Cordina's Royal Family Collection

by Nora Roberts

  “Who said I expect you to keep them off me?” She closed her teeth lightly over his chin. “Who said I want you to? I think …” She brushed her lips teasingly at the comer of his mouth. “I’m making it very clear what I expect. What I want.”

  “You’re making a mistake.”

  “Maybe.” She felt his hand grip her calf, then run firmly up to her thigh. And triumph lit her eyes. “So what?”

  He couldn’t come up with an answer, not when his system was screaming for her. He slid his hand over her hip until he could mold that lovely bottom. “You’re taking advantage of me.”

  “I certainly am.” She brought her mouth a breath closer. “Do you want me to stop? Now? Or do you want …” She nipped her teeth teasingly into his lower lip, chewed gently, released. “More?”

  Either way, it was probably going to kill him. But if he was going to die, he’d damn well die happy. “All or nothing.”

  “All then,” she agreed and closed her mouth over his.

  The first flash of heat stole his breath. It bolted through him, a lightning strike of power and electricity. He’d have sworn he felt every circuit in his brain fry.

  The hand on her dug in reflexively, then clawed up to her back and fisted in her shirt. Impatient, nearly desperate, he yanked. And the jolt of pain had him swearing.

  “No, no, let me. Just let me.” She all but crooned it, running her lips over his face, his throat, bringing them back to his for a deep and drowning kiss. “I’m mad for your body.”

  His groan had nothing to do with pain as she ranged hot kisses over his chest, down to his belly and back again. Her low, humming sounds of approval seemed to vibrate from her and into him until he was trapped somewhere between pleasure and pain.

  Aching to touch her he worked his hands between their bodies to find her breasts.

  Breath unsteady, she sat back, shivered once. Then that slow female smile spread over her face. Watching him watching her, she reached for the buttons of her shirt, flipping them open one, by one, by one.

  “I’m in charge this time,” she told him and slowly peeled off the shirt. “You’ll just have to lie there and take it.”

  “You got me up here for this, didn’t you?”

  She tilted her head, reached behind to unclasp her bra. “Yes. So?”

  As the bra fell away and those lovely white breasts spilled out, he let out a long breath. “So. I appreciate it.”

  “Good. Touch me. I’ve spent hours at night wanting you to touch me.”

  He skimmed his fingers over her, saw her eyes cloud. “I wasn’t going to let this happen.”

  “I wasn’t going to give you any choice. Oh, mon dieu, tes mains.” His hands, his wonderful hands, big and strong and rough with calluses.

  She was rose-petal soft, just as he’d imagined. He wanted to be gentle, careful with her. But he couldn’t stop himself. And when she leaned over, bracing her weight on her arms, to mate her mouth with his again, his hands took more, took greedily.

  He shifted, swore again as he fought against the protest of his ribs. “I need … I want …” His weight on her, his mouth on her. And though his side throbbed at the move, he managed to roll over.

  “Wait. You’ll hurt yourself.”

  “Shut up, shut up, shut up.” Half mad for her, he scraped his teeth over the curve of her shoulder, breathed in her skin like a wolf scenting its mate. And had them both moaning when his mouth roamed down to her breast.

  So hot, she thought as sensations battered her. His mouth, his skin, so hot against hers. As if they both raged with fever. His heartbeat was a gallop, and so was hers, as they raced to take more of each other. The weight of him was glorious, sinking her into the thin mattress and making her think of swimming beneath thunderous clouds.

  To want and be wanted like this, for only herself, made her giddy and strong. And so very sure.

  The thrill of it had her hands combing restlessly through his hair, digging urgently into his back as his muscles bunched.

  Beneath them the bed creaked, overhead the rain drummed incessantly on the roof. Candlelight danced in the damp breeze that whispered through the open window.

  And denim strained against denim as she arched beneath him. This time she quivered as he fought with the button of her jeans.

  So soft, so tasty. And so ready, he thought, breathless as he fought her zipper down. She was already moving against him, those sexy little whimpers sounding in her throat. His mind was full of her, the scent, the shape, the flavor.

  And he wanted more.

  His fingers slid down, over the thin barrier of cotton, under it to the heat. Her whimpers became moans, and moans became quick, mindless gasps. When she erupted beneath him, he pressed his face to her belly and shuddered with her.

  When his mouth roamed lower, she gripped the bedspread and prepared for the next onslaught on her senses. Her mind was hazed, her body a churning mass of needs and pleasures as sensations tumbled over and through her. It was staggering to feel so much, and still crave more.

  He tugged the jeans over her hips, greedy for the next flash of flesh. And his bad shoulder gave out from under him. She let out a yelp of surprise when he collapsed on her. And while he cursed, violently, she began to laugh.

  “It’s all right, it’s all right. Merde! My head’s spinning. Let me help. Let me do it.”

  “Just a damn minute.”

  “I can’t wait a minute.” Still laughing, she wriggled, writhed and managed to drag herself free. Half naked and vibrating, she shoved and pulled until he rolled on his back again.

  His face was fierce with frustration and temper, and only made her laugh harder.

  “When I get my breath back, I’m going to wallop you.”

  “Yes, yes, I’m terrified.” She scooted around on the bed, then had saliva pooling in his mouth as she wiggled out of the jeans. Temper, he admitted as she slipped off her panties, seemed a waste of time. Under the circumstances.

  “Come back here.”

  “I intend to. But now.” She reached over, unbuttoned his jeans. “Let’s just get these out of the way. My hands are trembling,” she said with a half laugh holding them out. “It’s yours that have made them unsteady. I love the way they feel on me.”

  She yanked and tugged, pulling off jeans and shorts at the same time. Then her gaze roamed over him. Lingered.

  “Oh. My.” She drew in, then let out, a long breath. “Well, I did say there was a lot of you.” Her eyes glinted with a combination of amusement and desire as she slid her body over his. “Put your hands on me again. Del, kiss me again.”

  “Bossy, aren’t you?” But he cupped a hand at her nape and brought her mouth down to his.

  She wallowed in the kiss, and it went slow and soft and deep. And when his hands moved over her, she felt the kiss edge over to urgent. “Tell me you want me,” she murmured. “Say my name. Say my name and that you want me.”

  “Camilla.” Her name echoed again and again in his head. “I want you.”

  She shifted, rose over him. And with her pulse pounding, took him inside her.

  The first jolt of awareness had her bowing back. Holding, holding to absorb every drop of sensation until her system felt it might burst from the glory of it. His hands slid up her, closed over her breasts. Pressing her hands to his, she began to move. To rock. To push them both toward madness.

  She was beautiful. He didn’t know how to tell her. Slim and white with that bloom of rose under the milk of her skin. Her hair was like a sleek cap of gold-shot fire. And the candlelight flickered, gold on gold, in eyes blurred with pleasure.

  He couldn’t breathe without breathing her.

  He watched, unspeakably aroused, as she crested to another peak. And that long, lovely body pressed against his sparking sensation after sensation.

  He wanted his arms around her, wanted to wrap them around her like chains. But he was pinned by his own injuries and the relentless demands of her body.

  He fought
to cling to reason another minute. Then one more. But his system screamed for the grand insanity of release. And his body plunged toward it, through it, as her head fell back on a low cry of triumph.

  * * *

  A cat, licking the last drop of a quart of cream from her whiskers, could not have felt more self-satisfied. That was Camilla’s thought as she basked in the afterglow of lovemaking.

  Everything about him, she decided, was completely delicious.

  She wished she could stretch her body over his and just wallow. But he was lying so still, he might have been a dead man but for the regular sound of his breath.

  She settled for slithering over to his good side and pressing a kiss on his shoulder. “Did I hurt you?”

  He hurt, literally, everywhere. His bruises were throbbing like a nest of demons dancing under his skin. At the moment, pain and gratification were so mixed, he wasn’t certain he’d ever be able to tell the difference. But he only grunted.

  Arching eyebrows, she lifted herself on an elbow and stared down at his face. She should’ve helped him shave again, she mused. Though there’d been something oddly erotic about having that stubble rub over her naked skin.

  He opened his eyes. “What?”

  “You’re trying to be annoyed this happened. It won’t work.”

  Later, he decided, he’d think about if he were amused or uneasy that the woman read him so well. “Why not? I’m good at being annoyed.”

  “Yes, you should get an award. But you’re going to want me again as soon as you’ve recovered, so you won’t be able to be annoyed about it. Defeats the purpose.”

  “Awfully damn sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

  “About some things.” She leaned down and kissed him. “About this.”

  “Well, it so happens, you’re wrong, smart mouth.” Because she was frowning at him, she didn’t see the direction of his hand until it closed, possessively, over her breast. “I already want you again, and I might never recover from round one.”

  “I think you will. But I’m sorry you’re hurting. I think I’ll go down and make you an ice pack.”

  “I think you should settle down and be quiet for five minutes.” To help her out, he pushed her elbow out from under her so her head bounced on his good shoulder.

  “You have a body like a rock,” she muttered.

  “Don’t try to get me going again, sister. I’m going to sleep for a half hour.”

  “Just let me—”

  “Shh!” This time he solved the problem by wrapping an arm around her, and clamping a hand over her mouth.

  She narrowed her eyes, considered biting. Before she could decide, his fingers went lax, his breathing evened out. She saw, to her astonishment, that he was as good as his word. He was, in ten seconds flat, sound asleep.

  * * *

  Thirty minutes later, shortly after she’d drifted from consternation into sleep herself, he woke her with a mind-numbing kiss. She shot to the surface, floundered there, then was dragged under again.

  Later, when she lay sprawled on the bed, feeling dazed and used and gloriously ravished, he rolled over onto his good side, muttered something about blowing out the damn candles, and went instantly back to sleep.

  For a long time after, Camilla stared up at the ceiling, grinning foolishly. She’d found another passion, she realized, and his name was Delaney Caine. The man she was going to marry, whether he liked it or not.

  She was, as always, up before him in the morning. Routinely she brewed coffee, then decided to take the first cup with her on a walk to the pond. She felt Del deserved to sleep in.

  They would, of course, have to juggle their time between Vermont, digs, Virginia and Cordina. It was going to make for a full, busy and, she thought, very rich life.

  He’d like her family, and they him. After they got to know each other, she thought, nibbling on her lip.

  She didn’t suppose he’d care for the protocol and formality demanded by her duties to Cordina as a princess and niece to the king. But surely he could adjust there. Marriage was, after all, give and take.

  Naturally she was going to have to convince him he wanted to marry her first. And before that she’d have to convince him he was in love with her.

  He had to be in love with her. She couldn’t have all this feeling inside her for someone who didn’t return at least a part of it.

  She wandered through the woods, watching the early sun slant quivering rays through the boughs. For now, she reminded herself, she would simply appreciate the moment. This time with him, and with herself, without a past or future. Time to enjoy the discoveries, the courtship and romance.

  Just because she’d fallen in love quickly didn’t obligate him to rush. And it didn’t mean she couldn’t drift a bit and savor the sensation of being a woman in love.

  When she reached the pond, she sat on a stump. She’d have to see that they found a nice, weathered old bench to put here, she thought. And maybe she’d sink some containers of water lilies along the edge of the water.

  Small changes, subtle ones, she mused. Nothing major. Just as she didn’t intend to try to change anything vital and elemental where Del was concerned.

  She’d put her mark on the cabin, hadn’t she, while respecting its basic personality and charm. She would hardly afford the man less respect than she did his home.

  No, she liked him the way he was. Her lips curved as she lifted the coffee cup. Just exactly as he was.

  When they were both more accustomed to this new stage of their relationship, she’d find a way to tell him about her birthright. In another week, she decided. Surely she was entitled to one more week.

  She’d have to find the right way to present things. She could start with her father, she mused. Casually mentioning that he’d once been a cop, and had gone into private security, buying the land in Virginia because he’d wanted to farm. How her paternal and maternal grandfathers had been friends. That was why, when her mother was in trouble, her grandfather had reached out to the son of his old friend for help.

  A bit confusing, Camilla supposed, but it was a good start. Then she could say something like—oh, did I mention my mother’s from Cordina?

  That should, hopefully, open the door a bit wider. With any luck Del would comment, or have some minor question, so she could slide into a casual mention that her uncle, her mother’s brother, was His Royal Highness Alexander de Cordina.

  He’d probably laugh at that, say something like: Sure, sister, and you’re the queen of the May.

  She could laugh back, treating it all very lightly. No, no, just a mere princess on a short, stolen holiday.

  And that, she decided, would never work.

  She cursed in frustration, and in French, and propped her chin on her fist.

  “You come all the way out here to swear at the ducks.”

  She yelped, spilling coffee onto the back of her hand. She sprang up and whirled to face Del. “I like it better when you clumped around like an elephant.”

  And he’d liked it better when he hadn’t kept thinking how very beautiful she was.

  He’d woken reaching for her. It seemed to him if the woman was going to slip into his bed, the least she could do was stay there. Then he’d panicked because she hadn’t been in the house. The thought of her gone had sent him out in a rib-jarring run until he’d calmed himself down.

  Now it was worse, a hundred times worse, because she wasn’t gone. She was standing there, the sun and water at her back, looking like something out of a storybook.

  The light played over that sleek cap of hair like jewels in a crown. Her eyes were more gold than brown, and seemed impossibly rich against the cool, clear skin. She had a half smile on her mouth—that long, lovely mouth.

  He wanted, as he’d wanted the night before, to wrap his arms around her. To hold her exactly as she was.

  And that was crazy.

  “I didn’t smell any breakfast.”

  “Because I haven’t started it yet. I though
t you’d sleep awhile longer.”

  “We said we’d start early today.”

  “So we did.” Now she smiled fully. “I wasn’t sure that still held, after last night.” Since he wasn’t coming to her, she stepped to him. Lifted a hand to brush at his hair. “How do you feel?”

  “I’m okay. Listen, about last night …”

  “Yes?” She rose on her toes, touched her lips lightly to his. And wound his stomach muscles into knots.

  “We didn’t lay out any of the … Look, there are no strings here.”

  A little bubble of temper rose to her throat, but she swallowed it. “Did I try to tie any on you while you slept?”

  “I’m not saying—” He hated being made to feel defensive. “I just want us to be clear, since we didn’t get into any of it last night. We enjoy each other, we’ll keep it simple, and when it’s over it’s done.”

  “That’s very clear.” It would be undignified to strike him, and she didn’t believe in resorting to physical violence. Particularly against the mentally deficient. Instead she smiled easily. “Then there’s nothing to worry about, is there?”

  With her expression pleasant, even patient, she ran her hands up his chest, lightly over his shoulders and into his hair. And fixed her mouth on his in a long, smoldering kiss.

  She waited for his hand to fist in the back of her shirt, then nimbly stepped away and left him vibrating. “I’ll fix omelets, then we’ll get to work.”

  Her eyes sparked with temper and challenge as she started up the path. And smiled in the friendliest of manners as she turned, held out her hand.

  Baboon, she thought—with some affection—as he took her hand to walk back to the cabin. You’re in for one hell of a fight.

  Chapter 8

  They had a week of relative peace. Camilla decided peace would always be relative when Delaney was involved. His grumpiness was just one of the things about him she’d come to count on. In fact, it was part of his charm.

  She raided his books on archaeology. Though he muttered about her messing with his things, she knew he was pleased she had a sincere interest in the field.