Too revealing? He frowned. “I don’t know if I should refuse, or can? This is not Bitzocoin. I suppose she could wear clothes beneath it?”
A slip of underwear fell from the bundled cloth in his hand. White frothy bra and also panties insignificant enough to require a magnifying glass to see them.
“I should tell you the soldiers’ gossip.”
He lifted his head to meet her eyes, sure this was not good news. “Say it, please.”
“Someone has a suspicion that Po is actually the princess, and he has told the prince. The prince has sent a rider to find someone who knows her.”
Damnation. So this dress was provocation? A tease, a lure?
But he wasn’t certain.
“Do you know when the rider is expected to return?”
“Five days. There is someone in another town he’s asking for.”
Was that enough time?
John turned to look east where they must go, where an orange-red glow reflected from the clouds. A volcanically active range blocked the way, and they would be going around it once they reached the foothills.
“We have a problem then, in five days. If you’re wondering, I won’t tell her, yet.”
“I understand why.”
He didn’t, not quite. John looked at the garment then at Po. If he told her she might decide to run, to leave the caravan, and he needed her with him. Wanted her with him. If they all ran then Xander would be gone. They had five days to figure out other options. By then, they would almost have reached the port city.
Taking care of her must be his priority. He would not expose her to this prince’s ill will. Since clothing had been sent, and not guards, it might be that this prince was merely curious as to her identity and was not a terrible and crue.
He glanced at Po and sighed. Truthfully if he was the prince, he would have had her locked up for his pleasure the instant he set his eyes on her.
What could a prince do to the princess of a rival country? Capture her and keep her.
Or toy with her. Perhaps he thought himself the cat with an unsuspecting mouse. None of his band of people were mice, especially not him, and not Po either.
He would see what happened at this first banquet.
A few hours later, they left the wagon for the large, glowing marquee the prince’s men had erected. In the blackness of night it seemed as pretty as a child’s toy, and the shape of one too, with the high-climbing, cone-shaped roof. And they’d set this up in only a few hours?
Po wore the slinky white dress, though she had thwarted the backside-revealing section by wearing a pair of riding tights beneath.
His sixth sense about nobility told him that doing that might annoy the prince.
And if it did… it could lead to problems, and he’d told Po this. Her reply of nonsense roughly translated to a royal I-don’t-give-a-fuck.
Arguing with her further would have led nowhere. Unless he forced the matter, made her do his bidding, and he wasn’t doing that anymore, was he? No matter that the idea made his dick hard. Also, he was curious. What would a prince do to a girl he thought might be the princess but was not sure of, if she annoyed him?
If things went bad, he supposed he could kill his way out of there… No, no-no-no. Count to one hundred, he reminded himself, as they reached the pink backlit entrance.
A servant ushered them in through the doorway with the canvas rolled and fastened aside, and John saw why the marquee glowed.
Dozens of lamps hung from the tent poles and on ropes from above. The inside wall of the marquee was colored by sections, in mauve pink or soft green, sections that ran all the way to the peak of the roof. The floor was a sea of unrolled rugs. A low table ran down the center with a servant in blue satin livery standing behind each placing. Pillows lay on the floor as seating.
Silver goblets and plates, knives and forks were set on the table—normal for royalty, apart from the phallic-looking saltshakers. Bowls were piled with fruit, candies, and sweetmeats, and there were platters of steaming tiny pastries.
His mouth watered. Then his stomach growled, and he paused to inhale more of the aromas.
The prince stood at the head of table, having just risen. He gestured to them to advance, and John did so, with his hand itching to gather the princess to his side. But no, they had agreed she would observe the niceties of slave and master. She walked a step behind.
One thing jarred him.
The table was long, and he estimated it could take fifty people. Yet, there were no more than ten guests, and none looked familiar. It was likely he and the princess were the only guests from the caravan. Would Po notice? Three of the men sitting on pillows had a slave beside them, feeding them or being fondled. Nothing too carnal.
They were ushered to a place ahead and to the left of the prince. John had an immense black cushion before him. He fished a purple one out from beneath the edge. “Take this cushion, girl, and sit beside me.”
She hesitated. Perhaps addressing her as girl disconcerted? He smiled, attempting to encourage her to behave.
A sound made John look to the head of the table.
Abruptly he had something else to worry him. How hungrily the young prince watched Po.
Before they could sit, the prince called down the table to them. He had risen to stand, with his hands graciously clasped. His eyes gleamed. A long blond plait lay over one shoulder and
