Royal Renegade (8 page)

In the milky light of the moon, she could distinguish the taut lines of Lord Devlyn's body under a dark blue cloak flung back from his shoulders. He turned as she approached, evincing no surprise at her presence. But she supposed that surprising him would prove as difficult as amusing him. His voice was almost disdainful in its evenness. "You will take a chill, Princess."

She took a grateful hold of the oak rail, knowing that her sudden shiver owed nothing to the wind. "You forget I am Russian. The Mediterranean, even in autumn, seems a summer sail to me. Could you not sleep either?"

He leaned against the rail, gazing out at the inky horizon. "I take a watch like all the men. Since they must be more active in the day, I requested a night watch. I am accustomed to little sleep."

Now that she was standing only an arm's length from her audience, Tatiana was struck by stage fright. She could hardly breathe, much less be witty. Lord Devlyn was so unyielding, his fine shoulders tense under the dark cloak, his stance wary as if he were expecting an attack. Used to the wide brows and broad cheekbones of her Slavic compatriots, Tatiana thought the angular planes of his face rather harsh, the straight jawline almost cruel. But it was the abstract, impersonal glance from his cloudy eyes that made her challenge of befriending him seem so great.

Some native stubbornness, however, made her essay a smile as soon as he turned his gaze toward her. For an instant, he was still, his right hand arrested an inch from the oak rail. Then he looked off into the darkness, his fingers lightly brushing the wood as if testing for splinters. "I'll call the steward to escort you back to your cabin. You ought not be out here."

Tatiana lifted her chin. "I always do what I oughtn't."

"I knew that," Devlyn said unexpectedly, glancing quickly at her then back to the wake the ship left behind. His face revealed nothing, so she dropped her gaze to his square hand, still tracing the grain of the wood rail. The repetitive movement seemed to soothe him, for his voice was almost dreamlike in its evenness. "When Wellesley showed me that miniature of you, I thought, there's a girl who always does what she's told not to do."

Her pulse raced and slowed in a dizzy rhythm to the roll of the deck, so she had to renew her grip on the rail to keep balance. He had made no move to summon a steward, and she wondered if the moonlight had worked its magic even on the cool Lord Devlyn.

She edged closer to his muscular arm, glancing up at him through her lashes, as she had read that wicked women often did. "What did you see in that picture that made you think that?"

She could almost feel the shrug of his shoulders under the blue cloak. "That dimple. See, you're doing it now."

She had, in fact, slanted her eyes up at him and smiled in what she supposed was a flirtatious way. But he turned from her mischief, jerking his cloak over his arm in an isolating gesture. "You'll have to try that on Prinny. A fool for dimples, they say."

"I've briefed him on the progress of the army." His hand resumed its stroking as he asked grudgingly. "Is he your cousin?"

As this was the first sign of real interest he had ever shown her, Tatiana was gratified but embarrassed. "I'm afraid I can't recall how just now. But I'm cousin to every royal in Europe, so it's a safe wager. I'm connected with the Hanovers through the House of Baden, I think," she finished inadequately, resolving to apply herself more to memorizing her own genealogy as Buntin insisted she do. "What is he like, Prinny? Is he a kind man?"

Devlyn's hard mouth quirked as he considered her, and she sensed he was ready to dismiss her again. But then he shook his head, as if it weren't worth the fight to send her away. "He seems amiable enough. He has a soft heart for ladies, so I expect he'll be kind to you." His tone indicated disdain for any man, even a prince, who might let a woman soften his heart.

"And Cumberland?"

"I daresay I've met him."

He had withdrawn again, his mouth was set in a hard line, as if he disapproved—of her? of Cumberland? Sensing an opening in her escort's armor here, she probed for more information about the man she was expected to wed. "Why do they call him the Dark Prince?"

Devlyn glanced speculatively at her, but only replied, "He's the one with the dark hair."

"You have dark hair," she said, and lovely too, she finished silently. In the misty air, curls were springing back from his fine forehead in an almost boyish way. "And I doubt they call you the dark viscount."

A smile flickered at his eyes. Diverted by the flash of silver in his usually unreadable gaze, Tatiana eventually shook her head. That didn't count as a smile, for it never reached his mouth. She would have to try harder to amuse him, once she had learned more about her intended fate.

"Not that I've heard. But there are a dozen or so princes, and we subjects need a way to distinguish them."

"Don't tease me." She didn't have to make her voice tremble, for in truth whenever she contemplated the destiny awaiting her in England, she became anxious. But she also knew that her plaintive tone would arouse his protective instincts, if, indeed, he had any under that hard exterior. "I had counted on you to tell me the truth about Cumberland, for I sensed that you are a man of honor." She'd got him there, she thought with mordant triumph, for if he didn't answer he'd be as much as denying his honor. "All the others have reason to lie to me. My Uncle Dmitry, my cousin Alexander, they brush off the stories. But Cumberland is meant to be my husband, and I have the right to know the truth—is he truly a murderer?"

Something in her plea must have reached him, for he turned to study her, leaning an elbow against the rail. His cloak fell back, revealing his hand gripping the other wrist, a white lace cuff stark against his bronze skin. "I don't know the truth. No one does, except Cumberland, I suppose, and the valet—and he can't tell us anything." His gaze was upon her, but his eyes were focused inward as if in memory. "I've been on the Peninsula for three years, you see, so I don't know the details. But I gather Cumberland's valet went mad and attacked him one night, laid open his skull. The valet was found later, his throat slit, in a—another room." In fact, it had been the privy, as the scandal sheet Tatiana read had been delighted to tell. Lord Devlyn was more discreet. "The inquest said it was suicide."

Tatiana's sulky mouth drew down as she considered this possibility once again. But the explanation, even in the viscount's cool, reasonable voice, still made no sense. "If I were to commit suicide, I don't think I would slit my own throat. It's rather an awkward motion, don't you think?" She demonstrated, drawing her index finger along her neck from one ear to the other, grimacing horribly.

Lord Devlyn, she realized an instant later, was enigmatic. Now when she was trying so hard to be serious, to enlist him as a sympathizer, he decided to be amused. Now his hard mouth was curving at her bloodcurdling demonstration. But his unwilling smile faded as quickly as it appeared, and his face returned to its usual grave lines. "Awkward and painful, I imagine. But Cumberland had been gravely injured, and averred that he was physically incapable of such derring-do."

"But do you think him morally capable of it?"

At her apprehensive question, he turned back to face the sea, his broad shoulder a barrier to her. She longed to touch that hard mouth, so cynically twisted now. He wasn't a cynical man, she thought, or hard either, but he had retreated again, and she didn't know why. "I've been years at war, Your Highness. I think men capable of all sorts of things. But he is of royal breeding and—"

"In my experience, that only makes it the more likely," Tatiana broke in. Lord Devlyn flinched, his hand opening in a warning gesture, whether against her unexpected anger or her treasonous sentiments she didn't know. But she refused to curb her tongue, even if she offended him. For such a nonsensical idea that royal breeding conferred some special moral awareness could not go unchallenged.

So, huddling into her cloak, chilled more by the memories than the wind, she declared, "I think they breed us royals especially for violent tendencies. In Russia, we've always been a bloodthirsty lot. Ivan the Terrible killed thousands, they say, many by his own hand."

"Generations ago." Lord Devlyn was regarding her warily now, his eyes shadowed by dark lashes. But now she was the one to turn away, to gaze out at the fathomless sea.

"My great-great-grandfather, Peter the Great—they say he killed his own son because he didn't want him to inherit. And Catherine the Great—she was not a Romanov by birth, of course, but of the same German stock as your royal family—she had her husband killed. Don't look at me like that," she added indignantly.

"Like what?" His voice was reasonable again, as if he were addressing a truculent child.

"As if I am insane. I know what I'm talking about. We don't have public inquests in Russia, you see, when tsars are murdered. But we all know that the official stories are lies. Do you know how Catherine stole my grandfather's kingdom?" she asked suddenly.

"Pardon my ignorance, Your Highness, but I don't even know your grandfather had a kingdom."

"He was the King of Saraya Kalin. His mother was Peter's daughter—illegitimate, but considering how Peter dealt with his legitimate heir, that was just as well."

"Saraya Kalin?" Lord Devlyn prompted gently.

"Oh, it was a minor kingdom. It was ignored for centuries, until Catherine decided she wanted to protect all the little countries inside Russia's boundaries. So she told my grandfather that if he did not allow the annexation, she would bring an army and slaughter every one of his subjects. Men always believed Catherine's threats. She was very ruthless," Tatiana admitted with grudging admiration. "So grandfather stopped being King Denis and became Prince Denis, and Saraya Kalin became just part of Russia. At least she didn't kill him. His wife was her first cousin, of course, not that that would have stopped Catherine."

Lord Devlyn watched silently as she shivered in her warm cloak. But at least he didn't try to hush her, as Buntin always did when the conversation turned to her family's unsavory history. She was emboldened enough to ask, "Do you see why I worry that the worst they say about Cumberland might be true? For the worst of it is better than what I know of my own family." Quietly now, almost to herself, she added, "I used to worry about myself, that I might have inherited that royal violence. For my father—" She shook her head decisively. "But I know I did not. I was never one to fight with other children, and now I don't even use a crop on my horse. I have been spared, I think."

Without meaning to, she had entirely captured Lord Devlyn's interest. Gone was the bored narrowing of his eyes, the wary set of his jaw. Now he unconsciously leaned so close to her that she imagined she could feel the warmth of his body. His voice was low, his curiosity muted but real. "What were you saying of your father?"

Tatiana pressed her fist against her mouth, cursing her undisciplined tongue. She left Russia to escape those memories. But deliberate amnesia couldn't change the truth—Alexander had been trying to forget for a decade, and it only made him the more guilt-ridden. She and the tsar were linked by that inability to forget the crime that had killed both their fathers.

Lord Devlyn's curiosity was paradoxically soothing. She had never been allowed to speak of this before. Buntin, of course, wouldn't listen, and Dmitry reacted violently to any mention of Tatiana's parents. They would rather pretend that Nicholas and Anastasia Denisov had never existed. But Tatiana could never deny her parents, no matter what they had done. And oddly, she wanted to impress this man with her seriousness, to share with him the sorrow that she’d always had to keep hidden.

She whispered, "You must promise not to tell anyone, for it's very dangerous."

He had the grace not to laugh at her dramatic warning. "Of course."

She regarded his handsome, austere face, and knew she could trust him, for those cloudy eyes surely concealed a world of his own secrets. "I was only a child, and my memories are confused. So I've had to piece it all together, for no one will discuss this. But I've overheard the servants talking, and the other courtiers, and my parents."

Lord Devlyn was perfectly still, perfectly accepting of her incoherent introduction. He only leaned there against the rail, studying her as she struggled to describe the night no one else recalled.

"Maman was waiting for Papa so that they could go to a party in the east wing. It was still winter—March, I think—and we seldom left the palace during the cold months. I helped Maman dress—she wore a purple velvet dress, with lace along the sleeves. I picked out her jewelry, the Saraya Kalin diamonds. But Papa was late. He was an officer of the Semenovsky Guards, Alexander's regiment. There was a regimental meeting, Maman said, but as the evening went on she grew more and more anxious. She tried to send me to bed. But I wouldn't go."

Her voice was soft, almost dreamy as memory emerged from the shadows. "Finally Maman took off the jewels and laid them on the dressing table. She went out into the sitting room to wait for him. I put the tiara on my own head—I wasn't allowed to touch it ordinarily. I fell asleep there on the floor with the diamonds in my hair. I woke when Maman cried out, and I thought I had been caught so I yanked the tiara off. I snagged my hair and the pain made me cry. But then I heard Papa's voice. He was saying,
he is dead, we killed him, they killed him
."

"Tsar Paul."

Tataina had fallen into silence but started at Devlyn's quiet words. So he had guessed. "Yes. I crept to the dressing room door and listened. Maman was angry and frightened, for the tsar was her cousin—Papa's, too. But he loved Alexander, all the young officers did. Paul was a tyrant, Papa said. They just meant to make him abdicate. He said that he was guarding the door to Paul's room while the others strangled the tsar. They had promised Alexander not to kill his father. Papa was distraught, and Maman too, and they cried together, and I cried there by the door, although I didn't understand any of it. It was years before I really understood."