To Dance with a Prince (5 page)

When he turned back from his call, his face was set in lines that reminded her he would command this entire nation one day. He already shouldered responsibility for much of it.

“Come with me,” he said.

Don't go anywhere with him
, a voice inside her protested. It told her to stand her ground. It told her she had only days left to teach him to dance! They had no time to waste. Not a single second.

But Prince Kiernan expected to be obeyed and there was something in his tone that did not brook argument.

Meredith was ridiculously relieved that he didn't seem to need a break from
her
, only from dancing. He had already turned and walked away from her, holding open the ballroom door.

And Meredith was shocked to find herself passing meekly through it, actually anticipating seeing some of his palace home. She had always entered the palace grounds, and the ballroom directly through service entrances.

He went down the hallway with every expectation that she would follow him.

She ordered herself to rebel. To say that one more word that he had ordered her not to say.

But for what purpose? Why not follow him? Things were going badly. They certainly couldn't get any worse.

They hadn't even shared a chuckle this morning. Everything was way too grim, and he was way too uptight. Except for the
warrior about to ravish maiden
look she'd received after demonstrating how hips were supposed to move, the prince's guard was way up!

As it turned out, all she saw of the interior was that hallway. Still, it was luxurious: Italian marble floors, vases spilling over with fresh flowers set in recessed alcoves, light flooding in from arched windows, a painting she recognized, awed, as an original Monet. She had a cheap reproduction of that same painting in her own humble apartment.

The prince led her out a double French-paned glass door to a courtyard, and despite the freshness of the insult of being ordered not to say another word, something in Meredith sighed with delight.

The courtyard was exquisite, a walled paradise of ancient stone walls, vines climbing them. A lion's head set deep in one wall burbled out a stream of clear water. Butterflies glided in and out of early spring blooms and the warm spring air was perfumed with lilacs.

A small wrought iron table set with fine white linen was ready for tea. It was laid out for two, with cut hydrangeas as a centerpiece. A side table held a crystal pitcher, beaded with condensation from the chilled lemonade inside it. A three-tiered platter, silver, held a treasure trove of delicate pastries.

“Did you order this?” she asked, astounded. She barely refrained from adding
for me?
She felt stunned by the loveliness of it, and aware she felt her guard was being stormed.

As an only child she had dreamed tea parties, acted them out with her broken crockery, castoffs from houses her mother had cleaned. Only her companion then had
been a favorite teddy bear, Beardly, ink stained by some disdainful rich child who'd had so many teddy bears to choose from that this vandalized one had made its way to the cleaning lady's daughter.

This time her companion was not nearly so sympathetic or safe!

“Sit down,” he told her. Not an invitation.

The delight of the garden, and the table set for tea, had stolen her ability to protest. She sat. So did he. He poured lemonade in crystal goblets.

She took a tentative sip, and bit back a comment that it was fresh, not powder. As if he would know that lemonade could be made from a pouch!

“Have a pastry,” he said.

Pride wanted to make her refuse the delicacies presented to her, but the deprived child she'd been eyed the plate greedily, and coveted a taste of every single treat on it. In her childhood she had had to pretend soda crackers and margarine were tea pastries. She selected a cream puff that looked like a swan. She wanted to look at it longer, appreciate the effort and the art that went into it.

And at the same time she did not want to let on how overawed she was. She took a delicate bite.

She was pretty sure Prince Kiernan had deliberately waited until she was under its influence before he spoke.

“Now,” he said sternly, “we will discuss
swishing
.”

The cream puff completely undermined her defenses, because she said nothing at all. She made no defense for swishing. None. In fact, she licked a little dollop of pure white cream off the swan's icing-sugar-dusted feathers.

For a moment, he seemed distracted, then he blinked and looked away.

But there was less sternness in his tone when he spoke.

“I am not swishing my hips,” he told her. “Not today, not tomorrow, not ever.”

The sting was taken out of it completely by the fact he glanced back at her just as she was using her tongue to capture a stray piece of whipped cream from her lips and seemed to lose his train of thought entirely.

“I think,” she said reverently, “that's about the best thing I've ever tasted. Sorry. What were you saying?”

He passed the tray to her again. “I don't remember.”

She was sure a more sophisticated person would be content with the cream puff, but the little girl in her who had eaten soda crackers howled inwardly at her attempt to be disciplined.

She mollified her inner child by choosing a little confection of chocolate and flaky pastry. He was doing this on purpose. Using the exquisiteness of the treats to bribe her, to sway her into seeing things his way.

“It was something about swishing,” she decided. The pastry was so fragile it threatened to disintegrate under her touch. She bit it in half, closed her eyes, and suppressed a moan.

“Was it?” he growled, the sound of a man tormented.

“I think it was.” She opened her eyes, licked the edge of the pastry, and a place where chocolate had melted on her hand. “That was fantastic. You have to try that one.”

He grabbed the chocolate confection in question and
chomped on it with much less finesse than she would have expected from a prince. He seemed rattled.

“Do these have drugs in them?” she asked.

“I was just about to ask myself the same thing. Because I can't seem to keep my mind on—”

“Swishing,” she filled in for him, eyeing the tray. “Never mind. It's not as important as I thought. We'll figure out something you're comfortable with.”

He smiled, at first she thought because he had been granted reprieve from swishing. Then she realized he was smiling at her. “You have a sweet tooth. One wouldn't know to look at you.”

Between his smile and the confections, and the fact he
looked
at her, she didn't have a chance.

“Yes,” Meredith conceded, “let's forget swishing. It would have been fun. There's no doubt about that. The audience would have gone wild, but it's not really
you
if you know what I mean.”

“Why don't you try that one?”

He was rewarding her for the fact he had gotten his way. She could not allow herself to be bribed. “Which one?”

“The one you are staring at.”

“I couldn't possibly,” she said wistfully.

“I'd be disappointed if you didn't.”

“In that case,” she said blissfully and took the tiny chocolate-dipped cherry from the tray. “Do you eat like this every day?”

“No,” he said a trifle hoarsely, “I must say I don't.”

“A pity.”

Outside the delightful cloister of the garden, she heard the distinctive clop of hooves on cobblestone.

“Ah,” he said with a bit too much eagerness, getting
up. “There's my ride. Please feel free to stay and enjoy the garden as long as you like. Tomorrow, then.”

Again, it was not a suggestion or a question. No, she had just been given a royal dictate. He was done dancing for the day, whether she was or not.

He strode away from her, opened an arched doorway of heavy wood embedded in the rock wall and went out it.

Do something
, Meredith commanded herself. So she did. She took a butter tart and popped the entire thing in her mouth. Then, ashamed of her lack of spunk, she leapt from her chair and followed him out the gate. She had to let the prince know that time was of the essence now. If he rode today they would have to work harder tomorrow. She'd made one concession, but she couldn't allow him to think that made her a pushover, a weakling so bowled over by his smile and tea in the garden that he could get away with anything.

She burst out of the small courtyard and found herself in the front courtyard of the castle. She stood there for a moment, delighted and shocked by the opulence of the main entrance courtyard in front of the palace.

The fountain at its center shot geysers of water over the life-size bronze of Prince Kiernan's grandfather riding a rearing warhorse. The courtyard was fragrant, edged as it was with formal gardens that were bright with exotic flowering trees.

The palace sat on top of Chatam's most prominent hill, and overlooked the gently rolling countryside of the island. In the near distance were farms and red-roofed farmhouses, freshly sown fields and lush pastures being grazed by ewes and newborn lambs.

In the far distance was the gray silhouette of the city of Chatam, nestled in the curves of the valley. Beyond that was the endless expanse of the sea.

Ancient oaks dappled the long driveway that curved up the hill to the palace with shade. At the bottom of that drive was a closed wrought iron and stone gate that guarded the palace entrance. To the left side of the gate was a tasteful stone sign, with bronze cursive letters,
Chatam Palace
, on the right, an enormous bed of roses, not yet in bloom.

Finding herself here, on this side of the gates, with the massive stone walls and turrets of the castle rising up behind her, was like being in a dream but Meredith tried to remind herself of the task at hand. She had to make her expectations for the rest of this week's practice sessions crystal-clear.

In front of the fountain, a groomsman in a palace stable uniform held a horse. Prince Kiernan had his back to her, his hand stroking one of those powerful shoulders as he took the reins from the groomsman and lifted a foot to the stirrup.

Meredith was not sure she had ever seen a man more in his element. The prince radiated the power, confidence and grace she had yet to see from him on the dance floor.

He looked like a man who owned the earth, and who was sure of his place in it.

The horse was magnificent. It was not one of the frightening horses she had seen in pictures, of that she was almost positive. Though large, and as shiny black as Lucifer, the horse stood quietly, and when he sensed her come out the gate he turned a gentle eye to her.

Except for nearly being trampled by that runaway
at the Blossom Festival parade all those years ago, Meredith had never been this close to a horse.

Instead of her planned lecture, she heard an awed
ooh
escape her lips.

 

Prince Kiernan glanced over his shoulder when he heard the small sound behind him.

And she, the one he thought he had successfully escaped, the one who could make eating a pastry look like something out of an X-rated film, stood there with round eyes and her mouth forming a little O.

He could leap on the horse and gallop away in a flurry of masculine showmanship. But there was something about the look on her face that stopped him.

He remembered she was afraid of horses.

He slipped his foot back out of the stirrup, and regarded Meredith Whitmore thoughtfully.

“Come say hello to Ben,” he suggested quietly, dismissing his groomsman with a nod.

The debate raged in her face. Well, who could blame her? They had already crossed some sort of invisible line by having tea together. She was obviously debating the etiquette of the situation, wanting to be strictly professional.

And after watching her eat, he could certainly see the wisdom in that!

But he was aware of finding her reaction to the impromptu tea in the garden refreshing.

And he was aware of not being quite ready to gallop away.

And so what was the harm in having her meet his horse? He could tell she didn't want to, and that at the same time it was proving as irresistible to her as the crumpets had been. She moved forward as if she was
being pulled on an invisible string. He could see her pulse racing in the hollow of her throat.

“Don't be afraid,” Kiernan said.

She stopped well short of the horse. “He's gigantic,” she whispered.

Prince Kiernan reached out, took her hand and tugged her closer.

They had been touching while they danced, but this was different. Everything about her was going to seem different after the semi-erotic experience of watching her devour teatime treats.

Still, he did not let her go, but pulled her closer, and then guiding her, he held her hand out to the horse.

“He wants to get your scent,” he told her quietly.

The horse leaned his head toward her, flared his nostrils as he drew a deep breath, then breathed a puff of warm, moist air onto her hand where it was cupped in Kiernan's.

“Oh,” she breathed, her eyes round and wide, a delighted smile tickling her lips. “Oh!”

“Touch him,” Kiernan suggested. “Right there, between his mouth and his nose.”

Tentatively, she touched, then closed her eyes, much as she had done when she decapitated the pastry swan with her lovely white teeth.

“It's exquisite,” she said, savoring. “Like velvet, only softer.”

“See? There's nothing to be afraid of.”

But there was. And they both knew it.

She drew her hand away quickly from the horse's nose, and then out of the protection of Kiernan's cupped palm.

“Thank you,” she said, and then rapidly, “I have to go.”

He knew that was true, but he heard, not the words, but the fear, and frowned at it. The place where her heartbeat pulsed in her throat had gone crazy.