McKinnon's Royal Mission Page 11

  “Tired?” Trace asked her as she buckled up her seatbelt.

  “No,” she told him honestly.

  “We leave I-70 here and take US-6 toward Keystone, but we don’t actually go all the way—the turnoff to my cabin comes before we get to Keystone Lake. Maybe six miles. Are you sure you’re up to it?”

  Mara gave him a look of determination. “I do not like half measures,” she reminded him.

  “So you said before,” he acknowledged. “Then let’s do it.”

  * * *

  An hour and a half later Mara finally admitted to herself she’d had enough. She’d driven to and from Trace’s cabin more than a dozen times along a winding, snow encrusted road, stopping, starting, stopping again, deliberately going too fast on a turn to provoke a skid so she could learn how to handle one. She’d learned how antilock brakes actually work with a driver’s panicked slam-on-the-brakes response to a skid. She’d learned how to steer into a skid and not against it.

  And she’d learned something else, knowledge she cherished. Trace had infinite patience—when he wanted to. Not once had he lost his temper or raised his voice, not once had he been anything but a patient and kind teacher, even when she’d skidded so far off the road he had to shovel the tires free and rock the SUV back and forth to gain the traction to get them back onto the road.

  But though she admitted to herself she was ready to stop, she wasn’t ready to admit it to him. So she was surprised when he stopped her from turning around when they reached his cabin once more. “Let’s call it a day,” he told her. “Don’t forget we still have to drive back this afternoon. And I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for lunch.”

  Mara shifted into Park and turned off the engine, grateful for the respite. She hadn’t realized just how tense she’d been until she removed her hands from the steering wheel and found she was trembling. “How did I do?”

  Trace took the keys from the ignition and pocketed them. “I’ve never had a better student,” he told her with a twinkle in his blue eyes.

  Mara gave him a steady look. “How many people have you taught to drive?” she asked, fairly sure she already knew the answer. “And how many people have you taught to drive in the snow?”

  A grin slashed across his face. “Well, there you have me. You’re my one and only.” She chuckled, which allowed much of her tension to bleed out, but then her face turned serious when he added, “Might be a good idea to teach you some defensive driving tactics, too.”

  “What is that?”

  “Ways to shake someone following you. Ways to evade capture, to keep yourself from being boxed in by bad guys out to take you down. Stuff like that.”

  Mara’s heart suddenly jumped. But she wasn’t going to let fear control her. “Is that necessary? I did not think...has someone been following me? Nobody said—”

  He cut her off. “No. No one’s tailing you that we know of. And as far as we know you’re not in any more danger now than you were the day you arrived. But it wouldn’t hurt to learn what to do, just in case.”

  She took a deep breath and let it out slowly as the sudden fear drained away. “You are right, of course. It never hurts to be prepared. And you could teach me, I am sure. Look how you taught me to drive in the snow. You are a good teacher,” she confided. “Even Andre could not have done better.”

  An expression she couldn’t read crossed his face. “Thanks,” he said. “That’s praise of the highest order.” They stared at each other for several seconds, and Mara wished she knew what he was thinking. Wished she had the courage to ask. When she finally looked away he said, “Come on, you can rest inside for a little while before we start back.”

  They ate lunch in the cabin’s tiny kitchen talking about nothing in particular. Trace had showed her the entire cabin in two minutes, then had left her to go outside and turn the water on. After lunch he made them each a cup of hot chocolate, which they took into the main room. Mara shivered as she sipped the hot brew, letting it warm her insides.

  “Cold?” he asked her.

  She put her cup down and rubbed her hands on her arms. “A little. But I can put my vest back on.”

  “I could build a fire...unless you want to head back right away.”

  “No, I...I would like to stay.” She smiled hesitantly at him. “But it is your cabin. I do not want to put you to any trouble.”

  “No trouble,” he assured her.

  The wood was already laid in the grate, and once Trace kindled the fire it didn’t take long for the blazing logs to begin warming the small room. Mara curled up on the lambskin rug in front of the fireplace, her knees tucked beneath her. She stared into the fire, smiling, enjoying the crackling sounds, the dancing flames, the way the heat came and went in waves. Then a memory surfaced, and her smile faded.

  “Penny for them.”

  Mara came back to herself with a start, realizing she wasn’t with her father in the palace in Drago; she was in Trace’s cabin in Keystone...with Trace. “Excuse me?” she asked, not sure she’d heard him properly.

  “I offered you a penny for your thoughts,” Trace said. “It’s an expression. It just means I was wondering what you were thinking.” He came over to the fireplace, picked up the tongs and shifted a log into a better position, then stood the tongs back up in the holder. He hesitated, as if of two minds about continuing, then explained, “You looked...sad all of a sudden.”

  Mara turned back to the flames. “I was remembering.”

  “It didn’t look like a happy memory.”

  “No.”

  There was a long silence before Trace sat himself cross-legged next to her in front of the fire and said huskily, “You seem to have a lot of those.” Mara raised her eyebrows in a silent question, and he added, “Unhappy memories.”

  There was a little catch in her voice when she asked, “Why do you say that?”

  “Little hints you throw out without realizing it,” he said simply. “Except for when you talk about your brother, I get the impression you didn’t have a very happy childhood.”

  “You misunderstand,” she said quickly.

  “I don’t think so. I can spot the signs a mile away.”

  Mara was surprised and perturbed. She hadn’t realized she’d betrayed so much of her unhappy past to the man she loved. “It...it is complicated” was all she said. A long silence followed, the only sound the crackling of the fire. Then a log broke with a hissing sound, sending sparks flying, and Mara asked quietly, “Would you tell me something?”

  Chapter 9

  Trace was instantly on the alert. “If I can,” he temporized.

  “Why were you raised by your grandparents? What happened to your parents?”

  Whatever Trace thought she might ask him, he’d never imagined this, and he laughed humorlessly. “Good question. If I ever run across them, I’ll be sure to ask.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “Hell, Princess, I didn’t know my father,” he said roughly. “I don’t even know if my mother knew who he was, and she didn’t hang around long enough to tell me one way or the other.”

  “I would give anything not to have known mine.” The words were torn from her throat, a harsh sound that ripped through his emotions, shattering what he thought he knew about her. They stared at each other for a minute as the realization of what she’d admitted was reflected in her face, and Trace tried to comprehend the enormity of what she was saying.

  “My father was...” She hesitated. “In my country only men can sit on the throne. My father already had an heir—my brother, Andre. My mother’s doctor had warned her against a second pregnancy, but my father wanted another son, just in case. What he got instead was me.”

  She smiled, a tight little smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “And my mother, whom my father loved until the day
she died, died giving birth to me. He hated me for that, and for not being the son he expected. The son he sacrificed my mother for—needlessly. That is why he named me Mara Theodora.” In her voice were all the things she would not say, the devastating pain of growing up knowing herself unwanted. Unloved. A pain Trace understood all too well. “Mara Theodora,” she repeated, barely above a whisper. “Bitter divine gift. God’s joke on my father. My father’s revenge on God...and on me.”

  Trace’s throat ached. “I’m sorry, Princess,” he said gently as her words sank in. And he saw much more than those few words revealed. “I didn’t understand before.”

  “Do not feel sorry for me,” she said swiftly. “I had my brother. He tried to explain to me about my father. He even tried to make it up to me...when he was around. But he was so much older—five years is a large gap in children’s ages. Also, my father was grooming him to ascend the throne someday, and Andre was often away for long periods of time. And since there was no way I—or even any of my children—could ever take the throne, I was useless to my father. But I had my studies and my horses, and a few friends. They sufficed.”

  He needed to ask. “How old were you when you realized...”

  Her eyes stared into the distance. “Five, I think,” she said softly. “Yes, that was when I knew for sure. But part of me knew long before, I just did not understand.” Her eyes squeezed shut for a moment and she shook her head, as if she were shaking off memories too painful to bear. When her lovely green eyes opened again, they were clear and calm, accepting of a past that could not be changed.

  “I was five, too,” Trace confessed in a low tone, wanting to share with her something of his own bitter past in exchange for her confidences. “That’s when I learned I was a shameful burden to the grandparents my mother had dumped me on.”

  Her hand touched his briefly in comfort. “But you did not have an older brother, did you?”

  He shook his head. “I was a lonely only. Just as well, since my grandparents didn’t even want to be stuck with me, much less another bastard to care for.”

  “Do not use that word,” she said fiercely, eyes flashing, surprising him. “There is no such thing as a bastard child. Only bastard parents. If there is a sin, it is the sin of the parents. Children are innocent. They cannot help being born—they have no choice in the matter.”

  Trace turned his hand so that it was clasping hers. Startled, she tried to draw her hand away, but he held tight. Slowly he raised her hand to his lips, and pressed a kiss into the palm. “Thanks, Princess.” His voice was husky, the words a caress. Her hand was on the small side for a woman as tall as she was, and delicate. But his lips felt the calluses on her palm, and he knew where the calluses came from—she was no pampered princess, as he’d known in a corner of his heart almost from the beginning. It had just taken him a while to accept it.

  Her breath caught when his lips traveled from her palm to her wrist, and he could feel her pulse quicken under his caress. His pulse quickened, too, and an urgent desire swept through him to pull her into his arms, to taste those soft, vulnerable, slightly parted lips. But he didn’t. Slowly, reluctantly, he let her hand go.

  “I...I have made a life for myself,” she said raggedly, and he knew she was as affected by him as he was by her. “It is not the one most people think. But I do not care about that.” Her face was solemn and her green eyes darkened. “I learned early to downplay my resemblance to my mother, especially as I grew older. It only made my father resent me all the more—salt in his wounds, I think is what you say here.” A haunted expression crept into her eyes, but after a minute she shook it off and continued.

  “And Andre looks out for me, truly he does. Things are not so good in my country right now. The monarchy is under attack from certain factions because of the changes Andre is trying to implement. It was Andre’s idea I come here for a year, to get away from the danger. He knows I am a target no matter where I go in Zakhar, because there are people within my country who would use me for their own purposes. The military remains loyal to him for the most part, but even there...”

  Her lips tightened. “There is always a chance that this man is not loyal, or that man carries a secret agenda. Even within my own household, within my own bodyguards, who can say for sure?” Her eyes met his. “There have been two attempts to assassinate Andre since he ascended the throne. The second attempt I was standing right next to my brother when the would-be assassin drew a gun and aimed it. He was killed by Andre’s bodyguards before he could open fire, but still...”

  Trace nodded at the confirmation of what he’d wondered about the first night he’d deliberately set off the estate’s alarm—the princess had faced danger before. And while she wasn’t sanguine about it, it didn’t paralyze her with fear either.

  “That is why Andre insisted your government provide protection for me while I am here,” she continued. “That fear for me is always there. Not for himself—he is a man who will always be stronger than anyone who goes against him, and he would never be afraid for himself. But he is vulnerable where I am concerned.”

  She drew a sharp breath. “I do not want that for him. He is a good king for Zakhar—he could even be a great king. He is not my father’s son in that respect. He cares passionately about what is best for our country, even if it is unpopular with the people. Someday they will see that, but until then...”

  “Until then, you’re in danger.”

  “Yes. Both of us. So Andre sent me here. He had the leverage to bend your government to his will, to ensure my safety, and so...” She shrugged.

  “What happens when the year is over? What happens when you go back?”

  She refused to look at him, just whispered something under her breath in Zakharan. But his sharp ears caught her words and translated them. For such is the will of God that by doing right you may silence the ignorance of foolish men.

  It sounded like a Bible quotation and he wanted to ask her to explain the reference and its context, but caught himself just in time. He couldn’t let on he understood.

  “I will face that challenge when it arrives,” she said to him in English, and her sad smile as she turned away tore at his heart. He could no more prevent what he did next than he could willingly stop breathing. His hand shot out, capturing her arm and drawing her inevitably closer. A tremor ran through her, but she didn’t resist, didn’t fight him, and he knew in his soul that she wanted this from him as much as he did...maybe even more.

  She raised her face to his as trustingly as a child, and when his lips claimed hers she responded. Ardently. Like a flower turning toward the sun. He deepened the kiss, his tongue making a foray into her mouth to capture her tongue, and she made a little sound deep in her throat. She strained closer, her body trembling. One hand holding her tight, Trace let his other hand wander downward, stroking, caressing, arousing her as much as she aroused him just by her presence in his arms.

  “Sweet,” he muttered between kisses. “So sweet.”

  “Am I?” she breathed when he finally let her breathe, and he could hear the uncertainty in her voice...and the desire to believe. “Oh, Trace, am I truly?”

  “Like honey,” he said softly, knowing the word didn’t even come close to describing the sweetness of her. Not just her taste, not just her incredible softness, but the trust that let him touch her like this. “Like the sweetest gift God ever made.”

  His lips made a voyage of discovery, traveling from her passionate mouth to the vulnerable spot behind her ear. She shivered and moaned when his teeth tugged at her earlobe, and when his tongue dipped into the delicate shell of her ear she cried his name.

  Had a woman ever responded like this to him? He couldn’t remember. All he knew was this woman, this moment, and the shivering, unraveling sounds of her passion bathing him, luring him, telling him without words that she needed him. Wanted him. Trusted him.

/>   One hand slid around and felt for the clip that held her hair, and with a practiced flick of his fingers released it. Then he was drawing those honey-brown waves forward as he’d dreamed of doing, wrapping them around his throat, binding them together. Soft, delicately perfumed, they burned his flesh like a brand, and his erection throbbed, swelled and strained tightly against the confines of his jeans.

  He laid her oh-so-gently on the sheepskin rug in front of the fireplace and pressed himself against her, letting her feel the need she’d created. She caught her breath. Her slight withdrawal was nearly imperceptible, but he felt it and started to pull away. Then she softened and her hands hesitantly grasped his hips, anchoring him in place.

  She opened her eyes and stared up at him, her breathing as ragged as his, and those lovely, innocent green eyes told him everything he needed to know. Desire for him battled her instinctive fear of the unknown...and won.

  “Trace...I...” she whispered. “I want to...but I have never...”

  “I know, Princess.” And he did know. He hadn’t needed the words.

  He kissed her again, but this time it was just for her. His lips aroused but soothed at the same time. His right hand slid down, cupping her full breast momentarily through her blouse and bra. Her nipple hardened and she caught her breath, but then his hand slid away, across her flat stomach, to the zipper of her jeans. The zipper yielded on the first try, and he popped the button open with equal ease. Then his hand was slipping into the opening, sliding beneath the silk panties to the silkiness of her skin, seeking and finding his warm, damp target.

  Her hips arched and she moaned against his mouth when one finger brushed against the nub he coaxed from hiding, and her hands clutched at his arms. Then his fingers slid lower, seeking the moisture he knew he would find.

  “No....” Her protest was faint.

  “Yes,” he said. “Let me do this for you.” And as his finger slid delicately inside, he thrust his tongue between her lips. Then his tongue was mimicking his finger—advance and retreat, advance and retreat—until she melted all over him and surrendered under the dual sensual onslaught. Her legs trembled but they parted, allowing him complete access.