Once a Princess

  The arms that came around her were achingly tender, drawing her against a comforting chest. She assumed it was Lazar, but didn't look to be sure since she didn't care at that point. Sympathy broke the dam, it seemed, for she became loud then, great racking sobs echoing through the woods. Crying, for crying out loud, and when she'd been so furious just minutes before. How utterly embarrassing. And she couldn't even say why she was doing it—certainly not because that devil-eyed devil didn't like her any­more.

  She was making so much noise, it was a while before she could even hear the soothing words com­ing her way. When she did hear them, she stiffened, pulling back. But the arms around her only tightened. She was going to be comforted whether she liked it or not, by him. What unmitigated gall. There wasn't anything he could say . . .

  "I'm sorry, Tanya. At times I am the devil they call me. I did warn you of that, did I not? And sometimes when I am surprised—"

  "You mean disappointed, don't you?" she inter­rupted bitterly.

  "Surprised will do," he replied. "I have never dealt well with surprises."

  "You have unusual reactions for a lot of things, don't you, Stefan?"

  Pointing that out wasn't the wisest thing she could have done just then, when his arms were still around her. But she was in danger of being kissed only when he was angry, or sealing bargains, and that danger was undoubtedly gone now that he knew what she really looked like. She should be relieved. So why wasn't she?

  He was quiet for so long, she was sure he wasn't going to reply to her remark, but he did. "You deal with my unusual reactions very well, do you not?"

  Up came the color to her cheeks, and she had no gray pallor to hide any of it, only his wide chest for the moment. "That was a short truce," she said tiredly.

  His hand ran over the back of her head, pressing her even closer to him. Comforting even while he was insulting? The man didn't do anything in a nor­mal way.

  "Actually, I meant no offense," he said softly near her ear. "There are women of vast experience who are still terrified of me when I . . . but an innocent girl would be even more so. You have that, at least, in your favor."

  And nothing else? But he didn't say that. He wasn't trying to insult her, after all.

  "Some innocents would react just like I do," she retorted. "But I don't suppose I will have to worry about it anymore, will I?"

  He sighed. "I've made you angry again."

  All Tanya noted was that he hadn't answered the question. "You can let go of me now, Stefan. The rain has stopped in case you haven't noticed."

  She heard him chuckle, and he tipped her face up so she could see that he was smiling, his way of telling her that he at least was willing to forget the harsh words that had passed between them and start over—again. But he didn't know that she hated it when he smiled. He didn't know that her heartbeat sped up each time he did. She looked at those lips, felt the length of him pressed so close to her, and experienced that fluttering In her innards again. Hell and high water, how could he still do that to her after his recent nastiness?

  She felt him tense just before he released her, giving her an idea that he had sensed what she was feeling and didn't like it. She turned away from him before she could see it in his expression too.

  "What have you decided for our direction?" she asked in a neutral tone.

  "South."

  They would choose the opposite of the way that she wanted to go.

  Chapter 21

  Three hours must have passed since they started walk­ing south, yet none of Tanya's companions had men­tioned food. The change in her appearance was mentioned again and again, however, and each time she looked up, she caught at least one of them staring at her, even Stefan, as if they still couldn't believe she'd actually turned out to be pretty. Serge and Lazar seemed delighted that it was so. Vasili she couldn't read, except that he hadn't made any derogatory re­marks so far this morning. And she already knew what Stefan thought, which made no sense when you figured that he could get more for a pretty exotic dancer than he could for an ugly one.

  She tried not to think about being more valuable to them now, because that would make them even more vigilant of her. She thought about her hunger instead, easy enough to do with all the noise her stomach was making. And it finally occurred to her that as finely dressed and mannered as her abductors were, they might not know how to survive in the wilderness. That would be a laugh. No, it wouldn't, not when she was stuck with them.

  Tanya was about ready to reveal that she knew how to hunt for food when Serge, scouting up ahead, called back that he'd found something. The some­thing turned out to be a rather large plantation house, with all the accompanying outbuildings that made places of this size self-sufficient. This one turned out to have everything her abductors could have asked for—a hot meal already prepared, supplies to take with them, and four sturdy horses, all of which they could apparently afford to buy. There were more horses available, and the men had more money with them, but obviously she wasn't going to get a mount of her own.

  She supposed that would have been too much to hope for. Nor was she left alone for a single moment, even to use the convenience, especially to use the convenience. Stefan escorted her to the outhouse himself. He even inspected the interior to make sure there were no other exits before allowing her those few minutes of privacy. She'd like to know how they were going to manage this when there wasn't an outhouse around. Did he think he was going to stand there and watch her? Like hell.

  They didn't stay at the plantation any longer than necessary, possibly because they didn't trust Tanya around other people. She'd been warned beforehand not to cause a disturbance there, though the conse­quences weren't spelled out. Regardless, she wouldn't have heeded that warning if she had thought someone on the premises might have been able to help her. But the owner was an old man. His wife was an invalid Tanya didn't even get to meet. And everyone else was the couple's slave; they couldn't help her any more than they could help themselves.

  When it was time to leave, Tanya didn't have to ask whom she would be riding with. With a hand on her elbow, which had been there during the entire visit, Stefan walked her right to the horse he'd cho­sen, a large sorrel mare, lifted her into the saddle, and mounted behind her. The position, which more or less placed her across his lap, she didn't like at all. With one of his arms supporting her back, she was comfortable enough, but she could see Stefan with no difficulty at all. It was bad enough that she was so close to him, touching him in too many places, feeling his heat—the man always felt hot to her—­but looking at him as well was too disturbing by half. She could close her eyes, she supposed, or get a stiff neck looking forward. But trying both options left her with the clear impression that he was watching her, and that was just as bad.

  It didn't take her long to inform him, "I want to change position, Stefan, and sit facing forward."

  "Astride?"

  "Yes. "

  "No."

  She met those sherry-gold eyes and demanded, "And why not?"

  He held her gaze only for a moment, and then he was looking over her head, his jaw clenched, his lips tight, for all intents and purposes ignoring her, yet he answered, "Your skirt won't allow it."

  Her skirt was kind of narrow in comparison to one designed to accommodate innumerable petticoats, but it wasn't that narrow. "It would only show a little skin or none at all, since I'm wearing boots that already cover a third of my calves."

  She thought that had sounded quite reasonable, but his eyes were a degree lighter in color when they dropped down to her again. "A little is too much. Kindly remember who you are, Princess, and begin acting with some decorum as befits your station, rather than as a tavern—wench."

  The pause told her plain enough that "whore" had been his first choice in descriptions. For some reason that she couldn't imagine, she was annoying him enough to call forth the insults again. And if she was going to get them, she might as well deserve them.

  "What was i
t? The word skin? Calves? I am a tavern wench, Stefan, and there aren't too many words that don't fit in my vocabulary. Would you like to hear a few more you might find objectionable, you son of a bitch?"

  Their eyes did battle for nearly a full minute of silence, his definitely glowing now, hers shooting some green sparks of her own. And then he surprised her, conceding all.

  "Sit as you like. Show as much skin as you like. You may also say whatever you like, little Tanya."

  She made a face of disgust that he was giving in that easily after prodding her temper for a fight. But she still quickly rearranged her limbs before he changed his mind. And not being able to see those devil's eyes was much better for her peace of mind. Now maybe she could start concentrating on her es­cape again . . .

  Even as she was leaning forward to tug her skirt down as far as it would go, Stefan's arm slipped around her waist to draw her hips more firmly be­tween his legs. Tanya wasn't alarmed, however, thinking he was merely assuring that she didn't fall off the horse. But he didn't let go when she straight­ened, and a moment later his forearm moved up until his hand flattened over her right breast with enough pressure to bring her entire back into tight contact with his chest.

  The gasp no sooner left her lips than she heard his voice at her ear, continuing as if there had been no pause after his concessions. "But you will discover, if you haven't by now, wench, that the way a woman behaves is the way she will likely be treated."

  Tanya's eyes flared wide with the realization that he was merely giving her a lesson, albeit an outra­geous one, and not taking liberties because he had any desire to touch her. That was so humiliating, her eyes closed against the thought, but flew open again because the lesson wasn't over. His fingers curved around her breast, squeezing gently as his hand un­dulated, and although he probably didn't expect or want her to feel anything but shamed by this lesson, that particular caress aroused her anyway.

  She pried his fingers off her, thankful that he let her, and pushed his hand aside. "I got your point," she said bitterly.

  "I don't think so."

  And his hand came back, traveled up to caress her throat, then down, over both breasts, across her stom­ach, down one leg. Her skirt was stretched so tautly over her thighs, she shouldn't have felt more than the slightest touch of his hand there, but his fingers managed to curve around her leg anyway, making her feel as if the skirt weren't even there—and started back up slowly.

  She caught his hand and pulled it off her again, but back it came to her breast. And this time she couldn't pry it loose.

  "I'll scream," she promised.

  "That will merely gain you an avid audience."

  She had completely forgotten they weren't alone out here. As it was, they had probably already gained notice from one or more of the others. And his hand squeezed again.

  "All right, damn you, I'll sit the way you want me to!"

  "A wise decision, Princess."

  But he didn't remove his hand from her breast until she had completely turned around and was settled back in his lap once more. She glared up at him then, frustrated beyond endurance that there was no way she could have won that little battle.

  "Have I called you a devil's spawn, Stefan?"

  "Yes."

  "What about bastard?"

  "That too."

  "You know I despise you."

  "That was inevitable."

  She said no more and stared off to the side of the road they were now traveling on, refusing to look at him again. But his last remark lingered in her mind, bothering her repeatedly throughout the long afternoon. Was it inevitable? She wasn't so sure. But why did he think so?

  Chapter 22

  It was almost dark before Stefan directed them off the plantation road to find a suitable spot to make camp that night. Not so far back they had passed another plantation at which they could probably have spent the night, but since no one suggested they even try, Tanya could only conclude she was the reason they were going to rough it instead. They simply didn't trust her when other people were around. Actually, they didn't trust her, period, as she found when she asked if she could have a few moments alone in the bushes.

  One of the things they had purchased along with the provisions was a long rope, likely Stefan's idea, since he was the one who tied it to her wrist and kept hold of the other end before he was willing to let her out of his sight. But she had to talk, sing, or hum continuously, he didn't care which, as long as he could hear her. That was taking precautions a bit far as far as she was concerned, but she did as he had instructed, well aware that he would come charging into the shrubs after her if she didn't.

  She chose merely to count numbers aloud, and was back before she had reached fifty. She didn't even consider cutting the rope from her wrist while she had the chance, not when they were all up and alert. But she was going to escape tonight, somehow, and preferably with one of the horses if she could manage it. She just hadn't yet figured out how, and was shying away from the obvious conclusion that she would have to seriously hurt whoever had the watch when she was ready to go. Serge and Lazar? She couldn't hurt them, for they seemed to be merely following the orders of the two cousins. Vasili? Without a qualm. Stefan? She just wasn't sure.

  Blankets had been spread out on the ground when she returned from the bushes and presented her wrist to Stefan so he could untie the rope. Serge was just lighting a fire, and Lazar was taking out the extra cooked meal they had brought along—a ham, sweet potatoes, and several loaves of sweet­-smelling bread. They had bought enough provisions to last a week, along with a few cooking utensils and several rifles to supply fresh game. But from what she had heard in the general conversation that went on around her during the day, none of them knew how to cook. She wondered how much fuss she ought to put up before she agreed to do the task for them. None. She wasn't going to be there for another meal if she could help it.

  They were settling down on their blankets around the fire, hers too damn close to Stefan's, in her opinion, when he asked her to dance for them. Tanya was so surprised by the request, she didn't answer for a moment. The man had been rotten to her all day, from his nasty insinuations that morning to his diabolical lessons in the afternoon. And whatever had attracted him to her before was gone now, so she couldn't figure out why he would want to watch her dance. Unless this was another attempt to humiliate her somehow. If she agreed, would he suggest she remove her clothes first?

  It made her angry that that might be his motive, angry enough to reply, "For all of you, no. For your king—if he insists."

  She said it merely to get back at Stefan, and because she was positive Vasili wouldn't ask it of her, not even to relieve boredom. That would, after all, be admitting that he had liked her dance, and Vasili wouldn't do that when he despised everything about her.

  But she wasn't sure her answer had had the desired effect on Stefan. His expression didn't change. And his voice was no more than moderately dry when he spoke.

  "Our king is too exhausted to appreciate it, is that not so, your Majesty?"

  Vasili took one look at Stefan and said, "If I wasn't, I am now," and turned over to sleep.

  Tanya heard a chuckle from Lazar on the other side of the fire, but he, too, turned his back on them. Serge, on her left, did likewise. That they were all three already going to sleep told her that Stefan had the first watch. And when she glanced back at him, it was to find him still reclined on his blanket, resting on one elbow and watching her.

  "Will you reconsider?" he asked as their eyes met and held, and a tension suddenly built.

  Oddly enough, Tanya became flustered, thinking about dancing just for him. Could she make him want her again if she did? Did she want him to want her again?

  The drift of her thoughts was annoying under the circumstances. But she couldn't deny it. He might not find her desirable any longer, but she couldn't say the same. Unfortunately, she still found him very attractive, and right now even more so, lying there with his jacket
and waistcoat removed, his cravat long since discarded, a wave of black hair falling over one brow, and his sherry-gold eyes becoming more and more intense with her silence.

  But recalling his question, and that she wasn't likely to ever see him again after tonight, she finally shook her head in answer. And she refused to regret it. He might be the only man who had ever stirred up her innards, but the very fact that he could do that made him more dangerous to her than any other man. Because a man didn't fit into her future plans, no man did, and this one in particular, with his lies, his arrogance—his utter contempt for her. She had to be a little bit crazy even to consider enticing him.

  All he did was shrug in response to her second refusal, but a moment later he sat up and said, "Then come here."

  Her eyes narrowed on him suspiciously. She was already closer to him than she wanted to be, her blanket placed right alongside his.

  "Why?"

  "I will prepare you for sleep." He was drawing the rope across his lap as he said this, adding, "I regret the necessity, Tanya, but there is no reason for any of us to lose sleep now that we have this."

  "This" was the rope. When she realized that he meant to tie her up with it, she almost laughed. Thank God she hadn't offered to hunt for food that morning, for she would have had to reveal her hidden knife to do so. That knife was now going to get her out of this mess with no trouble at all, because they would all be sound asleep, thinking her secure for the night.

  She crawled closer to him, slowly, so as to appear reluctant about it. "Is this really necessary?"

  "Absolutely," he assured her. "Unless you would like to sleep under me?"

  That he could say something like that now was infuriating, especially since he didn't mean it, and was no doubt being sarcastic, but hearing it still set her pulses racing.

  She just managed to keep from screeching at him to go to hell, and instead purred, "Oh, I don't know. I'm used to being weighted down, but you might not find it a very comfortable sleeping arrangement. "