The Spanish Prince s Virgin Bride

by Sandra Marton

  She nodded. “Of course,” she said, and wondered why what he’d said should make her feel a little sad.

  Lucas nodded, too. “I’ll tell Dolores to come up and see you. Let her know what you need.”

  “Everything,” Alyssa said, with a little laugh. “Clothes. A toothbrush. A comb. A shower—”

  “I can take care of that.”

  His voice was suddenly low and husky. She looked up and caught her breath at what she saw in his eyes.

  “The clothes, I mean,” he said softly. “I’ll take you with me tomorrow. You can buy whatever you wish.”

  “I couldn’t—”

  “Of course you could.” He smiled; one hand cupped her chin and he traced her lips with his thumb. “I carried you off, amada. I owe you much more than a shopping trip.”

  “Lucas—”

  “You see? My name is not so difficult to say after all.”

  “Lucas.” God, her head was swimming. She’d been furious at him just a little while ago. Now, all she could think of was how dark his eyes were. How the brush of his thumb felt on the curve of her lip. “Lucas. On the plane…I was thinking—”

  Slowly he drew her to him. “Si. So was I.”

  “About—about our situation.”

  “I, too, amada.” He smiled. “I was thinking how very glad I am that the contract stipulation did not involve a woman like the one my cousin Enrique found himself betrothed to.”

  “We’re not betrothed,” Alyssa said, and wondered at how breathless she sounded.

  “No. Certainly not. But Enrique was.” His smile became a grin. “His novia outweighed him.”

  Alyssa laughed softly. “You’re making that up.”

  “Cross my heart,” Lucas said, trying to look serious. “And she had only one eyebrow.” He put his finger to his temple and drew a line straight across his forehead. “One thick, black eyebrow. Can you imagine?” Slowly, inexorably, he drew her into his embrace. “Only a very fortunate man finds himself in a marriage contract with a woman as beautiful as you, chica.”

  “It isn’t a real contract,” Alyssa said quickly.

  “Of course not. But if it were—”

  “It isn’t,” she said again and this time it was she who rose on her toes, who offered her mouth for Lucas’s kiss.

  He kissed her gently at first. Tenderly. Gathered her in his arms as if she were fragile as glass…but it wasn’t enough.

  Not for him.

  Not for her.

  “Lucas,” she whispered, and he groaned and enveloped her in his arms, his kiss deepening, heating, and she responded to it, pressed herself against him, touched the tip of her tongue to his.

  His hands slid down her spine.

  He cupped her bottom. Lifted her into him. Into his erection. And when she gasped, he said something against her mouth and suddenly he was holding her as if she were a woman, not a delicate bit of crystal.

  His hands swept under her skirt, up her legs, and she moaned and thrust her hands into his hair, lifting herself to him, telling him with every beat of her heart, every whisper of her breath, that she wanted him.

  “Amada,” he said thickly, and he slid a hand between her thighs, cupping her, feeling her heat, hearing her sharp little cry of pleasure, feeling her dampness against his palm. Then she was in his arms again and he was carrying her quickly through the gathering shadows of late afternoon, through another door, to a bed, a four-poster bed hung with ivory lace…

  Someone pounded on the sitting room door.

  Lucas lifted his head. Lyssa was still in his arms, her eyes blurred with desire, her lips rosy and swollen from his.

  The fist hit the door again.

  “Sir! Your Highness! The hospital called. Your grandfather…He’s conscious.”

  It took a moment to register. He had forgotten everything but the woman in his arms. The sorceress who had the power to dazzle him even though he still didn’t know if she was a good witch or an evil one.

  He lay her on the bed. Then he bent over her and kissed her again, hard enough to make her gasp, hard enough to nip her flesh…

  Hard enough to leave his brand on her body as well as her soul.

  Alyssa rolled onto her belly as he hurried from the room. She wrapped her arms around the pillow, her breathing quick, her pulse roaring in her ears. Her mouth still tasted of Lucas’s; his scent was on her skin.

  Another minute and she’d have given herself to him.

  She moaned softly, shut her eyes and buried her face in the pillow.

  She’d been wrong to let him bring her here but that could be remedied. She would leave him. Leave this place…

  Except, she had no money. No passport. She had nothing but her anger and it stayed with her, made her leave the bed, shower, put on the same clothes she’d been wearing for what seemed forever, speak curtly to Dolores when the housekeeper knocked an hour later to see if she was all right.

  “I’m fine,” she snapped, and Dolores stammered out an apology for interrupting and left.

  Alyssa felt as if she were coming apart. What she’d almost done, what she’d almost let Lucas do, proved it. Surely she’d never have melted into him if she were functioning normally.

  She had not slept in hours. In days, or so it felt. She was beyond exhaustion; she knew that, but she couldn’t seem to stop pacing while she planned what she would say to Lucas when he returned.

  She remembered the night Aloysius had died. How she’d stood beside his still form and felt nothing. How, hours later, the tears had finally come, tears for what might have been.

  This was different. She knew that.

  And, as late afternoon became evening, she began wondering what Lucas was facing in a hospital room at the side of an old man he so obviously loved.

  Night fell over the Reyes mansion. Stars blazed in new constellations of fierce fire against the pitch-black sky. The adrenaline that had kept her going suddenly drained away, leaving her spent and weary.

  She stripped off her clothes, leaving them where they fell, wrapped herself in a soft white cotton robe she found in the closet and stumbled to the bed.

  Long hours later, a whisper roused her from the depths of sleep.

  “Lyssa?”

  Alyssa forced her eyes open. Lucas was sitting on the bed beside her, limned by moonlight, weariness and despair etched in every line of his proud, beautiful face.

  He stroked his hand over her hair.

  “Forgive me for being gone so long, chica. But my grandfather—”

  “Is he—?”

  “He’s alive,” he said in a low voice, “but—”

  He shook his head. Without thinking, she reached up and touched his cheek.

  “I’m sorry, Lucas.”

  “Si. Thank you for that.”

  Alyssa looked up at him in silence. Then, slowly, she reached for him. On a soft groan, he gathered her close and stretched out beside her.

  “Go to sleep, amada,” he whispered, and she sighed, put her head on the shoulder of the arrogant, hard-hearted Spanish prince and took him with her deep, deep into sleep.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  IN THE deepest hours of darkness, a night-creature called from the jasmine-scented gardens below the bedroom window. Its cry was soft, but it was enough to draw Lucas from his sleep.

  He frowned into the darkness.

  What bed was this? Not his. Neither was the room. For a second, he thought he was in New York, in his penthouse on Central Park West…

  Until he felt the delicate weight of the woman in his arms.

  Alyssa.

  She was sprawled half-over his body, her thigh across his, her arm lying over his chest. Her head was on his shoulder; silky strands of her hair drifted across his lips.

  Lucas closed his eyes.

  She felt wonderful. Warm. Soft.

  Perfect.

  But what was he doing here, in her bed? He remembered returning from the hospital, anguished and exhausted. It had been late; the servants
were all asleep, even Dolores. When he was a boy, she’d often waited up to see if he needed anything, though she’d never admitted to it.

  Tonight, he’d been relieved to find she hadn’t gone back to those old habits, as she still sometimes did. He was too tired, too distressed to talk to anyone.

  He’d gone slowly up the stairs to his rooms, pausing on the landing to look down the hall toward the guest suite. Was Alyssa still awake? Was she thinking about what had almost happened before he’d been called to the hospital?

  He’d surely thought about it. Even sitting beside his grandfather’s bed, the old man’s icy hand in his, memories of those unplanned moments had come to him.

  They had been unplanned, hadn’t they? Or had Alyssa sensed it was the right time to draw him deeper into her net?

  Lucas closed his eyes.

  She insisted she didn’t want to marry him any more than he wanted to marry her. What was the truth? He was too weary to think about it. A hot shower. A night’s sleep. He’d known those were what he’d needed.

  He would sort things out in the morning.

  He’d gone to his suite. Undressed in the dark. Showered, let the water beat down on his neck and shoulders while he stood with his head bowed and his hands flat against the glass wall of the stall.

  Restored in body if not in spirit, he’d pulled on a pair of gray sweatpants and fallen into bed, but sleep had been as elusive as peace of mind.

  He’d thought about Felix. It was a good sign, wasn’t it, that he was conscious? The dazed expression, the silence, would pass…wouldn’t they?

  And, inevitably, he’d thought about Alyssa. How it had felt to hold her. How she’d returned his kisses. How close he’d come to slaking his thirst for her, a thirst that had gripped him from those first minutes in the stable at El Rancho Grande.

  He’d tossed and turned until his blankets looked as if a demented Boy Scout had tied them in giant granny knots. Disgusted, he’d finally decided to go down to the library for a book.

  Instead he’d bypassed the stairs and walked down the hall.

  Where the hell do you think you’re going, Reyes? he’d asked himself.

  The answer was simple.

  He’d gone straight to the guest suite, paused outside its closed door. He listened for a sound, checked to see if light shone under the door and found neither.

  Why would Alyssa be awake at this hour? And what would it matter if she were?

  Just walk away, he’d told himself sternly.

  Even as he thought it, he’d turned the knob, opened the door, made his way quietly through the sitting room to the bedroom.

  Alyssa lay sleeping in the canopied bed, her face gently lit by starlight. By exhaustion.

  His fault.

  He’d put her through hell the past day. Two days. He’d lost track. And yet, even now, she was beautiful.

  His heart turned over. He wanted to wake her. Tell her he was sorry for everything, that he’d gone out of his way to frighten her in the stable, that he’d forced her to come here with him because who was he kidding? He had forced her. He’d given her about as much choice as a mouse trapped by a posse of cats.

  The only thing he wasn’t sorry for was what had happened in this room a few hours ago.

  He’d wanted her. She’d wanted him. Her honest passion, her fire, had damn near stolen his breath.

  The lady could be gentle as a kitten, tough as a tigress. He knew little else about her but he surely knew that.

  Was that why Felix had pledged him to her?

  There were a dozen other women would have been logical choices. More logical, really. Europe was filled with princesses and countesses whose families would have jumped at the chance to add Lucas’s impeccable list of titles to theirs.

  You could broaden the field, too. The Americas were home to heiresses whose fathers were eager for titles that would give old-world luster to their fortunes.

  He’d met many of those women. American, European…they were all pretty and prettily spoiled, and every last one of them knew how to smile and flirt and please a man.

  Tired as he was, Lucas had smiled.

  Alyssa didn’t seem to know how to do either. She was too strong, too independent. He couldn’t think of another woman who’d have stood up to him the way she did.

  Was that what Felix had thought would entice him? Her strength? Her independence?

  Her virginity?

  Felix had mentioned it but Lucas didn’t believe it. Virgins were about as common as hen’s teeth. Besides, virginity was overrated.

  He wasn’t from the old school. If men weren’t held to standards of innocence, why should women be?

  And, Lucas had suddenly asked himself, what in hell was he doing here, an intruder in Alyssa’s bedroom? It was just that he was so damned tired. His room had seemed filled with shadows but this one—

  This one seemed filled with Lyssa.

  That was when he’d whispered her name. She’d awakened instantly and it was only then he’d realized she might scream or, at least, tell him to get the hell out…

  Instead she’d asked about Felix in a soft, caring voice. And when she opened her arms, it had seemed the most natural thing in the world to lie down beside her, gather her close, hold her to his heart and let her bring him the blessed comfort of sleep.

  Lucas shifted his weight.

  But he was awake now. Wide-awake, as far from sleep as a man could be, and he was incredibly aware of the woman in the bed with him, warm and sweet-smelling and all but sleeping on top of him.

  He felt the stirrings of desire.

  Bastard that he was, what he wanted from her now had nothing to do with comfort. In a heartbeat, he had an erection so hard and full it was almost painful.

  How simple it would be to ease that discomfort.

  A soft kiss, while she slept. A purposeful caress. By the time she was completely awake, he’d be inside her…

  Madre de Dios. What kind of man would even contemplate such a thing?

  Carefully Lucas slid his arm from beneath her shoulders.

  “Lucas?”

  Her whisper stilled him but the swift hiss of her breath as she realized how intimately they were entwined only gave him more reason to want her.

  “Lucas. How did we…What are you…?”

  He rolled over, lay next to her with his head raised just enough so he could see her face.

  “It’s all right, amada,” he said softly. “We took a siesta. Nothing more.”

  He could see her trying to reconstruct what had led to this just as he had done a few minutes ago. Finally she nodded.

  “I remember.”

  “Gracias, Lyssa.”

  “For what?”

  Gently he ran the tip of his index finger over her soft mouth.

  “For giving me these hours of sleep. I don’t know why but I could not have had them on my own.”

  “I understand.”

  “Do you?”

  “When Aloysius was—when he was very sick, there were times I was so tired I could hardly hold my head up. Still, I’d get into bed and lie there, wide-awake.” She took a breath, then let it out in a soft sigh that flowed over his fingers like silk. “I didn’t love him the way you love your grandfather but it’s hard to watch when someone who’s been part of your life is suffering.”

  Lucas smiled. “Does my love for Felix show?”

  “Like a badge of honor.” She smiled, too. “He must love you the same way.”

  Lucas’s smile tilted. “Amazing,” he said softly, “but I have never before lain with a woman and discussed my feelings for my grandfather.”

  Color rose to her face. “You haven’t exactly lain with me, Lucas.”

  “No.” His voice grew husky. “I have not.” His gaze dropped to her mouth, then lifted to her eyes. “All the more reason for me to leave your bed, amada. But first, a kiss good night.”

  Her breathing quickened. “I don’t think that’s—”

  “One
kiss,” he whispered, and took her mouth. Gently. No force. No coercion. If she tried to stop him, he would stop.

  He would die…but he would stop.

  But she didn’t stop him.

  Instead the sound she made against his lips was so delicate it made his heart pound.

  “Lucas,” she said against his mouth. “Lucas…”

  He answered by cupping her face with his hands.

  She answered by parting her lips to his.

  The taste of her made his head swim. She was honey. She was the richest Spanish sherry made from the ripest fruit, sweet and warm from the sun.

  Her hands rose. Threaded into his hair. He groaned and slipped his tongue between her lips, felt her momentary hesitation and then she made another of those little sounds that drove him half out of his mind and sucked delicately on the tip.

  A rush of heat sizzled through his body.

  Leave her bed now, Lucas.

  He could hear the voice inside him, hear its tone of command but he could no more obey that order than he could stop the tide of desire rising within him.

  He couldn’t leave her. She didn’t want him to leave her. Not if she was looping her arms around his neck and drawing him even closer.

  So close that he stopped thinking.

  Touch. Taste. Smell. Sound. Those were the only things that mattered. The taste of her skin, there. Right there, in the hollow of her throat. At the juncture of throat and shoulder. At the elegant angle of her collarbone…

  Alyssa trembled in his arms.

  “Lucas,” she whispered, “ohmygod, Lucas…”

  “Yes,” he said, “si, amada.”

  He whispered to her. In English. In Spanish. Words of need. Of desire. Words that made her gasp with shock.

  With pleasure.

  “Amada. Let me. Let me—”

  “Yes,” she said, “please, yes,” when she felt his hands at the sash of her robe but his fingers were uncharacteristically clumsy and an eternity seemed to drag by until he finally fumbled the knot open.

  The halves of the robe fell apart, revealing her to him.

  Alyssa, his Lyssa, was more than beautiful. She was exquisite, everything he’d ever imagined, everything he’d ever dreamed.

  And so feminine, so delicate, it made his heart leap.