A Royal Wedding(52)

“It becomes easier,” he murmured, close to the perfect shell of her ear, the tempting, elegant line of her neck.

“How do you stand it?” she asked, her eyes fixed on the city outside the windows, as if one of the most beautiful views in the kingdom disturbed her. “All that … expectation?”

She sounded torn. Terrified. And he wanted to soothe her. He wanted to kiss the panic from her body, make her forget herself and the demands of her station. But he could not afford that kind of misstep. Not now, when the King was buried and gone. When so much remained at stake.

“We will marry at the end of the week,” he said gruffly. “There is no time to waste.”

He felt the shock move through her body, like an electrical current.

“What is the hurry?” she asked, turning so she faced him, not seeming to notice that his hands remained on her, sliding down to hold her upper arms in his palms. “Surely what matters is that I am here. Must we force all of these changes into only a handful of days?”

Her voice caught slightly on the word changes. He hated himself for pushing her, but he had no choice. He had been bound over to his country so long ago now he no longer remembered any other way. There were far greater things than the hurt feelings of one woman to worry about, even if it was this one, and far more important things to consider than his abiding desire to comfort her. There was much more at stake than these quiet moments that he knew, somehow, he would never get back.

But he had never had any choice.

“The ceremony will be in the cathedral, as tradition demands,” he said as if he had not heard her. She frowned up at him. He found himself frowning back at her, a surge of sudden, unreasonable anger moving through him, though he knew it was not her he was angry with. “Will you fight this, too, Princess? Will we see who wins this latest battle? I should let you know that I am unlikely to be as easy on you as I have been. My patience for these games of yours wears thin.”

For a moment she looked as if he’d slapped her. Her face whitened, then blazed into color. She pressed her lips together for a moment, and then her silvery eyes seemed to look straight into him. Through him.

“What is this?” she asked, in a calm voice that sounded eerily like his own. As if she’d learned it from him. “What are you not telling me?”

He did not know, in that moment, whether he wanted to strangle her or tumble her to the floor. He was appalled at the riot of emotion inside of him. He stepped back, forcing himself to let go of her. Making himself breathe and regain his own control.

He had always known he would marry this woman, that she was his. And he would make that happen, one way or another. The fact that he loved her, that he burned for her—that was incidental. It had to be.

“Many things,” he answered finally. “Did you imagine it would be otherwise? Have you shared all your secrets with me?”

Her wide eyes searched his, then dropped. He saw her pull in a steadying breath, and wanted to touch her—but did not.

“It occurs to me that I am already the Queen,” she said after a long moment, looking every inch of her heritage, her head held proudly, her inky black hair in that elegant twist. “While, if I am not mistaken, you must marry me to become king.”

“You are correct,” he said silkily, watching her closely, the warrior instinct stirring to life within his blood. Was that pride he felt? That she was a worthy opponent even today of all days? “Your ancestors have held the throne of Alakkul since the tenth century.”

Her head tilted slightly to one side as she considered him. “And what is to prevent me choosing a different king?” she asked in that soft voice that he did not mistake for anything but a weapon. “One I prefer to you?”

He felt himself smile, not nicely. Far stronger men had quailed before that smile, but Lara only watched him, her eyes blazing with a passion he did not entirely understand. But oh, how he longed to bathe in it.

Soon, he told himself. Soon enough.

“Theoretically,” he said, “you can choose any king you wish.”

She blinked, and then seized on the important part of what he’d just said. “But not in practice?” she asked.

“There is the matter of your vows and our betrothal,” he said. “Honor matters more here, to those people who loved you enough to cheer you in the streets, than in your other world. Breaking your word and defying your late father’s wishes would cause a deep and lasting scandal.” He shrugged. “But you are American now, are you not? Perhaps you will not mind a scandal.”