Princess Annie by Linda Lael Miller Page A

for the rest of her life, and he wanted her recollections to be pleasant ones. “I’m a man, Miss Trevarren, not a rutting boar. I can govern my physical desires quite nicely.”
    He heard the horses then, and knew his interlude of joyful madness was at an end. Now, he would have the rest of his life—a relatively short time, in all probability—to remember that he’d made a fool of himself this day. That he’d wanted a woman badly enough to put aside his values and his better judgment to play her sweet body as if it were a dulcimer or a lute.
    He had been a self-centered bastard, and not just because of the things he’d done to Annie, however much she’d enjoyed them. No, his crime lay in the fact that he’d trifled with her feelings. She was young and unsophisticated, a product of the privileged life Patrick and Charlotte had given her, and she might well expect a devotion he simply could not give.
    “Get dressed,” he said, tossing the still damp garments to her. “Someone is coming.”
    Annie scrambled out of bed and into her clothes, and Rafael couldn’t help watching out of the corner of his eye as she wriggled and tugged in her haste to avoid being caught in a compromising situation.
    Little did she know, Rafael reflected, as a thunderous knock sounded at the door, practically shaking it on its hinges, that it was already too late.
    “Your Highness,” Barrett’s voice boomed through the thickening twilight, “Are you there? Let me in!”
    Ruefully, Rafael glanced back at Annie and saw that, although she was decently clad again, her red-gold hair tumbled down her back, unconfined, her eyes blazed with a lingering, deep-seated pleasure and, if those things hadn’t been revealing enough, there was a telltale glow to her skin. Unless Barrett had gone blind since Rafael had last encountered him, he would know exactly what had been going on.
    “Yes,” Rafael called back, unable to hide his irritation. Despite the noble things he’d said to Annie about controlling his physical desires, he was vastly uncomfortable, and he would remain so for some time. “I’m here.” With that, he wrenched open the door and stood facing his friend and guard.
    Barrett wore a cape, splotched with rain, and his expression was uncommonly anxious. “Great Scot, Rafael, I thought you’d been captured, or broken your neck—” He saw Annie then, it was plain that it all registered, in an instant.
    Rafael stepped back to admit him. “You took your time starting a search,” he remarked, while Barrett studiously avoided Annie’s gaze. His neck was a dull crimson. “I might have been hauled halfway to France by now.”
    Barrett started to speak, cleared his throat and began again. “Lucian said he’d seen you out riding, and that you’d be gone a while,” he explained awkwardly. “I know you like to have some time to—to yourself now and then, so I wasn’t concerned. It was only when the rain didn’t stop, and twilight came on—”
    Rafael touched his friend’s arm. “It’s all right, Barrett,” he said quietly. He suspected that the man had been occupied with some pursuit of his own that afternoon; that would account for his embarrassment, as well as his delay. “Have you brought a horse for Miss Trevarren?”
    “We didn’t know she’d left the keep,” Barrett said.
    For the first time since Barrett had entered the cottage, Annie spoke. Her voice was clear and strong and ever so slightly defiant. “Didn’t my mare return to the stables?” she asked.
    Barrett forced himself to look at her. “If it did, miss, I wasn’t told.”
    “Never mind,” Rafael interjected. “Miss Trevarren will ride back with me.”
    Minutes later, they were mounted, with Annie in front of Rafael on the impatient gelding. It was a singular torment, feeling her soft, delectable body against his, breathing the scent of her hair, the faint, musky perfume of her pleasure, and the fresh smell of spring rain. He could endure a