Wild Things (BBW Paranormal Shifter Romance): Shifter Lovers Romance (2 page)

A
footman from the palace was there with the little brocaded footstool, but Gabriel
was ahead of him, holding out his hand. She took it, stepping lightly onto the
stones of the plaza. She knew he did this with intent; a public touch,
assisting the princess—that was allowed. But between them, it was just another
excuse to touch each other.

The
heat was intense after the shady cool of the carriage, and it rose up through
the soles of her slippers. Assuming the correct attitude of a
princess—regardless of the heat or how tight her corset was—she squared her
shoulders, lifted her chin and totally ignored Gabriel. It would have been so
much more satisfying to fall into his arms, to let him carry her away some
place cool and private. Or melt in a puddle of desire at his feet.

Instead,
she let go of his hand, and strode up the grand steps into the palace, silks
swirling around her ankles, the veil wafting behind her, her silver bracelets
clinking softly against her skin. She knew his eyes followed her, and in her
heart, she told him how much loved him. How much it hurt to walk away.

She
passed under the arch into the outer courtyard. The temperature dropped, the
shade from the palms casting deep shadow over the yellow tiled walls and floor.
She was one step closer to putting the past week out of her mind. And she was
closer to getting out of this damned corset that pinched and constricted her
body.

“Princess.”

Her
eyes hadn’t adjusted to the gloom, but she recognized the ingratiating—or
grating—voice was the Prime Minister. With irritation prickling her spine, she
nodded in the general direction of the tall dark form looming in the shadows.

“Welcome
home. I trust your visit was pleasant?”

“It
served its purpose.” She tried to walk past but he fell into step beside her,
hands clasped behind his back. Her eyes had adjusted to the dimness now, and
she glanced at him. The perpetual sneer was on his face, a look he carried
regardless what news he brought. His severe black robe hung about his gaunt
frame. She rarely saw him outside the confines of the palace; being in the
courtyard meant he’d been waiting for her arrival.

“And
there was progress?”

She
knew
exactly
what he meant by progress. She’d been sent to meet the man
she was to marry. An arranged marriage. Progress meant she’d accepted the fact
she was to marry the Ottway Venn with no complaint. Whether or not she loved
him, much less even liked the man.

“There…has
been progress.”

How
could she tell this man—a man she had mistrusted since the first time she
remembered seeing him—that this visit she had made had been a complete and
utter disaster? How could she tell him that she had found him utterly
detestable, boorish, a pig? The progress that had been made had simply been her
restraint in not injuring the man with her dinner fork.

“Yes.
Good.” The sneer changed ever so slightly into a smile of satisfaction. “I
shall tell the King.”

“You
shall do no such thing.” She stopped, her skirts swishing in the heavy air. “I
will tell my father when I choose to do so.”

“Yes,
of course. I meant no disrespect.” His bow was obsequious, as usual, but the
sneer was back, making his words sound disingenuous. She knew it would gall him
not to be at her Father’s ear, telling him everything. Even if what he said was
concocted from a pile of camel dung.

“I
am tired. It has been a long journey. If you must tell him anything…”
Because
she knew he would trip over his feet running to her father’s chambers.
“Tell
him I have arrived home safely. I will have breakfast with him in the morning.”

“Yes,
Princess.”

She
turned away, leaving him bowed, head almost touching his knees. Before she had
gone ten steps she heard the patter of his sandals as he hurried off into the
other direction. She wondered if he knew about the aliens inside the gates, and
then decided in his world, it wasn’t as important as her upcoming wedding. The
man lived and breathed political power. And this was the coup of a lifetime for
him, this arrangement he’d made.

Her
rooms were on the upper levels of the palace, and she walked quickly to the end
of the courtyard. A pair of guards stood at the base of a set of narrow stairs,
spears crossed, blocking the entrance. She nodded to them. They avoided eye
contact, lowered their spears and bowed. She brushed past, then turned back to
them.

“No
one is to come up, including my father. I am not to be disturbed except for my
maid. Please, make sure my wishes are known.”

Their
reply was lost in the soft sounds of her slippers on the stone, the swish of
silk as she ran up the stairs. Her exhaustion had vanished in a rush of
excitement and irritation. The irritation was from the Prime Minister.

The
excitement. Gabriel had done that to her, from the brief touch of his hand, the
sound of his voice, the look in his eyes as he met her gaze, as she imagined
those dark eyes travelling over her, as she walked up the steps.

There
was a hidden door at the head of the stairs, that led to her quarters. She
opened it, slipped through and closed it behind her. There was an iron key in a
heavy lock and she turned it. The metallic clunk was like the music of heaven.
It meant solitude and peace.

But
she felt bedraggled, and dirty, and desperately wanted a bath. Her nap could
wait a little longer. She pushed the button on the wall that called her maid,
and unlocked the door. There was no sound, as usual, in her rooms. She
sometimes wondered what sound that little button triggered, somewhere deep in
the servants’ quarters. Today she didn’t care. All she wanted was her maid, the
person who could set into motion getting her out of these clothes.

She
went to the balcony, pulling the veil away from her face to look out over the
inner courtyard. The sun was setting behind the ramparts, tinging the sky with
streaks of yellows and pinks, on the way to becoming a full-blown panorama of vivid
colors. She’d missed this view, missed the way darkness gathered in the corners
of the courtyard, filling in the spaces with shadows and mystery. The open land
beyond, sand stretching to the horizons. The Ottway’s palace was set in a
valley, walls of red stone rising into the sky, blotting it out. It felt
claustrophobic, cramped, airless there. More than just the heat stifling her.

There
was a soft knock, and a few minutes later, she heard the sounds of someone
moving behind her. She turned and smiled, her irritation lifting.

“Anacelia.”

“Princess.”
The short dark-haired woman bowed deeply, her long braid nearly brushing the
floor. She straightened and Senna impulsively reached out, pulling the woman
against her into a loving embrace. Anacelia had been taking care of her as long
as she could remember, had always been there. It felt good to touch someone, to
hug without restraint. Even though nominally a servant, Anacelia was the
closest to a mother Senna had ever known.

“Oh,
my. You were homesick.” Anacelia stepped away from Senna, smoothing her cotton
sari with tattooed hands. She met Senna’s gaze. “It is good to have you home,
child.”

“And
it is good to be home.”

“And
you would like a bath, wouldn’t you?” The woman smiled, already moving through
the door to the lavish en suite bath. “Let me heat the water.” The woman
disappeared, and a moment later Senna heard the soft hiss as the steam water
heater started up. Anacelia reappeared, wiping her hands on her skirt.

“Now
please, help get me out of this costume, I beg of you. This corset is
unbearable. It’s far too small. The Ottway saw me, he knows I’m a curvy woman,
not a stick.  This get-up is many sizes too small. And the girl…she fit me
into it, as if her life depended on it.” The stays poked her in tender places,
but she was helpless to get out of the damned thing herself. Suddenly, she
couldn’t wait to feel air on her skin, to be out of the detestable thing. In
frustration she tugged at the veils around her face, the fragile silk tearing
beneath her fingers.

“Stop,
dear. That was a gift...” Anacelia let the words hang in the air.

“It’s
a traveling costume. It should have been made with better quality material.”
She pulled again, tearing the veil away from her face. Beads scattered across
the floor. “If the Ottway is so wealthy, why does he give me such a cheap gift?
The Ottway doesn’t know a traveling costume from the back end of a camel.”

Anacelia
hid her smile behind her hand. “Shush. It’s a gesture. From the man who is to
be your husband.”

“Shush
yourself. I don’t want to be reminded of that.”

Anacelia
was behind her, deftly undoing the lacings of her corset. It came undone and
there was that first glorious moment when she could take a deep breath, hold
it, and then let it out slowly. She turned. Anacelia held the corset, her brows
pulled down in puzzlement. Then, she set the garment aside.

“The
corset is clearly not intended for a woman with your shape, you are right about
that.” Anacelia’s nimble fingers were working at the fastenings of Senna’s many
layers of silk. “But the silver in the trim alone, is worth a small fortune.”

“Silver...I
have enough silver to last me a lifetime.” Senna held out her arm, jangling her
bracelets. “I want more than just silk and silver.”

“Sit.
I’ll brush your hair while the water heats.”

Senna
stepped out of the silks, letting them fall to the floor in a heap, leaving her
in just her own white silk shift, and all her jewelry. She plucked away from
her body where the corset had made it stick, so that it brushed against her full
breasts and hips, like the softest desert breeze, skimming over her waist,
wrapping briefly around her thighs.

She
stepped over the silks, barely resisted the urge to kick them aside, the silk
molding for a moment against her thighs, like a lover’s caress. Anacelia was
right; they had been a gift. And the Ottway was probably going to want to see
her wearing them again. At the thought of seeing that man, her heart sank.

“Sit.
And take off your jewels. I don’t want to catch those earrings with the brush.”
Anacelia pulled out the chair by the big mirror. Senna obediently sat down,
reaching up to undo the clasp of the silver necklace she’d worn. It had been
her mother’s, and Senna had worn it for as long as she could remember. While
Anacelia waited, Senna set the necklace aside, then quickly removed her
earrings and the multitude of rings she’d worn, specifically at her father’s
orders. Specifically, to impress the Ottway with her wealth. That was all fine
and good, and he’d been properly impressed, but he’d eyed her necklace with a
skeptical frown, and pronounced it common.

With
infinite care Anacelia began removing the plethora of jeweled pins that held
Senna’s long hair in place. Gradually the long strands fell around her
shoulders as a mountain of pins accumulated on the dressing table.

“Who
in the world did your hair?” Anacelia dragged an ivory brush through Senna’s
hair. “There are more knots in here than in a prayer chain.”

“He
sent a girl. I told him...” She winced as Anacelia tugged at a knot of hair. “I
told him I could do it myself, but he insisted.”

“Well,
be patient with me. It will take some time to undo this mess. And...” Another
painful tug. “You need your hair done. Henna and indigo. To make your hair as
beautiful as your face.”

Senna
looked at their reflections in the mirror, watching Anacelia’s nimble fingers
working with her hair. Anacelia had been saying that since Senna was a little
girl, from the first time she’d mixed the evil-smelling batch of henna and
indigo. Senna had run away, hiding in the garden. Anacelia had tracked her
down, promising to make it smell better. She’d shown Senna the way to mix
powdered herbs and myrrh into the mix. And how that made it smell like heaven.
From then it had been a ritual, each month, to have Anacelia coat her hair with
henna, pile the long strands on her head and wrap her hair up in a white towel.
Then she’d spend the day sequestered in her rooms, waiting for the mixture to
work its magic.

It
was more than just a beauty ritual; it gave her a day to be alone, to beg off
social engagements, to read what she wanted, to listen to music her father
claimed was inappropriate for a Princess. She would wind up the music box,
choosing from an assortment of brass rolls that held different musical pieces.
Her father favored light pieces, high notes, and flowing melodies, but Senna
wanted darker pieces, low throbbing beats, minor chords, and keys.

Then
Anacelia would come in the afternoon and patiently wash the dried henna out of
her hair. And when Senna’s long hair was dried and brushed, it would be soft
and lush and dark, highlights so black they looked indigo. The feel of it in
the dark, touching her shoulders, cascading over her breasts… it was magical.

“But
you were in the sun without a sunshade. You have freckles across your cheeks.
We need to find some lemon juice for those.”

Senna
leaned forward, wrinkling her nose. “I took walks in the afternoon. There was
nothing to do, really. And the food was so heavy. It felt good to be out. But
they don’t have any kind of gardens or trees.” She made a face. “How can there
not be gardens at a palace?”