The Royal Collection. Rebecca WintersЧитать онлайн книгу.
But when he thought of her shaking droplets of water from the jagged tips of her hair, laughing, the tenderness of her back underneath the largeness of his hands, he felt a dip in the bottom of his belly.
He focused on it, but it wasn’t that familiar warning, his sideways feeling. It was a warmth as familiar as the sun and as necessary to life.
What had happened to his warning system? Had it become dismantled? Ronan wondered if he had lost some part of himself that he needed in the turquoise depths of her eyes.
Isn’t that what he’d learned about love from his mother? That relationships equaled the surrender of power?
“You are not having a relationship with her,” he told himself sternly, but the words were hollow, and he knew he had already crossed lines he didn’t want to cross.
But tomorrow was a new day, a new battle. He was a warrior and he fully intended to recapture his lost power.
SHOSHAUNA took a deep breath, slid a look at Ronan. He was intense this morning, highly focused, but not on her. She could not look at him—at the dark, neat hair, his face freshly shaven, the soft gold brown of his eyes, the sheer male beauty of the way he carried himself—without feeling a shiver, remembering his hands on her back last night.
“Are you mad at me?”
“Princess?” he asked, his voice flat, as if he had no idea what she was talking about.
“Yesterday you called me Shoshauna,” she said.
He said nothing; he did not look at her. He had barely spoken to her all morning. She’d gotten up and managed to get dressed, a painful process given the sunburn. Still, she had been more aware of something hammering in her heart, a desire to see him again, to be with him, than of the pain of that burn.
But Ronan had been nowhere to be found when she had come out of her bedroom. He’d left a breakfast of fresh biscuits and cut fruit for her, not outside on the bench where she had grown accustomed to sharing casual meals with him, but at the dining room table, at a place perfectly set for one.
Shoshauna had rebelled against the formality of it and taken a plate outside. As she ate she could hear the thunk of an ax biting into wood in the distance. Just as she was finishing the last of the biscuits, he dragged a tree into their kitchen clearing.
Watching him work, hauling that tree, straining against it, that awareness tingled through her, the same as she had felt yesterday when she had watched him strip off his shirt before swimming. She felt as if she was vibrating from it. Ronan was so one hundred percent man, all easy strength and formidable will.
Even to her inexperienced eye it looked as if he was bringing in enough wood to keep the stove fired up for about five years.
“Good morning, Ronan.” Good grief, she could hear the awareness in her voice, a husky breathlessness.
She knew how much she had come to live for his smile when he withheld it. Instead, he’d barely said good morning, biting it out as if it hurt him to be polite. Then he was focusing on the wood he’d brought in. After using a handsaw to reduce the tree to blocks, he set a chunk on a stump chopping block, swung the ax over his head, and down into the wood.
The whole exercise of reducing the tree to firewood was a demonstration—entirely unconscious on his part—of pure masculine strength, and she could feel her heart skip a beat every time he lifted the ax with easy, thoughtless grace. She remembered again the strength in those hands, tempered last night, and shivered.
But today his strength was not tempered at all. He certainly seemed angry, the wood splintering into a thousand pieces with each mighty whack of the ax blade, tension bunching his muscles, his face smooth with a total lack of expression.
He had not even asked her how her sunburn felt, and it felt terrible. Could she be bold enough to ask him to dress it again? She felt as if she was still trembling inside from the way his hands had felt pressing those soothing cloths onto her back last night. But he looked angry this morning, remote, not the same man who had been so tender last night.
“Ronan?” she pressed, even though it was obvious he didn’t want to talk. “Are you angry about something?”
Actually, something in him seemed to have shifted last night when he had questioned her about her marriage. He had gone very quiet after she had admitted she wasn’t being forced to marry anyone.
“No, ma’am, I’m not angry. What’s to be angry about?”
“Stop it!”
He set down the ax, wiped the sweat off his forehead with a quick lift of his shirt collar, then folded his arms over his chest, looked askance at her.
“I didn’t mean chopping the wood,” she said, knowing he had misunderstood her deliberately.
“What did you mean then, Princess?”
“Why are you being so formal? You weren’t like this yesterday.”
“Yesterday,” he said tightly, “was a mistake. I forgot myself, and it’s not going to happen again.”
“Having fun, going snorkeling was forgetting yourself?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“If you call me ma’am one more time, I’m going to throw this coconut right at your large, overweight head!”
“I think you might mean my big, fat head.”
“That’s exactly what I meant!”
He actually looked as though he might smile, but if he was amused he doused it quickly.
“Princess,” he said, his patience elaborate and annoying, “I’m at work. I’m on the clock. I’m not here to have fun. I’m not here to teach you to swim or to identify yellow tangs for you. My job is to protect you, to keep you safe until I can get you back to your home.”
“I could have been assassinated while you were out there chopping down the jungle,” she said, aware her tone was growing snippy with impatience. How could he possibly not want more of what they’d had yesterday?
Not just the physical touch, though that had filled her with a hunger that felt ravenous, a tiger that needed to be fed, but the laughter, the easy camaraderie between them. It was that she found herself craving even more. How could it be that he did not want the same things?
“I think,” he said dryly, “if assassins had arrived on the island, I would have heard a boat. Or a helicopter. I was only a few seconds away.”
He was deliberately missing the point! “Bitten by a snake, then!”
He didn’t answer, and she hated that he was treating her like a precocious child, though for some reason his attitude was making her act like one.
“Eaten by a tiger,” she muttered. “Attacked by a monkey.”
He sent her one irritated look, went back to the wood.
“I’m making a point! There is no danger here. None. No assassins, no snakes, no tigers, no mad monkeys. It would be perfectly fine for you to relax your vigilance.”
Crash. The wood splintered. He gathered the splinters, tossed them in a pile, wouldn’t look at her. “I relaxed yesterday. You got a large, overweight sunburn because of it.”
“You are not feeling responsible for that, are you?” His lack of a response was all the answer she needed. “Ronan, it wasn’t your fault. It’s not as if it was life threatening, anyway. A little sunburn. I can hardly feel it today.” Which was a lie, but if it got rid of that look from his face—a look of cool professional detachment—it would be a lie worth telling.
He said