Once a Princess

  Standing outside his cabin with key in hand, he was almost afraid to enter. She would be asleep, but the difference that made could be measured on a pen point. So why did he put himself through this? He didn't have to sleep in there. But he knew why. There was the slim hope that the very thing he despised about her would bring her to him, in the dark, where she could forget that she knew what he looked like. Of course, he was deluding himself. She was too strong-­willed to let a little thing like sexual need control her. He even admired that about her. Despite what the others thought, she was going to make a fine queen. He wondered if he would survive to see it.

  Jesus, he must be more intoxicated than he'd thought. He was getting pukingly melancholic, and that wasn't like him. She was only a woman, and they were easy enough to come by even for him, with the right amount of coin. And he had expected nothing from her before he'd found her. Actually, he had expected precisely what he was getting.

  He opened the door carefully so as not to wake her. But that gesture suddenly struck him as being entirely too generous on his part, so he slammed the door closed. She sat up in bed immediately and looked straight at him without surprise. He'd noticed that about her before, how quickly she came awake, and without the least bit of grogginess or disorientation.

  She had left one lamp burning low, but then she did that every night, probably out of a dislike for the total blackness that prevailed without it, rather than any consideration for him. And each night he put the light out, but she never complained about waking to darkness in the morning. Of course, she hadn't been talking to him before tonight.

  She was still wearing the yellow gown, but that was another thing she did consistently, sleeping fully clothed. However, she had loosened some buttons due to the constriction in the bodice of the dress, and now one shoulder of it was halfway down her arm, the actual bodice slipped low on that side but hanging in place because of the fullness of her breasts.

  Stefan wished he hadn't noticed. His eyes were suddenly glowing so fiercely, the floor pallet he turned toward should have burst into flames.

  "What time is it?" Her voice came at him, not annoyed, just flat.

  "How the devil should I know?" he shot back, definitely annoyed.

  "It was a damned simple question. You don't have to snap my head off."

  He whirled around—too fast. Dizziness took over, making the room sway for a moment until both hands pressing against his temples brought it under control. He fixed his gaze on her then and saw that she had corrected the droop of the dress and was staring at him wide-eyed.

  "Lord help us, you're drunk, aren't you?" she asked in genuine surprise. "No, don't bother to deny it. My experience in this area happens to be life­long."

  "Vast indeed," he snorted.

  "Scoff all you like, Stefan, but I was learning how to handle drunks before you . . . well, before you could have had your first taste of whiskey."

  "Whiskey?" he sneered. "I'll have you know I was weaned on vodka straight from our Russian neighbors, so I believe I shall claim superiority in all areas of drink."

  "I stand corrected."

  His eyes narrowed on her. "You wouldn't be so foolish as to try humoring me, would you, little Tanya?"

  "Absolutely not. "

  "Wise of you, because I wouldn't like that."

  "I knew that."

  His eyes narrowed even more, but her expression, wavering before him between a total blur and crystal clarity, was damned inscrutable. So he kept his sus­picions to himself. Besides, he didn't particularly want to begin a fight with her now, when his ex­haustion was catching up with him. Proof of that was the difficulty he was having just removing his coat. He ended up turning a full circle while trying to get the damned thing off.

  "Do you need some help, Stefan?"

  It took him a moment to find her on the bed again. Help? From her? He must have misunderstood.

  "It's that damn whiskey," he explained to her, just in case he had heard her correctly. "I believe it sneaks up on you. "

  "That's a fact," she agreed.

  "You—ah—weren't actually offering to help me undress, were you, Tanya?"

  "No, but I thought you might need a little assistance in finding your bed tonight."

  His disappointment in that answer was acute—and enough to prick his temper. "I will have you know there is not a single thing wrong with my eyes."

  "That's a matter of opinion," she mumbled.

  "What's that?"

  "I said, that was my opinion."

  He wasn't mollified. Arrogantly he continued, "Besides which, a blind man couldn't miss that bed." He marched to it and sat down to prove his point. "You see?"

  "But, Stefan—"

  "You are determined to annoy me, aren't you?"

  "Absolutely not," she assured him. "But are you aware that you don't sleep here?"

  "Don't try to confuse me," he said as he leaned over to remove his shoes and nearly tumbled off the bed. But with one hand braced on the floor while he tugged on shoes that didn't want to come off, he added, "I know damn well I have been sharing this cabin with you. It is driving me crazy, so I ought to know it."

  "Why is it driving you crazy?"

  He scowled at his foot. "Don't change the subject, Tanya. We were discussing this cabin."

  "You're right, of course. The cabin and sharing it. I sleep in the bed and you sleep on the floor. Have I got that right?"

  She just had to rub it in, didn't she? Wasn't it enough that he had given up the bed for her and hadn't once tried to join her in it?

  "You don't have that right at all, Princess." One shoe finally came off and flew out of his hands to hit the far wall. "I might lie on the floor, but if I have managed to sleep there, I don't remember it."

  "Is that why you're taking the bed tonight?"

  Stefan straightened up so fast, he nearly blacked out. He dropped back on the bed the rest of the way as pain streaked through his head. And he was un­aware that he was holding his other shoe when he brought his hands up to press them against his temples once more. However, the shoe was swiftly extracted from his fingers.

  "Lord help me, what next?" she exclaimed. "You shouldn't have moved so quickly, Stefan."

  He would have laughed if it wouldn't have hurt. And he refrained from saying, "No kidding," be­cause it was finally occurring to him what all this nonsense was about. The damned woman had been humoring him. She should have told him to get the hell out of her bed when he'd mistaken it for his own. But no, that wasn't the way to handle a drunk. Just what had she thought he would do if she hadn't agreed with him? But he knew the answer to that, too. The same thing he had done before when his anger got out of control.

  For a moment he wondered how far she would go to keep him a happy drunk. Wasn't she fortunate that he was too tired and too drunk to explore that thought fully? But he wasn't asleep yet.

  He opened his eyes to see her staring down at him. She stiffened then, making him realize that her thigh was the soft pillow cushioning his head, and that he had surprised her by not being passed out, as she had likely assumed from his prolonged silence.

  "As long as you're already here, Stefan, there is no reason for you to stir yourself. I can sleep on the floor for one night. "

  "That's generous of you, but speaking of no reasons, I can't think of a single one to prevent us from sharing the bed instead—only for one night."

  "I can think of several—"

  "Don't. "

  "I'll just—"

  "Be still, Tanya! My head has just stopped aching, so don't make any sudden movements to start it up again. "

  He wasn't sure, but she seemed to be grinding her teeth together before she suggested, "Don't you think you would be more comfortable if you put your feet up on the bed and stretched out properly?"

  If she thought he would release her thigh when he moved, he would have to disappoint her. "Thank you for mentioning it," he said and rolled sideways, curving his legs to fit at the bottom of the b
ed and throwing an arm over her legs. His head remained on her thigh, and if it wasn't the most comfortable position, he would suffer it just to thwart her.

  "Stefan," she choked out.

  "Shh," he grumbled. "Don't start nagging now, when you have been so pleasantly agreeable—and I am almost asleep."

  Her sigh was loud and clear as she dropped back onto her pillow. It would be a grand stroke of poetic justice if she didn't get any more sleep tonight herself, about as unjust as his finally having her in this position, but being in no condition to enjoy it. At the moment, he didn't even care.

  Chapter 28

  Tanya awoke to the feel of lips moving with tantalizing softness over hers. She didn't have to wonder who was kissing her. What she did wonder was if Stefan was awake and knew what he was doing, or if he was merely reacting in his sleep to the warm body he found next to him. And if he wasn't awake, or completely aware, did she want to risk changing that by abruptly stopping him?

  Reasonable questions, surely, but they didn't take into account that she found being awakened like this very pleasant, so pleasant that she didn't want to be the one to end it. In fact, she began participating, carefully at first—to avoid waking him if he was still half-asleep—parting her lips, inviting the thrust of his tongue, which came instantly to duel in slow, sensual motion with hers.

  But how quickly she forgot about being careful when the more she yielded, the more Stefan demanded. In no time at all, passion raged between them, hers fed by his. Her heartbeat had become violent. She had to gasp for each breath when she could get one. And the sensations that manifested and pulsed through her innards were more exciting than ever before.

  She held him close, marveling that each time she ever had, the man had been so very hot to the touch. Now was no different, and she found herself wanting more than anything to know the feel of that heated skin against her own. But she still wore her dress. He still wore his shirt and trousers. Even the blanket was still half covering only her, though she had kicked one leg free of it when she had turned toward Stefan.

  Then suddenly he was pushing the shoulders of her dress down and tugging on the bodice until her breasts spilled out. His hand caressed her while his kiss deepened even more, as if he were afraid this new intimacy might inspire a protest. The only thing inspired was a new sensation that amazed and delighted her as he palmed the hard kernel her nipple had become.

  When his lips finally left hers, she tried to draw him back, but he was determined to explore a new path. He found it and she gasped, the moist heat of his mouth searing one breast, then the other, as if he couldn't make up his mind which one he found more tasty. But then he latched onto one nipple and began to suckle, and Tanya discovered the heretofore unknown connection between her breasts and her loins, how heat could shoot from one part of her body to another, firing an achy feeling of need for his touch in both places. She arched into him, demanding what she needed with her body. His hand slid up her bare calf, her thigh, finally answering her silent call with the most sensuous of caresses.

  There was no doubt now that he was awake, and no doubt either that nothing was going to stop them this time. And Tanya responded to that, giving herself over completely to what he was making her feel, wanting so much now to know it all, feel it all, though she couldn't quite believe anything could be better than what she was experiencing right now. His na­kedness, though, that might be better, all that heat hers to touch . . . hers? No, she wouldn't let doubts or negative thoughts intrude to spoil this. She wanted this man to make love to her. She wanted . . .

  The insistent pounding on the door registered and provoked a groan of frustration from her. Stefan was more vocal, snarling, "I'll kill them," as he raised his head.

  The pounding continued a moment more, then: "Stefan, if you don't answer, I'll think she's mur­dered you and break this damn door down!"

  Tanya's eyes flew open, but it was difficult to see anything with only a thin crack of light coming in from under the door. But the door wasn't locked. Stefan had no more than slammed it closed last night.

  He must have realized that at the same moment she did, for he got up with a curse, then groaned as the headache from his expected hangover caught up with him in a big way. But he still managed to reach the door, opened it partially just long enough for whoever was on the other side to see him, then closed it again, softly, in deference to his head.

  Tanya slowly pulled and pushed her dress back into place, not knowing what to expect now, espe­cially when the door-pounder called out the parting tidbit that the boat had docked an hour ago. She could barely make out Stefan's shadow as he moved to light a lamp. She wished he wouldn't. She wished he'd come back to bed, but she knew that was im­possible now with everyone obviously waiting for them to emerge from the cabin.

  But when light surrounded her, Tanya had one more wish, that it would extinguish itself. It didn't.

  Stefan was standing next to the bed, staring down at her with the most inscrutable expression he'd ever worn, and all her doubts came rushing to the surface.

  Had he meant to start what had happened, or had he in fact been sleeping to begin with and just got as caught up in their mounting passion as she had been? Did he wonder the same thing about her? And after last night and his magnanimous, arrogant offer to make love to her because she needed it . . . oh, God, this morning wasn't an extension of that offer, was it? And why didn't he say something? Why did he simply keep staring, as if similar or worse ques­tions were running through his mind? Worse, she guessed, for his expression suddenly hardened, what­ ever conclusion he'd drawn not to his liking.

  Tanya braced herself, but she still wasn't prepared to hear him say, "You really don't care who you bed with, do you?"

  She would have hit him if he was close enough. She had to settle for rolling over to give him her back, because the rejoinder he deserved—"I guess not"—wouldn't get past the lump in her throat.

  Her silent withdrawal must have surprised him, however, for he added, "I'm sorry—that was uncalled—for. But I know you hate me, so what else am I to think?"

  What else indeed, but he didn't have to put it quite that way, did he? But it seemed that the more intimate they were, the more insulting became his remarks afterward, so she should have expected something like that. But she hadn't.

  And what could she tell him? She had been so furious with him about his taking the tavern from her that she really would have shot him if she could have got hold of a gun. But the anger had petered out into despondency over what she was going to do with her future. Still, just last night her anger had returned and she had been hell-bent on getting a little even. So it was understandable that he would assume she hated him. Only she didn't hate him. She ought to, but she didn't, and she didn't understand that at all.

  So again, what was she supposed to tell him to account for her passionate behavior? That she was so attracted to him nothing else mattered? He wouldn't believe that any more than she did. She didn't trust him, didn't accept half of what he told her. And she didn't like the uncertainty he caused her, or his attitude, which swung on such a wide pendulum that she was constantly kept off balance. And she really did hate his insults. All of these negative reactions were pretty hard to hide from him when she didn't have lovemaking on her mind. Then what was the reason she was drawn to him despite all that?

  Lord help her, maybe she was as bad as he thought she was. Maybe she just liked those things he made her feel so much, she could overlook the rest. And maybe that was all she should tell him, or tell him nothing whatsoever, which was the same thing, since he already thought it.

  This was her own fault. She had known full well she shouldn't have stayed in this bed with him last night. And she had tried to leave it a number of times, but each time his arm had tightened over her legs, he'd mumbled something incoherent and moved even closer to her, so she'd finally given up and tried falling back to sleep, a tall order under the circumstances.

  And she'd been so sure
she had handled that situation well last night, despite her frustration at having to give in on practically everything just to keep Stefan a happy drunk. But if she knew anything, it was that you didn't argue with intoxicated men. Too easily they could be moved to violence, serious violence that half the time they didn't even remember the next morning.

  She'd long ago learned how to avoid that. If you agreed with them no matter what, you could steer them down the path you wanted them to go. That hadn't quite been the result with Stefan, but at least she had kept him peaceable. Only look what it had led to. Now his opinion of her was so low, it was a wonder he could even look at her.

  But that was just as well, wasn't it? As usual, when she wasn't aroused, she was wishing herself any­where else but here with Stefan and his cohorts.

  "Tanya?"

  She shrugged the hand away that came to her shoulder, but said nothing. She heard a sigh and then movement as he left the side of the bed.

  "I will leave you to change and pack your things," he told her. "But do hurry. We've kept the others waiting long enough." She didn't hear the door open and close, however, because Stefan had one more thing to say, though it took him several long moments to do so. "It bothers me more than it should, your experience with men."

  Her eyes flared wide and darkened with rancor, but he didn't see that with her back still toward him. Was he actually trying to offer an excuse for his blistering insults? As if any excuse could make a difference. It bothered him? Well, she could fix that, couldn't she?

  Without turning around, she said, "You should have said something sooner, Stefan, because I could have so easily relieved your mind. You see, I don't actually have any experience with men other than you, and that's not much, is it? But I don't expect you to believe that, which is why I haven't mentioned it before. After all, I worked and lived in a tavern, and all tavern girls are whores, aren't they? On sec­ond thought, I guess you'll just have to keep on being bothered by it."

  She had spoken with enough sarcasm that he couldn't possibly believe her. But then she didn't want him to. She only wanted to give him something else to be bothered about. And by his new habit of slamming the door shut on his way out, this time despite his aching head, she guessed she'd succeeded very well.