The Ice Princess (Princes #3.5)

The Ice Princess (Princes #3.5) Page 5

But a wise player knew when to avoid the too-obvious lure. "I want your mask. Take it off for me, Aphrodite."

She froze. Her hands crept to her face, touching the gold that shielded her from his eyes.

"No." Her hands dropped to her lap. "I said I'd decide whether to give the forfeit or not and I cannot give that."

"I see." He blew out a silent breath of disappointment. Still too soon, then. He leaned forward and began gathering the draughts pieces.

Then she cleared her throat.

He looked up, his hands stilling.

"I'll give another forfeiture," she said so low it was nearly a whisper.

His eyes narrowed. "What is that?"

"My name." She swallowed. "My name is Coral Smythe."

And the triumph that surged through him was sweeter than that he'd felt the first time he'd defeated an enemy ship.

Chapter 5

At the touch of the Ice Princess's frozen lips, the poor mortal man's blood would stop. His heart would freeze and his face and limbs ice over. He would, in fact, become a statue of ice, and then he joined the hundreds of other frozen men who stood about the Ice Princess's icy lake. Immobile. Silent. Unchanging. And her only companions. . . .

--from The Ice Princess

Coral woke early the next morning and turned to look at the chair. Empty. Isaac was already gone. Alarmed, she sat up and felt for her mask, but it was still in place. She swallowed, letting her arms fall. Strange to think that he'd seen her asleep. She usually hated the thought of being observed with her defenses down, but with Isaac . . . the knowledge that he'd seen her asleep was almost erotic.

She shivered and rose. She was letting the captain too close. A man didn't rise to command his own ship in the Royal Navy by being weak. By letting his desires control him. No matter his interest in her at the moment, it would disappear once the novelty wore off and he came to his senses.

Coral pushed the cruel thought from her mind. She had errands to run and if she were quick she might leave the Grotto before Jimmy rose. Quickly she dressed and hurried through the little passage, but her luck ran out when she reached the main hall. Jimmy leaned against the wall as if he'd been waiting for her. Her heart jumped nervously at the sight.

"Another late night, Aphrodite?" He shook his head in mock concern. "And I hear Captain Wargate spent the night in your rooms. Again."

She made to move past him. "I've an appointment—"

He caught her arm roughly. "You're not taking your services elsewhere, are you, sweet?"

"Of course not." She inhaled to calm the panicked fluttering in her breast.

He squeezed, pinching her flesh against her bones painfully. "Because I wouldn't like to have to discipline you, Aphrodite, not when you've suddenly proved so very profitable again."

She stared, truly shocked now. "You know I don't entertain. Not anymore. After Captain Wargate's seven nights are up--"

"The gentlemen will be clamoring to try you." Jimmy grinned like the evil imp he was. "We simply can't afford to let this opportunity slide, sweet."

"Jimmy—"

He suddenly let go of her arm, causing her to stumble back. "I think we'll make the Red Room solely yours. It'll lend a touch of exclusivity to your wares. Now don't let the captain tire you out. I've already got the customers lining up for your first free night."

He grinned again and strolled away down the hall.

Coral pressed her hand to her chest, feeling the frantic beat of her heart. Dear God, if Jimmy truly decided to whore her out, there was nothing she could do to defend herself. He held the majority share in the Grotto, had the power to toss her into the street. And worse, he had the power to make the lives of all those who worked in Aphrodite’s Grotto—the working boys and women, the maids and cooks, even the bully boys—a living hell. Jimmy could make her go back to being a common whore. Go back to suffering under strange men every night.

No. Simply no. She could not do that again—which made her appointment this morning even more urgent. Coral turned and fled down the Grotto's back staircase.

It was late by the time she returned that night. She crept up the back stairs of the Grotto. The cries of the merrymakers in the front of the building were muted but quite discernible. She'd lived in this place for over two years, yet she felt none of the warmth one should when returning home. But then what kind of fool expected the warmth of home from a brothel?

Coral paused outside the door to her room. It looked no different than it had this morning, but she sensed he was already here. She compressed her lips. He was occupying entirely too much of her thoughts. It wouldn't do. She was the madam of the most infamous brothel in London. She'd used and tossed aside men much more powerful than he. She was Aphrodite. And after these seven days were up she'd never see him again in this lifetime.

She would be the one to use and forget, not he.

So she slipped her wrap from her shoulders, tugged her bodice a little lower, and tilted her chin as she opened the door to her little room. He sat at her table, his long legs sprawled before him in perfect comfort, his eyes closed, his arms crossed over his chest as if he owned the room. The sight irritated her beyond reason.

She shut the door behind her over-hard. "Good evening, Captain Wargate."

"Isaac," he drawled without opening his eyes. "And a good evening to you as well, Coral."

She strolled toward him, dropping her wrap on the bed as she passed it. His mere presence was an irritation, a prickling beneath her skin. What did he want with her? What game was he playing?

"A gentleman would rise on the entrance of a lady," she said, sharper than she'd meant, but then he was wearing away the shell of her artifice. "Oh, but I forgot, I'm not a lady am I?" She was by the dresser now and she twitched the mirror slightly to the left. "I'm a whore—a very, very high priced whore. And yet you merely sit there and talk to me. Or play draughts. What kind of man wants to talk to a whore?" She flicked too jerkily at the miniature and it fell to the floor with a clatter. She stared at it, blinking angrily. Damn it! Why couldn't she control her mouth with him?

From behind her he sighed. "Come sit down, Coral."

She turned to him, folding her arms. "Why should I?"

His wide mouth curved into a surprisingly sweet smile, lighting his hawkish eyes and pressing a dimple into one hard cheek. He looked almost boyish. She did not want to be attracted to this man. "Because I bought some meat pies for our supper."

He bent and picked up a cloth bag from his feet and took out a wrapped bundle. The moment he unfolded the bundle, the aroma of hot meat pies filled the room, making her inhale deeply in appreciation.

She came to the table with ill grace. "Why?"

"Why what?" he murmured without looking up from the task of placing the pies on two plates.

"Why bring me dinner?" She was honestly confused. She didn't know what this man wanted at all and the oddity of it kept her off balance.

"Because I'm hungry?" He produced a bottle of wine and poured two glasses.

"I told you, I don't drink with customers," she said as she sat.

He pushed the wineglass toward her without speaking, only his black eyes gave ironic challenge.

She picked up the glass and took a sip defiantly.

A corner of his mouth twitched before he picked up his meat pie and bit into it. He closed his eyes for a moment, a look of near rapture crossing his face.

Coral felt her mouth go dry. What would it be like to be the cause of such bliss? To drive this man—Isaac—to rapture?

He opened his eyes and smiled at her, swallowing, his tanned throat working. "You have no idea how tasty a meat pie is after months at sea."

There were any number of ribald comments she could make to that, but simple curiosity won out. "Tell me."

"We start out with fresh meat and provisions, of course." He took a sip of his wine. "But they never last long. Then we're down to mealy biscuits mostly until we make port again. Funny how each man takes it. Most simply soldier on, try not to think of better victuals."

"Most?" She poked at her pie with a fork. He'd set two out, though he was eating his own pie with his fingers.

He grunted. "I once had a first mate, name of Jones. He would talk on and on about food. Dishes his mother made. Favorite meals he'd had. The last meal he'd eaten while on shore. He could wax eloquent about a joint of beef until you fair tasted the meat on your tongue."

Coral raised her eyebrows, smiling in spite of herself. "And how did your other sailors take this?"

"Not always well." He chuckled. "I once had to confine two sailors to the brig. I was afraid they'd murder Jones in his sleep."

She laughed, the soft sound surprising her. She looked down at her meat pie and took a bite. It was delicious, the gravy savory, the thick chunks of meat tender. "Jones is no longer your first mate?"

He didn't answer and she looked up. Isaac had stopped eating and was staring blindly down at the table.

"Isaac?"

He inhaled and glanced at her, his eyes empty. "No, Jones is no longer my first mate."

She made a practice of leading men on and then turning away. Of never asking too deep a question. Of never becoming involved.

But not tonight. "What happened to him?"

His brows knit as he stared down at his half-eaten meat pie. "We were in battle. A cannon blast caught him on the right arm, just below the shoulder. It wasn't a single ball, but shrapnel—bits of sharp iron. His arm . . ." He swallowed, reaching for his wineglass, but he merely fingered the stem. "His arm was destroyed. The sawbones tried to make a clean amputation, but the wound was very near the shoulder, and it wouldn't stop bleeding. We buried Jones at sea the next morning."

She bit her lip. For some reason the very stoicism of his recital made it all the more heart-wrenching. "I'm sorry."

He didn't seem to hear her. "It's strange. Sometimes the most ordinary of men, the ones small in stature, the ones not outstanding in intelligence or good humor, show the most extraordinary courage. He was awake the entire time, Jones was. All that night with the screams of the other wounded around him he merely lay there, his face white, a small smile on his lips. After the sawbones cut into him, carved away the bits of flesh that hung from his shoulder; after he said he could do no more, Jones looked at him and thanked him. And when I went to talk to him just before dawn, Jones tried to salute and told me it'd been an honor to serve with me."

She looked at him helplessly. She knew how to give a man immeasurable pleasure, how to tease and flirt, how to bring a man so close to the brink he literally begged to be released, and yet she did not know how to comfort this one man.

"Isaac," she whispered.

He blinked and looked up. "Forgive me. This is not nice conversation for a supper table."

She felt a spurt of unaccountable anger and blurted, "But this is what I want to talk about. I want to know about you, about your ship and about your men. I want to know you, Isaac."

Her rash words hung there in the air between them. She couldn't take them back, couldn't pretend she hadn't said them, so she stared at him defiantly. For a moment he didn't move.

Then he leaned a little forward. "Take off your mask, Coral."

She couldn't. She simply couldn't. If she removed her mask, he'd see what lay beneath, he'd see everything she wanted to keep hidden. He'd see her. But oddly, her hands were moving of their own volition, pulling free the ribbons at the back of her head. She laid her golden mask on the table.

And looked at him.

Chapter 6

Now one day a soldier came home from war to the village where he'd been born. And after he'd greeted his mother and father, his sisters, and his old grandmother, he looked around and exclaimed, "But where is Tom, my younger brother? Will he not come and bid me welcome home?"