That night Prince Brad took the frog to his bed and laid her on his pillow.
“Oh no,” said the frog. “I’m a frog, not a toad. I need water. You’ll have to fetch a basin.”
Brad muttered under his breath, but as the queen had followed him to his bedroom to see to the comfort of their guest, he was forced to comply.
The frog jumped into the basin of water beside Brad’s pillow and sighed sleepily. “Good night.”
“I hate you,” Prince Brad replied.…
—From The Frog Princess
Three days later Adam lounged in the sitting room. It was after dinner and the party had all crowded into the room, where a silly game was in progress.
He took a sip of his brandy and watched Miss St. John—Sarah—as she tried to find the other members of the party. She wore a scarf tied about her eyes and she walked haltingly, her hands outstretched, and with a small smile on her face.
He hadn’t spoken to her save to say, “Good morning” or “Pass the bread” since he’d kissed her.
Which was all for the best. He knew that. She wasn’t for him, and that strange feeling of…intimacy, of recognizing someone alike in mind and soul, all that had been false.
There was a cheer, and Adam looked up to see Miss St. John holding Dr. Manning. The doctor was smiling gently as Miss St. John ran her fingers over his face to try to guess who he was.
Rot.
Adam threw back the last of the brandy in his glass and stood.
“Had enough, d’Arque?”
The soft voice was St. John’s, and Adam paused to look at him. The other man was watching him carefully and for once without malice.
Adam inhaled. “As you can see, sir.”
“I never took you for a man who retreated from…festivities.”
Was St. John…approving of Adam’s interest in his sister? The world had turned upside-down. “Perhaps then you should revise your opinion of me.”
St. John glanced at his sister and then at Adam. “No, I don’t think so.”
Adam gritted his teeth. “Good night, sir.”
The other man inclined his head and drawled, “My lord.”
Adam strode from the room, a sort of black mood overcoming him. He’d done the only thing he could, he thought as he sprang up the stairs. He’d let Sarah go when she requested it. Had backed away.
Had conceded the field to other men.
Respectable men.
He paused at the top of the stairs and grimaced. St. John had come close to calling him a coward and perhaps he was.
He turned and strode to Grand-mère’s room. He knocked softly on the door before opening it.
Inside, Cannon was perched in her chair by the bed, her head at an awkward-looking angle, asleep. He approached the bed and saw that his grandmother was asleep as well. She lay there, her white hair tucked beneath a cap, her hands holding the coverlet to her chest.
Her gnarled fingers were bent by arthritis, the backs of her hands bruised and liver-spotted. The sapphire ring looked huge on her bony hand.
She looked so frail.
He turned and found a blanket, then gently draped it over Cannon and left the room.
He wasn’t yet sleepy, so he made his way to the library. He’d found in the last several days that though the Hedge House library was small, it had several interesting and rare books.
But when he entered the library door he found a light within.
Sarah was at the far end, her back to him as she perused the shelves, her candle held high.
He turned to retreat, but he must’ve made some noise.
“My lord,” she called.
He stopped without facing her. “I thought I told you to call me Adam.”
“Adam, then.” He heard her venture nearer. “Have I offended you?”
“No.” He closed his eyes.
“Then will you look at me?”
Had she no sense of self-preservation?
But it was as if he were controlled by an outside force…or perhaps merely her voice.
He turned to face her.
She wore a blue dress tonight, the color of a robin’s egg, her hair bound simply at her nape. Her eyes were wide and uncertain, but her chin was level and proud.
She was irresistible to him.
He prowled toward her, feeling a sort of reckless urge rise within his blood. “What is it you want, Sarah?”
Her rose-red lips parted. “I never gave you permission to use my given name.”
“Did you not?” He walked right up to her, close enough he could see the pulse beating at the base of her throat. “I think you’re wrong. I think you gave me all the permission I need when you returned my kiss.”
She blinked, and he could see her swallow. He smelled the scent of roses and it nearly maddened him.
Or perhaps he was already mad.
“Run now,” he whispered.
She stared at him, refusing to move.
“Very well,” he snarled, and took her into his arms.
She’d stayed away from him as long as she could, Sarah thought dazedly as she opened her mouth beneath Adam’s assault. She’d never come within a couple of paces of him, had sat at the opposite end of the dining table from him every night, had made sure not to be alone with him.
And all for naught.
She fell now as easily as she had three days ago.
More easily if that were possible.
It was as if he were a wine she craved without ceasing.
She clutched at his broad shoulders, struggling to get closer.
To feel all of him.
She moaned, suckling his tongue. Gasped at the heat that flamed at her center.
He picked her up, and she broke their kiss to squeak.
He smirked at her, his lazy gray eyes half-lidded and filled with desire as he walked to a settee. He sat down and arranged her across his lap.
Then he bent and kissed her again.
She wound her arms around his neck, feeling drunk from his mouth, from his lips moving over hers.
She was lost.
He broke their kiss and laid his forehead against hers. “Make me stop.”
“I can’t,” she whispered.
“Then we’re doomed,” he said, his voice husky and low. “For I’m unable to stop myself. I want you. Day and night and all the time in between. I want you.”
She pulled his head down to hers, capturing his lips, running her hands over his cheeks, his neck. He wore a white wig as he always did, and when her fingertips brushed it she was impatient. She reached up and pulled it off, then dropped it to the floor.
He had dark, nearly black hair, cut close to his head.
She gloried in this intimate knowledge, running her palms over the crown of his head.
He pulled back, panting, and began to tug up her skirts.
The realization woke her from her delirium of want and into near panic.
She jolted and frantically shoved at his arm—the one under her skirt. “No. No.”
Had she thought about it, she would have expected anger.
Instead he carefully pulled his hand from her skirts and smoothed them down.
Then he looked at her and said, “I think it’s time you told me about him.”