Princess (23 page)

She looked over to find him striding toward her, his onyx eyes ablaze, his exotic face dark with anger under the glossy raven forelock.

“What are you doing down here? I told you to stay put!” He seized her by the wrist and pulled her out of the dining room and into the hall. “Why do you want to involve yourself in this? What a nightmare,” he muttered.

She did not bother to argue but followed him, uncomfortably aware of male eyes on her as she climbed the staircase. Darius noticed, too. His black scowl over her head made them lower their stares.

“Did you learn who the spies are?” she asked as he hurried her back into her bedroom and pulled the door shut behind him.

“Yes.”

“Who are they?”

“Nobody you know. Listen, if I ride for Belfort at once, I can take them unaware.”

Her blood ran cold in her veins and she paled. “You’re leaving tonight? Now?”

He glanced away. She saw tension in his taut jaw.

“Darius, it’s the middle of the night!” Her voice rose in pitch. “You aren’t even waiting till the morning?”

“The danger is past now for you,” he said with careful restraint. “The medics and the wounded will stay here with a crew to clean up, but within the hour, Alec and Sergeant Tomas will take a contingent and escort you back to the palace. You should be home by midmorning.”

She gripped his forearm, trying to force him to look at her. “I will see you there, won’t I?”

He turned to her, saying nothing. They stared at each other for a long moment, then Darius swallowed hard and looked away. “We both knew this moment would come.”

She drew in her breath sharply and stepped away from him, pressing her fingers to her lips as she strove to steady herself.

“Serafina.”

“So, this is how our idyll ends. In blood and death. Of course,” she said bitterly, her back to him. “It is my fate, is it not? Helen of Troy. God, I wish I had never been born.”

When she felt his strong, warm hands alight on her shoulders, she turned, throwing herself against him. He caught her up in his arms and kissed her, parting her lips roughly, consuming her as he clenched her body against his.

Caressing his face with trembling hands, she drank of him in wild desperation, running her fingers through his silky black hair, clutching handfuls of it as if she could keep him with her forever. He tried to end the kiss. She wouldn’t let him.

She kissed him deeply, her whole soul in it, knowing it was the last time she would ever hold him. Gathering him closer and closer to her, she felt herself falling apart as she tried to memorize the texture of his hair, the taste of his mouth, the satin smoothness and warm, smoky smell of his skin.

At last, he caught her face between both his hands and pulled back, staring into her eyes with fierce tenderness and agony, the ancient depths of his onyx eyes profound with feeling.

She reached for him again, catching his hands, pulling at him. “I can’t lose you. I’ll see you at Belfort, yes? Say yes. Come to my room—use the secret door you showed me—”

He silenced her, laying a finger over her lips.

“Be strong for me,” he choked out.

She vowed to herself that she would. She closed her eyes, fighting for control, as he rested his forehead against hers.

“If you ever need anything,” she whispered, shaking, “anything at all, if you are ever in trouble, come to me. I will always help you, I will always . . . love you, Darius.”

He clutched her to him, grasping two handfuls of her hair as he buried his face in the crook of her neck. “Princesa,” he breathed unsteadily.

He pressed one final kiss against her neck below her ear, then he pulled out of her arms and she sobbed, for he was gone.

The tears in his eyes were born of the whipping wind, he told himself, for Darius rode as though the devil himself were chasing him, pushing the mighty black stallion to the limit at a grueling pace. He tried to focus his mind on the rhythm of horse’s hooves striking the dirt road, but in his chest was an emptiness, his heart torn from him. He wanted to scream, to stop the horse, take his sword, and beat it against a tree until he’d drained some of his pain and rage, but he did not, fighting for self-control with all his strength.

By God, I won’t let them catch me,
he thought, over and over again.
I’ll blow that Corsican bastard’s head off and I’ll come
back to her. I will.

He didn’t believe his own promise, but this litany gave him enough of a thread by which to keep himself tied together, until at last he galloped through the gates of Belfort just as the sun was peeping over the eastern hills. At the stable yard, he flung himself down from his lathered, blowing stallion, entrusting the animal to a groom with a few curt instructions.

He knew exactly where to find the first of the three spies. He stalked into the stable, down the main aisle. At the far end of the barn, he could see the courtiers gathered for the king’s daily morning gallop. Some were drinking coffee, some taking swigs from elegant hunt flasks.

The smug-looking dandy he wanted was smoking and idly tapping his riding crop against his leg. The man finished his cheroot just then, threw it into the dust, and stepped on it with one polished bootheel. When he looked up, his glance happened upon Darius stalking ruthlessly toward him.

Fear flashed across the man’s countenance.

“Greenling, what are you doing here?” boomed a voice down the stable aisle behind him.

The king had arrived but Darius ignored him, never taking his eyes off his prey. The Frenchman’s gaze swept the stable area in that split second, scanning for escape.

Darius broke into a run. The Frenchman bolted.

“What the devil?” some of the courtiers said as Darius pushed through their midst, chasing as the Frenchman made a dash around the side of the stable.

Darius caught the man swiftly, tackling him. The king came striding up behind them.

“What the devil’s going on?”

“I demand an explanation,” the Frenchman protested.

“Oh, I think you understand,
monsieur,
” Darius said softly, wrenching his right arm up behind him and shoving his face into the dewy turf.

“Santiago?” the king said expectantly.

“Sir, the princess is secure. Right now, there is more cleaning up to do,” he murmured, just as several of the courtiers joined them and began asking questions.

Darius and Lazar exchanged a look.

“Go on, I’ll take it from here,” the king said with a nod.

Next, Darius strode into the palace. The palace steward greeted him with the usual courtesies, but Darius pulled the tidy little man aside.

“I need to know where Viscount D’Abrande’s rooms are.”

“Ah, let me think. All His Highness’s cronies are housed on the third floor of the south wing. The viscount’s rooms are on the left side of the hall, I believe, about midway down—but you won’t find him there this morning, sir. Ahem.” The palace steward cleared his throat. “Prince Rafael and company, I’m afraid, are sprawled about in the billiard room. Another drinking bout,” he whispered.

Darius smiled tranquilly.“Perfect. Thank you, Falconi.”

Within ten minutes, he seized the young viscount, dragging him out of the billiard room.

While some of the young lords protested on their false friend’s behalf, they were all too groggy and sore-headed to put up much of a fight against a man they all feared even with the courage of liquor.

Dragging the struggling young viscount toward the door, Darius paused by the pool table where Prince Rafael, Lazar’s son, was sleeping peacefully. He slapped the prince lightly a few times in the face to wake him.

“What, what?” Sandy brown hair mussed, clothes rumpled, the tanned, sinewy nineteen-year-old struggled up onto his elbows on the green velvet of the billiard table. Rafe dragged his bloodshot, gold-green eyes open and offered Darius a dazed grin, setting off the cleft in his chin that made the girls of Ascencion sigh. “Hey-ho, Santiago.”

“Have a little decorum, would you?” Darius said tersely.

“Sure,” the youth agreed cheerfully, turning on his side on the table. “In an hour or so, maybe.” The heir apparent folded his hands under his cheek and went back to sleep.

The kingdom’s doomed,
Darius thought grouchily as he hauled the struggling viscount into custody.

Finally, Darius marched toward the royal block, holding his anger carefully in check. He stopped at a suite down the hall from Serafina’s apartments. He blasted the door open with a savage kick and strode into the girls’ suite.

“Who’s there?” demanded a voice.

Darius paused in the girls’ sitting room, looking over as a feminine outline appeared in the open doorway to one bedroom.

“Santiago?” the redhead called Els demanded. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Close the door, you little hussy, it’s not you I’m after,” he growled as he crossed the sitting room and forced Cara’s bedroom door open.

“What are you doing?” Els shouted. “Cara?”

“Stay back!” he ordered her.

When he slammed Cara’s bedroom door open, he found himself looking down the barrel of a pistol, alpine blue eyes coldly meeting his. He began laughing softly.

“Get out of my way,” the girl ordered.

“Put down the gun.”

“Cara!” Els burst out in amazement.

“Your friend has been aiding the enemy, Els,” Darius said smoothly, never taking his eyes off the girl. “She’s not as pure as she’d have you all think. Every move Serafina or the queen makes, she’s been passing it all on to the French. Philippe Saint-Laurent seduced her for that express purpose.”

Cara took a step toward him. “Don’t come any closer! I’ll shoot you, you devil! I hate you! You killed my Philippe! I found out that you did!”

“Put the gun down, Cara. If you cooperate, perhaps I can get your sentence commuted from hanging to life imprisonment, or perhaps even banishment.”

“
Hanging?
What is going on?” Els cried. “I don’t believe this! Where is Cricket? Obviously, there has been some mistake. Cara, just do as he says. We’ll sort it all out—”

“Shut up, you slut,” the blond snapped.

Darius lunged at her, driving the gun upward. It went off, shattering a crystalline sconce on the far wall. Cara threw the gun at him and leaped onto the bed, trying to run across it and escape, but Darius caught her, flinging her onto the tangled coverlet on the bed. She kicked at him, her night rail flying about her knees. He pulled her onto her feet.

“You Gypsy whoreson! Leave me alone! I’ll kill you!” Cara continued hissing useless threats and epithets at him as he pulled her right arm up behind her back and drove her toward the door.

Els was in tears, blocking his path. “Don’t do this, Santiago! She could not possibly be a spy! Look at her! She’s a little angel!”

“I’m not a spy! I’m a good girl!” Cara became hysterical. “Els, don’t let him take me away! This is a lie! I would never betray Cricket or the queen!”

Angrily, Darius jerked her slight frame in his arms. “Enough.”

“Let her go, please, Santiago, there must be some mistake,” Els begged him, plucking at his sleeve.

“There is no mistake,” he said more gently. “Els, listen. Serafina doesn’t know yet. She’ll be back in a few hours. She’s going to need you.”

“I understand.” Els stepped out of the way, shaking her head in disbelieving reproach at the blond.

In the hall, Darius warded off Cara’s kicks and punches, growled at her attempt to bite him, and coldly laughed when she offered to go down on her knees for him in exchange for one chance to escape.

The sun had just peeked over the horizon.

Her arms wrapped around her, Serafina slumped against the interior wall of the coach, staring out the window, her body rocking with the vehicle’s motion. Fifteen soldiers on horse-back flanked the coach.

When she closed her eyes, she saw only Darius. She forced herself to get some rest, lulled by the rocking and creaking of the coach. She knew she would need her strength to face Anatole.

At about ten in the morning, the coach arrived at Belfort, pulling into the lavishly landscaped drive. Serafina suddenly perked up, seeing the sleek, powerful figure of a man dressed in black on the front steps, smoking a cheroot. When the man flipped his black hair out of his eyes, her whole being lit up from within.

He’s waiting for me!

She saw Darius gesture to a servant, who went quickly to the front door. A moment later, her father came marching out and stood with Darius at the top of the steps. Then Serafina squinted in puzzlement, recognizing Els’s flamboyant red mane as her best friend joined the two men, her pale green skirts rippling in the breeze. The coach had barely stopped when Serafina bounded out, not waiting for the footman. Her heart beating fast, she ran to the trio as they came toward her.

“There’s my girl!” said her father warmly, giving her his crooked smile. She launched into his arms, feeling an instant, tremendous surge of relief and safety as she always did in his presence.

Head pressed to her father’s bulky shoulder, however, she stared only at Darius, beaming at him with pure love.

But the chiseled perfection of his face was as cold as a statue’s. She thought she saw a fleeting trace of something in his eyes, but he met her gaze without expression, then turned away. Stunned, she stared at him, slow to comprehend, refusing to let the fact sink in.

It was over.

Really, truly over.

No, no, he is just being his old, aloof self because Papa is
standing right here. He doesn’t want Papa to guess how we
have known each other. . . .

But the excuse withered even as it trailed through her mind. In vain, she willed Darius to look at her, but he held himself remote. Then she felt the horrifying truth sinking down slowly, ever more deeply into her bones, revealing the final disillusionment. He had been her one great love, while to him she had been just another affair. He had warned her from the start.

She closed her eyes—aghast, sickened.

As her father released her with a smile, she stood there rather dazed, completely at a loss. Surely she and Darius were not standing here pretending there was nothing between them. No, it was an awful dream; her real life existed at the yellow villa, in the pink bedroom— Her breath snagged suddenly on something like a sob. She cut the sound short.