A Bride For His Majesty's Pleasure. PENNY JORDAN
Cosmo’s cousin, she reminded herself fiercely. Still the same man who had threatened and forced her into this marriage with him rather than risk losing his royal status and everything that went with it. One act of casual kindness could not alter that.
It appalled and shocked her to realise how easily swayed her emotions were; in some way she seemed to want to believe the best of him, as though she was already emotionally vulnerable to him. That was ridiculous—more than ridiculous. It was impossible. The emotion she felt stemmed from her concern for the people, that was all, and she must make sure he knew it.
When the Count had turned away, she lifted her chin and told Max fiercely, ‘It is all very well giving them money, but what they really need is the freedom to earn a decent wage instead of working for a pittance as they do now for the island’s rich landowners.’
‘One of which was your grandfather,’ Max pointed out coolly. Her words stung.
What had he expected? He derided himself. That she would turn to him and praise him for his actions? That she would look at him with warmth in her eyes instead of contempt? That she would fling herself into his arms? Of course not. Why should it matter what she thought of him? She was simply a means to an end, that was all. A means to an end and yet a human being whose freedom of choice was being sacrificed to appease an age-old custom. For the greater good, Max insisted to himself—against his conscience.
‘It is time, I think, for us to head back to the palace.’
Delicate, but oh-so-erotic shivers of pleasure slid wantonly over Ionanthe’s skin in the place where Max’s warm breath had touched it. Her reaction took her completely off guard. Shock followed pleasure—shock that her body was capable of having such an immediate and intense reaction to any man, but most of all to this one. It was totally out of character for her—totally unfamiliar, totally unwanted and unacceptable—and yet still her flesh was clinging to the memory of the sensation it had soaked up so greedily. She had gone years without missing or wanting a man’s sensual touch—so why now, as though some magical button had been pressed, was she becoming so acutely aware of this man’s sensuality?
Infuriated with herself for her weakness, Ionanthe moved out of reach of a second assault on her defences, firmly reminding herself of the reality of the situation. This was a man who was already dictating to her and telling her what to do. To him she was merely a possession—payment of a debt he was owed. And tonight in his arms she would have to make the first payment.
A shudder tore through her. She should not have allowed herself to think of that, of tonight.
As she moved away from him he reached out to stop her, placing his hand on her arm. Even though he wasn’t using any force, and even though her arms were covered, thanks to her unwanted heightened state of awareness she could feel each one of his fingers pressing on her as though there was no barrier between them. His touch was that of flesh on flesh. Disturbing and unwanted images slid serpent-like into her mind—images of him with her sister, touching her, caressing her, admiring and praising her. Once again emotion spiked sharply through her, reminding her of the jealousy she had felt as a child. This was so wrong, so foolish, and so dangerous. She was not competing with her dead sister for this man’s approval. There was only one thing she wanted from him and it was not his sexual desire for her. The only reason she had married him was the people of Fortenegro, for the son who would one day rule benignly over them. For that she was prepared to undergo and endure whatever was necessary. She pulled away from him, plunging into the crowd, determined to show him her independence.
‘Ionanthe! No!’ Max protested, cursing under his breath as she was swallowed up by the crowd, and forcing his way through it after her.
People were pressing in on her, the crowd was carrying her along with it, almost causing her to lose her balance. Fear stabbed through Ionanthe as she realised how vulnerable she was in her heavy clothes.
An elderly man grabbed hold of her arm, warning her, ‘You had better do better by our Prince than that whore of a sister of yours. She shamed us all when she shamed him.’
Spittle flecked his lips, and his eyes were wild with anger as he shook her arm painfully. The people surrounding her who had been smiling before were now starting to frown, their mood changing. She looked round for the guards but couldn’t see any of them. She was alone in a crowd which was quickly becoming hostile to her.
She hadn’t thought it was in her nature to panic, but she was beginning to do so now.
Then Ionanthe felt another hand on her arm, in a touch that extraordinarily her body somehow recognised. And a familiar voice was saying firmly, ‘Princess Ionanthe has already paid the debt owed by her family to the people of Fortenegro. Her presence here today as my bride and your Princess is proof of that.’
He was at her side now, his presence calming the crowd and forcing the old man to release her, as the crowd began to murmur their agreement to his words.
Calmly but determinedly Max was guiding her back through the crowd. A male voice called out to him from the crowd.
‘Make sure you get us a fine future prince on her as soon as maybe, Your Highness.’ The sentiment was quickly taken up by others, who threw in their own words of bawdy advice to the new bridegroom. Ionanthe fought to stop her face from burning with angry humiliated colour. Torn between unwanted relief that she had been rescued and discomfort about what was being said, Ionanthe took refuge in silence as they made their way back towards the palace.
They had almost reached the main entrance when once again Max told hold of her arm. This time she fought against her body’s treacherous reaction, clamping down on the sensation that shot through her veins and stiffening herself against it. The comments she had been subjected to had brought home to her the reality of what she had done; they clung inside her head, rubbing as abrasively against her mind as burrs would have rubbed against her skin.
‘Isn’t it enough for you to have forced me into marrying you? Must you force me to obey your will physically as well?’ she challenged him bitterly.
Max felt the forceful surge of his own anger swelling through him to meet her biting contempt, shocking him with its intensity as he fought to subdue it.
Not once during the months he had been married to Eloise had she ever come anywhere near arousing him emotionally in the way that Ionanthe could, despite the fact that he had known her only a matter of days. She seemed to delight in pushing him—punishing him for their current situation, no doubt, he reminded himself as his anger subsided. It was completely out of character for him to let anyone get under his skin enough to make him react emotionally to them when his response should be purely cerebral.
‘Far from wishing to force you to do anything, I merely wanted to suggest that we use the side entrance to the palace. That way we will attract less attention.’
He had a point, Ionanthe admitted grudgingly, but she wasn’t going to say so. Instead she started to walk towards the door set in one of the original castle turrets, both of them slipping through the shadows the building now threw across the square, hidden from the view of the people crowding the palace steps. She welcomed the peace of its stone interior after the busyness of the square. Her dress had become uncomfortably heavy and her head had started to ache. The reality of what she had done had begun to set in, filling her with a mixture of despair and panic. But she mustn’t think of herself and her immediate future, she told herself as she started to climb the stone steps that she knew from memory led to a corridor that connected the old castle to the more modern palace.
She had almost reached the last step when somehow or other she stepped onto the hem of her gown, the accidental movement unbalancing her and causing her to stumble. Max, who was several steps below her, heard the small startled sound she made and raced up the stairs, catching her as she fell.
If she was trembling with the fragility of new spring buds in the wind then it was because of her shock. If she felt weak and her heart was pounding with dangerous speed then it was because of the weight of her gown. If she couldn’t move then it was because of the arms that imprisoned her.
She had to make him release