Royal 02 - Royal Passion (34 page)

Slowly, she subsided, though her heart was jarring in her chest. “What do you want?"

"You should not wander away alone. Some lusty gypsy might take it as an invitation."

"He would be wrong."

"But the discovery could come too late."

She could not quite make out his face in the dimness, though she could see the faint white shimmer of his uniform as he moved to let himself down beside her. His form bulked large, making her acutely aware of him as a man and of their isolation.

"I must rejoin the others,” she said quickly.

"There's no hurry since you are no longer alone. Of course, if it's fear that impels you—"

"I'm not afraid of you.” Wary, distrusting, but not afraid.

"Then why do you avoid me?"

"I don't!"

"You have left my bed—"

"You could hardly expect me to stay!"

"Why? Because my usefulness to you was at an end? Because there was no one to force you? Because propriety has been restored? Because King Rolfe might frown? Or is it because I used fear as a weapon to gain your cooperation, and you cannot forgive it."

"All those things,” she answered in defiance.

"Then take them in order and tell me why they have validity."

"You know why!"

"I only know that the memory of you burns in my mind, violet blue and shimmering with the iridescence of pearls. I know that I want you, that there is no kingdom that will suffice if you are not in it. I long to touch and to hold you, to taste the honeyed essence of you..."

To stop the flow of his words, she said, “You want a woman. The gypsy dancer will undoubtedly please you just as well."

"You noticed.” There was satisfaction in his tone.

"How could I not when you were positively doting on the command performance? How could anyone?"

"You were jealous."

"I was not!” She pushed away from him, trying to get out of the caravan. He caught her arm, hauling her toward him with such quickness that she landed on her back in the hay.

"You were,” he said softly as he leaned above her, pinning her arms beside her. “You want me."

"No!"

"Yes. You remember as I do the silken nights and the mornings that came too soon."

"No,” she whispered, but it was a lie.

He did not bother to answer, leaning instead to press his lips to hers. He molded their smooth and tender surfaces to his own, gently trying the sensitive line where they came together until they parted to permit him entry. He took that permission unhesitatingly, exploring in sensual wonder the fragile inner surfaces. Warm and flavored with wine, their mouths clung, then slowly she raised her arms to lock them behind his head.

Life was life and must be lived. Yesterday was gone and tomorrow was no more than a shadow. Tonight was the only certainty, the present moment all that was guaranteed. It could not be wrong to take the pleasure it offered and make of it a bright memory for the future, if there was a future. She loved this man. No matter what he might have done, she could not deny the quickening of her blood or the aching fullness of her heart that only he could bring. Drowning in languor and fatalism, Mara pressed closer to Roderic's hard length.

Their bodies sank into the thick hay. Its fragrance surrounded them with the intimations of summer and warm sun. It rustled quietly as they moved, a soft but prickly bed. The wind made a soughing sound around the edge of the caravan's curved top and touched their skin with chill fingers so that they burrowed deeper into the hay.

Roderic's lips burned along the curve of her cheek, the turn of her jaw, the tender arch of her neck. He reached to gather her skirts, drawing them higher until his hand touched her knee. He pushed the mass of skirts and petticoats higher, and she made a soft sound in her throat as she felt the warmth of his hand through the thin material of her pantalettes. He spread his fingers over her abdomen, spanning its flat width, then in a swift movement leaned to press his face into that firm softness. Gently, insidiously, he parted her thighs, searching for and finding the slitted crotch opening of her pantalettes. She felt the slight roughness of his fingertips at the most sensitive point of her body, and then the warm exhalation of his breath, the heat of his mouth.

Pleasure, a vital and perilous rapture, swept in upon her with such force that it took her breath. Awareness receded and yet, at the same time, expanded until she was not sure she could bear it. Never had she felt so alive, so vital. She was a part of the night and the music and the wild freedom of the gypsy camp, of the chill winter wind, and also of the man who held her. The blood raced in her veins and her heart swelled to bursting, jarring as it beat against her ribs.

She gripped his shoulder with her hand, clasping tight, kneading, stroking. Her lower limbs felt heavy, the muscles taut. Her skin glowed with heat. Inside her was a quickening, burgeoning sensation. She wanted, needed, to feel his strength against her, within her. She wanted to encompass him, to take him deeper and deeper still, until he was a part of her and she a part of him, without differences of rank and station, female and male. Without end.

She pushed her hand between them, slipping the frogs of his uniform jacket from their clasps. He shifted to help her. They opened their clothing, drawing the edges aside, lowering those garments that were most constricting. They came together then with the shuddering inevitability of magnet and iron, face to face in the whispering, sweet-scented hay. Their limbs entwined, they pressed close.

"Mara,” he said, an entreaty and a benediction, then with a powerful twist of his hips he entered her, plunging deep.

Caught in the passionate compulsion of the joining, Mara moved with him, against him. Together they strove with the blood pounding in their veins and their breathing deep and hard. Their skins were moist, burning to the touch. Their lips met in a kiss devouring in its ecstasy. The tumult stretched, gathered, flowed, swept in sudden grandeur toward the inevitable explosion.

It burst upon them, silent and glorious, seductive in its magic. They let it take them, close-held, into grateful beatitude. With entwined limbs and soft caresses, they drifted and came, slowly, to rest.

It was some time later that a cold wind touched them. With reluctance, they eased apart, sitting up, adjusting clothing. Finished, Roderic reached to help Mara, doing up the tiny buttons of her bodice as she smoothed her hair. Halfway through his task, he bent his head to press his lips to the deep valley between her breasts.

It was at that moment that Rolfe stepped into view. He placed one foot on the footboard of the caravan, speaking in dulcet tones with an undercurrent of steel.

"What crude pastoral joy, tumbling in the hay. It lacks polish, finesse, and even common sense, but can be sublime in a scratchy fashion. I trust the experience was memorable, for it will be the last."

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Revolution was in the air. Not in nearly sixty years had the mood of the people been so angry, their dissatisfaction with the present government so vocal. They were also, and most overwhelmingly, bored. They looked back on the days of the empire under Napoleon and sighed for the past glory of France, forgetting the blood of the flower of French youth that had been spilled to secure it and the enormous sums it had cost. The heads of the aristocrats of the Old Regime had been loped off in the Place de la Concorde and good riddance, but, ah, what days those had been when the Sun King had ruled from Versailles and all the world had journeyed there to pay homage to La Belle France!

And how different was the court of Louis Philippe. There was no glory and no grandeur there. There was only pompous respectability, lean times, and, as one sage put it, “a chicken-hearted monarchy which allows France to be humiliated.” Their country, which had once stretched from the English Channel to the Rhine River, from the North Sea to the Ottoman Empire, had been reduced to less than the original boundaries before Napoleon. Stirring events, important revolutions, and alterations in the governments of other countries had taken place while France stood idly by. People were starving in the winter cold while nothing was being done to help. They were being ruled by a corrupt and vulgar middle class and a ridiculous usurping king, a cause for shame. A change would have to be better; it could not be worse.

The poet-politician Lamartine's book,
Histoire des Girondins
, with its idealistic presentation of the revolution and excuses for the excesses of the Terror, was being read and quoted everywhere. Lamartine was much in demand as a speaker at the series of reformist banquets that were being given all over the country. At these banquets people were being fed great helpings of oratory concerning universal suffrage, the rule of the common man. It went down well. The king and his advisers watched the unusual feasts with mounting alarm.

At the gatherings in the public salon at Ruthenia House, there was unimpaired complacency among the increasingly staid visitors. Louis Philippe was a decent and moderate man. His reign had been the most stable since the revolution. No one would be mad enough to resort once again to violent change with all its attendant dangers, no matter how much romantics such as Lamartine ranted about individual freedom.

But as company in the public salon grew thinner and more middle class in complexion, the visitors to the private quarters of the prince not only increased in number, but became more rabidly opposed to the present government. Here came the writers and artists, sculptors and composers who had been in the vanguard of the romantic movement; Hugo, Balzac, Madame Dudevant, and Lamartine, with a dozen others. They talked, argued, drank, and sometimes smoked small Turkish cigars or the exotic hookah with pellets of opium. How seriously they took what they had to say, how much they truly desired the reforms that would bring about the rule by the common man they so avidly espoused, was difficult to say.

The stream of merchants, modistes, doctors, lawyers, maids, hairdressers, and drivers of drays continued to flow through the house. The cadre came and went on mysterious missions. Mara would have expected that such activity would slow with the defeat of the assassination plot; instead it seemed to increase. The information gathered was seldom mentioned among the ladies, but from an occasional reference was assumed to be less than reassuring.

Late one evening a fast, lightweight traveling carriage pulled into the courtyard. Its gilt-work was bright, its turquoise paint gleaming, and the arms on the door royal. Two liveried footmen stood up behind it, and outriders surrounded it. The door was opened and the steps let down. From it descended a lady dressed in green velvet trimmed with mink, with a plumed hat tilted forward on auburn hair only slightly fading into silver at the temples.

By the time her elegantly shod foot had touched the cobbles, Roderic had clattered down the stairs to the courtyard while behind him Rolfe descended with more dignity. It was Rolfe, however, who stepped forward to take the lady's hand and raise it to his lips before dragging her into his arms.

When they could speak, he said, “Angeline, wretched female, all curiosity and meddlesome instincts—who is minding my kingdom?"

"A bevy of people from chamberlain to ministers, all more qualified than I,” she replied, blithely unrepentant. “You could not have thought that I would spend Christmas alone when you are all in Paris? Confess, you have been expecting my arrival for days."

"And marveling at your restraint."

"Odious man,” she said, her smile caressing. Straightening her hat, she turned to her son. “Well, then, where is your seductress?"

"Outrageous, Maman; you might consider her feelings,” he said, laughing as he gave her a vigorous hug that once more required attention to her hat.

"Now, why? If either of you has shown that much fore-bearance, I shall be extremely shocked."

Mara had been waiting on the steps. She came forward, and Roderic stepped over to take her hand, presenting her in form. Angeline, a smile curving her generous mouth and rising to the soft gray-green of her eyes, enveloped her in a warm embrace.

"What a delightful surprise to meet my goddaughter at last and to discover her to be something quite out of the ordinary. I see your father in you, a little. I understand Helene is with you? Let us go inside and all have a long talk."

The arrival of Roderic's mother brought a greater lightness to the atmosphere of Ruthenia House, and crowded the public salon once more with her friends, acquaintances, and those who thought it proper to welcome her formally to the city. The days whirled past in a round of visits, soirées, balls, and performances at the theater and the opera; of shopping for gifts to be exchanged at the new year; and of carriage rides about the city. Angeline, after that first evening when she had heard the full tale of the relationship between Mara and Roderic, said little more about it. She treated Mara with a certain familiar fondness, but did not take sides in any way in the quarrel between Roderic and his father.

There was one incident to disturb the smooth tenor of the days. At the Comédie Française one evening, Mara lifted her opera glasses to the box across from the one occupied by the Ruthenian party and saw de Landes. The man had the temerity to smile and bow. He was not pleased, not at all, when Mara allowed her gaze to pass over him without a sign of recognition.

The Yuletide season came and went. They attended midnight mass on Christmas Eve, a beautiful ceremony celebrated by the light of thousands of candles. On Christmas Day, they carried several carriageloads of food baskets to orphanages and hospitals, baskets personally packed by Angeline, with the help of Juliana and Mara. The principal day for the giving of gifts, the first day of the new year, was clouded, however, by the death the evening before of Madame Adelaide, sister to King Louis Philippe.

The city was thrown into gloom. The court went at once into deepest mourning. Entertainments were canceled. Black draped the windows of houses and shops. Draper's shops were inundated with the demand for cloth in the mourning colors of black and purple, gray and lavender. Modistes and the seamstresses who labored for them in the ill-lighted back rooms of Paris worked through the night for weeks to supply the demand for garments. Because Angeline was related in the most distant of fashions to the royal family, black arm bands were ordered for the men at Ruthenia House and a pair of gowns in somber, black-trimmed gray for each of the ladies, one for day and one for evening.