Royal 02 - Royal Passion (45 page)

"Not so, poet!"

The shout came from de Landes. He stood inside the doorway with a pistol in his hand. Behind him, armed men poured into the room. They were a vicious group, bearded and scarred, with blank, unfeeling eyes. They had extra pistols and daggers thrust into the waistbands of their trousers. They fanned out to cover the men in the room, enclosing them like rats caught in a barrel. The reformists leaped from their chairs, cursing, exclaiming as they spun to face the men who hemmed them in the room.

Mara came to her feet with horror in her eyes. Why had there been no alarm? Where was Luca? Was he dead, killed before he could give the warning? Or was the failure his revenge, an act of treachery in retaliation for the slur cast upon his birth? She looked at Juliana and saw the same fears mirrored in the eyes of Roderic's sister.

Or were they the same? Juliana was looking at Roderic and her father. The feces of the two men were grim, but showed no surprise. It was natural, of course, since they had known the attack might come; still, there was something here that she did not understand.

Abruptly, a thought struck her. It was so blighting that she felt the blood leave her face and congeal, aching, in her heart. Was it possible that Roderic stood unarmed, unafraid, because he was a part of this attack? Was he making no move toward defense because he had manipulated this entire diabolical betrayal?

What if she had been drawn into the affair with Roderic in the beginning not to persuade him to become a scapegoat for de Landes, but to provide the prince with an excuse to be at the ball and so be on hand to prevent the assassination? Had not Roderic once suggested that it was he himself who had seen her, desired her, and ultimately arranged his own seduction? What if the assassination plot had been a sham, a means of gaining the trust of King Louis Philippe and, at the same time, disassociating Roderic and his men from the legitimists who were responsible?

It could not be. Roderic had mounted the rescue of her grandmother that had nullified de Landes's control of her.

But he had done that only after the attempt on Louis Philippe had been foiled, when her usefulness was done. Immediately afterward King Rolfe had arrived. Was it possible that Roderic had known his father was en route to Paris, had known the king would not permit the game he was playing with her? He had offered her marriage when the scandal of his supposed seduction of her, his mother's goddaughter, had broken, but he must have known this was also something Rolfe would not allow.

Was it possible that Roderic had spoken nothing more than the truth when he had said that the reason Rolfe had denied his approval was because the king thought her too good for his son?

And what if, once Roderic's identity was established as a liberal prince, one who had foiled a legitimist plot, he had then ingratiated himself with the reformists in order to betray them? What could be more natural? As a hereditary prince, he would have great sympathy for the Bourbon heir, the comte de Chambord whose throne had been stolen by Louis Philippe; after all, he was related, if distantly, through his mother. He would be ready to aid the reformists in their aim to overthrow the usurper. But once the deed was done, he would be just as ready to use the knowledge he had gained, the trust he had engendered, to lead them into this snare.

But, in that case, why had she been kidnapped by de Landes? Why the elaborate pretense of revenge against Roderic? Could it be that de Landes had not been made privy to the plans of the prince? Was it possible that until the afternoon she was taken, the Frenchman had not known of the deep game Roderic was playing? Had Roderic used the man's much-vaunted love of manipulation to manipulate de Landes himself?

The Frenchman was here and Roderic faced him without the least indication of disturbance. If she was right, then it was plain that the differences between the two men had been set aside, that they were now ready to collaborate in returning a Bourbon to the throne of France.

But while these thoughts burned like wildfire through her mind, Lamartine was speaking. His face dark with fury, he demanded,"What is the meaning of this?"

"It means we have you, my friend,” de Landes answered. “It means that Henry V, our rightful king, will rule France, and you and this den of traitors will not interfere."

"Bourbon dog, you cannot hold us here forever!"

"Perhaps not, but my men and I can imprison you until Madame Guillotine is made ready once more in the Place de la Concorde."

"This is madness! Would you have the Terror all over again?"

"Now, what is this? Is the proletariat the only ones who may claim that means of annihilating enemies?"

Roderic took an easy step forward, but so dynamic was his presence that the attention of everyone in the room swung to fasten upon him. The candlelight gleamed bronze across his face, turned his hair to gold, and lay like a yellow stain upon the barred breast of his uniform. “Ambition is a hard taskmaster and a poor protector. Who will save you if you fail?"

"I will need no protection, especially from you,” de Landes said with intense satisfaction. “You thought you had won, didn't you? You thought I could be safely ignored. You were wrong."

This was not going as it should. Had de Landes opted for revenge after all, betraying the betrayer? The need to hear every nuance of what was being said drew Mara forward. She took a step, and another, easing between the two men to stand beside Trude. Attracted by the movement, de Landes's gaze flickered to her, then back to the prince.

"I may have underestimated you,” Roderic answered, his tone pensive.

His imperturbability seemed to add to the other man's annoyance. “Do you think you are immune to the threat of execution? You are a foreigner on French soil who has been engaged in gathering information. That makes you a spy and liable to the most severe penalty."

"Does diplomatic immunity no longer hold? The officials of the French embassies scattered over the world will be dismayed to hear it."

"You claim to be the official representative of your country? Perhaps. But it is not a matter for concern. Your credentials will, I am sure, disappear. Or perhaps an apology may be extended to Ruthenia for this ... unfortunate mistake."

"With condolences?” inquired Rolfe, king of Ruthenia, moving also to the forefront. “To whom do you intend to deliver them?"

De Landes gave Roderic's father a cold smile. “Why, to the Ruthenian reformists who are no doubt panting to overrun your country, and will if you and your lovely wife and daughter fail to return due to another mistake."

"No,” Mara whispered. “No."

De Landes turned to her and stretched out his free hand while holding his pistol trained on Roderic with the other. “Come, my dear Mara. You should share this triumph. It would have been impossible without you."

"You can't do this,” she said, her voice throbbing with appeal as she took a step toward him.

"Mara, stay back,” Roderic said, a deep note of concern in the warning.

De Landes raised his voice. “What, you object to my plans,
ma chère
? Have you grown squeamish then?"

"I never meant this to happen."

She looked at Roderic, her soft gray gaze dull with pain and the burden of the things she had discovered. He stared at her, and his eyes narrowed.

"Poor Mara,” de Landes said with an acid laugh. “You have been used—again."

There was a blur of white on her right. It was Trude in her uniform, her sword dangling uselessly at her left side, the scabbard brushing Mara's skirts. “Don't listen to him,” the young woman said, her voice cold.

Trude, who was of Roderic's cadre. Trude, who was in love with her prince. What force could her words have? What trust could be placed in them? And yet she and the blond amazon, with Juliana, had once stood off a mob together.

Roderic spoke then, capturing her attention, the look in his eyes burning, incisive. “Stay, Mara, and hear me swear by the leaf-green rivers, the sun-burned meadows, and the high, blue mountains of Ruthenia:
It isn't what you think
."

She heard the rage and pain in his words, and the conviction, and she knew. She had been a fool to doubt him. Roderic was no traitor. What he had done had been undertaken for the good of Ruthenia, and perhaps of France. She could not let him die. She would not. That he was threatened was her fault. If his last breath was drawn under the sharp and shining blade of a guillotine, if his last lilting word was spoken on a scaffold, the anguish of it would eat at her heart for all her days, or for as long as she could bear to live. It could not happen, it would not if she had to die to prevent it. She must do something, but what? What?

De Landes thought her Roderic's foe and had little fear that she would cross him since she had never been in a position to do so before. She had the best chance of creating a diversion, of doing something to distract the others and allowing the cadre to act. But what weapon could she use?

She felt the brush of Trude's sword against her skirts once more. She did not stop to think, but swung to draw the blade, scraping, from its scabbard. There was no time to close with de Landes. Bringing the sword up, she flung it with all the skill that had been drilled into her by the blond amazon during the gray days of the winter, with all her strength, with all her perverse and scalding rage for the way he had used her.

Roderic saw her intent in disbelief. That she would risk so much for his sake twisted his heart with terror and remorse. Breathing a soft imprecation, he whistled, a sharp, clear signal. At that same moment he launched himself with a hard surge, his hands reaching for the Frenchman's gun hand.

Behind de Landes's cutthroats the doorway filled with dark, springing forms. Armed with pistols and knives, their teeth flashing white in their fierce grins and gold rings in their ears, were the gypsies. Leading them was Luca in his white uniform of the cadre. With ferocity they fell upon the hirelings of de Landes.

The sword Mara had thrown flew across the room, spinning, singing, its aim sure, perfect. De Landes glimpsed it and turned his pistol by instinct. His eyes widened, and his mouth opened in a scream.

The pistol exploded with the roaring boom of a cannon. Black smoke spurted with yellow fire from the barrel. Roderic ripped the pistol from de Landes's hand, flinging him backward. The Frenchman crashed to the floor and lay still, the vibrating blade of the sword standing upright in his chest.

Roderic swung around. Mara lay crumpled on the floor with a crimson splotch, slowly widening, on the basque of her gown. He was beside her in an instant, thrusting Trude and Michael aside, kneeling to lift her head with hands that were suddenly as gentle as a woman handling a newborn.

Her lashes fluttered upward. She saw the face of the man bending over her, saw the anger that shone like blue fire in his eyes.

"I'm sorry,” she said, the words no more than a flutter of sound in the room that had grown suddenly quiet. “I'm sorry."

Pain. Gray waves of pain. Voices advancing, receding. Tearing sounds. Lights glowing, glowing. Movement. Darkness. Pain, swirling, building, bursting. A warm grip on her hand, anchoring, protecting. Darkness. Cold, so cold.

For Mara there were moments that stood out, razor-edged and intensely colored in their clarity. Roderic gathering her into his arms so that her blood stained the white of his uniform coat. The infinite care with which he placed her upon her bed. His refusal, flat and uncompromising, to leave the room while the basque of her gown was cut from her and the rest of her clothing stripped away. Grandmère, her face twisted with weeping, telling her beads. Angeline bending over the bed. The bustling doctor with his black coat, goatee, and sharp, shining lancet.

Time had no meaning. Night and day were one, endless grayness. An enormous fire, continually replenished, burned on the hearth; still she was cold. She knew her wound was fevered, but could not find the strength to care.

There was a night, or perhaps it was day, she could not tell, when the doctor had come, felt her forehead, and looked into her eyes, muttering. He had stretched her arm out over a basin, then picked up his lancet while he felt with his thumb for the vein under the fragile skin at the turn of her elbow. He located it, then tightened the skin to ready it for the incision.

Abruptly, Roderic was there, his fingers lashing out to catch the doctor's arm in a grasp so crushing that the man buckled at the knees. The prince's voice rasped with weariness and tried patience. “Pretentious, posturing quack! I have told you she cannot stand bleeding. Spill a single drop of her life's fluid and I will draw yours as a peasant drains a wine skin."

"Her fever is too high. I will not be responsible if she is not bled."

"Will you guarantee the outcome if she is?"

"As to that, these things are in God's hands."

"Ah, I had thought you had taken that role for yourself."

The doctor wrenched free and began to cast his instruments back into his case. “Upon your head be it, then!"

Roderic, his gaze opaque, said softly, “That is where it has always been."

There had been a great weight of blankets then, and the smell of hot stone wrapped in flannel. Water had dripped upon her parched lips. She had drifted, and she sometimes heard herself trying to reason with those who lifted and turned her and placed cool cloths on her forehead.

Then came a night when her body was on fire, and her mind, and the world. She seemed to be floating, like a bird riding a warm updraft on a hot summer's day, and yet she was tethered, held fast by one hand.

Her eyelids were weighted, nearly sealed; still, she lifted them by slow application of effort. Roderic sat beside the bed, her hand in his strong grasp. His hair was tousled as if he had been running his fingers through it and damp from the heat of the fire that burned on the hearth. The stubble of a growth of beard glinted gold in the lamplight. His eyes were red-rimmed with sleeplessness and there were dark shadows in the hollows beneath them.

He raised her fingers to his mouth, brushing them with his lips. “Don't leave me,” he whispered. “Mara love, if my love can hold you, I won't let you leave me."