Princess (15 page)

So Darius had searched frantically for evidence that would hold up against one of the most powerful men in the civilized world. To free Serafina from the disastrous match, he needed proof so damning that even Tyurinov’s closest friends would abandon him.

His search was cut short, however, when he received the tip from one of his most trusted colleagues that the notorious French spy Philippe Saint-Laurent was running an operation out of the palace at Belfort, with orders to abduct the princess before she could be married.

This new threat had forced Darius to leave Moscow immediately. His departure meant he had to abandon hope of finding evidence against Tyurinov. The prince had covered his tracks too well. More drastic measures would need to be taken.

And so Darius had begun honing his aim with a rifle.

The girl was more damned trouble than she was worth, he thought grouchily as he set his quill pen down, pulled off his wire-rimmed reading spectacles, and stretched his neck this way and that. He flexed his cramped right hand, absently inspecting the black ink smudges on the heel of his palm. His gaze traveled over the pages he had spent the past several hours drafting, strewn over the desk.

Why was his life so complicated? he wondered. In his quest for the evidence, he had spun convoluted webs of lies. He had invented various new identities for himself, manipulated countless people, bribed a few, had even seduced one of Tyurinov’s ex-mistresses for information. He had broken laws, burgled Russian government offices.

Spending so many months studying the golden, glorious Anatole, he had come to hate the man. Everything Tyurinov stood for was a lie. Darius knew he, too, was a liar and not worth much, but at least he did not pretend to be a hero to the world, and the wicked things he did, he did to protect the people who had been kind to him. Tyurinov had no honor.

Indeed, he mused, as he chewed thoughtfully on the arm of his spectacles, Tyurinov would have scoffed at his antiquated code, for the only law the prince obeyed was self-interest.

The worst part of it in Darius’s view was that Tyurinov did not even love Serafina. If the man had truly cared for her, that might have made a difference, but her beauty had made her merely a trophy to Tyurinov, an object to be attained in order to glorify himself and announce yet again his greatness to the world.

And how did Serafina feel about the glorious Anatole? Darius wondered for the thousandth time, trying to scoff at his own insecurity over the question. But truly, had she been taken in by the prince’s well-documented charm?

She was a smart girl, and Darius had taught her as a child to be wary of anyone who was overly friendly, but she was a young woman now, ripe for love.

The thought made his groin tighten with a tingling warmth. Turning his face restlessly toward the one window, he saw the sky was ablaze with gathering sunset, the gold and pink streaked with violet.

Soon it all would fade to black. There would never be another chance.

Go to her.

His gaze moved over the treeline in silent distress.

As soon as the chaperon comes, you’re not going to be
allowed anywhere near me.

At those remembered words, he suddenly slid a fresh sheet of paper toward him, dipped the quill in the inkwell, and wrote swiftly, his heart pounding.

Sir,

It is inadvisable to send more sta f at this time. Her Highness is well and our location is secure.

Your servant,
D.S.

Quickly, before he could change his mind, as though his very life depended on it, he folded the page and sealed it with wax.

It was the most selfish thing he had ever done, the most deceitful, and the most necessary.

He pushed back from the desk, strode out of his office to the foyer, and barked for Alec.

The young lieutenant came running. “Sir?”

“Deliver this message to His Majesty.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Find out what you can about Orsini’s progress. Come back tomorrow using one of the alternate routes we’ve outlined.”

Alec saluted. “Yes, Colonel.”

Darius turned to go, then hesitated. He glanced over his shoulder at his aide. “Er, Alec?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Where is Her Highness?” he ventured.

If Alec found his question amusing, wisely, he did not show it. “I’m not certain, sir. I’ll find out.”

“Good. I’ll be in my room.” Darius lifted a pear from the freshly arranged fruit bowl on the console table in the hall and took a large bite as he jogged up the stairs.

Above, he went into his small, drab, spartan room and crossed to the sturdy, oaken armoire. He opened the door with a click and reached in to pull out a long, slender case with a handle. He carried it to the bed, then opened the case and stared down at the sleek, expensive rifle he’d had made for the express purpose of blowing Napoleon’s head off.

It was the most beautiful gun he’d ever owned, artfully crafted for precision.

He ran his fingertips down the smooth, mahogany barrel. The smooth-bore flintlock was Dutch-designed. It had a range of one hundred fifty yards, with a special folding telescope attachment for enhanced aim.

He closed the case. He would practice later.

Putting the black leather case back into the armoire, he went to the side table to freshen up. The water revived him after hours of desk work. He splashed his face, brushed his teeth, slapped on some cologne, combed his hair, and mocked himself for these attentions to vanity, knowing he was going to see Serafina.

He glanced in the mirror at the man there, retying his simple cravat. Warily, he met the stare of the half-breed stranger with the mean, fiery eyes and the hideous scar on his mouth, an everlasting reminder that he had never been wanted anywhere.

Yet Serafina seemed to require him.

Why me?
he thought for the thousandth time.

“Don’t question it,” he dryly advised his reflection. He left his room, locked it, and went in search of the royal protectee.

Striding down the second floor’s balustraded landing, which overlooked the entrance hall, he bellowed once more for Alec.

“Haven’t found her yet, sir!” The lieutenant appeared at the bottom of the stairs.

“What?” Darius peered over the rail, frowning down at him.

“No one has seen her in hours. The men thought she was with you!”

“She’s not with me!” His stomach suddenly plummeted in dread. “You mean to say they haven’t seen her?”

“Yes, sir! No one has.”

“Goddamn it, why the hell have I got two dozen men here guarding her? Do I have to do everything myself? Did you check her rooms?”

“Yes, sir. She’s not in there.”

“Well, she’s got to be somewhere! I’m going to throttle her,” he muttered under his breath as he searched the house himself, just to be sure, then marched out to the stable.

He prayed she had merely wandered off, perhaps exploring the secret tunnels he had shown her earlier. He doubted this, for she had been afraid of the bats, but it was better than thinking the French had somehow managed to snatch her already.

One of the men found her maid. Darius cornered the woman. Pia stammered that Her Highness had spoken earlier of collecting plant samples.

“How dare she leave without my permission?” he demanded, as though the poor woman had an answer.

Standing around him and the maid, his men stepped back, paling to see their usually unflappable colonel angry—and he
was
angry, angrier than he had cause to be, but her disappearance struck some inexplicable nerve in the core of him. She had no right leaving him without saying anything. What if he couldn’t find her? Panic clutched at his chest, throbbed in his wounded shoulder which she had stitched.

Five hundred bloody acres, he thought as he swung up onto his stallion’s back. She could be anywhere. He drove his heels into Jihad’s midnight flanks and galloped out to the fields to find her.

Cradled in the field’s tall grasses, Serafina had dozed off as she watched cloud shapes in the sky.

In her light, restful sleep, she fancied she heard rolling thunder over the hills, then she felt a vibration in the earth beneath her body, like the pounding of mighty hooves. Her awareness of him took shape as it had last night in the maze. The thunder formed into his voice, angrily calling her name.

She realized she wasn’t dreaming and sat up suddenly with a gasp.

The sun was setting! She had lost all track of time. As she scanned the surrounding fields, he burst into view, sweeping up over the crest of the next hill astride his Andalusian stallion. He had not yet seen her, shouting her name as he glanced in both directions.

She could just make out the furious rictus of his face as he drove the horse at a ruthless gallop, cutting across the far end of the field. The horse’s tail streamed out like black smoke behind them, and the setting sun glinted on the man’s weapons.

She stood, heart pounding, not sure if she should call out to him or not. She realized he was looking for her, but the sight of the hellish pair frightened her. If he turned the horse toward her, they would trample her.

“Serafina!”

She heard, then, something more than anger in his deep voice—fear, pain drove the rolling thunder.
Set me as a seal on
your heart, as a seal on your arm; for stern as death is love . . .
The words came to her out of nowhere as she stood staring at man and horse, awestruck by their terrible beauty. It was a quote from the Song of Songs she had read once and never forgotten.
Relentless as the netherworld is devotion; its flames
are a blazing fire. Deep waters cannot quench love, nor floods
sweep it away.

He saw her.

Serafina did not move. She was not sure she could have if she tried, frozen by his enraged stare.

He is coming for me now.

Darius looked away as he reeled the horse around. Jihad reared in the turn. She heard his deep, harsh command, spoken in that same unknown language in which he had cursed Philippe, then the horse leaped forward and they charged her.

She stared, unable to move, transfixed by their terrible beauty. Defenseless, mesmerized by heady terror, she watched Darius Santiago and his hell-horse bearing down on her like one of the riders of the Apocalypse.
Was this how Philippe felt
in those last seconds?

As they neared, she could see in his face just how furious he was.

“Serafina!”

No fear.
He would not hurt her. She must believe this. Steadily, she watched him approaching like a black storm, but she held her ground, for her heart whispered the truth to her. It was the wound inside him, driving his rage. Only she could help him.

Calm him. Soothe him.

A few feet from her, Darius pulled the stamping, snorting black to a rearing halt. She watched as daisies were trampled beneath the sharp, mighty hooves.

As he reeled the horse in a circle, trying to quiet him, he blasted her with a fiery glare over his shoulder, his black hair tousled, his chiseled face flushed with anger. “So there you are.”

She said nothing, gazing at him in gentleness.

“What the hell did you think you were doing, running off without saying anything to anyone? I have been looking for you for half an hour!”

“I am safe,” she said softly.

“How was I supposed to know that?” he demanded. “You should have taken men with you!”

“Darius, calm down.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down!”

She shrugged, turned, and walked away.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked incredulously.

She picked a daisy and did not answer. Counting its petals with a show of nonchalance, she ambled toward the woods, quaking inwardly.

He spurred his horse and followed. “I asked you a question.”

“I cannot talk with you when you’re in this state.” She walked on, but heard that he had stopped.

“It’s your fault I’m in this state!”

She stepped into the twilit woods, listening for him, wondering whether or not he would follow. He didn’t.

Warily, she glanced over her shoulder at him. He had dismounted and was standing by his horse, head down, apparently striving to get his emotions under control.

When he looked up, his dramatic face in profile to her as he gazed out over the field, the fiery glow of sunset lit his face, turned his amber skin rose-gold, and caught threads of maroon and blue-black in his silky hair.

Beautiful.

He blew out his breath and raked a hand through his hair.

Staring at him from the bosky wood, she touched her belly vaguely, low, where a strange flutter of warmth had begun to pulse.

All of a sudden, an extraordinarily naughty idea occurred to her.

No, she didn’t dare!

But of course she did.

Her heart suddenly raced as she watched Darius wearily turn to the horse and run the stirrups up on the saddle, knotting the reins to leave Jihad to graze. She could tell by his slow, heavy motions that he wasn’t angry anymore.

Biting her lip to hold back a nervous, giddy laugh, Serafina turned toward the woods again with a new sense of excitement, eager to thwart him and vex him for being so mean. Her gaze darted about the surrounding rocks and trees, coming to rest at a stand of young saplings nearby. Feeling reckless, she fled soundlessly into the saplings’ midst.

Chagrined, impatient, and begrudgingly contrite, Darius trudged toward the woods, head down, as he peeled off his black riding gloves and lightly slapped them against his palm, considering whether or not to grovel.

How could he lose his temper like that? he thought in self-loathing. Mostly, he was relieved that she had faced him without fear. He did not think he could ever bear again to see that terror of him in her eyes, as when he’d looked up from slaughtering Philippe Saint-Laurent and found her staring at him in horror.

She was tougher than anyone gave her credit for, he had to admit. She looked fragile, but his rare hothouse flower had the resilience of a wild daisy.