Christmas Nights. Penny Jordan

of the gold overdress added to Ionanthe’s growing discomfort as they made their slow and stately progress through the crowd.

      Initially, when they had set out from the palace steps, they had been surrounded by uniformed palace guards, but the square was packed with people and gradually they had broken through the ranks of the guards. The people might be enjoying themselves, but Ionanthe couldn’t help contrasting their general air of shabbiness and poverty with the extreme richness of the appearance of those connected with the court—including, of course, herself. Here and there amongst the sea of faces, Ionanthe recognised people from her grandfather’s estate, and a wave of self-revulsion washed over her as she acknowledged that her family was responsible for their poverty. That must change. She was determined on that.

      A courtier was throwing coins into the crowd for the children, and it filled Ionanthe with anger to see them scrabbling for the money. Right in front of them one small child burst into tears as an older child wrenched open his chubby hand to remove the coins inside it. The small scene wrenched at Ionanthe’s heart. Automatically she stepped forward, wanting to comfort the smaller child, but to her astonishment Max beat her to it, going down on one knee in the dust of the square to take the hands of both children. To the side of him the families looked on, their faces tight with real fear. Cosmo had treated the poorest amongst the people particularly badly, Ionanthe knew, raising taxes and punishing them for all manner of small things, laughing and saying that they were free to leave the island and live elsewhere if they did not like the way he ran his own country.

      Obedient to Max’s grip on their wrists, both children opened their hands. Max felt his heart contract with angry pity as he looked down at the small coins that had caused the fracas. A few pennies, that was all, and yet—as he already knew from studying the island’s financial affairs—for some of the poorest families a few pennies would be vitally important. One day, if he was successful, no child on Fortenegro would need to fight for pennies or risk going hungry.

      Sharing the coins between the two children equally, he closed their palms over them and then stood up, announcing firmly, ‘My people—in honour of this day, every family in Fortenegro will receive the sum of one hundred fortens.’

      Immediately a loud buzz of excitement broke out as the news was passed from person to person. The Count looked aghast and complained, ‘Such a gesture will cost the treasury dear, Highness.’

      ‘Then let it. The Treasury can certainly afford it; it is less, I suspect, than my late cousin would have spent on the new yacht he was planning to commission.’

      There were tears of real gratitude in the eyes of the people listening to him, and Ionanthe could feel her own eyes starting to smart with emotion as she reacted to his unexpected generosity. But he was still Cosmo’s cousin, she reminded herself fiercely. Still the same man who had threatened and forced her into this marriage with him rather than risk losing his royal status and everything that went with it. One act of casual kindness could not alter that.

      It appalled and shocked her to realise how easily swayed her emotions were; in some way she seemed to want to believe the best of him, as though she was already emotionally vulnerable to him. That was ridiculous—more than ridiculous. It was impossible. The emotion she felt stemmed from her concern for the people, that was all, and she must make sure he knew it.

      When the Count had turned away, she lifted her chin and told Max fiercely, ‘It is all very well giving them money, but what they really need is the freedom to earn a decent wage instead of working for a pittance as they do now for the island’s rich landowners.’

      ‘One of which was your grandfather,’ Max pointed out coolly. Her words stung.

      What had he expected? He derided himself. That she would turn to him and praise him for his actions? That she would look at him with warmth in her eyes instead of contempt? That she would fling herself into his arms? Of course not. Why should it matter what she thought of him? She was simply a means to an end, that was all. A means to an end and yet a human being whose freedom of choice was being sacrificed to appease an age-old custom. For the greater good, Max insisted to himself—against his conscience.

      ‘It is time, I think, for us to head back to the palace.’

      Delicate, but oh-so-erotic shivers of pleasure slid wantonly over Ionanthe’s skin in the place where Max’s warm breath had touched it. Her reaction took her completely off guard. Shock followed pleasure—shock that her body was capable of having such an immediate and intense reaction to any man, but most of all to this one. It was totally out of character for her—totally unfamiliar, totally unwanted and unacceptable—and yet still her flesh was clinging to the memory of the sensation it had soaked up so greedily. She had gone years without missing or wanting a man’s sensual touch—so why now, as though some magical button had been pressed, was she becoming so acutely aware of this man’s sensuality?

      Infuriated with herself for her weakness, Ionanthe moved out of reach of a second assault on her defences, firmly reminding herself of the reality of the situation. This was a man who was already dictating to her and telling her what to do. To him she was merely a possession—payment of a debt he was owed. And tonight in his arms she would have to make the first payment.

      A shudder tore through her. She should not have allowed herself to think of that, of tonight.

      As she moved away from him he reached out to stop her, placing his hand on her arm. Even though he wasn’t using any force, and even though her arms were covered, thanks to her unwanted heightened state of awareness she could feel each one of his fingers pressing on her as though there was no barrier between them. His touch was that of flesh on flesh. Disturbing and unwanted images slid serpent-like into her mind—images of him with her sister, touching her, caressing her, admiring and praising her. Once again emotion spiked sharply through her, reminding her of the jealousy she had felt as a child. This was so wrong, so foolish, and so dangerous. She was not competing with her dead sister for this man’s approval. There was only one thing she wanted from him and it was not his sexual desire for her. The only reason she had married him was the people of Fortenegro, for the son who would one day rule benignly over them. For that she was prepared to undergo and endure whatever was necessary. She pulled away from him, plunging into the crowd, determined to show him her independence.

      ‘Ionanthe! No!’ Max protested, cursing under his breath as she was swallowed up by the crowd, and forcing his way through it after her.

      People were pressing in on her, the crowd was carrying her along with it, almost causing her to lose her balance. Fear stabbed through Ionanthe as she realised how vulnerable she was in her heavy clothes.

      An elderly man grabbed hold of her arm, warning her, ‘You had better do better by our Prince than that whore of a sister of yours. She shamed us all when she shamed him.’

      Spittle flecked his lips, and his eyes were wild with anger as he shook her arm painfully. The people surrounding her who had been smiling before were now starting to frown, their mood changing. She looked round for the guards but couldn’t see any of them. She was alone in a crowd which was quickly becoming hostile to her.

      She hadn’t thought it was in her nature to panic, but she was beginning to do so now.

      Then Ionanthe felt another hand on her arm, in a touch that extraordinarily her body somehow recognised. And a familiar voice was saying firmly, ‘Princess Ionanthe has already paid the debt owed by her family to the people of Fortenegro. Her presence here today as my bride and your Princess is proof of that.’

      He was at her side now, his presence calming the crowd and forcing the old man to release her, as the crowd began to murmur their agreement to his words.

      Calmly but determinedly Max was guiding her back through the crowd. A male voice called out to him from the crowd.

      ‘Make sure you get us a fine future prince on her as soon as maybe, Your Highness.’ The sentiment was quickly taken up by others, who threw in their own words of bawdy advice to the new bridegroom. Ionanthe fought to stop her face from burning with angry humiliated colour. Torn between unwanted relief that she had been rescued and discomfort about