Once a Princess

by Johanna Lindsey

  "It is intolerable what you have suffered through fate," he told her with feeling. "You were supposed to be reared gently. A fortune was sent with you and Baroness Tomilova to ensure it. She would have trained you, thoroughly, in the duties that await you as Queen of Cardinia, the etiquette of court—"

  "If you don't want another fight on your hands," Tanya interrupted coldly, "then do us both a favor and end the pretense for now. I've heard all I can stomach of that fairy tale for one day."

  "Very well—if you will tell me why you don't believe it."

  "Because things like that don't happen. A lost princess, Stefan? Like hell. How can you misplace someone as important as a princess?"

  "Through secrecy and neglectful assumptions. Communication was forbidden because it could have led to your death. It was assumed you were being cared for in the manner that your status demanded. And you would have been told how to obtain help if something had happened to the baroness. But how could anyone know that she would die before you were even old enough to know who you were?"

  "You've got a ready answer for everything, don't you?" she retorted angrily.

  He smiled at that burst of temper. "Such is usually the case when one is dealing with the truth."

  "Enough!"

  He laughed now. "Very good, Princess. You have a definite knack for command, at least. You will learn the rest soon enough."

  She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him, an affectation, he supposed, meant to silence him on the subject. And he was silenced, not by that, but by finally noticing that her shirt had been so dampened by his that it was now clinging quite provocatively to her breasts. Fortunately, they were just barely covered. The last thing either of them needed right now was for his damn lust to run amok again.

  "I—ah—believe I need a bath to get the filth of your river off me," he remarked and turned toward the door to summon Sasha.

  "My river? Are you admitting I'm American?"

  He glanced back with a grin. "You think you are. I know differently. Now, would you by any chance like a bath also?"

  "No," she staunchly maintained.

  "Then a change of clothes?"

  "Are you offering to swim back and fetch mine?" she asked with a falsely sweet smile.

  "Oh, clever, Princess, but I think I must decline. You may, however, feel free to avail yourself of my wardrobe. Since your taste in attire seems to run toward the masculine, that should prove no hardship. Once we reach New Orleans, we will have you out­fitted properly."

  "In dancing costumes?" she sneered.

  "I don't know where you get these intriguing no­tions, but that one definitely has merit. If I had known you wanted to dance for us again, I would have spared the time to bring your own costume along. You will, however, have a captive audience, no matter what you choose to dance in. Wearing nothing at all would be even better."

  She looked so furious at being misunderstood, Ste­fan left the room quickly before he burst into laughter again.

  Chapter 16

  As soon as the door closed behind Stefan, Tanya rushed to it to see if Stefan would forget to lock it. At the sound of the click, she kicked the door in frustration—and heard his laughter on the other side.

  Damned devil. His mercurial moods were going to drive her batty. Right now she didn't like his humor any better than his temper. Dance for them indeed. On his grave maybe.

  She whipped around and began to pace, feeling caged and suddenly desperate. What if they didn't let her out of the cabin until they arrived in New Orleans? Then she wouldn't have a chance to escape, would she? It was that simple.

  Like hell. She wasn't about to settle for no options when the stakes were so high—her freedom, her dream of independence. There had to be something she could do, anything, even . . . no, she wouldn't go that far. Sleeping with Stefan was no guarantee of his trust, or of her release. She would do better to lull them into thinking she was resigned—no, not them, just Stefan, since he obviously made the decisions where she was concerned. She had to convince him that she could be trusted to leave the cabin. The question was, how?

  Her eyes lit on the trunks against the wall, which she supposed were his. Well, that was one place to start, by accepting his suggestion to use his clothes, a new shirt anyway. She could also stop fighting with him, and stop letting every mention of kings and betrothals rile her so. And it wouldn't hurt if he thought she couldn't swim. That at least would make him think he had nothing to worry about other than her causing another scene for the entertainment of crew and passengers.

  She approached the trunks reluctantly. It seemed such an intimate thing, wearing something that belonged to Stefan, that had been on his body. She'd prefer not to, but she wasn't getting any of her wishes granted today. And her own shirt was uncomfortably wet, thanks to him.

  The blush came on unexpectedly with the reminder of what had almost happened in this cabin. Tanya would like to say it had been the most horrible experience of her life, but that wasn't so. She had been frightened of his anger, true, but the fact was, he hadn't hurt her when he had lain atop her on the bed. He would have if he hadn't stopped, but he didn't know that. He thought her a whore, and whores supposedly did that kind of thing all the time.

  What had happened instead, she would just as soon forget, but still, he hadn't hurt her with that child's punishment. She might be a little tender for a few days and not enjoy sitting down, yet it could have been so much worse. He could have used his belt and welted her, or his fists, for he'd felt justified after she had broken their bargain.

  What she didn't understand was his attitude afterward. If she wasn't mistaken, she would have to say he really had been sorry for laying a violent hand on her. He had tried to apologize. He had certainly tried to comfort her—until he realized she didn't need comforting.

  She made a face as she threw open the lid of the top trunk. Dumping her on the floor had not been nice of him. Of course, dumping him in the river had not been very nice of her. She giggled, wishing she could have seen his expression when he found the surface of the water. It must have been priceless.

  She rummaged through the trunk, finding a number of things, boxes and such, that she would have liked to examine further, but just opening the trunk made her feel like a thief, so all she did was grab the first shirt she came across. It was white lawn, and too thin to appear bulky on her, as she discovered when she made quick work of exchanging it for her own and could see her nipples through the material. It simply wouldn't do, not by itself, since she wore no chemisette and never had, relying on the thickness of her shirts to adequately cover her breasts. And she doubted she would find a chemisette in Stefan's trunk.

  She searched for and found a waistcoat instead, brocaded satin in black and silver, and about the richest piece of clothing she'd ever touched. She probably shouldn't use it. It was too fine for the likes of her. But she'd been given permission, so if Stefan objected, that was just too bad. Of course, considering that parting comment of his, he'd probably prefer her in just the shirt—or nothing at all.

  Remembering that comment about her dancing and Stefan's humor brought back her annoyance with both, and she was still stewing when Stefan returned a few moments later. And the look he passed over her was salt to the wound, chock­full of amusement, sherry-gold eyes crinkled with it. It was fortunate that he wasn't alone, or what she'd decided to set in motion would have had to wait until after she had vented her spleen. But Sasha was with him, and a number of crewmen followed through the door, toting buckets of water.

  When Tanya saw the tin tub being carried in, however, she ground her teeth together. All that plotting and planning, and here, already, was her ticket out. Stefan was going to bathe in here, which meant she would have to leave—with an escort, no doubt, but that was all right. All she had to do was get near a railing, and she'd find some way over it.

  While the bath was being readied, Stefan came over to her and drew the waistcoat together to fasten it. She brushed h
is hands aside and did it herself, but recalled she had to start the lulling.

  Nervous with him standing so close to her, she remarked, "There were so many clothes in that top trunk, they can't all be yours. Do I have you to thank for what I've borrowed, or one of the others?"

  "I believe I will feel bourgeois now if I admit that both of those trunks are mine alone, so you have only me to thank."

  She glanced up in surprise. "You can't have even more clothes in the bottom one."

  "Certainly I can, not that I will use them in this country. Much too conspicuous. That trunk should have remained on the ship that awaits us in New Orleans, but Sasha is of the absurd belief that everything brought along for this journey should be brought along for the entire journey."

  "Conspicuous?" She dared not ask about that waiting ship if she was to keep her temper.

  "They are clothes I would wear only in Europe, where the sight of nobility is nothing out of the ordinary."

  Lord help her, was he going to prove as condescending as Vasili? "I see—no, I don't. Are you saying you're a titled aristocrat?"

  "In Cardinia, it is customary for the king to draw his personal guard from his nobles. It is fortunate when those he has to choose from for this honor are the friends he happened to grow up with."

  "In other words, you all hold titles? What would yours be, then?"

  "Would a count strain your belief?"

  Everything he was saying strained her belief, but all she did was shrug and say, "You have me curious now to see what's in that other trunk."

  "Ah, curiosity. " He grinned. "A reason to remain with us."

  She almost choked on that one. Give up freedom merely to appease curiosity? He had to be teasing her. But his mood was mellow and she wanted to keep it that way. And she hadn't once snapped at him for his talk of nobility. Her ploy was working, and now was an excellent time for the crowning touch.

  "You haven't given me much choice about remaining with you, but it would have been easier to bear if you were traveling by land."

  "I fail to see—"

  "I hate boats," she cut in with a feigned shiver. "Most people do who can't swim."

  "You needn't fear the water, Tanya. You are my responsibility on this journey, so be assured I will protect you with my own life."

  In other words, if she jumped in the river, he'd jump in right after her to save her from drowning. How gallant of him, but she didn't appreciate his gallantry under the circumstances. She'd have to make sure he wasn't around when she did her jumping, like while he was taking his bath.

  However, she said, "Thank you—I think . . . no, a little relief is better than none at all."

  "You really are worried about it, aren't you?" he asked with concern.

  "These steamboats are known to explode, particularly if the captain is in a hurry to reach his destination. Ours isn't, is he?"

  "If he is, then I will have to disabuse him of the notion. Does that reassure you?" She gave him a doubting look, which brought on a smile. "I can see, then, that I will just have to get your mind off this worry. I wonder if you know how adorable you look in your sloppiness, with your hair in wild disarray, your clothes hanging as loose as a night-rail, and your dirty little face. Now what are you frowning for? Don't you want to look adorable?"

  She didn't need that kind of distraction and told him so by picking up her belt and slapping it around her waist. Her hair was another matter. Running her fingers through it, she could only find two pins left.

  "Sasha," Stefan called, chuckling, "I believe our Tanya needs a brush. "

  He moved off then and began pulling his shirt out of his trousers in preparation of removing it. The tub had been filled. Only the servant, Sasha, remained in the cabin.

  When the shirt was lifted over Stefan's head, Tanya stood there mesmerized by that broad expanse of male back, darkly bronzed and well defined with muscle. Sasha, holding out the brush to her, had to clear his throat to gain her attention. Disconcerted, Tanya took the brush and turned her back on the scene.

  Watching Stefan undress was . . .

  She whipped around to see his belt come off and drop to the floor, where his shirt now lay. He was undressing, actually undressing! And he didn't appear the least bit concerned whether she watched him.

  "Don't you think you ought to wait until I leave the room before you—"

  "No."

  That was all? Just "No"? She started for the door. She was halted before she even got close to it.

  "Where are you going, Tanya?"

  She wouldn't look back at him. "I'll just wait outside until you're finished," she offered.

  It didn't work. "I don't think so."

  "Look, I'm not going anywhere, Stefan. The boat is in the middle of the damned river, so I can't go anywhere. Summon one of the others to watch me if you must, but I can't stay in here with you . . . while you . . . This isn't proper by any standards, but particularly yours."

  "Perhaps," he allowed. "However, we must by necessity make a few exceptions now. Besides, you aren't going to convince me that seeing a naked man is going to bother you, Tanya. So we will worry about what is proper and what isn't when we reach Europe, where it will matter."

  This was an insult to her country as well as to her, and a flat refusal to let her leave the cabin. But the door was probably unlocked. She could just . . . who was she kidding? He would be after her instantly. And even if she managed to hit the water, he would be too close behind her for her plan to work. She'd be losing her only chance, because he wouldn't trust her again after that, no matter what she said or did. Unfortunately, he didn't trust her right now either, or he wouldn't be so adamant about her remaining with him.

  She'd have to wait a little longer for her freedom, and wait until Stefan wasn't around. She would have a better chance of succeeding at night anyway, when they would have a hard time seeing her in the water. That might lead to their thinking she had drowned, and in that case, she wouldn't have anything else to worry about—except the long walk home.

  In order to continue her pretense of accepting the situation, she had to ignore that insult about her fa­miliarity with naked men and silently endure Stefan taking his bath in her presence. One was easier to do than the other.

  She vigorously began to brush the snarls from her hair, pausing only when she heard distinct sounds of water splashing. Her face was heating up again, and that infuriated her. Why should she be the one em­barrassed when he was the naked one?

  "Your Highness?"

  Sasha's hand appeared at her side, offering a strip of leather for her to use on her hair. She took it, keeping her mouth shut about correcting his form of address. That they even had the servants trained for the pretense was almost a guarantee that the royalty ploy was used frequently. She again wondered if they didn't have other girls stowed away on The Lorilie right now, all thinking they were betrothed to the handsome Vasili. So how did she get so lucky to end up with the devil in control of her? Probably because he was allotted the troublemakers, which they had found her to be from the start.

  She was getting really angry again at the fate she had stumbled into through no fault of her own. She also felt like a fool standing there in the middle of the cabin with her back to Stefan. Well, no more of that. If he wanted to disconcert her with his naked­ness, she'd see how he felt with the shoe on the other foot.

  She crossed over to the chair, sat down, and proceeded to stare at Stefan while she continued to brush her hair. He really was in the tub—and naked. But she'd seen bare chests before, and more. There had been a fire scare one night at the brothel next door to the tavern, and all the girls and their customers had run out in the street in their various states of undress, providing some hilarious entertainment for everyone else along the street who came out to watch.

  But there wasn't anything funny about Stefan in that tub . . . well, maybe a little bit funny. The tub was a small round one, and he had to scrunch up to fit in it, his knees bent to his chest. Presen
tly, Sasha was pouring water from an extra bucket over Stefan's just-washed hair, so he didn't even know yet that she had decided to be entertained by him.

  Even naked, he was a swarthy-skinned devil, though his knees weren't nearly as dark as his upper torso, proving that some of his coloring was helped by the sun. And the hair on his body was minimal, except for a Y-shaped thatch of black curling down the center of his chest. She looked at the scars on his face, barely noticeable from a distance, and tried to recall the empathy she'd felt when she first saw them. She couldn't. The man had proved too aggra­vating since then to arouse any kind of compassion in her now.

  Sasha handed him a towel to wipe the water from his face and eyes. When the towel was lowered, Stefan was looking toward the spot where Tanya had been standing. It didn't take him but a second to turn his head and find her in the chair. He raised a black brow at seeing her watching him. She lifted one of her own. He laughed. She didn't. He stood up. She was positive she was going to faint. She wasn't that lucky.

  Lord help her, he was raw masculinity, hard and splendidly formed, broad of shoulder, narrow of hip, thick of leg. And the root of his manhood . . . She closed her eyes. He laughed again, a wicked sound that mortified her. And she had thought she could play this out and embarrass him?

  He must have had a similar thought, for he said, "When it is your turn, Princess, I assure you I won't be so shy."

  She was never going to bathe again.

  Chapter 17

  Tanya didn't know how she got through that next half hour, watching Stefan being dressed and groomed by Sasha. Mostly she kept her eyes averted, or on the little servant, who turned out to be amaz­ingly bossy for a man a good inch or two shorter than she was.

  Stefan had warned him to speak only English, and once Sasha started, Tanya got to listen to a whole stream of grumblings and complaints that only a ser­vant of long standing would dare to voice. Stefan merely shrugged, or ignored, or teased—which was interesting. Tanya wouldn't have thought someone as unapproachable and as volatile as Stefan seemed to be would be the sort who teased. Playful just wasn't synonymous with diabolical. But hadn't she suspected him of teasing her a few times today, only to dismiss the idea as being too unlikely?