Johanna Lindsey - Once a Princess

"Are you going to get a stick now?"

"No."

"Then what are you ranting about? I got your point. You don't think I want to go through that again, do you?"

"Why not?" he replied with dripping sarcasm. "You didn't feel it."

"I felt it," she grumbled as she picked herself up off the floor, starting to rub her backside, then thinking better of it. "It just wasn't as disabling as what I'm accustomed to."

Stefan stiffened, the rest of what she had said clarifying in his mind. "Jesus, he beat you?" She blinked at him as if she didn't understand the question, so he rephrased it. "Did Mr. Dobbs beat you, Tatiana?"

"I thought I already said as much. I also told you I don't like that name."

"Devil take the name!" he snapped irritably. "How did Dobbs beat you?"

"Now, what difference does that make? A stick, a hand, the intention is the same — to hurt me."

There was a wealth of bitterness in that statement that Stefan understood very well. Bitterness was his own constant companion.

"I'm sorry for adding more unpleasantness to your life, Tanya. It was not my intention to hurt you—"

"You could have fooled me," she snorted.

"— merely to impress upon you not to try to leave us again."

"So consider me impressed."

She wouldn't even allow him to assuage his conscience with an apology. Just as well. He didn't want to forget what his temper had wrought this time. If she had not learned a lesson, hopefully he had.

"It is intolerable what you have suffered through fate," he told her with feeling. "You were supposed to be reared gently. A fortune was sent with you and Baroness Tomilova to ensure it. She would have trained you, thoroughly, in the duties that await you as Queen of Cardinia, the etiquette of court—"

"If you don't want another fight on your hands," Tanya interrupted coldly, "then do us both a favor and end the pretense for now. I've heard all I can stomach of that fairy tale for one day."

"Very well — if you will tell me why you don't believe it."

"Because things like that don't happen. A lost princess, Stefan? Like hell. How can you misplace someone as important as a princess?"

"Through secrecy and neglectful assumptions. Communication was forbidden because it could have led to your death. It was assumed you were being cared for in the manner that your status demanded. And you would have been told how to obtain help if something had happened to the baroness. But how could anyone know that she would die before you were even old enough to know who you were?"

"You've got a ready answer for everything, don't you?" she retorted angrily.

He smiled at that burst of temper. "Such is usually the case when one is dealing with the truth."

"Enough!"

He laughed now. "Very good, Princess. You have a definite knack for command, at least. You will learn the rest soon enough."

She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him, an affectation, he supposed, meant to silence him on the subject. And he was silenced, not by that, but by finally noticing that her shirt had been so dampened by his that it was now clinging quite provocatively to her breasts. Fortunately, they were just barely covered. The last thing either of them needed right now was for his damn lust to run amok again.

"I — ah — believe I need a bath to get the filth of your river off me," he remarked and turned toward the door to summon Sasha.

"My river? Are you admitting I'm American?"

He glanced back with a grin. "You think you are. I know differently. Now, would you by any chance like a bath also?"

"No," she staunchly maintained.

"Then a change of clothes?"

"Are you offering to swim back and fetch mine?" she asked with a falsely sweet smile.

"Oh, clever, Princess, but I think I must decline. You may, however, feel free to avail yourself of my wardrobe. Since your taste in attire seems to run toward the masculine, that should prove no hardship. Once we reach New Orleans, we will have you outfitted properly."

"In dancing costumes?" she sneered.

"I don't know where you get these intriguing notions, but that one definitely has merit. If I had known you wanted to dance for us again, I would have spared the time to bring your own costume along. You will, however, have a captive audience, no matter what you choose to dance in. Wearing nothing at all would be even better."

She looked so furious at being misunderstood, Stefan left the room quickly before he burst into laughter again.

As soon as the door closed behind Stefan, Tanya rushed to it to see if Stefan would forget to lock it. At the sound of the click, she kicked the door in frustration — and heard his laughter on the other side.

Damned devil. His mercurial moods were going to drive her batty. Right now she didn't like his humor any better than his temper. Dance for them indeed. On his grave maybe.

She whipped around and began to pace, feeling caged and suddenly desperate. What if they didn't let her out of the cabin until they arrived in New Orleans? Then she wouldn't have a chance to escape, would she? It was that simple.

Like hell. She wasn't about to settle for no options when the stakes were so high — her freedom, her dream of independence. There had to be something she could do, anything, even... no, she wouldn't go that far. Sleeping with Stefan was no guarantee of his trust, or of her release. She would do better to lull them into thinking she was resigned — no, not them, just Stefan, since he obviously made the decisions where she was concerned. She had to convince him that she could be trusted to leave the cabin. The question was, how?

Her eyes lit on the trunks against the wall, which she supposed were his. Well, that was one place to start, by accepting his suggestion to use his clothes, a new shirt anyway. She could also stop fighting with him, and stop letting every mention of kings and betrothals rile her so. And it wouldn't hurt if he thought she couldn't swim. That at least would make him think he had nothing to worry about other than her causing another scene for the entertainment of crew and passengers.

She approached the trunks reluctantly. It seemed such an intimate thing, wearing something that belonged to Stefan, that had been on his body. She'd prefer not to, but she wasn't getting any of her wishes granted today. And her own shirt was uncomfortably wet, thanks to him.

The blush came on unexpectedly with the reminder of what had almost happened in this cabin. Tanya would like to say it had been the most horrible experience of her life, but that wasn't so. She had been frightened of his anger, true, but the fact was, he hadn't hurt her when he had lain atop her on the bed. He would have if he hadn't stopped, but he didn't know that. He thought her a whore, and whores supposedly did that kind of thing all the time.

What had happened instead, she would just as soon forget, but still, he hadn't hurt her with that child's punishment. She might be a little tender for a few days and not enjoy sitting down, yet it could have been so much worse. He could have used his belt and welted her, or his fists, for he'd felt justified after she had broken their bargain.

What she didn't understand was his attitude afterward. If she wasn't mistaken, she would have to say he really had been sorry for laying a violent hand on her. He had tried to apologize. He had certainly tried to comfort her — until he realized she didn't need comforting.

She made a face as she threw open the lid of the top trunk. Dumping her on the floor had not been nice of him. Of course, dumping him in the river had not been very nice of her. She giggled, wishing she could have seen his expression when he found the surface of the water. It must have been priceless.

She rummaged through the trunk, finding a number of things, boxes and such, that she would have liked to examine further, but just opening the trunk made her feel like a thief, so all she did was grab the first shirt she came across. It was white lawn, and too thin to appear bulky on her, as she discovered when she made quick work of exchanging it for her own and could see her nipples through the material. It simply wouldn't do, not by itself, since she wore no chemisette and never had, relying on the thickness of her shirts to adequately cover her breasts. And she doubted she would find a chemisette in Stefan's trunk.

She searched for and found a waistcoat instead, brocaded satin in black and silver, and about the richest piece of clothing she'd ever touched. She probably shouldn't use it. It was too fine for the likes of her. But she'd been given permission, so if Stefan objected, that was just too bad. Of course, considering that parting comment of his, he'd probably prefer her in just the shirt — or nothing at all.

Remembering that comment about her dancing and Stefan's humor brought back her annoyance with both, and she was still stewing when Stefan returned a few moments later. And the look he passed over her was salt to the wound, chockfull of amusement, sherrygold eyes crinkled with it. It was fortunate that he wasn't alone, or what she'd decided to set in motion would have had to wait until after she had vented her spleen. But Sasha was with him, and a number of crewmen followed through the door, toting buckets of water.

When Tanya saw the tin tub being carried in, however, she ground her teeth together. All that plotting and planning, and here, already, was her ticket out. Stefan was going to bathe in here, which meant she would have to leave — with an escort, no doubt, but that was all right. All she had to do was get near a railing, and she'd find some way over it.