by Iris Morland
“I have no idea if such an organization exists in Salasia. Cats are outdoor animals here, as far as I’m aware.”
“Well, then, I’ll foster them myself.”
The stubborn tilt of Niamh’s chin told me that she’d made up her mind. I’d already learned that telling her “no” would result in the opposite, so I just said a prayer that the mother cat would take her babies elsewhere.
“You can ask Jacques if he can assist you. He might have an idea how to trap them,” I said. Jacques was the gardener; I doubted he trapped much wildlife, but he was the best bet Niamh had in this scheme.
“Oh, good idea.” Niamh’s eyes lit up. “Look, look! I think that’s Mama.”
I turned to see a skinny gray cat atop the fence. She’d paused, surprised to see us. Her tail flicked back and forth, and she remained in a crouch, simply staring at us.
“I think she wants us to leave,” I said.
The gray cat didn’t blink. It was creepy. I wondered if she was placing a hex on us, and I had to restrain myself from making the sign of the cross on my chest to ward off her feline evil.
“She looks hungry, poor thing. I’ll go get them food. If there’s food, she might not move them.”
Despite my best efforts, I wasn’t able to distract Niamh’s from her cat hunting. I was rather relieved that I could continue to avoid bringing up the tabloid stories, for now. And seeing Niamh so excited, her expression soft, was so intoxicating that I nearly forgot about the shadows lurking nearby.
We’d fetched a platter of sardines, canned tuna, and a bowl of water for the cats. Niamh tossed a sardine at the mother cat, where it landed on the ground right below her. Her ears twitched, but she remained where she was.
The kittens, however, were instantly lured away from their hiding spot. I imagined their mother was completely exasperated at their idiocy. One gray striped kitten, one black, and one gray and orange kitten tumbled from the bushes.
They began to eat the fish with gusto. Although they were all so wobbly that more than one got more food on their faces and paws than in their mouths.
“What fatties.” Niamh stroked the striped kitten, but it barely registered the touch.
We’d brought a box with us to place the kittens inside, Niamh explaining that the mother cat would follow us. Based on the cat’s blasé expression, I wasn’t so sure. Maybe she would be pleased to give away the responsibility of these kittens to someone else.
The kittens had fallen asleep in the box by the time Niamh had gotten them situated in a little room near the kitchen that was mostly for storage. We waited for the mother cat, but she was nowhere to be seen.
“You can go, if you want,” said Niamh. “You look bored.”
“I’m not bored any time I’m with you.” The words came out of my mouth before I could rethink them.
But when Niamh smiled, a genuine smile that I hadn’t seen in ages, I couldn’t regret them.
Chapter Five
Two weeks ago
I’d never thought much about my wedding day. Not to be stereotypical, but it held little appeal for the groom. Besides, I’d always known I’d have little say in who I was marrying. I’d marry some suitable royal or aristocrat, or perhaps an eligible heiress, and the palace would plan the ceremony down to the colors of the napkins at the reception.
I would just be there to say the vows and kiss the bride.
On my wedding day to Niamh, however, I found myself staring at Laurent as he repeated, “We can’t find your fiancée, Your Highness.”
It was so absurd, and so…expected, that I let out a loud laugh. I turned to the mirror, adjusting the sash crossing my chest. I even wore a sword at my left side. It wasn’t sharpened, which was a good thing, considering Laurent looked as though he’d like to run himself through.
“She most likely wanted a bit of time alone before the ceremony.” I adjusted my cuffs. “She won’t run.”
Niamh was many things—menace, brat, siren—but she wasn’t a coward. She’d agreed to this arrangement, and she knew what would happen if she backed out.
“Sir, I’m not sure I share your certainty,” said Laurent. He pulled out a handkerchief to mop his brow.
“Niamh would never run, because she hates looking weak. It would mean admitting defeat.” I caught Laurent’s gaze in the mirror. “I might not have known my fiancée for more than a few months, but I know that the last thing she’d ever want would be to admit defeat.”
“I sincerely hope you’re correct, sir.”
Laurent left, leaving me alone to study my reflection. I recognized myself, of course, but there was a hardness in my expression that was new. Or perhaps it was simply from lack of sleep. Niamh hadn’t exactly been welcoming my embrace since we’d gotten engaged.
Despite all of the people involved in this wedding, I felt strangely adrift. Alone. There were plenty of people just beyond my dressing room door, but most of them I hardly knew.
My attendants included mostly young boys of Salasian nobility, who would act as pages in the ceremony. I’d asked my friend from university to be my best man, but he hadn’t been able to attend due to a prior appointment.
Apparently, it had something to do with “the Russian mob, a sexy blond named Natalya, and a goat.” I hadn’t wanted to know the details.
I looked at the clock. I had an hour until I would get inside a carriage that would take me to the royal chapel, where I would take Niamh Gallagher as my truly wedded wife.
The door to my dressing room opened. Expecting Laurent, I didn’t look up until I heard a voice that was decidedly not my faithful servant.
It was Liam Gallagher, my soon-to-be brother-in-law, and an actual beast of a man who always looked like he’d punch me if I breathed incorrectly.
“Olivier,” said Liam, his voice deep, his accent American with a tingle of Irish at the edges.
Since Liam had arrived in Salasia for the ceremony, he’d made a point never to address me by “Your Highness,” even when custom would dictate it. Laurent had been horrified; I’d been mostly amused.
I turned to meet him and held out a hand. “Brother,” I said.
Liam ignored my outstretched hand. A large man, he reminded me of an irascible bear. Around his sister, he acted like a mother bear with her cub. Get too close, and you’d get mauled.
“You aren’t my brother yet, and even after this wedding, you will never be a brother of mine.” Liam scowled down at me. He had a few inches of height on me. Where he was burly, hairy, and tall, I was limber, not hairy, and not abnormally tall. I considered myself the winner in that fight.
I gave him an amused look. “I am marrying your sister. Unless American custom is far removed from Salasian, that would make us brothers by the end of today.”
“Quit the bullshite. I don’t believe for one second that you and Niamh are in love. I see the way she acts around you.” He pressed closer, using his height to intimidate me. “She doesn’t let you touch her when she thinks we aren’t looking. My sister would never agree to marry some smarmy arsehole like you unless there was a damned good reason for it.”
I was now almost toe-to-toe with him. “And you think that reason couldn’t possibly be love?”
Liam snorted. “My sister isn’t the type to fall head over heels for some rich little prick like you. She’s smart. She can take care of herself. She doesn’t need to attach herself to you to get what she wants in life.”
“Are you suggesting your sister is, what is the term? A gold digger?”
Liam’s expression darkened. “I could punch you just for saying that.”
“I’m surprised you haven’t yet. You’ve been wanting to since the moment you arrived.”
Something like grudging amusement crossed Liam’s face. He stepped back. “I have wanted to. I’ve dreamed about smashing your pretty face in until you cry and beg for forgiveness.”
I raised an eyebrow. “What’s stopping you?”
“My wife.”
Where Liam was a bull in a china shop, his wife Mari was more like a nimble doe in a china shop. Tall, red-haired, and beautiful, she somehow managed to keep her Irish husband’s temper from exploding. Liam might act like he was in charge, when everyone knew the real person in charge was his sweet, capable wife.
Liam sighed. “I want you to promise me on thing. One thing, prince. Tell me you’ll take care of my sister.”
I stared at him in surprise. He sounded genuinely afraid for Niamh. I realized that, through all of his bluster, Liam truly cared for his little sister. Niamh had told me about their relationship, how he’d been like a father to her after their own father had run off and their mother had died a year later. Liam had protected Niamh, and now she was old enough that he couldn’t protect her any longer.
“I won’t do anything to intentionally hurt your sister.” I meant it. Perhaps this marriage hadn’t started in the best place, but Niamh meant more to me than I cared to admit in that moment.
Liam gazed at me. It felt like he was trying to pry apart my head, digging out my brain until he could ascertain whether I spoke the truth. He’d probably enjoy that exercise too much, I thought wryly.
A knock sounded on the door. “Your Highness, we’ve located your fiancée,” said Laurent. He must not have seen Liam from where he stood until he opened the door further. He startled. “Monsieur Gallagher, apologies! I did not see you there.”
Laurent had spoken in French, switching to English when he’d seen Liam. Liam cocked an eyebrow at me. “You lost my sister? How do you manage to lose the bride on her wedding day?”
Now I startled in surprise. Liam let out a dark chuckle. “I understand some French,” he said. “Can’t speak it worth a damn, though, so don’t ask.”
Laurent stared at me. I stared at Liam. Liam looked at us both and simply started laughing, the bastard.
“Your faces—” He guffawed. “Yeah, some people in America know French. It happens.” His amusement disappeared a moment later. “Why did you think my sister was missing?”
Laurent once again looked at me for answers. I sighed inwardly. “Apparently, your sister needs some time alone, but she must not have informed anyone. It’s nothing to worry about.”
“You don’t get to tell me when I should or shouldn’t be worried about my sister.” He thrust a finger in my direction. “I’ll skewer you with that pencil you call a sword if you hurt her. If you make her cry once, I’ll hear about it. If you break her heart, I’ll run you through. You got that, prince?”
“Oh, you’ve been most thorough. I’m surprised you didn’t mention tarring and feathering. Or perhaps you prefer drawing and quartering me?”
Liam scowled. “Castration—slowly.”
Laurent was pale as a ghost by the time Liam stalked out. He finally took out his handkerchief and, like earlier, mopped his forehead.
“That man is terrifying,” he said in French. “Terrifying!”
I put a hand on his shoulder. “He’s all talk. Don’t worry. Besides, I actually know how to use a sword: I doubt he does. I’ll keep you safe.”
“Oh, sir, I have no doubt. I just hope you don’t get on his bad side. He might actually kill you.”
I chuckled. “He’d get lost in this maze of a palace within five minutes and end up begging a footman for directions. And if I were worried about an Irishman losing his temper, I wouldn’t be marrying an Irishwoman with a temper equally as bad.”
Once upon a time, a prince married a princess.
On my wedding day, I turned an American girl into a princess once I put my ring on her finger. She wore a gown of ivory lace, satin, and beads yet managed to outshine the beauty of the gown. Her veil fell softly along the length of her dark hair, and although her face was pale when she joined me at the altar, she never once showed that she was terrified.
The church was old, drafty, and musty. It smelled like wet dog. When Niamh arrived at my side, taking my arm, I wanted to crack a joke about the smell. But when I leaned down to whisper something in her ear, she turned away—just ever so slightly. Like she hadn’t seen me come closer to her.
She clutched my arm, as if I was the only thing keeping her upright. But no one in that church could tell she was unhappy: she plastered a smile on her face, and she said her vows in a clear voice, not an ounce of hesitancy in her words.
I said my vows with my stomach in knots. I had the sudden urge to turn around and yell at the crowd that this was all a farce. I was a bastard; I wasn’t the true Hereditary Prince of Salasia. I was marrying Niamh Gallagher because, in a truly bizarre twist of fate, she was one of the actual heirs to the throne.
I wanted to rip off my sash, trample it, and maybe throw my sword into one of the prayer cushions nearby. Would God strike me down, though? Was it blasphemy to destroy a prayer cushion with a ceremonial sword?
I wished I could tell Niamh what I was thinking about. I missed the camaraderie we’d established during our travels in Europe, the friendship that had blossomed. Most of all, I missed the way she felt in my arms, the way she melted when I kissed her.
I also wanted to know where she went without telling anyone. I wanted to know if she’d tried to run, despite my assurances to Liam. Had she gotten cold feet in the last moment? Had she seen herself in her wedding gown and felt only fear?
“I will,” I intoned in French, repeating the words in English as I forced myself back into the present. I held Niamh’s gaze the entire time. “I vow to love, honor, and cherish, until death parts us.”
Niamh’s lower lip trembled.
I barely remembered when we arrived at the balcony, high above the crowd, everyone yelling and waving below us. My parents, along with Niamh’s family, stood with us, but it felt almost like we were the only two people alive. I held her hand and squeezed it.
We hadn’t kissed in the church, but now it was expected. The crowd seemed to lean together in expectation.
I leaned down. I closed my eyes, but not before I saw Niamh close hers, too. Our kiss was searing yet impossibly brief.
By the time we parted, her cheeks were red, my trousers were too tight, and I wished I could just go somewhere private and fuck my wife until she screamed my name.
Her pupils were dilated. She was clearly thinking the same sordid thoughts. We might not be in love—we might not even like each other—but at least we had this. I told myself this as we waved at the crowd until our arms began to hurt.
Chapter Six
Present day
When I found my wife outside, sunbathing next to the pool, I found myself transfixed. She was topless, and my hungry gaze lapped up the sight. I felt a little like some creepy voyeur, but my brain was short-circuiting. It wasn’t capable of logic or propriety. It sure as hell wasn’t capable of self-control.
Blood rushed to my cock. When I’d first seen her tits at the hotel in Paris, they’d been a glorious sight to behold. Small and pale with puffy, rosy nipples. I’d sucked on them on two occasions now. My wife squirmed and moaned when I played with her sensitive nipples.
At the moment, her skin gleamed in the sunshine, and she looked warm and supple. I had the strongest urge to go over to her and, sitting on the edge of her lounge chair, lean down and dig my fingers into her hair. Then I’d kiss her until she was begging me to touch her.
My thoughts were interrupted with the sound of Niamh noticing my presence. To my immense frustration, she squeaked and grabbed her towel, wrapping it around her chest.
“How long have you been standing there?” she demanded. Her cheeks were flushed, whether from the heat or from embarrassment, I didn’t know.
I sauntered toward her. “I’m your husband. No need to be modest,” I drawled.
She tilted her pointy chin up. “I don’t like being stared at.”
“So you’ve told me.” I sat down and reached for her hand that held her towel closed. “But there’s no reason to be shy. I’ve already seen your tits and even sucked them into my mouth. Let’s not act like we’
re a bunch of chaste nuns here.”
“Based on the bulge in your pants, I’m the only nun here,” she said. Her eyes sparkled, though.
I took her hand and, when she didn’t pull away, pressed it to my cock. “It’s like this every day—for you.”
Her eyes widened. She gently stroked me through my linen shorts, and I had to bite back a loud groan. “Every day? That’s some major blue balls,” she said.
My toes curled in my sandals. “You can say that.” I gritted out the words.
Her fingers were too clever. “Poor prince. When will his torment end?”
“It can end now, if you’d like.”
She considered the possibility; I could tell by the tilt of her head. But just as I thought she was going to release my cock, she pulled her hand back.
“You can always just jerk off, right? Then you won’t die of blue balls.” She patted my thigh and smiled.
“You’re insane if you think my hand is even remotely as good as sinking into a hot, wet pussy like yours.” I wrapped my hand around the back of her neck. Her breathing had increased. “And anyway, every time I do ‘jerk off,’ I’m imagining fucking you.”
Her lashes fluttered. “Are you just saying that?”
“What do you think?”
She studied me. I could see her thinking—too much, in my estimation—and so I kissed her. I plunged my tongue into her mouth, digging my fingers into her hair. I wondered if I was being too rough, but she returned the kiss with equal enthusiasm.
Christ, I wanted to fuck her right here on this lounge chair. I didn’t care that a servant could come outside and see us. At the mere thought, my excitement built. I’d never considered myself particularly kinky—I liked the usual sex, no bondage necessary. But the thought of continuing to fuck my wife as the servants watched, knowing that she was mine and no one else’s?
