Taming The Prince (Crown & Glory Book 8) Read online

  Though, at the moment, she doubted there would ever be any man but Shane to whom she wanted to surrender.

  She lifted a hand to rub her weary eyes. Sleep. She needed sleep. They both did. Neither could trust anything that happened when they were exhausted and running on adrenaline. It was no wonder they’d turned to each other the way they had. It could have happened to anyone. Really, it could. Truly.

  “We should probably sleep in shifts,” Shane said, as if he’d read her mind. “I’m a little, ah…wired myself, so why don’t you go first?”

  “All right,” Sara said reluctantly. Not that she thought she was any more inclined to sleep herself. Still, she did feel so very tired. Maybe if she just closed her eyes for a bit…

  She lay down where she stood—well away from Shane Cordello. She knew that with the night being so cool, it would make more sense for the two of them to lay side by side and collect each other’s body heat. But considering what other kind heat would no doubt be generated by such a position, she’d probably be better off sleeping over here, in the cold. So she made herself as comfortable as she could, folding one arm beneath her head to use as a pillow, clutching her sweater tightly around her.

  Tomorrow, she thought, things would make more sense. Tomorrow, in the light of day, all would be much clearer. Tomorrow, they could find their way down the mountain and hopefully to some sort of village or settlement. And then…

  She sighed heavily as her eyelids drooped. Well, she’d think about and then tomorrow.

  Evidently by silent and mutual consent when they set off the following morning, neither Sara nor Shane spoke a word about what had happened. There were times when Shane thought he had dreamed the embrace they’d shared the night before, so elusive and unreal did it seem. And then there were other times when he knew it had happened—he could relive every touch and taste of Sara—but was forced to acknowledge that it had been a mistake. Only problem was, he couldn’t quite make himself believe it had been a mistake. Because how could something that felt so good, so right, so perfect, have ever been a mistake? In either event, he was relieved Sara seemed as unwilling to discuss it as he was himself. Because regardless of the circumstances, it shouldn’t have happened.

  Not yet, anyway.

  Still, it was better for the two of them to focus for now on the immediate future and not on any part of the past. They had no idea where they were, and there was every reason to believe that the kidnappers were still looking for them. The Black Knights, too, probably knew the area fairly well—certainly better than Shane and Sara did—so they’d know where to look for the escapees. If nothing else, they were smart enough to figure out that Shane and Sara would be headed down the mountain by now, and they’d be on the lookout for them. Shane and Sara had no choice but to simply forge ahead, keep their eyes and ears open and hope like hell that their luck lasted.

  The day was long and tedious, with little conversation between the two of them. Shane didn’t know if that was because they both felt awkward following last night’s embrace, or if they were both just anxious about staying one step ahead of the Black Knights or if they were both simply concentrating on the terrain and the direction of the sun. Probably a combination of all three, he thought. Again, though, he was grateful for the preoccupation. Because his main focus right now had to be on finding their way home, and not on how good it had felt to hold Sara the night before, how sweet she had tasted, how warm and soft her flesh had been, how very much he wanted to—

  Damn. Focus, Cordello, he told himself. Focus.

  It was growing dark—and cold—again by the time they wandered out of the woods and into a clearing…that emptied into the yard of a farmhouse in the distance. A farmhouse whose chimney ousted a steady plume of smoke, and in whose windows burned a pale yellow light. By Shane’s and Sara’s reactions, one might have thought they had just stumbled onto the open—and unguarded—gold vault at Fort Knox. Although still a good mile distant from the house, they each exclaimed their delight upon seeing it before hastening their step to reach it—even Shane, because the realization that they might finally be rescued from this damned predicament somehow dulled the pain in his feet.

  As they drew nearer to the house, he saw that although it was a good-size, two-story structure, it was by no means elaborate: a white stucco construction with an honest-to-goodness thatched roof, dusty walkway and stone fence encompassing the perimeter of its small, grassy yard. Vines grew thickly over part of the front and on one side of the house, and bushes brimming with fat red berries grew rampant beneath window boxes bursting with chrysanthemums in gold and scarlet and yellow. Had Sara not assured him already that they were on the Continent, Shane would have sworn they’d somehow found themselves in Scotland, so quaintly British did the scene first appear.

  The house’s style upon further inspection, however, didn’t look especially British. It was a plain square box, with plain square windows that were shuttered on the western side where the setting sun would have shone directly in. Still, as far as he was concerned, finding this secluded, deserted little place was better than finding the Playboy mansion at full party power. He’d never been so happy to see the appearance of a building in his life—not even one he was putting up himself. As they approached the front gate, however, Sara’s pace slowed, until she finally came to a halt before even opening it.

  “What’s wrong?” Shane asked when she placed her hand gently over his upper arm to stop him. He halted with his hand affectionately stroking the old iron gate handle, but he nodded toward the house and said, “The end is in sight. Why are we stopping?”

  “We have to be careful,” she said.

  He gaped at her. “Are you serious? What, do you think the Black Knights feverishly built and aged an old farmhouse overnight just to lure us inside and catch us that way?”

  “No,” she replied tersely, “but it’s best to be cautious. If nothing else, people who live in secluded areas like this can be suspicious of strangers. Especially strangers who look like us.”

  Shane had no choice but to agree. Her sweater and skirt were torn and soiled, her face, legs and hands were scratched and dirty, her hair hung in straggles around her shoulders. And hell, she was the better kept of the two of them. He was shoeless, his feet were a mess, and his blue jeans, T-shirt and jacket were more crumpled and ripped up than her clothing was. He could only imagine what his face looked like, but his cheeks were itchy with the overgrowth of his beard. He hadn’t shaved for days. Hadn’t bathed, either, he recalled, and neither had Sara, so they were both probably a little underwhelming as prospects for house guests.

  “We have to have some excuse to explain our appearance,” she said, evidently reading his mind. “Even if it’s a nice family, they’re going to wonder who’s shown up at their door looking like this, and why.”

  “We can tell them we were camping,” he said off the top of his head. “We were hiking through Europe. We’re probably a little too old to pass ourselves off as college students—even if that’s what you are—but maybe we could say we’re honeymooners or something.”

  “Hiking honeymooners?” Sara asked skeptically.

  He shrugged. “Sure. Happens all the time in my country.”

  “Mmm.”

  “So, anyway, we’re hiking honeymooners,” he continued unperturbed, “and then, suddenly, we’re set upon. By, uh…by bears. Yeah, that’s it.”

  Sara smiled. “I don’t think they have bears here.”

  “Oh.”

  “And why would I be hiking in a skirt?” she added. “Not to mention that neither of us has appropriate footwear. You don’t even have inappropriate footwear.”

  Okay, so she had a point. “Then what do you suggest?”

  “I think the honeymoon part is fine,” she said thoughtfully. “But we need something other than bears setting upon us. Something like…” Her eyes widened jubilantly. “Something like thieves perhaps,” she said. “Modern-day highwaymen. They’re certainly credible,
if not common, in this part of the world. We were driving through the mountains—” she began their story again “—enjoying the views, when we were forced off the road by someone who followed us. We’re honeymooning after all,” she pointed out, “so we wouldn’t be paying attention to whether or not we were being followed, would we? We’d have our minds on other things.”

  As if by mutual consent, their gazes flew to each other and locked, and Shane knew they both certainly did have their minds on other things at that moment. One other thing in particular, in fact. The kiss they had shared the night before.

  Kiss nothing, he thought further. That had been a full-fledged body exploration, a grope of monumental proportions. It had also been very enlightening. Still, he couldn’t imagine what had come over him to have let it happen in the first place, let alone go on as long as it had. Not that Sara hadn’t seemed to enjoy it, too—until she put a stop to it. But they’d both completely forgotten the seriousness and precariousness of their situation, and that could have cost them both their lives.

  Shane just hadn’t been able to help himself, though. At the time it happened, he hadn’t cared, quite frankly, where they were or how dire their circumstances happened to be. All he’d cared about in that moment was Sara. As he’d watched her bathing and bandaging his feet, as he’d observed her elegant, manicured hands working over his broken and bloodied flesh, as he’d felt her heat mingling with his own, as he’d noted their differences and seen how easily and perfectly those differences seemed to meld together… As he’d taken all of that in, the only thing he’d wanted was to have her hands—and her heat—on other parts of his body, mingling and melding with them, too. And then, when the pressure of her fingers on his feet had increased, had grown more intimate, more attentive, he hadn’t been able to keep himself from thinking about touching her, too. Suddenly nothing had mattered except touching Sara. Kissing Sara. Holding Sara.

  Having Sara.

  But he hadn’t had her. Not that he wouldn’t have taken her right there in the dirt last night, mindless of anything else, if she hadn’t pulled away when she had. He was glad now, though, that she, at least, had been strong enough to put a halt to things before they went too far. Because now Shane was of the opinion that the first time the two of them made love, shouldn’t be in the dirt, shouldn’t be while they were on the run, shouldn’t be while they were worrying over whether or not they’d make it through the night alive. No, when Shane finally made love to Sara—and he would make love to Sara, he promised himself—it was going to be in a soft bed where they were safe and comfortable, where they could focus entirely on each other, and take their time doing all the things they wanted to do.

  “So we, ah…we were set upon by highwaymen,” she hastily continued, pulling him abruptly out of what had promised to be a very nice—if untimely—little fantasy, “and they stole our car and all of our belongings. Then they left us stranded in the mountains, and we had to find our own way back down, and that’s how we ended up at their front door. What do you think?”

  Shane mulled her story over for a moment, then nodded. “Sounds as likely as anything else we might come up with. You sure you speak the language?”

  “No worries there,” she assured him.

  “Then what are we waiting for?”

  Sara inhaled what looked like a deep, fortifying breath, then smiled a tremulous little smile he supposed was meant to look encouraging. Then she took his hand in hers—reminding him that they were honeymooners, after all, as if she didn’t want him to misinterpret the gesture—and they began to make their way toward the house. When they stood at the front door, she used her free hand to smooth over her clothing and hair as best she could—which, Shane noticed, wasn’t all that successful a gesture—then lifted a hand to knock.

  After a moment, the door creaked inward, and a stout, silver-haired woman greeted them. She wore a straight black skirt and white blouse, heavy black shoes and a brightly embroidered shawl hung around her shoulders. Her hair was pulled straight back from her face in a bun that sat high atop the back of her head, and she was smiling a curious, but warm, smile.

  “¿Sí?” she said.

  “Buenos tardes, señora,” Sara began.

  About that time, a stout, silver-haired man joined the woman, his attire similar to her own—black pants, white shirt, black shoes. But instead of a shawl, he wore a battered brown vest. His smile was also inquiring but courteous, so Sara smiled in turn and included him in her greeting, as well.

  What followed was a rapid barrage of Spanish that was much too fast for Shane to follow, even though he spoke the language well enough to make occasional forays into Tijuana. He caught a word here and there, though, enough to assure him that Sara was telling the couple the story about the thieves and their being left stranded. She must have been convincing—hey, even Shane thought she looked earnest and distressed—because the elderly couple’s expressions went from wary to shocked to pitying. Finally, the woman clucked a few times over Sara and cupped a hand on her shoulder, reached over to give Shane a maternal pat on the cheek and showed them both inside.

  The interior of the house was as simple and modest as the outside, but it was utterly inviting nonetheless. The floors were fashioned of terra-cotta tiles, the furniture was boxy and old and functional. But there were warm touches and splashes of color present in painted clay pots full of plants and flowers, the wrought-iron candlesticks and sconces, photographs of—Shane presumed—children and grandchildren, and brightly woven wool rugs. The walls were whitewashed and unadorned, but the vista of sunset-splashed trees and mountains viewed through the open windows was warm and beautiful and really commanded no further decoration for the room.

  The conversation between the other three continued as Shane absorbed all of this, so he just did his best to keep smiling and being as nonthreatening as he could when he remembered how he must look and smell. After some minutes, the elderly man nodded in response to something his wife said, then headed up a flight of steps on the other side of the room. The woman took Sara’s hand and led her over to a rocking chair near the fireplace, saying something over her shoulder to Shane that he figured meant he should follow. She sat Sara down in the chair, said a few more words, then strode off toward a door that led, judging by the delicious smells coming through it, to the kitchen.

  “Hilda is bringing us something to eat,” Sara said. “Enrique is her husband. Their last name is Santos. I told them what happened—I mean, what we agreed to say happened—and they’ve insisted we stay the night, since it’s nearly dark. She said the closest town is an hour’s walk, and Enrique can’t drive at night. Hilda can’t drive at all. So really, it would be foolish for us to try and go any farther tonight if we can avoid it. But they don’t have a telephone, unfortunately, so we have no way to contact anyone.” Her expression grew even more concerned as she added, “I hate putting them out this way, Shane. They obviously have very little, yet they’ve generously offered to share with us what they can. I feel terrible lying to them like this.”

  “You think they’d feel better if you told them there are kidnappers and hijackers in them thar hills?” he asked.

  “Well, no…”

  “Look, if it makes you feel better, Sara, you can tell them the truth tomorrow, before we leave. And you can send them a check or a fruit basket or something when we get to Penwyck to pay them back for their hospitality.”

  She sighed heavily and lifted a hand to her head, apparently trying to rub away a headache. Then she pushed her fingers back through her hair and grimaced.

  “Ugh,” she said. “I’m filthy dirty. We should both wash up before we eat anything.” She glanced down at her attire. “I just wish we had some other clothes to put back on once we’ve cleaned up. Rather defeats the purpose, doesn’t it?”

  Having evidently anticipated the problem—and, of course, how could he not have, seeing the way Shane and Sara looked and smelled—Enrique came back downstairs then, with several article
s of clothing strewn over both arms. He grinned as he approached Sara and extended the ones on his right arm toward her, then leveled the others toward Shane, who smiled his thanks with a softly uttered “Gracias.” Sara did likewise. Then she and Enrique enjoyed another brief exchange in Spanish before she turned back to Shane.

  “The clothes belonged to their children, who’ve grown and moved away. Enrique said we can wash up in a bathroom upstairs, and that they have a spare room for us up there, as well. I told him we’d rather clean up before we eat, so do you want to have a go?”

  Shane shook his head. “Nah. Ladies first.”

  And never in his life had the phrase held more truth than it did in that moment. Because even filthy and ah, malodorous, her hair tangled and her clothing torn, Sara Wallington was the classiest lady he’d ever met in his life, and she was definitely first and foremost in his thoughts—and had been since he’d first laid eyes on her. When she stood up from the chair, it was with the imperiousness of a monarch, and when she offered another quiet “Gracias” to Enrique, she did it with such dignity and nobility that she might very well have been Queen of Penwyck herself.

  Man. What a woman.

  No sooner had the thought formed in Shane’s head when Enrique spoke it aloud in his native language. Shane chuckled and, in what he hoped was correct Spanish, managed to agree. The two shared a stilted dialogue about the area, the weather and how dastardly highwaymen could be, but when the conversation turned to how enjoyable the newlywed state was, and what a lucky man Shane was to have landed such a wonderful girl, he forced himself to change the subject. Not that he didn’t agree that Sara was a wonderful girl—au contraire. And he didn’t doubt for a moment that the newlywed state could be exceptionally enjoyable—for those who were that way inclined. And he was indeed certainly a lucky man—for a variety of reasons.