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.
