The Barefoot Princess

  Fixing her gaze on the ivory handle, she pressed her feet to the floor and pushed. The chair moved. Just a little, but it moved. Encouraged, she pushed again. And again. The legs squalled as they slid across the polished wood. She was moving backwards, but by pressing on one foot more than the other she aimed herself at the bed stand. Halfway there, she paused to catch her breath—and thought she heard a noise outside.

  With renewed desperation, she flung herself into reaching her goal. The legs of the chair struck the rug, sinking into the nap and holding her prisoner.

  There was no way around.

  So she jumped. Small jumps that lifted the chair and set it down, lifted the chair and set it down. Her calves ached, her shoulders hurt, the weight of the chair grew greater with every motion. She crept by painful inches across the floor and at last found herself by the bed stand.

  Less than a foot away, the pistol gleamed in the candlelight, its barrel oiled and set with ornate scrolls, the ivory handle beautifully pristine.

  But she couldn’t reach it.

  She looked down at her hands. They were bound by a tan rope, covered by a white handkerchief. Extricating herself would still be a stretch, but if she got free she had a chance.

  She tested both hands. Her left was incrementally more lax. She tried to lengthen her hand, make it thinner. Then without a care for her skin, she pulled. The handkerchief slipped with her, right until she reached the wide point where her thumb connected to her hand.

  There all movement stopped. She struggled for a moment, then stopped. She tucked her thumb into her palm. Taking a breath, she tried again. The bones, the ligaments, the muscles screamed in agony.

  But her hand skidded an inch. Then another.

  Then her fingers were free.

  She reached for the gun.

  Jermyn had spent most of his adult life in London, and he had forgotten how ungodly dark the countryside could be. The moon had slipped below the horizon, and the gardens at the far corner of his estate were lush with budding trees and towering shrubs. Even the starlight couldn’t reach here. Yet the faint light from the curtained cottage windows beckoned him, and he never let it out of his sight.

  Still, he didn’t need to see Biggers to find out the information he needed. “You’re sure Walter isn’t suspicious?” he asked.

  “My lord, since your kidnapping he’s been almost comically lax about his duties as the butler. Also, he drinks and lately he’s been dipping into the brandy your father set down. Clearly Walter believes you’re gone and won’t return.” Biggers’s tone made it obvious what he thought of such behavior. “Fortunately I believe he’s the only one your uncle has subverted. I’ve taken the housekeeper into my confidence—a remarkable woman—and she helped me arrange your bower.”

  “Then we’ll be safe hidden in the cottage.” That was Jermyn’s concern—that he could lose himself in Amy without danger to either of them, for he recognized the danger that stalked him would now also stalk her.

  She faced peril unafraid.

  His duty was to care for her.

  “Yes, but you’ll not be unprotected,” Biggers assured him. “You have the knife I gave you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the pistol.”

  “At my side.”

  “And I placed another pistol beside the bed.”

  Jermyn’s heart leaped in horror. “Loaded?”

  “Yes, my lord, of course.”

  Within the instant, Jermyn absorbed the information, turned and ran. He stumbled across the gravel paths, sprinting toward the cottage where Amy was alone—with a loaded pistol.

  Of course, she was bound. He’d tied the knots himself. He knew they were firm…

  But her hands. He hadn’t checked the knots on her hands. And that handkerchief could be used to help free her…

  He burst through the door.

  Amy and the chair were at the bedside table. Her left hand was unbound—and she held the pistol.

  “Amy.” He held up his hands. “Don’t do this.”

  “If you don’t untie me, I’ll shoot you.” Her green eyes were cool. Her voice was calm. Her hand was steady.

  The black eye of the pistol pointed right at his heart.

  “My lord, what…?” Biggers stood in the door. “Dear God in heaven!”

  Satisfaction sizzled through Amy’s form. “This is better.” She kept the gun leveled at Jermyn. “Biggers, if you don’t untie me, I’ll kill him.”

  “Biggers, leave us.” Jermyn took a measured step toward her. “And shut the door behind you.”

  “Please. My lord. My lady.” Biggers wrung his hands. “Don’t do this.”

  “Biggers, do as I tell you.” She shot a menacing glance at Biggers, but kept her attention on Jermyn. “Untie me.”

  “Go on, Biggers,” Jermyn said. “Go back to the house. Either she’ll kill me and be tied here when you come back with breakfast, or she won’t and we’ll be in the bed. In either case, you’re not responsible.”

  “Biggers, you will be responsible if he dies.” Amy sounded composed and instructional.

  Biggers squared his shoulders. “But my lady, while at any other time I’m yours to instruct, in the bedchamber I serve my lord’s will.” With a bow to them both, Biggers left.

  Amy’s fierce gaze met Jermyn’s. “Do you remember what I told you in the cellar before I shot at you? I said I would really like to kill you. What do you think now after you’ve humiliated me in front of the entire village, forced me to wed you, and tied me up like an animal?”

  “I’ll call the score even”—he stalked toward her, knowing that with her aim, she’d shoot him right through the heart—“when I win.”

  “You—” Her finger tightened on the trigger.

  He prepared to hurl himself aside.

  And he saw it. Inside the blackness of the gun’s eye. A faint wisp of white.

  Someone had stuffed the barrel. When she shot, the gun would misfire. She would be killed.

  He flung himself at her, shouting, “No!”

  Like an obedient wife, she threw the gun aside—without pulling the trigger. It smacked the wall hard, then clattered across the floor.

  He caught her in his arms, chair and all. “You little fool!” His hands trembled as he stroked her face, then took her shoulders and gave her a small shake. “You might have been killed.”

  “I might have been killed?” Her voice sounded raspy. Her eyes looked unfocused. “I was going to kill you.”

  “Yes, and if you had fired, the gun would have exploded in your hand. My God.” He pressed his lips to her forehead. His heart pounded in his chest. “My God.” The words were a prayer of thankfulness. “My God.”

  He loved her. He loved Amy the Disdainful, Amy the vengeful, Amy the princess. He loved her in all her guises—and she had almost killed them both.

  “It’s time you learned to love life.” Pulling the sharp little knife from the sheath in his sleeve, he used it to cut her clothes away. “And I’m the man who’s going to teach you.”

  Chapter 20

  Jermyn pulled a knife out of a leather sheath bound to his arm. The blade slashed toward her. And she didn’t even flinch.

  Why would she? He might as well kill her. She had lost her will to…to execute a man who deserved death.

  No matter how much she wanted to, she couldn’t kill Jermyn.

  “I’m sorry to do this to you”—the knife slashed through the neckline of her gown—“but I’ve hated this costume since the first day I saw it on you and this gives me great satisfaction.”

  And she really truly wanted to kill him. Never mind that this afternoon when she’d heard the gunshot, she had thought she was going to die of anguish, fury, and guilt. Within a few seconds, she’d discovered his deceit, and her whole outlook had changed. She’d been ready—no, anxious—to murder him.

  He slashed her sleeves open, then taking the rent material in his fists, he yanked. The thin old cloth ripped as easily as paper.


  Then, by God, he’d compounded his sins by marrying her. Tonight, if she could have just pulled the trigger, in one shot she would rid the world of the most deceitful bastard who ever lived.

  Instead she’d thrown the gun aside. Because she couldn’t…she couldn’t bear to live in this world without him.

  Dear heavens, she didn’t love him, did she?

  The dress was gone, cut and torn until it was a mere memory. He grinned savagely as he looked down at the shreds. “I have never enjoyed anything as much as I enjoyed destroying that awful gown.” Then he looked up at her, tied to the chair, still in shock at her own timidity. His gaze wandered over her clad only in an ancient chemise, stockings and sturdy shoes, but instead of the leap of passion she expected—that she still, to her shame, wanted—she saw the flare of fury.

  “I leave you alone. I have to tie your legs and arms, and still you try to kill me.” He paced away from her. Ran his fingers through his hair. Paced back. “Do I have to tie you to my side? Do I have to fear every moment, every day, that you’ll leave me?”

  She didn’t know what to say. If she had the chance, would she disappear?

  “No, because you don’t want to leave Miss Victorine.” He mocked her earlier words. “I’m not going to do anything to Miss Victorine. I’m going to make things better for her. I’m going to make things better for the whole damned village, but in the meantime”—he gestured widely—“I’m married to a woman who longs to travel the open road.” Catching the end of the rope, he untied the knot and freed one foot, then the other. He unwound it from around her waist and her arms. He tossed it aside.

  Was he going to force a choice on her?

  Slowly she stood. She extended her arms.

  “I can’t take this kind of suspense. Decide now.” He untied the ropes around her wrists. “Walk out the door. In a year you’ll be free of any entanglements with me. Or stay and be my wife. My real wife. Make your choice.”

  She looked down at the loosened ropes still wrapped around her, then up at him.

  He wore an expression of fierce indifference, but she knew better. This proud man, this noble marquess, had made up his mind he wished to marry her without knowing who she was or what she’d done. She would guess the decision was his first impetuous gesture since the day his mother had disappeared.

  Amy couldn’t fool herself. For him to go so contrary to his own nature, he must feel an overwhelming emotion for her. Maybe it was only passion, but she didn’t make the mistake of dismissing his desire—or her own—as insignificant. It overwhelmed her, too, consuming her thoughts, her feelings, and possibly…her soul.

  Was he the man her father had spoken of? She and Jermyn shared so many other things—the loss of their parents, a mistrust of the world, a fierce loyalty to their friends and a deep hatred for injustice—did they also share a soul?

  In her life she’d had little time to think about falling in love, but when she did she had imagined that she would know when her soul mate appeared.

  Instead she was married to a man who tricked her, forced her, tied her, and she didn’t know whether to follow her instincts and run, or follow her feelings and stay.

  She stood on a precipice, and a step in either direction could mean disaster.

  So without knowing what she would do, she shook off the ropes. Blindly she reached out and touched Jermyn’s arm. She felt the steely strength and the tense anticipation—and driven by an impetuousness she barely recognized, she whispered, “I’ll stay.”

  Fire blazed golden in his eyes, the kind of fire that could consumer her. “Good.”

  He sounded calm, but he held her tightly against him, melding the two of them together with heat and passion. Leaning over her, he kissed her. Everything about this kiss felt different. Different from the kisses he’d forced on her when he’d grabbed her and pulled her on the cot. Different from the ones she’d pressed on him when she’d gone to him to make love to him. And she realized—this was the first time they’d been standing. This time she was very aware how tall he was and even more aware of the narrow span of her waist between his large hands, his strength, his supremacy.

  Sliding his hand into her hair, he tilted her backward. Off-balance and totally in his power, she clutched at his shoulders. He opened her lips with his with a certainty that didn’t wait for permission or even acquiescence, but moved on her, filled her, occupied her as if she were a city and he its conqueror. The taste of him, the scent of him, the intensity of him, filled her until nothing was left except to give him what he wanted as long as he wanted.

  Picking her up, he laid her on the sheets. The linen, cool and sweet-scented, brought her eyes open. He stood over the bed, hands on his hips. His brown eyes held not a hint of gold, and his face was unsmiling. He was waiting for her, waiting for…what?

  For her to look at him, really look at him, see his strength, his power and know the deal she had made.

  In a measured motion, she slipped her hand into her dark hair, spreading it across the white pillow. Giving him a slumberous smile, she untied the ribbon at the neck of her chemise and with a finger slowly but surely slid the thin material off one shoulder.

  The gold flame blazed instantly to life in his eyes. Color scalded his skin. He yanked off his shirt. Unbuttoned his pants and dropped them, revealing the taut muscles of his belly, the bunching muscles of his thighs, and an erection that thrust upward in aggressive need.

  Alarm shot through her, and she half rose on one elbow.

  But he placed one knee on the mattress and the weight made her roll toward him. Catching her firmly under the thighs, he pulled her around so she was open to him. Vulnerable to him. Her gown slithered up, and the white light of tall tapers showed him…everything.

  She felt awkward and shy as he looked at her, scrutinized her, his eyes intense and dangerous. “You’re beautiful. Beautiful everywhere.”

  The anticipation that gripped her made her heart pound. Each breath ached as she drew it in, as if her lungs no longer had the capacity to perform. The space between her legs ached, grew damp, and she wanted to lift herself to him, thrust herself on him.

  Yet he had scarcely touched her.

  He leaned forward, put his hands on either side of her head. “I need you now.”

  She didn’t recognize her own voice as she replied, “Please. Now.”

  Sliding one arm under her hips, he lifted her up to him. He fit their bodies together, and alarm shot through her as she acknowledged his size and heat.

  Last time had been so different—she had been in charge, or thought so, and he’d allowed her delusion. This time he dominated her. On purpose, to impress on her his power? Or because he had no choice? She didn’t know. Didn’t care. For as he pressed himself inside her, as her body yielded and enveloped him, she yielded, too. He needed this assurance and she gave it to him because she had no choice. Everything that was feminine in her acquiesced to everything that was masculine in him, and she melted around him.

  And he looked…he looked as fierce as an eagle who held her in his claws as he soared through the heavens. His hips moved in slow increments, in and out, deepening the invasion each time. She tried to meet him, to bring him closer faster, but still he held her hips and controlled the pace.

  The intensifying impact of his flesh inside her brought soft incoherent cries to her lips. He was taking over her body, making her nipples tighten, her thoughts scatter. In all the world, there were only she and he and the passion that possessed her. Possessed them.

  When his cock pressed against the back of her womb, the contact made her heels dig into the mattress, and brought him to a stop. For a long moment, he held himself still, staring at her dishevelment. Then slowly he pulled out, all the way out.

  “Jermyn, please!” She wanted so desperately to make him hurry, to take what she needed.

  But he mocked her. “Please what? Please…this?” He slid back inside. Again he touched her all the way inside.

  “Fa
ster,” she said through lips that felt frozen. “Please, Jermyn.”

  “Like this.” His hips thrust harder, more quickly, making her writhe with the pleasure of his possession.

  “Yes.” She struggled, trying to free herself, trying to move. “Oh, Jermyn, let me—”

  “No!” He lowered himself on her, pushing her into the mattress, holding her down with his weight. “Tonight you’re mine. Tonight I make love to you.”

  But at the contact of their bodies, his flesh caught fire. He drove into her, propelled by need, by heat, by a desire so new and yet so ancient they were united with every man, every woman for all time. They danced the dance of the gods, reaching with a frenzy for fulfillment.

  She moaned. She wrapped her legs tightly around his hips. She clutched at his back, holding him close and knowing it could never be close enough.

  The climax when it struck blinded her to every scent, every sight, every sound. All she knew was his cock inside her, compelling her to reach for a height she’d never imagined. This was the man she’d been made for. This was the moment she’d been born to experience—a moment that grew in intensity until she thought she would die of a delight too intense to survive.

  And when he joined her—when his thrusts grew faster, his manhood swelled inside her, he groaned as if in violent agony—her orgasm gained more strength. Her womb received his seed, absorbed his ferocity, took and gave with equal strength.

  Together they were one.

  When he finished, he collapsed on top of her, sweaty, heavy, and beautiful. She smoothed his hair off his forehead with trembling hands and tried to understand how this was possible. How two people who had never seen each other two weeks ago could fight their way to such a madness of joy.

  “Don’t,” he said hoarsely.

  “Don’t what?”

  “Don’t try to figure it out. Until you understand with your soul, there’s no use trying.”

  Her soul? What did he know about her soul? How dare he speak about her soul like some worshipful poet, like some reckless lover?

  He was neither of those things. He was the marquess of Northcliff and she would be wise to remember that…and to forget that somewhere in this world, her soul mate existed.