Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
1
Rosie
If this is going to work, the kiss had better be believable.
I
mean, it doesn't have to be the most passionate kiss in the history of
kisses. Not the sort of kiss one hears about in ballads when the more
lovelorn minstrels wander through town, plucking at their lute strings
and sighing soulfully at passing maidens. Those kisses were always a bit
much for my taste, though perhaps I would think differently were I one
of the participants and not merely hearing about them thirdhand.
But
if I'm going to convince Prince Taigan that he does not, in fact, own
me-that I am free to do what I like with whomever I like, and it's none
of his dragon-eaten business-I can't very well look as though I'm
kissing a statue. Which is what this kiss feels like in the first moment
of contact when my lips crash against the stranger's.
To be
fair, I can't blame the poor man. I'm sure he did not take up position
in that shadowy alcove, half-hidden behind a curtain, expecting to be
collared by a frantic young woman and dragged out of hiding, only to
have her whisper a hasty "Excuse me, but I need to kiss you now," just
before smashing her lips on his. It's not the sort of thing one
anticipates when going about one's day.
I'm not even sure which
one of my half dozen unobtrusive guardsmen he is. With my luck, I'll
step back from this embrace only to discover I've amorously assaulted
poor old Captain Norlan, whose mustache droops well past his upper lip
and who smells overwhelmingly of stale tobacco. Worse still, what if
it's the weaselly one? The one with the spots and the larynx, who spits
gobs when he thinks I'm not looking?
Not that I care. To prove my autonomy to Prince Taigan, I'd kiss a goblin if I had to.
One
might think, as far as kissing is concerned, Taigan himself would make
an excellent candidate. For one thing, I know his name and what he looks
like, which is more than I can say for my current partner. And I'll be
honest, when it comes to sheer charisma, it would be difficult to find
any man Taigan's equal, what with his sweeping tangle of golden curls
and those vivid green eyes shadowed with just enough delicious darkness
to be intriguing. No doubt he leaves blushing maidens swooning in his
wake wherever he goes.
But I don't like the way he looks at me.
As though he already owns me. It was bad enough being stolen from my
home in the middle of the night, carried off to this gods-forsaken
subterranean fortress in who-the-hells-knows where. To be told I belong
to a stranger? I don't care how broad his shoulders or how warm and
throaty his voice. It's not to be borne.
"Don't you go bestowing
your favors on any other champion," he said just last night, mere
moments after our introduction. With the confidence of a man inspecting a
newly acquired mare, he trailed a lazy knuckle down the curve of my
cheek. My skin crawled in response, but his smile only broadened.
"You're mine. I won't stand for anyone else laying a finger on you."
Oh really? You won't stand for it, won't you?
That's
about as much thought as flashed through my head when, about thirty
seconds ago, while strolling along the dim passage on my way back from
an eye-achingly long lesson in the court library, I'd spotted the prince
climbing the stairway toward me. He strode with all the purposeful
force of a dragon-slaying hero. Which is what he is. And why he is the
First Champion and the odds-on favorite to win the upcoming tournament
and claim my hand in marriage.
But he's not won anything yet.
A
thrill of panic raced through me at the sight of Taigan. He hadn't
spotted me, and I cast about for an escape. My gaze landed on a nearby
windowed alcove where a bit of curtain stirred in a . . . well, not a
breeze. There aren't many breezes this far underground in the
subterranean dwarven palace of Stromin; I've learned that much in the
week since my arrival. There aren't many windows either, considering the
distinct lack of view. Perhaps someone thought it would make the place
feel homey to hang up curtains and pretend we're not all living under
several tons of solid rock.
Regardless, there was a man standing
behind that curtain. I couldn't see who. It didn't matter; at sight of
him, inspiration struck. He was male. He would do.
And now I'm kissing him.
He
doesn't smell of stale tobacco. I'll give him that at least. Instead,
there's a not-at-all-unpleasant aroma of burnt cedar about him. If he is
the weaselly guardsman, neither his spots nor his larynx seem to
interfere with his lip skills, so perhaps I shouldn't have been so hasty
to judge. Because this is . . . a nice kiss. Unexpectedly nice.
Startled, yes. That first moment of lips meeting felt rather like
kissing marble (this I can state with confidence, having practiced
kissing on an old carved bust of King Glorindal before graduating to
live subjects).
But then a hand slips around my waist to the
small of my back, pressing me against a warm, hard slab of manly chest
clad in a leather cuirass, all of which is quite unlike anything in my
past experience.
This is a mistake. Isn't it? Yes, it must be.
After all, kissing a stranger isn't going to make Taigan any less
determined to possess me. And it might cost this poor, unsuspecting
guardsman his job. There are rules among the ranks, surely. Fraternizing
with the Dragon Queen's daughter is probably frowned upon, even if the
Dragon Queen's daughter started it in the first place. I should take a
step back, put a little distance between us, and murmur a quick apology
before Prince Taigan reaches the top of the stairs. Yes, that's what I'm
going to-
His mouth moves against mine.
It's not a lot of
movement. Just enough to make me suddenly aware that I am not actually
kissing King Glorindal's stony visage. This is a living person. A living
person who knows what to do with his mouth. It's amazing what a
difference it makes. Granted, I might be too easily impressed
considering my rather limited frame of reference. But something about
that movement-that slight change of angle, that subtle parting of lips,
that unexpected sense of giving and taking-sends a bolt of pure heat
shooting straight to my gut where it blooms in petals of fire.
Please, gods, don't let this be old Captain Norlan! Because if it is, and this is how I'm reacting, then . . .
"What is the meaning of this?"
Taigan's
voice lances through my awareness. I yelp, yanking my mouth free of the
stranger's, and try to retreat a step. But the hand at my back doesn't
relent, and when I press my palms flat against that massive chest, it
offers no give. Not an inch. I suck in a breath, flicking my gaze up to
the face of the man with whom I've just shared what can only be
described as a moment.
I'm caught by a pair of jet-black eyes. So dark, I might be staring into the void between stars.
My
head goes light. And a little fuzzy. The ground under my feet seems to
dip, though that might have something to do with the fact that I've
stood here for I don't know how long holding on to that gasped inhale.
With an effort, I push air from my lungs, simultaneously forcing my gaze
to drop from those terrifying eyes to his mouth. His very full, sensual
mouth, the lips still slightly parted. He's breathing hard in short,
sharp pants. But then, can I blame him? It must have been a shock to be
dragged from his nice, cozy lurking spot where he'd been quietly minding
his own business.
Why exactly was he lurking behind that curtain anyway?
The
question scratches at the back of my brain. I've no time to consider
it, however, for just then things start to happen in a rush. First a
hand clamps down painfully on my upper arm, and Taigan's voice is
shouting words I cannot in this moment fully comprehend. It's all a kind
of wordless roaring, mostly drowned out by the thud of my pulse.
There's a sudden flurry of movement, which, combined with the way the
room is still pitching around me, should send me sprawling to the floor.
Instead,
I find myself gripped around the waist by a powerful arm and pressed
protectively up against a lean, muscular side. The stranger-my kissing
partner-stands at a protective angle, one fist gripping Prince Taigan by
the front of his shirt.
Taigan is no puny young squire. He's as
broad and muscled as one would expect from a man who was trained to be a
warrior from the time he was five years old. The rigors of knighthood
carved him into a glorious dragon slayer by the age of eighteen. Now
twenty-four, he's had time to add both bulk and experience onto what
must have already been an impressive frame.
And yet, using only one arm, this stranger has lifted the prince up onto the tips of his toes.
Oh.
My.
Taigan's
voice, abruptly cut off, still rings against the stones around us. As
those last echoes vanish, a new voice speaks in a low, dangerous rumble:
"You will learn better manners, Prince. Do not attempt to handle the
lady so roughly in my presence again."
For a small eternity, the
three of us stand frozen, an odd little tableau for anyone who might
happen upon us. My blood roars and my eyes bulge from their sockets. I'm
quite certain if that supportive hand at my side is suddenly removed,
I'll simply fall to the floor like a flower with a broken stem.
Reason
returns at last with a gust of exhaled breath. "No, please!" I cry.
When the stranger doesn't take his predatory eyes off the prince, I
reach up and pluck at his sleeve to get his attention. "I'm sure he
didn't mean any harm!"
"Are you?" The stranger turns and fixes me with those void eyes of his.
My
heart jolts to a stop, transfixed by that gaze. "Please," I manage,
pushing the words from my still-warm lips. "Please, put him down! I'm
sure he saw us . . . you . . . when we were . . . and assumed . . .
assumed . . ."
For the life of me, I can't think how to finish.
After all, Prince Taigan, coming upon us like that, probably assumed
some assault of virtue was taking place. And he wasn't wrong. Just not
quite in the way he was thinking.
Heat erupts across my cheeks.
In this moment, I could probably light up these dark caverns brighter
than a freshly ensorcelled scintil. "I'm sure he was just trying to
protect me," I finish lamely. Gods on high, am I actually defending
Taigan? Of all people?
The prince's stare is fastened on me over
the arm of his captor. I cannot bear to meet it, not if my life depended
on it. I shift my gaze up to the stranger again. A nearby scintil
flickers across his features as I take my first good look at him. Once
one gets past the absolute massiveness of his shoulders and chest, the
utter blackness of his eyes, there's plenty to take in. Like the scar
that cuts through one eyebrow and trails just past the outer edge of his
left eye. It looks unsettlingly like a talon slash. His skin is
startlingly pale, almost to the point of sallow. It's the one flaw in an
otherwise oddly perfect specimen. Though perfect isn't the right word,
if I'm being honest. Everything about this man is built on a theme of
power, not beauty. His features are large and strong, his nose
prominent, his jaw rock-solid. The only thing that might be considered
pretty about him is his mouth. Those full lips, flushed and a little
swollen by the aggressiveness of my unexpected kiss.
Why do my eyes keep going back to them?
Taigan
is speaking again. With an effort, I drag my attention back to the
prince, who struggles now in the stranger's grasp. "You will give me
satisfaction, sir!" he cries in a half-strangled voice. "Unhand me at
once and face me like a man!"
The stranger's gaze finally slides
away from me and slices into the prince like two onyx blades. "As I
recall, it was you who provoked us. The lady and I were peacefully
occupied before you so rudely inserted yourself. You had not even the
courtesy to launch your attack on someone your own size. Tell me, do you
prefer to manhandle women?"
"I wasn't manhandling her!" Taigan snarls, his face almost purple with rage. "I was saving her!"
"From what?" The stranger smiles. It's the deadliest expression I've ever seen. "From me?"
Oh
gods. With a little shrug and a wriggle, I pull out from under the
stranger's arm. The air is oddly cold now that I'm no longer pressed
against his side, and I struggle to find my balance. Find it I do,
however, and glare up at the two men. "This is all a misunderstanding."
"Indeed?"
The stranger looks at me again, and I wonder if this is how a mouse
feels when caught in the hypnotic gaze of the cat. "Tell me what I have
misunderstood."
My throat goes dry. I clear it with an effort.
"Well, you see, I was . . . I didn't want the prince to . . ." Now
they're both looking at me. Whatever explanations I'd half concocted
evaporate from my brain. "Um . . ."
"Was this man bothering you?" the stranger demands.
"Bothering
her?" Taigan's eyes flash with righteous fury. "I'm not the one who
assaulted her honor! Do you not realize who this is? She is Princess
Roselle Pandracor!"
At the sound of that word-princess-my stomach
cramps and my shoulders hunch. It makes me positively sick; I'm not
sure I'll ever get used to it.
Taigan, unaware of my reaction,
continues relentlessly. "Go take your fun in a harlots' den where the
likes of you belong. The princess is far above the base cravings of your
foul dreams!"
The stranger's grip tightens on Taigan's shirt as
he lifts him a fraction of an inch higher. "You dare speak of such
things in her presence?"
All right, this is starting to get ridiculous.
"It's
not as though I don't know what a harlot is!" I snap, tossing up my
hands. "I'm not some frail hothouse flower. I know things." The minute
the words are out of my mouth, I regret them. Gods above, is there any
way to get out of this mess with my dignity intact?
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