Taken by the Prince

by Christina Dodd

  “What makes you think I would yield to you and not to Lord Meredith?”

  He laughed, then winced and dabbed his lip again.

  She was not amused. “You’re young and handsome, yes— ”

  “You’ve noticed!”

  “— but Lord Meredith had money and wasn’t likely to be killed by his own foolish ambitions.”

  Raul’s smile disappeared. “I said before you have a waspish tongue and not a lot of good sense.”

  The phrase set off her alarms. She had heard it before.

  He reached for her.

  She refused to yield an inch. In a warning tone, she said, “Your lip is already bleeding.”

  “You can kiss it better.” Slowly he slid his arms around her.

  “Or I can make you afraid to go to sleep.”

  He paused. He scowled. “Have you thought that challenging a man who holds you in his power is a logically unsound concept?”

  “Yes. I know.” Although she hadn’t done so foolish a thing since her stepfather had slapped her mother for not training Victoria in proper respect. But something about Raul— the way he treated her like an intelligent person— made her bold. If she had assessed Raul Lawrence incorrectly … Well, the gilded rope ties that held back the bed curtains would make a good garrote.

  Raul loosened his grip.

  She stepped away.

  “By the way,” he said, “Lord Meredith’s conceit hurt him badly. Late that night, on his way to bed, he was waylaid by someone who forcibly took exception to his behavior to you.”

  “You? I mean … you were that someone?”

  “Why so incredulous?” Raul dabbed at his lip again.

  “He was bleeding more than a little when I left him.”

  “You hit him?”

  “He insulted you, a guest in my father’s house.”

  In the world of men as she knew them, that made more sense. Raul wasn’t defending her honor, but his father’s. “You a minute ago insulted me in exactly the same way, when you asked me to be your mistress!”

  “You encouraged me.”

  She drew herself up to her greatest height. “I did no such thing.”

  “You did. You’re alive, you’re intelligent, you’re well-spoken, you’re spirited.”

  “I’m alive?” A half laugh escaped her. “You have low standards indeed, sir.”

  “Actually, I have very high standards.” He stroked his chin and studied her. “Something about you sets you apart.”

  “Because I’m the only woman ever to tell you no?”

  “There is that.”

  She would have called him conceited, but how could it be conceit when it was true that he attracted women without even trying? For no reasons other than a striking physique, a superficial attractiveness … and because when he looked at a woman, she knew she had his whole attention. And he would willingly use that attention to bring her an excitement she would treasure the rest of her lonely, barren life.

  Oh, no. Victoria could not think that. If she did, she’d forget what she knew of honor and propriety and take his job offer. “My beauty, no doubt, also draws you,” she mocked.

  “I know a lot of beautiful women. You are the one I want to bed. But if you’re sure you won’t be my mistress— ”

  “Absolutely not!”

  “— we’ll have to find another job for you.”

  She was not disappointed that he gave up so easily.

  “Nor am I picking up your soiled laundry.”

  “No, I think probably Thompson does that. Also, I have a cook.” He disappeared into the closet and called,

  “Perhaps you could act as his scullery maid.”

  “No.” She crossed her arms over her chest.

  “I have a housekeeper.” He came out minus his boots and socks. “Perhaps you could act as the under-housekeeper.”

  He was leading up to something, she could tell. “You have a job in mind?”

  He snapped his fingers in fake wonder. “I have an idea!”

  “I’ll wager you do.”

  “You’re a governess of two young ladies of less-than-noble origins. It’s well-known that on your journey through Europe, you polished those girls and their parents to such a shine they’ll be accepted, if not welcome, in English society.”

  “I am well-known? I doubt that. To whom have you been speaking?”

  “Gossip travels faster than any traveling coach.”

  “But not about the governess.”

  “When the governess is pretty, most certainly there is gossip.”

  “Hm.” She didn’t know whether to believe him or not. Then a dreadful thought struck her. “Do you have a child who needs tutoring in etiquette?”

  “No. No wife, no mistress— obviously— and no children, legitimate or otherwise. My own circumstances taught me to be careful to not produce a child on the wrong side of the blanket.”

  She was very pleased to hear that, although why she cared, she could not tell. “Then who … ?”

  “I have relatives.”

  “Relatives,” she repeated.

  “Most of the people living in my castle are relatives. Cousins, mostly, and second cousins, and cousins once removed. And others. It’s a far-flung family with noble roots and ignoble manners.” He sat across from her, rested his elbows on his knees, and leaned toward her, as earnest and charming as any gentleman trying to persuade a lady to accept his plans.

  Unfortunately, he was wearing only his trousers, which distracted her and detracted from the “gentleman” aspect.

  He continued. “There are rumors that my family are descendants of Attila the Hun, who ravaged France and spread his seed far and wide. They say one of his unwilling women stole Attila’s scimitar and, pursued by his wrath, fled to the Pyrenees, to the site of modern Moricadia. There she gave birth to her son in the forest.

  The soil absorbed her sweat and her blood, and only the wild beasts heard his first cries. She raised the boy to be a warrior, and when Saber was fifteen, he forced the mountain tribes to join him and unite to form his kingdom. Saber took the green-eyed dragon as his emblem and used the sword to impose his rule.”

  “Saber,” she repeated.

  “His name.” Raul tapped his bare chest. “My name.”

  “Where’s the scimitar?”

  “No one knows.”

  “You don’t look like I would imagine a descendant of Attila the Hun to look.” Although Raul did look like a warrior. She could imagine him riding a horse, controlling the beast with his thighs. He would swing a scimitar, his hair whipping in the wind. All would fear him … and love him.

  “It’s been seventy generations since that first baby was born. I don’t have the look of a cruel Asian conqueror, but my mother said that her mother said I was born with Attila’s hair.” He took a handful of ends and showed her. “Black, straight, plentiful.”

  “Beautiful hair,” she said.

  As if he were taunting her— he wasn’t, was he? — he lifted his arms and ran his fingers along his scalp, pushing his hair away from his face.

  She did not long to touch it. Or him. “How did your family lose control of the country?”

  “More than two hundred years ago, my ancestor, King Reynaldo, welcomed an upstart French count and his men into the palace in Tonagra. They were treated as honored guests, they feasted, they drank, and when Reynaldo and his guards slept, the de Guignards slaughtered the guards.” Raul’s green eyes grew cold and bleak. “They threw Reynaldo into his own dungeon and secured the country.”

  She knew she would be happier if she remained ignorant, yet still she asked, “What happened to King Reynaldo?”

  “They hanged him, then beheaded him. As a lesson to any of his family who might imagine that they could somehow recover the country, they put his head on display on a spike in Tonagra.”

  She shivered and rubbed her arms.

  Raul nodded. “Yes. The de Guignards are and always have been stained with cruelty and
dishonor. The French king granted them the country as a principality—it wasn’t his to give, but he didn’t let that stop him— to be theirs and to pass down to their heirs as long as they retained control.”

  “If they lose control?”

  “Then the French take the country as their own. But the de Guignards would never willingly let that happen.

  No, they cleverly proclaimed the natural warm and cold springs to be therapeutic and constructed spas to attract the wealthy to the country. Realizing they had not yet tapped into all the riches that could be theirs, they built gaming halls, casinos, hotels. The money flows in; they put it in their coffers… .” He gestured widely. “It stays there. The Moricadian people are starving, ready to revolt, and if they do, it will be a bloodbath. The de Guignards might die, but too many Moricadians will die with them. My family is ready to fight for them, and we will win the day.”

  “Then you’ll be king.”

  “It’s what I have trained for, sacrificed for, planned for, my whole life.”

  Seeing Raul like this— his face strong, his gaze direct—she believed him.

  “When I’m king, I’ll keep my kin close, and to say the least, they haven’t had the advantage of a proper English education. In fact, most of them are no more learned or mannered than the Moricadians we hope to help. So to have a proper court, I need a governess for them.”

  “I see. Perhaps we can come to terms. My salary was forty-eight pounds a year. You believe I’ll be here two months— shall we say four pounds a month and two pounds for every week over two months?”

  “Four pounds a month? That’s blasted expensive.”

  He had the gall to look indignant.

  She began to enjoy herself. “You get what you pay for. Although I admit, I did help Mr. Johnson with his accounting work.”

  “Did you?” Raul had been giving her the Moricadian history, persuading her, coaxing her to do his bidding.

  Suddenly, his charm changed to something quietly, deadly serious. “Whom did he come to Moricadia to work for?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know, or you won’t tell me?”

  She didn’t like the tone of the question, didn’t like realizing Raul had masks he could don and discard at will. “Why do you care?”

  “Because information is power. Whoever it was is moving his fortune out of the country.”

  How did Raul know so much? He really was a man to be treated with care, for if he wore a mask … how did she know which was the true Raul Lawrence? “I saw the books, but there was no name.”

  Raul searched her face as if he could somehow pry the information from her. His fist clenched on his knee.

  “All right. Your employer left the country before he finished the job. Until whoever it was finds another consultant, the money will remain here. For that, let us be grateful.” His fist loosened. The easy charm returned to his face, his bearing. “Now— will you take on the task of civilizing my relatives?”

  Why not? The Johnsons had left her. She had to work.

  “For four pounds a month? Yes.”

  “Done.” He offered his hand.

  She took it, surprised— and suspicious— at his easy capitulation about her salary. “Half in advance,” she added.

  “As you wish.” But he distracted her by trapping her hand in both of his and holding it while he looked in her eyes.

  His fingers were calloused and warm, and he used his thumb to caress her palm.

  The pleasure of that small gesture made her gasp and yank her hand away. “I told you I would not be your mistress.”

  “I know.” Long and lean and contented, he stretched back in his chair. “You rejected my offer of that particular job, and I’m glad of that.”

  She had the feeling he’d somehow manipulated her into the exact position he desired.

  His face settled into the expression of a pasha contemplating his new concubine. “If you had consented, I’d be … fulfilled. And that would be good, but to be a mistress is, in essence, a salaried position. I never thought you’d take the offer. You have too much pride to give yourself for money.”

  “I have other ways of earning a living,” she told him impatiently.

  “I know that.” He stood. “So now, when you come to me, I’ll know you’re there because you’re irresistibly tempted.”

  “I have never been irresistibly tempted in my life.”

  Yet at his challenge, a kind of fear rose in her. Because she’d kissed him once and been swept away, and that, perhaps, left her vulnerable. She was like the person who had suffered pneumonia and was now so weak that she contracted every disease…No, that wasn’t quite right.

  Because she didn’t fear her weakness with other men.

  The disease to which she was susceptible was called Raul Lawrence.

  “You’ve never been irresistibly tempted because I’ve never tried to seduce you.”

  “I thought we agreed that wasn’t going to happen.”

  “No. You refused to be my mistress. But we will be together, in all the ways that count.” He put his hands to the waist of his trousers.

  “Your confidence is misplaced, sir!” She watched as he loosened the buttons. “I am not the kind of woman who … not the kind of— What are you doing?”

  “I was up all night dancing, fomenting, kidnapping, riding back and forth, and playing the fool.” He dropped his trousers and stepped out, leaving him clad only in a white linen undergarment that covered the essentials and no more. “I’m going to bed. Want to join me?”

  She turned her back to him … but not before she got a good look at his thighs.

  “So what did you think of your forbidden view of me?” He was laughing at her; she could tell.

  In her most crushing tone, she said, “In my opinion, you’re excessively muscled for a gentleman.”

  “Proof positive I am no gentleman.”

  She heard rustling, realized he could be sneaking up on her, turned quickly, and got a flash of bare buttocks as he climbed into bed. She covered her eyes with her hands. “What am I supposed to do while you sleep off your bacchanals?”

  “You could join me in bed.”

  With her hands firmly over her eyes, she said, “I believe we already covered that ground, and the answer is no.”

  “Then … Thompson, who is a quite excellent English butler and my right-hand man, is waiting outside the door to conduct you on a tour of the castle.”

  Slowly, she lowered her hands.

  Raul reclined on the pillows, hands clasped behind his head, the covers over his belly, his chest broad and bare. He looked young, handsome, insouciant.

  “Thompson has been standing outside the door waiting for me?”

  “Yes. Why?” Raul’s eyes grew wide, as if he were innocent— which he was not.

  Thompson had been waiting for her? Raul had known she wouldn’t take his offer? This whole dis-course had all been nothing but a play that mocked her, her morals, and her beliefs? He had been stripping to seduce her? “You’re a swine.” She stormed to the door, yanked it open, and turned back. “I hope I don’t disturb your slumber as I arrange my bedchamber to my own satisfaction.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “I’m bored.” Prince Sandre de Guignard pulled a card from his hand and put it on the discard pile.

  Bored? Of course you’re bored. We’re from the most powerful family in Moricadia. We are the two most powerful of the de Guignards . And we’re holed up in your suite in the private quarters of the palace, playing cards.

  But Jean-Pierre didn’t say that. Instead he suggested,

  “We could attend one of the balls at the Hôtel de Tonagra. You always enjoyed those before.”

  But Prince Sandre snapped, “Before what? Before I was disgraced and humiliated in front of the entire country? The entire world? And that was your fault, Jean-Pierre; don’t think I don’t remember that.”

  Jean-Pierre played a card. “Yes, Your Highness, and
I appreciate your kindness in allowing me to retain my position as your most humble servant.”

  “Sometimes, Jean-Pierre, I don’t think you’re humble at all.” But Prince Sandre, dark haired, blue eyed, trim, and athletic, didn’t really believe it.

  For Prince Sandre had lifted Jean-Pierre from his position as the son of the de Guignards ’ biggest slut to being in charge of security and quashing the rumors of revolution. It was true, Jean-Pierre had been spectacularly unsuccessful in keeping Prince Sandre safe, but by the time Prince Sandre had recovered from the “incident,” enough people had been tortured and hanged to satisfy Sandre’s desire for vengeance.

  Or had they?

  Sandre’s behavior puzzled Jean-Pierre.

  He had thought Sandre would come back from the incident in a white-hot fury. He had expected to be dragged to the dungeons and, at best, left to rot. At worst, he thought Sandre would rip out his intestines for a rats’ feast. Instead, Prince Sandre had continued to be a pitiable figure, cowering in his rooms studying his books, unwilling to go out in public for fear he would be mocked, occasionally traveling in a secret coach to the spas, there to sit in an icy spring while complaining in a voice two octaves too high.

  So Jean-Pierre ran the country as it was meant to be run— with the clear intention of crushing the rebellion right out of the Moricadian peasants. For rumors were rife among them that the true king was coming to free them from de Guignard oppression, and Jean-Pierre intended to kill those rumors, and the people who spread them.

  But in his spare time, he was reduced to babysitting his princely cousin, a man who now wallowed in cowardice. He told Prince Sandre, “We have a prisoner in the dungeon. I was going to hang him in the morning in the public square in lower Tonagra. Would you like to hang him now instead?”

  “I won’t go out in public!” Sandre sounded like a petulant child.

  “It’s night. If you wear a cloak and a broad-brimmed hat, no one would recognize you.” Indeed, it had been long enough since Sandre had been out in public that he could disappear completely and no one would know…

  Jean-Pierre’s thought surprised him. Shocked him.

  He lived to serve Prince Sandre.

  Yet … what did Sandre expect? It was Sandre himself who had turned Jean-Pierre into this monster who killed and tortured, whose mere appearance caused men to cower and women and children to flee. Sandre had taught Jean-Pierre ruthlessness. If Prince Sandre were as smart as Jean-Pierre had always believed, he would have known the results of that training could be deadly … to him.