The Rebel King

possibilities to explore.

Word of honor. My honor.

But what value could there be in either his word or his honor when the basis for both was a lie?

It was hard for Nikolas to explain, even to himself, why he wasn't yet ready to return to Silvershire to deal with the catastrophic changes in his life. There was a part of him that still clung desperately to the hope that it was all an awful mistake, that at the very least there was some kind of explanation for how his DNA and Henry Weston's could be a close match- distant relatives, perhaps'? But in his heart, he knew there was no mistake; as Rhia had pointed out, DNA doesn't lie. The only thing left for him to do now was accept this new reality, and try to think how it affected his future, both immediate and long range.

No small task.

For one thing, there were the questions looping through his mind, flitting in and out among the images of Silas Donovan's face, most of which he couldn't even pin down, much less find answers to.

He needed time. Just a bit more time.

Nikolas turned his head toward the small pile of clothing that had been left carelessly draped over the back of the couch, only a shadowy wrinkle in the darkness, but he caught a whiff of that faint feminine aura that seemed so familiar to him. After a moment he reached out a hand and idly stroked the butter-soft leather jacket with a finger, and smiled grimly to himself in the darkness. Sorry, luv. I hope you'll understand…one day.

Rhia had never considered herself a particularly sensual person, and certainly not indolent. Yet. when she came slowly awake in a feather-soft bed to the smell of coffee and the sweet and gentle warmth of a hand caressing her forehead, she wanted only to snuggle down and wallow in the pleasure of it. like a cat in a puddle of sunshine.

He's here. He kept his word. She told herself she'd never doubted he would.

Two things happened then. Memories of the events of the night before hit in an all-out sensory barrage, and at almost the same moment, she felt firm, velvety lips brush hers. Her breath hitched and her lips parted, almost without her knowing, and then she was sinking…helplessly drowning in a deep, intoxicating whirlpool of desire.

She couldn't help herself…her body wasn't hers to govern. Of its own volition it arched and curled and lifted… outposts like fingers and toes tingled as blood abandoned them to rush to more exciting, throbbing places. Her hands ventured from their blanket-cocoon…reached…found his…and her fingers spread wide to allow the erotic slide of his fingers between hers-even those ordinary places now suddenly so sensitized his touch there made her moan.

He lifted his head, and hers lifted, too. following his mouth, not wanting to let it go. His chuckle stopped her- and the fact that his hands were holding her captive, pressed into the pillow above her head. She collapsed back into the pillow, panting slightly, trying to focus her eyes, and finally mumbled. 'What in the hell was that?'

His lips pressed a smile to hers. 'What, haven't you ever been kissed awake before?'

'Not by a prince.' She smiled lazily at him through the curtain of her lashes…knowing she shouldn't. Knowing full well she was flirting with a smiling tiger.

She became aware, all at once, of the strength in the hands that imprisoned hers. She squirmed in a testing way and murmured. 'Do I smell coffee?'

His eyes rested on her, dark and benign…and so close she could see the twin images of her own tiny self reflected in them. 'You do. I've brought you a tray-breakfast, actually.'

She watched him narrowly, while her heartbeat rocked her breasts against his chest, against the crisp white shirt he wore. 'You didn't have to do that. I need to get up anyway.'

'Well, luv, that's not quite true. You see-' he lowered his mouth to hers, and she responded to him as she had before, opened to him even as her mind's sleeping sentinels were finally waking up and sounding the first confused alarms '-you aren't going to be going anywhere for a while, I'm afraid.'

She uttered a muffled howl of outrage and began to squirm and writhe in earnest, but the alarms had come too late. Helpless against his greater strength, she felt cold steel around her wrist, and heard a sound she knew all too well-the click of handcuffs locking. She gave her imprisoned arm one furious yank, an entirely futile move, since the other end of the handcuffs was securely fastened to the iron framework of the bed. She lay still, then, seething and glaring up at Nikolas, who was sitting beside her now, placidly smiling-though still holding her uncuffed wrist as a precaution, she surmised, in case she tried to claw his eyes out.

'Please tell me,' she said through tightly clenched teeth, 'those aren't my handcuffs?'

He shrugged, grinned-had the nerve to try to look endearing. And almost pulled it off. having that unmistakable just-showered and -shaved look she normally found irresistible. And dammit, he did smell so good…

'Well, they were there, you see-that's quite an interesting belt you have, by the way-most enlightening, really- and since it didn't seem likely you'd be using them in the near future…well, how could I resist?'

'Fine,' she said, glowering at him as she twisted her un-cuffed wrist experimentally in his grasp, 'you've had your fun, now get this thing off me.'

His smile would have been devastatingly attractive if ithadn't been so damn-there was no other word for it- smug. He made scolding noises with his tongue. 'Now, now, clever girl that you are. I'm quite certain you know that isn't going to happen. Not right away, at any rate. I did try to tell you I needed a bit more time before I'd be ready to go back to Silvershire. I know you have your job to do as well. This seemed the best way to solve the problem-from my perspective, at least.'

'You can't seriously be thinking of just leaving me here. Like this. You wouldn't.' Sheer disbelief kept any traces of fear out of her voice. The implications, the possibilities didn't bear thinking about.

Nikolas looked genuinely shocked. 'No, of course I wouldn't. Well-not indefinitely. Not even for very long, actually. Just until the cleaning lady shows up.' He shot the shirtsleeve cuff on his free arm and glanced at his watch. 'Should be here in about…two hours. I imagine. When she arrives, tell her the key to the handcuffs is on the kitchen table. That should give me enough of a headstart, I think. Well, sorry, luv, but I must be off.'

He started to get up-then, almost as an afterthought, leaned down and kissed her instead. Not a quick farewell smack, either, but a long…leisurely…lingering…completely devastating reminder of how lovely his lips felt, how talented his tongue was, how completely powerless she was to prevent her body from responding to their touch. She tingled and tickled and burned in all her most vulnerable places. She wanted to sob with frustration, to scream with fury. But when he released her from that terrible torture and rose at last, she was so shaken that for a moment she couldn't utter a sound.

'Au revoir-enjoy your breakfast.' he said softly, and left.

She sucked in air and found her voice. 'Nikolas-damn you!' She held her breath and listened so hard her head hummed, but all she heard was his retreating footsteps. 'Okay, I'm not allowed to kill you.' she screamed after him. 'but I promise you I will find a hundred ways to make your life a bloody living hell!'

The only reply she heard was the soft closing of the door.

Nikolas dropped a heavy bunch of dusty red grapes into his bucket and straightened up, removing the wide- brimmed hat he was wearing and wiping away sweat with a forearm. 'What?' he asked in response to the voice from the next row over that was now swearing softly in French.

'Here comes another bloody tourist,' his friend Phillipe replied in English. 'Wanting to help with the vendange, I expect, like it's an entertainment we put on for them. More trouble than they're worth, most of them, but good for business in the long run, I suppose. The winery benefits a little, anyway.'

Nikolas turned his head to follow the progress of the tall figure striding briskly up the dusty lane between vineyards already beginning to shimmer with the heat of the rapidly climbing sun. A woman, he saw now, wearing a backpack and carrying a black oblong case of some kind. As she walked, he could see her head moving from side to side, and he wondered if her eyes, shielded by the dark glasses she wore, were searching among the heads bobbing up and down between the rows-all that was visible of the army of hardworking pickers-searching for one head in particular.

He couldn't help himself, a wry smile tugged at his lips and he chuckled. 'That's no tourist, I'm afraid.'