Princess (36 page)

He moved faster.

He tangled his fingers in her hair, and when she dragged her eyes open to look up at him, she saw his eyes were closed, his fine-chiseled face transfigured with savage rapture. One glance told her his control was dissolving. She stroked his sides, his hair, eager to see how it would be when he abandoned all restraint.

The wait wasn’t long.

He groaned again and again, his voice breathy and hoarse. “Oh, come for me, angel. I could explode.”

When he lowered his head, his kiss drove her over the edge, her tongue thrusting wildly into his hot, wet, beautiful mouth.

She was his and he was hers.

His tortured moan cut the final cord of her control. She fell into a chasm of mindless bliss, gasping and groaning with anguished release as her body convulsed around him. With a rough cry, he thrust again and clutched her shoulder. She felt the brilliant infusion of his essence as he surrendered to his need with a deep cry of release.

They clung to each other in shuddering exhaustion, both of them panting, covered in a dewy sweat.

After a long moment, when she could be sure her sanity had not shattered, she let out a shaky sigh and dropped her arms from around his neck onto the bed, exhausted. Darius nestled against her. She looked at him and smiled in serene joy. He kissed her cheek, closed his long-lashed eyes, and laid his head on her shoulder, his stern, aquiline nose in the crook of her neck.

They lay like that for a long while, holding and touching in weary contentment. She didn’t want to move an inch of her leaden, tingling body.

Somehow, she found the strength after a while to lift her head and check the time. The clock read three.

She knew that her mother, the hairdresser, and heaven knew how many other women would be arriving in her apartments early to begin fussing over her, the bride who was not getting married. At least not to Anatole, she thought. She let her gaze wander with a delicious sense of pleasure and possessiveness over Darius’s long, lax body, and it was then that the first stirrings of an extraordinarily naughty idea began to form in her mind.

She stared at the guttering candle, in the grip of reckless inspiration.

Darius snuggled against her, wove his fingers through her hair, and sighed, closing his eyes. “You were wonderful,” he murmured. His lean, muscular body was heavy with peace and contentment atop her.

She smiled absently as she pressed a kiss to his forehead. “I had a good teacher.”

He chuckled, then sighed, then dozed.

Though his weight made it a little hard to breathe, she wouldn’t have let him leave her embrace for the world. With a brief glance downward, she inspected his stitches, then wrapped her arms more snugly around his wide shoulders. His breathing deepened and softened. He was already asleep, but she remained wide-awake, her brain ticking with the idea.

No, you must not! Don’t even think about it.

But honestly, she argued with herself, hadn’t only good resulted from her pulling rank on him weeks ago, when she had commandeered him for her guard?

Now she had just given him her virginity; didn’t she have a right to expect him to do the honorable thing? He had made an emphatic point of telling her she was not marrying Anatole, but he had said nothing of his own intentions toward her. What if he still didn’t ask her to marry him? Was she to just sit passively by and wait and wait and wait for him? Really, didn’t Darius regularly take matters into his own hands when necessary, acting on what he deemed her best interest? She felt she knew full well what was in
his
best interest, namely, herself. He should settle down, cease his dangerous work. He needed someone to take care of him, and she was the woman for the job.

Still, beneath all her rationalization was one basic fear.
I
cannot let him leave me again. I cannot survive it.

Inwardly, she wrestled with herself, though she held him with all the gentleness she possessed. He slept so trustfully upon her. He would hate her if she did this underhanded, Santiago-like thing. He had boasted to her weeks ago that no woman would ever tie him down. He loved his freedom.

Freedom, pah!
she thought impatiently. His almighty freedom was nothing but his jealously guarded right to run away and hide from her whenever things got dangerous between them.

What if he had put a child in her womb even now? The thought sent a tremor of joyous arousal through the core of her.

Yes, he should have many children, she decided, swept away with her fantasy. He was so good with children. His children would teach him how to play. And who better to be mother to his babies than she?

Julia Calazzi? She scoffed at the thought. The woman didn’t merit the care of a cat. Julia could never tap the reservoirs of sweetness in his heart, nor touch the fire of his soul’s knightly purity. With a trace of anger, she recalled again the secrets Julia had revealed about Darius, and with that, her mind was made up.

She loved Darius and he loved her. He needed her. She knew that he did. She could no longer permit him to put his fears between them. It was rash, it was reckless, but it was for his own good.

Moving by delicate degrees, she extricated herself from beneath his warm weight without waking him. She rolled to the edge of her bed and silently rose, brushing the mosquito netting aside. She winced at the soreness and glanced down at the traces of her own dried blood on her thighs.

She glanced back at Darius, sleeping soundly.
So beautiful.
They were one now.

She didn’t care how many lovers he had joined his body with in the past. The two of them shared a mystical union of soul and mind, each wholly unto the other. She had marked him with her blood and he was hers.

Now that she had won him and he had resolved her country’s danger, she would pay any price to keep him.

She slipped her royal blue dressing gown on over her nude body and walked to her peach-and-gilt sitting room. She lit a candle, then knocked at her maid’s door.

“Pia?” she called in a whisper. She opened the door a crack. “Pia, wake up, I need your help!”

Several minutes later, she returned to her bedroom, her heart pounding at her own recklessness. Darius still slept peacefully, and her ears still rang with Pia’s useless protests.

Tiptoeing back to bed, she was tempted to leave her blue dressing gown on for modesty’s sake, but the surprise must appear authentic. She pulled the robe off and dropped it on the floor, then climbed back into the bed. Darius slept on his stomach.

Gingerly lifting his heavy arm, she slipped back partly under him, the way she had been before. Peeking under the sheet, she saw with relief that he still had his breeches on, though loosened. As a final measure, she moved the top sheet away so the small, scarlet stain of her virgin blood on the flat sheet beneath would show. Her heart was pounding as she gathered Darius into her arms, placing his head on her chest.

She petted his hair, then kissed it. He stirred a bit and glanced up at her with a drowsy smile.

“Did you go somewhere?” he murmured, still half-asleep.

“The necessary.”

“What time is it?” He lifted his head from her chest, looking around the room for the clock.

“Early. Hush,” she whispered.

“Mm,” he sighed, resting on her bosom again, all the coiled muscles of his shoulders and back loose and relaxed.

She kissed his forehead tenderly, caressing him as he dozed on her, peaceful and completely unsuspecting. She closed her eyes for a moment, wrestling with self-doubt.

Please don’t hate me for this. I can’t lose you again. If you
won’t fight for our love, I will.

She glanced out the wide windows and saw that dawn was shimmering along the horizon in gold and violet, like a secret promise.

The stage was set.

She waited.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The scandal struck at five A.M.

Hair tousled, heavy-eyed, Darius lifted his head from her chest and narrowed his eyes.

Serafina watched him, her mouth dry, her heart racing. “What is it, love?”

He looked drowsily over his shoulder. “I hear something.”

Damn the man. She had forgotten he had six senses, like a blasted cat.

At that moment, she heard the crash of the outer door to her apartments banging open and a deep, familiar voice bellowing her names. Simultaneously, Darius swore in a language she didn’t know. He was in motion, rolling off her, tangling himself in the sheet, frantically buttoning his breeches.

“Shit, shit, shit,” he was saying under his breath.

She was frozen, staring at the door.

“Serafina!” her father shouted, panic in his voice. “Open the door! Honey, open the door!”

She could hear the key thrusting about in the lock and still she could not move. Wide-eyed, she turned and looked at Darius. He stared at her, trapped, his face ashen.

There was no time to react. The bedroom door burst open, banging back against the wall, and there stood the king, towering in the doorway.

“Sera—” he began, then stopped.

Oh, God,
she thought, squeezing her eyes shut tight in the momentary silence that dropped like a wall of lead. Darius and she held perfectly still, the sheet draped over their waists.

Mama came a step behind Papa. Serafina winced at the wild panic in her mother’s voice.

“Serafina! Lazar, is she all right? Is she all right?”

“Oh, I’d say so,” her father said very, very coldly.

Her mother stopped behind him, looking under his arm.

Darius swallowed.

Papa’s stare of gathering rage moved from her to him.

“Good heavens!” her mother breathed.

Serafina saw Papa clenching and unclenching his fists. His voice was quiet.
“You son of a bitch.”

She screamed as her father charged the bed, tore the mosquito netting down, and reached for Darius. He hauled Darius out of her bed.

“Papa!”

“You son of a bitch!” he bellowed, throwing Darius up against the wall.

“Lazar, stop it!” her mother shouted.

“My daughter!” he roared at Darius, bringing up one powerful fist and drawing it back.

Darius didn’t flinch and made no move to defend himself. He merely stared at the king, his expression perfectly blank, but for a trace of masterful insolence.

“I trusted you,” Papa snarled. “ ‘Don’t send chaperons,’ you said. I didn’t even question it. You lying, lecherous son of a bitch!”

“Don’t hit him, Papa, it’s not his fault!”

The blow didn’t fall. Her father looked over his shoulder at her, his dark eyes blazing with fury.

“You little hussy,” he said through gritted teeth. “You’re damned right you’ll take your half of the blame. Your mother and I taught you better than this! Where did you learn how to act like a tramp?”

She stared at him for a second in shock, then burst out in tears. “Papa! I am not a tramp! I love him!”

She sent a pleading look to her mother, but the queen had sunk down on a nearby chair, covering her face in both hands.

Serafina wanted to crawl under the bed and hide. Darius remained silent, chin high, arrogantly so, but his gaze was down.

“You’ve got a lot of explaining to do,
magnifico,
” her father said coldly to Darius. “I want to see you in my office, then you can tell me everything else you’ve been lying about.” He released him roughly with a look of disgust, shot her a look of contempt, and stalked toward the door.

“Papa?” Serafina asked tremulously, watching him pass. “Papa, please.”

He turned pointing at her. “As for you . . .” He was so angry that he trembled. “Jesus, I thought you’d hurt yourself! Your maid came to us in a fit of terror saying she heard noises and feared you would take your own life! You strike death in our hearts, and this is what I find!” He paused, as though struggling to contain himself. “Reckless, headstrong, impetuous girl! I see this is all my fault
for spoiling you
!” he thundered, then he turned on Darius. “And don’t think for an instant you’re getting out of this, sir. You’re marrying her. She’s your headache now.”

“I’m not a headache,” she said miserably, and just when she thought she had never been more humiliated in her life, Anatole stepped into her doorway, his rugged face hardened with rage, his sapphire eyes bright and angry as the sun glinting off ice.

“What the hell are you doing here?” the king demanded.

Anatole ignored him, staring at Serafina. “So, it’s true.”

“This is a family matter, sir, begone!” Papa reiterated, stepping toward him in indignation.

“Anatole, please, leave us,” the queen said in forced calm.

“This concerns me, does it not?” he flung back at them.

Then Anatole pinned her in his brutish stare, frankly taking in the wanton sight of her flushed skin and tousled bed with a look of derision and angry lust. From the shadows by the wall, she could feel Darius’s killer instinct taking shape, homing in on him.

“I have had a servant watching your door at nights, my lady, for I knew you were too rich a beauty to be pure,” he said coldly. “The only question was who your lovers were and how many were their number. You’ve proved me right. What a boon, that I did not marry you.” He spoke a name at her in Russian that needed no translation.

Darius’s reaction was immediate, but Papa intercepted him and slammed him against the wall again, less roughly. Darius winced, giving the king a rather dirty sideward glance.

Anatole stared at Darius like he wanted to maul him. “You, sir, are a dead man.”

“Ah, get in line,” Darius growled.

Anatole looked at the king. “I spit on this island. I will toast Napoleon when he crushes the lot of you.”

“Napoleon is dead!” Serafina shouted at him triumphantly through her tears. She pointed to her champion. “Darius shot him!”

Everyone looked at Darius in shock.

For a moment, there was utter silence. He lifted his gaze and nonchalantly blew his forelock out of his eyes.

“Actually,” he said, “I missed.”

One could have heard the specks of dust drifting through the air, such a silence descended.