by Annie West
Tamsin drew a deep breath into constricted lungs, searching for composure. She’d never been distracted by male beauty before. She dismissed as irrelevant the knowledge that she’d never seen anyone so magnificent.
She shook her head. He’s just a man, just—
‘This one, too.’ There he was again. She’d been so caught up in her thoughts she hadn’t noticed his rapid ascent. He reached for the book in her arms.
‘It’s all right. I can carry it.’ For suddenly, close enough to inhale his subtle spice and forest and man scent, she didn’t want to relinquish the barrier between them. She clung to it like a talisman.
‘We don’t want to risk another accident,’ he drawled in his easy, perfect English. ‘Do we, Cinderella?’
‘I’m not…’ She stopped herself. Despite his mock serious expression there was amusement in his eyes.
Anger welled. Self-consciousness tightened her stomach. Patrick laughed at her too. All her life she’d been a misfit, a figure of speculation and amusement. She’d learned to pretend not to notice but still it hurt.
Yet this was her fault. She’d put herself in this ridiculous position because she’d been too curious to sit meekly waiting. She’d never be taken seriously now. Just when it was vital she win confidence and trust.
Had she single-handedly wrecked her chance of success?
Summoning the scraps of her dignity she unclamped stiff fingers and lowered the volume into his waiting hands.
Calloused fingers brushed hers through the thin gloves she’d donned to protect the books. An electric shock shot up her arm and across her breasts. She jerked her hands away.
Tamsin bit the inside of her cheek and looked away from his knowing gaze, her emotions too raw for comfort.
He stood still. She felt his stare, tangible as a trailing touch, move across her face to her throat then back up again. Her breathing shallowed.
She told herself she was used to being a curiosity, out of step with her peers. Stubbornly she ignored the hurt lancing her chest.
An instant later he clattered back down the ladder and she let out her breath in a sigh.
Time to climb down and face the music. She unfolded the leg tucked beneath her. Pins and needles prickled, proof she’d sat here longer than she’d realised. Gingerly she wriggled, pulling the bunched hem of her skirt down where it had rucked up. Grasping the ladder she rose, ready to turn.
His appearance before her prevented her moving.
‘I need space to turn around.’ Her voice was betrayingly uneven.
Instead of descending, he rose, his hands grasping the top of the ladder so his broad shoulders and powerful arms surrounded her.
Something fluttered in Tamsin’s chest at the sensation of being caught within his embrace, though he didn’t touch her. The force field of his presence engulfed her. It made her feel small and vulnerable and edgy.
Her breath hissed in.
His head was at breast height now. She leaned back towards the shelving, trying to put space between them.
‘Whoa. Easy now.’ His deep voice lowered to a soothing pitch, as if steadying a fractious animal.
‘I can climb down alone.’ Her words were sharper than she’d intended, betraying her embarrassment at the storm of inexplicable reactions bombarding her.
‘Of course you can.’ His lips pursed ruminatively, drawing her eyes. Heat washed her neck and cheeks as she stared. In a less rugged face that perfect mouth would look almost feminine. But on him those lips simply looked sensuous and dangerously inviting.
Like the deeply hooded eyes that steadily surveyed her.
Tamsin swallowed and felt her blush burn hotter. Could he read her thoughts? He must be accustomed to women gaping. The realisation didn’t ease her embarrassment.
‘But accidents happen and I wouldn’t want you losing your footing.’
‘I won’t lose my footing,’ she said in a horribly breathless voice.
He shrugged those wide, straight shoulders, mesmerising her with the movement. ‘We hope not. But we won’t take chances. Think of the insurance claim if you’re injured.’
‘I wouldn’t—’
‘Of course you wouldn’t.’ He rose further and she backed so her shoulders touched the bookshelf and there was nowhere else to go. ‘But your permanent employer might sue for damages if you’re injured due to our negligence.’
‘It’s not your negligence. I climbed up here.’
He shook his head. ‘Anyone with an ounce of understanding would realise what temptation this ladder is to a woman who loves books. It’s asking for trouble.’
Something flickered in his eyes. She was sure he was laughing but his sympathetic expression couldn’t be faulted. ‘It was irresponsible to leave it here, just begging to be climbed.’
He conveniently ignored the fact that the ladder was fixed top and bottom to the rails placed around the walls.
‘You’re talking nonsense.’
His eyebrows arched and a flash of something that might have been approval lit his eyes.
‘Very probably,’ he murmured. ‘The tension must be getting to me. Heights can affect people like that, you know.’ His lips curved up in another one of those half-smiles that melted something vital inside her. ‘Take pity on my nerves and let me get you down from here.’
Tamsin opened her mouth to end his games. She refused to be the butt of his jokes. But before she could speak large hands pulled her towards him, warming her through several layers of clothing and jamming the words in her throat. For a moment panic threatened as she plunged forward, but an instant later she was draped over one solid shoulder. He clamped her close with his arm and then he was moving, descending the ladder with her firmly in his hold.
‘Put me down! Let me go, right now!’ She couldn’t believe he’d grabbed her.
‘Of course. In just a moment.’
To her horror Tamsin felt his deep voice rumble through his torso and hers.
Tamsin shut her eyes rather than look at the distant floor, or, more disturbingly, the intriguing sight of muscles bunching in the taut backside inches from her face.
But closing her eyes heightened other senses. She felt him against the length of her body, his strength undeniably exciting as ripples of movement teased her breasts and thighs. Disturbing warmth swirled languidly in the pit of her stomach.
She shouldn’t be enjoying this. She should be outraged. Or at least impervious. She should…
‘There.’ He lowered her into a chair and stepped back. ‘Safe and sound.’
His eyes weren’t laughing now. They were sober as he stared down at her. His mouth was a firm line, his brows tipped into a slight frown as if the joke had turned sour. His jaw clamped hard and she had the fleeting impression he was annoyed rather than amused.
Tamsin wanted desperately to conjure a witty quip. To redeem herself as clever and insouciant, taking the situation in her stride.
Instead she gazed helplessly, enmeshed in a web of unfamiliar reactions. Her breasts tingled from contact with him, her nipples puckering shamelessly. Her thighs were warm from his touch. Her gaze caught on his black hair, now slightly rumpled. Heat sizzled inside like a firecracker about to explode.
It wasn’t the sexy cavalry uniform that made him look so good, despite the gilt braiding that moulded his tapering torso, the cut of clothes that made him look every inch the fairy tale hero. What unnerved her was the flesh and blood man whose shadowed eyes glowed like an invitation to sin.
She tried to tell herself he was vain enough to have a uniform designed to enhance the incredible colour of his eyes. But the gravity of his expression when he wasn’t smiling told her he didn’t give a toss for his looks.
Tamsin’s breath sawed as he dropped to one knee and took her bare foot in his hand. Tremors rippled up her leg and she felt again that strange molten sensation pooling low in her belly.
She squirmed but he didn’t release her. Instead he fished something out of his pocket and s
lid it onto her foot. Soft, worn familiar leather. Her discarded shoe.
‘So, Cinderella. Why did you want to see me?’
Tamsin’s pulse faltered. For the last ten minutes she’d pretended he was a guest, even a member of staff. Yet deep inside she’d known who he was.
Prince Alaric. The man who held her career and her reputation in his hands.
Already she amused him. How he’d laugh if he knew that in ten minutes, without trying, he’d seduced one of Britain’s last dyed in the wool virgins to mindless longing.
Tamsin swallowed convulsively. She shot to her feet and stepped away, busying herself by stripping off her gloves and stuffing them in a pocket.
‘It’s about the archives I’m cataloguing and assessing for conservation.’ A cache of documents recently discovered when a castle cellar had been remodelled.
She turned. He stood by the chair, frowning in abstraction. Tamsin lifted her chin, breathing deep.
‘They include some unique and valuable papers.’
‘I’m sure they do.’ He nodded, his expression blandly polite. Obviously he had no interest in her efforts.
‘I have a copy of one with me.’ She reached for her briefcase, grateful for an excuse to look away from his hooded gaze.
‘Why don’t you just tell me about it?’
Cut to the chase, in other words.
He’d had plenty of time to dally, amusing himself at her expense, but none to spare for her work.
Disappointment curled through her, and annoyance.
‘One of the documents caught my attention. It’s a record of your family and Prince Raul’s.’ She paused, excitement at her find bubbling up despite her vexation.
‘There’s still work to be done on it.’ Tamsin paused, keeping her voice carefully even. ‘I’ve been translating from the Latin and, if it’s proved correct…’
‘Yes? If it’s proved correct?’
Tamsin hesitated, but there was no easy way to say it. Besides, he’d surely welcome the news.
‘If it’s genuine you’re not only Prince of Ruvingia, you’re also the next legitimate ruler of Maritz. Of the whole country. Not Prince Raul.’ She paused, watching his expression freeze.
‘It’s you who should be crowned king.’
Chapter Two
ALARIC’s body stiffened as her words sank in with terrible, nightmare clarity.
Him as ruler of Maritz!
The idea was appalling.
Raul was the crown prince. The one brought up from birth to rule. The one trained and ready to dedicate his life to his country.
Maritz needed him.
Or a man like Alaric’s brother, Felix.
Alaric wasn’t in the same mould. Even now he heard his father’s cool, clipped voice expressing endless displeasure and disappointment with his reckless second son.
Alaric’s lips twisted. How right the old man had been. Alaric couldn’t take responsibility for the country. Bad enough he’d stepped into Felix’s shoes as leader of a principality. Entrusting the wellbeing of the whole nation to his keeping would be disaster.
He, whose conscience was heavy with the weight of others’ lives! Who’d failed them so abysmally.
Horror crawled up his spine to clamp his shoulders. Ice froze his blood. Familiar faces swam in his vision, faces distorted with pain. The faces of those he’d failed. The face of his brother, eyes feverish as he berated Alaric for betraying him.
He couldn’t be king. It was unthinkable.
‘Is this a joke?’ The words shot out, harsh in the silence.
‘Of course not!’
No. One look at her frown and her stunned eyes made that clear. Tamsin Connors wasn’t kidding.
He’d never seen a more serious, buttoned-up woman. From her tense lips to her heavy-framed glasses and scraped-back hair, she was the image of no-nonsense spinsterhood.
Except for that body.
Hard to believe she’d felt so warm and lithely curved. Or that holding her he’d known a curious desire to strip away that fashion crime of an outfit and explore her scented femininity. A desire completely dormant in the face of so many blatant sexual invitations from tonight’s beauties!
Beneath her bag lady clothes Tamsin Connors was only in her mid-twenties. When she forgot to prim them her lips were surprisingly luscious. He looked into her frowning face and knew he was avoiding the issue. The impossible issue of him being king!
‘What exactly is in these papers?’ His voice sounded rusty, as if his vocal cords had seized up.
‘They’re old records by a cleric called Tomas. He detailed royal history, especially births, deaths and marriages.’ She shifted, leaning imperceptibly closer.
Did he imagine her fresh sunshine scent, warm in a room chilled with the remembrance of death?
With an effort he dragged his focus back to her.
‘Take a seat, please, and explain.’ He gestured to one of the armchairs by the fire then took one for himself.
‘According to Tomas there was intermarriage between your family and Prince Raul’s.’
Alaric nodded. ‘That was common practice.’ Power was guarded through alliances with other aristocratic families.
‘At one stage there was a gap in the direct line to the Maritzian throne. The crown couldn’t pass from father to son as the king’s son had died.’
Her words flayed a raw spot deep inside him. A familiar glacial chill burned Alaric’s gut. The knowledge he was a usurper in a better man’s shoes.
That he was responsible for his brother’s death.
‘There were two contenders for the throne. One from Prince Raul’s family and…’ Her words slowed as she registered his expression. Some of her enthusiasm faded.
‘And one from mine?’
She shifted as if uncomfortable, but continued.
Two rival princes from different branches of intertwined families. A will from the old king designating one, the eldest by some weeks, as his successor. A tragic ‘accident’ leading to the accession of the alternate heir and a desperate decision by the dead prince’s widow to send her newborn son to safety far away. The suppression of the old king’s will and a rewriting of birth dates to shore up the new monarch’s claim to the throne.
It was a tale of treachery and the ruthless pursuit of power. But in his country’s turbulent history, definitely possible.
How was it possible she’d found such a contentious document?
The likelihood was staggeringly remote. For centuries historians had plotted the family trees of the royal families in each of the neighbouring principalities.
Yet her earnestness, her straight-backed confidence caught his attention.
Obviously she’d found something. This woman was no one’s fool, despite her up-tight demeanour. He remembered reading her CV when she had been recommended for the job of assessing and preserving the archives. Multiple qualifications. Glowing references. Her first degree in her teens and a formidable amount of experience since then.
It was tempting to believe this was a mistake, that she’d jumped to the wrong conclusion. Yet she didn’t strike him as a woman prone to taking risks.
‘You’re not pleased?’ she ventured, her brows puckering. ‘I know it’s a shock but—’
‘But you thought I’d be thrilled to become king?’ His words were clipped as he strove to suppress a surge of unfamiliar panic. He had to fight the rising nausea that clogged his throat.
He shook his head. ‘I’m loyal to my cousin, Dr Connors. He will make the sort of king our country needs.’
Alaric succeeding in his place would be a nightmare made real.
Hell! The timing couldn’t be worse. The country needed stability. If this was true…
‘Who else have you told?’ Alaric found himself on his feet, towering above her with his hands clamped on her chair arms. She shrank back as he leaned close.
In the flickering firelight she looked suddenly vulnerable and very young.
The pou
nding thud of his heartbeat slowed and he straightened, giving her space.
No need to intimidate the woman. Yet.
‘I haven’t told anyone.’ Wide eyes stared at him from behind those ugly glasses and a twist of something like awareness coiled in his belly. ‘I had to tell you first.’
The tension banding his chest eased and he breathed deep. ‘Good. You did the right thing.’
Tentatively she smiled and he felt a tremor of guilt at having scared her. Even now one hand pressed to her breast as if her heart raced. He followed the rapid rise and fall of her chest. An unexpected trickle of fire threaded his belly as he recalled her feminine softness against him.
‘When I get the test results back we’ll know if the papers are what they seem to be.’
‘Results?’ He stilled. ‘What tests are these?’
‘There are several,’ she said slowly, her expression wary. Alaric thrust his hand through his hair, fighting the impulse to demand she explain instantly.
Instead he took another deliberate step away from her and laid his forearm along the mantelpiece. Immediately the tension in her slim frame eased.
‘Would you care to enlighten me?’
She blinked and blushed and for a moment Alaric was sidetracked by the softening of her lips as they formed an O of surprise. She looked charmingly female and innocently flustered in a way that threatened to distract him.
An instant later she was brisk and businesslike. ‘I’ve sent pages for testing. We need to know if the parchment is as old as it appears. That it’s not a modern forgery.’
She’d sent papers away? Who had them now? This got worse and worse.
‘Plus the style of the text is unusual. I’ve sent copies of some pages to a colleague for verification.’
‘Who gave you permission to do this?’ His voice was calm, low, but with the razor edge honed on emergency decisions made under fire.
She jerked her head up, her body stiffening.
‘I was told when I started that, so long as the usual precautions were taken, testing of documents found in the archives was allowed.’
‘If you’re right these aren’t just any documents!’ His hands fisted. Had she no notion of the powder keg she may have uncovered?
