Her Royal Husband (Crown & Glory Book 4)

by Cara Colter

  And then the thought that had been tickling the back of her mind, came forward. With horror, she realized she had told him this! Told him her most secret fantasy. Trusted him with it!

  And he was using it! To get his own way! Putting her fantasy on display for his whole island.

  He was pulling right along side the carriage now. He blew her a kiss, and she sniffed and pulled the drape.

  “Pull over,” he ordered the coachmen and the horses were brought to a halt.

  “I want the lady,” he told the coachmen. “I will not harm you.”

  She heard a scramble, and the footman who had come to the kitchen this morning, opened the door and peered in. He was doing a terrible job of playing his role, for instead of appearing frightened, he was grinning from ear to ear, obviously thrilled to have been included in the prince’s game.

  “Madam, he wants you.”

  “Tell him no.”

  The footman’s smile crumpled, and it was obvious from the look on his face he wished the prince had found a different companion for the day.

  “The lady says no, sir.”

  “She does, does she?”

  She peeked out the curtain to see Owen leap down from his horse and stride toward the carriage. She dropped the curtain, folded her hands over her breast.

  Owen came in the carriage and took the bench across from her. His presence in the small area was overwhelming. He smelled of horses and leather and man. A light shone in his eyes, glittering and devil-may-care.

  “I like the outfit,” he decided. “Kind of Cinderella, preball.”

  “Yours is ridiculous.”

  He took off a black leather glove with white teeth. Given how ridiculous the outfit was, it made her tingle when he did that. He looked unbelievably handsome, even the faint bruises on his face lending to that roguish air that seemed to fit him so comfortably.

  “This is ridiculous,” she told him, but her heart was pounding at the way he sat across from her, laughing at her.

  “I’m kidnapping you,” he informed her matter-of-factly. “You can come willingly, or I can chase you down and throw you over the front of the horse.”

  She saw he meant it. “I told you that fantasy in confidence,” she whispered indignantly.

  “I’ve kept your confidence.”

  “The whole island knows it!”

  “Why would they assume it was your fantasy and not mine?”

  She felt herself blushing.

  He held out a hand, imperious, commanding.

  “Owen,” she said. “Stop this. It’s silly.”

  “Isn’t that what you need most, Jordan?” he asked quietly, suddenly serious. “Just to be silly? Just to quit carrying the cares of the whole world on your shoulders? Just for today?”

  She hated it that he thought he knew what she needed most. She hated it that he was right. She hated it that she didn’t have the strength to tell him to go hang himself after all.

  Like a weak ninny, she put her hand in his. It felt like coming home when the warm strength of it closed around hers. He tugged her to her feet, escorted her out the door. He let go of her hand when he stood in front of the horse. He adjusted the stirrup, then swung easily into the saddle. He leaned forward, reached down and closed his hand over her forearm, pulled his foot free from the stirrup. “Up,” he said and pulled.

  She felt his extraordinary strength as he lifted her behind him. She could feel the warmth of the horse under her seat, but that was far less noticeable than the warmth radiating from Owen.

  “You’re going to have to tuck in close and hold on tight,” he ordered her. When she didn’t comply immediately, he reached behind her, hooked his arm around her waist and pulled her in tight to his back. She wrapped her arms hard around the iron band of his stomach of her own accord when without warning the huge horse leapt forward.

  She could feel the play of Owen’s muscles under her fingertips, feel his breath, calm and strong, his scent, wild and intoxicating wrapped around her.

  He turned the mighty horse and pounded away, off the road and down a forest path.

  At first she was terrified of the breakneck speed, but she could feel how relaxed Owen was, and how the huge horse responded to his every cue. Her breasts were flattened against his back and her thighs formed a vee around him. She could feel the heat coming off of his supple, hard body.

  Say yes to the adventure, her aunt had said.

  Saying yes was so much more exhilarating than saying no.

  And so much more dangerous. She could feel passion rising in her, that dragon she thought had been slain in her life.

  Instead she found out it had only been sleeping.

  She regretted it when he slowed the horse to a walk, even though she could feel the lather of its sweat coming right through her clothing. A decent woman would have backed off on the hold she had on him, but she did not feel decent now.

  She felt like some wildness in her had been unleashed.

  They entered a glade and he brought the horse to a halt. She could feel tears pricking at her eyes. She was not sure she had ever seen a place so lovely.

  A turquoise pool was at center of it, steam rising off it, ferns and wildflowers growing in thick abundance around it, dipping into the water. There was a picnic blanket laid out, and a basket. He helped her down from the horse.

  And they stood there looking at each other, that familiar intensity in the air between them.

  “Be silly,” he said to her, touching her cheek with his gloved hand. “That’s what I stole from you. I left you with a baby and more responsibility than you ever should have had to deal with. So, today, play. Come and play with me. As we did once. Please.”

  She closed her eyes, and tried to fight temptation, tried to remind herself all that was on the line. Her beliefs. Her strength. Her soul. Her life.

  “Oh, go hang yourself,” she said, but it came out sounding weak and ineffectual, and he smiled just as though she had said yes to his invitation instead of no.

  Chapter Five

  It was not going well, Owen had to admit.

  She sat across from him on the picnic blanket. Despite her godawful getup she looked lovely. But he could not miss the tension in the way she was holding her shoulders.

  She was tense and on guard as if she regretted being exhilarated by the horseback ride, by her initial enjoyment of the little fantasy he had arranged for her. Her guard was back up, discouragingly higher than before.

  She had only nibbled on the breakfast he had brought in, one or two bites of a croissant, three strawberries, no champagne. She rejected his efforts at conversation, drumming her fingers and looking uneasy.

  Finally, he laid back on the blanket, stared up at the sky. “Owen,” he mimicked her voice, “tell me everything about you.” In his own voice, he said, “Well, Jordan, I was a terrible child.”

  She snorted, whether at his conversational techniques, or because she was not surprised he had been a terrible child, he wasn’t quite sure. He took it as slightly more hopeful than dead silence.

  “Once I brought Tubby—that’s the pony Whitney rode yesterday—into the palace, persuaded him up the stairs, and put him in my sister Megan’s bedroom. He loved it in there. He wrecked her bedspread and was working on the drapes when he was discovered. Pretty much destroyed the carpets, too.”

  “What happened to you?”

  Aha. Intrigued despite herself.

  “Oh, I got put to work in the stables cleaning stalls. Some punishment. I loved every minute of it. My brother Dylan felt bad for me, so he’d come help me. Our stable cleaning came to an abrupt end one day when we took two horses, gave security the slip and spent the whole day exploring the forest paths of the island. I think that was the most glorious day of my life. I was so free.”

  “You seem pretty free to me,” she said unsympathetically.

  “I’m not free, not in the way Americans understand the word. I think that is probably the thing you would hate most about my
lifestyle.”

  “You don’t have to worry about what I would hate or like about your lifestyle.”

  She was talking to him, but he couldn’t tell if he was making headway or not.

  “Where is Dylan now? He’s your twin, right?”

  Owen thought it was probably a somewhat hopeful sign that Jordan was collecting information about him in spite of herself.

  “Right, he’s my twin, but we’re not identical. We don’t even really look like brothers amazingly enough.” He sighed. “As for his whereabouts, I’m not quite sure. Nobody is. It’s not like him to hurt people—he’s breaking my mother’s heart.”

  “Why is he gone? Did he like freedom that much that he has turned his back on all this?”

  “I have to say I enjoyed that day of truancy far more than Dylan did. He was concerned about our mother worrying, and concerned about being punished. No, he’s left Penwyck because one of us is going to be chosen to be king.”

  “And he doesn’t want the job?”

  “It’s complicated, Jordan. I think he does want the job.”

  “Oh,” she guessed softly, “but he’s not going to get it. You are.”

  “Nothing is certain.”

  “Well, if the talk in the kitchen is any indication, that is. Everyone thinks you’re going to be named king, and maybe in fairly short order with your father being ill.”

  Again, he allowed himself to wonder if her tuning into kitchen gossip might indicate a little more interest in him than she wanted him to know.

  It occurred to Owen that he and Jordan were actually talking, the words flowing more and more easily between them, the way it had been long ago.

  “There are things wrong with a monarchy,” Owen admitted. “It’s like you said yesterday. Why couldn’t one of my sisters be the ruling monarch? Any one of them has the strength, intelligence and integrity required. What kind of system pits brothers against each other, makes one seem better than the other? My father and his twin brother have been lifelong adversaries because of this kind of stupidity.

  “The sad thing is, Dylan actually has gifts that would make him a far better king than I would ever be.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, he’s diplomatic. And he’s quiet, which has been mistaken for passive. But he’s not passive at all. He’s a thinker. He’s not impulsive, as I am. He thinks things through all the way. He’s stronger than me, but in different ways. Dylan’s isn’t the showy kind of strength that makes for good photo ops. Sometimes I feel like his strengths have been deliberately underplayed.”

  “You love him very much.”

  “He’s my best friend. I miss him every day.” Somehow, Owen had planned on Jordan opening up to him, not the other way around.

  Still, when they had known each other before, Owen had to be so guarded about what he said. Now, he felt he could finally say what he wanted. So, he told her about growing up in the palace and youthful hijinks and things he hoped would make her laugh.

  She didn’t laugh out loud, though he coaxed the odd smile from her.

  When the words petered out a bit, he slid her a sidelong glance. She had laid down on the blanket, too, had her hands folded on her tummy, and was looking up at the sky, finally relaxed.

  “I had the cabana stocked with swimwear,” he said. “Do you think you’d like to try the water?”

  “Oh, no,” she said, too swiftly. He saw her gaze wistfully at the water before she looked away.

  “You love to swim,” he said. “That’s part of why I brought you here. I remember you in California. You were like a dolphin, cavorting in the waves.”

  “I’m surprised you remember.”

  “I remember everything about that summer,” he said with such intensity it took them both by surprise.

  “Is the water warm?” she said, changing the subject.

  “Like swimming in a bathtub. It’s nicest in the winter.” Would she be around to try it in the winter? He better not try to think that far ahead.

  “Why are you hesitating?” he asked gently.

  “Oh, you know. Bathing suits.”

  He was astounded. “You always looked beautiful in a bathing suit, Jordan.”

  “Not beautiful enough for you to stay with me,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. “And I’ve had a baby. It makes a difference.”

  He felt sick at the realization how completely his leaving had shattered her. He felt sick that whatever they had once had, she no longer felt she could trust him with her imperfections. Once, she had been so confident she had flaunted them! Especially that sharp tongue of hers. He reached out and touched the side of her cheek, but she pulled away.

  “I should have written you,” he said softly. “I just thought it would be easier if the cut was clean and swift. Easier for you if you just thought I was a complete jerk and if you were angry at me.”

  “You succeeded. I think you’re a complete jerk, and I’m angry at you,” she said.

  “It’s one of those situations where I would have liked to be more like Dylan,” he said, “been able to think things through more clearly.”

  “Did he know about me?”

  “No. I mean he knew something had happened to me, but he didn’t know what.”

  “Were you ashamed of me? Is that why you didn’t tell him? You said he was your best friend, after all.”

  “Ashamed of you? My God, Jordan, no! I was ashamed of myself for not fighting my way back to you, for not saying screw Penwyck and oaths and honor. But I was trying to protect you, too. If a whisper of what had happened between us ever got out, you would have been plagued by the press. And they can be cruel beyond words.”

  She stood up abruptly. He had the feeling she wanted to believe him and didn’t want to at the same time. “How about that swim?” she said. “The bathing suits are where? In that little green tent over there?”

  He nodded, and watched her walk away, the proud curve of her back, the easy grace of her stride.

  She turned back, almost as if she had known she would catch him watching. “Owen, don’t even look at me until I’m in the water.”

  He had shorts on underneath his slacks and he stripped as soon as she disappeared into the cabana, went and sat on the edge of the pool and dangled his feet in the water.

  Of course, he did look when she emerged. He had stocked a small cabana with bathing suits, hoping she would choose a two-piece one, but she hadn’t. She tiptoed out in one that was plain and black and far more sexy in its demureness than any of the bikinis could have been. Considering what they had once been to each other, she was endearingly shy, though he wished he knew what to do or say to wipe that remote you-can’t-touch-me look off her face.

  He did notice changes to her body. Her breasts were larger, her tummy had the slightest swell to it. But he thought the changes made her look fully and gloriously like a woman, not like the near-child she had been when they had first met.

  He also noticed her shoulders seemed pulled forward a bit. Did worry do that? Pressure? Or was she just self-conscious? She had always been a serious, intense girl, at first she had been awkward about her body. But once he had been able to coax a lighter side of her to the surface, and had been able to make her see how extraordinarily beautiful she was.

  How he wanted to see that side of Jordan again.

  And to do that, he realized he might have to take chances. So ignoring her protests, he jumped up from the side of the pool and strolled up to her. He could see she was uncomfortable with him in his bathing trunks, her eyes darting here and there. It pleased him that they always came back to him.

  So, she still liked him in that way. She’d never been able to hide that—that hungry light that would burn bright in her eyes when her gaze fell on his arms, his chest. She liked muscles, and he remembered her running her fingertips, her tongue along his biceps, his pecs.

  With thoughts like that he had better get them both in the water fairly quickly!

  “What are
you doing?” she said. “You aren’t supposed to be looking at me. Owen, stay over there.”

  “How could I not look at you?” he said. “You are more beautiful than the sun and the moon and the stars.”

  “Stop it,” she said. “Or I’ll call it all off. I’ll leave. I’ll—”

  He reached her. She tried to scramble away, but it was too late. He had her wrist. “One, two, three, jump,” he said, and leapt for the water, pulling her in with him.

  She came up sputtering, her short blond hair flattened to her head. She looked like a drowned kitten. And hissed and spit like one. She cupped her hand and hit the water, hard. It sprayed up into his face, went up his nose.

  He coughed, and closed his eyes against the sting of the mineral water. When he opened them she was racing away from him. She had the strongest crawl he’d ever seen, man or woman, but he knew an invitation to give chase when he saw one.

  He lit out after her through the smooth, warm, water. Anytime he got near, she would splash him with her feet. But then she ran out of room and she had to cut back. Even she couldn’t swim that fast, and he captured her foot. She tried to kick away but he held fast. He ran his palm over her smooth heel, and desperately she splashed at him. He ignored her, and lowered his lips to the dainty arch of her foot where he knew her to be insanely ticklish.

  And then the most incredible thing happened.

  The moment he had been waiting for.

  She struggled. She screamed. And then she laughed, and the light went back on in his world. She kicked hard, landing a solid thunk right in the center of his chest, and he released her foot and fell backward in the water. When he surfaced, she splashed him hard, before taking off across the pool again.

  They swam and played and dove and dunked. She reminded him of an otter, so utterly comfortable in the water, so sleek, so graceful. Occasionally she let him get close enough to touch her, a skim of his hand over silk-wet skin. It seemed to him that one second touching her was more pleasurable than anything else he had ever done.

  “Woman, you’ve exhausted me,” he said, and made his way to a natural bench that formed under the water on one side of the pool. He sat on it, leaned his head against the slick bank, felt the turquoise water lapping against his chest.