Modern Romance November 2015 Books 1-4. Trish Morey
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will see that you have it. Surely there must be something. Surely we can trade.”
She looked down, hesitating for a moment. “I wish to be sure my people are cared for. Beyond that, that those who raised me are safe.”
“Then those will be the conditions of us forging trade alliances with Tirimia. You will have much more power here, on this throne, than you will have hiding in the forest back in your homeland. That I can promise you. You will have the ear of the king who is both good and just. You will be a princess in her rightful place. Surely that is better than hiding in a burrow like a little mouse.”
She frowned, her dark eyebrows drawn tightly together, a crease forming between them. “You are fond of comparing me to animals.”
“You are closer to animal than human female at the moment, sadly for me.” And he was much closer to a wolf than a man. “So you will allow me to fashion you into a suitable bride. In return, I will give you what you want.” There was a knock on the door to his bedchamber. “That will be the servants, ready to take you to your room.”
She nodded slowly. “All right.”
Some of the fire had gone out of her in the past few minutes. He found he did not like it.
That makes no sense.
No, it didn’t. But nothing about the past twelve hours made any sense at all.
“We start tomorrow. Meet me in the general study after breakfast.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Tame you, of course.”
IT TURNED OUT that Andres’s definition of taming her actually meant attempting to smother her in yards of silk and tulle.
She did not feel tame in the least. Instead, she felt slightly indignant and more than a little bit irritated. Though that had been her state of being since he threw her out of his bedchamber last night.
Just thinking about it sent a hot flush over her skin, exacerbated by the cool slide of the silk that was currently being fitted to her form. She assumed the rash of heat was brought about by anger. She was angry. The way he had plucked her out of the bath, holding her against him, as though he had every right to touch her, as though she belonged to him in some way, was nothing less than enraging.
Except it didn’t feel like any rage she had ever experienced before. But then, she was in a palace unlike any she’d ever been in before, wearing clothes the likes of which she had never even dreamed up before, so she imagined that was in keeping with the theme.
“Keep your shoulders straight,” the seamstress said, her tone stiff, as stiff as Zara’s shoulders were starting to feel.
“You heard her,” Andres’s voice came from beyond the screen she was standing behind. “Keep still, or it will take longer.”
“I am not a child,” she said, addressing both of them. “I don’t need to be spoken to like one.”
“Then do not fidget like one,” the woman said.
Zara fought the urge to fidget just to cause trouble.
This was very strange, being the focus like this. The closest experience she had in her memory was when she had come to live at the encampment. She had been a curiosity then, but they had also been careful with her. She was a little girl who had lost her family, who was traumatized, steeped in grief.
Resources there were limited, and no one had ever procured her a new wardrobe. She’d had clothing crudely fitted to her before. Hand-me-downs that she’d acquired within the camp.
In her life before the revolution, she was certain she had experienced things like this, but there was a veil drawn over those years, memories she found difficult to access. Everything was reduced down to feelings. Still pictures in her mind. Smells, tastes.
She’d only been six when she was taken away. So much more of her life spent away from the palace than in it.
She was trying to hate it, but in truth it was difficult. The dress she was wearing at the moment was irresistible. She had never imagined she would find a dress irresistible, but she definitely had strong feelings about this one.
The bodice was fitted, soft with iridescent pink vines stitched over the silk. The skirt billowed around her like a pink cloud. And in truth, she would love to hate it for its impracticality. But it was just too pretty.
Though, even if she was having a hard time resenting the dress, she could still easily resent Andres.
“Would you like to see this one, Your Highness?” The woman spoke to Andres as though Zara weren’t standing right there.
“Why not?” He sounded bored, which she found insulting. Though, had he sounded eager, she probably would have been similarly offended. He could not win with her. She had decided.
She would not allow him to. She would not marry him. She would find another way.
Though it has been said you catch more flies with honey than vinegar. And you need his help.
She ignored that thought. Yes, it was true she needed him in some capacity. But she would not be pouring out the kind of honey a man like him wanted. Andres had not been ambiguous about his intent for her. He’d told her last night that if she didn’t leave he was going to...
She felt her skin growing hot again, just as the seamstress moved the screen to the side, removing the buffer that stood between herself and the rather imposing prince.
She drew in a deep breath, her breasts pushing against the tight, structured bodice. She was very conscious of the fact that his eyes were very much focused on said part of her body. He was doing it to make her uncomfortable. There was no other reason. Men did not waste time staring at her chest. Men did not waste time staring at any part of her.
Yes, she had been well protected, prior to being kidnapped and returned to the palace to be used as a political pawn, but it had not seemed to be a particular challenge for the leader of their clan to keep men away from her.
Quite the opposite, Zara felt sometimes as if she repelled people when she walked through a crowd.
The heat in his eyes was certainly not real. Which made it all the more offensive, even if it should have made it less offensive. Things with Andres simply weren’t going to make sense, she had accepted that already.
“Well?” she asked, the word coming out as a command.
He put his hand on his chin as though he were considering. “You certainly look more like a princess than you did yesterday.”
“I suppose it depends on your cultural point of view,” she said, raising an eyebrow.
“Indeed?”
“Yes. Among my people the gold makeup is considered the mark of royalty. A mark of beauty. The robe I wore yesterday, the purple with gold thread signified that, as well. This is just a pretty dress.”
“This is couture,” the seamstress said, speaking out of turn, her tone harsh.
“Will you allow her to speak to me like that?” Zara asked.
“Yes. You were offensive,” Andres said.
“My apologies,” she said, not feeling particularly apologetic. It was difficult when she still felt maneuvered. Forced. Imprisoned. “I am tired.” She lifted up the heavy, voluminous skirts and turned, sitting on the edge of the bed, the fabric billowing around her.
“Yes. I imagine trying on gowns all day is incredibly taxing,” he said, his tone dry.
“Is it perhaps as taxing as sitting there watching someone else do it?”
“Probably not as taxing as measuring a fidgeting,