The Barefoot Princess

  Then she opened the top drawer of his dresser. She removed a soft white shirt. She shut that drawer and opened the next. She removed a cravat. She shut that and opened the next…stockings and underwear joined the growing pile.

  Jermyn’s breath stilled. He watched intently. So far, she had followed his instructions. Now he waited to see if she would follow his last, insistent direction.

  In the top drawer of my bedside table, there’s a small box. It contains everything we need to make our night pleasurable…leave everything else behind, but bring that box.

  He bent his will on her. Amy, get the wooden box. Get it. If thoughts had power, then his directive would surely be followed.

  She gathered the clothes, wrapped them in a piece of brown paper and tied them like a package with a string. She thrust the package into a large cloth bag that hung by her belt and started toward the sitting room.

  In frustration, Jermyn wanted to stick his fist through the wall.

  Why couldn’t the girl just once do as she was told?

  At the doorway, she hesitated.

  Jermyn’s heart lifted. Do it, he mentally urged. Get it.

  She glanced toward the bedside table, then away. Jermyn could almost see the tug-of-war between her good sense and her yearning.

  Had he baited the trap with enough desire? Had he played the meek, willing male with enough sincerity?

  With a soft “Blast!” she hurried to the bedside table. Opening the drawer, she pulled out the wooden box and stared at it as if it were a striking snake. With a glance around her, she placed it on the table and raised the lid. She lifted the small, gilt-and-blue bottle. Pulling the stopper, she sniffed.

  Jermyn preferred a combination of bayberry and spice, and he held his breath as he scrutinized her face, waiting for her reaction.

  If she didn’t savor the scent, he had no doubt she would put it back.

  But for a mere second, she closed her eyes. Pleasure placed a faint smile on her lips.

  She liked it.

  And he hoped she associated the scent with him, with the day she’d kidnapped him. That would be sweet justice indeed.

  Briskly she stoppered the bottle, replaced it in the box and slid the box in her pocket.

  Together the two men watched as she left the bedroom. Jermyn heard a click as the outer door closed. Guardedly he walked out, surveyed the sitting room.

  Empty.

  Turning to the bewildered Biggers, Jermyn said, “Quickly, man. I need that bath!”

  A new moon shown through Amy’s bedroom window, faintly illuminating the minuscule chamber, her narrow bed, and the sparse furniture. She’d never felt claustrophobic here before, but tonight she did. It seemed that if she only dared seize the chance, Northcliff would teach her to soar independent of the pedantic reaches of gravity.

  Sliding her arm beneath her pillow, Amy stared at the dark square box on the table.

  Grandmamma, Poppa, and her sisters had worried that Amy was wild and foolish, but to Amy it had seemed the things about which they worried—manners, daring, a decided lack of interest in the quiet arts—held no importance.

  But maybe Grandmamma was right. Maybe Amy’s propensity toward running fast, dancing joyously, and singing loudly were indicators of a wild character.

  Amy tossed in her bed, then froze as she heard Northcliff’s voice in her head. Do you know that when you rise in the morning, I hear your footsteps over my head? I imagine you slipping out of a worn nightgown, your body gleaming pale and sweet, and donning one of your ghastly gowns. At night, the floorboards creak as you ready yourself for bed, and I imagine you undressing. And all night long, every time you turn over in your virgin bed, I hear you. You have me imprisoned, but I am watching you.

  A shiver ran up her spine at the memory of Northcliff’s words, but it wasn’t fear. It was desire. She wanted to rise from her bed and go to him. She wanted to see him. Not just his face or the expanse of his chest, but all of him. Because while he said he had been imagining her, she had also been imagining him.

  In a motion so slow and cautious her ancient straw-stuffed mattress made no noise, Amy sat up and wrapped her arms around her knees. Northcliff was awake below. She knew it; she could feel his unswerving attention, the waves of his will beckoning her to him.

  It shouldn’t matter what he demanded.

  It didn’t—except that that was what she wanted, too. She had fought stronger, more determined foes than Northcliff, but Northcliff had adopted a strategy she couldn’t resist. He had enlisted her own body.

  It was chilly in her bedroom, but she was hot. She worked hard all day cleaning Miss Victorine’s house, mending the roof and the walls, tending the garden. She should be relaxed and fast asleep, but her fantasies kept her tense and awake. Certainly her mind would not rest. Again and again she visited every word he’d ever spoken to her, the sensations he’d created when he kissed her, the color of his eyes and the resolute way he turned his head. Everything about him was jumbled up in one huge ball of snarled emotions and she didn’t know how to untangle them.

  She glanced at the box again.

  She wanted to sing, to dance, to soar…to experience joy once more. And she thought Northcliff could give her joy. Bring her fulfillment.

  He was chained—by his ankle, and by his promise. That tiny niggle of insecurity she still experienced could be dealt with…

  She called herself Princess Nobody. Northcliff called her Lady Disdain. Yet she was only Amy, taking on a cruel world in a hopeless fight and losing the battle.

  Tonight she had the chance to seize a moment for herself. Never again would she have such a opportunity.

  As she sat up, the mattress crinkled and the bed frame groaned. She didn’t care.

  Lifting hands to the chain around her neck, she removed the silver cross that marked her as a princess of Beaumontagne. She hung it on the bedpost, painstakingly placing it so the ornate design of the rose of Beaumontagne hid its face against the wood.

  She stood. The floorboards squeaked. She didn’t care about that, either. He would know she was coming to him. As he waited, let him suffer.

  She lit the stub of her candle. She picked up the box. She tiptoed down the corridor. Miss Victorine was snoring peacefully, and Amy sighed with relief. She shielded the flame as she passed Miss Victorine’s bedchamber, watched her half-opened door, took extra care to be quiet…and her bare foot came in contact with a large, furry, solid object.

  She gasped in fright. She stumbled. Her bare feet struck the boards in an uneven rhythm. The candle swayed wildly.

  Coal yowled and raced into the kitchen.

  Amy caught herself. She righted the candle before it dripped. Stopping, she listened, her breath tight with anxiety.

  Miss Victorine’s snoring halted. She snorted, coughed…the bed squeaked as she turned over…silence followed, a horrible silence during which Amy imagined Miss Victorine staring at the light. She waited to hear her call out.

  Then Miss Victorine started snoring again, more lightly.

  Amy ran lightly after the cat and glared at him, that malevolent, tattle-tale black cat.

  He glared back, his fur fluffy, offended as only a feline can be. He settled on his haunches before the fireplace where the red coals still gleamed, judging her as she tiptoed across the cool floorboards to the cellar door. “I don’t care what you think,” she told him. “I’m going down there.”

  But she hesitated for one long moment at the top of the stairs.

  If she answered Northcliff’s call, she’d never be the same.

  Chapter 16

  Jermyn rose on his elbow and stared at the still, small light at the top of the stairs. Amy had to come down. She couldn’t change her mind now. If she did, then be damned to this manacle and be damned to this farce. He would rise from his bed and fetch her back here—and all his promised restraint would have vanished.

  Still she didn’t move.

  It seemed to him that the air grew warm, humid
and scented with stress. He tensed, prepared to fling off the covers and go get her.

  After minutes so long they felt like hours, she took the first step.

  His body tightened. She was doing as he wished, yet still he fought his instincts. Go to her. Possess her. Make her your own. He knew that would never work with Amy. She had to be the one to make the moves. She had to imagine she held him in her power.

  Later would be soon enough for her to discover otherwise.

  She descended the stairs barefooted, clad only in a nightgown so sheer he could see right through it. The way she held the candle out to her side ensured a good view…a magnificent view. She held the box in the other hand, and she gazed at him without a flutter of shyness.

  Of course not. Once she made her decision, his Lady Disdain would fling herself into the adventure.

  Blood surged in his veins at the realization. She had come to him. She had come without fear. Soon she would take him…

  She walked up to him, stood over him, looked down with a smile.

  “I didn’t know if you’d find the nerve to come,” he said.

  “I knew if I didn’t, I’d regret it all my life.”

  No other woman would be so frank with him—or with herself.

  He’d been at a disadvantage with this confident virgin. With a more experienced woman, he could promise bliss and she would know what he meant. A woman familiar with the pleasures of the flesh understood what a skilled man could achieve with his kisses and his body.

  Instead, he had drawn Amy down here with only words and promises, and the smoky suggestion of the ecstasy their two beings offered.

  He showed her his hands palm up. “I have no hidden weapons this time.”

  She laughed, a throaty little chuckle, and her gaze wandered down his form beneath the covers. “You lie.”

  Every muscle in his body was taut. His cock and balls ached in what seemed like an eternal, unquenchable erection. He couldn’t have imagined he could laugh. But he did. He laughed back at her. Her bawdy sense of humor combined with that chaste body gave him a sense of wonder.

  Had there ever been a woman like this one?

  She placed the candle and the box on the table. Without an ounce of hesitation, she pulled her nightgown off over her head.

  Abruptly his laughter died and he swallowed. Amy clothed in a ghastly gown made his heart thunder. Amy clad in nothing at all made a mockery of all the silks, the satins, the furs of the couturiers. Her shoulders were strong, her arms sculpted with muscle. Her breasts were still new, set high on her chest and tilted proudly, with a rosy aureole that made his mouth water. He could see every rib, her waist was too narrow and her belly concave, but her hips were rounded, made for the cup of a man’s hand, and that was where Jermyn placed his. The hair between her legs was sparse, dark and curly, barely shielding her private parts from his gaze. He could see glimpses of the lips that he had touched, the lips that protected her womanhood.

  He wanted to touch her again right now. Only his promise deterred him.

  She must have realized what he was thinking, for her smile took on a Mona Lisa quality.

  Placing one knee on the mattress, she leaned over him. Her breasts moved closer, almost within reach of his lips. Her thighs were parted and he could see between them, and it seemed as if he could see within her, into the soft, velvet heat that would sear them together.

  Then she caught him off-guard.

  Taking the corner of the blanket, she peeled it back, revealing his chest, his stomach, his groin, his legs. As he’d promised, he wore nothing—and she looked on him. As thoroughly as he had examined her, she now examined him.

  Her face remained expressionless, but her eyes…how her eyes glinted! Like a child’s on Twelfth Night as she opened her best toy.

  Touching the still-red scarring on his thigh, she said, “That hurt. Is it tender?”

  “It’s bearable.”

  “So I won’t hurt you?”

  “You won’t hurt me.” Just with the torture of her touch.

  Her fingers slid up over his hipbone, across his stomach, and into the hair on his chest. She pressed her palm there; he felt his heart thumping beneath the pressure.

  She tilted her head as if she could hear his anticipation. “Do you want me so much?”

  He recognized the question for what it was. A young woman exulting in her power.

  Yet he held power, too. Gently he slid his hand from her hip to the inside of her thigh and up. Unerringly he found the entrance to her body.

  She jumped. Her green eyes widened.

  As he knew she would be, she was damp and needy. For the first time, he pushed his finger inside her.

  Outside she was silk and satin. Inside she was fire and pleasure. “I want you as much as you want me. Apart we’re two people who speak and walk and see—ordinary, mundane. Together we’re glory and flame, a conflagration of spirits. I’ve never wanted a woman like I want you, but I promise—in all your life, I’m the only lover you’ll ever have. The only man you’ll ever want.” He moved his finger slowly in and out. “You should flee while you can.”

  She watched him, her eyes half shut. “I’ll take my chances.”

  “Then come and explore me.” He allowed his hand to fall away. “I promise, this new country awaits your conquest.”

  He lay flat on his back, a new country indeed, composed of valley and ridges—and one high peak for her to climb. But she didn’t have to tackle it now. First, there were other places to visit.

  After all, he had nowhere he could go. “You’re mine to do with as I wish.” She laughed, because of course she didn’t for a moment believe he couldn’t grab her and roll her beneath him, but it was heady to know he remained chained on her command.

  He was like a feast and she didn’t know what to sample first. His skin was tan all over, a legacy from his Italian mother. His body hair was sparse, a lighter, brighter red than the hair on his head, and beautifully soft and curling. His chest and arms swelled with muscle; when he was free, he did more than sit and read.

  “Do you ride?” She ran her finger along the line of his shoulder. “Do you box?”

  “And fence.”

  Muscle corded his belly, and rising from the thatch of hair at his groin was a most magnificent display of masculine vigor. She understood why he said they would need oil to place that within her; the width, the length amazed her…her outstretched hand trembled as she caressed him, making a leisurely exploration of the map of veins and silky smooth skin. Beneath her touch, his member swelled further, rising to nestle her palm. “Magic,” she whispered.

  He smiled, swift and implacable.

  Finally she lowered her body against his. First her nipples touched, rubbing into the hair on his chest. Then her hips rested against his, and for the first time she felt the heat of his manhood against her. At last she rested on him fully, and the paradise of contact with his entire body made her whimper with pleasure. “You’re so warm.” More than that, he was so alive. In the meeting of their two bodies, she could almost experience the dynamic rhythm of his heart, the strong workings of his lungs, the power of his muscles. She unfolded herself on him, rubbing against him like a cat, and he groaned as if she had hurt him.

  A glance at his face proved that his pain mixed with rapture to form a new sensation, one that kept him bound to the bed as surely as the manacle.

  She kissed the hollow of his throat, savoring the clean taste of his skin. His chin was smooth against her lips; he’d used the razor today.

  “How did you know”—she nipped at his lips—“I would come down to you tonight?”

  “You’d have to be a fool not to, and you’re no fool.”

  She laughed again, a throaty chuckle. “You’re a confident chap.”

  “It’s one of my charms.” He stretched beneath her, a long, slow motion that carried her to another level of intimacy. He challenged her with his glance. “One of my many charms.”

  In response,
she bit his shoulder.

  He caught her head in his hands. He brought her lips to his and kissed her with appetite and passion. A different kind of intimacy, warm and wet, one she had experienced before. One she had imagined repeating. With a sigh, she slid her arms around his shoulders and kissed him back.

  He moved beneath her, then dropped the covers over them, giving refuge to the heat their two bodies created. She relaxed against him even more, savoring the deepening unity between them.

  With the fingers of both hands, he counted down the vertebrae of her spine until he reached her bottom, then he cupped her cheeks, her thighs, and spread her legs around his hips. She broke the kiss and looked down at him. “For a man who claims to be helpless, you have a way of making your wishes known.”

  “I have so many wishes and you’ve made so many come true, I barely know where to start.”

  The sensible part of her, the part that planned a kidnapping and carried it out, scoffed at his smooth flattery. But the soft part of her, the feminine part, wanted to moan in wonder. Who would have thought that the condescending Lord Northcliff hid a poet’s soul?

  Bringing her knees under her, she opened herself over him, experiencing the intimate pressure of his erection against her dampness.

  He groaned, rippling his hips again when he wanted to do nothing so much as to thrust. Thrust hard, thrust deep, thrust fast until he was satisfied. But Amy would find no satisfaction in a fast race and a speedy finish. So gently he rolled her onto her back, taking care to keep his place between her thighs.

  She started to raise up, to complain.

  Ingeniously he made the chain clink against the stone wall.

  At the sound, Amy’s dawning consternation faded and she relaxed onto the mattress. She smiled up into his face. “What do you want to do now?”

  In response, he kissed her elegant throat, her pale shoulder, the high globe of her breast. Lifting his head, he said, “I want to taste you.”

  Her eyelids drooped, and languidly she wrapped her arms around him. “I think you should do whatever you want.”