Read Princess for Free Online Page B

brimmed with splendid, sinful notions.
    Ah, but she trusted him far too much.
    She borrowed a flame from the hearth and lit an expensive beeswax candle from it. This she carried from one wall sconce to another, brightening the little sitting room with the cheerful blaze of a dozen lights, careless as ever of the cost.
    “Sit,” she ordered him, nodding to the laziest-looking armchair he’d ever seen.
    “No, thank you.”
    She looked over at him in surprise. “No? You nearly passed out on the stairs, Darius. Sit, please.”
    “My clothes are wet and there’s blood all over my shoulder,” he said crisply, stung by the inglorious reminder.
    “Do you think I care about the chair more than I care about you?” She laughed. “What a clod you are, Santiago. Sit down, for heaven’s sake, before you fall down.”
    With a long-suffering sigh, as if he were not wholly grateful for the invitation, he threw the towel she’d given him over the back of the chair so he wouldn’t get blood on the fine, pale yellow brocade.
    “Try not to take forever,” he drawled as he dropped into the chair. “I have a policy against waiting for females to dress.”
    She gave him a knowing smile, then turned to root through the odds and ends on the mantel. He blew his forelock out of his eyes, folded his left ankle idly over his right knee, and sat there toying with the silver spur on the edge of his riding boot.
    He watched her for a moment or two, enjoying the way the light from the wall sconces played over the satin’s glossy surface, following her curves. Then his gaze wandered around the room done up in shades of peach and cream and gilt.
    So, this is her world. Oddly, the comfortable chaos of her life’s day-to-day clutter did not irk his meticulous military sense of order. Against the broad-striped wallpaper hung portraits of her cat, her white mare, her family, and a few prettily arranged display cases, some exhibiting ornate bits of lace he guessed she had made, others with pressed flowers she’d collected. In the corner her archery equipment lay in a heap, while on the nearby low table a microscope inlaid with mother-of-pearl edged out the tea service.
    Ah, yes, the great lady naturalist, he thought in an odd mix of fondness and mockery. On the floor near the table was a fat textbook creased open to a page showing drawings of the stages in the life of a butterfly. He frowned, squinting down at the book when he noticed it was in Latin.
    “Darius.”
    He looked over inquiringly as she pulled a long, white ribbon out of a porcelain box on the mantel. He was startled to notice that beside the box was a small framed portrait of himself.
    It was a copy of the life-sized one the queen had insisted upon commissioning after he’d been shot saving the king’s life. He was in full-dress uniform—white jacket, gold medals, red sash—and one very serious, piercing stare.
    The eyes of an ancient in a young man’s face, he thought, oddly saddened by the picture.
    His life would be over, it seemed, before it had even begun. Yet he felt a strange, fierce ache in his chest to see that she kept this memento of him in full view, where she would pass it every day.
    “Darius,” she said again, breaking into his thoughts.
    “Yes, Your Highness?” he asked absently.
    She didn’t even glance at him. “Take off your shirt.”
    He paused, not sure he’d heard her correctly. His stare swung to her back and her sweet derriere wrapped in blue satin. She merely continued tying the white ribbon around her flamboyant mane of unruly curls, mink-black against her pale skin.
    His tone was carefully amused. “Excuse me?”
    “Take off your waistcoat and shirt, please.”
    “Ahh, Your Highness,” he said lightly. “Believe me, I’m flattered, but I’m not in the mood.”
    She jerked her lovely face over her shoulder to scowl at him. “I’m not propositioning you, Santiago. For heaven’s sake! Don’t just sit there bleeding like a dolt. Undress.