The Prize by Julie Garwood Page A

waited for a contradiction. When none came, she continued. "You think I'm a nuisance."
    "Yes, I do."
    She took exception to that bit of honesty. "If it wasn't a mortal sin to hate, I could become very good at hating you."
    "No, you couldn't," he answered, smiling gently. The look in his eyes made her stomach quiver. "I may have an unpleasant nature, Nicholaa, but you have a very gentle one. You don't know how to hate."
    She was too weary to trade insults with him. "I'm going to freeze if I don't return to the fire," she announced. "Are you waiting for me to beg for your assistance?"
    He shook his head. "I'm waiting to hear how you came by this bruise," he informed her.
    Lord, he was stubborn. She could tell from the look on his face that he was determined to get his way. "Justin struck me."
    She should have softened the truth a little. Royce looked bloody furious. She didn't want him to think ill of Justin. "You cannot blame my brother."
    "The hell I can't."
    He started to stand. She grabbed his arm. "I can explain," she said.
    "Nicholaa, you can't justify what—"
    She put her hand over his mouth. "Justin was sound asleep, Royce. I was leaning over him to pull the covers up, and he turned. His fist caught me below the eye when he rolled to his side. Justin had no idea he struck me."
    He didn't look convinced.
    "I'm telling you the truth," she muttered. "Saxon sisters and brothers don't strike one another. Is it because the Norman families fight like devils that you find my truth difficult to believe?"
    He wasn't going to let her bait him. He picked up his cloak, wrapped it around her, and lifted her in his arms. She wrapped her arms around his neck as he headed for the camp.
    She whispered thank you against his neck.
    What the hell was he going to do with her? he wondered.
    She was easing herself right into his heart and he didn't have any weapons to stop her. Damn it, his life was set in a pattern, and he was too old to change. Besides, he liked the order, the discipline, of his daily routine. He was very content.
    Wasn't he?
    Royce tried to put the contrary woman out of his thoughts. It was difficult, though, because she was so wonderfully soft and cuddly in his arms.
    She was still a nuisance. She gave him hell all the way back to camp. She was back in the mood to argue with him. He was in the mood to gag her just to gain a few minutes' peace.
    When they finally reached the campsite, he carried her back to his spot by the tree. He sat down in one fluid motion that didn't even jar her, adjusted her on his lap, shoved her head down against his shoulders, and then closed his eyes.
    His cloak covered her from head to foot, and his arms held her close. The heat from his body kept her nice and warm.
    "Royce?"
    "What now?"
    "I shouldn't sleep like this," she whispered. "I'm a married woman, after all, and I—"
    "Your husband's dead."
    She was surprised by the vehemence in his voice. "You can't possibly know if my beloved husband is dead or alive."
    "He's dead."
    Was he amused? She thought he might be, but when she tried to look at his face, he rudely shoved her head back on his shoulder again. "Oh, all right," she muttered. "He's dead. I'm still mourning him, though."
    "You wear blue to mourn him?"
    She hadn't thought of that. The man was a quick thinker, she realized. But then, so was she. "I'm mourning him in my heart," she muttered.
    "How long has he been dead?"
    He was gently rubbing her shoulders. The soothing touch felt too good to protest. She let out a loud, unladylike yawn before answering. "Two years."
    "You're certain?"
    He was laughing at her all right. She could hear the amusement in his voice. "Yes, I'm certain," she snapped. " 'Tis the reason I'm not wearing black any longer. It's been two years."
    There, she'd bested him, she thought to herself. She closed her eyes. Her smile was smug.
    A long minute passed. She'd almost drifted off to sleep when he whispered her name.
    "Nicholaa?"
    "Yes?"
    "How old is