Pure Princess, Bartered Bride

Luc pulled back, his gaze penetrating, then returned his attention to the bishop—as if Gabrielle had ceased to be of interest to him the moment he’d claimed her.

Gabrielle wanted to scream. She felt the need for it churning inside her, clamoring against the back of her throat.

He was just like her father. He could—and would, she felt certain, in a rush of intuition and fear—dictate her every move. She would be expected to produce heirs. To be naked in front of a man who made her feel naked already—even dressed in all her layers of white taffeta, embroidery, pearls.

She could not do this. Why had she agreed to do this? Why had she not said no to her father, as any sane woman would have?

Luc took her hand again, turning Gabrielle to face the congregation. Her attendants moved behind her, moving the great train as the couple began the long walk down the length of the cathedral.

They were man and wife. She was married. Gabrielle’s head spun. Luc placed her small hand on his arm and led her down the aisle.

She could feel the power he held tightly leashed in his body as he walked next to her.

Everything inside Gabrielle rose up in protest, making her knees wobble beneath her and her eyes glaze with tears.

This was a terrible mistake.

How could she have let this happen?

Chapter Two

HIS bride was afraid of him.

“I make you anxious,” Luc said in an undertone, his attention trained on her as they stood together in the receiving line after the ceremony.

She smiled, she greeted, she introduced—she was the perfect hostess. And the look she sent him was guarded.

“Of course not,” she murmured, smiling, and then turned her attention to one of her cousins, the Baron something-or-other.

Luc expected nothing less from a princess so renowned for her perfect manners, her propriety. Much unlike her royal contemporaries—including the cousin whose hand she clasped now. Luc’s mouth twisted as he thought of them, his supposed peers. Paparazzi fodder, like his parents had been—living out their private dramas in full, headline-shrieking view of the voyeuristic world, no matter that it humiliated their only son.

“Congratulations,” the cousin said effusively, shaking Luc’s hand—his own far too soft and fleshy. Luc eyed him with a distaste he did not bother to hide, and the man’s smile toppled from his mouth.

Luc had vowed years ago that he would never live such a useless, empty life. He had vowed that he would never marry until he found a woman as private as he was—as dedicated to not just the appearance of propriety, but of serenity. At nearly forty, he had been waiting a long time.

“Thank you,” he said to the Baron with the barest civility. The other man hurried away. Next to him, Luc felt his new wife tense. Perhaps she was not afraid of him, as she’d said. Perhaps it was only a certain wariness. While Luc could not blame her, when grown men quaked before him, it would not do. A healthy respect was one thing, but he did not want her skittish.

He gazed at her. Princess Gabrielle was the real deal. More than simply lovely—as he’d thought before—she was beautiful as a princess should be. Her glorious blue-green eyes were said to be the very color of the Adriatic. Standing next to her in her father’s palazzo, high on the hill overlooking the sea, Luc believed it.

Her masses of honey-blond hair were swept up today, the better to anchor the tiara she wore. Jewels glinted at her ears and throat, emphasizing the long, graceful line of her neck. Her mouth, curved now in the polite smile he suspected she could produce by rote, was soft and full. She was delicate and elegant. And, more than all these things, he knew that she was virtuous as well. She was like a confection in her wedding finery—and she was his.

But he had seen the sheen of tears in her eyes back in the cathedral. He had seen the panic, the confusion. Once again, that odd protective urge flared to life within him. He normally did not care whether people respected or feared him, so long as they either did his bidding or got out of his way—but somehow he did not want that reaction from her. She was his wife. And, even though he thought her reaction was more to do with nerves and their new reality as a wedded couple than with any real fear, he felt compelled to reassure her.

“Come,” he said, when the last of their guests had moved through the line. Without waiting for her reply, he took her arm and steered her across the marble floor and out to the sweeping veranda that circled the palazzo, offering stunning views from the heights of Miravakia’s hills to the craggy coastline far below.

“But the meal—” she began. Her voice was musical. Lovely like the rest of her. She did not look at him as she spoke. Instead, she stared at her arm, at the place where his palm wrapped around her elbow, skin to skin.

Luc could see her reaction to his touch in the slight tremor that shook her. He smiled.

“They’ll wait for us, I think.”

Outside, the ocean breezes swelled around them. Bells rang out in the villages, celebrating them. Their wedding. Their future—the future Luc had worked so hard to make sure he obtained, exactly as he’d pictured it.

But his bride—his wife—was still not looking at him. She tilted her chin up and gazed at the sea, as if she could see the Italian coast far off in the distance.

“You must look at me,” Luc said. His tone was gentle, but serious.

It took her a long moment, but she complied, biting down on her bottom lip as she did so. Luc felt a stab of desire in his gut. He wanted to lean over and lick that full lip of hers—soothe the bite. But he would take this slowly. Allow her to get used to him.

“See?” His lips curved. “It is not so bad, is it?”

“I am married to a perfect stranger,” she said, her gaze wary though her tone was polite.

“I am a stranger today,” Luc agreed. “But I won’t be tomorrow. Don’t worry. I know the transition may be…difficult.”

“‘Difficult,’” she repeated, and looked away. She let out a small sound that Luc thought was almost a laugh. She smoothed her palms down the front of her gown—a nervous gesture. “I suppose that’s one word for it.”

“You are afraid of me.” It wasn’t a question.

When she did not respond, he reached over and took her chin his hand, gently swinging her face toward his. She was several inches shorter than his six feet, and had to tilt her head back to look up at him.

Desire pooled within him, heavy and hot. She was his. From the sparkling tiara on her head, to those wary blue eyes, to the tips of her royal toes. His. At last.

“I don’t know you well enough to be afraid of you,” she told him, her voice barely above a whisper.

His touch obviously distressed her, but Luc couldn’t bring himself to let her go. As in the cathedral, every touch sent fire raging through his blood. It had surprised him, but now he found he welcomed it. He stroked the side of her face and ran his thumb across her full lips.

Gabrielle gasped and jerked away from him, her color rising. “I don’t know you at all,” she managed to say, her voice shaking.

“You are well-known, Your Royal Highness, for always doing your duty, are you not?” he asked.

“I…I try to respect my father’s wishes, yes,” she said.

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.