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And more, in her very eyes somehow, so that that famous Montaigne blue was neither cold nor fierce, but bright enough to make a man think of little but the kinds of summers other men enjoyed. On tropical beaches far away from the concerns of a contested throne.
He had seen her standing in the dirt, dressed like a peasant—and despite these things, had been shot through with a hunger unlike any he had ever known. He had sat in his car, waiting for the intensity of his hunger to pass, yet it had not.
Even now, her peals of laughter still ripe in the air between them, it only grew.
Cayetano blinked at the direction of his own thoughts. Since when had he considered himself nothing but a mere man? He had never had that option. Not for him the call of flesh and sin. Not for him the comforts of oblivion. His entire existence had been honed and focused to a hard shine.
And yet here he stood in this foreign place, thinking of sunshine and excess, and the sweet oblivion of flesh and desire.
But the unexpected lost heiress of Ile d’Montagne was still laughing. As if, truly, she had never heard anything more preposterous than what he had told her. As if anything he had said to her was funny.
As if he, Cayetano Arcieri, sworn enemy of the Montaignes no matter the two generations of uneasy peace, was given to tellingjokes.
Cayetano could see the way his men began to scowl at the insult, but he waved them back as they started forward. He told himself he was letting her go on merely to note how long it took her to collect herself, and then to understand the discourtesy and disrespect she showed, but he had the sneaking suspicion that, actually, it was simply to watch all of that light dance around her—
You must stop this, he ordered himself grimly.There is more at stake here than yourhunger.
“It is a lot to take in, I grant you,” he said stiffly when she wiped at her eyes.
“It’s just so silly,” she said as if she was agreeing with him. “What a story. First of all, I’m not lost. I’m right where I’m meant to be, right here where I belong. And there are certainly no crowns involved. Orprincesses.”
And that set her off again, tossing her head back to laugh straight up toward the endless sky.
Cayetano could admit that he had not given this part of his mission as much thought as the rest. Finding her had been the hard part. It had taken time and patience, when he was famous for ignoring the first when it did not suit him and exhibiting very little of the second when he pleased. The task before him had been immense and overpowering.
He’d had to believe the impossible. Then prove it.
That he had done so beat in him, a dark drum of victory, even now.
It was, perhaps, not unreasonable that he had thought collecting her would be the easy part. What he wanted to do was simply toss her over his shoulder, throw her in the car, and start the journey home. He wanted to focus on what came next. How and when he would finally disrupt the line of succession and take back what had been stolen from his people so long ago, not so much breaking the peace between the factions in his country so much as obliterating the need for it. Both the peace and the two factions, in one fell swoop.
It had never occurred to him that he would have toconvincehis Princess to reclaim her place.
Though diplomacy was not his strong suit, Cayetano endeavored to make himself look...nonthreatening. Understanding and inviting, if such a thing were possible.
He did not think he achieved anything like it.
“Perhaps this is too much to take on faith,” he said, trying to sound sympathetic. Though the edge he could hear in his own voice suggested he was not successful. “But you’re not required to believe me. The science speaks for itself.”
“The science?” She repeated the word, then started laughing again. “What science could there possibly be to lead awarlordto a quiet old farm in the middle of nowhere? I’m telling you, I think you took a wrong turn. Maybe back in whatever mountains you’re from. I’m not the Princess you’re looking for.”
But the more she insisted, the more he saw the truth of her parentage. The absence of doubt. The deep belief in her own discernment above all else, when surely it should have been clear to her that a mere farm girl could not possibly have access to the same information as a man of his stature. It should have been glaringly apparent.
Cayetano was not conversant in Americans or farm girls, it was true, but he felt sure that without the Montaigne blood in her veins, this one would have quaked before him, as was only right and proper.
“It did not begin with science, of course,” he told her, shifting as he stood.
He was not accustomed to having his commands and wishes dismissed, but he was also aware—on some distant level—that it would not serve his cause to take this woman against her will. It would only muddy things, and he needed clarity. Rather, he needed to appear to act with clarity and sensitivity, the better to fight the right battles.
Probablyit would not kill him. He attempted a reassuring smile, but she only frowned.
“There were whispers,” he told her, still trying to exude something other than his usual forbidding intensity. “There are always whispers around any throne, but perhaps more so in Ile d’Montagne, where the ruling family has been contested for so long. Mostly these are rumors that come to nothing. Just malicious little tales told to pass the time between spots of civil unrest. In this case, someone began telling a story that Princess Amalia was a changeling, almost from the moment of her birth.”
His lost princess blinked. “A changeling. Like in a fairy tale.”
She sounded doubtful. And if he wasn’t mistaken, that look on her face was a clear indication that she did not find him a trustworthy source.
But he didn’t have time to revel in that novelty.
