"You did say you owed me one," Nikolas said, his voice an amused rumble against her chest. "Although I've never been quite clear on what for, exactly."
"Oh, nothing much," Rhia said grudgingly. "Just possibly my life. Definitely my career."
"Ah-I see. Then I would be correct in surmising that what you were doing in that hotel room was something similar to what I found you doing in mine this evening?"
She tried to squirm, then thought better of it. "Well…yes. I guess you could say that." She focused her eyes on the lock of dark hair that swept across his brow like a blackbird's wing. Studying the silky, glossy blackness of it, she found herself smiling. "But somehow…I don't think that gentleman would have cooked me supper and offered me his bed."
"Hmm…foolish man."
The lock of hair brushed her forehead like a whispered command, and obediently her eyelids fluttered closed. She felt the warmth of his breath flow over her lips, and her heart gave a crazy leap, gave a foolish, giddy leap, like a smitten schoolgirl's. Her breath caught; unable to help herself, she lifted to him, searching again for that clever, clever mouth. He chuckled; his lips hovered…brushed…nipped…teased. Her stomach dropped sickeningly as she felt herself lifted on a wave of desire, like a roller coaster when it shoots up…up…up to the crest…just before it begins its heart-stopping plunge back down. Down…toward certain disaster.
But, as she teetered there, waiting for the plunge, breathless with exhilaration, trembling with desire, she felt a heartbeat thumping against her palm. And she realized that, without any recollection of having done so, she'd placed her hand against his chest like a barrier.
Roller-coastering emotions bumped and careened over realizations and fears and screeched to a halt just short of panic. My God, what am I doing? I can't…
"Nikolas-wait." she gasped. "I can't…do this."
"Mmm… why not?" The soft words tickled her lips and his tongue lightly soothed them. "It's not like we haven't done this before."
"That was…different. There was a reason…circumstances." And I was young, then. Reckless! Her voice went breathy with panic. "And I didn't know…who you were."
His laughter was dry with irony. "So…it's okay to kiss a stranger, but not a prince? And you wonder why I'm not exactly thrilled at the thought of being one?"
And he rolled away from her, leaving her just as jangled and shaky as she had been on that memorable night so long ago.
He jerked the tangled blanket aside and got up, and she barely had time to register the fact that he was wearing a pair of black silk boxers that rode low on narrow hips, before he leaned down to brush her forehead with his lips. "Don't get up, luv. I'll take the couch."
He was walking away from her when she fought her way free of the half of the blanket that still cocooned her. "No way. Dammitm I'm not letting-"
He turned back, put his hands on her shoulders and gently but firmly pushed her down onto the bed. clucking to her as he did so like a mother hen to a wayward chick. "Don't get excited. I promise I won't run off while you're sleeping. In fact, I give you my word on it-how's that?"
She eyed him warily, not trusting that smile or the gleam in those pewter-gray eyes, not for a second. "Word of a king?"
His smile vanished. "No," he said coldly as he straightened up, "Word of honor. My honor."
He turned and strode from the room. And in that moment, in her opinion-boxers and all-had never looked more like a king.
Chapter 4
Word of honor. My honor.
Nikolas lay awake, listening to those words whisper in his mind like ghost voices in an empty castle. The words had meant something, once. So had the words of the man who raised him, the man who had been like a father to him. The man who had taught him all he knew about honor. About duty. About love of country.
And hatred of tyrants. Hatred of kings in particular, and of one king. Henry Weston of Silvershire, specifically.
Silas Donovan. The man's face flashed before his mind's eye like a slide show on fast forward, in all the ways he'd come to know it in his thirty years. True, it was a hard face in many ways, austere and forbidding, with a mouth that seldom smiled and eyes that often glittered with the light of fanaticism. The man Nik had called simply Uncle had never been warm or affectionate, or even particularly kind. And yet, in his way, he'd been good to Nikolas. Among many other things. Silas had taught him strength, discipline and a willingness to sacrifice and dedicate his life to a cause greater than himself. He had taught him so well, in fact, that Nikolas couldn't remember a time in his life when he'd ever been free of the burden of responsibility Silas had placed on his shoulders. A time when he'd been allowed to be just a lad: young, carefree, with a whole world of bright possibilities to explore.
Word of honor. My honor.
But what value could there be in either his word or his honor when the basis for both was a lie?
It was hard for Nikolas to explain, even to himself, why he wasn't yet ready to return to Silvershire to deal with the catastrophic changes in his life. There was a part of him that still clung desperately to the hope that it was all an awful mistake, that at the very least there was some kind of explanation for how his DNA and Henry Weston's could be a close match- distant relatives, perhaps"? But in his heart, he knew there was no mistake; as Rhia had pointed out, DNA doesn't lie. The only thing left for him to do now was accept this new reality, and try to think how it affected his future, both immediate and long range.
No small task.
For one thing, there were the questions looping through his mind, flitting in and out among the images of Silas Donovan's face, most of which he couldn't even pin down, much less find answers to.
He needed time. Just a bit more time.
Nikolas turned his head toward the small pile of clothing that had been left carelessly draped over the back of the couch, only a shadowy wrinkle in the darkness, but he caught a whiff of that faint feminine aura that seemed so familiar to him. After a moment he reached out a hand and idly stroked the butter-soft leather jacket with a finger, and smiled grimly to himself in the darkness. Sorry, luv. I hope you'll understand…one day.
Rhia had never considered herself a particularly sensual person, and certainly not indolent. Yet. when she came slowly awake in a feather-soft bed to the smell of coffee and the sweet and gentle warmth of a hand caressing her forehead, she wanted only to snuggle down and wallow in the pleasure of it. like a cat in a puddle of sunshine.
He's here. He kept his word. She told herself she'd never doubted he would.
Two things happened then. Memories of the events of the night before hit in an all-out sensory barrage, and at almost the same moment, she felt firm, velvety lips brush hers. Her breath hitched and her lips parted, almost without her knowing, and then she was sinking…helplessly drowning in a deep, intoxicating whirlpool of desire.
She couldn't help herself…her body wasn't hers to govern. Of its own volition it arched and curled and lifted…outposts like fingers and toes tingled as blood abandoned them to rush to more exciting, throbbing places. Her hands ventured from their blanket-cocoon…reached…found his…and her fingers spread wide to allow the erotic slide of his fingers between hers-even those ordinary places now suddenly so sensitized his touch there made her moan.