The Rebel King

Chapter 7

My cousins-well, they were my mama's cousins, actually-had this place down in the bayous." He wondered if she even realized she'd lapsed into the cadences of her childhood. "We used to go down there and visit, now and again…sit and fish, play music, eat…just generally have fun, you know? We Cajuns are good at havin' fun." She flashed him a smile, and the wave of tenderness that rose inside him when he saw the pain in it stunned him to utter silence.

"It was the nighttime I loved best," she went on after a moment. "When the darkness came down, you couldn't see the squalor, the poverty, all you could see was the moonlight dancin' on the water, and lightnin' bugs twinklin' out in the trees, and the soft yellow light from the porch where the grown-ups were sittin'. playin' music. One of the cousins- or maybe his daddy-played the mouth organ-harmonica, you know? Played it so it would just about make you cry without you even knowing you were sad. Mama, she could play just about anything, but she liked alto sax best. And there was always a fiddle and a banjo, and maybe some spoons…I don't know what all else, but together they made a beautiful sound. It just sort of filled in the spaces between the frog and cricket sounds and the slap of the water against the pilings, and the 'gators bellowin' off in the swamps. And the air was so soft and wet it seemed like it got inside your skin…made you feel gentle all over, like nothing could ever rile or upset you and you'd just stay this happy for always and forever."

"But you didn't stay that way, did you?" Nikolas said softly when she paused. "Because your father came and took you away."

Her head jerked around and she stared at him with wide startled eyes. "How did you-"

"You told me-in Phillipe's kitchen, in Paris-remember?" For no other reason except that he desperately needed to touch her. he reached out and with one finger guided a stray lock of her hair away from her cheek and nudged it behind her ear. Her skin felt like warm satin against his fingertip, and he ached to feel its softness on his palms…his lips…with every part of him.

His fingers, trailing wistfully down the side of her neck, snagged on the thin silver chain he'd noticed the day she'd arrived in Phillipe's Paris flat. He hooked it and drew the tiny silver charm from its nest between her breasts. He watched it swing from his extended finger for a moment, then lifted his eyes to hers. "A saxophone," he said softly. "I get it now."

He relinquished the charm as her fingers closed protectively around it. "My mother gave it to me," she said in a thickened voice. "For my twelfth birthday. She told me it was to remind me that no matter what happened, I'd always have music. That was right before my father came for me. That's why-" She stopped, shook her head and looked away.

"I didn't ask you to tell me about that in Paris." Nikolas said, watching his fingers skim lightly over her shoulder. "I barely knew you, then. I thought I hadn't the right. But now that we know we're going to be lovers…" He took his gaze from the place where his finger touched her skin to meet her somber green eyes…and smiled.

Her eyes darkened as he watched. "I'll tell you," she said gravely, not returning his smile, "so maybe you'll understand why that notion doesn't make me happy. But-" her lashes quivered and fell and she caught a quick breath "-it would be a whole lot easier to talk about this if you wouldn't touch me."

He felt a surprising stab of pain, but lightly said. "I'll give it a try." He lifted his hand from her shoulder and stretched out sideways, propped himself on one elbow and gave her a go-ahead nod.

She looked at him warily along her shoulder as she drew up her knees and wrapped her arms around them, and it seemed to him she was building a fortress around herself-a fortress meant for one puipose: to keep him out.

"Mama was working in a jazz joint on Bourbon Street when she met my father-playing music, mostly, but between sets she'd serve drinks…tend bar. My…father-" her mouth and even the tone of her voice changed shape when she said that word "-was in the real estate business-in a big way. Like-think Donald Trump, okay? Only Southern-style- based in Miami. He was in New Orleans for a couple of months getting some new project going, and one night he happened to walk into the place where my mama worked." She paused to give him a sideways look, lifted a shoulder and tried to smile. "I guess he liked her looks and her music-she for sure liked his looks and his money… Anyway, sparks flew. By the time he was ready to leave New Orleans I was well on the way. He did marry her-I'll give him credit for that. And he took her home with him to Miami. That's where I was born."

She was silent for a while, but he didn't prompt her. just listened to the river sounds and watched the setting sun paint her hair with reddish light. The wistfulness in her face as she gazed into her past made his own throat tighten with a sadness he didn't quite understand. Nostalgia, maybe? Thinking of- and lonesome for-a past he'd never had?

She let go a soft, sighing breath. "She was miserable in Miami-wasn't happy with him. No big mystery why-she was warm-hearted and a free spirit, and he was a cold-hearted control freak. Anyway, when I was about two, she took me and ran off-went back home to her folks in New Orleans. Naturally, he followed her, not because he loved her-or me- so much. I'm sure. He's not capable of that. It was because he just couldn't stand that she'd left him. And worse, because she'd taken something that belonged to him, he thought. Me."

She lifted her head and shook her hair back and glared at him. and there was an angry fire in her eyes. "He was rich and powerful. In a custody fight you'd think my mama wouldn't have stood a chance, right? But you'd be wrong. She was no dummy, she filed for divorce in Louisiana, and a Louisiana judge-a Cajun judge-gave her full custody of me. My father had to go back to Miami empty-handed, and for ten years, Mama and I were as happy as could be."

She fell silent again, and this time Nikolas didn't wait for her to pick up the thread. He shifted restlessly and sat up. "Ten years…and then he came and got you? What did he do, take your mother back to court? Why did he wait so long to do it?"

In the golden light he could see a bitter little half smile, her only answer-then-to his second question. "Nope, just showed up one day in his Mercedes and took me."

"Took you? As in…kidnapped? My God. What did your mother do? Didn't she-"

"Mama wasn't home at the time, I think-" Her voice went high and then broke, startling them both. She waited a moment, fingering the little gold saxophone. "I think she knew he was coming. I think she made sure she wasn't there when he showed up."

Nikolas just stared at her. The question-Why?-in his mind so deafening he couldn't even say it.

She stared defiantly back at him and answered it anyway. "Hey, I was twelve. And growing up fast, if you know what I mean." She hunched one shoulder in a shrug that reminded him of a wounded bird. "Maybe she felt like she wouldn't be able to handle me. Maybe she decided she wanted her freedom-who knows? I don't know if she contacted him or he contacted her, but I'm positive they made some kind of deal. Anyway-" her lips spasmed briefly, then firmed "-he came and got me, and I went to live with him in Miami. I wasn't given a choice. End of story."

He cleared his throat and said harshly, "Oh, I seriously doubt that. More like the end of a single chapter, and I can't wait to hear the rest. But I'm already beginning to get the gist, I think. You said you were telling me this now to explain why you aren't happy about the otherwise delightful prospect of making love with me, so I must assume it's because of this complete jackass of a father, right? He's turned you against men, or some such bilge?"

"Not all men," she corrected. "Just…very rich and powerful men."

"Ah," said Nikolas.

"And who is richer and more powerful…"

"…than a king. Yes, I see."

Silence and purple twilight wrapped them in its gentle cocoon.

Hunched and wretched. Rhia watched Nikolas lean away from her to open the cooler. Reaching for the wine, she thought, wishing there was something a good bit stronger in that cooler-Jack Daniel's maybe. But instead he took out a shallow crockery bowl covered in plastic, and then a short fat glass jar containing something thickly liquid and amber in color. In silence, and with almost ceremonial reverence, he uncovered the bowl and opened the jar, then selected a cut section of ripe fig from the bowl and clipped it in the contents of the jar. He turned it to corral the drips, then held it out to her.

"Come 'ere," he said softly when she looked at him askance. "I want you to taste this."

"What is it?" "

"Dessert. Open up."

"Oh, Nik. I don't think I can eat another bite…" Not because she was full, but because her throat was so tight, and aching like sin. But she opened her mouth anyway, because when he smiled at her that gentle way, she'd have done anything he asked. She let him place the sticky morsel on her tongue. An incredible sweetness burst inside her mouth, figs and honey flavored with lavender and…orange blossoms. "Oh, my God," she murmured. "It's delicious…heaven." No- this is sin. Decadent…sensual…

He was already leaning toward her. He had only to lean a little farther to kiss her, and at first she could hardly distinguish the sweetness of his mouth from the honey already clinging to her lips. Then there was a blending of the two sweetnesses that seemed to turn liquid and run into every part of her, filling her to bursting with a sweetness so intense she couldn't bear it. She felt a building pressure inside her chest, a rising whimper…and just when she thought she wouldn't be able to hold it in another second, he pulled back from her, wiped his essence and the stickiness of honey from her lips with his thumb and murmured. "I'm just a man, Rhee. Not rich, not powerful. I'm a rebel, I suppose. But definitely not a king."

"But," she whispered, "you will be."

"Unless I choose not to be." His eyes were grave and very close to hers.

She stared back at him. Her lips felt chilled and bereft without his. with all the sweetness gone and her stomach doing cold flip-flops under her ribs. At the same time her heart was quivering eagerly, doing happy-puppy dances and crowing. Yes, oh yes! Choose not to go back! We'll run away together-or stay right here in this sunny valley among the vineyards. I will even learn to like wine!

While her head, heavy with the weight of duty and responsibility, sternly chided. Are you insane? It's your job to take him back. You must take him back. His country needs him.

Then he kissed her again, and both of those voices went silent, the only sound inside her head now the hushed and daring love words she knew she could never say.

With one hand between her shoulderblades and the other cradling her head, he slowly laid her back. His mouth followed her down, and then his body, as his hands lifted her to meet him. bringing her hard against him. and somewhere amidst the Shockwaves of pleasure rippling through her came the realization that it was the first time she'd felt the full strength and warmth of his body like this, touching, pressing all along the length of hers, without blankets or layers of clothing between.

The first time? Then why did her skin seem to know his touch already? She felt his hand slip under her top, slide rough and warm over her skin, pushing the soft, giving fabric ahead of it until it found and nested one tight and aching breast. Her breast felt so good in his hand…and so familiar…so right. She let her head drop back, baring her throat to him, offering him that and any other vulnerable part of her he cared to conquer. Complete and unconditional surrender.

Her breast lifted eagerly into his palm, and when she felt his mouth encapsule the tender tip and his tongue begin its exquisite torture, waves of desire all but overwhelmed her. She felt like a fragile shell around a liquid center…her inside sweet and melting, like honey in the sun.

She heard herself whisper-whimper-his name. Her fingers were tangled in his hair.

He took his mouth from her breast, pressed his lips briefly, warmly against hers and whispered back. "I know…I know, luv. But not here."

She was dazed with arousal, shivering with wanting… wanting to do anything to keep from stopping this…sick with knowing it had to stop. "Do you really think," she asked, her voice bumpy from the shivers, "anybody's going to come along?"

"Probably not." Laughing softly, he kissed the tip of her nose, then her chin, then each eyelid. "But I know you like to be on top, and I'd hate to think what this rock would do to my tender bum."

Then she was laughing, too, pushing furiously at him, clinging helplessly to him. tears seeping between her lashes. Wondering how she could still laugh when she was about to charge headlong into sure disaster.

The house was quiet and dark when they returned. Nikolas had expected it would be; Phillipe would be out carousing with his friends on a Saturday night and unlikely to return before morning, celebrating the end of vendange. Maman wasn't due back from Monte Carlo until tomorrow.

He dropped Rhia off in the courtyard near the kitchen door, then returned the scooter to the garage. When he came back to the house he found her standing in the hallway, looking uncharacteristically uncertain. She watched him as he came to her, and her eyes followed his as he cupped her cheek in his hand and tenderly asked. "So…is it still yes?"

She smiled then, her lashes dropping across her eyes with what might have been relief, and huskily replied as she swayed into him. "Against every ounce of good sense and judgment…it's still yes. I guess I'm my mother's daughter after all."

A fierce little jet of protective anger spurted through him and hardened his voice. "You may well be, but I'm bloody well sure I'm not like your father."

Her lips parted with an almost inaudible gasp, and he caught whatever response she might have made with his own mouth. He kissed her without restraint, knowing there was no reason now to hold anything back, and found that he was hungrier for her than he'd thought, hungrier than he'd thought he could be. His need for her was a fist in his belly, a burning weight in his loins, and something else the exact location and nature of which were far less easy to define. He knew he'd never felt its like before with any woman. It emptied his head of all coherent thought and filled him instead with feelings too vast and complex to articulate, so that when he lifted his mouth from hers at last he could only gasp and hold her close to him, like a dazed shipwreck survivor finding a raft to cling to.

So it was left to her to mumble, her words a moist warmth on his throat, "My place or yours?"

Cobbling his scrambled wits together, he gave a shaken laugh. "Well, since technically yours belongs to Phillipe's maman, I think I'd prefer mine, if that's all right with you."

She tipped her head back, searching for his mouth, and managed to get as far as. "Fine with-" before he gave her what they both wanted.

He never did know quite how they got from there to his bedroom, or how long the journey took. It might have been seconds or uncounted hours. He remembered shutting the door at last, closing them into the quiet embracing darkness of his bedroom, and after that his only reality was the woman in his arms, the taste of her mouth, the shape of her breasts pillowed against his chest, the firm round weight of her buttocks in his hands…her hands pushing under his shirt, their warm thrusts impatient on his skin…yet no more impatient than he was for her touch.

He'd never felt such a hunger, such impatience before. Lovemaking, liaisons, sex…had always been simple for him. A lighthearted-sometimes intense-experience, no more complicated than the enjoyment of a good meal or a fine wine, indulged in whenever he'd felt the need of relief from the pressures and demands of school, work, the cause. One or two had been…memorable; none had ever consumed him. None had ever obliterated thought, overridden judgment. None had made him consider, even for a moment, shirking his duty to his country or abandoning the task he'd set for himself of releasing Silvershire from the burden of medieval monarchy and guiding her kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century.

But he wasn't thinking of any of that now. What was he thinking? He wasn't thinking. He only wanted…felt…needed.

With greedy hands he pulled her against him, and was shocked to discover that at some point he-or she-had divested her of her clothes-most of them, all but the thin scrap of nylon that still stood as a barrier to her most vulnerable and guarded places. Her nakedness in his arms was both a delight and a torment, his need to bury himself in her like a vast and terrible thirst.

And yet, though his skin felt feverish and his clothing an intolerable abrasion, though pulses hammered in every part of his body, he felt himself holding back. Why?

It stunned him to realize that it was she who was the brakes on his runaway passion-her need, her desire, her vulnerability. He understood that he wanted the same things for her that he wanted-needed-for himself, and he wanted to be the one to give them to her. Wanted to watch her face light with joy and her eyes grow hazy with sated passion, her lips curve with a smile of feminine mystery.

This, too, was something new-not that he cared for his partner's pleasure; he'd always made that a priority, and available evidence suggested he'd done it rather well. But this was different-he wasn't sure how. exactly, only that it was.

So he slowed himself down, even though there was urgency in his every heartbeat, and touched her with tenderness, even though his own skin felt on fire. He whispered to her passion words he didn't recognize and wouldn't remember, even though his own need was a screaming pressure behind his eyes. He held her gently from him while her clever hands stripped him naked and then traced patterns across his skin that left him all but blind and quivering like an infant.

It was then that he laid them both down. He ran his hands over her powder-soft skin, dipped them under the lacy edges of the last nylon barrier and pushed it away, and her gasp when his exploring fingers found her warm, protected places made him swell with a fierce masculine triumph, and at the same time, something like…awe.

He regretted, then, that he hadn't turned on the lights so he could see her, too. Regretted, but only a little. His senses were already on overload with the taste, the smell, the feel of her; adding sight to the feast would have been gluttony.

Besides, he already knew she was beautiful-though at the moment, strangely, that didn't seem important to him at all.

Sound, too, was muted, limited to breath sounds and sighs, and those passion-whispers that aren't really words. Both of them were lost in the wonder of discovery like small children on Christmas morning.

The rhythmic push of her body against his hand…the sweet, soft powder-scent of her breast, the bud-like tip blossoming in the warmth of his mouth…her quick lifting breaths, the momentary stopping of them when his fingers found her hidden depths…it all seemed new to him somehow. Her body in his arms, sleek and lithe as an otter's, her hands weaving pleasure-spells over his skin, her lips murmuring love words she probably didn't realize she was saying…it all seemed like a miracle to him. and at the same time as natural as the sounds of the river miming along its bed.

It felt natural, too, when passion had obliterated thought, when murmurs had become whimpers of desperate demand, that he should bring her to him, drape her over him so that her long, supple body covered his from chest to toes. Natural that her legs should move apart and her knees come up to straddle him, and her hair slip forward and fall around his face and hers like a curtain…natural as the rain falling.

He felt her body shaking as she lifted her head to look down at him in the darkness. "You really did mean it, didn't you?" She leaned down to him again, but it was her forehead that touched his lips and it was then he realized with a surge of dazed delight that she was laughing. Laughing in the broken, breathless way of someone overwhelmed. "About me being on top…"

"Always…" His tongue could barely form words. They were whispers, mere puffs of air. "You have the power…but I think…if you don't plan to let me inside you now…you should just kill me at once…put me out of my misery."

He heard her breath catch…felt her body shift…her hand gently encircle him…the first exquisite giving of her tenderest places. He gasped when he felt resistance. "Rhia-luv- are you-" But she silenced him with a quick, breathless kiss, and slowly, slowly her warm body accepted…adjusted…enfolded…welcomed him.

She drew a shuddering breath and whispered. "Are you still in misery?"

His hands held her hips as he set himself more deeply inside her, and his silent laughter jolted him…and her. "Misery? No…but did you kill me after all? Because I think…this must be Paradise."

Her shaken laughter joined his and then was extinguished in their merging mouths…in hungry, questing, greedy, heedless kisses. His arms encircled her. brought her down to him. held her as close to him as he dared-and then, almost before he knew what she was doing, she was leaning back, bringing him with her so that they were both sitting upright, still holding each other, still together, still entwined. She wrapped her legs around him and he felt himself nested deep inside her, as deep as he could possibly go. And he felt her mouth blossom into a smile.

"Now…neither one of us is on top," she murmured, teasing his moistened lips with the words. "That's the best way, isn't it?"

"The best way possible." he agreed, and bringing one hand up to cradle her head, brought her mouth deeply to his again.

She began to move then, a smooth undulation of spine and muscles, a sensuous rocking that stroked every part of him at once, and he was dizzy with the pleasure of it…lost in desire. He felt his mind leave him. aware only of building pressure, an urgency like nothing he'd ever known before. His hands moved over her back and his body thrust against her rocking, hard…and harder…and her breaths became frantic whimpers. She tore her mouth from his at last and he buried his face in the hollow of her throat and pressed his mouth against the leaping pulse there while her back arched and tightened like a bowstring.

He said something to her…he didn't know what. She gave a little sobbing cry and he felt the tension inside her break and her body ripple with the shock waves, waves that caught him up and carried him with her. helpless as a rag doll in a flood.

When his mind came back to him he was in a quiet, peaceful place, dazed and battered but exhilarated, too.

He lay back slowly, bringing her with him. Her body was still wracked with shivers, so he reached for the edge of the comforter that was folded across the foot of his bed and flipped it over them both, wrapping her in its warmth and his arms. Then he lay silently holding her. Unknown emotions were swelling inside him, making it impossible for him to speak. He wondered about her silence, wondered if it was because she felt the same emotions, and what she would call them if he asked. Knowing he wouldn't ever ask.

Finally, when her body had stopped quaking and the comforter's warmth became too much, he folded a corner of it back and kissed her damp forehead, and she stirred and slipped to one side, leaving her head pillowed on his shoulder, her arm across his torso and one leg companionably tucked between his.

"Sony, luv," he murmured as he stroked a hand idly up and down her back. "I hate to say it, but…I'm afraid the word that comes to mind, once again, is…unprecedented."

Her body rippled with laughter. "Works for me," she said in a sleepy purr that made him think, for the first time in a while, of a cat.

He woke to find himself alone, the comforter smoothed and tucked against his side where Rhia's body had been. He realized, though, that it wasn't her absence but a sound that had awakened him. a sound that came from somewhere far off. like a cry in the night. That's what he thought it was, at first-someone crying. Then he realized it was music, and he thought it was the most beautiful and at the same time the saddest sound he'd ever heard.

He knew he wasn't dreaming it; certain demands and discomforts of his body left him no doubt that he was fully awake. Throwing back the comforter, he got up and walked naked to the bathroom he shared with Phillipe, noting as he did that Phillipe's bedroom door was still open a few inches, indicating he hadn't, as Nikolas had expected, returned from his evening's celebrations. Nikolas quickly took care of the demands and discomforts, washed himself and put on a bathrobe, then went in search of the music, and Rhia. He was certain he'd find both in the same place, and he did.

She was in the courtyard, sitting on a low semicircular stone wall that skirted the base of a fountain set into the courtyard wall. The fountain wasn't running at that time of night, and the water lay still and dark at her feet, reflecting the moonlight in turgid undulations. She was wearing a light robe that must have been Maman's that hung open to reveal the scrap of lace she called panties and a sleeveless top like the undershirts some men wear. It hugged her breasts and slender torso like skin only slightly paler than her own. Her back was propped against the courtyard wall and her bare legs were drawn up, cross-legged under her. Moonlight lay around her like spilled milk and glinted subtly on the instrument in her hands.

He stood in the kitchen doorway and listened to the saxophone's mournful wail, not wanting to interrupt her, letting himself fill up with a sweet melancholy, the kind only a sad song could make him feel.

He must have made some movement, or maybe she only sensed him there. In any case, she let the music die to a whisper, then lowered the saxophone and sat waiting for him. her head back and resting against the wall.

Unable to read her expression and not knowing why she was out here in the courtyard playing the blues alone in the moonlight, he went to her slowly, hands in the pockets of his bathrobe to keep from reaching for her.

"Regrets, luv?" he asked softly, a sharp little pain lodging near his heart.

She shook her head. Reaching out a hand, she caught the belt tie of his robe and pulled him closer. Then, instead of lifting her face for his kiss, she simply leaned her head against him. Unfathomably moved, he stroked her hair for a moment, then sat behind her on the fountain's base and settled her against him. With his arms wrapped around her and his lips against her hair, he murmured. "Then why the sad song?"

"It's called the blues," she said with a hint of a smile in her voice. "You don't need to be sad to play the blues."

He kissed the top of her head, closed his eyes and inhaled the sweet fragrance of her hair. "But you are, aren't you." It was a statement, not a question.

She let out a breath, and it was a minute or two before she answered, in a voice that was husky and soft. "Yeah. I guess I am. A little."

"Why, luv?"

"I don't know. I think-" He felt her body strain as she hauled in another breath, as if she had vast spaces inside that air couldn't reach. "I came here to bring you back. It's my job to bring you back. You are the crown prince of Silvershire. It's your duty to go back. But…" her voice became a breaking whisper "…dammit, I can't help it. I don't want you to go."

He tightened his arms around her and rested his cheek on her head. "I don't want to go either."

"But you're going to…aren't you." She didn't make it a question.

He let out a breath, and it was a long time before he answered, "Yes, I guess I am. I think…I must."

She turned her face into the hollow of his neck. "Yeah. That's why you're going to make one helluva great king, you know that, don't you?"

He was shocked to feel a warm wetness on her face that could only have been tears.