Adam set the plate on the bedside table and grabbed a square of sandwich. Rather than talk with his mouth full, he shot George a meaningful look that told her he knew she wasn't that stupid. "Try again." He motioned her into the room.
"Wagner?"
"I thought I told you to keep him out of my bed."
An unspoken "or else" hung on the end of his sentence, and Giana decided to challenge it. "Does this mean you are going to flame us?"
"Flame us?" Adam wrinkled his brow in frustration. "What the devil does that mean?"
"If you are unhappy with our work, then you must flame us."
Understanding dawned. "I'm not unhappy with your work," he told her. "And I'm not going to fire you. I just want you in control the beast and keep him out of my bed."
Now that she knew her position and the positions of her “family" were secure, Giana decided to overlook the fact that Adam insulted her by referring to her pet as a beast. "Wagner is not in your bed."
"He was."
She surveyed the room and its furnishings. "Where is he?"
"He was sleeping like a baby with his head on my pillow, hit, body sprawled across my bed and with all four feet in the tilt until I shouted. Then he disappeared."
"He hates loud noises," Giana said. She knelt and looked under the bed.
"He dislikes loud noises," Adam corrected. "He hates me."
"()h, no, he likes you." She looked behind the bedroom door and beneath the writing desk.
That's debatable." Adam snorted. "What isn't debatable is the fact that he continues to like my bed. Tell me, George, did you sleep here in my absence?"
"No, of course not!"
"Just checking." He grinned. "I thought maybe you missed me."
"I did miss—" Giana could have bitten out her tongue for Hint slip. Well, she decided, there was nothing to do except brazen it out. "I may have missed you," she clarified. "But not enough to sleep in your bed while you were away."
"Just enough to allow Wagner to do it for you," he accused.
The dog whimpered at the sound of his name, and Giana followed the sound to the open door of the armoire. Wagner lay huddled in the bottom. "Wagner?"
He scrambled to his feet, sat up, and thrust his nose through a row of Adam's dark wool suits, peeking out at them. Giana couldn't help but smile, and even though he struggled hard to hide it, she thought she might have caught a shadow of a smile mi Adam's handsome face.
"I did not allow Wagner into your room," she answered truthfully, gently caressing the top of Wagner's head. She had instructed Isobel to let Wagner into Adam's room. "It is all right, boy, Adam did not mean to frighten you."
"Adam did mean to frighten him, if it meant getting hi off my bed," Adam corrected. "Adam is dead on his feet and not at all inclined to sleep with a hundred-fifty-pound canine." He winked at George. "Now, Wagner's master is another story all together...."
Giana bit her bottom lip, unable to decide what he meant.
"Never mind," Adam said. "Just don't let him in here again."
"I did not let him into your room," Giana repeated.
"If you didn't let him into my room, how do you explain the tiny bits of newspaper scattered all over it?" he demanded. "I distinctly recall giving the newspapers to you because you asked to read them."
"I returned the newspapers to your bedchamber after I finished reading them."
Adam watched her as she answered his questions. He knew she was telling the truth because she was so transparent; it was impossible for her to lie. "Why here? Why not the library?"
"I did not finish reading them until late this morning." Giana found it hard to concentrate on his questions or on her answers. She would not be surprised if she heard herself blurting out the truth at any moment because she found herself watching , his mouth as he formed his words. Watching. Wondering how it would feel to kiss him again. Wondering if he wanted to kiss her again as much as she wanted him to. "I brought the papers here and placed them on your writing desk because Is— my mother—was readying the library for afternoon tea. He was not in here then, but any one of many people could have let him in," she said. "It is easier to keep Wagner out of your bedchamber than it is to keep him away from the tea table."
"Is it? I hadn't noticed."
She knew she deserved it, but still, his sarcasm cut like the shards of china that had sliced her hand. Giana bowed her head and stared down at the tip of her shoes. "I was wrong," she said. "I am sorry." And she was. Sorry she had to deceive him. Sorry she had allowed Wagner to destroy his property even though the property was only a bundle of newsprint that could jeopardize her future. "I am not the only person who comes into your room during the day."
"You are from now on."
Giana didn't answer or acknowledge that she'd heard what he'd said. She kept her gaze on the floor.
"Hey." Adam reached over and lifted her chin with the tip Of his index finger. "I'm sorry, too."
This time she looked at him, and Adam saw the shimmer of tears in her eyes.
"Don't cry," he said softly.
"Do not be impractical," she admonished. "Everyone knows that pri—people in my position never cry."
"Oh, really? Why not?" Impractical? Adam searched for a word that meant "impractical" as he wiped a tear off her cheekbone with the pad of his thumb. Silly. Do not be silly.
"Because we cannot afford to," she answered. "Besides, crying does not change anything."
"Sometimes it makes you feel better," he told her.
"It does not," she replied. "It makes your eyes and your Ihroat burn, stuffs up your nose, and makes your head ache."
"Sometimes it makes you feel better inside. And how do you know so much about what it does on the outside if people like you never cry?"
Giana gave him her haughtiest, most regal look. "I did not say that I had never cried," she said. "Like everyone else, I cried as a child. And I remember how uncomfortable it was and how little it solved. That is, of course, why I no longer do it."
Adam caught another teardrop with his thumb and nodded. "Of course. It's why I no longer do it, either." He made a face at her and Giana laughed. "There, that's better."
"Is it?" She leaned toward him.
He rubbed his thumb across her mouth. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted very much to kiss her, but Adam was learning just how dangerous to his peace of mind that could be. He had to stop this madness before he was lost. "Yes. I'd like to oblige you, but..." Adam shook his head. "At the moment I'm not much of a companion, much less a lover...."
Giana opened her mouth into a perfect circle of surprise.
"It's all right," he told her. "You don't have to say or do anything. And you don't have to worry about me. I'm not going to do anything. Now, just take Wagner and go."
She tried. She honestly tried. But after a quarter hour of commanding and coaxing and pleading, even bribing with morsels from Adam's plate, Giana was forced to admit failure. Wagner, normally the most obedient and faithful of companions, disobeyed and disappointed her. He simply would not come out of the bottom of Adam's wardrobe. Finally Giana leaned into the opening and attempted to lift Wagner out of his cozy den.
"Oh, no, you don't!" Adam placed an arm around her waist and pulled her back against him. "He's too big and heavy. You'll hurt yourself." Although he'd only meant to prevent her from hurting herself, Adam enjoyed the way his arm pressed against the underside of her breast and the way her bottom fit snugly against his front. They were like spoons stacked atop each other with all the dips and curves and lengths fitting perfectly, complimenting each other.
"Then you must try—"
"Not me." Adam reluctantly let go of Giana, breaking contact as he stepped away and shook his head. "This may seem cowardly to you, but I'm not risking my back or any other part of my anatomy on him." He stared down into the dog's soulful brown eyes. With his big head, expressive eyes, and jeweled velvet collar, Wagner didn't look dangerous, but they weren't called wolfhounds for not
hing, and anything that could chase and kill a wolf deserved respect.
"What shall we do?" she asked.
Adam could think of dozens of things he would like to do— I all of them with her as a willing partner, but those weren't the kind of suggestions Giana had in mind. Unfortunately for him, they were the only kinds of expressions that sprang to mind. He had no previous experience with removing a recalcitrant dog from a wardrobe, and Adam was quite sure he could do without gaining any. "Leave him where he is."
"Pardon?"
Adam smiled. "You heard correctly. I suggested that we leave him where he is for the night."
"You are certain?"
"Not at all," he replied. "But as long as he stays put, he's not going to bother me tonight." He smothered a yawn with his hand, then turned Giana and headed her toward the bedroom door. "Good night, George."
Giana glanced at the window. It was still light outside.
Adam saw the direction of her gaze. "I intend to sleep through supper and, hopefully, the remainder of the night." He opened the bedroom door and steered her though it. "Bring my breakfast, a pot of coffee, and the morning newspaper when you come to get the dog."
"He goes out quite early," she warned.
"As long as he goes out," Adam said. "And, George, if he does any damage in there—"
Unwilling to listen to any more threats, real or implied, Giana cut him off. "I know," she answered. "Do not concern yourself. If he does any damage, I will pay."
A Princess of the Blood Royal of the House must always be an asset to her name and to her house, She must never do anything that would bring scandal or ruin upon them.
—Maxim io: Protocol and Court Etiquette of Princesses of the Blood Royal of the House of SAXE-WALLERSTEIN-KAROLYA, as decreed by His Serene Highness, Prince Karol I, 1432.
Giana arrived at Adam’s bedroom at half-past five the following morning carrying a butler's table containing his breakfast, a pot of coffee, and one slightly scorched morning newspaper. She was grateful that Karolya's missing princess was no longer front-page headline news but had been relegated to a small column on page three. Giana had ironed it herself, putting into practice the skill she had learned so long ago in Karolya. It had been seven years since she'd earned her Sixteenth, and she was quite relieved to know that she only had to iron one paper and to burn only one small section of it. She was also grateful that she was up before the other members of her household. The only members of the staff she had to face were the kitchen staff and Mrs. Dunham, and Henri, who now shared the responsibility of breakfast. If they wondered why she had requested a breakfast tray, they didn't mention it, and Giana thought that might be because the pot of coffee made the answer quite clear. Only three people at Larchmont Lodge drank coffee instead of tea, and those three were: Adam McKendrick, Murphy O'Brien, and Henri Latour. She wasn't taking the chef breakfast in bed, so she could only be taking it to McKendrick or O'Brien. And since most everyone in the household had heard McKendrick shouting for her yesterday afternoon, he was the man most likely to have made such a demand of her.
Giana shifted the butler's table to one hip, then tapped on the door. She tapped a second time, and when there was no answer on the third knock, she turned the knob and eased the door open and discovered that Adam McKendrick was still asleep.
And that he did not sleep in a nightshirt. Or anything else.
His broad back, baked a golden color by the sun, was bare. And Giana wanted to reach out and touch him—to place her palm against his shoulder to see if his skin was as smooth and .is warm as it looked.
She glanced around the room. Adam's shirt, waistcoat, jacket, and trousers were draped over the back of the wooden chair of the writing desk and his hat crowned the top of the pile. Giana tiptoed into the room and carefully set the butler's table on the floor beside the nightstand.
One of his tall black leather boots lay beside the cast-iron bootjack where he'd tugged it off. The other lay on the floor beside the footboard of the bed. The toe of that boot, while essentially undamaged, was a bit less glossy than its counterpart and sported recent scuff marks that Giana was certain would match the teeth of the wolfhound that lay curled atop 1 he covers beside Adam.
Giana picked up his boot. There was no disguising the scuff marks on the toe. No hiding the fact that they were there or that Wagner had made them, but she might be able to keep Adam from noticing for a while longer. She studied the boot for a moment, then began polishing the toe with the hem of her apron. The musky odor of mink oil used to waterproof the boots filled her nostrils. She finished polishing and set the boot down beside its mate only to find that the pristine condition of the leather of the right boot made the scuff marks on the left one more noticeable. So Giana put the boot back where she'd found it, placing it on its side on the floor near the foot of the bed. There was nothing to be done about it except to pay for the damage. She unbuttoned the top buttons of her dress, then turned her back and reached inside her corset cover
and pulled at a piece of jewelry stitched inside. She thought she had grabbed one of the diamond earrings she had sewn there, but what she pulled out was a gold ring set with a huge black pearl from the South Seas and surrounded by small diamonds. Giana sighed. She had always admired the ring. As a child, she had stood before the portrait of her ancestor, Princess Rosamond, and practiced her counting by counting the circle of diamonds. There were sixteen of them.
Acting quickly, before she could find reason to stop herself, Giana reached down, righted Adam's boot, then dropped the ring inside, shaking it down to the toe, before returning the boot to its place on the floor. Feeling the hot sting of tears, she bit her lip to keep from crying. It was done. She had paid for Wagner's crime and the part she had played in it with a small part of her heritage. She hated that it was one of her favorite parts, but she cared far more for Wagner than she did for a pearl ring. Any pearl ring. And Wagner could not help it.
He was a dog. He could not help being attracted to the scent of mink any more than a bee could help being attracted to the scent of nectar. Any more than she could help being attracted to the man in the bed. Giana sighed. She knew she should not stare at him—especially when he slept, but she simply could not deny herself the pleasure.
He lay in the center of the bed. The cotton sheet draped across his lean hips and over his firm buttocks was the only thing covering him, and the white fabric drew her gaze back to the bed. Lying there, he appeared much younger than he did when he was awake. His hair was tousled in sleep, his jaw shadowed by the stubble on his face. His thick dark eyelashes fanned against his face. But there was nothing boyish about him. The tiny wrinkles marking the corners of his eyes, the powerful muscles of his shoulders and back, and the ridge of a long-healed scar, proclaimed him fully grown. Adam McKendrick was a gloriously healthy man in the prime of his life, and although it seemed to Giana that sleep should have given him a harmless appearance, the opposite was true. He looked dangerous instead. Dangerous to her peace of mind. More dangerous than she'd ever imagined.
Giana bit her bottom lip and clenched her fists to keep from giving in to the wicked, almost overwhelming urge to throw off her clothes and climb into bed beside him. Her whole body quaked with the effort to control it. Heat rushed to her face. Her lips ached to be kissed, and her body begged to be touched.
She wanted to watch him open his eyes, to see those blue eyes darken with desire to a deep indigo. She wanted to feel him run his hands over her naked breasts and on the smooth skin of her thighs the way he had that day on the leather sofa in the library.
Until this moment she had not realized that the desire to hold someone and to be held in return could be so powerful. Living as she had in a sheltered world, she had not understood I hat such desires truly existed. But now she knew. Now she recognized the urgency—the desire—the need to be with a man. And not just any man, only this one. Only Adam McKendrick. The man who had filled her with these desires. The man she loved.
Love
d. Giana shook her head, trying to push the unbidden, unwanted thought aside. Not love. She could not be in love with Adam McKendrick. Princesses did not marry for love. They married for the good of their families or their countries. And she knew that better than most, for she was a princess hiding from the man who wanted her in his bed or dead. Either one, so long as he gained possession of the Karolyan State Seal.
Adam McKendrick was a self-made man. An American. She could not be foolish enough to fall in love with Adam McKendrick. It was desire, she told herself. What she felt for Adam was desire, pure and simple. Lust. Healthy, animal lust. But if that were true, she asked herself, why was it that she had never desired other men, handsomer men, nicer, more suitable men? Giana suddenly began to quake for real. When had she taken the tumble? When had she fallen in love with Adam McKendrick?
"Wagner!" She whispered his name as she quietly made her way around the bed and tugged on his collar. "Time to go outside."
The wolfhound opened his eyes, stretching and yawning, as he stepped off the bed and onto the floor, where he promptly trotted over to the boot lying near the foot of the bed, sniffed, and then pawed at it.
"No!" she hissed.
"George?" Adam murmured her name.
Giana's heart seemed to catch in her throat at the sound of it. Her heart increased its beat, and it seemed that she could hear it rapidly telling her to: follow her heart, follow her heart, follow her heart. . . "Yes?"
He wrinkled his nose against the pillow. "Is that coffee I smell?"
She smiled. "Yes. I brought your breakfast, a pot of coffee, and the newspaper just as you instructed."
"Where are you going?"
"I must take Wagner out before he lifts his leg and christens your bedpost."