by Tamara Gill
Honestly, Luce, kindly remember this is a crisis you’re facing, not a potential date!
“Like what you see?” He laughed, and the rich, bawdy sound filled the room, managing if only for a moment to mask her galloping pulse.
Flames way hotter than those in the hearth crept up her cheeks. “I-I can’t imagine what you mean.”
“Ah, which must be why your cheeks blush like the rose.” His lips curved into a slow smile as his gaze dropped to her breasts. “Also like the rose, your buds are reaching out to me. Begging to be taken into my mouth?”
Dear Lord!
Lucy crossed her arms in the hopes that maybe if she covered her buds, the prince would stop talking about them.
Wrong!
All that made him do was take a step closer. Even worse, that conquering look was back in his eyes. The one that said she was about to become his and he knew full well her resistance was futile.
“Most of the fairer sex come to me without coaxing,” he noted. “But the ones I must woo... Ah, now those are the wenches I most enjoy.”
What to do, what to do?
Call the hospital for an ambulance?
Summon the police?
Go with it—him? With his dark eyes promising the kinds of pleasures of which she’d never dared dream...
No! What was she thinking?
She couldn’t, wouldn’t have sex with a stranger.
Besides which, she loved William. Granted, ten whole minutes of kissing her almost fiancé didn’t leave her this flushed, but that was because William was civilized and this nut...well, suffice to say, he wasn’t!
While Lucy had been deep in conference with herself, the prince had taken yet another step toward her. He now stood close enough to wreath her in his distinctly masculine, distinctly heady scents: the sweat, the musky, mossy pond. The spirit and ego as big as the whole outdoors.
“Well?” he braced his hands on his hips. “Are ye leading me to your slumber chamber? Or shall we proceed with storming the castle, then have our tryst in my rightful bed?”
Lucy licked her lips.
He sighed. “Your pretense of not wanting me grows as tiresome as your questions. If it is your reputation or conscience gnawing you, trust me, no man or woman would dare think less of you for bedding a prince.”
“Thanks.” Lucy took his latest unbelievably self-aggrandizing statement about as well as a bucket of cold minnows to her face. “That truly does make me feel much more comfortable about this whole matter. So comfortable, in fact, I feel the sudden urge to slip into something more comfortable. Do you mind waiting here while I run upstairs?”
“Aye, as a point of fact, I do mind. But since at the moment I am rather indebted to you, I suppose just this once I could put my needs beneath yours.”
“Really? Just this once? How kind of you, dear prince.” After blowing him a mocking kiss, she made a mad dash for the stairs.
The police and an ambulance! That’s who she’d call the instant she entered her room.
She’d just picked up the phone from her bedside table when, from outside her window—the same window she’d left cracked open that morning—came the sound of a determined knock on the mudroom door.
“Lucy?” bellowed the duke. “Be a dear and hurry up and let me in. This damnable rain has started up again.”
Heart racing, she looked from the bedroom door to the window.
What had she been thinking?
If she called the police, they’d be out in a flash, sirens blaring. Talk about a stunner to the duke’s sterling reputation. She was already in trouble with the school headmaster. Could she really afford any additional scandal now that William was on the verge of proposing? If only she could convince the prince to quietly be on his way, then no one but Luke would ever be the wiser—and he thought she’d made the whole thing up!
Decision made, she opened the bedroom window wider and called down, “Hi, pumpkin! Be right there!” Palms sweating, pulse surging, Lucy stripped, made a few half-hearted swipes with a hot washcloth at her back and chest, then dressed in jeans and a burnt orange sweater, finishing by pulling on thick orange socks and shoving her feet into her favorite pair of red rubber mules.
In under three minutes, she dashed down the stairs to thankfully find the prince back on the sofa, aiming a bemused grin her direction.
He said, “I take it the nobleman caterwauling at your door is the justification for your need to be discreet where the matter of you and I are concerned?”
“Hide!” she begged in a fervent whisper.
“A man of my station does not hide,” he said with a less-than-amused snort. “Besides which, if your nobleman harbors any desire to better himself, surely even he will see the benefits of having his woman bed the prince?”
Another knock sounded at the mudroom door. This one harder than the first. Then came a muffled, “Lucy! Hurry along, will you? I’m getting rather soaked.”
Rather soaked.
She did so love William’s unassuming manner of speech—as opposed to the brash ways of the crazed naked vagabond lounging on her sofa!
To the prince, she said, “Please. If you have an honorable bone in your body, just this once hide. William already puts up with a lot from me. This—you—he just wouldn’t understand.”
The prince eyed her, making her feel as if she were under his appraisal, as if he were gauging her worth. After what felt like an eternity, he notched his chin a fraction higher, and said, “The fire’s warmth has put me in a charitable mood. I shall recline, but I shall not lower myself to hide. “ The spin he put on the word made it akin to burning at the stake.
Geesh, who did this guy think he was?
Shoulders sagging with temporary relief, Lucy ran for the front door, but then came a knock from the back.
“Determined chap,” the prince noted dryly from the sofa.
“Shut up,” Lucy said on her way to the back door.
“What was that?” William asked above the rain that now fell in drumming sheets.
“Go around to the front,” she hollered, animatedly jiggling the handle. “This, um, lock is stuck.”
“What?” Through the small window, she saw him cup his right hand to his ear.
She resorted to pointing toward the front.
He nodded and, by the time she opened the mudroom door, he was there, pushing his way inside.
“Frightfully nasty night,” he said with a shiver. “Got any scotch?”
“Um, no.” She glanced toward the kitchen, half expecting the naked prince to stroll in. “Um, all I have is milk—and, um...it’s sour.”
He made a face. “No rum? Brandy? Hell’s bells, on a night like this, I believe I’d even be content with a spot of Yank ale.”
She shook her head.
“Least you’ve finally discovered how to get a good fire going,” he’d already unbuttoned yellow foul-weather gear. “Guess I’ll have to settle for that.” Smiling, he leaned forward to give her a kiss. “And a little more of that.”
She returned his smile, then inwardly screamed.
William couldn’t go anywhere near that fire!
What if he thought she’d actually invited the naked prince into her home? What if he thought she was carrying on some outrageous affair? What if he not only thought all of that, but then broke up with her? Demanded she find alternate accommodations? He was on the board of her school. What if the headmaster told him about her latest transgression? She’d be fired for sure. It’d be like living through the World Biological Conference debacle all over again.
William cocked his head. “You’re acting rather peculiar, Luce, and I think I know why.”
You do?!
“Oh?” She drew her lower lip into her mouth and nibbled.
“Cotswold County has a relatively small population, my dear.” He gave her hand a squeeze. “Surely, you didn’t think that by now I wouldn’t have heard?”
“Well...” Biting hard on her lip, she hazarded another
glance toward the kitchen.
“The part that sincerely troubles me, though, is why you think I’d even care you had another spat with the headmaster.” Placing his still rain-chilled fingers beneath her chin, he tilted her head back, coaxing her to meet his gaze. “I find myself growing more than merely fond of you, Lucy Gordon. Every crazy, minx-filled inch of you intoxicates me. You can trust me. All I ask in return is the same respect. The same honesty. Can you give me those things?”
Tell him, her conscience screamed. You’ll never get a better chance to come clean about the prince.
She wanted to tell him.
Truly, she did, but her mouth went dry, making it a technical impossibility for her to even squeak, let alone speak, so she settled for a nod.
“All right, then. Lead me to the fire, fair maiden.”
“No!”
“No?”
“I mean, wouldn’t you rather we head back to your place? I mean, I have nothing to eat or drink and, anyway, my fire’s about to go out.”
“Funny. It looked rather healthy through the back windows.”
“Yeah, well, you know how that thick old glass distorts things.”
He scrunched his nose.
“Besides, everything’s a mess. I’ve, um, been so busy with school that I haven’t had a chance to tidy.”
“Oh. Well, seeing how I fancy myself a bit of a neatnik, I suppose I can see where that sort of thing may matter. But I promise a small mess won’t have me thinking less of you.”
Small mess? She nearly choked.
Nothing about the naked giant camped in her living room could be called small!
“Thank you, William, but I’d really rather keep my messy side a secret.” She winked. At least until our fiftieth wedding anniversary.
“I must say, I’m finding this show of intrigue most becoming, while at the same time maddening.”
Smiling—dying—she shrugged.
He pulled her into his arms for another kiss. A safe kiss. A kiss that warmed her to her toes and made her feel secure. Not in danger of drowning in a most pleasurable abyss of wickedly dark-eyed medieval sin!
Shoulders sagging with relief that she was on the verge of making a clean escape, Lucy reached for her red rain slicker while William opened the door.
Outside, still more rain fell in undulating, silvery sheets, pounding the earth and drumming up a moist mossy smell that much to Lucy’s dismay reminded her of the wholly masculine scent of the prince’s chest.
Cheeks glowing, she ushered the duke outside.
Still beneath the sheltering roof of her small porch, he asked, “Are you quite certain you wouldn’t rather stay here?”
She shook her head. “Really, let’s go.”
“If you insist, give me your hand.”
She’d done just that, congratulating herself on a mission well done, when...
“Oh, wench!?” the prince boomed from the living room. “Before you go, could I trouble you for a spot of ale?”
Nose scrunched, eyebrows furrowed, William stepped back inside, dragging her along with him. Glancing first at her, then at the fire’s orange glow dancing on the dining room walls, he asked, “Might there be something you’d like to tell me?”
“Um...” Lucy nibbled her lower lip.
“Wench! This reclining has brought on a most infuriating thirst!”
The duke frowned, looking to Lucy, then the kitchen, before heading in the direction of the booming voice.
“No!” Lucy blocked the kitchen pass-thru with arms and legs spread wide. “Don’t go!”
“Mind telling me why?”
Think, Luce, think!
“Um...” Lower lip between her teeth, furiously twirling a curl with her right pinkie, legs still apart, she said, “I’m, ah, taping a movie in there on the telly, and my, ah, ancient VCR is so sensitive any little movement throws off the tape.”
He made a face. “That’s preposterous. No one uses tape technology anymore. Let me pass.”
“No—really.” She lunged for him, pressing her palms to his smooth cotton sweater. The navy blue pullover was still damp from the rain, and he smelled faintly of his cook’s beef stew and of the cedar closet in which he stored all of his sweaters. After they married, hers would smell the same, and she’d have beef stew every night until she grew big as a house and William wouldn’t care because he loved her for her—not her waistline. She was so lucky to have found him. No way was that stupid naked prince in her living room going to ruin a whole life of cozy woolen hugs and beef stew she’d never even have to chop onions for! “Trust me, William,” she implored. “It’s a super old VCR. Made in Bulglammabhad. Really sad workmanship, but you can’t blame the people—they’re starving and the working conditions are deplorable. Maybe you should bring the subject up next time you see the king?”
At that he laughed, drawing her into a hug. “First off, there is no such place and, second, you know full well there’s nothing the king could do. He’s only a figurehead in our country, darling. Now, Parliament, they’re the ones with power to promote change.”
“You’re so smart.” Lucy brandished a wide grin. “Parliament—yes, that’s exactly what I was thinking. Let’s form some sort of relief-effort over steaming bowls of Cook’s stew.”
“How did you know she made stew?”
“I smell it on you, silly.” She crushed him in another hug. “Mmm, you smell all warm and cuddly—like a teddy bear.”
“A teddy bear, eh?” He preened. “I rather like the sound of that.”
“Wench! My ale!”
Pulse racing, Lucy rolled her eyes, hoping to achieve a properly bored demeanor. “Honestly, I don’t know why I’m even bothering to record this program. Entirely too repetitive, and not a lick of educational quality. Maybe you also should take that up with the king?”
“Ah, Luce,” he ruffled her hair while guiding her back toward the door. “How dull my life would be without you.”
“Wench!”
“I say,” the duke peered over his shoulder as Lucy ushered him out the door. “That is a rather redundant program. Wouldn’t you rather turn it off altogether?”
“Nah,” Lucy pulled the door firmly closed behind her. “Why waste time on that bore, when I’d rather focus on you?”
When she beamed up at him, he kissed her forehead, then reached for her hand, jolting her out of her cozy cottage and into cold, driving rain. “Last one to the castle is a rotten fruit cake!”
Thoroughly befuddled euphemisms aside, Lucy had never felt warmer—or more relieved.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Now, that was a bloody good spot of stew,” the duke said an hour later, from his burgundy leather wing chair in front of the study’s crackling fire.
Lucy sat beside him on an overstuffed peacock-blue velveteen abomination of a seat that, while horribly undignified, held her butt like a skilled lover—not that she’d ever had one of those to know what such a thing would even feel like. But...
If the prince is still in your cottage, you could know soon enough.
Lucy cupped her hands to flaming cheeks.
“Care for another spot of brandy?”
“No, thank you,” she said, grateful for the distraction. “If I have anymore, I’ll end up seeing spots.”
“We mustn’t have that,” William rubbed the sole of her left foot with the toes of his right. Between their chairs sat a plump paisley suede ottoman, upon which both of them rested their sock-covered feet. “After all, one must keep up appearances and such.” He winked.
Lucy’s lukewarm pink cheeks flamed soiled-lady red!
Could he know about the prince and all this time he’d been waiting for her to broach the topic? No. No way, could he possibly, unless...
Ruth Haweberry.
But surely even she wasn’t that efficient?
The duke cleared his throat, swirled his brandy before taking a leisurely sip. Outside, driving rain pelted ancient windows. Inside, the merry fire d
anced to the soothing strains of highbrow classical music.
Outside, cold.
Inside, hot.
So why was she fending off a horrific case of shivers?
Gee, could it be because if this wonderful man knows about the prince, you know you’re toast?
“Cold, darling?” He set his brandy on a mahogany side table, planting his feet on the floor before leaning forward to massage her arches.
“Not at all.”
“Why the shivers?”
“What shivers?”
He laughed. “Darling, Luce, are you ever going to feel you can trust me?”
She gulped. “Trust you with what?” The knowledge that there’s an over two-hundred-pound naked prince back in my cottage wanting to jump my bones? “Did Ruth Haweberry contact you again?”
“Darling, please.” Fingers curled over the elongated ice cubes that used to be her toes, he said, “You’ve been jumpy as a stable kitten all evening, and for no reason. Everyone knows Ruth Haweberry’s one biscuit short of a whole tin. Do you honestly think for one second I’d believe her latest yarn about you?”
“Well...” She nibbled her lower lip. “There was that incident with the baby lamb and my student Rebecca’s birthday.”
“And I told you,” he gave her toes a gentle squeeze, “as long as you brought the baby back—sans its nappy and dress, everything would be fine. And it was, wasn’t it?”
Nibbling her lower lip, she nodded.
“Granted, my land manager reports that the poor thing would still rather live in your cottage than the fields, but—”
“William, I told you I was—”
“Shh...” Leaning closer still, he ever-so-softly pressed his index finger to her lips. “I’ve already told you. It doesn’t matter. Just as Ruth’s ridiculous story about you traipsing through town with a naked giant doesn’t matter—how could it when I fear that, even if such a tale were true, I’d still hold a fierce longing for you?”
“You would—I mean, do?” She gulped. Lightning had nothing on Ruth!
“Of course, I do. You must be daft if over these past few months you haven’t realized.” As if admitting such a thing might be the death of him, he picked up his brandy for a chug that would’ve done any American frat house proud—that is, assuming he’d have traded his brandy for beer. When he’d consumed enough liquid courage to once again look her way, he lifted the corners of his lips into a gentle smile that turned his normally intense gaze to a welcoming sea of blue.
