The Prince Kidnaps a Bride

by Christina Dodd

  Arnou’s hearty tone broke her concentration. “Here’s our dinner. I’ve spread it out on the blanket and you can have what you like. How about a beef pie? Or a haunch of roasted coney? I’ve got fresh bread and cheese... ” His voice trailed off. “That’s a funny look on your face, and you’re standing on your toes.”

  Abashed, she returned to earth with a thump. Nonchalantly she strolled toward him. “I thought I heard something.”

  “Really?” He scanned the vista worriedly. “I didn’t. Was it a fairy?”

  “A fairy. Don’t be ridiculous, Arnou.” The scent of the meat pie struck her nose with sweet violence. She dropped to her knees on the blanket and considered the feast before her. “My heavens. You got so much. We’ll never be able to eat all this.”

  “You’d be surprised.” He tore a leg off the coney and handed it to her. “Besides, we don’t know what’s on the road ahead. I’ll pack the leftovers and we’ll have them until they’re gone. By then we’ll be in Edinburgh. For now—eat up, Sorcha.”

  She sank her teeth into the sweet meat, and her eyes closed as the rich flavor filled her mouth. Without taking a breath, she ate until she held only a bone, and opened her eyes only when she heard his soft chuckle. “What?”

  “A man would pay good money to see that look of ecstasy on his woman’s face.”

  “All you have to do is feed me,” she said cheerfully, and extended her hand for more food.

  He still smiled as if he knew something she didn’t. He cut the round end of the bread, dug out the soft insides, and filled the makeshift bowl with a scoop of meat pie. Then he handed it across and as she ate with hearty enjoyment, he slowly did the same for himself. She thought it odd that he seemed to enjoy watching her more than filling his stomach, but she was hungry enough not to care. “Whoever made this was the real beautiful fairy,” she said.

  “Your beautiful fairy was the baker’s wife, and she’s ugly, talented, and amenable to a flirtation.” Arnou mischievously wiggled his eyebrows. “I secured the baker’s dinner for us.”

  That made Sorcha stop eating. “You flirted with the baker’s wife?”

  “I made the sacrifice for your appetite,” he assured her.

  A smile played at the corners of his lips and it struck her that here, in the sunshine with no threat for miles, he looked almost young. Beneath the black stubble of his beard, the deep lines that usually bracketed his mouth relaxed. His eye drooped with sleepy amusement. In the safety of the stone circle, he looked like a totally different person, not at all the buffoonish Arnou but rather a man who could romance dinner from any woman at any time.

  “How old are you?” That sounded abrupt, and she stammered, “I... I mean, I thought you were younger than me.”

  “Why did you think that?”

  She remembered his bumbling at the convent, his astonishment at her defense of herself during the attack, the way he’d looked plastered against the wall at the house of ill repute, surrounded by amused prostitutes. “You just don’t seem to have too many... skills.”

  “I’m a man of hidden talents.” He tore off a chunk of crust, thrust it in his mouth, chewed, and swallowed.

  “So how old are you?”

  He turned his dark gaze on her. “Twenty-seven.”

  Older than her. She would never have suspected. “Do you have any family?”

  “Dead.”

  She regretted asking; his single, abrupt word disturbed the peace of this place. Yet she found herself driven to know more about this companion who had made himself her champion. “I’m sorry. Do you have anyone at all you care for?”

  “I have a whole country of people I care for.” He finished his pie, ate the bread, and dug around in the saddlebag, until he pulled out a squat brown bottle. He removed the cork with his teeth. “I also have whisky. Would you like some?” He offered it, his silly grin in place.

  “Yes. Thank you.” She didn’t have a cup, but obviously he thought nothing of that. So she tilted the bottle up and drank. The whisky stung her throat, cleared her sinuses, made her eyes water and her head spin.

  When she lowered the bottle, she discovered he watched her with his mouth half open.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Aren’t you going to cough?”

  “After so many days of dirty water and grainy wine, the liquor tastes clean.” She drank again, then handed him the bottle.

  Cautiously he sniffed the contents, then drank and wheezed.

  She laughed, and, overcome with the joy of the meal and the company and this special place, and courted by the breeze, she stood, extended her arms, and twirled in an exuberant circle. She heard him call her name, but that sense of being lifted filled her again. She rose onto her toes and swayed in time to the music of the wind. And the wind responded, catching her in its arms and dancing with her. It sent her running through the springlike sunshine like an exuberant child, taught her to dip and sway, all for the pure pleasure of movement. The yellow flowers, the green grass, the ancient gray stones whirled across her vision, and all the while she was aware of the rough brown blanket and Arnou watching her as if he couldn’t take his gaze away.

  She didn’t stop until the wind died, a slow dwindling that left her standing by the blanket, panting, exhilarated, and uplifted.

  “Sorcha.” Arnou’s deep voice called her name with vibrant authority. When she opened her eyes—when had she closed them?—she saw him extending a rosy-skinned, perfect apple.

  “Ohh.” She sank to her knees beside him. Accepting the apple, she breathed in the scent of summer’s heat and autumn’s harvest. She sank her teeth into the ripe fruit. The taste slid across her tongue, the perfect blend of tart and sweet, and she’d never sampled anything as glorious as that single bite of apple—until Arnou removed the ripe globe from her fingers, leaned close, and put his mouth on hers.

  Chapter 13

  In the heat of the noontime hour, in the silence of the stone ring, Arnou’s kiss seemed as natural as Sorcha’s dance with the frisking breeze. She held herself still, absorbing the sensation of his lips on hers, wondering in an abstracted way what caused the humble, bumbling Arnou to take such an action. Then the warmth of the moment dissolved thought. Her lips opened under the delicate pressure of his and the flavor of him was like honey on her tongue.

  He must have thought the same about her, for he murmured, “Sweet,” and the movement of his lips plucked at nerves she hadn’t known existed.

  He smelled like this valley: fresh, wild, unfettered. Even with her eyes closed, she would always recognize his odor... and her eyes were closed now.

  When had that happened? It seemed so natural to share this moment with him, to be intimate as she had never been intimate with any man.

  His hand cradled her chin, and the calluses on his palm and his fingers paid tribute to the work he’d done as a sailor. As a man.

  His lips left hers and coasted up to press on her cheeks, her eyelids... then down to caress the tender spot at the base of her ear.

  As his breath caressed her neck, she shivered with delight. She knew that men kissed women; after being sent into exile in England, she’d lived with a kind couple who expressed their affections with an occasional peck on the mouth.

  But this was different. Arnou’s kisses were rich, laden with the cream of experience and the honey of desire. She wanted to revel in each moment that he pressed his lips to her skin. When he kissed her throat, she heard herself give a faint moan, as if her body couldn’t resist giving the most primitive kind of applause for his skill.

  And when she moaned, he lifted his head and stared down at her face.

  She felt the heat of his gaze, but the warmth of his passion had permeated her bones and she could scarcely lift her lids. When she did, she saw that his pupil was dilated so large the deep brown of his iris was almost invisible. She fancied she could see right into the depths of his soul, and she smiled, a slow, languid curve of the lips, wanting him to know how very m
uch his worship had meant to her.

  “You silly girl.” His voice rasped as if his throat were swollen. “Do you think that this is safe?”

  “Safe? Of course. I trust you.” The chill of doubt touched her. “Shouldn’t I?”

  “Not at all.” Moving to his side of the blanket, he lay down, closed his eye, and was absolutely still and so rigid he seemed to be fighting against some great pain.

  She didn’t know what that pain could be, but it left her the only one on alert.

  She glanced around her. The air was so clear, this place was so high, she could see for miles in every direction. Nothing moved on the road, nothing moved in the valley, nothing moved on the hills. Even the horses, grazing not far away, looked thin and small. It was almost as if the fairies really had created this place and wove spells to protect it. If someone out there hunted her, he was nowhere in sight.

  With a sigh of relief, she cleaned up the dinner, wrapping the remains of their meal in brown paper. If they were careful, they had enough provisions for the next two days. The rain had slowed their journey into Edinburgh, but if it stayed as dry as it was today, that would be enough. She brushed the crumbs off the middle of the blanket, placed the saddlebag beside them, and at last gave in to her most pressing need... and stared at Arnou.

  Tension no longer gripped him. He had slipped into sleep, making up for the wakeful night spent scouting their next move. The rag over his eye cut her view of his face, but relaxed in slumber and untouched by foolishness, he had the appearance of youth, of nobility.

  And Mother Brigette would point out that that was a lesson for Sorcha. She had listened to his inanities, been annoyed by his constant broad grin, and been unable to see the virtue of his features.

  For some reason, she wanted to gaze at him, to linger over his face, his form... touch him, kiss him as he’d kissed her.

  As she subsided beside him on the blanket, she wondered—why had he kissed her? It had seemed the act of a man driven by impulse. Knowing Arnou, that was what it was.

  But why? Did he find her attractive? Did a man find her, with her carrot hair and pale, freckled skin... desirable? She could scarcely imagine such a thing.

  Of course, it was just Arnou, and if Rainger were alive and here, he would point out that Arnou was an idiot.

  Very well. It was true. But Arnou was a kind idiot. A brave idiot. He might cringe away from actual fighting, but even knowing full well someone stalked her, he still traveled with her.

  And lately he hadn’t seemed so ridiculous. He’d shown moments of intelligence, of shrewdness.

  She flattered herself that the hours with her had improved his mind and his manner, and perhaps in the future he would be able to improve himself and his situation... .

  But none of that answered the question of why he’d kissed her—and when he would kiss her again.

  Taking her hat, she placed it over her face, easing the sunshine that was bright even over her closed eyelids... and as she reminisced about that kiss, she slid into slumber.

  Rainger knew where he was—asleep on a blanket in the middle of a stone circle in the middle of the Scottish Highlands.

  He knew his mission—to retrieve Princess Sorcha, return her to Beaumontagne, marry her, and use her army to rescue Richarte.

  He knew the danger—robbers, starvation, winter, assassins. Sorcha might rebel and decline, as her sisters had, to follow her destiny.

  But he could meet every challenge.

  Only his own weakness brought on the nightmare.

  Only his own weakness... .

  “Rainger, you can’t go see the countess.” Marlon was the only one who dared speak as they all wished. “It’s too dangerous.”

  “I have to.” Seventeen-year-old Rainger stared down his nose at the small coterie of his friends: Cezar, Hector, Emilio, Hardouin, and Marlon. Men who had been raised with him and trained to serve and guard him at all costs. “I love her. She sent me a note. She’s worried about me. I must have one more night in fair Julienne’s arms.” He was very aware of how romantic he looked: hanging from the trellis below Julienne’s balcony, sword at his side, shoulders squared, dark eyes flashing with passion. He imagined himself to be the epitome of the quixotic cavalier, and his chest swelled with pride.

  He was the crown prince of Richarte, marching off to war to save his country from the evil usurper, but first he would have one last night of bliss. His danger was great, yes, but her peril was even greater, for the evil usurper was her own husband, Count duBelle.

  “Stand guard,” he told his friends, and continued his climb up Count duBelle’s trellis into Count duBelle’s bedchamber, where he would pork Count duBelle’s wife. He grasped the heavy branches of the vine and lighter wood of the trellis with his gloved hands, boosting himself higher up the wall and closer to his love.

  Cezar, Hector, Emilio, Hardouin, and Marlon. Three were older. Two were his age. All were dashing cavaliers of the realm.

  None approved of this adventure.

  “Where is she? If she wrote you a note, why isn’t she hanging over the balcony waiting for you? I tell you, I don’t like this.” Cezar’s dark hair and eyes most closely matched Rainger’s; he was his third cousin, two years older, and the handsomest of the group.

  But Rainger had been the man Julienne had chosen. “You’re jealous,” he said.

  “For God’s sake, Rainger, this isn’t a game. They’re hunting us.” Cezar’s voice lashed at Rainger like a whip.

  For a moment, cold reason plucked at Rainger’s mind. Since the death of his father the king, the insurgents had grown strong. They said he was young, spoiled, and unfit for rule. The royal Richarte army waited on the precipice of battle for him, their young prince, to lead them and prove his worthiness.

  Instead he was hanging on a trellis following the demands of his cock rather than the thoughts of his brain. Staring down at his friends, he wondered if Cezar was right, if he should run while he could and take his pleasure later.

  Then the branch he clung to broke. He lost his toehold, hung by the other arm, flailed about for a handhold... felt foolish.

  Typically, his friends would be pointing at him, braying with laughter like the jackasses they were.

  Instead they were deathly silent, as if they were too somber, too important, too weighed down with serious matters to behave normally.

  And that infuriated him.

  Did they really think they were so much smarter, so much more mature? Did they really think he was cosseted and indulged? He’d show them.

  Gaining his balance, he continued his climb, more carefully now, with less concern for the way he appeared and more concern for reaching his destination.

  He was grateful Julienne hadn’t seen him make a fool of himself. But Cezar was right. Where was she? Why wasn’t she waiting on the balcony?

  He inched and scrabbled his way up and over the marble balusters. Lightly he landed on the balcony. He eyed the open door and the closed drapes. Warning jangled along his nerves.

  Where was Julienne?

  He glanced down at his friends below. They stood together in a little group, muttering disgustedly.

  Rainger couldn’t climb down. He couldn’t admit he might be wrong.

  He loosened his sword in its scabbard and crept forward. He parted the drapes.

  And there she was, posed against the headboard, exquisitely nude and bathed in the glow of a single bedside candle—Julienne, Countess duBelle, his first and best lover.

  “Darling.” In that single word, her warm, rich voice promised every sort of pleasure. She held out her arms. “Come to me.”

  Prudence, deliberation, logic flew from his brain. He entered the room in a rush, intent on one thing—sinking into her body, riding her hard, then doing it again.

  He put all his ardent admiration and desire into his embrace.

  She chuckled and wiggled away. “Darling, so many medals and buttons. Quickly. Quickly! Disrobe for me. Show me your marvelous yo
ung body and your massive manhood.”

  For a single second, discretion returned. She had never wanted him to be quick before. If anything, she had complained about the speed at which his needs drove him.

  Then she smiled... and leisurely licked her full, ruby-colored lips.

  He didn’t need a second urging. He ripped off his clothes, flinging garments willy-nilly across the room. His coat, his belt... his sword, his pistol... his boots, his breeches. In record time, he stood naked before her, strong, young, virile, flaunting an erection she claimed surpassed any she could imagine, and certainly Count duBelle’s.

  “Very good, darling. Now wait just a minute... .” She stretched her arms above her head, lifting the heavy globes of her breasts in a glorious display.

  Lust surged through him. He trembled, he needed, he could barely see, scarcely hear—

  Until from behind him, he heard the snick of many blades being drawn.

  Whirling, he faced seven swords pointed at him. Seven cavaliers dressed in Count duBelle’s livery held those swords.

  They looked him over, and they were grinning.

  One thought flashed through Rainger’s mind: He had to protect Julienne. “Get behind me, darling!” he shouted.

  She slid off the bed behind him.

  He placed himself between her and the sharp points.

  She moved to one side, then to the other.

  He moved with her, keeping his gaze on the swords. His own sword... he’d carelessly tossed it toward the windows. His pistol... he’d placed it on the bedstand, but every time he moved that way, the cavaliers drove him away.