hair, and in a badly rumpled and ill-fitting dress.
But that was exactly what he had to remember, to keep his boundaries clear, his professionalism unsullied, his duty foremost in his mind. She was a princess, a real one. He was a soldier. Their stations in life were millions of miles apart. And they were going to stay that way.
“My mother would never have allowed it,” she said, sadly. “She had this idea that to do things that could be done by servants was common. Of course, she was a commoner, and she never quite overcame her insecurity about it.”
She didn’t know how to make a bed.
Every soldier had been tormented, at one time or another, with making a bed that could satisfy a drill sergeant who had no intention of being satisfied. Ronan could make a bed—perfectly—anywhere, anytime.
To focus on the differences between them would strengthen his will. To perceive her as pampered and useless would go a long way in erasing the memory of her slender curves pressed into his back as they rode that motorcycle together.
“I’d be happy to make it for you, Princess,” he said.
She glared at him. “I don’t want you to make it for me! I want you to show me how to make it.”
He was tired. He had not had the benefit of a two hour nap in the bottom of the boat. She had slept for an hour or so before that, as well, while they had waited, hidden, for it to get dark enough to take her grandfather’s boat from the dock and cross the water without being seen.
It would be easier for him to make the bed himself, but he had to get through a full week, and that wasn’t going to be easy if he argued with her over little things.
His eyes went to the full puffiness of her lips, and he felt his own weariness, his resolve flickering.
He had to get though a full week without kissing her, too.
Making a bed together didn’t seem like a very good starting point for keeping things professional and distant. Neither did fighting with her.
He had the uneasy feeling he’d better adjust to being put in no-win positions by the princess.
He separated the sheets from the blankets, found the bottom sheet and tossed it over the mattress.
“First you tuck this under the mattress,” he said.
“I’ll do it!” she said, when he reached out to demonstrate.
He held up his hands in surrender, stood back, tried not to wince at her sloppy corners, the slack fabric in the center of the bed. He didn’t offer to help as she grunted over lifting the corners of the mattress.
He handed her the second sheet, tried to stay expressionless as she shoved it under the bottom of the mattress in such a bunched-up mess that the mattress lifted.
She caught the tip of her tongue between her teeth as she focused with furious concentration on the task at hand. He folded his arms firmly over his chest.
She inserted the pillows in the cases with the seams in the wrong places and fluffed them. Then he handed her the top blanket, which she tossed haphazardly on top of the rest of her mess.
The bed was a buck private’s nightmare, but she smiled with pleasure at her final result. To his eye, it looked more like a nest than a well-made bed.
“See?” she said. “I can do ordinary things.”
“Yes,” he said, deadpan. “I can clearly see that.”
Something in his tone must have betrayed him, because she searched his face with grave suspicion.
A drill sergeant would have had the thrill of ripping it apart and making her do it again, but he wasn’t a drill sergeant. In fact, at the moment he was just an ordinary guy, trying to survive.
“Okay,” he said, “if you have everything—”
“Oh, I’ll make yours, too. For practice.”
“What do you need practice making a bed for?” he asked crankily. He didn’t want her touching his bedding.
He was suddenly acutely aware of how alone they were here, of how the dampness of the sea air was making the baggy dress cling to her, of how her short hair was curling slightly from humidity, and there seemed to be a dewy film forming on her skin. He was aware of how her tongue had looked, caught between her teeth.
Ignoring him, she marched right by him into his room. He trailed behind her reluctantly, watched as she opened the trunk where the linens were kept and began tossing them on his bed.
“I’m going to do all kinds of ordinary things this week,” she announced.
“Such as?” He didn’t offer to help her make the bed, just watched, secretly aghast at the mess she was making.
“Cooking!” she decided.
“I can hardly wait.”
He got the suspicious look again.
“Washing dishes. Doing laundry. You can show me those things, can’t you?”
She sounded so enthused he thought she must be pulling his leg, but he could tell by the genuine eager expression on her face she really wasn’t.
How did a man maintain professional distance from a princess who wanted nothing more than to be an ordinary girl, who was enthralled at the prospect of doing the most ordinary of things?
He nodded cautiously.
“I would like to learn how to sew on a button,” she decided. “Do you know how to do that?”
Sewing buttons, insignia, pant hems, was right up there with making beds in a soldier’s how-to arsenal, but she didn’t wait for him to answer.
“And I can’t wait to swim in the ocean! I used to swim here when I was a child. I love it!”
He thought of that bikini in their backpack, closed his eyes, marshaling strength.
“You don’t happen to know how to surf, do you?” she asked him. “There used to be a surfboard under the cottage. I hope it’s still there!”
His boyhood days had been spent on a surfboard. It was probably what had saved him from delinquency, his love of the waves, his need to perfect the dance with the extraordinary, crashing power of them.
“This bay doesn’t look like it would ever get much in the way of surf,” he told her. “It’s pretty protected.”
She looked disappointed, but then brightened. “There’s snorkeling equipment under there, too. Maybe we can do that.”
We, as if they were two kids together on vacation. Now would be the time to let her know he had no intention of being her playmate, but he held his tongue.
She gave his bed a final, satisfied pat. “Well, good night Ronan. I can’t wait for tomorrow.” She blew him a kiss, which was only slightly better than the one she had planted on his cheek earlier in the day.
He rubbed his cheek, aggravated, as if the kiss had actually landed, an uncomfortably whimsical thought for a man who prided himself on his pragmatic nature. He listened for her to get into her own bed, then went on silent feet and checked each side of the cabin.
The night was silent, except for the night birds. The ocean was dark and still, the only lights were from the moon and stars, the few lights on the mainland had winked out.
He went back into his bedroom. He knew he needed to sleep, that it would help him keep his thinking clear and disciplined. He also knew he had acquired, over the years, that gift peculiar to soldiers of sleeping in a state of readiness. Any sound that didn’t belong would awaken him instantly. His highly developed sixth sense would guard them both through the night.
He shrugged out of his shirt but left the shorts on. He certainly didn’t want her to ever see him in his underwear, and he might have