and several ornate lanterns glowed through amber glass, with the largest hanging from a loop on the center pole. Rugs and embroidered cushions had been laid over the ground cover, and two double bedrolls had been spread with linen sheets and pillows, and placed a respectable distance apart.

  “Yikes,” she said.

  “I know.” Kris zipped the tent flap closed and straightened beside her. “Apparently there are spare candles in that box there. And I’ve got matches . . .” He dug a hand into the front pocket of his jeans, fishing out a matchbook and tossing it beside the box—a second before a small square packet hit the floor directly in front of him.

  A condom.

  Frankie froze, skin instantly cold.

  For several seconds, the only thing that moved was the mortification hammering in her neck. Then Kris darted a look at her, and she ran a hand over her lowered face and muttered, “Jesus Christ.”

  There was the sound of plastic rustling as he jammed it back in his pocket. “Sorry.”

  “Oh, don’t apologize.” She dropped her hand, arm weak with an awful kind of adrenaline. “It’s preferable that you’re not planting heirs around the city.”

  He paused. “What?”

  “Nothing.” Moving away, she hunkered down on the less decorated bedroll, hating the reaction twisting inside her. This shouldn’t matter. He slept around—he always had. But proof of his wandering attention, within a minute of him asking her to speak his name, picked up her insides like a secret letter to him and shredded it into pieces.

  He hadn’t moved. Denim, boots and rolled up sleeves. Strong shoulders, hard-earned muscle, and a face that only ever grew more breathtaking the longer she looked.

  “I haven’t been with anyone in Kiraly,” he said.

  Her eyes burned. She angled her face away from him. “Yeah, sure.”

  “I’m serious. You must know.” He almost sounded desperate. “You monitor my every move.”

  She couldn’t look at him—her head physically refused to lift. “Hard to monitor you when you slip security.” With a different woman wrapped around his waist each time, practically sucking the skin off his neck.

  “You think I’ve been sneaking off to have sex?”

  “I imagine it kills the mood to ask someone to sign a nondisclosure agreement,” she said, discovering that if she spoke at a regular volume, her voice didn’t shake. “So much hotter to put your reputation at risk and shirk protocol entirely.”

  “First, that obviously sounds hotter,” he said, and she stiffened. “But second, that’s not why I’ve been slipping security.”

  “Sure.” Damn this urge to cry. Her throat hurt; the muscles along her neck strained. “You carry condoms around for no reason.”

  He didn’t answer immediately. He seemed to give time for the thought to occur to her; for her breath to suck in sharply and a flush to crawl up her neck. Oh, God. I’m going to sleep with him, aren’t I? Then he murmured, “There’s a reason for this one.”

  “No.” She covered her face with her hands. They shook. “Stop right there.”

  “I’m not trying to scare you.”

  “I’m not scared.” She was overwhelmed—they’d never spoken openly about sex. Not between them, not like it was a possibility worth preparing for.

  There was the sound of footsteps as he crossed the tent, followed by a light clunking as he set the food containers down. “I haven’t packed it for tonight. Frankie. I’ve carried one whenever I’m with you since we met. I get the feeling neither of us could pull back if we ever got started.” He paused. “Not that I don’t hope to use it, but I’m not here to seduce you.”

  “I shouldn’t be in here,” she said, but didn’t move. “I’ll ask Peter.”

  “Stay.” The soft swish of fabric betrayed he’d sat on the bedroll opposite her. “I’ve wanted you for years without acting on it. I’ll manage for another night.”

  She didn’t answer; she couldn’t seem to draw her hands away from her face. Her fingertips trembled against her eyebrows.

  “I have scared you,” he said quietly.

  No—he’d tempted her. And that was far worse. Protection was literally in his pocket. One kiss, mouths clashing in a fevered rush of fucking finally, and there’d be no hazy-minded reason to stop. Just roll it on and slide straight in, because status and
titles and futures would mean nothing against the inflamed reality of this man’s body in hers.

  “You can’t want this with me,” she made herself say.

  “Yet I do and that’s not changing.” Frustration hardened his words. “I’ve sworn you’ve always been attracted to me. Now I know you have—but you’ve avoided it because you don’t think you’re good enough for a prince.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not.”

  “You damn well are.”

  “You’re asking too much of me.” Her darkest secrets—that was what it would take to convince him.

  He blew out a breath and for a while, didn’t speak.

  “Are you shy, Frankie?” he asked, the question gentle. “About this kind of thing?”

  Her cheeks were hot; her palms were sweating. “What kind of thing?”

  “Sex. Attraction. Intimacy.”

  “The last one,” she admitted, because what difference did it make? “I never—it’s not something I do.” Clearly, since she needed the barrier of her hands against her face to even have this conversation.

  “I’d like to be intimate with you.” The deep abrasion of his voice left her senses shivering. “I could show you how. I think you’d be good at it.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” she whispered.

  “I want—” He broke off and there was the sound of his hat hitting the floor. “I care about you. You’re good enough for me and I want to be with you. Intimately. Sexually.” He paused. “Repeatedly.”

  Her mind hazed at the hot loosening between her thighs.

  “You don’t know how to be with someone,” she said. “Stay with someone.”

  “I know how to stay with you.”

  “As a friend.” Shaking her head, palms still raised, she said, “In Sage Haven, you had someone different in your bed every other week.”

  “I—look, you confused me, okay?” His voice grew a little louder as he moved closer and his nearness rippled across her skin. “I didn’t know what you wanted. One minute I’d swear it was about to happen, that I’d spend the next month buried inside you to make up for lost time, and the next minute, you’d hardly look at me. You were never willing to talk about it, and as badly as I wanted—want—you to be the woman in my bed, I didn’t want you to think that I was waiting around expecting you to go there with me.”