Wicked in Your Arms (4 page)

Chapter Four

A
ir hissed between her clenched teeth.

His warm breath teased her ear as his head lowered, and lowered. Parted lips touched the flesh of her neck, skimming lightly. Another sharp breath pushed past her lips.

What are you doing?

The words formed in her mind, but she couldn't speak them. She could not risk speech.

She wished his mouth still pressed hotly to her ear. Better that than
this
. Sensation zipped along her nerves, reminding her that she wasn't immune to a handsome man. A handsome man who happened to be everything that was wrong for her. He was a prince with only disdain for her. But here she was, reacting, reveling in his sensual assault as if he hadn't said any of those horrible things about her. Which begged the next question: Why was he even taunting her with seductive caresses?

His mouth did not move into an actual kiss. Nothing so bold as that. Yet that didn't lessen the absolute shock of his soft lips grazing the side of her throat. Nor did it stop the shivers from racing along her skin.

When she felt the light, erotic scrape of his teeth on her neck she yanked her head away and stared up at his shadowed face. His eyes gleamed in the dark, the only thing she could discern in the gloom, and yet she couldn't read beyond their inscrutable depths. She couldn't determine what they said,
what he thought
.

She trembled in his arms like a leaf clinging to the last vine amid a storm. If he wasn't holding her up, she would collapse. Was this what she had become? Was this what loneliness did to a female? Shattered her? Broke her? Made her cave at the first man who—
No
.

She gave herself a mental shake. The Crown Prince of Maldania was no ordinary man. He didn't
look
ordinary. He didn't
talk
ordinary with that hypnotic voice of his. Unfortunately, she couldn't stop herself from reacting to him. Sad but true. She simply couldn't allow herself to forget that he was an arrogant snob who considered himself her better.

She felt a new touch then. His fingers brushed the side of her face. A caressing graze that sent a ripple of shock through her.

His warm, brandy-laced breath fanned her lips, alerting her that his face had changed position. She swallowed a suddenly dry throat and held herself as still as stone. Not about to move and accidentally brush against the warm press of his body. He might begin to think she deliberately wanted to touch him. That she liked
this
. Liked
him
.

Intolerable!
She possessed more pride than that!

After the way he talked about her that would just be . . . pathetic. Not to mention vastly inappropriate. Not that anything about this situation was appropriate, but she wouldn't have him think she was a breeding cat so desperate for his attentions.

She was no stranger to a man's kisses. Indeed not. And she was not about to initiate such intimacy with such a cad as he—prince or not. No matter how he affected her, how she quivered at his touch in the small dark space they shared, no matter how he made her remember things best left forgotten. She was made of sterner stuff. She could resist the likes of him.

Still . . . if he should kiss her at this moment, she questioned her ability to resist. In their dark sanctuary, she too well recalled the longing, the exhilaration, the belief that she was valuable enough that a man could look beyond the circumstances of her birth.

She missed such feelings, even false as they had been. Desire and longing only brought pain and allowed one to believe in fairy tales. She'd find her retiring gentleman with his home in the country and she'd have safety. Peace and contentment and respectability. That would be enough. Everything she ever needed. No one would ever hurt her again.

She held herself perfectly still, a seeming statue, cold and unfeeling. A ruse, of course. She was burning up on the inside as he touched her face, a blind man feeling her every feature. The slope of her cheek, the curve of the jaw she always thought a little too square. The mouth too full, especially the bottom lip.

He moved, leaned in yet again. The barest graze at the corner of her lips told her he was there, touching her, toying with her, exploring her face. Imprisoned in the dark, it was almost hard to imagine that this prince did this. That the austere, cold-eyed boor was moved to even touch her.

Unable to resist any longer, her face lifted. A treacherous yearning filled her, betraying her. This was it. She would permit a kiss.

Only no kiss came.

“They've gone.” His voice fluttered over her skin, quiet and even. Unaffected. As though he were commenting on the weather.

As his words sank in, she listened. Silence carried from the other side of the door. They both held still. Moments stretched as she verified what he said was true. She took measure of herself and the wholly unsuitable embrace she shared with a man who deemed her one step above the gutter.

His voice rustled the tiny hairs that had spilled free from her chignon to frame her face. “Of course if you would prefer to stay here, I'm quite sure we could occupy ourselves.”

He spoke so calmly. As if he did not care one way or another if she accepted his offer, and perhaps that stung the most. Not the offer itself, but that he would proposition her and not care whether she agreed.

“Get away from me, you wretch!” Grier flung herself back. Twisting around, she fumbled with the door and burst from the armoire. Breath sawing from her lips, she whirled around, her burgundy skirts sweeping wide as she glared at the man emerging from the armoire.

Taking in his immense size, she marveled that the two of them had fit inside at all. She blew at a strand of auburn hair swinging before her eyes. It still dangled in the most annoying fashion, so she swiped at the offending strand furiously, never breaking her glare.

His cat-gold eyes followed her movements with mild interest, a notable change. He'd looked bored before. “Is this far enough away? I confess a woman has never asked me to remove myself from her side before.”

The arrogant jackass!

His eyes were molten, fire burning as bright as sunlight. How did one possess gold eyes? She'd never seen the like. Perhaps he was the devil?

Suddenly he looked awake. Not even when she had doused her lemon water over him had he looked quite so . . . alert. Not as he did now, circling her like some sort of jungle cat. A predator.

A tiny frisson of alarm coursed through her to realize she was the cause for that. She was the reason his eyes burned brightly.

She sucked in a breath, marveling that her stays had not felt this tight at the beginning of the night. Right now her clothing felt constrictive, her body sensitive, swollen and chafing against her garments.

Her cheeks burned with mortification. She pulled back her shoulders and regretted the move when his gaze dropped to her décolletage. The modest cut was no more daring than that of any other lady in attendance tonight, but the sweetheart neckline felt very risqué beneath his regard.

She angled her chin and clasped her hands in front of her. “Was it necessary to accost me while we were hiding?”

An indolent smile curved his sinful lips. “Forgive me,” he said without a hint of apology. “When I have a woman pressed against me, it's only human nature to react.”

Heat fired her cheeks. “Human nature,” she bit out, “does not give you leave to
touch
me. I don't care if you're a prince or not. No one touches me,” she growled. At least not again. Not without the protection of marriage. Never again would she lose control when a handsome man put his hands on her or whispered promises in her ear.

Not that the man before her had whispered such words. Nor would he ever. On the contrary, he'd said only the most insulting things to her—
about
her—since they'd met.

He shrugged one broad shoulder, clearly unbothered by her outrage. And that only outraged her further. Did he think himself so above the conventions that governed the rest of Society?

“You did not seem . . . opposed.” He drew closer, staring at her in the most perplexing manner. “I thought perhaps you wanted to become friends.”

“Friends?” Her eyes narrowed.

“You're not unattractive,” he drawled.

She blinked. “So therefore I'm worthy of dalliance?” She shook her head, marveling at his arrogance. “This may come as a shock, but I don't care for your opinion of me.”

He continued as though she hadn't spoken, “Your hair isn't the most modest shade, but it is appealing.” He cocked his head as he surveyed her. “Your skin has seen too much of the sun,” he announced. “Have you never heard of a bonnet?”

She pulled back her shoulders in affront. “Have you never heard of
manners
? Does being a prince exclude you from basic courtesy? I don't recall asking your opinion regarding my appearance.”

He folded his hands behind his back, ignoring her words as he began circling her, ever again the stiff and judgmental prince. Even with his burning eyes, she faced the fact that he would always be that—a man far removed from her. He knew it. She knew it, too.

She turned with sideways steps, following him as he moved, not about to have him at her back.

He stopped before her, still considering her with those gold eyes of his. “How old are you?” There was a fair amount of suspicion in his voice as he asked this . . . as though whatever she said would be wrong.

She eyed him, answering slowly. “Not that it's any of your concern, but I'm eight and twenty.”

He blinked. “You're a bit long in the tooth, aren't you?”

She gasped. “For what? Being alive?”

“For being yet unclaimed.”

“Unclaimed? As in unclaimed by a man?”

He nodded once.

“A little archaic, aren't you? I've been busy . . . haven't gotten around to a man . . . claiming me yet.”

“I see,” he murmured, either missing her sarcasm or deliberately ignoring it.

Propping her hands on her hips, she demanded, “And how old are you?”

“It doesn't matter how old
I
am. I'm a man.”

“No, you're a jackass!” she retorted.

His expression didn't crack at this accusation; if anything, he looked only grimmer.

Her hands clenched at her sides, opening and closing into fists. She couldn't recall a man ever exasperating her more. Even when she was a child, when the village boys would torment her with lizards and various other creepy crawly creatures, they'd never infuriated her like this.

He shrugged as if it were of no account to him. “I'm eight and twenty, as well.”

She blinked. He must be jesting. “You mean to say we're the same age?”

“Yes, but as I pointed out, I'm a man.” He held up a broad palm when she began to protest. “Albeit a jackass, as you've said.” His mouth twisted into what almost resembled a smile. “The question that begs answering is who is older? When were you born?”

Shaking her head, she replied coldly, emphatically, “I'm not telling you my birthday.”

“I can find out,” he said with maddening confidence.

“Why should you wish to?”

“You've put yourself on the market for a husband, have you not? I've a right to consider your assets.”

She snorted and dropped her arms. “Do you mean to say you're considering me as a prospective wife? Heavens! Have the stars truly shined down on me? Could I be so blessed?” She flattened a hand to her chest and cocked her head at a jaunty angle, enjoying herself and almost laughing as she played out her mockery. Sobering, she looked him squarely in the eye. “I overheard you earlier. I know what you think of me.”

“So the drink on my head was no accident. I thought as much.”

Too late, she realized she'd been trapped. She propped a hand on her hip. “No, it was no accident. I believe you called me a nobody with ignoble roots. You deserved my drink on your head. That and more.”

He nodded sagely, assessing her again, not appearing the least remorseful at the reminder of his insulting words. “I said that. Quite so. It was the truth. You'd do well enough in my bed. You smell like vanilla and you tremble sweetly when I touch you, but—”

“Stop!” she cried, lifting her hands to her ears as if she could block out his outrageous words. All her humor vanished as scorching heat swept over her face. That he spoke matter-of-factly, almost dispassionately, over the issue of her beddable-ness galled her.

“But as a wife?” he continued as if she had not spoken. “Indeed not. Your age alone would offend my grandfather.”

“So long as you're picking a wife to please your granddaddy.” She smirked.

That earned her a glare, for which she felt immense satisfaction. She needn't be the only one discomfited.

“I've more than
my
wishes to consider when choosing a wife.” His voice fell hard and flat. “I've a duty to my country.” He waved a hand in her direction. “It would be foolish and irresponsible to consider you. I should be lucky to beget a single child, much less the half score I require.”

Her hands flew back to her hips. “Holy hellfire! Is there no end to your conceit and arrogance? This isn't the Middle Ages. Wives are more than broodmares, you know.”

“I'm not merely looking for a wife. I'm looking for a princess. A future queen.”

That silenced her. What did she know about such matters, after all?

“Aside from your age, your speech and manner hardly befit a princess—”

“I quite understand you. I'm not wife material for you. I don't recall ever vying for the position.” Hot indignation swarmed over her in tiny hot prick points. “It's a good thing that you have no interest in me,” she said, deliberately forgetting that he said she would do well in his bed. “And I most assuredly have none in you.” She swallowed, hating the way her voice sounded tight and out of breath.