Pure Princess, Bartered Bride

by Caitlin Crews

  She could not. Not here. Not now. It was too late.

  The cathedral was packed to capacity on all sides, filled with Europe’s royals and assorted nobles. Political allies and strategic partners of her father’s. The music soared toward the stained glass heights, filling the space and caressing the carved marble statues. Outside, she knew, the people of Miravakia were celebrating their princess’s wedding day as a national holiday. There would be rejoicing in the streets, the papers claimed, now that their Gabrielle had found her husband. Their future king.

  A man she did not know and had never seen—not in person. Not face-to-face.

  Her husband-to-be was a man who had won his wife through contracts—meetings with her father, bargains struck and approved without her knowledge or consent. Her father had not asked Gabrielle for her input—he had not considered her feelings at all. He had decided that it was time she married, and he had produced the bridegroom of his choice.

  And Gabrielle never argued with her father. Never rebelled, never contradicted. Gabrielle was good. Obedient. Respectful to a fault. In the hope that her father would one day respect her back. Love her, maybe—just a little.

  Instead, he’d sold her off to the highest bidder.

  Luc felt triumph surge through him as he watched the woman—soon to be his wife—walk toward him down the long ceremonial aisle. He barely noticed the arching stained glass above him as he stood at the altar, or the hunched statues of gargoyles peering down at him—his attention was focused entirely on her.

  Finally.

  Luc’s mouth pressed into a thin line as he thought of his reckless, thoughtless mother and the destruction she had wrought with her rebellions. Her “passions.” But Luc was not his temperamental, easily manipulated father. He would not stand for such behavior—not from his wife.

  She must be above reproach. She must be practical—as this was to be a marriage on paper first and flesh afterward. But most of all she must be trustworthy. Because Luc, unlike many of his station, would not tolerate disloyalty. There would be no discreet affairs in this marriage. He would accept nothing less than one hundred percent obedience. There would be no tabloid speculation, no scandals for the voyeurs to pick over. Never again.

  He’d searched for years. He’d rejected untold numbers of women before arriving at near misses like Lady Emma. As with everything in his life, from his business to the personal life he guarded ferociously, Luc’s refusal to compromise had first isolated, then rewarded him.

  Because he had not compromised, because he did not know the meaning of the word, he had exactly what he wanted. The perfect princess. At last.

  Princess Gabrielle was biddable. Docile—as evidenced by her presence in the cathedral today, calmly walking down the aisle into an arranged marriage because her father had ordered her to do so. So far, so good, he thought with deep satisfaction as he watched her slow, sure approach.

  He remembered the sun-drenched days when he’d followed her in Nice, her seemingly effortless poise, no matter how many clamored for her attention. She had never caused a single scandal in her life. She was known for her serenity and her complete lack of tabloid presence. When she made the papers it was in recognition of her charity work. Never for her exploits. Compared to the other royals who debauched themselves all over Europe, she might be a saint. Which suited Luc just fine.

  Luc Garnier had built an empire based on his perfectionist streak. If it was not perfect, it would not carry his name.

  His wife would be no different.

  He had left nothing to chance. He had had others collect the initial information, but then he had made the final decision—as he always did, no matter the acquisition in question. He had followed her personally, because he knew that he could not trust anyone’s opinion but his own. Not when it came to a matter of such importance. Others might make mistakes, or overlook seemingly small details that would later prove to be of importance—but not Luc. He would never have approached her father if he had not been absolutely satisfied that Princess Gabrielle was not just the best choice, but the only choice for his bride.

  Luc had met with King Josef to settle the final contracts in the King’s sumptuous suite at the Hotel le Bristol in Paris, with its stunning view of the great Sacré-Coeur basilica that rose, gleaming white, and towered above the city from Montmartre.

  “You do not wish to meet her?” the older man had asked when the business was done, settling back in his chair to enjoy his port.

  “It is not necessary,” Luc had replied. He had inclined his head. “Unless you wish it?”

  “What is it to me?” the King had asked, letting out a puff of air through his nose. “She will marry you whether you meet her or not.”

  “You are certain?” Luc had asked lightly, though he had not in truth been concerned. Arrangements would never have reached this stage if the King had not been sure of his daughter’s obedience. “Ours is an unusual settlement in this day and age. A princess and a kingdom in exchange for wealth and business interests—I am told this sounds like something out of a history book.”

  The King had made a dismissive noise. “My daughter was raised to do the right thing regarding her country. I have always insisted that Gabrielle understands her position necessitates a certain dignity.” The King had swirled his port in its tumbler. He had frowned. “And great responsibility.”

  “She appears to have taken it to heart,” Luc had said, looking at his own drink. “I have never heard her mentioned without reference to her grace and composure.”

  “Of course.” The King had seemed almost taken aback. “She has known all her life that her role as princess would come before any more personal considerations. She will be a good queen one day—though she requires a firm hand to guide her.” He’d sniffed. “You will have no trouble with her.”

  No trouble, Luc had thought with deep satisfaction, would suit him perfectly.

  The King had waved his hand, seeming perturbed that they had spoken so long about something he found far beneath his notice. “But enough of that. Let us drink to the future of Miravakia.” He had raised his glass.

  “To the future of Miravakia,” Luc had murmured in response. She would be his wife, and finally, finally, he would prove to himself and to the world that he was not cut from the same histrionic cloth as his late parents. Finally he would prove that he, Luc Garnier, was above reproach as well.

  “Yes, yes,” King Josef had said, and then raised a brow at Luc, as if sharing a confidence. “And to women who know their place.”

  As she moved closer now, down the cathedral’s long aisle, Luc let himself smile, though he did not relax.

  She was perfect. He had made sure of it. And now she was his.

  Gabrielle could see him now, from beneath her veil, as she finally approached the altar. He stood straight and tall at the front of the cathedral, his gaze seeming to command her even as she walked toward him. Toward their future.

  Luc Garnier. Her groom. Gabrielle had never met him—but she had researched him in the months since her father had announced his name. He was descended from centuries of Italian royalty on his mother’s side, with a French billionaire father whose fortunes he had doubled before he turned twenty-five. His parents’ tumultuous love affair had made headlines while Luc was still young. They had perished in a boating accident when Luc was still in his early twenties, which many claimed was the reason he was so driven, so determined. She fancied she could see his ruthlessness in the line of his jaw, the gleam of his dark eyes.

  I can’t do this—

  But she was doing it.

  She had no choice—she had given herself no choice—but she didn’t have to watch it happen. She kept her eyes lowered. She didn’t want to look at this man—this stranger who would soon be her husband—but she could feel him next to her, above her, as her father handed her off. Luc’s large hands took her trembling fingers between his, and guided her the final few steps toward the bishop.

  Gabrielle’s
senses went into overload. Her heart pounded against her ribs while tears of anger and something else, something darker, pooled behind her eyes and threatened to blind her.

  He was so masculine, so unyielding. Next to her, his big body seemed to dwarf hers. His body radiated power and menace like heat, surging from their clasped hands through Gabrielle’s veins—making her limbs feel dangerously weak.

  This is just another panic attack. She ordered herself to breathe. To get a hold of herself and the riot of confusion that made her tremble against the man at her side.

  The stranger her father had sold her to.

  If Gabrielle closed her eyes she could imagine herself out in the sunshine, basking in the cool winds that swept down from the Alps on the mainland and scrubbed the island clean and cool even at the height of summer. Black pines and red roofs spread across the hilly island, cascading to the rocky beaches that lined the shore. Gabrielle’s tiny country was a fiercely independent island in the Adriatic Sea, closer to the rugged Croatian coastline to the east than Italy to the west, and she loved it.

  For her country, her father, she would do anything.

  Even this.

  But she kept her eyes closed and imagined herself anywhere but here.

  Anywhere at all…

  “Open your eyes,” Luc ordered her under his breath, as the wizened bishop performed the ceremony before them. The silly creature had gone stiff next to him, and he could see her eyes squeezed shut beneath her veil—so tight that her mouth puckered slightly.

  He felt her start, her delicate hands trembling against his. Her fingers were cold and pale. Her features were indistinct behind the ornate veil, but he could see the fabric move with each breath she took.

  “How…?” Her voice was the slightest whisper of sound, but still it tickled his senses. Luc’s gaze traveled over the elegant line of her neck, exposed beneath the translucent shimmer of her veil. She was made of fine lines and gentle curves, and he wanted to put his mouth on every one of them.

  The rush of desire surprised him. He’d known that she was beautiful, and had anticipated that he would enjoy marital relations with her. But this was something more than enjoyment. He was aware of the tension in her shoulders, the ragged edge to her breathing. He was aware of her, and he could hardly see her face through the veil. He felt lust pool in his groin and radiate outward, so that even the touch of her fingers at an altar three feet from the bishop sent heat washing through him.

  Then he realized that she was shaking. Perhaps she was not quite as sanguine about this wedding as he’d supposed.

  Luc almost laughed. There he was, imagining their wedding night in vivid, languorous detail, while his bride was awash in nerves. He couldn’t blame her—he knew that many found him intimidating. Why shouldn’t she?

  “We will suit each other well,” he whispered, trying to sound reassuring. An impulse entirely foreign to him—as alien as the urge to protect her that followed it.

  He felt the shiver that snaked through her then, and he squeezed his fingers tighter around hers.

  She was his, and he took care of what was his.

  Even if he was what had made her nervous in the first place.

  Gabrielle forced herself to open her eyes and to take part in her own wedding, even though the stranger’s—her husband’s—voice sent spasms of uneasiness throughout her body. His hand was too hot against hers. He was too close.

  Thank God she still had her veil to hide behind.

  The bishop intoned the old, sacred words, and Gabrielle had the sensation that everything was moving too fast. It was as if she was both present and far-distant, and out of control either way. She felt Luc’s strong hands on hers as he slid the platinum ring onto her finger. She marveled at the size and power of his hand, in contrast to the cool metal she held as she did the same. She heard his voice again when he repeated his vows, this time confident and loud, connecting hard with something deep in her belly.

  But nothing could prepare her for the moment when he pulled back her veil, exposing her face to his uncompromising gaze. Gabrielle’s mouth went dry. Fear, she told herself, though another part of her scoffed at that idea. She could feel him in her pores, surrounding her, claiming her. Something in her wanted it—wanted him—even though he seemed so overwhelming. Even though he was a stranger.

  The cathedral fell away. It was as if the two of them stood alone, Gabrielle naked and vulnerable before him. She had known that he was darkly, disturbingly handsome—that women on several continents vied for his attentions. So close, Gabrielle could see why.

  His thick dark hair brushed the top of his stiff white collar. The traditional dove-gray morning suit he wore emphasized the breadth of his shoulders and the hard planes of his chest. His features were hewn from stone. There were creases at the corners of his eyes, though she could not imagine this man laughing. He looked harsh, beautiful in the way that the mountains were, and equally remote. His dark gray eyes looked almost black in the light from above, beneath his dark brows. His mouth was set in a firm, flat, resolute line.

  He was her husband.

  He was a stranger.

  More than this, he was a man. And so intensely masculine that Gabrielle could not breathe as he regarded her for a searing moment. As if she was prey and he the dangerous predator. That odd part of her that she’d never felt before thrilled to the idea.

  Luc stepped closer, filling Gabrielle’s vision. She could smell the hint of his expensive cologne, could see the faint challenge in his gaze. Her lips parted as an unfamiliar sensation coursed through her—something having to do with the accelerated kick of her heart, the disturbing heaviness creeping through her limbs.

  One big hand molded to the curve of her cheek. Anchoring her. Holding her. Gabrielle dared not move. She barely breathed. She locked her knees beneath her, suddenly afraid she would topple over.

  The heat from his open palm was shocking. It ignited a fire that streaked through her body, confusing her even as something sweet and hot pooled deep inside. Her stomach clenched, and then began to ache. Her breath came in shallow bursts.

  Luc did not look away. He tilted her face toward her as he moved even closer, and then he settled his firm mouth against hers.

  It was no kiss. It was an act of possession. A hard, hot brand of his ownership.

  Luc pulled back, his gaze penetrating, then returned his attention to the bishop—as if Gabrielle had ceased to be of interest to him the moment he’d claimed her.

  Gabrielle wanted to scream. She felt the need for it churning inside her, clamoring against the back of her throat.

  He was just like her father. He could—and would, she felt certain, in a rush of intuition and fear—dictate her every move. She would be expected to produce heirs. To be naked in front of a man who made her feel naked already—even dressed in all her layers of white taffeta, embroidery, pearls.

  She could not do this. Why had she agreed to do this? Why had she not said no to her father, as any sane woman would have?

  Luc took her hand again, turning Gabrielle to face the congregation. Her attendants moved behind her, moving the great train as the couple began the long walk down the length of the cathedral.

  They were man and wife. She was married. Gabrielle’s head spun. Luc placed her small hand on his arm and led her down the aisle.

  She could feel the power he held tightly leashed in his body as he walked next to her.

  Everything inside Gabrielle rose up in protest, making her knees wobble beneath her and her eyes glaze with tears.

  This was a terrible mistake.

  How could she have let this happen?

  CHAPTER TWO

  HIS bride was afraid of him.

  “I make you anxious,” Luc said in an undertone, his attention trained on her as they stood together in the receiving line after the ceremony.

  She smiled, she greeted, she introduced—she was the perfect hostess. And the look she sent him was guarded.

  “Of cou
rse not,” she murmured, smiling, and then turned her attention to one of her cousins, the Baron something-or-other.

  Luc expected nothing less from a princess so renowned for her perfect manners, her propriety. Much unlike her royal contemporaries—including the cousin whose hand she clasped now. Luc’s mouth twisted as he thought of them, his supposed peers. Paparazzi fodder, like his parents had been—living out their private dramas in full, headline-shrieking view of the voyeuristic world, no matter that it humiliated their only son.

  “Congratulations,” the cousin said effusively, shaking Luc’s hand—his own far too soft and fleshy. Luc eyed him with a distaste he did not bother to hide, and the man’s smile toppled from his mouth.

  Luc had vowed years ago that he would never live such a useless, empty life. He had vowed that he would never marry until he found a woman as private as he was—as dedicated to not just the appearance of propriety, but of serenity. At nearly forty, he had been waiting a long time.

  “Thank you,” he said to the Baron with the barest civility. The other man hurried away. Next to him, Luc felt his new wife tense. Perhaps she was not afraid of him, as she’d said. Perhaps it was only a certain wariness. While Luc could not blame her, when grown men quaked before him, it would not do. A healthy respect was one thing, but he did not want her skittish.

  He gazed at her. Princess Gabrielle was the real deal. More than simply lovely—as he’d thought before—she was beautiful as a princess should be. Her glorious blue-green eyes were said to be the very color of the Adriatic. Standing next to her in her father’s palazzo, high on the hill overlooking the sea, Luc believed it.

  Her masses of honey-blond hair were swept up today, the better to anchor the tiara she wore. Jewels glinted at her ears and throat, emphasizing the long, graceful line of her neck. Her mouth, curved now in the polite smile he suspected she could produce by rote, was soft and full. She was delicate and elegant. And, more than all these things, he knew that she was virtuous as well. She was like a confection in her wedding finery—and she was his.