Run-away mate

Upside down maybe

*Killian*

Standing at an upper-floor window, I gaze out on the drive, laughing aloud at the scene below me. She has arrived in a mail coach. A mail coach, for the Goddess’s sake. Could this farce get any more ludicrous?

I can’t get a good impression of her. She seems rather small, petite. Ample curves. She wears black. That doesn’t bode particularly well for the success of a marriage. A ridiculously large black hat covers her head, a veil drapes over her face. I think she might have dark hair. Difficult to tell.

The burly driver struggles to get a large trunk down from the top of the coach and sets it at the she-wolf’s feet. He tips his hat, climbs back up to his seat, and is gone. No one tarries at Evermoor castle.

She spins on her heel and begins marching with purpose toward the residence. I dash down the stairs. I have to put an end to this madness posthaste.

A banging echoes through the foyer just as I reach it. She is certainly determined to make use of the knocker. I swing open the door. She lifts the veil, and I find myself staring into the most unusual shade of eyes I have ever seen. The color reminds me of whiskey, full of temptation, intoxicating, and threatening to bring a man to ruin.

“I’m here to marry the Alpha prince,” she says in a throaty voice that causes everything below my waist to come to immediate attention. Damn it all to hell. Instead of securing a village wench for my father, I should consider securing one for myself. Obviously, I have gone too long without a she-wolf if it takes merely her voice to get a rise out of me. “Fetch my trunk.”

Straightening, I draw myself up to my full height, which has me fairly towering over her. “You presume me to be the servant?”

She gives me a slow once-over that sends a shiver down my spine as though her fingers are trailing along wherever her eyes touch. When her perusal is complete, she turns up her pert little button of a nose. “Butler, servant, it doesn’t matter to me. Trunk needs to be brought in. Bring it in.”

“You also presume that Alpha prince Marsden is going to give you one look and still wish to marry you?” I ask.

“I have a contract with him. He will be marrying me or he will pay a pretty penny.” She huffs.

My father might have mentioned that little fact. Obviously, I have misjudged all the trouble he could stir up from within his chambers. I had thought he did little more than gaze longingly out the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of his love frolicking over the moors.

“My dear,” my father announces, suddenly at my side, taking her hand and pressing a kiss to it, even as he artfully skirts her past me and into the foyer. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you.”

Lowering herself into a graceful deep curtsy, she smiles up at my father as though he were the answer to every childish wish she has ever made. “My prince, I’m delighted to be here, more than I can say.”

I narrow my eyes. Why would anyone on the Goddess’s earth take any delight whatsoever in being delivered to hell’s small corner of the world? And yet there’s an intriguing honesty to her tone that I can’t deny. Is she that good of an actress?

“Killian, fetch her trunk, then join us in the parlor.” My father says.

My father appears absolutely besotted. Not good, not good at all if I have any hope whatsoever of squelching this arrangement. “I will join you in the parlor first. The trunk is perfectly safe where it is. No one is going to wander off with it, and I will be damned if I’m going to miss a single word of this conversation.”

“You’re rather impertinent for a servant,” she chastises, with enough edge to indicate she’s securing her position as mistress in the manor and reminding me of my place within it.

“I would agree if I were a servant. As I’m apparently to become your son before the afternoon is done, allow me to introduce myself: prince Killian of Evermoor at your service.” I mockingly make a sweeping bow. She has to be as mad as my father. Or a she-wolf intent on taking advantage of another’s madness. I will wager on the latter. There’s a calculating sharpness in those eyes. I don’t trust them or her one whit.

Again, she curtsies deeply, elegantly, but for me, there’s no smile, no emotion whatsoever. The swiftness with which she has donned her armor fascinates me, more so because she is accurately judged me a threat. She’s no fool, this one. “It’s a pleasure, my Prince.”

Oh, I very much doubt it will turn out to be that.

“This way, my dear. We have very little time to get acquainted before the nuptials.” My father leads her into the parlor and situates her in a plush chair near the fireplace. Dust rises up as she settles onto the plump cushion. So much for the housekeeper’s cleaning abilities.

My father takes the chair opposite hers. I drop onto the sofa, sitting on the far end to procure the best angle for observing her. She’s young, can’t be much older than twenty-five. Her clothing is well made, in excellent condition. No fraying, no tatters.

She lifts her arms, reaching for her hatpin, and her pert breasts lift as well. They’re the perfect size to fill the palms of my hands. Those very same hands could span her waist, close around it, draw her up against me. Why the devil am I noticing things that have no bearing on my strategy?

She sweeps the hat from her head, and my breath catches. Her hair is a fiery red that rivals the flames in a hearth for brilliance. The strands appear heavy, abundant, and in danger of tumbling down at any moment. I wonder exactly how many pins I would have to remove to make it do just that. Not many, I’d wager. Two, three at the most.

Shifting to ease the discomfort of my body reacting as though I haven’t been near a she-wolf since I left the classroom, I drape my arm along the back of the sofa, striving for a nonchalance I’m not feeling. I don’t care about her hair, her eyes, or her figure. Or those plump, full lips the shade of rubies. I care about her motives. Why would a she-wolf as young and enticing as she is be willing to marry a man as old and decrepit as my father? She must have young bucks fawning over her. She draws attention. So what does she hope to gain here that she can’t gain elsewhere?

“Now, my dear,” my father begins, leaning forward.

“Here we are, my prince!” Mrs. Barnaby sings out as she bustles in, carrying a tea service. Her hair, more white than black, is pulled back in her usual tight bun, her black dress pressed to perfection. “Tea and cakes, just as you requested.” After setting the tray on the small table that rests between the two chairs, she straightens, c***s her head to the side as she studies our guest, her brow furrowing. “She is rather young, my prince.”

“An old she-wolf isn’t going to give me an heir, now is she, Mrs. Barnaby?”

“I suppose there is that.” She gives a little curtsy, her arthritic knees creaking as she does so. “Welcome to Evermoor, Mrs. Goldpaw. Shall I pour the tea?”

“No, I’ll see to it, thank you.” She says.

“Oh.” Mrs. Barnaby’s shoulders slump. She’s obviously crestfallen to be dismissed before hearing anything of note she could share below stairs.

“That will be all, Mrs. Barnaby,” my father says gently.

She heaves a huge sigh as she turns to go. I hold out my hand. “I’ll have the keys, Mrs. Barnaby.”

She slaps her hand over the large ring dangling from her ample waist as though I have asked for the Crown Jewels and she’s determined to guard them with her life. “They’re my responsibility.”

I raise an eyebrow. “I may have a need for them. I’ll return them to you later.” My need depends on how this conversation goes.

With a mulish expression, she reluctantly hands them over before marching from the room, righteous indignation shimmering off her in waves. I don’t know why she clings to them so tenaciously when they’re more ornament than use. I suppose it’s because they herald her vaunted position in the household, one she’s acquired because she’s stuck around when many of the parlor maids have gone in search of greener pastures. Or ones less haunted.

I return my attention to Mrs. Goldpaw, watching in fascination as she slowly peels off a black kidskin glove as though she revels in exposing something forbidden. Quarter inch by frustrating quarter inch. Yet I seem unable to look away as her smooth, unblemished hand is revealed. No scars. No calluses. No freckles. She takes the same care with uncovering the other, and I fight against envisioning those small, perfect, silken-looking hands gliding leisurely over my bare chest. With care, she sets the gloves primly in her lap as though completely unaware of the effect her slow unveiling could have on a man. Although I would wager half my future fortune that she knows precisely what she’s about.

“Prince Marsden, how do you prefer your tea?”

Her raspy voice shimmies down my spine, settling in my groin, damn it all. She sounds like a recently sated she-wolf.

“An abundance of sugar, if you please.”

I watch as she pours, adds several cubes, stirs, and offers the teacup and saucer along with a tender smile to the marquess, who smiles back as though grateful for the offering when in fact he detests tea.

“And how do you prefer your tea, my Prince?” She asks me.

“Surely as my mother, you should call me Killian.”

Her gaze bears down on mine, her eyes as sharp as a finely honed rapier. Dear Goddess, she’s willing to slice me to ribbons. I’d like to see her try. “I am not yet your mother, my prince, am I? Have I done something to offend you?”

Leaning forward, I dig my elbows into my thighs. “I’m simply striving to determine why a she-wolf as young and lovely as yourself would be willing to lie on her back so a man as shriveled as my father can slide on top of her.”

“Killian!” my father bellows. “You’ve gone too far. Get the hell out.”

“It’s quite all right, my prince,” she says calmly, never taking her challenging gaze from mine, not flinching, not blushing, not so much as arching a thinly shaped eyebrow at me. “I don’t see that your father’s preferred position for coupling is really any of your concern. Perhaps he will take me standing while coming in at me from behind. Or on my knees. Or upside down. But I assure you, he will not be shriveled.” Then she slowly lowers those damned whiskey eyes to my lap, and I curse my c**k’s betrayal. With startling detail, images of me with her in all those positions fly through my mind. I have grown so hard and aching that I couldn’t get up and walk out if I wanted.

And she bloody well knows it.

“Tea. My prince.” She says sweetly.

“No.” The word comes out strangled. It seems every facet of my body is intent on betraying me.

Her luscious lips turn up into a smug, triumphant smile. She turns to my father. “May I interest you in a tea cake, prince Marsden?”

Despite the innocence of her words, all I want to do is drag her up against me, claim her mouth as my own, and see if it tastes as tart as it sounds.