Wicked in Your Arms (Forgotten Princesses #1)(32)

With a sigh, he followed after the termagant. In moments he caught up with her. His boots crunched softly over the snow, alerting her to his presence.

She slid him a wary glance as they marched. “You really thought you were saving me?”

He grunted. “A wasted effort on you, it seems. I’m gathering you’re not the type of female ever in need of rescuing.”

A smile twitched her mouth. “No, I’m not. I’ve been on my own now for years.”

He frowned. “And how is that? You are not without family. Your father—”

“He is scarcely a father to me,” she quickly inserted. “We’ve only just recently reunited. My mother passed away when I was very young. I have no memory of her. My . . . stepfather raised me.”

He sensed the sorrow in her as she uttered this, the difficulty she’d had in saying the word stepfather, and knew that this man had been a true father to her.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I know the pain of losing someone you care about. I lost my brother in the war. He was everything to me. To our people.” He swallowed against a rising tightness in his throat. “He would have made a much better king than I ever shall.”

She slowed her pace and sent him a peculiar look before continuing her strides. She shook her head.

“What?” he prompted, touching her arm and making her face him again.

She angled her head, tossing her tangle of auburn hair. She tried to capture the tendrils that blew across her wind-chapped face. “I did not expect humility from you.” She tugged a strand from her lips.

“Oh.” He squared his shoulders, the wind whipping his face not nearly as icy as the inexplicable surge of cold he felt at hearing she thought he was some unfeeling monster. “Well, you do not really know me.”

“I suppose not.” She nodded once. “Just as you know nothing of me.”

He couldn’t resist. He reached out and pulled several strands of hair free that clung to one wind-chafed cheek. “I think I’m beginning to know you.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “Indeed? A few brief encounters where we spar words constitutes familiarity?” She crossed her arms in front of her. Trying to erect a barrier, he supposed. Her voice was withering as she asked, “You mean you didn’t know me when you said I was common? When you said I was fit for a mistress but not a wife?”

He winced. “That was badly done of me.”

She snorted. “But nothing you disagree with. And yet I suppose that’s the closest I’ll ever get to an apology.” If possible her eyebrow winged higher. “You’re sorry I overheard you, not that you actually said unpleasant things about me. To me. As far as you’re concerned I’m still some lowly serf unfit for your estimable company.”

With a huff, she stalked ahead of him, kicking snow up around her hem as she marched.

With several long strides, he caught up with her. Grabbing her by the arm, he whirled her around. “Why must you be so combative? I’m trying to make amends.” The words astonished him the instant he said them. He was trying to make amends? With a woman who should be beneath his notice.

“Why?” She tried to twist her arm free from him, but still he clung. “Why should you care—”

“Because—” He stopped at the sound of his voice, loud and jarring. “Because,” he repeated, his voice level, “I suspect you are one of the most singular women I’ll ever know.” His face heated at the declaration. It was as if the words spilled forth with no volition.

She eyed him suspiciously as if unsure whether he complimented her or not. “Singular?”

Truth be told, he wasn’t certain whether he complimented her or not either. He only knew he spoke the truth. “Singular,” he repeated. “And I should hate for you to . . .” He hesitated, searching for the word. “Dislike me because of the way I conducted myself on our first encounter.”

She moistened her lips. His gut tightened as he followed the movement of her pink tongue. “You care whether I like you or not?”

He gave a single nod, wondering how he’d gotten into such dangerous territory. He was actually trying to convince the female that he liked her. Why? To what end? Did he expect for them to be friends? That did not seem realistic. He’d never been friends with a woman before.

“Why?” Her eyes narrowed on him. “Why should you care whether I like you?”

The only thing he could think about just then was his ominous warning to his cousin. When he’d staked a claim on Miss Hadley and called her his.

With that single thought burning through him, he inched his head toward hers, moving in slow degrees, as a hunter might close in on his prey. “I fear if you did not like me, I would never be able to do this.”





Chapter Twelve

Grier watched with wide eyes as the prince’s head descended toward her, certain she was dreaming. He slanted his lips over hers. She didn’t draw breath as the cool dryness of his mouth pressed to hers.

This was no dream.

She didn’t move, not even a stir. Much too shocked, too afraid that should she move it would be to toss her arms around his neck and drag him tighter against her. It had been too long since she had this. Since anyone felt inclined to reach out and touch her. She didn’t trust herself. Last night proved she shouldn’t.