Читать книгу The Mills & Boon Ultimate Christmas Collection - Мишель Смарт, Kate Hardy - Страница 106

CHAPTER TWO

PRINCESS ZARA STOICA, heiress to no throne at all, was tired of waiting on the whims of men. It was because of men that she had been uprooted from the palace as a child, sent out to live in the deep, dark woods with the nomadic people who inhabited them, kept safe thanks to centuries-old traditions of honor and hospitality. It was men who had stolen her from her safe haven fifteen years later, and elected to use her as a pawn to further political unions with neighboring nations. Of course, it had also been a man sitting on the throne here in Petras who had decided it was perfectly acceptable to keep her and pawn her off on his brother as a sort of postwar bride.

As a result, it was not a terrible surprise that it was a man who clearly owned this room, and who had burst in close to an hour ago, nearly terrifying the life out of her.

It occurred to her that it was entirely possible she had been installed in Prince Andres’s room. The man she was supposed to marry. The very idea made her shiver down to her bones.

Worse than fear was the restlessness starting to run through her veins. She was growing bored, closed up here in the bedroom.

There was a view of the city from a small window by the bed. She found no comfort in such a view. Houses clustered together tightly, high-rise buildings beyond that. Cars cluttering up the roads like a line of dizzy ants desperately seeking food. She preferred the crisp, clean air of the mountains. The silence held close around her by thick evergreens.

She had a difficult time marking passing hours while shut up in vast castles with nothing but man-made architecture sprawled out before her.

She flopped backward onto the bed, sinking deeply into the down-filled blankets and soft mattress.

It was shocking, being exposed to such comfort.

Her years spent living in caravans with her caregivers had been cozy, and not uncomfortable, but it had certainly been nothing like this. And when the new political leaders of Tirimia had brought her back to the old palace, they certainly hadn’t installed her in anything half as luxurious.

She looked up at the ceiling, at the ornate molding, the large chandelier that hung from the center of the room. She could not recall ever having been in a bedchamber with a chandelier. Tirimia was a much more modest economy than Petras, even before the revolution.

A sense of unease washed over her and she scrambled off of the bed. She did not want that man, whether or not he was Prince Andres, coming in and finding her like that again. It was unsettling. She paced the length of the room—and it was a fairly impressive length—before retracing her steps, pausing at a door that was firmly closed. She wrapped her fingers around the ornate knob and pushed it open, finding a vast bathroom on the other side. It was much more modern than the rest of the room.

There was a large shower in the corner of the room, glass panels closing it off from the rest of the space. There was also a large, sunken tub that nearly made her groan with longing. The very thought of submerging in warm water sent an intense craving through her that rivaled any she’d ever had for a dessert. A long, hot bath was something that was simply impossible out in the middle of the forest, and something that hadn’t been afforded her when she was brought back to the palace as a glorified prisoner.

It was a temptation, but if she thought being discovered in a bed that was not her own was humiliating, certainly being discovered in the bath would be worse.

She walked slowly across the room, moving to a large vanity and mirror mounted at the back wall. There were small bottles displayed on the clean marble surface. She wondered what a man did with so many bottles of lotions and scents. She reached out and took hold of one, unscrewing the lid and lifting it to her nose, sniffing cautiously. It was a cologne, smelling of sandalwood and other spices. She tried to remember if the man she had encountered earlier smelled of those things. She could not.

She set the bottle back down, picking up the next one. This one contained lotion, and it was a temptation too far for her. She tipped it cautiously, squirting a small amount onto her hands, before putting the bottle back in its place. She smoothed the thick cream over her hands, luxuriating in the feel. Her skin had grown rough from so many years of hard labor and living outdoors. A sign of strength, she often thought, and she had never regretted it. Still, it didn’t mean she couldn’t indulge in one small moment of softness.

“What are you doing?”

She turned sharply, backing herself up against the edge of the vanity, knocking several of the bottles over as she did. “I was bored,” she said, looking up to see the same man she had encountered earlier standing in the doorway glaring fiercely at her.

The impact of him was beyond that of a physical blow. She was accustomed to large men, men with a commanding presence that pushed you back, held you at a distance.

Some might call the people she had been raised with Gypsies, based on their simple, nomadic lifestyle, but they weren’t, not in blood heritage. They were part of a small, mostly destroyed minority group in Tirimia who still clung to the old ways. Not a warrior culture in the traditional sense, but fiercely protective of the camp and of anyone they felt to be under their care.

However, the gruff exterior of the men she had been raised around could not have been more different from the suave, confronting aura given off by this man. One would think that a man in a suit would not be half as intimidating as one in old jeans. This man should have appeared to be vastly more civilized, and yet it was that veneer of civility that she found frightening. Because she sensed so much beneath it. A hidden depth and strength, buried so deep she had no way of assessing it.

She didn’t like this at all. Didn’t like the fact that she was in the dark about so many things. At home, things had been so much simpler. She had been protected. She had been certain of her surroundings. The world had been small, containing the forest, her caravan, the cooking fires and people she had known for most of her life.

There were rules. And she had been certain in them.

Now she was here. In a strange land, confronted by a stranger.

A large, broad-chested stranger in a well-cut suit. With short black hair, a square jaw and strong, dark eyebrows. He was beautiful in the same way a predator was. Lethal, and difficult to look away from. She had never, in all her life, been held captive by a man in such a way. So far the men she encountered could easily be divided into two categories. Those she had grown up with and seen nearly every day of her life, and those she considered an enemy.

This man was neither, and that made him unique.

She might yet decide he was an enemy, but for now, she would hold off on that assessment. He might well be dangerous, but he could also very well be her only ally. She had realized two months ago, when she was kidnapped from the encampment, that she had only a spare few options. If she tried to escape her captors and go back to the clan, they would be punished. A poor repayment for shared food, clothing and shelter of the past fifteen years.

Escaping and staying in Petras was no more of a possibility.

She had no money, no form of identification. She didn’t know the layout of the city, or of the country beyond. She couldn’t drive, and she had no friends.

She would have to make one.

Zara eyed the man standing in the doorway of the bathroom. She wondered if she could make a friend of him. Well, not a friend. Not in the true sense.

But it would do no good to battle him all the way. She would need to be compliant, to a degree. To watch for the right moment to make her move. Whatever it might be.

“You were bored?” he asked, repeating her words back to her.

“Yes, I don’t know how long I’ve been in here, but it has been quite a while.”

“Perhaps we should start over,” he said. “I am Prince Andres. It appears we are to be married.”

Unease, followed by a rash of unexplainable heat coursed through her veins. “Is that so?”

His words confirmed her suspicions. That he was the owner of this room. That he was now the owner of her.

“I am informed.” He arched one dark eyebrow. “Perhaps you would like to continue this discussion in a more comfortable setting?”

She nodded slowly and began to walk toward him. Then her stomach growled, the sound echoing in the space. “I’m hungry,” she said. She realized then that she hadn’t eaten since very early this morning.

“Then I will arrange for you to be fed.”

It didn’t take long for Andres to procure the promised food. He had a tray of meats, cheeses, fruits and breads sent up to the bedroom, which was how Zara found herself sitting on the bed again, her legs covered with a blanket, eating the spread that had been placed before her.

She could feel his watchful gaze on her as she ate in near silence. He hadn’t interrupted her yet, but she could see that he wanted to. For the first time in a very long while she felt she might have the upper hand. A very slight upper hand, to be sure, but he seemed nearly as confused and put off by the entire situation as she was. Which was, in her estimation, why he was being so watchful. And why he was letting her eat undisturbed. He was circling her, as though she were a potentially dangerous creature and he was concerned about being bitten.

The thought sent a pleasurable rush of power through her, joining the sated sensation in the pit of her stomach brought about by the cheese. Her needs had always been simple. At least, they had become simple once she was sent to live with the nomads at just six years old. They had been simple by necessity. But lately, her needs had shrunk down even further. Warmth, food, shelter. If she had those things, she knew she could keep on going.

Good food and soft blankets were several notches more extravagant than she’d had in the past couple of months. And a bit of power? Very heady icing on top of this unexpected cake.

So she continued to eat in silence, sensing his growing impatience, allowing it to feed her small, mean satisfaction.

“How long has it been since you were fed?”

His question surprised her. “Since this morning.”

“You are too skinny,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. His words offended her, and she couldn’t quite figure out why. She had never given much thought to her appearance. The men who had taken her captive had assigned a woman to make her beautiful for presentation to the king, but Zara couldn’t say it had mattered much to her. They had put too much makeup on her, the gold around her eyes her own addition, a nod to the culture she had adopted as her own. Her beauty had never been a topic of discussion among the nomads. She had been under the protection of the leader, Raz, and he had forbidden any man from touching her, or even looking at her in a disrespectful manner.

And now this man was telling her she was too skinny. And she was angry.

“I will say that my captors did not overly concern themselves with the quality of my food.”

“You are a captive?” he asked, his tone fierce.

“I’m surprised you care. Your brother did not appear to be similarly concerned. He was quick to accept me as though I were a...a fruit basket.”

He looked her over. “You are most certainly not a fruit basket, that much is evident.”

“I have been passed around like one.” She sniffed, allowing herself a moment to fully revel in the indignity of it all. At one time, she had been a princess. A member of the royal family in Tirimia. Being in a palace such as this would have been her right. Before she had been wrenched away from the only home she’d ever known, robbed of her family. Her birthright. “I suppose I can only be grateful no one has plucked at any of my grapes and taken small samples, so to speak.”

She looked up and caught his dark gaze, the sharp shock of heat piercing her straight to her stomach. She felt her face warm and she looked away. “Indeed, that would have been a shame. I’m glad your grapes remain...unsampled.”

A muscle beneath her eye twitched. “Remarkable under the circumstances, I should think.” She had spent a great many years being protected, but that did not mean she was ignorant of the ways of men.

“You were the princess in Tirimia,” he said, his tone vaguely accusatory.

“I am the princess. I have been replaced. Not by another princess, but by a farcical government who pretends to care about the freedom of the people, when, in truth, they only care about their own power.”

“I thought the entire royal family was killed during the revolution.”

Her insides grew cold. That always happened when she thought of her parents. Of her older brother. Her memories of them were soft around the edges now, worn like old, weathered photographs. But what remained, as sharp and terrible as ever, was the coldness she’d felt when she learned of their fates.

It hadn’t been sadness in its simplest form. It had been death itself. A chill that had stolen through her, replaced all of her blood with ice. It had taken months to thaw. Months for her to feel anything at all again beyond the frost that had taken up residence in her chest.

“Obviously I wasn’t,” she said, the words strange, thick on her tongue. Because they’d never felt right. None of it had ever seemed right. “Everyone else...my mother, father, my brother, they were all killed. My mother’s personal maid had family living in the forest, people who practiced the old way of life. And she brought me to them. They have kept me, protected me, for years.”

“Until now, clearly.”

She picked up a piece of bread and tore a chunk from it. “Obviously not through any fault of their own. They were ambushed and I was kidnapped.”

“And can you be returned to them?” he asked.

She weighed that question and all of the possible implications. If she told him yes, would he help her? Or was he intent on...marrying her.

The idea of marriage was ludicrous to her. Foreign. She was not in any way ready, or suited, to be a man’s wife. She had no interest in such things.

The very idea was her worst nightmare. Wearing a crown again. Placed on a throne.

A target would be on her back, and she would be up on a pedestal where she was an easy target.

She had lived through that nightmare once. She had no intention of entering into it again.

She should tell him to take her home.

And have the only people on this earth who tried to protect you destroyed?

That bitter, familiar cold lashed at her again. She couldn’t go back. It was too dangerous. It was selfish. They would protect her with their lives, and it was very likely their lives would, in fact, be the cost.

She had lost too much already. Too many people who had believed deeply in their convictions cut down. To hear Raz speak of her parents, her father had been a man of conviction. Who had fought to change antiquated ideas in Tirimia, who had made a pact with Raz’s tribe to preserve their sovereignty within the nation.

For that, he had been killed. Out of loyalty and respect to her father, Raz had risked the tribe to protect her, to raise her.

She wouldn’t put them at risk again.

This was something she would have to figure out on her own. She would have to rescue herself.

“No,” she said. “I cannot be returned to them. It would be far too dangerous.”

“Wonderful,” he said, his tone at odds with the word.

“I will not be marrying you, of course,” she said, taking a grape from the platter and holding it between her thumb and forefinger.

“Is that so?” he asked.

She nodded, keeping her expression grave. “I have no desire to marry.”

“Why is that?” he asked, reaching out and plucking the grape from her fingers. “Concerned over having your grapes sampled?” He put the fruit in his mouth and she found herself transfixed, trying to untangle the wealth of meaning in his words while watching his lips, his jaw, work slightly as he chewed.

Why was the way he chewed interesting? It shouldn’t be. She’d never found chewing fascinating in her life.

“I don’t know you,” she said, looking away and picking up another grape, biting into it with no small amount of fierceness. “And that’s just for a start.”

“We have nothing but time to work this out. You could list your reasons. Extensively.”

“I won’t have a complete list until I know you better.”

“I think what you just described is marriage. Two people who truly don’t know each other and are somewhat blind to each other’s faults until time and proximity force them to really get a good look at the poor choice they made.”

“You make it sound so appealing,” she said, shifting her position, tucking her feet beneath herself and leaning forward, taking a piece of fig from the platter.

“I’m not a great believer in the institution.”

“Then why should we marry?” she asked.

“Because,” he said, his tone weary, “my brother has said it shall be, and so it shall be. There are a great many perks to being the spare in the royal family, Zara. Not the least of which is that I have been able to cast the mantle of responsibility off for the past thirty-two years with very few consequences. While Kairos has always been bound by duty, honor and all manner of other words that make me feel like I’m about to break out in hives. The downside,” he added, leaning in, studying the platter, but not taking any more food, “is that I am also beneath his rule.” Andres looked up then, his dark eyes meeting hers. He was close now. So very close.

And he did, in fact, smell like the cologne she had found in the bathroom.

“I see,” she said, barely able to force the words out past her constricted throat. “Are you going to tell me you’re a prisoner too?”

He straightened and she nearly sighed in relief. For some reason, having him so close to her was disturbing in ways she couldn’t quite work out.

“No,” he said, “I’m not a prisoner. Just a prince. That means there are certain expectations I’m obligated to fulfill. Make no mistake, I’ve spent the past decade and a half steeped in debauchery and generally ignoring all of my responsibilities. We all have to face a reckoning, eventually. You are mine.”

Arrogant. That was what he was. To sit there and call her his reckoning when she’d been dragged here against her will. To speak of his duty as such a burden when her father had lost his life upholding the crown in Tirimia, fighting for what was right.

What did this man do with his position? Nothing, from the looks of things.

“You speak of being a prince with such disdain. I am a princess, forced into hiding because of the title. My parents were killed because they were royalty, and yet you stand here, perfectly whole, complaining of being forced into marriage by your brother. How terribly sorry I am for you that your life of extended pleasure is being interrupted by duty. My parents died for duty.”

“Am I supposed to regret that that isn’t an option for me? Should I go offer my neck to the guillotine rather than my hand in marriage?”

“My parents are dead,” she hissed.

“And I am sorry. But I am not sorry that I don’t face the same peril. This is not the same country, nor am I in the same position.”

“You have your life and your opportunities and still you speak with such disrespect of the position.”

“And still, you will be my wife.”

“Never,” she hissed, knowing that now, with hair tousled and her posture mirroring that of an angry cat, she was looking every inch the feral creature he clearly thought she was.

“What are your options, agape?” he asked, the endearment strange to her ears. “You said yourself you cannot return home. Where will you go if you don’t stay here with me?”

Words churned through her mind, but when one would rise to the surface, it would slip back beneath just as quickly, before she could grab hold of it.

“Nowhere,” he said, answering for her. “You can speak of life and death all you want, as though it is all that matters, but here in this position you see that. There are many shades of gray within living and death, and unhappiness through a forced marriage is most certainly one of them. But you’re like me. You’ve hit a wall. You have no choice.”

“There is always a choice,” she said, not sure where the words came from, but certain, even as she spoke them, that they were true. “I live because of that truth. Because rather than giving up, my mother’s maid chose to save me. Because rather than sending me back, the clan chose to care for me. We always have choices.”

“I suppose you’re right,” he said, his dark gaze far too assessing. “Then this is my choice, and I’m making it. I owe my brother a debt, beyond the typical royal duty. I’m in no position to refuse his demands. And I choose to obey them.”

“What of my choices?”

“They are somewhat crippled in this situation. I won’t lie.”

“Crippled? They are completely incapacitated.”

He shrugged as though he were pushing her protests off his shoulders. “Perhaps. But this is the reality. Whether you want to or not, you, Princess Zara Stoica, will be my wife by Christmas.”