Passion, Purity and the Prince

by Annie West

  ‘But I—’

  ‘Sorry, Patrick. I can’t talk. I have to go.’

  She put down the phone then stroked unsteady hands along the soft fabric of her dress, trying to conjure again her earlier pleasure.

  Her stomach churned from hearing his voice. Not because she missed him, but at the knowledge of how close she’d come to making a complete fool of herself. She’d once considered giving herself to that…toad of a man!

  Tamsin was fed up with being second best. Being used.

  First Patrick and now Alaric, who only wanted her as a decoy. It didn’t matter that Alaric also made her feel exciting, dangerous, unfamiliar things. That he brought her to tingling life like a sleeper waking from long slumber.

  She was tired of being manipulated by men who wanted her for their schemes. Men who saw her as a convenience to be exploited.

  Not a real woman of flesh and blood and feelings.

  She stared in the mirror, taking in the reflection of a woman who was her and yet not her. Same nose, same eyes, same person, but so different from the old Tamsin everyone took for granted.

  She was tired of hiding. Of not being noticed as a woman.

  The idea of leaving the protective comfort of her usual role, of daring to pretend to be feminine and desirable, filled her with trepidation. Yet Alaric was right. Tamsin had isolated herself. She owed it to herself not to hide behind her work and her past any longer. She might be out of her depth tonight but she was no coward.

  Deliberately she lifted her hand and removed her glasses, dropping them onto a nearby table. Straightening her shoulders she left the room, her head high.

  Alaric viewed formal balls as a necessary evil. Until he turned from greeting an ambassador and her husband to see the next guest in line and the air punched from his lungs.

  She was breathtaking.

  Among the bejewelled and bedecked glitterati she was unadorned, yet she glowed with a radiance that set her apart. She didn’t need diamonds and platinum. Her skin was flawless, her lips a glossy pout that turned his blood molten hot with instant hunger. Her dark hair was a sensuous invitation to touch. It looked like she’d just pinned it up after rising from a bath or bed. As if it would tumble down at any moment around her bare shoulders.

  And her eyes. She’d removed the glasses and her amber-gold eyes were even more vibrant, more beautiful than he remembered. They blazed with an expression he’d never seen.

  He’d known she was hiding her real self. But nothing had prepared him for this.

  The ambassador moved away and Tamsin approached.

  Alaric stiffened. She was fully covered, more fully than many of the women present. Yet he knew an almost overpowering impulse to unbutton his military tunic and toss it around her bare shoulders.

  He didn’t miss the arrested glances from the men nearby. He wanted to growl out a warning to keep their distance. To look away.

  ‘Tamsin.’ His voice worked, though it emerged brusquely from frozen vocal cords. ‘It’s good to see you.’ If his muscles weren’t so stiff with shock he’d have laughed at the enormity of that understatement. He bowed over her hand, resorting to punctilious formality to prevent himself shepherding her straight out the way she’d come. Away from those admiring stares.

  His gaze dropped to her bodice, tightly fitted to show off her slim frame and full breasts. Flaring skirts accentuated Tamsin’s narrow waist and for an insane moment he found himself distracted, musing whether he could span her with his hands.

  ‘Hello, Alaric.’ Her voice was low and throaty, yanking his libido into roaring life.

  His hand tightened around hers and he wondered what would happen if he swept her away right now and didn’t come back. He was within an ace of scandalising everyone, had moved closer, when she spoke again.

  ‘I’m sorry I’m late.’

  Reluctantly he dropped her hand and stepped back, removing himself from temptation.

  ‘You’re not late at all.’ His voice was unnaturally clipped. ‘Please, go on in. I’ll join you soon.’

  She nodded and he turned away, forcing himself to greet the next guests in the reception line. Never had it been so hard to focus on duty.

  It was easier than she’d expected to mingle at a royal ball. Tamsin smiled as she sipped a glass of champagne and listened to the conversation around her.

  ‘You’re enjoying yourself?’ asked Peter, the friendly community centre coordinator she’d met just over a week ago.

  ‘How could I not? I’ve met so many fascinating people and I love dancing.’ She’d only discovered that tonight, as partner after partner had whirled her round the mirrored ballroom, her dress swishing about her and her blood singing in her veins. It had been heady and delightful.

  She turned. Peter wore an officer’s dress uniform. The gold braid and the neat row of medals across his chest gleamed in the light of the chandeliers. He looked the model of a dashing soldier of a couple of centuries ago, except for the scar on his neck and cheek.

  He laughed. ‘It’s true, then, that all the girls love a uniform.’

  ‘Sorry. Was I staring?’ His smile dispelled any embarrassment. ‘It’s just so unusual. Uniforms have changed since the Napoleonic Wars.’

  ‘Not in Ruvingia. Not for formal occasions.’ He winked. ‘Especially as they make us so popular with the ladies. But in the field we wear khakis like everyone else.’

  A pair of dancers swung by: Alaric looking like he’d stepped from the pages of a fairy tale in a uniform like Peter’s only with more medals pinned to his chest, and in his arms a delicate blonde woman glittering in azure silk and sapphires.

  Something struck Tamsin in the ribs. Jealousy? The possibility appalled her.

  Despite promising to join her hours ago, Alaric had only danced with her once. He’d held her at arm’s length, propelling her around the floor as if she were an elderly maiden aunt. Not close in his embrace as he smiled down into her face like he did with the gorgeous blonde.

  The pain in her ribs twisted, intensifying.

  ‘The prince, too? Surely he doesn’t have to wear khaki?’

  ‘Alaric? You don’t know—?’

  The surprise in Peter’s voice made her swing round to meet his suddenly sombre face.

  ‘Don’t know what?’

  He shrugged and she had the impression he was buying time before answering. The instinct she’d always trusted with her work sent a tiny shiver down her backbone.

  ‘You mean Alaric is a real soldier, too?’ If Peter was surprised by her use of the prince’s first name he didn’t show it. ‘I thought the uniform might be a perk of position. Like being a royal sponsor rather than a member of the regiment.’

  Yet even as Tamsin spoke she recalled her first impression of Alaric. His controlled power and athleticism proclaimed him a man of action, not a tame administrator.

  ‘Some perk!’ Peter shook his head. ‘He won his commission through talent and hard work. Much good it did him.’

  Tamsin put her glass down. ‘What do you mean?’ Peter’s grim expression spiked foreboding through her.

  ‘There was nothing pretend about our work. Alaric was our commanding officer and a good one, too. But with command comes a sense of responsibility. That can weigh heavily on a man who genuinely cares, especially when things go wrong.’

  He half lifted his hand towards his scarred face and Tamsin’s heart squeezed in sympathy. She wished she’d never started this conversation.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I shouldn’t have brought it up.’

  He smiled. ‘Because of this?’ He gestured to his face. ‘Don’t be. There are worse things, believe me.’ He looked at the dance floor as Alaric and his partner swung by again. ‘Not all scars are on the outside, you know. At least mine have healed.’

  Tamsin’s gaze followed the prince. So handsome, so powerful, standing out effortlessly from every other man here. The focus of so many longing female glances.

  Yet Peter hint
ed at hidden scars. Could he be right?

  She thought of the way Alaric’s shadowed eyes belied his easy charm, hinting at dark secrets.

  Out of nowhere came the recollection of Alaric’s ashen face after he’d saved that boy from serious burns. The prince’s expression had been stark with pain or shock. He’d frozen rigid, eyes staring blankly as if looking at something distant that horrified yet held him in thrall.

  ‘Tamsin?’

  ‘Sorry?’ She turned to find Peter holding out his hand.

  ‘Would you like to waltz?’

  She met his friendly dark eyes and tore her thoughts from the man even now bowing to some aristocratic lady on the other side of the ballroom.

  She spent far too much time fretting about Alaric.

  ‘I’d love to.’

  For the next hour she danced with partner after partner, revelling in the exquisite venue, the glamorous crowd, the pleasure of the dance. Resolutely she tried not to notice Alaric dancing with every pretty woman in the room. Finally, pleading exhaustion, she let her partner lead her to a relatively quiet corner for champagne and conversation.

  He was an editor from a national newspaper, good looking and full of entertaining stories that made her laugh. Tamsin saw the openly admiring light in his eyes and felt a warm glow inside. Here was one man at least who didn’t look on her as second best!

  Plus he was flatteringly interested in her work, suggesting a feature article on the archives and preservation work.

  ‘May I interrupt?’

  At the sound of that deep voice her companion halted in midsentence. ‘Your Highness, of course.’

  Reluctantly Tamsin turned. She’d told herself she was glad Alaric hadn’t shown her off as his fake companion tonight. She’d wanted to be her own woman, hadn’t she?

  Yet his lack of interest stung.

  Had he finally decided she wasn’t up to the job?

  Piercing indigo eyes met hers and heat sizzled through her, making the hairs on her arms stand up as if he’d brushed fingertips along her bare skin.

  She searched for the shadows she’d seen in his gaze once before, the shadows Peter had hinted at, but there was nothing wounded about this man. If anything there was a hint of steel in his stare, a tautness about his mouth. He was commanding, assured, supremely confident.

  He bowed. The epitome of royal hauteur from his severely combed hair to his mirror polished shoes.

  ‘Tamsin, I believe this is our dance.’

  She tried to tell herself she didn’t care that he’d come to her at last, but her heart gave a little jump.

  ‘I’ll be in contact later, Tamsin.’ Her companion smiled and took her wineglass, urging her forward. She had no excuse but to go with Alaric.

  A strong hand closed around hers and her heart hammered. Ridiculous! She’d danced with the prince earlier. But then he’d barely looked at her, his formality quenching her excitement.

  Now his gaze pinioned her, so intent it smouldered.

  What had she done to antagonise him?

  ‘You’ve made a new friend,’ he murmured as he curled long fingers around her waist. His touch evoked a tremor of primitive anxiety. As if she’d stepped too close to a slumbering predator.

  Taking a deep breath Tamsin placed an arm on his shoulder, let him clasp her other hand and fixed her gaze on his collar. This was just a dance. For show.

  ‘Yes, several. Everyone’s been very pleasant.’ Despite the heat flooding her veins as Alaric guided her on the floor, something in his tone chilled her.

  ‘So I saw. You’ve flitted from man to man all evening.’ His voice was harsh and she raised surprised eyes to his. Blue fire flashed like lightning in an approaching storm.

  ‘Your instructions were just that I attend the ball.’ Her breasts rose in indignation, straining at the taut fabric of her bodice. ‘I hadn’t realised I wasn’t allowed to mingle.’ After ignoring her most of the night, how dare he complain she’d socialised with the other guests?

  ‘Is that what you call it?’ He spun her faster till the room whirled around them. Yet in his firm hold Tamsin felt only a heady rush of excitement. As if she were on the edge of something dangerous that nevertheless called to her.

  ‘Do you have a problem, Alaric?’ She told herself she was breathless because of the speed with which they circled the room. Her skirts belled out around her and her breath shallowed but she didn’t feel nervous. She felt…exhilarated.

  ‘Of course not. Why should I?’ He kept his gaze fixed over her shoulder. ‘Though I’d be sorry to see you hurt.’

  ‘Hurt?’ The music ended and they spun to a halt, yet Alaric didn’t let her go. They stood in the centre of the dance floor, his grip holding her still.

  ‘We Ruvingians are hospitable to guests. I wouldn’t want you to misunderstand and interpret friendliness for something more.’

  Tamsin’s breath hissed between her teeth as pain lanced her. ‘What are you insinuating? That no one would normally want to spend time with a woman like me? That I’m too uninteresting? Or perhaps I’m too plain?’

  All the pleasure she’d felt in the evening shattered in that moment, like fragile crystal smashed underfoot. She told herself she didn’t believe him, but suddenly the brilliant glare of the antique chandeliers seemed to flicker and dim. The heady excitement of the evening faded to something tawdry and shallow.

  She stepped back to break his hold but his grip tightened.

  ‘Of course not. You’re misinterpreting my words.’

  The music struck up again and around them couples took to the floor, a throng of glittering, designer clad, beautiful people.

  She didn’t belong here.

  ‘You can let me go, Your Highness. You’ve done your duty dance.’ She primmed her lips rather than say any more.

  He didn’t move, though she saw his chest rise as he took a huge breath.

  ‘I said—’

  He muttered something savage under his breath in the local dialect. Something she had no hope of understanding. A second later he pulled her close and twirled her round into the dancing crowd.

  This time there was nothing prim or proper about the way they moved. Gone was the staid distance between them. Instead Tamsin was plastered to Alaric’s torso. His arm at her waist didn’t steady her, it welded her to him. His breath feathered her forehead. His hard thighs cradled her then shifted provocatively between her legs as they danced, evoking a strange hollow ache in her womb.

  This close she felt his every movement, partly because her hands were trapped against his chest. His heart pounded fast and strong beneath her palm and despite her anger and hurt, spiralling excitement rose.

  ‘I’ve had enough dancing,’ she gasped as he swung her round and back down the long ballroom. This was too much, too dangerous.

  ‘Nonsense. You love to dance. I’ve seen the smile on your face all night.’

  All night? That implied he’d watched her which he hadn’t. He’d been too busy squiring so many socialites onto the floor or engaging them in close conversation.

  ‘You may find it hard to believe, Your Highness, but not all women long to dance with you.’ The room flashed by and her heart pounded faster and faster. ‘I want to stop.’

  ‘I told you to call me Alaric.’

  His body moved against hers and she bit her lip at the surge of pleasure she felt. At the powerful throb building inside. She was pathetic. This was just a dance and with a man she assured herself she didn’t like. Though as his arm dropped low on her back, pulling her even tighter, it felt like something altogether different.

  ‘Alaric.’ The word was barely audible. Whether from the pulse pounding in her ears or because she couldn’t seem to catch her breath, she didn’t know.

  ‘That’s better.’ His voice was rough as his lips moved against her hair. ‘I like it when you say my name.’

  With one final turn he spun them off the dance floor. Before Tamsin could catch her breath he’d shoved aside a hanging
tapestry and hustled her through a door into a narrow passage. A few steps on and another arched door opened on their left. They were through it and in a dimly lit chamber before Tamsin could get her bearings.

  A key scraped in the lock, loud as the thrum of her heartbeat. Then she felt a solid wall behind her and Alaric’s powerful body trapping her against it.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ It was meant to sound outraged. Instead Tamsin’s voice was uneven, weak with the force of conflicting emotions.

  She should abhor this forced intimacy, the press of his body. Yet a secret thrill of pleasure ripped through her.

  ‘Getting you to myself.’ Alaric cupped her face in warm palms and lifted her chin so she looked deep into eyes the colour of a stormy night sky. ‘I spoiled your evening. I didn’t mean to.’

  He leaned forward, touching his forehead to hers, hands tunnelling her hair, sending threads of shivery sensation down her spine and across her shoulders. Suddenly it wasn’t him holding her prisoner, but her body’s response.

  ‘Why?’ she croaked, her mouth too dry for speech. How had they come to this?

  She should move but she made no resistance as he caressed her scalp and rubbed his nose against hers.

  Where was her anger? A deep shuddering sigh rose and she strove to stifle it.

  ‘Because I was jealous.’ Shock slammed into her. Yet she felt the words as well as heard them as his lips caressed her eyelids. He really had said it. ‘From the moment you appeared tonight I wanted you with me. Only me.’

  This couldn’t be. Tamsin shook her head, or tried to. He held her so close she couldn’t move.

  ‘I don’t understand.’ She hated her shaky tone but she was at a loss. ‘You avoided me most of the night.’

  ‘Displacement activity. I either spent the evening glued to you, or I kept my distance, acting the polite host. There was no happy medium. In the circumstances I thought my self-control admirable.’

  His hands moved, slid down her throat and spread across her bare shoulders. Something about his powerful hands touching her so tenderly made her breath catch. His palms circled back to her throat, warming her skin and making her pulse race.