Pure Princess, Bartered Bride

No trouble, Luc had thought with deep satisfaction, would suit him perfectly.

The King had waved his hand, seeming perturbed that they had spoken so long about something he found far beneath his notice. “But enough of that. Let us drink to the future of Miravakia.” He had raised his glass.

“To the future of Miravakia,” Luc had murmured in response. She would be his wife, and finally, finally, he would prove to himself and to the world that he was not cut from the same histrionic cloth as his late parents. Finally he would prove that he, Luc Garnier, was above reproach as well.

“Yes, yes,” King Josef had said, and then raised a brow at Luc, as if sharing a confidence. “And to women who know their place.”

As she moved closer now, down the cathedral’s long aisle, Luc let himself smile, though he did not relax.

She was perfect. He had made sure of it. And now she was his.

Gabrielle could see him now, from beneath her veil, as she finally approached the altar. He stood straight and tall at the front of the cathedral, his gaze seeming to command her even as she walked toward him. Toward their future.

Luc Garnier. Her groom. Gabrielle had never met him—but she had researched him in the months since her father had announced his name. He was descended from centuries of Italian royalty on his mother’s side, with a French billionaire father whose fortunes he had doubled before he turned twenty-five. His parents’ tumultuous love affair had made headlines while Luc was still young. They had perished in a boating accident when Luc was still in his early twenties, which many claimed was the reason he was so driven, so determined. She fancied she could see his ruthlessness in the line of his jaw, the gleam of his dark eyes.

I can’t do this—

But she was doing it.

She had no choice—she had given herself no choice—but she didn’t have to watch it happen. She kept her eyes lowered. She didn’t want to look at this man—this stranger who would soon be her husband—but she could feel him next to her, above her, as her father handed her off. Luc’s large hands took her trembling fingers between his, and guided her the final few steps toward the bishop.

Gabrielle’s senses went into overload. Her heart pounded against her ribs while tears of anger and something else, something darker, pooled behind her eyes and threatened to blind her.

He was so masculine, so unyielding. Next to her, his big body seemed to dwarf hers. His body radiated power and menace like heat, surging from their clasped hands through Gabrielle’s veins—making her limbs feel dangerously weak.

This is just another panic attack. She ordered herself to breathe. To get a hold of herself and the riot of confusion that made her tremble against the man at her side.

The stranger her father had sold her to.

If Gabrielle closed her eyes she could imagine herself out in the sunshine, basking in the cool winds that swept down from the Alps on the mainland and scrubbed the island clean and cool even at the height of summer. Black pines and red roofs spread across the hilly island, cascading to the rocky beaches that lined the shore. Gabrielle’s tiny country was a fiercely independent island in the Adriatic Sea, closer to the rugged Croatian coastline to the east than Italy to the west, and she loved it.

For her country, her father, she would do anything.

Even this.

But she kept her eyes closed and imagined herself anywhere but here.

Anywhere at all…

“Open your eyes,” Luc ordered her under his breath, as the wizened bishop performed the ceremony before them. The silly creature had gone stiff next to him, and he could see her eyes squeezed shut beneath her veil—so tight that her mouth puckered slightly.

He felt her start, her delicate hands trembling against his. Her fingers were cold and pale. Her features were indistinct behind the ornate veil, but he could see the fabric move with each breath she took.

“How…?” Her voice was the slightest whisper of sound, but still it tickled his senses. Luc’s gaze traveled over the elegant line of her neck, exposed beneath the translucent shimmer of her veil. She was made of fine lines and gentle curves, and he wanted to put his mouth on every one of them.

The rush of desire surprised him. He’d known that she was beautiful, and had anticipated that he would enjoy marital relations with her. But this was something more than enjoyment. He was aware of the tension in her shoulders, the ragged edge to her breathing. He was aware of her, and he could hardly see her face through the veil. He felt lust pool in his groin and radiate outward, so that even the touch of her fingers at an altar three feet from the bishop sent heat washing through him.

Then he realized that she was shaking. Perhaps she was not quite as sanguine about this wedding as he’d supposed.

Luc almost laughed. There he was, imagining their wedding night in vivid, languorous detail, while his bride was awash in nerves. He couldn’t blame her—he knew that many found him intimidating. Why shouldn’t she?

“We will suit each other well,” he whispered, trying to sound reassuring. An impulse entirely foreign to him—as alien as the urge to protect her that followed it.

He felt the shiver that snaked through her then, and he squeezed his fingers tighter around hers.

She was his, and he took care of what was his.

Even if he was what had made her nervous in the first place.

Gabrielle forced herself to open her eyes and to take part in her own wedding, even though the stranger’s—her husband’s—voice sent spasms of uneasiness throughout her body. His hand was too hot against hers. He was too close.

Thank God she still had her veil to hide behind.

The bishop intoned the old, sacred words, and Gabrielle had the sensation that everything was moving too fast. It was as if she was both present and far-distant, and out of control either way. She felt Luc’s strong hands on hers as he slid the platinum ring onto her finger. She marveled at the size and power of his hand, in contrast to the cool metal she held as she did the same. She heard his voice again when he repeated his vows, this time confident and loud, connecting hard with something deep in her belly.

But nothing could prepare her for the moment when he pulled back her veil, exposing her face to his uncompromising gaze. Gabrielle’s mouth went dry. Fear, she told herself, though another part of her scoffed at that idea. She could feel him in her pores, surrounding her, claiming her. Something in her wanted it—wanted him—even though he seemed so overwhelming. Even though he was a stranger.

The cathedral fell away. It was as if the two of them stood alone, Gabrielle naked and vulnerable before him. She had known that he was darkly, disturbingly handsome—that women on several continents vied for his attentions. So close, Gabrielle could see why.

His thick dark hair brushed the top of his stiff white collar. The traditional dove-gray morning suit he wore emphasized the breadth of his shoulders and the hard planes of his chest. His features were hewn from stone. There were creases at the corners of his eyes, though she could not imagine this man laughing. He looked harsh, beautiful in the way that the mountains were, and equally remote. His dark gray eyes looked almost black in the light from above, beneath his dark brows. His mouth was set in a firm, flat, resolute line.

He was her husband.

He was a stranger.

More than this, he was a man. And so intensely masculine that Gabrielle could not breathe as he regarded her for a searing moment. As if she was prey and he the dangerous predator. That odd part of her that she’d never felt before thrilled to the idea.

Luc stepped closer, filling Gabrielle’s vision. She could smell the hint of his expensive cologne, could see the faint challenge in his gaze. Her lips parted as an unfamiliar sensation coursed through her—something having to do with the accelerated kick of her heart, the disturbing heaviness creeping through her limbs.

One big hand molded to the curve of her cheek. Anchoring her. Holding her. Gabrielle dared not move. She barely breathed. She locked her knees beneath her, suddenly afraid she would topple over.

The heat from his open palm was shocking. It ignited a fire that streaked through her body, confusing her even as something sweet and hot pooled deep inside. Her stomach clenched, and then began to ache. Her breath came in shallow bursts.

Luc did not look away. He tilted her face toward her as he moved even closer, and then he settled his firm mouth against hers.

It was no kiss. It was an act of possession. A hard, hot brand of his ownership.

Luc pulled back, his gaze penetrating, then returned his attention to the bishop—as if Gabrielle had ceased to be of interest to him the moment he’d claimed her.

Gabrielle wanted to scream. She felt the need for it churning inside her, clamoring against the back of her throat.

He was just like her father. He could—and would, she felt certain, in a rush of intuition and fear—dictate her every move. She would be expected to produce heirs. To be naked in front of a man who made her feel naked already—even dressed in all her layers of white taffeta, embroidery, pearls.

She could not do this. Why had she agreed to do this? Why had she not said no to her father, as any sane woman would have?

Luc took her hand again, turning Gabrielle to face the congregation. Her attendants moved behind her, moving the great train as the couple began the long walk down the length of the cathedral.

They were man and wife. She was married. Gabrielle’s head spun. Luc placed her small hand on his arm and led her down the aisle.

She could feel the power he held tightly leashed in his body as he walked next to her.

Everything inside Gabrielle rose up in protest, making her knees wobble beneath her and her eyes glaze with tears.

This was a terrible mistake.

How could she have let this happen?

Chapter Two

HIS bride was afraid of him.

“I make you anxious,” Luc said in an undertone, his attention trained on her as they stood together in the receiving line after the ceremony.

She smiled, she greeted, she introduced—she was the perfect hostess. And the look she sent him was guarded.

“Of course not,” she murmured, smiling, and then turned her attention to one of her cousins, the Baron something-or-other.

Luc expected nothing less from a princess so renowned for her perfect manners, her propriety. Much unlike her royal contemporaries—including the cousin whose hand she clasped now. Luc’s mouth twisted as he thought of them, his supposed peers. Paparazzi fodder, like his parents had been—living out their private dramas in full, headline-shrieking view of the voyeuristic world, no matter that it humiliated their only son.

“Congratulations,” the cousin said effusively, shaking Luc’s hand—his own far too soft and fleshy. Luc eyed him with a distaste he did not bother to hide, and the man’s smile toppled from his mouth.

Luc had vowed years ago that he would never live such a useless, empty life. He had vowed that he would never marry until he found a woman as private as he was—as dedicated to not just the appearance of propriety, but of serenity. At nearly forty, he had been waiting a long time.

“Thank you,” he said to the Baron with the barest civility. The other man hurried away. Next to him, Luc felt his new wife tense. Perhaps she was not afraid of him, as she’d said. Perhaps it was only a certain wariness. While Luc could not blame her, when grown men quaked before him, it would not do. A healthy respect was one thing, but he did not want her skittish.

He gazed at her. Princess Gabrielle was the real deal. More than simply lovely—as he’d thought before—she was beautiful as a princess should be. Her glorious blue-green eyes were said to be the very color of the Adriatic. Standing next to her in her father’s palazzo, high on the hill overlooking the sea, Luc believed it.

Her masses of honey-blond hair were swept up today, the better to anchor the tiara she wore. Jewels glinted at her ears and throat, emphasizing the long, graceful line of her neck. Her mouth, curved now in the polite smile he suspected she could produce by rote, was soft and full. She was delicate and elegant. And, more than all these things, he knew that she was virtuous as well. She was like a confection in her wedding finery—and she was his.

But he had seen the sheen of tears in her eyes back in the cathedral. He had seen the panic, the confusion. Once again, that odd protective urge flared to life within him. He normally did not care whether people respected or feared him, so long as they either did his bidding or got out of his way—but somehow he did not want that reaction from her. She was his wife. And, even though he thought her reaction was more to do with nerves and their new reality as a wedded couple than with any real fear, he felt compelled to reassure her.

“Come,” he said, when the last of their guests had moved through the line. Without waiting for her reply, he took her arm and steered her across the marble floor and out to the sweeping veranda that circled the palazzo, offering stunning views from the heights of Miravakia’s hills to the craggy coastline far below.

“But the meal—” she began. Her voice was musical. Lovely like the rest of her. She did not look at him as she spoke. Instead, she stared at her arm, at the place where his palm wrapped around her elbow, skin to skin.

Luc could see her reaction to his touch in the slight tremor that shook her. He smiled.

“They’ll wait for us, I think.”

Outside, the ocean breezes swelled around them. Bells rang out in the villages, celebrating them. Their wedding. Their future—the future Luc had worked so hard to make sure he obtained, exactly as he’d pictured it.

But his bride—his wife—was still not looking at him. She tilted her chin up and gazed at the sea, as if she could see the Italian coast far off in the distance.

“You must look at me,” Luc said. His tone was gentle, but serious.

It took her a long moment, but she complied, biting down on her bottom lip as she did so. Luc felt a stab of desire in his gut. He wanted to lean over and lick that full lip of hers—soothe the bite. But he would take this slowly. Allow her to get used to him.

“See?” His lips curved. “It is not so bad, is it?”

“I am married to a perfect stranger,” she said, her gaze wary though her tone was polite.

“I am a stranger today,” Luc agreed. “But I won’t be tomorrow. Don’t worry. I know the transition may be…difficult.”

“‘Difficult,’” she repeated, and looked away. She let out a small sound that Luc thought was almost a laugh. She smoothed her palms down the front of her gown—a nervous gesture. “I suppose that’s one word for it.”

“You are afraid of me.” It wasn’t a question.

When she did not respond, he reached over and took her chin his hand, gently swinging her face toward his. She was several inches shorter than his six feet, and had to tilt her head back to look up at him.

Desire pooled within him, heavy and hot. She was his. From the sparkling tiara on her head, to those wary blue eyes, to the tips of her royal toes. His. At last.

“I don’t know you well enough to be afraid of you,” she told him, her voice barely above a whisper.

His touch obviously distressed her, but Luc couldn’t bring himself to let her go. As in the cathedral, every touch sent fire raging through his blood. It had surprised him, but now he found he welcomed it. He stroked the side of her face and ran his thumb across her full lips.

Gabrielle gasped and jerked away from him, her color rising. “I don’t know you at all,” she managed to say, her voice shaking.

“You are well-known, Your Royal Highness, for always doing your duty, are you not?” he asked.

“I…I try to respect my father’s wishes, yes,” she said.

Her eyes widened as he gazed down at her.

“I am a man who keeps my promises. That’s all you need to know about me today. The rest will come.”

She stepped back, and he let her go. He watched, fascinated, as her gaze fell away from his. Yet he could see the flutter of her pulse at her throat, and he knew that she felt the same fire, the same desire he did.

Though he suspected it scared the hell out of her. And that kind of fear Luc could handle.

In fact, he thought, with purely male satisfaction as she turned and headed back toward the reception with only a single, scared look over her shoulder, he looked forward to handling it.

He couldn’t wait.

The wedding meal was torture.

Gabrielle felt as if her skin was alive—she wanted to scratch wildly, to squirm, to tear it off in strips and throw it away. She couldn’t sit still in her seat at the high table in the great ballroom. She shifted, desperate to put more space between her body and Luc’s right next to her, all the while conscious that they were being watched, observed, commented upon. It wouldn’t do to be seen fidgeting in her chair like a child. But she couldn’t seem to escape Luc’s knowing, confounding gaze, no matter how far away from him she tried to get, and the longer it went on the more agitated she became. He merely watched her, amused.

“What made you decide to get married?” she asked him finally, frantic to divert her attention from the restless agitation that was eating her alive. If the silence continued to stretch between them, she might be what snapped.

“I beg your pardon?” he asked.

She was sure that he had heard her. How could he not? Every time she shifted away from him he filled the space she created. His arm, his hard thigh, his shoulder brushed against her. A light pressure here, the faintest brush of his sleeve there. He was crowding her, making it hard for her to take a full breath. She was light-headed.

“Why now?” she asked, determined to break this strange, breathless spell that had her in such a panic. She had never been prone to flights of fancy before—she prided herself on being rational, in fact—but this situation was bringing it out in her. Which is perfectly normal, she soothed herself. Completely rational. This situation—being married to a perfect stranger like a medieval spoil of war—was what was not normal. Anyone would be beside herself. Though she couldn’t help thinking anyone else would have refused to be in this situation in the first place—refused to be married off so cold-bloodedly.

Married. The word echoed in her head, sounding more and more like doom each time. Married. Married. Married—

“I was looking for you,” he said, in that deep, sure voice of his that sent spirals of reaction arrowing deep into her bones. “The perfect, proper princess. No one else would do.”

Gabrielle glanced quickly at him, then away. “Of course,” she said politely, to restrain the rising hysteria she was afraid might choke her. “And yet you never met me until today.”

“There was no need.”

She felt more than saw the arrogant shrug. Temper twined with her distress and she felt her blood pump, hot and angry. No need?

“Naturally,” she agreed, in the most polite and iciest tone she could manage. “Why meet your bride? How modern of me.”

She felt the force of that dark gray gaze and dared herself to meet it. The contact burned. She felt a deep shuddering inside, and had to remind herself to inhale. To blink. To get a hold of herself.

“I am a traditional man,” he said. One dark brow rose, challenging her. “Once my mind is made up, that is sufficient.” On another man she might have thought there was a hint of a smile at the corner of his hard mouth. But his expression was so forbidding, his eyes so gray. She swallowed.

“I see. You decided it was time to get married, and I fit the bill,” she said carefully.

She was like a horse, or a dog—only her bloodline was considered relevant to the proceedings. Had he considered a selection of princesses before deciding she would do? She could feel hysteria rising again, and tried to stave it off by grabbing for her champagne glass. She gulped some of the fizzy liquid before continuing.

“Were there certain requirements to fulfill? A checklist of some kind?” she asked, her voice rising. But was she really surprised? Men like her husband—like her father—thought the feelings of those around them, her feelings, were beneath their notice. Irrelevant.

She thought she might be going mad.

“Gabrielle.”

She stilled at the unexpected sound of her name on his lips. Her fingers clenched tight around the delicate stem of her glass, but the way he said her name was like a bell ringing somewhere deep inside her—even though his tone was firm.

She didn’t understand it. He hadn’t even bothered to meet her before their wedding. And yet he spoke her name and she did his bidding at once, like the purebred dog he thought she was.

“Forgive me,” she said crisply, setting her glass down very precisely next to her plate, piled high with food she had yet to touch. “I think the emotion of the day is going to my head.”

“Perhaps you should eat,” he suggested smoothly, indicating her plate with a nod. Again, the ghost of a smile flirted with his hard mouth. “You must keep up your strength.”

Gabrielle’s eyes flew to his, then dropped to her plate. He could not mean what she thought he did, could he? Surely he couldn’t expect…?

“You look as if you might cry at any moment,” he said from beside her, his voice hard as he leaned closer. She could feel the heat of him pressed against the gossamer-thin sleeve of her dress, burning her, and ordered herself not to jerk away. “The guests will imagine you are having second thoughts.”

There was no missing the sardonic inflection that time. Gabrielle forced herself to smile prettily for the benefit of whoever might be watching.

“Heaven forbid,” she murmured, not realizing she’d spoken aloud until she saw he was watching her, those dark brows raised.

“Eat,” he suggested again.

She did not mistake the undercurrent of steel in his voice, and found herself reaching for her fork. Her body obeyed him without thought even as her mind reeled at his arrogance. What if she was not hungry? Would he force-feed her?

She shied away from that thought immediately, afraid to follow it through. He was…too much. Gabrielle took a bite of the fresh-grilled fish on her plate and tried to imagine what life with this man would be like. She tried to imagine an ordinary Tuesday afternoon. A forgettable Saturday morning. But she could not. She could only imagine his dark eyes flashing and his hands strong and demanding on her. She could only picture tangled limbs and his hot skin sliding against hers.

He was too much.

“Please excuse me,” she murmured, setting her fork down abruptly and presenting him with her most demure smile—as if her body was not undergoing a full-scale riot even as she spoke. She had to stop it. “I’ll be right back.”

“Of course,” Luc said, in the same polite tone. He rose as she rose, pulling back her chair and summoning one of the hovering servants to aid her with her voluminous skirts, courteous in word and deed. He looked like the perfect gentleman, the perfect husband.

And if she had not seen the knowing gleam in his dark gaze she might have been tempted to believe it herself.

Chapter Three

LUC paid only slight attention to the speech King Josef was making.

“Today Miravakia welcomes its future king,” his father-in-law intoned, standing in his full regalia at the head of the long table covered in gleaming silver and white linen, his voice pitched to carry throughout the great room. “But may that day be far off in the future.”