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
