Gabriel. The man she loved.
The man who loved her.
“Driver. Take us through the gates.” His voice cut through the din of machines, and the snarls of the few remaining shifters running past.
Gabriel tossed her papers through the window. They landed with a thump on the seat beside her. She glanced at him, as she gathered her papers, stuffing them into her bag. Beneath his beret, she caught the glint of dark eyes as his gaze met hers. Raven black hair, tied back in a rough tail, set off his deeply tanned skin. On his hip, hung a complicated looking weapon, a saber or scimitar, multi-bladed, silver and deadly sharp, glinting in the bright sun.
The crimson sash with gold trim, and embroidered with the court seal, told the world that this man was the Highest Command, a fierce warrior, not to be crossed. He was the shifter who ruled all the shifters in her father’s kingdom. And now, he was directing men to open the gates, sending others into the desert on those strange machines. Everyone looked at him, obeyed him. He was the center of their world.
He was the center of her world as well. But to her he was Gabriel DeLeon, a name he was never called by anyone other than her. The man she would gladly give her heart to, if only she had the chance.
“Drive!”
He jumped to the running board of the carriage, slapping the roof with his hand as the gates clanked open. The driver put the carriage into gear, and with a hiss of steam they bumped over the grate, and through. The gates started to close before they’d barely gotten past them.
The carriage flew over the paved streets, through the market area, with people jumping out of the way, or standing on the sides of the street, gaping as they flew past.
But none of that mattered. Everything else in the world disappeared, aliens and shifters, and the danger of racing through the narrow streets, slipping into the background. Her entire focus was on the man who rode the outside of the carriage, just inches from where she sat. She could, if she wanted to—and she very much wanted to—reach out and touch him. Scooting over on the seat as casually as she could, she set her hand on the edge of the window, let it rest there. The carriage bumped over the grate at the gates to the palace, Gabriel moving easily with the carriage’s movement. And then, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, he placed his hand on hers.
For that moment, it was enough, his strong fingers wrapped around hers. For those who they flew past, she knew no one could see what passed between them. Because she knew, as he did, that what they were doing, what they had done, was against all laws and edicts, royal and civil, everything that divided his world from hers. That little clandestine touch was too intimate, too personal.
The carriage finally shuddered to a stop in the forecourt of the entrance to the palace. She slumped against the seat, as breathless as if she’d run the distance.
“Princess…” Gabriel leaned in the window, his face inches from her. “You are home. And you are safe.”
She jerked her hand away as the driver turned around. She cut him off as he started to speak again.
“Yes. Thank you.”
Gabriel smiled at her, a smile that set her heart fluttering like a bird’s wings against her ribs. With easy grace, he jumped down from the running board of the carriage, then opened the door for her. She hesitated a moment, fastening the veils back over her face, covering everything except her deep, violet eyes, heavily lined with kohl, lids colored with crushed mineral powder – blue today – to compliment her eyes. She’d thought of Gabriel as she’d gotten ready to depart on the train.
A footman from the palace was there with the little brocaded footstool, but Gabriel was ahead of him, holding out his hand. She took it, stepping lightly onto the stones of the plaza. She knew he did this with intent; a public touch, assisting the princess—that was allowed. But between them, it was just another excuse to touch each other.
The heat was intense after the shady cool of the carriage, and it rose up through the soles of her slippers. Assuming the correct attitude of a princess—regardless of the heat or how tight her corset was—she squared her shoulders, lifted her chin and totally ignored Gabriel. It would have been so much more satisfying to fall into his arms, to let him carry her away some place cool and private. Or melt in a puddle of desire at his feet.
Instead, she let go of his hand, and strode up the grand steps into the palace, silks swirling around her ankles, the veil wafting behind her, her silver bracelets clinking softly against her skin. She knew his eyes followed her, and in her heart, she told him how much loved him. How much it hurt to walk away.
She passed under the arch into the outer courtyard. The temperature dropped, the shade from the palms casting deep shadow over the yellow tiled walls and floor. She was one step closer to putting the past week out of her mind. And she was closer to getting out of this damned corset that pinched and constricted her body.
“Princess.”
Her eyes hadn’t adjusted to the gloom, but she recognized the ingratiating—or grating—voice was the Prime Minister. With irritation prickling her spine, she nodded in the general direction of the tall dark form looming in the shadows.
“Welcome home. I trust your visit was pleasant?”
“It served its purpose.” She tried to walk past but he fell into step beside her, hands clasped behind his back. Her eyes had adjusted to the dimness now, and she glanced at him. The perpetual sneer was on his face, a look he carried regardless what news he brought. His severe black robe hung about his gaunt frame. She rarely saw him outside the confines of the palace; being in the courtyard meant he’d been waiting for her arrival.
“And there was progress?”
She knew exactly what he meant by progress. She’d been sent to meet the man she was to marry. An arranged marriage. Progress meant she’d accepted the fact she was to marry the Ottway Venn with no complaint. Whether or not she loved him, much less even liked the man.
“There…has been progress.”
How could she tell this man—a man she had mistrusted since the first time she remembered seeing him—that this visit she had made had been a complete and utter disaster? How could she tell him that she had found him utterly detestable, boorish, a pig? The progress that had been made had simply been her restraint in not injuring the man with her dinner fork.
“Yes. Good.” The sneer changed ever so slightly into a smile of satisfaction. “I shall tell the King.”
“You shall do no such thing.” She stopped, her skirts swishing in the heavy air. “I will tell my father when I choose to do so.”
“Yes, of course. I meant no disrespect.” His bow was obsequious, as usual, but the sneer was back, making his words sound disingenuous. She knew it would gall him not to be at her Father’s ear, telling him everything. Even if what he said was concocted from a pile of camel dung.
“I am tired. It has been a long journey. If you must tell him anything…” Because she knew he would trip over his feet running to her father’s chambers. “Tell him I have arrived home safely. I will have breakfast with him in the morning.”
“Yes, Princess.”
She turned away, leaving him bowed, head almost touching his knees. Before she had gone ten steps she heard the patter of his sandals as he hurried off into the other direction. She wondered if he knew about the aliens inside the gates, and then decided in his world, it wasn’t as important as her upcoming wedding. The man lived and breathed political power. And this was the coup of a lifetime for him, this arrangement he’d made.
Her rooms were on the upper levels of the palace, and she walked quickly to the end of the courtyard. A pair of guards stood at the base of a set of narrow stairs, spears crossed, blocking the entrance. She nodded to them. They avoided eye contact, lowered their spears and bowed. She brushed past, then turned back to them.
“No one is to come up, including my father. I am not to be disturbed except for my maid. Please, make sure my wishes are known.”
Their reply was lost in the soft so
unds of her slippers on the stone, the swish of silk as she ran up the stairs. Her exhaustion had vanished in a rush of excitement and irritation. The irritation was from the Prime Minister.
The excitement. Gabriel had done that to her, from the brief touch of his hand, the sound of his voice, the look in his eyes as he met her gaze, as she imagined those dark eyes travelling over her, as she walked up the steps.
There was a hidden door at the head of the stairs, that led to her quarters. She opened it, slipped through and closed it behind her. There was an iron key in a heavy lock and she turned it. The metallic clunk was like the music of heaven. It meant solitude and peace.
But she felt bedraggled, and dirty, and desperately wanted a bath. Her nap could wait a little longer. She pushed the button on the wall that called her maid, and unlocked the door. There was no sound, as usual, in her rooms. She sometimes wondered what sound that little button triggered, somewhere deep in the servants’ quarters. Today she didn’t care. All she wanted was her maid, the person who could set into motion getting her out of these clothes.
She went to the balcony, pulling the veil away from her face to look out over the inner courtyard. The sun was setting behind the ramparts, tinging the sky with streaks of yellows and pinks, on the way to becoming a full-blown panorama of vivid colors. She’d missed this view, missed the way darkness gathered in the corners of the courtyard, filling in the spaces with shadows and mystery. The open land beyond, sand stretching to the horizons. The Ottway’s palace was set in a valley, walls of red stone rising into the sky, blotting it out. It felt claustrophobic, cramped, airless there. More than just the heat stifling her.
There was a soft knock, and a few minutes later, she heard the sounds of someone moving behind her. She turned and smiled, her irritation lifting.
“Anacelia.”
“Princess.” The short dark-haired woman bowed deeply, her long braid nearly brushing the floor. She straightened and Senna impulsively reached out, pulling the woman against her into a loving embrace. Anacelia had been taking care of her as long as she could remember, had always been there. It felt good to touch someone, to hug without restraint. Even though nominally a servant, Anacelia was the closest to a mother Senna had ever known.
“Oh, my. You were homesick.” Anacelia stepped away from Senna, smoothing her cotton sari with tattooed hands. She met Senna’s gaze. “It is good to have you home, child.”
“And it is good to be home.”
“And you would like a bath, wouldn’t you?” The woman smiled, already moving through the door to the lavish en suite bath. “Let me heat the water.” The woman disappeared, and a moment later Senna heard the soft hiss as the steam water heater started up. Anacelia reappeared, wiping her hands on her skirt.
“Now please, help get me out of this costume, I beg of you. This corset is unbearable. It’s far too small. The Ottway saw me, he knows I’m a curvy woman, not a stick. This get-up is many sizes too small. And the girl…she fit me into it, as if her life depended on it.” The stays poked her in tender places, but she was helpless to get out of the damned thing herself. Suddenly, she couldn’t wait to feel air on her skin, to be out of the detestable thing. In frustration she tugged at the veils around her face, the fragile silk tearing beneath her fingers.
“Stop, dear. That was a gift...” Anacelia let the words hang in the air.
“It’s a traveling costume. It should have been made with better quality material.” She pulled again, tearing the veil away from her face. Beads scattered across the floor. “If the Ottway is so wealthy, why does he give me such a cheap gift? The Ottway doesn’t know a traveling costume from the back end of a camel.”
Anacelia hid her smile behind her hand. “Shush. It’s a gesture. From the man who is to be your husband.”
“Shush yourself. I don’t want to be reminded of that.”
Anacelia was behind her, deftly undoing the lacings of her corset. It came undone and there was that first glorious moment when she could take a deep breath, hold it, and then let it out slowly. She turned. Anacelia held the corset, her brows pulled down in puzzlement. Then, she set the garment aside.
“The corset is clearly not intended for a woman with your shape, you are right about that.” Anacelia’s nimble fingers were working at the fastenings of Senna’s many layers of silk. “But the silver in the trim alone, is worth a small fortune.”
“Silver...I have enough silver to last me a lifetime.” Senna held out her arm, jangling her bracelets. “I want more than just silk and silver.”
“Sit. I’ll brush your hair while the water heats.”
Senna stepped out of the silks, letting them fall to the floor in a heap, leaving her in just her own white silk shift, and all her jewelry. She plucked away from her body where the corset had made it stick, so that it brushed against her full breasts and hips, like the softest desert breeze, skimming over her waist, wrapping briefly around her thighs.
She stepped over the silks, barely resisted the urge to kick them aside, the silk molding for a moment against her thighs, like a lover’s caress. Anacelia was right; they had been a gift. And the Ottway was probably going to want to see her wearing them again. At the thought of seeing that man, her heart sank.
“Sit. And take off your jewels. I don’t want to catch those earrings with the brush.” Anacelia pulled out the chair by the big mirror. Senna obediently sat down, reaching up to undo the clasp of the silver necklace she’d worn. It had been her mother’s, and Senna had worn it for as long as she could remember. While Anacelia waited, Senna set the necklace aside, then quickly removed her earrings and the multitude of rings she’d worn, specifically at her father’s orders. Specifically, to impress the Ottway with her wealth. That was all fine and good, and he’d been properly impressed, but he’d eyed her necklace with a skeptical frown, and pronounced it common.
With infinite care Anacelia began removing the plethora of jeweled pins that held Senna’s long hair in place. Gradually the long strands fell around her shoulders as a mountain of pins accumulated on the dressing table.
“Who in the world did your hair?” Anacelia dragged an ivory brush through Senna’s hair. “There are more knots in here than in a prayer chain.”
“He sent a girl. I told him...” She winced as Anacelia tugged at a knot of hair. “I told him I could do it myself, but he insisted.”
“Well, be patient with me. It will take some time to undo this mess. And...” Another painful tug. “You need your hair done. Henna and indigo. To make your hair as beautiful as your face.”
Senna looked at their reflections in the mirror, watching Anacelia’s nimble fingers working with her hair. Anacelia had been saying that since Senna was a little girl, from the first time she’d mixed the evil-smelling batch of henna and indigo. Senna had run away, hiding in the garden. Anacelia had tracked her down, promising to make it smell better. She’d shown Senna the way to mix powdered herbs and myrrh into the mix. And how that made it smell like heaven. From then it had been a ritual, each month, to have Anacelia coat her hair with henna, pile the long strands on her head and wrap her hair up in a white towel. Then she’d spend the day sequestered in her rooms, waiting for the mixture to work its magic.
It was more than just a beauty ritual; it gave her a day to be alone, to beg off social engagements, to read what she wanted, to listen to music her father claimed was inappropriate for a Princess. She would wind up the music box, choosing from an assortment of brass rolls that held different musical pieces. Her father favored light pieces, high notes, and flowing melodies, but Senna wanted darker pieces, low throbbing beats, minor chords, and keys.
Then Anacelia would come in the afternoon and patiently wash the dried henna out of her hair. And when Senna’s long hair was dried and brushed, it would be soft and lush and dark, highlights so black they looked indigo. The feel of it in the dark, touching her shoulders, cascading over her breasts… it was magical.
“But you were in the sun without a
sunshade. You have freckles across your cheeks. We need to find some lemon juice for those.”
Senna leaned forward, wrinkling her nose. “I took walks in the afternoon. There was nothing to do, really. And the food was so heavy. It felt good to be out. But they don’t have any kind of gardens or trees.” She made a face. “How can there not be gardens at a palace?”
“Not everyone is like your father. He dotes on his gardens almost as much as he dotes on you.”
Anacelia continued working through Senna’s hair with the brush, and Senna tried to be patient as the woman tugged and pulled at the knots.
“Who will do my hair if I marry the Ottway?”
“I’m certain there will be a woman there who knows how to mix henna. It’s not complicated. Or a secret. And I’m certain there is someone who is better at hair than the girl who did this to you.”
“Why can’t you come with me? I should be able to take who I want with me.”
She met Anacelia’s eyes. They both knew the reason, well, one of the reasons. The Ottway was a powerful man, and a very distrustful one. Senna had been forbidden to bring anyone from her retinue, either personal servants or shifters as guards, with her on the train, instead being met by the Ottway’s own Protectorate and his own band of shifters. It was a slight against her father, against her.
“This arrangement...it’s not fair. The man is older than my father!”
Anacelia remained silent, eyes on her task, working her way through Senna’s hair with the brush.
“He eats like a pig. Did I tell you?”
“No, Senna. You have not.”
“He drops food on his tunic without apology, and then leaves it there. He tried to kiss me after dinner, but I just couldn’t. There was food in his beard for goodness sakes.” She felt slightly childish for saying these things, but she’d been trying so hard for the last week to act like an adult. She knew she was sounding like a whiny brat, but it felt good for a moment to act like a child.
There had been other reasons though for not wanting to kiss the Ottway. He smelled of hookah smoke and old sweat, although that could have been the onions from dinner. It was hard to tell the difference. She’d ducked her head, his kiss landing on her forehead. Then she’d begged off his invitation for a moonlight stroll through the gardens, retreating to her room. And locking the door behind her.
Wild Things (BBW Paranormal Shifter Romance): Shifter Lovers Romance Page 2
