CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER NINE
H E WAITED UNTIL the last of the flames had died down, turning the heap of timber into a glowing pile that somehow perfectly matched the smouldering in his gut. Sure, it was a safety concern, but with the tide inching forwards, it wouldn’t be long before the wreckage of their bonfire would be swallowed up by the ocean. Staying out here on the beach had more to do with avoidance, and Sebastian hated that. He’d never been someone to walk away from a problem—or an argument. In fact, he rarely argued.
His eyes lingered on a large piece of driftwood they’d added to the pile that was now a ferocious orange, like a child might draw a dragon’s breath, and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. That was the problem.
Far from being the prim little wallflower ice princess he’d expected, he’d discovered that his wife had a pulse after all. And she managed to get under his skin every time they were together—either by making him need her to the point of distraction, or by defending the king to him, in a manner that was unfailingly going to raise his hackles. So they argued.
When had Sebastian ever argued with a woman he’d been sleeping with?
Or anyone?
In business, he was cold. Cold detachment was the way he succeeded. Emotion was the death knell to clarity and Sebastian valued clear thinking above all else. Even his interactions with the king had been calm, despite Sebastian’s long-held anger towards the other man. He’d still been able to separate those feelings out and deliver his assessment of their situation without emotions weakening him.
Why couldn’t he do that with Rosalind? What was it about her that managed to needle him to the point of breaking down the rigid reinforcements he usually kept around anything approaching a feeling?
Was it just their proximity?
The island had been his idea—a way to fast-track her requirement that they ‘get to know one another’ and bring her to a decision about this pregnancy. He’d thought it would be like any of his business negotiations—that he could keep his eye on the prize and manage the situation to achieve his outcome. Hell, he’d done it enough times in the professional world. He was nothing if not determined.
But none of the people he’d negotiated with in the past had been anything like Rosalind.
Had he been foolish to think he could put his wife’s demands in the same box as a corporate negotiation? To put her in the same box as he might a professional adversary? While he was a titan of the business world, he knew nothing about personal relationships—not beyond the physical—and what Rosalind was trying to do was build a relationship of sorts with him.
It was everything he’d been running from his whole adult life.
Relating with someone. Getting to know them. Playing the long game. Being in one another’s lives, no matter what. Just the idea of that made Sebastian’s throat feel as though it was constricting; he could hardly breathe. The idea of letting this happen with Rosalind—of coming to enjoy spending time with her, to even like sparring with her—turned his blood cold.
Sebastian jerked to standing, striding towards the embers with his hands thrust deep into his pockets. As he’d expected, the water had begun to lap the far side of what had been their bonfire, turning orange to black with a frothy whisper. The moon hit the dark ocean, highlighting the peaks of the waves. His eyes chased the milky shadow for a moment, and then he sighed, admitting to himself that he was as out of his depth as if he’d chased that moonlight all the way out into the middle of the Ionian Sea.
But what could he do?
Quit?
Admit defeat and leave?
Admit he was afraid of what this could be, if he let it, and run far away?
Every cell in his body fought against that. He was not a quitter, and he’d never wanted—or needed—anything as much as he did this baby.
He didn’t trust the king, and he didn’t know if he trusted his wife. At least, he didn’t trust her not to fall in with whatever the king demanded, no matter what she personally thought. Her loyalty to the old man was akin to brainwashing—she might want to build a relationship with Sebastian, but it would never withstand her unwavering faith in the king, when the king was singlehandedly responsible for having destroyed Maria’s life, and removing Sebastian from the country that ran in his blood.
And yet despite his love for Cavalonia and his certainty that ruling it was his birthright, his position remained tenuous. Marriage to Rosalind had engendered some goodwill from the people, but he needed this baby to guarantee his position—and to know that his child would enjoy their birthright. When he was king, Sebastian would ensure it was written into legislation: no man would ever be able to take such rights away from what should be theirs indisputably.
There was very little choice then but to stick to his plan.
She’d wanted them to get to know each other, and they were. Only he’d never intended to reveal so much about himself to her. Seduction, yes. But why did it bother him so much that she didn’t understand why he hated his grandfather? Why did he want to explain how awful it had been, as a young boy, to feel as though he’d done something wrong, that his grandfather and father had refused to see him again? Why couldn’t she understand how that had shaped him?
Why did he need her to? Why did he want her to not only understand him but also to approve of him?
Sebastian had never wanted to bare his soul to a woman he’d been sleeping with. He hadn’t needed anyone else to agree with him that he’d been treated badly. So, why did he want Rosie to be on his side, in his corner?
It drove him wild; he had to get a grip. There was no advantage in fighting with Rosalind, and she would never see things his way. She had married him at the king’s behest—she was loyal to him, not Sebastian. And so what? He didn’t need her. He didn’t need anyone.
But fighting was to be avoided, for the simple reason it might reduce the likelihood of Rosalind agreeing to fall pregnant with his heir. It was up to Sebastian to keep a level head from now on, to avoid conversations that were incendiary, and he could think of one simple way to do that: he would ask about Rosalind. He would ask all the questions, direct the conversation, and at the first sign of her wanting to discuss the king, he’d divert their discussion elsewhere. He would regain control of this situation and any wayward thoughts and wants that might creep in...
With renewed determination, he took a few paces back towards the house, scooped up the blanket they’d been sitting on and set his sights on what he hoped to achieve this week. A baby was all that mattered.
Knots had formed in Rosie’s stomach overnight. She’d slept badly, frustrated by their argument, replaying it, wondering what she could do to fix things between the king and his grandson, wondering if it was her place, and what good could come from her trying?
But she had to try.
Because she loved the king and she... Rosie frowned. She, what? She didn’t love Sebastian. Far from it! But she hated to see anyone in the kind of turmoil he was clearly in, and over something that had happened so long ago.
In the early light of the new day, she pushed out of bed, ignoring the pang in her chest at the other side of the bed, which was empty—they’d shared his room the night before, but Rosie hadn’t felt right presuming to go to sleep there.
Was it really the case that this family rift was ancient history? It was easy for Rosie to say that, given that the argument had happened so long ago. But hadn’t it kept happening? With Maria in exile, and Sebastian separated from the country he’d only known as a young boy? Hadn’t it kept happening every day he felt estranged from his culture, his people, saw his mother grieving, felt her pain at the rejection from her own father?
She hadn’t been prepared to see this side of him, to see beyond the veil of his arrogance to what motivated it. The ruthless need to succeed in all things was clearly motivated by the pain he’d endured. How could she know that, as she did now, and not feel differently about him?
Rosie toyed with her fingers, frustrated in a way she couldn’t explain, and padded softly out of the bedroom in search of a cup of coffee. In the kitchen, she flicked on only the small light in the range hood, not wanting to wake Sebastian, and set about making a coffee as quietly as she could.
So it wasn’t as simple as relegating their argument to the past.
Even the king, she was sure, had felt the echoes of his decision, long past having made it. Once he’d even called Rosie ‘Maria’, then closed his eyes as if it was the worst thing he could have said. She didn’t look at all like the former princess, which just showed how much Maria had been on the king’s mind, even then.
Why couldn’t they work out a way past this?
They’d lost so much time because of those decisions, but now Maria and Sebastian were back, and there was the opportunity to come together once more as a real family. To start the healing process, before it was too late.
Stricken, she glanced out of the window at the exact moment the front door quietly creaked open and she gripped her coffee cup with both hands, her heart in her throat. An intruder? On his private island?
Well, it might have been private, but it was surrounded by water and last she’d checked, boats could go just about anywhere they wanted. Could someone have made their way to his home?
With her pulse racing, she silently placed down her mug and grabbed the nearest thing she could find—a pepper grinder—and tiptoed out of the kitchen, her back to the wall as she crept closer and closer to the front door. And bumped headfirst—or rather was bumped into by—a big, broad, sweaty, practically naked body.
And screamed, her eyes shut—so much for defending them with a pepper grinder.
‘ Cara , cara , stop, it’s okay.’
Sebastian’s voice flooded her body, and the relief was immediate, if somewhat short-lived. She opened her eyes and stared up at him, mouth dry. ‘I thought you were still asleep. I thought, I heard the door, and I thought—’ She closed her eyes again. ‘It’s you.’
‘Yes, it’s me,’ he responded, one side of his lips quirking upwards. ‘It’s just me.’
But Sebastian could never be ‘just’ anything, she admitted to herself, all too aware of his state of undress.
‘You’re not wearing anything.’
‘I’m wearing something.’
‘Not anything much,’ she amended.
‘I’ve been for a run.’
‘At this hour?’
‘I always wake early.’
‘Of course you do.’
‘What does that mean?’
Her voice was still trembling. ‘Just that you’re not someone I can imagine sleeping in. Or relaxing.’
‘Haven’t we been relaxing, these last few days?’
She stared up at him, frowning. They’d been spending time together on a secluded island, but Rosie would have described it as the exact opposite of relaxing. With Sebastian, there was an energy that kept her constantly on guard. She felt everything tighten inside of her, shaking her head a little. ‘I don’t know.’
‘No,’ he agreed, even though she hadn’t exactly explained what she was thinking. ‘No one can reach the island, Rosalind. You are safe here.’ He caught her chin, lifting her face towards his. ‘Do you think I would ever expose you to danger?’
Her heart soared at that question, at the implicit promise of protection, and of something else that might underpin it—that he cared about her. But no one cared about her, really. No one but the king. Even her father had found Rosie too difficult to spend time with as she’d grown older, because of how similar to her mother she was. He looked at Rosie and saw Juliet, and his grief threatened to destroy them both.
But Sebastian didn’t care about Rosie. Her safety had to do with her position in the royal family, his obligation to her—on paper at least—as a husband, and his need for a quickly delivered heir.
‘How do you know?’ she asked, merely because she felt she had to say something, while her mind was spinning in a thousand different directions.
‘Because I have made it safe.’
‘How?’
‘There are patrol boats out there,’ he said, nodding. ‘Watching the perimeter.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Boats that could see us? That could have seen us in the water the other day?’
‘No. They are my private staff, not the Cavalonian army. I have trusted this team for a long time.’
Her heart began to settle.
‘On top of that, the house has heavy security surrounding it. Any unexpected activity immediately sets off an alarm.’
She shivered. Had he done that for her?
As if reading her thoughts, he said, ‘Whenever I am on the island, it is monitored. Even before I was a prince, I held the kind of net worth that might make me a target. It seemed a sensible precaution to take. Now it is doubly so.’
‘Yes,’ she said, feeling the pepper grinder in her hand, running her fingertips over the smoothness.
‘Though I’m glad to see you armed yourself for potential danger,’ he drawled. ‘And even more glad that you didn’t use it against me.’
Her lips twisted in a self-deprecating grimace. ‘It’s just a pepper grinder. I doubt it would have inflicted much damage.’
‘It’s heavy and easy to wield. You did well.’
Her stomach swooped at the casually delivered praise. They were standing so close together, she could feel his warmth and solid body and all of her was on fire with how much she responded to him.
She swallowed past a throat that was thick, and turned to look back down the corridor, towards the kitchen. ‘I just made a pot of coffee, if you want one?’
He lifted his hand as though he couldn’t help himself, his fingers curving around her cheek, so her eyes fluttered shut; the sensations were too overwhelming to add sight into the mix.
‘Sure,’ he said, but his thumb swiped across her lower lip and Rosie’s insides tightened with a sparkling of desire that threatened to burn her from the inside out. ‘But I might take a shower first.’
His thumb lingered in the centre of her lip. She resisted the urge—but only just—to lightly bite down on it.
‘Care to join me?’
Water rained over them, plastering Rosie’s fine gold hair to her face—making her look somehow even more beautiful, highlighting how fine her features were. She reminded him of a mythical creature, one of the fairies he remembered his mother telling him about, that as a girl she’d believed existed in the forests to the east of the country.
He found it impossible not to touch her. Being in the shower together, covered in droplets, her body was so tempting, and so close. His fingers traced lines over her arms, then found her breasts, circling her nipples, before running lower, to her hips.
She gasped as he gripped her on either side, her eyes startling to his, her head tilting, so it would have been a sin not to kiss her. Water doused them as he claimed her mouth, his body pressing to hers now so she was hard against the tiles, and he could wedge one knee between her legs. Rosie cried out, moving her hips, as if to satiate herself there, and he grinned against her mouth, the pleasure from her delirium almost unmatched.
He had no protection, and having not resolved the issue of pregnancy, he knew they couldn’t be together here, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t have fun. What had started as a spur-of-the-moment offer for her to join him had morphed into the white-hot desperate need that always flamed between them the moment he’d touched her. Or had she touched him first? A tentative hand, lifting to his chest, her eyes trained on the gesture. Yes, she’d touched him, almost as if she didn’t dare, and her uncertainty had broken something inside of him, some last vestige of control, so he’d sought to explore every piece of her, to feel her anew. And now this. Unmistakably, unsurprisingly, the culmination of any time they seemed to give in to this, there was an overwhelming need, building to a crescendo that simply had to be met.
He cursed inwardly, moving his hand between her legs, finding the part of her that offered satisfaction and teasing it at first, kissing her languidly, enjoying her rapturous little moans issued against him, her fingernails digging into his shoulders. Moans turned to pleas, and her head tilted back removing her lips, and he moved faster, glad they weren’t kissing, because watching her climax was one of the most beautiful things he’d seen in his life. Her whole face seemed to glow when she cried out on a wave of euphoria. He smiled slowly, his hand still between her legs, even after her frenzy had slowed and she was looking at him again completely dazed and confused by why this kept happening.
‘Better?’ he asked, arching a brow.
Her gaze skimmed his face, something shifting in the depths of her eyes that he didn’t understand, reminding him a little of the five months they’d spent married—and estranged—and how little he’d understood her. He hadn’t known that beneath that buttoned-up exterior was a wild, passionate woman. He’d seen her as money-grubbing, social climbing, someone who had done all they could to ingratiate themselves with the king for their own personal gain.
He’d been wrong about her.
The thought was as surprising to him as this sexual chemistry; he pushed it aside. He’d been wrong in some ways, but that didn’t change the fact that her loyalty lay with the king, and the king was not a man Sebastian could trust. Ever.
‘For me, a little.’ Her fingers lifted to his chest, tracing the droplets of water down the central line of his abdomen, stalling a little where his dark hair thickened at the top of his arousal. ‘But not for you.’
His smile was tight. ‘Unless you can see a condom somewhere...’
Her cheeks flushed pink, and she hesitated before speaking. ‘I can’t see one, but I suspect there’s one available?’
Pleasure burst through him. At her wanting him. At her feeling confident to tell him she wanted him. At the prospect of being with her. ‘Hold that thought,’ he promised with a darkness to his voice that was at odds with the relief he was experiencing. He strode from the shower completely uncaring for the pools of water he left in his wake.
Mere moments later, like a moth to a flame, he returned to her, sheathing himself as he stepped past the glass wall, reaching for Rosie immediately afterwards. She came as he reached—it was just like that. An echo of one movement creating a wave of another. Her skin was so soft, reminding him of rose petals in the early morning dew. He lifted her even as she seemed to almost climb his body, her legs wrapping around his waist, her back against the tiles, so he could enter her and support her on the wall, his frame shuddering with relief as he felt her muscles tighten around his length, welcoming him back. All of him, buried so deep inside of her, and yet they both moved with a desperation that spoke of needing more. Somewhere in the back of his mind it occurred to him that he might never get enough of this. That if he had a billion days on this planet, and could spend them doing this with his wife, it might never be enough.
Ridiculous.
He dismissed any idea of a billion days, or even the next day, and focused instead on the delightful, intoxicating here and now...