Pure Princess, Bartered Bride. Caitlin Crews
Her eyes widened as he gazed down at her.
“I am a man who keeps my promises. That’s all you need to know about me today. The rest will come.”
She stepped back, and he let her go. He watched, fascinated, as her gaze fell away from his. Yet he could see the flutter of her pulse at her throat, and he knew that she felt the same fire, the same desire he did.
Though he suspected it scared the hell out of her. And that kind of fear Luc could handle.
In fact, he thought, with purely male satisfaction as she turned and headed back toward the reception with only a single, scared look over her shoulder, he looked forward to handling it.
He couldn’t wait.
The wedding meal was torture.
Gabrielle felt as if her skin was alive—she wanted to scratch wildly, to squirm, to tear it off in strips and throw it away. She couldn’t sit still in her seat at the high table in the great ballroom. She shifted, desperate to put more space between her body and Luc’s right next to her, all the while conscious that they were being watched, observed, commented upon. It wouldn’t do to be seen fidgeting in her chair like a child. But she couldn’t seem to escape Luc’s knowing, confounding gaze, no matter how far away from him she tried to get, and the longer it went on the more agitated she became. He merely watched her, amused.
“What made you decide to get married?” she asked him finally, frantic to divert her attention from the restless agitation that was eating her alive. If the silence continued to stretch between them, she might be what snapped.
“I beg your pardon?” he asked.
She was sure that he had heard her. How could he not? Every time she shifted away from him he filled the space she created. His arm, his hard thigh, his shoulder brushed against her. A light pressure here, the faintest brush of his sleeve there. He was crowding her, making it hard for her to take a full breath. She was light-headed.
“Why now?” she asked, determined to break this strange, breathless spell that had her in such a panic. She had never been prone to flights of fancy before—she prided herself on being rational, in fact—but this situation was bringing it out in her. Which is perfectly normal, she soothed herself. Completely rational. This situation—being married to a perfect stranger like a medieval spoil of war—was what was not normal. Anyone would be beside herself. Though she couldn’t help thinking anyone else would have refused to be in this situation in the first place—refused to be married off so cold-bloodedly.
Married. The word echoed in her head, sounding more and more like doom each time. Married. Married. Married—
“I was looking for you,” he said, in that deep, sure voice of his that sent spirals of reaction arrowing deep into her bones. “The perfect, proper princess. No one else would do.”
Gabrielle glanced quickly at him, then away. “Of course,” she said politely, to restrain the rising hysteria she was afraid might choke her. “And yet you never met me until today.”
“There was no need.”
She felt more than saw the arrogant shrug. Temper twined with her distress and she felt her blood pump, hot and angry. No need?
“Naturally,” she agreed, in the most polite and iciest tone she could manage. “Why meet your bride? How modern of me.”
She felt the force of that dark gray gaze and dared herself to meet it. The contact burned. She felt a deep shuddering inside, and had to remind herself to inhale. To blink. To get a hold of herself.
“I am a traditional man,” he said. One dark brow rose, challenging her. “Once my mind is made up, that is sufficient.” On another man she might have thought there was a hint of a smile at the corner of his hard mouth. But his expression was so forbidding, his eyes so gray. She swallowed.
“I see. You decided it was time to get married, and I fit the bill,” she said carefully.
She was like a horse, or a dog—only her bloodline was considered relevant to the proceedings. Had he considered a selection of princesses before deciding she would do? She could feel hysteria rising again, and tried to stave it off by grabbing for her champagne glass. She gulped some of the fizzy liquid before continuing.
“Were there certain requirements to fulfill? A checklist of some kind?” she asked, her voice rising. But was she really surprised? Men like her husband—like her father—thought the feelings of those around them, her feelings, were beneath their notice. Irrelevant.
She thought she might be going mad.
“Gabrielle.”
She stilled at the unexpected sound of her name on his lips. Her fingers clenched tight around the delicate stem of her glass, but the way he said her name was like a bell ringing somewhere deep inside her—even though his tone was firm.
She didn’t understand it. He hadn’t even bothered to meet her before their wedding. And yet he spoke her name and she did his bidding at once, like the purebred dog he thought she was.
“Forgive me,” she said crisply, setting her glass down very precisely next to her plate, piled high with food she had yet to touch. “I think the emotion of the day is going to my head.”
“Perhaps you should eat,” he suggested smoothly, indicating her plate with a nod. Again, the ghost of a smile flirted with his hard mouth. “You must keep up your strength.”
Gabrielle’s eyes flew to his, then dropped to her plate. He could not mean what she thought he did, could he? Surely he couldn’t expect…?
“You look as if you might cry at any moment,” he said from beside her, his voice hard as he leaned closer. She could feel the heat of him pressed against the gossamer-thin sleeve of her dress, burning her, and ordered herself not to jerk away. “The guests will imagine you are having second thoughts.”
There was no missing the sardonic inflection that time. Gabrielle forced herself to smile prettily for the benefit of whoever might be watching.
“Heaven forbid,” she murmured, not realizing she’d spoken aloud until she saw he was watching her, those dark brows raised.
“Eat,” he suggested again.
She did not mistake the undercurrent of steel in his voice, and found herself reaching for her fork. Her body obeyed him without thought even as her mind reeled at his arrogance. What if she was not hungry? Would he force-feed her?
She shied away from that thought immediately, afraid to follow it through. He was…too much. Gabrielle took a bite of the fresh-grilled fish on her plate and tried to imagine what life with this man would be like. She tried to imagine an ordinary Tuesday afternoon. A forgettable Saturday morning. But she could not. She could only imagine his dark eyes flashing and his hands strong and demanding on her. She could only picture tangled limbs and his hot skin sliding against hers.
He was too much.
“Please excuse me,” she murmured, setting her fork down abruptly and presenting him with her most demure smile—as if her body was not undergoing a full-scale riot even as she spoke. She had to stop it. “I’ll be right back.”
“Of course,” Luc said, in the same polite tone. He rose as she rose, pulling back her chair and summoning one of the hovering servants to aid her with her voluminous skirts, courteous in word and deed. He looked like the perfect gentleman, the perfect husband.
And if she had not seen the knowing gleam in his dark gaze she might have been tempted to believe it herself.
Chapter Three
LUC paid only slight attention to the speech King Josef was making.
“Today Miravakia welcomes its future king,” his father-in-law intoned, standing in his full regalia at the head of the long table covered in gleaming silver and