Merrick Montgomery studied the woman whose life he was about to destroy . . . and who could, ultimately, destroy his.

          Alyssa Sutherland was stunning, he conceded.  Sexy, even in the silver wedding dress she wore.  He adjusted the binoculars to get a closer look.  She sat without moving while a bevy of women fluttered around her like jewel-colored butterflies.  Her features were as close to perfection as a man could desire and her figure—what he could see of it beneath the embellished gown she wore—threatened to rouse that desire to a fever pitch.  Dappled sunlight touched the champagne blonde of her hair, kissing it with the merest hint of rose.

          He felt an inexplicable and powerful urge to fully bare her to his gaze, to see if her body mirrored the perfection of that face.  Not that there was much doubt about what he’d uncover.  Such was the gift nature bestowed on certain women—warm, breathtaking beauty combined with cold, avaricious natures.

          Beneath her gown he’d find her flesh pale and unblemished enough to make a man forget her true nature.  She’d feel soft and supple against his calloused hands.  Would she be built like a goddess, her hips a lush, feminine sanctuary?  Or perhaps her gown hid a smaller, more boyish figure.  He’d found such women to be strong and lithe in bed.  Miniature dynamos.

          Goddess or dynamo, it didn’t matter.  She’d sold herself to Brandt von Folke which had forced his hand.           “It’s time,” Merrick announced calmly.  “No matter what, we make certain the woman doesn’t marry Brandt von Folke.  Understood?”

* * *

Alyssa Sutherland sat silently amidst a sea of chaos.  Events for the past week had moved at a breakneck pace and she hadn’t found a single minute in which to regain her equilibrium.  Not a moment to think.  Not to fight.  Not to negotiate or protest or plead.  Or run.  She’d simply been told what to do and been expected to obey without argument.

              Five minutes.  Five short, precious minutes.  How could she possibly prepare herself for what was to come in so little time?  

She fought against a wave of panic.  She didn’t have long to gain control of her emotions.  The seconds were rapidly ticking by.  She could sense the restless movement of her guard and attempted to dismiss him from her mind.  She drew in another breath, filling her lungs with the spring-warmed air that permeated what little she’d seen of the European country of Verdonia.

If this had been any other time, if the series of events that had brought her here had been different, she would have been enchanted by the beauty of all she’d encountered.  But she was far from enchanted.  She was alone and frightened and desperate to find a way out of this nightmare.

Somehow she’d become caught up in a political maelstrom, one she didn’t understand.  Her mother had tried to explain but there’d been so little time.  From their frantic and painfully brief conversation, Alyssa had learned that she held some sort of official position in Verdonia—no doubt related to this princess nonsense—and that her marriage to Brandt von Folke would unite two of three warring principalities.  She found herself dead center at the very heart of the turmoil, but how and why hadn’t been explained to her.  She’d simply been told her only option was to say, “I do” or her mother would suffer the consequences.

“I beg your pardon, Your Highness.  It’s time.”

Alyssa opened her eyes and stared at the burly guard hovering over her.  Panic tightened her throat.  “Already?”

Before she could plead for another moment of solitude, just an extra few precious seconds, a small whine sounded in her ear, whooshing past like a frantic mosquito.  A strange expression drifted across the guard’s face as though he, too, had heard the odd noise.  He made a small strangled sound and started to lift a hand to his neck, before dropping like a stone.  With an exclamation of horror, Alyssa leaped to her feet.

She managed one quick step in his direction before an iron band wrapped around her arms and waist, lifting her off the ground and up against a tall, muscular, and unquestionably male body.  At the same moment a large, powerful hand closed over her mouth, cutting off her incipient scream.  She hung in his arms for an endless moment, a rush of sensations swamping her.

His scent washed over her first.  It held the confusingly civilized odor of cedar and spice.  But underlying the crisp, delicious scent came something far more basic and dangerous, a primal pheromone that invaded her senses at the most carnal and instinctual level.  An image of a lion flashed through her mind’s eye, streaking across the African veldt, claws extended, teeth bared, its powerful haunches contracting as it hurdled toward its prey . . . toward her.

Alyssa exploded into motion, kicking and twisting.  It didn’t have the least impact.  He controlled her with frightening ease.  The warmth of his breath stirred the curls alongside her temple and his laughter rumbled against her back.

“Calm yourself, Princess,” he told her.  “Fighting won’t do you any good.  It will simply wear you out and make my job all the easier.”

His voice contained the distinctive lilt of most she’d met in Verdonia, though his was deeper and darker.  Educated.  The realization filtered through her terror.  She struggled to control her panic and pay attention, to gather as many facts as possible in the hopes that she could somehow use the information to her advantage. 

She stilled within his hold and he gave a grunt of satisfaction.  Turning his head, he called out several soft words in his native language.  They weren’t aimed at her.  She sensed others around her—not the guards—but men who worked in concert with the one who held her with such casual strength.

As soon as he’d satisfied himself that she’d given up her struggle, he melted into the shadows of the surrounding trees, carrying her from the garden outside the chapel’s courtyard, and into the woods.  She briefly saw the men he’d spoken to before they were blocked from view by a stand of trees.  All three were dressed in black, hooded and ominous in both appearance and size, and they moved with unmistakable purpose.  What did they want?  What were they planning?  Dear heaven, she’d wanted a way out of the marriage, but not like this and not at the expense of her mother.  Her mother!  She tensed within her captor’s hold, preparing to struggle again, but his grip tightened in warning.

“Don’t.”  He lowered his head so his whisker-roughened jaw brushed her cheek.  She shuddered at the delicately abrasive sensation.  It might have been a lover’s caress—would have been—if it hadn’t come from a ruthless kidnapper.  The dichotomy only further served to escalate her fear and she squirmed in reaction.  “Keep struggling and I’ll tie you up.  Is that what you want?”

Oh, God, anything but that.  Frantically, she shook her head.  The movement dislodged her veil, sending it sliding over one eye.  The finely tatted lace partially obscured her vision, increasing her terror.  She’d always suffered from mild claustrophobia and the idea of being robbed of both her freedom of movement, as well as her sight horrified her.  Panic bubbled upward and she forced herself to focus on her breathing, to slowly and fully drag the air into her lungs.

In the few moments it took to regain control of herself he carried her through the woods to a narrow country road.  Now they were alone and Merrick continued to restrain Alyssa within the protective shadow of the woods.  Releasing the arm that anchored her to his chest, he set her on the ground and spun her around to face him.  Her gaze inched upward past his thickly muscled chest to his face.  She shuddered.  It was as though the lion she’d pictured earlier had been reborn as a man.

Dark brown hair awash with streaks of every shade from umber to desert sand fell in heavy waves to frame strong, fierce features.  Arching cheekbones underscored intense eyes, the brilliant gold irises ringed in dark brown.  His razor-sharp nose had been broken at some point, but it only added to the unrelenting maleness of him, edging his appearance from the realm of stunningly handsome toward dangerously intriguing.  More telling, his broad mouth had a scar that hooked the left side of his upper lip and slashed toward his cheek.

This was a man who’d lived his life in ungentle pursuits.  Ruthlessness blazed in his eyes and was echoed in the grim lines etched into his features.  Any hint of gentleness had been carved away long ago, honing his appearance to the bare essence of a man who eschewed softness and compassion and all things temperate, who couldn’t be swayed by a woman’s love, and certainly didn’t compromise or yield, no matter how overwhelming the odds.

He backed her against a tree trunk, holding her with only his hand clamped to her mouth and the sheer force of his personality.  The rough bark bit through her gown and clawed at her back.  “I’ll release you if you promise not to scream.  Otherwise, I pull out the duct tape.  Clear?”

She gave a careful nod.  One by one his fingers lifted away, his hand hovering a mere breath from her mouth.  Tilting her chin she forced herself to meet his leonine gaze without flinching.  She wouldn’t plead, she refused to beg.  But she’d demand answers before she took another step.

“Why?”  She breathed the single word from between numb lips, allowing a hint of outrage to underscore the question.

He shrugged, his black shirt pulling taut across broad, well-muscled shoulders.  “You’re a pawn.  A pawn I intend to remove from the playing field.”

Her heart pounded in her chest.  How did he plan to remove her?  Did he mean . . . by killing her?  A bubble of nearly uncontrollable hysteria built inside her chest, pressing for release.  “Isn’t there some other way?”  She forced the words past her constricted throat, despising the hint of entreaty they contained.

His expression remained unrelenting.  Merciless.  This wasn’t a man who could be affected by a woman’s tears.  Nor pleading, nor demand, nor wiles.  What would happen had been predetermined by him and she was helpless to change that.

“I can’t allow the wedding to go through.”  He hesitated and to her surprise a hint of distaste gleamed in his odd golden eyes before being ruthlessly extinguished.  “I need your gown.”

The demand caught her off-guard.  “My what?”

“Your wedding gown.  Take it off.”

“But . . . why?”

“Wrong answer.”

She shook her head.  Her hair, loosened when he’d ripped the veil from her head, cascaded to her shoulders, cloaking her.  “Then you won’t like this one any better.  I can’t remove it.”

She was right.  He didn’t like her answer.  Hard furrows bracketed his mouth and tension rippled across his frame.  The lion stirred.  “Pay attention, Princess.  Either you take it off or I do.  Your choice.”

For some reason his response angered her.  She didn’t have a clue what hidden wellspring it erupted from, or how it managed to overcome the fear that held her on the very edge of control.  She simply recognized that she had two choices.  She could give in to the fear and start screaming, knowing full well that once she started, she’d never be able to stop—not until he silenced her, perhaps permanently.  Or she could choose to react to an impossible situation with a shred of dignity.

She looked Merrick square in the eye.  “I’m telling you the literal truth.  I can’t remove my clothing.  I’ve been sewn into my wedding gown.  I gather it’s the custom in this principality.  So, if you’re going to kill me, get it over with.”

“Kill you?”  Something flashed in his eyes.  Surprise?  Annoyance?  Affront?  “I have no intention of killing you.  But I do need that dress.  It’ll draw too much attention to us.  So, if you can’t remove the damn thing, I will.”

She heard the distinctive scrape of metal against leather and, unable to help herself, her gaze darted downward.  He’d pulled a knife from a scabbard strapped to his leg.  It was huge and serrated and gleamed wickedly even in the shadow of the massive oak.  The breath hissed from her lungs and she discovered that she couldn’t draw it in again.  Darkness crept into the periphery of her vision but all she could focus on was that knife and the hand that held it—a hand that fisted around the textured grip with unmistakable competence and familiarity.

“No – ”

She managed the one word just as the knife descended in a sudden, swift arc, the edge biting into the bodice of her gown.  For a brief instant she felt the repellent coldness of metal against the swell of her breast before it sliced downward through the silk straight to the hem.  He shoved the ruined gown from her shoulders, allowing it to pool on the verdant tufts of grass at their feet. 

She turned ashen, every scrap of color blanching from her skin as she struggled to suck air into her lungs.

Merrick watched her reaction with a bitter distaste for the necessity of his actions.  He despised what he’d been forced to do, what he’d been forced to become because of von Folke.  And yet, despite everything he’d done to her, her recovery was as swift as it was impressive.  The panic and fear rapidly faded from her expression and renewed anger glittered in the intense blue of her eyes.  He applauded her spirit, even as he realized it would make his job all the more difficult.

The instant her breathing stabilized, she attacked.  “You son of a bitch.”

 He conceded the truth with a twisted smile.  “So I’ve been told before.”

She stood with her spine pressed against the rough tree trunk, her arms folded across her chest.  He’d ruined her intricate hairstyle when he’d ripped the veil from her head and now the pale blonde curls spilled over her shoulders and down her back.  Seeing her without her gown answered two of his earlier questions.  She had, indeed, the creamy complexion he’d imagined, perfect in every regard.  And she was more goddess than dynamo.

For such a petite woman her breasts were surprisingly full, overflowing the low cut demi-bra she attempted to conceal with her crossed arms.  A tiny pink bow rested between the cups holding them together, though how it managed to remain safely tied defied explanation and tempted him beyond reason to release the pressure keeping all that bounty in place. 

His gaze lowered and he almost smiled.  Damned if she wasn’t wearing a petticoat, no doubt another custom of the region.  But then, he supposed it was necessary given the gown she’d worn.  The layers of white silk and tulle belled around her, whispering in agitation in the light breeze.

His amusement faded.  Time to set the tone for their relationship from this point forward.  Distaste filled him again, but he forced himself to do what he knew he must.  “Don’t move,” he ordered.

He lifted the knife again, giving her a full ten seconds to fixate on it before driving it through the voluminous skirting at her hip and deep into the tree trunk, pinning her in place.  Then he reached down and snatched up the shredded wedding gown, crumpling it in his fist.  Deliberately turning his back on her, he carried the gown to the silver SUV and tossed it inside.  His men would dispose of it.

Merrick paused, interested to see what the Sutherland woman would do next.  Her choice would determine how they spent the rest of their time together.  He didn’t have to wait long for his answer.  Nor was he surprised by her decision.  The sound of rending silk signaled her response.

Turning around, he was just in time to see her stumble free of the knife and run – as best she could given her three inch heels – back into the woods, her petticoats fluttering behind her.  To his relief, it didn’t occur to her to scream.  He retrieved his knife before giving chase, running swiftly and silently in pursuit.  Her hair streamed behind her like a golden flag of surrender and her breath came in swift, frightened pants.  She’d kicked off her shoes at some point and the tear in her petticoats where she’d ripped free of the knife gave her plenty of legroom, allowing her to run more easily and making her far more fleet than he’d anticipated.

Merrick gritted his teeth.  He needed to have his princess whisked far away from here as quickly as possible.  Putting on an extra bit of speed, he closed the distance between them.  He waited for her to take a couple more steps so that he could control their fall, and then he launched himself at her.

He deliberately twisted so he’d take the brunt of the landing.  Hitting the earth with a thud, he skidded a foot or two in the leaf litter and tree bracken before coming to rest in a grassy section relatively free of rocks and sticks.  He wrapped one arm around her body and the other around her neck, controlling her air supply.  She struggled for a brief minute before giving up the fight with a soft moan of surrender.

“You don’t listen very well.”  He spoke close to her ear.  “I warned that running would cost you.  Time to pay.”

With that, he took advantage of her parted lips and dipped downward, possessing the most lush, sumptuous mouth he’d sampled in many a year.

Other Books in the Royals Trilogy:

 

The Forbidden Princess

The Prince's Mistress

The Royal Wedding Night

Plus!

The Billionaire's Baby Negotiation

From the book:

 

THE FORBIDDEN PRINCESS

by Day Leclaire

Book 1, The Royals Trilogy

Silhouette Desire #1780 -- February ’07

ISBN:  0-373-76780-9

Copyright © 2007 by Day Leclaire.  ® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher.  This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.  For more romance information surf to: http://www.eharlequin.com