Princess (26 page)

She was aware of footmen who had come running. There were shouts. A servant ran off to get help, but no one dared go near them. Serafina was frozen where she was.

Scarcely breathing, she looked on in bewildered terror, flattening herself back against the wall as they crashed to the floor by her feet, rolling like embattled wolves. Darius wound up on top as Tyurinov and he tried to strangle each other.

He punched Tyurinov across the face again, causing the other man’s grip on his throat to slip. In that instant, she saw Darius’s hand go smoothly for his dagger. Horror filled her.

“Darius, no!”

He looked over at her, chest heaving, and she saw the beast in his eyes—the ferocious creature who had saved her that terrifying night in the maze. But as his gaze fixed on her, the savagery cleared.

In that second, Anatole recovered and dealt Darius a reeling blow under the chin.

The guards came flooding into the hall then and pulled the two men apart. It took several men to hold them back, and all the while Darius and Tyurinov screamed at each other in Russian.

“What are they saying?” she cried.

None of the guards knew.

She could not believe Darius had attacked Anatole so rashly. Of all the times he had been insulted by the courtiers who loved to bait him, he had never allowed himself to be drawn into a brawl under her father’s roof.

Darius roughly shrugged off the men and turned away from them, raking a hand through his hair. Anatole’s fury, too, began to simmer down to bristling edginess, but each man was still ringed by guards.

Anatole’s mouth was bleeding at the corner, and she could see the crimson stain on Darius’s shoulder where his stitches must have torn open again with his exertion.

Serafina dropped her face in both hands. She didn’t know which of them to go to.

At that moment, she hated them both.

She lifted her head, cheeks burning with shame, and looked at Darius. Hair tousled, chest heaving, his fiery stare was fixed on her. His coal-black eyes glowed with stormy, anguished passion. In that moment, he was as beautiful as an avenging angel, and she had the strangest premonition that she was never going to see him again.

Seated at her writing desk in the privacy of her rooms, scratching out another flaming diatribe to a creditor who would not stop hounding her, Julia Calazzi was still stewing over the fact that, stupidly, she had showed her hand, revealing Darius’s title. It was unlike her to act on emotion, but she had been simply unable to stomach Princess Perfect’s gloating, lording it over everyone because she had had Santiago all to herself for nearly a week.

Julia really didn’t wish to face the question of whether or not anything had happened between them while they were gone, but clearly Serafina was more in love with Darius than ever.

Anatole’s arrival should bring her back down to earth, she thought in smug satisfaction.

Just then, Teresa burst in on her and swiftly related the news of the fight between Santiago and Tyurinov. Teresa gushed with the details as if this were some delicious scandal, but Julia’s blood ran cold. The others did not know Anatole as she did.

When Teresa was through, Julia forced a cool smile. “Well, darling, you’d best run along. He may need some nursing.”

“My thoughts exactly!” Teresa laughed gaily and hurried out of the room.

Julia’s gaze traveled absently over her desk while her heart pounded. She refused to let herself panic. Instead, she rose, went to the mirror, and touched up her makeup as she considered her strategy.

She gave Anatole one hour to cool down, then left her rooms and walked slowly to his suite, chin high. At his door, she closed her eyes for a moment, gathering herself, then she knocked.

His valet admitted her. She walked into a room crowded with the towering Russian officers and nobles of Tyurinov’s entourage. She could not understand their words, but the tension in the air made her certain this gathering was something of a war council. She knew who the enemy was.

She had come to plead for Santiago’s life.

Oddly, she felt small and weak among them, but they parted before her so she could follow the valet, who beckoned her into the adjoining bedroom.

She stepped inside and found two men in whispered consultation with the prince. Anatole sat in an armchair as though it were a throne. He was bare-chested, golden hair flowing over his magnificent shoulders, his cold stare fixed straight ahead with a sullen look.

When his sapphire stare flicked to her, piercing her, he lowered the muslin-wrapped ice from his jaw and dismissed the two men. They brushed past her. The valet closed the door, and she was alone with him.

She thought of asking him if he was all right, but hesitated. No, that would only insult him.

“Quite a welcome,” he remarked. “Don’t you think?”

She crooked her mouth into a cool smile. “I’ve come to welcome you properly.” She walked over to him and leaned down, gently kissing his bruised, sullen mouth. At once, he shoved his hand between her legs, cupping her mound. Julia hid her annoyance and straightened up, taking a step back.

“Not yet,” she chided with a coy smile.

Smiling at her, he trailed his fingers lightly under his nose. “What happened?” she asked as she went to lean with seeming idleness against the footboard of his bed.

“An insane Spaniard attacked me. For this, he is a dead man, of course.”

“He is very close to the king,” she pointed out. “What do you intend, a duel?”

“I haven’t decided yet. Come sit on my lap,” he invited her.

She arched a brow, smiling in smooth patience. “Not yet.” “It was a long voyage without women.”

“Ah.” She trailed her hand over the curve of the footboard. “Anatole? Is it really a good idea for you to rid the world of Santiago? You realize the man has been her guardian all her life. She is like a little sister to him. How is he supposed to react when he sees you threatening her?”

“You should know better than to ask me to feel mercy, Julia.”

He was right, she thought, staring at him. She wasn’t going to get anywhere unless she appealed to his self-interest.

“And I doubt his feelings are brotherly,” he added in a rumbling growl.

“These people are very clannish, Anatole. In fact . . .” She folded her arms under her breasts and decided to go out on a limb. “It is sometimes whispered that Darius Santiago is actually the king’s byblow.”

“Oh, really?”

“I don’t know if that is true or not,” she lied, “but I do know as a boy he was a ward of the king. If he is Lazar’s son, you can well see it would be unwise to kill him. Besides, it is commonly known that if Santiago favors any one woman around here, it’s me.”

He propped his blunt, square chin on his fist and considered her words. “Brother and sister . . . ?”

“If you had a sister and perceived a threat to her, what would you do?”

He gave her a sullen look and glanced away, shifting in his chair.

“Anatole, really. I know everything about everyone in this palace, and Her Highness is not in love with him. How could you possibly doubt yourself?” She began walking slowly toward him, rolling her hips with each step. He watched, his eyes agleam.

She rounded the back of his chair and reached down to caress his chest slowly with both hands. “No woman could prefer any man to you,” she whispered.

He lay back against the chair, soaking up her touch. When he closed his terrible, piercing eyes, she was glad.

“What if an accident befell him?” he murmured.

“They would see through it. Darling, I’d hate to see this minor incident prove a stumbling block in your marvelous career. So many people are counting on you, Anatole. Let him go. He’s not worth it. He’s nothing.”

“He is nothing,” he agreed as she continued stroking his smooth, ironlike body.

“Come, grant me this favor, Anatole,” she wheedled softly. “There will be no more trouble. I’ll keep him away from your bride for you.”

The sapphire eyes swept open. His gaze locked on her face in cool amusement. “What’s in it for you, Julia?”

“Well, if you must know . . . money.” She lowered her lashes. “His money. I mean to marry him.”

He began laughing. It was the coldest sound she had ever heard.

“I am in rather dire straits,” she protested, a bit rattled by the sound. “If you kill him, I don’t know what I shall do.”

Still chuckling, he closed his eyes again. “Having you for a wife is perhaps punishment enough in itself.”

“God knows, I don’t want to be anybody’s wife, but I must have some security,” she said indignantly.

“Do you promise to cuckold him until he is a laughingstock?”

“That
is
my way,” she conceded.

“Give me a massage,” he rumbled.

She obeyed, squeezing his glorious shoulders. He was unaccustomed to the Italian climate, his skin covered in a fine sweat.

He was silent for a long moment, sprawled in the chair while, out the window, the sun began to set over the distant hills.

“You are considering it?” she probed.

“Perhaps I could be persuaded.” His steely fingers clasped around her wrist as he pulled her hand down to his groin.

He was fully erect, and in spite of herself, she was impressed.

“Persuade me, Julia,” he whispered, eyes closed. “You know what to do.”

Bare-chested, Darius sat alone in his suite at his dressing table, using the mirror as he tried to repair the damage to the stitches he had pulled. Serafina’s careful handiwork had held him together until he had begun to heal, but now he was bleeding again.

His door barricaded against the harpies pleading to be let in, Darius glanced over when he heard a familiar male voice join in their midst.

“Why, here is camped the fairest army ever seen! Ladies, my loves, if you attack me for a change, unlike certain Spaniards, I swear I will surrender.”

Darius rolled his eyes. Prince Charming was at it again. He could just picture the tanned, handsome youth swaggering into their midst. He heard peals of feminine laughter and barely dared imagine what the young Romeo was doing with the women out there.

“Run along, ladies, go put on your ball gowns, for I expect each and every one of you to dance with me tonight.”

They whined at Prince Rafael to order Darius to open his door and let them in, but he deflected them with his irresistible, inborn charm. “Now, now, clear out, my lovelies. I must have a private word with our prizefighter, man to man.”

An alarming thought struck Darius. What if Rafe had deduced the truth of his affair with Serafina? Good Lord, what if the little coxcomb had come to call him out? Dueling was the boy’s new hobby.

His knock fell on the door. “Hey-ho, Santiago. Lemme in.”

Warily, Darius rose and unlocked the door, admitting the crown prince. Leaving the door open, he walked away. The young man sauntered into the suite, shutting the door behind him.

“What are you doing, sitting here in the dark? Lord, Santiago, sometimes I swear you are part gargoyle.” Rafael had a large scroll tucked under one arm. He threw it on the desk and picked up the single candle there which Darius had lit. He carried it around the room lighting the wall sconces. “I hate to be the bringer of bad news, Santiago, but I’m afraid you are disinvited to Tyurinov’s welcome ball tonight.”

Darius laughed wearily. “A reprieve.”

“How novel, too, to find Father grumbling about you, and myself in his good graces. He wants to see you.”

Darius sighed and rubbed his forehead. “Yes, I imagine he does.” Elbow propped on the dressing table, he rested his head in his hand and stared gloomily at the floor.

A moment later, he saw Rafe’s boots as the lad returned to stand before him, hands on hips. The prince’s excellent black boots and tan breeches were flecked with mud, he noticed. “Where have you been, playing in a pigsty?” Darius asked, looking up at him.

Rafe flashed a rakish grin, revealing the dashing cleft in his chin. “Working on my maps. For Father’s birthday,” he added by way of explanation.

Darius nodded, recalling what Serafina had said about her brother mapping the underground tunnels. “An ambitious project.”

Rafe drifted across the room and flung himself down into a brocaded armchair. “Not as ambitious as smashing Tyurinov a facer.” He began laughing as he slipped an elegant hunting flask out of his waistcoat. “What on earth did you do that for?”

Darius heaved a sigh, raking his hand through his hair in distress. “I don’t know. I cannot think what came over me.”

The boy took a swig and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Can’t you?” he said matter-of-factly. For a moment, his penetrating gaze reminded Darius exactly of Lazar’s, though Rafael had more his mother’s coloring. Darius returned his gaze dully.

“He was bullying my sister, was he not?”

“So it appeared to me. God knows it was the last thing I expected to walk in and find.”

Darius had already had a full day by the moment he had walked into the hall to find Tyurinov playing his intimidation games on Serafina. He had spent the morning interviewing a small, elite group of officers, seeking a replacement for Orsini to the post of captain of the Royal Guard, then he had overseen matters as young Cara was deported, sending her off to seek asylum with the French government.

This done, he had gone into town to send off his lengthy report to Czar Alexander, putting in place the last cogs and wheels of his subtle design, then visited his solicitor for the purpose of setting his final affairs in order, including a change to his will.

For sheer, wretched sentimentality, he had purchased the yellow villa from the government and had left it in his will to Serafina. He wanted to give it to her so she would always have a peaceful retreat where she could get away from the shallow, parasitical people of the court, and to remember him and the few, precious days they had shared there.

“She doesn’t want him, you know,” the youth said flatly, bringing him back to the present. “She’s hiding it from Father and everyone. It’s a disgrace! Why should one poor girl be forced to protect the lot of us? What of honor? We are men, aren’t we?” He suddenly jumped up and began pacing.