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Because Cayetano was not meant to be like other men. He could sample pleasure, and he did, but his was a life of duty. Responsibility. And the great weight of his people’s destiny.
It was only his country that could inspire him to take vows, and he had made those vows long ago. It was only his country—and the sure knowledge that because his sacrifice was for the island, he would never commit the sins his own parents had. His father by dying too soon and too badly and leaving a mess in his wake. His mother by losing herself and her purpose entirely.
He didn’t like to think of such things. It was too tempting to allow his memory to take him to places far too painful. When he had been a boy, powerless and far away from all the things that mattered to him. Cayetano had vowed then that he would never be so powerless again.
Never for him the betrayal of his duty for love, no matter what it looked like. He would not make the mistakes his parents had. He would not allow emotion to poison him as it had them.
Ile d’Montagne came first. Always.
He had comforted himself with the knowledge, as his obsession with finding the lost Princess grew, that he was not focused so intently on thewoman.That would be unacceptable. That would put him on a level with his mother and he could neither accept nor permit such a thing. Cayetano was fixed on herfunction, that was all.
As they drove away from her farm, he told himself that keeping her functional so that she could play her part was all that mattered. And was why he had...held her hand, as a lover might. That was why he had attempted to give her comfort.
He, who had been bred for war.
Never in his life had he been so pleased to take an irritating call that he barely had to pay attention to as the car pulled away from the farm. He should never have taken hold of her hand in the first place.
It was better that he pay less attention to the woman beside him. Better that he make certain his armor was in place and the vows he’d made to himself when he was young still held true, no matter how perfectly her hand had fit in his.
Or how that hunger within him raged on.
As a set of his advisors tried to one-up each other on the call, Cayetano found himself toying with old memories, frayed at the edges, as they made it to the private airfield. Memories he preferred to believe he had excised. The last time he had seen his father, so distant and remote, the way a warlord ought to be in Cayetano’s estimation—far above the petty concerns and mawkish sentimentality of normal people, surely. And then later, lost beneath the weight of his dismay and powerlessness after his father’s death, chafing at the restriction of his age. Unable to go home and take his rightful place.
He had vowed to himself that once he was old enough, he would make himself the perfect warlord.
No emotions allowed.
But there was no use reliving the past. What mattered was that he had wrested back control of his people. And together, they had all moved on.
There was enough history to fight over when it came to the crown. Cayetano did not care to add his family’s history to the list. Especially when he had handled it all.
The way he handled everything.
As an instrument of his people, stripped free. He concentrated instead on the future. He loaded his precious cargo onto the jet that waited at the airfield, prepared to take the lost Princess back home. Where a new life awaited them. Both of them, and his country, too.
Finally.
His men dispersed as they boarded, taking up their usual positions throughout the plane. Cayetano led Delaney to the area that functioned as a lounge. And watched, with some amusement, as she looked around, her eyes wide.
“Have you ever been on a plane before?” he asked, amused by the notion of such newness. But then, why should a farm girl fly?
“Never.” She blinked, taking in the quiet luxury that surrounded them. And finding it overwhelming, if the way she curled her hands into fists at her sides was any indication. “But I’m pretty sure that any plane I might have gone on would not look like this.”
“You may wish to brace yourself,” Cayetano said, almost idly. “Because you’re a princess, Delaney. You’re going to have to get used to the royal treatment.”
The look she threw him then would have been comical, had she not looked so genuinely horrified.
“I don’t know a thing about that,” she protested. “I don’twantto know.”
But he was already getting to know this woman, whether she liked it or not. And having nothing to do with his body’s response to her. Or almost nothing, he amended. He had studied her in advance and meeting her in person had only added to his arsenal. He knew her tells. Like the mutinous look in her blue eyes just now. And a set to her jaw that spoke of stubbornness, not overwhelm.
He found it cute, really. He liked to watch her spark. Because whatever stubbornness she might possess, it was of no matter in the long run. And certainly no match to his. It might even serve her well in the days to come.
She had wrestled crops, perhaps, in this wholesome life she’d found herself in by accident. But it wasn’t who she was. And he could assume, from the redness of her eyes, that she had a wealth of feelings about her change in circumstances. But Cayetano had been born to a calling. And he had been shaped since was small to be nothing short of the weapon that could finally topple a throne and restore his kingdom.
She could be as stubborn as she wished. It would change nothing.
But he knew better than to say so now.
