Royal 02 - Royal Passion (4 page)

The girl who had led Mara into the caravan lighted the lamps, brought a can of hot water, and then laid out linen toweling and a block of soap with the fragrance of sandalwood. She offered her services as maid to aid Mara in preparing for bed. Mara allowed her to release her from her gown and stays, then dismissed her. A moment later, she wished she had not been so hasty. She had no nightgown, nothing to sleep in other than her camisole and pantalettes.

It hardly mattered. All she really needed was to be left alone, to lie down and close her eyes in some dark place away from the questions, the scrutiny, and the suspicion. It was a pity she couldn't also hide from her own thoughts.

She had passed the first test. The realization was slow in coming. It was only after the creep of minutes into hours that she allowed herself to believe it. She was here with the prince, here, in the gypsy camp among the people who claimed him as their own. She was in his caravan, even sleeping in his bed. De Landes had been right in thinking that this was the best approach to him, here where he was relaxed and at ease away from the city, here where there were no authorities to take charge of her and few distractions to turn the attention of the prince from her. She had, she thought, aroused Roderic's curiosity, and perhaps his sympathy.

That was not enough, not nearly enough. There had been an opportunity, she was almost certain, to do more, and she had failed to seize it. Her resolution had wavered when faced with the man himself. She must not let it happen again, she could not, for her grandmother's sake. Oh, but could she force herself to smile and be enticing? Could she take the final, irrevocable step of inviting the man into her bed?

With a sudden convulsive wrench, she turned onto her back, staring up into the darkness lit only by the orange flicker of firelight reflected into the caravan from outside. She must take that step. She must become intimate with the prince, must persuade him to take her with him when he returned to Paris. There was no other choice.

She thought of her grandmother in the hands of de Landes. Was there truly a house party at his chateau, or had that merely been an excuse? Was she being ill-treated? Was she warm? Was she being given enough to eat? Was the place she was being held a comfortable country house, or was it some crumbling stone fortress with dungeons, bare cells with barred doors, and straw on the floor for a bed? Was it some former nobleman's seat that de Landes had taken as the spoils of his office?

There were many such places in France, landed estates that had changed hands dozens of times with every shift of government since the revolution. The rich lands and great houses of the Loire Valley were particularly coveted by the new rich of each administration. Every tumbledown house with its neighboring village became an excuse to add the ennobling “de” to a surname, purloining the old glory. Few cared to live in such places, however. The lure of Paris and the court of Louis Philippe, staid though it might be, was far greater; besides, the great, drafty houses were bitterly cold and uncomfortable in winter.

A shiver ran through Mara there in the prince's bed. The chill came from within, however, and could not be banished, not even by the covering of thick, soft fur. She lay staring with burning eyes into the dimness.

She was awakened by a sound so slight that she could not tell what it was. After a moment, she discovered that rain had begun to fall. It pattered overhead on the roof of the caravan, neither heavy nor light but relentless, though there came an occasional splattering of windblown drops. It was a moment before she recognized that, persistent though the sound was, it had not roused her. She raised herself on one elbow.

"Don't be alarmed,” the prince said from the darkness. “All I seek is shelter."

She was supposed to have lost her memory, not her common sense or her courage. She answered with some asperity, “I'm not alarmed."

"Aren't you? I had not looked for such sangfroid."

The words were accompanied by soft rustling. It took no great effort of imagination to understand that he was undressing there in the darkness. Mara felt her heart begin to beat with quick, throbbing strokes. A suffocating feeling rose in her chest as she realized that another opportunity was upon her. All too aware of the stretching silence, she searched her mind for something to say.

"Did—did you get wet?"

There was laughter in his voice as he answered, “As a puling brat with no one to change or to dandle the darling child."

It was a reference to their earlier conversation. She let it pass. “Not, I hope, from a reluctance to disturb me."

"'A very, parfit gentil knight,’ suffering rather than intrude upon a lady's sanctity? Nothing so gallant. The horses were restless."

"And you acted as the groom?” She could not keep the surprise from her voice.

"Not alone. Horses are the livelihood, the transportation, and the wealth of the
Tziganes
, the gypsies, and particularly this group, who are breeders and traders of fine stock. But I, myself, have an aversion to being left afoot when there is something I can do to prevent it."

Mara did not doubt that there were servants in plenty he could have called to see to the matter. That he had gone himself gave her pause. She had thought of him as the consummate aristocrat, with the carelessness of that breed for the welfare of underlings and animals, and for anything that did not directly affect his own comfort and consequence. This was no time, however, for explorations of personality. What the prince was like as a man had no bearing on what she had to do.

"You must be ... cold."

"Are you by chance offering to warm me?"

All she had to do was to say yes, and yet the very boldness of the question shook her resolve. She said in haste, “Only to share the covers."

The air wafted in a faint draft, then his voice came from just above her as if he had moved to kneel beside the low bed. “No soft pillow on your breast, no sweet sucklings and bouncing joy before I drift into sated sleep?"

"I am not—not your nurse!” The catch in her voice was caused not by panic, but by the warm curling of some odd pain in her chest.

"An excellent thing,” he said, then, rising in one swift movement, lifted the fur coverlet and slid in beside her.

She flung herself away from him with a sharp exclamation, then, as she realized what she was doing, abruptly stopped. She was a fool. She could have wept with pent-up nerves and self-castigation. Somehow she must learn to control herself, to force her body to accept the dictates of her will. If the prince made another advance, if he reached out to touch her, she must not, would not, retreat. She would accept it and, pray God, respond.

He did not move. She might have been alone in the bed, so scant was the evidence of his presence. If he was breathing, she could not tell it, so quiet was he. The lack of strain in the coverlet over them both was an indication of his complete relaxation. It seemed after a time that he must have the facility for instant sleep, for he made no restless shifts of position. By degrees the tension left her own muscles and she allowed her eyelids to close. The rain drummed on the caravan roof with a soothing, unfaltering rhythm. Her shoulder, which was uncovered, grew cool, and she eased the fur higher, snuggling under its warmth.

The gray creep of daylight into the caravan brought Mara awake once more. She lifted her lashes with reluctance. She tried to stretch and stifled a small sound of distress. She was sore in every muscle, and her shoulder was so stiff that she was not sure she would be able to move it. It was not memory, however, but some tingling sense of awareness that reminded her that she was not alone in the bed. She swung her head to one side and stared into the eyes of the prince.

He lay on his side watching her, with his head propped on one hand. The cover had slipped from him so that his torso was bare. The soft light of morning gleamed bronze across the sculptured muscles of his wide shoulders and caught glints of gold in the soft mat of hair on his chest. The appreciation in his gaze was bright, but underlying it was concentrated and cogent thought.

Her dark hair lay in shining serpentine waves around her head on the pillow. The pure oval of her face grew slowly flushed with delicate shell-pink color that also extended along the graceful turn of her neck to the curves of her breasts beneath the low neckline of her silk camisole. Her lips, parted in surprise, were sweetly molded, soft and moist. But her hand, which lay on the coverlet, was clenched into a fist, and the smudged gray of her Irish eyes was slowly darkening with apprehension.

Roderic leaned toward her. Her lashes, like black silk fringes, fluttered downward to hide her expression. She made no move to draw away. It seemed ignoble then to press his mouth to hers, but he was not driven by simple desire. The slight physical contact was a test. He was curious to see what she would do about it, whether she would accept it or repulse him.

Mara lay still, her lips cool, and yet so heightened was their sensitivity that she registered the warmth and smoothness, the firmness and pressure of his mouth in some deep recess of her being. Her fear receded, to be replaced by an intimation of pleasure. Minutely, she moved, molding her mouth to his. The pressure increased, and she felt the subtle touch of his tongue.

Dennis had kissed her like that on the night of the ball, thrusting his tongue wet and hot into her mouth. With remembrance came welling panic, and she wrenched her mouth away, lifting her hand to push at Roderic's shoulder.

He released her at once, but still he lay studying her: the livid bruise on her temple revealed where her bandage had been dislodged in the night; the smudged shadows under her eyes; the fine transparency of her skin that now glowed with a flush from some emotion, the origin of which he could only surmise. She was a beautiful enigma, this woman who had come to them out of the night. He scented a mystery, something more than a mere lady in distress who had misplaced her identity.

The schemes and plotting of the courts and political factions of half the countries of Europe were as familiar to him as the patterns of his own thoughts. He had developed an instinct for dangerous undercurrents, one he had learned to trust. He knew now that the best thing he could do would be to leave her to the gypsies. And yet she was beginning to fascinate him with her tentative advances and swift retreats. There was something in her eyes that disturbed him, like a doe he had once seen turn at bay after being hunted by hounds.

"Forgive me,” he said, the words abrupt. “It was wrong of me to take advantage of your injuries."

How much easier it would be if he would just take advantage of her completely so that the thing was over and done. A wry smile for the desperation of that thought tugged at Mara's mouth, then disappeared. “I suppose you are used to—to waking with a woman in your bed."

"Not one for which I have no name, professional or otherwise."

"I told you—"

"I remember vividly. It creates a problem, does it not? I could snap my fingers or whistle when your attention is required, but it seems awkward. Every new soul needs a name, and like a child born last night, you have the opportunity to be freshly christened, created anew, this morning. What then shall you be called?
Chère
is too common, and
chère amie
somewhat premature."

"Yes,” she said, sending him a look both incensed and frightened. She was not his mistress, his
chèrie amie
, yet, and though she thought his words were meant to be teasing, a way of easing the tension between them, she could not be sure he had not guessed her purpose. He was said to be extremely acute.

"Shall you be Claire or Caroline then, Candance or Chloe? It isn't everyone who is permitted to choose."

The urge to say her own name was strong. She could not afford the gesture, however. “I don't know. Call me what you will."

"You tempt me. Circe, from the pagan sorceress who turned men into swine? Daphne, who became a laurel tree for the sake of love? Or perhaps after the beautiful and faithless Helen?"

"Nothing so classical, I think. But need there be anything? I may recall my own name shortly."

"And may not."

How despicable was this falseness. She lowered her lashes. “Then common though it may be, perhaps Chère would be best."

"As you like. Are you hungry?"

"Not very."

"Yet you ate nothing last evening, unless it was before you reached us. Have you a fever?"

He reached out to touch her forehead, and it was only by an immense effort of will that she prevented herself from flinching. “I believe not."

"No,” he agreed, lifting his hand. “What then will it take to tempt your appetite? Lark's tongues? The locusts of the Mediterranean and the wine of Bacchus that opens the gates of the heart?"

"No,” she said, shuddering.

"Can you stomach a roll, then, and chocolate with goat's milk?"

If he had meant to make the plain fare acceptable, he had succeeded. At her nod he smiled and, with smooth grace, slid from the bed and began to dress. Mara stared fixedly at her hands, all too aware of the hot flush suffusing her face. He had been naked. She had suspected as much, but that had not been like knowing. Strong and vital and virile, wrapped in the powerful aura of his noble title, this man had shared her bed for a night and left her untouched. It was deflating. It was also the source of guilt twice over. She should have done something, anything, to arouse him. But what a terrible thing it would be to use a man, as she must, who was so considerate in his relationships with females.

The depression of her spirits caused by his forbearance remained with her when he had left the caravan. She tried to tell herself that he had desired her; she had been forced to refuse him in the early-morning hours, hadn't she? But he had taken her refusal so well. In a man used to having his way, as he must be, she would have expected some attempt at persuasion, some sign of temper or affront at the very least. These were the reactions of wounded pride, of course. Perhaps it was simply that his consequence was so great that he could not conceive of a woman refusing him except for the most extreme of reasons.