Princess (43 page)

She did not move, waiting.

“Oh, this is hard,” he whispered, closing his eyes.

“Take your time, sweetheart,” she murmured, caressing his chest.

He avoided her gaze and kept his voice carefully toneless. “I was eight years old,” he said. “They were fighting again, like always. I—I tried to make him come after me so he would leave her alone. My father, I mean, and my so-called mother.”

She held her breath, every particle of her attention on him. Never before had he spoken of his parents this way, as if he had sprung into the world of his own doing and his own will.

“I got between them. I don’t know what I thought I was going to do against a grown man at the time.” He lowered his head with a taut grimace of a smile. “He just swatted me aside. He . . . hit me in the face with a wine bottle.”

She closed her eyes, feeling the blow.

“Luckily it didn’t break. Just split my mouth open pretty badly,” he murmured, touching his scarred lip with his knuckle, as if the wound were still tender. “I tried to help her. I don’t know why I bothered.” His voice dwindled to an agonized whisper. “She was just a stupid whore, and I hated her.”

She winced. His vulnerability pulsed around her, as if he were not a man who knew a dozen ways to kill with his bare hands, but a wounded child holding on to her as though she were a beloved toy, his sole comfort and companion.

“She didn’t— Oh, what am I doing?” He suddenly cut himself off in savage disgust. “You don’t want to hear this!”

“Yes, I do. Talk to me.”

He closed his eyes for a long moment, his voice strangled. “Can’t.”

She caressed his chest, trying to calm him. “Take your time. You’re doing fine.”

“It’s not a matter of time! It’s just . . . pathetic. Embarrassing. To be so weak. I was helpless.”

She caught his chin between her fingers and thumb and turned his face. “Look at me,” she whispered.

He stared bleakly at her.

She smoothed his hair out of his eyes. “I’ve come this far, haven’t I?” Lightly, she brushed the elegant line of his high cheekbone with her knuckles. “Nothing can change my love for you.”

His eyes filled with anguish. “You still love me?”

“I still love you,” she whispered, unable to withhold her heart from him. “Always.”

He lowered his gaze in silence with a tortured expression. She leaned toward him and gently kissed the scar, stroking his cheek as her lips moved softly over the crescent-moon shape of it. He whispered a moan as her lips lingered over his. She felt him responding to her soft touch.

As he turned, seeking her lips, he cupped her face between both his hands and gave her a deep, loving kiss, then ended it softly, his eyes closed. “I need to be sure of you,” he whispered. “That you won’t turn on me . . . or anything.”

She felt her heart open utterly to him. “Darius, look into my eyes.”

He did. She caressed his face, as he did hers.

“I have loved you all my life, only you. I know you’re afraid. So am I.”

He nodded as his gaze slid away from hers. After a moment, he took her hand and held it. She had no idea what he had to tell her, but whatever it was, he was ready.

At that moment, their tense, difficult silence shattered with a sudden clamor outside of men’s shouts, clattering hoofbeats.

Before her eyes, Darius clicked onto full alert, turning his head toward the window, all traces of vulnerability and emotion vanishing, like a wolf scenting an enemy.

“Darius.”

“Shh.” He didn’t breathe, listening, his eyes sharp, his arms holding her protectively.

She despaired. “Darius!”

“One minute.” He released her and smoothly rose from the bed in silent, liquid grace.

Her gaze traveled over his nude, lean body. She stared, at a loss. He picked up his trousers on his way to the window, then glanced out discreetly from the side of the curtain.

“Come back, I’m sure it’s nothing,” she attempted.

He pulled on his tan-colored trousers, then narrowed his eyes as he dipped the curtain back slightly with two fingers. “It’s your brother.”

Of all the blasted nuisances! She lifted her gaze to the ceiling, striving for patience. “Darius, come back to me. This is no time to be distracted by Rafe and his ridiculous friends.”

“He’s alone.” His soft, cool tone sent gooseflesh tingling down her arms. He looked over at her, his ancient eyes full of death. “Something’s wrong. I can feel it.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

“Colonel, the crown prince has come!”

“I’m right here, Alec,” Darius said to his aide, coming down the stairs, feeling oddly cool and collected.

Close call,
he thought with a cold shiver as he strode across the foyer to the open door. God, he had nearly just made the biggest mistake of his life. What a way to ruin things that would have been, spilling his guts after the incredible afternoon of sex had brought them back together.

He felt damned guilty for walking out on her in the middle of everything, but, thank God fate had intervened and given him the means for a graceful exit before he said anything more. Never again would he let himself weaken like that.

Out on the cobbled drive, Prince Rafael sawed at the reins, halting his lathered bay stallion in a clatter of hoofbeats as Darius strode out to meet him.

“What is it?”

The youth flung down off the horse and ran to him. “Inside,” Rafe urged him, pulling him by the elbow toward the villa’s open door.

They stepped into the morning room. Darius saw Rafael’s hand shaking as he closed the tall, white door behind them.

“What’s happened?”

The young prince turned around, his face ashen. His chest heaved with exertion and he looked like he wanted to retch. “My maps. Last night—Julia.”

Darius drew in his breath.

“When I woke up, my maps were gone. Santiago, she’s gone!” he cried. “No one has seen her, not even her maid! I think she has gone to the French in the harbor! All she would’ve had to do is bribe some fisherman to row her out there. She could name her price and the French would pay it.”

“They won’t need to wait for Villeneuve, that’s for sure,” Darius said, eyes narrowed in thought. “Did you send word of this to your father?”

“No! You know he’d kill me, Santiago! He already thinks I can do nothing right! Besides, he’s been busy at the wall over the harbor—the first shots have been fired.”

“The king is there himself?”

“Yes, the old fool! He’s commanding the cannons personally. The French began some light shelling about two hours ago.”

His thoughts whirled. If the French had the maps, the shelling was surely just a distraction to hold attention on the harbor while they moved their men into the tunnels.

Rafe was turning white as he began to realize the implications. “The main tunnel in that quadrant leads out behind the wall. They’ll attack from behind . . . oh, God, Father will be trapped.”

“Let’s go.” Darius clapped him hard on the shoulder, but Rafael was frozen in place, staring at nothing, stricken.

“They’re going to die.”

“Not if we get to the mouth of that tunnel first. Come on!” He pulled the boy’s arm hard, dragging him away from the wall. “Alec!” he bellowed, and immediately began giving orders. He marched outside, called for a wagon, and had six horses hitched to it. “Be quick about it!” he barked, then he stalked to the magazine and slid the doors open wide. He ordered his men to load the wagon with all eight barrels of the gunpowder he’d brought here weeks ago.

Rafe visibly steeled himself and immediately got to work helping the men.

His mind crisp and crystal clear, Darius felt like himself for the first time since his humiliating failure at Milan. He marched back toward the house, intent on arming himself with his usual arsenal of weapons, and praying to God he might now redeem himself.

Sergeant Tomas appeared at his heels as he jogged up the wide, shallow front steps.

“What’s going on, Colonel?”

“Get your squad together and arm them well. We’re riding out and we may run into some fighting.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Leave five of your best men behind to guard my wife. The rest will come with us. You’ve got ten minutes.”

“Yes, sir!” The seasoned officer hurried off.

Thinking of his weapons, which were stowed in his small, spartan room upstairs, Darius stepped over the threshold, glanced up at the top of the steps, and stopped in his tracks, beholding a vision.

Scantily clad in her blue satin dressing gown, Serafina stood on the top step of the staircase, gazing down at him.

He caught his breath and stared up at his wife.

She held her head high with a calm, cool poise that was pure princess, but her translucent skin glowed after his savage loving. Her wild, sable mane was in disarray, but her eyes promptly caught him in their spell of stormy innocence, eyes the color of lilacs and eternity.

“You are leaving?” she asked, her soft, scratchy voice reined in to a careful tone.

“There is a crisis,” he whispered, an echo of an excuse he had tried to give her once, weeks ago. She hadn’t bought it then, either.

“I see.” She turned her face away to stare at her hand, lying limply on the banister.

Some men walked into the foyer behind him and asked him a question. Startled, he answered curtly and scowled at them. His blasted wife was in her dressing gown. They had no place here.

When they were gone, he turned back to her, raising his gaze. She had not moved. Her stillness terrified him.

“My darling, I have to go,” he said softly.

“I believe you.” She did not look at him, but gave a little shrug of defeat as she stared at her hand on the banister. “I’ll be here.”

He took a step toward her. “Serafina, I have to do this.”

“I know. These things come up. I suppose it’s part of being wife to the bravest knight in all the world.” At last she looked at him and gave him a slight, brave smile. “Be careful.”

“You’re not angry?”

“I’m proud of you,” she answered, tears filling her eyes. “But I do—I just—I think it’s important that we talk about this. Otherwise I don’t see that there is any hope for us.”

He said nothing, staring up at her.

Just then, Sergeant Tomas shouted to him from outside that the wagon was loaded and the twenty men were almost ready to ride. Serafina’s gaze flicked toward the door, then they looked at each other again. He was still rather marveling.
Proud of me?

“Will we talk when you get back, Darius?” she asked point-blank.

He searched her eyes, his heart pounding like the drums of war. “All right,” he lied smoothly, nodding. “I have to go now.” He couldn’t bear to see her a second longer—it was like looking at an angel whose face shone like the dazzling sun. He pivoted and began striding away.

“You’re lying again!” she cried softly behind him.

He stopped, midstride, but he did not turn around.

“How could you look in my eyes and lie?”

Slowly, he turned back and lifted his gaze to where she still stood at the top of the stairs.

Her face had reddened, and hot, vulnerable tears welled in her beautiful eyes. He made himself cold inside.

“You’re right. That was a lie,” he said. “I’m glad I didn’t tell you. You weakened me for a moment, but I will never tell you, and believe me, you don’t want to know.”

“Then we are finished.” Her shoulders slumped as she lowered her head. “You don’t love me. What a fool I am. A naive, gullible fool.”

“I don’t love you?”

“You don’t. You didn’t want this marriage. I forced you into it. I was a fool ever to think I could make you happy. You won’t share yourself with me, you won’t be honest with me. All you do is manipulate and lie. You’re stronger than me, you’re smarter than me, and every chance you get, you break my heart, so just go, do what you have to. You’re never going to love me, Darius, I give up.” She sat down on the step where she had been standing and buried her face in both hands.

He stared at her for a long moment, fighting the quickening of anger within him. “I don’t love you?” he repeated quietly.

“You said once that you did, but it must have been a lie.”

“No, you’re the one who lied to me on that point, sweetheart,” he said in cold, building anger.

She looked up again, tears in her eyes. His own words had surprised even him. He tried to stop himself, but he couldn’t. The hurt was still balled inside him, yearning to strike out.

“What are you talking about?”

Anger swept up from inside him as he walked closer, glaring up at her. “The first night we made love. You said you loved me.
Me,
and I trusted you,” he wrenched out, striking his chest with his fist like a penitent. He heard the catch of anguish in his voice, but he didn’t care anymore. “But the truth came to light the minute you found out I failed in Milan, didn’t it? That’s right,” he said with rich contempt in answer to her look of dawning dread. “You threw me out your door. You only gave yourself to me because you thought I was the big hero! You wanted a champion, the dragon-slayer, eh?” He held out his arms at his sides, presenting himself, then dropped them. “Well, I tried to be that man you wished for, but I missed the bloody shot. It was a hard shot. But that didn’t matter to my Princesa. I failed to fulfill your fantasy. You don’t give a damn for
me,
Serafina. And how could you? I don’t blame you. How could anyone? I know what I am.”

“What are you?” she whispered, staring at him, her face pale.

“You want to know? You want to know about your knight, Serafina?” he asked in cold, bitter insolence. “Can you even comprehend? I don’t think you can, my little sheltered Princesa.” Searing pain seeped up from the deepest, blackest core of him.

“Tell me.”

“You want to know? You want to know how it feels when your mother’s been running out on you since you were two years old, and doesn’t give a damn what happens to you or who hits you when she’s gone, or how it feels when she doesn’t come back anymore? Do you want to know how it is when your father won’t let you have a new set of clothes for four years so that other children won’t talk to you, only throw rocks at you and call you dirty and skinny, because he says you don’t deserve to have any friends?” he snarled, the words slashing from him like a killer’s knife, vile as poison on his tongue. He was going down in flames. “How about getting thrown out on the street when you’re ten years old? I could tell you all about that. Are you sick yet? Are you ready to throw up yet? But I’m not done, no, Princess, that’s when the fun only starts. Because then come the back-alley fights for survival and scavenging for food off garbage heaps. And you wind up sick enough to die from some half-rotten thing that you’ve eaten, so you swallow your pride and go to the almshouse for help, but you can’t stay there because one of the monks won’t stop putting his hands on you. And then eventually you figure, there’s only one thing I’m good for, what the hell? Do you follow me, Serafina? Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”