Royal Weddings. Joan Elliott Pickart

      ‘‘Well, if you do, then I confess…’’

      She seemed to need more urging. He gave it. ‘‘You confess…’’

      ‘‘Since this morning, when you kissed me and then sent me to my room to pack, I have… thought of this. Hoped for this. Prepared for this.’’

      ‘‘Prepared?’’

      The blush on her cheeks flooded outward, suffusing her entire sweet face with color. ‘‘You said you’d never have children until you had a wife.’’

      By the breath of the dragon, he’d said exactly that—and meant it. He’d also taken a blood oath to give undying loyalty to his king. But look at him now.

      ‘‘I’m a responsible woman.’’ She was earnest now, enchantingly so. ‘‘I’d never ask you to go against your beliefs. I have contraception.’’ Contraception. Of course. American to the core.

      She looked so very sincere about this. And so beautiful.

      He told her simply, ‘‘That’s wise.’’ There were other things he might have said. But anything else would have brought questions he saw no need to answer right then.

      He wasn’t a total thief. He’d only take the taste of her, her deep, warm sighs, the touch of her skin to his. There’d be no risk he’d put a bastard in her belly. She’d understand that, soon enough. They didn’t need to talk it over now.

      She slid up his chest again and pressed her sweet mouth to his—quickly, this time. And firmly. ‘‘I’ll go then. I’ll… get them.’’ She pretended to glare. ‘‘You stay right here.’’

      ‘‘Your wish is my command.’’

      She jumped from the bed and hurried to the door, pausing there briefly to send him a tender look. Then she was gone. He lay back, thinking that he loved the lightning. It had always pleased him. And it seemed all the brighter the dimmer the room. He switched off the lamp.

      A moment later, she returned, a small box in her hand.

      She set the box by the bed.

      He whispered, ‘‘You don’t need that big pink shirt. Not now. Not for the rest of the night.’’

      She hesitated, hovering there beside the bed, the wedge of light from the open door behind her casting her face into shadow, making a halo around her golden hair.

      Lightning flared. He saw her face clearly—uncertain and sweetly shy. The light went out. Thunder boomed.

      She took the bottom of the shirt, whipped it up and over her head. And tossed it away.