Page 67

“‘G ood . . . and logical . . . reasons.’ ”

Cal pronounced each word with such deliberation I suspected his displeasure, although I didn’t know why.

He gestured at the watching army of servants, bodyguards, and Friar Laurence, waving them away.

They retreated to the fringes of the vast room, but not a soul left and no one took their gazes off us.

Cal patted the bed beside him. “Here. I wish to speak to you without everyone hearing.”

I climbed up on the mattress and sat beside his prone form, my erect spine against the headboard and my legs stretched out straight beneath my skirts.

For me to sit on a bed with him, a man of Verona, even though he was my future husband, was in every manner improper, but since I’d already been on the bed with him in front of a multitude of witnesses, and clearly had no intention of deflowering him, that seemed to have cleared the way.

In a low, stern voice, he asked, “Did Lysander not come to you carrying my blessing?”

“He did. We embraced, but in the end, my pragmatic nature won out. That night when you’d seduced me in my family’s garden, and forced the issue of our betrothal, you enumerated all the sensible reasons I would be a good wife for you, and I reacted as the daughter of Romeo and Juliet must, in chagrin that you were able to make such a cold-blooded list of my attributes.

” I inhaled briefly, then settled myself solidly in my good sense.

“But I am myself, and not my parents, and as you noted, I’m logical and practical, too. You have many worthy attributes also.”

“Indeed? Besides being the prince of Verona, and my wife will live in a palace?”

In irritation, I raised my voice. “Why do men think that’s all I care about?”

I viewed our avid audience, straining to hear a single word.

He shushed me. “Because for a woman, security is a sensible goal. I don’t deny that, nor do I disdain that.” Cal brooded over his assumption; then in exasperation, he said, “Lysander believed that, too?”

“You two have much in common.” I lowered my voice, but kept the exasperation.

“To me, living in a palace is not an advantage. I have no desire to manage a large household as I currently do. I’m perfectly capable—of course, you’re right about that—but a lesser responsibility would be a pleasure.

No, I was talking about you in yourself.

Your character, which is honorable. I believe you’ll afford me the honors due your wife and hostess, and the mother of your children. I don’t think you’ll beat me.”

“Tempting!”

He had beads of sweat on his forehead. Perhaps when we were done, I’d recommend a dose of poppy juice to ease his pain. “And earlier when you held me and kissed me, you emphasized once again, as you did before, that our physical relationship will be mutually enjoyable.”

“Is that what I emphasized?”

“Forsooth, so you did! And provided ample evidence.” I smiled at the memory.

“My real concern is, at some time in the future, you’ll meet your One True Love, a lady who is out of reach because you’re married to me.

I dread the idea of being an obstacle in such a circumstance, and I hope you’ll be discreet in your devotion to her. ”

At this point, he . . . Frankly, I don’t know what happened. I thought he appreciated my sensibilities. Why not? They were both pragmatic and sensible.

Instead he grabbed my wrist in an unbreakable hold, looked at our audience, and said—no, commanded—“Get out!”

The servants fled. His men rose in unison and as a unit filed out. Only Friar Laurence remained, and he flatly said, “I will not.” Which told me he knew something about Cal’s mood I hadn’t yet comprehended.

A glance at Cal’s face enlightened me.

His usual smooth, calm expression had dissolved into a contortion of . . . frustration? Rage? Although I didn’t know why. “What did I say?” I asked.

Moving swiftly as a big cat on the hunt, Cal sat up, grasped my ankle—the man clearly had an elevated sense of freedom concerning my limbs—and pulled me down the bed. Retaining my wrist, releasing my ankle, he used his hand on my shoulder to push me flat on my back.

I, of course, was not silent during this maneuver. I said things like, “What? You . . . This isn’t . . . Cal, you can’t . . .”

Obviously, he could.

Friar Laurence said again, “I am not leaving these two worldly sinners!” But he wasn’t speaking toward the bed anymore, and he seemed muffled and flustered.

I lifted my head and saw Marcellus, Dion, and Holofernes hustling him out. With a solid thunk, the door shut behind them, leaving Cal and me alone.

Really alone. As alone as we’d been in the Montague garden when he’d maneuvered his way beneath my skirts and into becoming my betrothed. Now I had an inkling what he intended. . . although I still couldn’t comprehend what I’d done to provoke him.

“Cal, this is not a good idea.”

“Shhh.” His voice, so quiet, so soothing, was at odds with the fanatic gleam in his eyes. He did that looming trick of his, his shoulders blocking the light, his face so close to mine I could feel his breath.

I pushed on his chest with my free hand.

You’ll be surprised to know that didn’t work, but it did remind me that:

1. He’d been injured and he had a big bandage wrapped around the wound.

2. Other than the bandaging, his chest was bare.

I said, “You’ve been hurt, bleeding. You shouldn’t be doing this.”

“I know.” His voice still held that soothing quality that I found slightly spooky, and his eyes gleamed as though possessed of a dark angel. “Yet somehow coming so close to death, I need to remind myself why Rosaline of the house of Montague continues to elude my capture.”

“I haven’t eluded your capture. You captured me much against my will, and we were betrothed.

Since that evening, we have had adventures of many kinds, so rare for a prince who represents Verona in all its guises and a lady of .

. . how shall I say this? Impeccable virtue.

” I expressed myself adroitly, I thought.

“Today, after you released me, I chose you as my betrothed.” I thought it was a neat argument, one likely to defuse his odd mood and return him to sanity.

Not so much.

He still held my wrist, but his grip had eased and he stroked his thumb over my pulse point.

I said, “We’ve both sagaciously agreed to this marriage.” A sane argument, right?

He seemed oblivious to my sanity.

“You like my family, the possibility of my prodigious productivity, my house managing abilities, my tette —” I floundered on the knowledge that I should not have mentioned body parts.

“Tell me what you like about me.” His voice, low and deep, whispered across my skin.

I prickled with awareness, and floundered again, trying to think what I liked about him. “You’re dutiful. You . . . have a nice garden. I like your grandmother and your sister.”

“You don’t like to touch me. Are you repulsed by me?”

“No!”

“I’m scarred.” Taking my free hand, he used my fingertips to trace the ripples caused by the burns inflicted in the dungeon. “I limp.”

“I don’t even think of that.” True, I no longer noticed his scars.

I studied him now, his mouth, his nose, his forehead.

I skipped his eyes because of the way his lids drooped over his shadowed eyes as if to hide an inner hellfire of passion.

I did know about that. I did believe it existed.

Too much proof had been offered me. “The scars don’t matter; God did not bless you with a handsome countenance, anyway. ”

He gave a crack of laughter.

“If you don’t want to know, you shouldn’t ask me.” I tried to shake off his grip and roll away.

He leaned closer, using his weight to restrain me, and placed my hand on his shoulder. “You’ve seen my body now. The marks of the whip on my back and the brand on my chest. What of that? Will intimacy with a man whose body bears the evidence of torment and defeat repulse you?”

“I’m not so shallow.” A strong, snappish reply, but I suppose he thought I was shallow, for Lysander was as glorious as the dawn. Didn’t Cal realize the sunshine of my love for Lysander wouldn’t have lasted if Lysander had been stupid, humorless, a brute?

“Rosaline . . .” Cal’s voice beckoned my attention back to him. “Look and tell me what you think.”

Under my palm, his shoulder flexed. I felt the ripple of muscle as he raised himself slightly, and my gaze dropped to view the brown skin, the short black hairs interrupted by the pale bandage, the taut belly.

I lifted my gaze back to his face. Safer, I thought.

I thought wrong. For now, he was watching me, the fire no longer hidden. With a single finger, he traced the line of my jaw, the roundness of my cheek.

I moaned under my breath.

He heard, for he paused. “You also have bruises and marks from your ordeal. You were handled roughly, first in the riots, then dragged you off the brink and back to life. Are you afraid of me?”

I shook my head.

“Am I hurting you?”

I shook my head.

“Good.” With a touch so light it seduced my nerves, he slid his knuckles against my neck, across my chest, hovered over my fully clad and heaving breasts . . .

I didn’t object. I could barely breathe. The man was sucking all the air from the room.

Slowly, so slowly, his face came closer, his mouth angled toward mine. He’d kissed me before—and I had liked it. Afterward, when I discovered Cal had been my seducer, I’d been enraged, but I couldn’t deny I liked it. Now, in the shadowy, silent, Cal-filled moment, my lips parted. I waited . . .

He released me and flopped back on his pillows. “Thank you, Rosie, you’ve answered my questions.”

I still vibrated from his touch, heard the echoes of his seductive words, knew the chill of losing that weight and warmth against mine.

Without turning my head, I looked at him out of the corners of my eyes.

He stared at the ceiling, and he was smiling, a smug, pleased, self-confident, honest-to-God smile, corners of the lips up and everything.

That insolent cur, that whoreson, that unbuttered piece of dry toast!

I took a strong, deep breath and, in one movement fueled by rage, I came up off the mattress and over the top of him.

I pinned him to the mattress, my knees on either side of his hips, and yes, my skirts were between us, but if we were enacting the legend of the princess and the pea, I was the princess and that was no tiny pea beneath my fica.

Which gave me some satisfaction, but not enough to quench my fury.

I put my hands on Cal’s bare shoulders, leaned close to his face—somewhat like he’d done with me, but with different intentions—and I said, “In our marriage bed, do you think you’re going to have it all your own way?

Because, my prince ”—I managed to load a fair amount of sarcasm in those two words—“I may be a virgin, as is known and celebrated by every single nosy creature in Verona, but I am also the daughter of Romeo and Juliet, and your slow, thin, bloodless seduction won’t work with me.

Sometimes, my friend, we’ll do it my way.

” I bounced on him. Three times and energetically.

He groaned in pain and grabbed for me.

I slipped from his hands, leaped off the bed, and stalked toward the door. As I touched the handle, he spoke in princely command. “Rosaline.”

I halted. “What?” Hostile tone.

He sat up on one elbow, his mouth twisted with pain, possessiveness, and humor. ”I am not a virgin, I do have some experience, and I know my slow, thin, bloodless seduction was working quite well . . . on you.”

I exhaled, straightened my skirts, opened the door—and faced a phalanx of men’s faces, expectant, curious, worried (Friar Laurence), and hopeful. Driven by rage, I stepped out of the prince’s bedchamber, dusted my fingers, and smiled the smile of a victor.

Friar Laurence asked, “Child, are you—”

Marcellus took it on himself to answer. “Nothing happened. The prince likes to take his time.” He studied me critically. “And she is unruffled.”

I lifted my arm like a statue of Aphrodite accepting victory in the wars of love.

Through the open door, Cal’s loud, helpless laughter sounded like the pealing of a new-forged bell.

While the men stared, first at me, then in amazement into the bedchamber, I stalked down the long flight of stairs to the main floor, turned the corner, and—thank Blessed Mary, I was finally offstage and without an audience.

I stepped into an empty room, shut the door behind me, and the discipline that had held me upright failed me.

Because Cal was right. That seduction had worked marvelously well.

One knee collapsed. I staggered sideways into the wall.

I rolled to place my spine against its support and slithered down to rest on the floor.

“I am the daughter of Romeo and Juliet,” I whispered. “Hear me roar.”

Faint and far away, from a kingdom I could not yet visit, I heard Elder chuckling . . .