Heart's Demand (33 page)

Katarina scowled, then she laughed maliciously. “They thought you killed us?”

“As I said, there was gossip.”

“That
you
killed us specifically? I was wondering why you were so desperate to get us back.”

He smiled a tight smile. “I wasn’t desperate. My advisors simply decided it might be best if you and I wed. They felt it would generate a sense of stability.”

“
And
show you hadn’t murdered me.” She laughed again, then stood to go. “I’ll play your game, Kristof. I’ll let you parade me around, and I’ll grin and wave and pretend I’m glad to be home.”

He rose too, irked that she would sashay out before he gave her permission. She’d always been too independent, but she was about to have a husband, and suddenly he was exhausted at the prospect of how much training he would have to provide so she would be a proper wife.

“All I ask, Katarina, is that you comport yourself as the royal consort you were born to be.”

“I can do that, but the instant my brother or sister is imperiled, I will murder you in your sleep.”

He sucked in a sharp breath. “I will tell myself you’re tired so you didn’t realize your comment might be viewed as a threat.”

“Yes, I’m tired. Where are my brother and sister? Are they here?”

“Yes, they’re here.”

“I’ll be in my rooms. Have them sent to me at once.”

“I’ll inform the servants.”

She sidled over to the door and opened it herself. The servants on the other side snapped to attention.

She glanced back at him. “Don’t forget what I said about Nicholas and Isabelle. If I’m ever worried about them…”

There were dozens of courtiers in the outer chamber, so she didn’t finish her sentence. Instead she furtively motioned with her finger, indicating she’d slit his throat if he wasn’t careful.

She whipped away and left, and he gestured to the servants to shut the doors, to conceal him from all those prying eyes.

He was watched every second, and where in the beginning it had been thrilling, with all of them agog over his daring, now they simply whined about his missteps and mistakes, about how he wasn’t as fearsome or awe-inspiring as they’d assumed.

He sank down in his chair, his head in his hands, fretting over how he’d control Katarina, how he’d keep her sufficiently frightened so she’d act as was required.

Dmitri stomped in, and he marched over, nagging, “How could you let her speak to me that way?”

“How could I stop her?”

“You’re her king, and you’ll soon be her husband.”

If she doesn’t kill me in my sleep first
.

“What happened to her while she was away?” Kristof asked.

“What do you mean?”

“She’s powerful and angry. She seems very different. I’m alarmed by her.”

“Don’t be,” Dmitri said. “She’ll settle in and remember her place. If she doesn’t behave herself, I’ll deal with her.”

Kristof wasn’t sure any of them knew how anymore. Katarina had abandoned Pippa on the dock in Alexandria, and there’d been no word from her. Once they’d landed in Italy, Captain Romilard had sent two men back to Egypt to search for her, but there’d been no trace.

Katarina and Pippa had been friends practically since their days in the cradle. If Katarina would be so cruel to Pippa, if she would revenge herself in such a dastardly manner, were any of them safe from her wrath?

He was almost trembling with concern, but he refused to have Dmitri notice. He went to the sideboard and poured himself another glass of wine. He drank it down, then drank another too, continuing until the shaking in his hands wasn’t visible.

*   *   *   *

Bryce held very still, the noose around his neck cutting into his skin. The slavers to whom he’d been delivered had grown weary of fighting him, and he was completely restrained. There were shackles on his wrists and ankles, his body wrapped in chains, his arms pinned to his side so he couldn’t lash out as they walked by.

But it was the noose that was most vexing. If he moved the slightest inch, it had a special knot that tightened imperceptibly. Gradually it was strangling him, and he had to give them credit for the crafty device. It had definitely curbed his more violent impulses.

He didn’t know where he was, but he was fairly certain he wasn’t in Cairo. He’d been beaten nearly to death by the Parthenians who’d attacked him, had been unconscious for a lengthy period, though he wasn’t positive how long. When he’d awakened, he’d been dumped into the sludge in the hull of a boat with rats nibbling at his toes.

He was unwell, sweltering with fever, likely from drinking fetid water. If he eventually discovered he was dying of typhus, he wouldn’t be surprised. His arm was probably broken, a couple of ribs too. One of his eyes was swelled shut, and there were oozing gashes on his back where he’d been flogged.

After being dragged to a slave market, he was on the block and about to be sold to the highest bidder. Yet he hadn’t gone quietly to his fate. He’d battled to the last, which had simply left him injured and starved.

Who would dare to purchase him? He had to be a ferocious sight, wounded, aggrieved, fettered, and eager to commit mayhem.

Standing out in the open as he was, the tropical sun beating down, it was harder and harder to focus. He kept drifting in and out of consciousness, but each time he faded away, his body would slump and the garrote on his neck would constrict and yank him awake.

He didn’t think he could survive much more, didn’t think it was possible for a person to endure all that he’d endured. Vaguely he thought about Chase, curious if he’d departed for England. Bryce recalled his beautiful country, the cool, rainy weather, the vibrant greens of the fields and trees, and he wondered if that was what Heaven would be like.

Had Valois learned what had happened to Bryce? Bryce, himself, wasn’t too clear. He’d been riding down a street, headed for the docks to leave Cairo, but disaster had struck. Was Valois looking for Bryce? Was anyone aware that Bryce was missing? Or would Valois assume he’d perished?

Why search for a dead man?

Mostly he reminisced about Kat Webster. Where was she? How was she? He didn’t spend a single second pondering Princess Morovsky. No, he reflected on the Kat he’d known and loved for such a brief interlude. He reflected on the lonely woman who’d been trying to protect her siblings from her horrid family.

Occasionally during his tormented dreams, he’d fantasize about the wedding they might have had. He pictured them in the cathedral in London, his sister, brothers, and friends applauding as the organ blared.

He pictured them at Radcliffe Castle, with Bryce as earl and Kat his countess. He liked to envision himself traveling the Scottish countryside, meeting the tenants, proving that he was Julian Blair’s son, that he belonged at Radcliffe.

In his mind, it was such an idyllic portrait, and it supplied enormous succor when he was rambling and delirious. Did Kat ever wish she’d made a different choice? Did she ever think of him?

He scoffed. Of course she didn’t ever think of him. Everyone in the world made choices, and she’d made hers. It hadn’t included him.

He snorted with disgust, the tiny move tightening the noose, jerking him to reality. The bidding had just ended on a group of females who appeared to be a trio of sisters. They were urged off the dais, sticks slapping to hurry them away.

Then it was Bryce’s turn.

The noose was tugged away, but not the chains. An auctioneer called out to the crowd, but he spoke in a language Bryce didn’t understand. He wasn’t exactly sure what was being said, but he figured his strong torso and large physique were mentioned.

A slaver circled Bryce, poking at him with a cane as if he was a bear at a baiting. Each jab on his hot, fevered skin was like a lightning bolt striking his temper, and it dawned on him he might not survive until morning.

He grew angrier and angrier, and his fury must have been evident to the spectators. They were whispering, shaking their heads, and fleetingly he wondered—if no one bought him—would he be killed when the auction was over?

He hoped so. He really and truly could not continue. It would be such a blessing to close his eyes and never open them again.

The auctioneer uttered a remark that had people snickering, and the slaver prodded Bryce’s genitals so they must have been discussing another sort of ability. Would they mate him with slave women? Would he be purchased as a stud for someone’s slave stables?

A man stepped forward and entered the bidding, and from his clothes and mannerisms, it was clear he had designs on Bryce that were perverted in nature. Two others, who also looked debauched, started driving up the price.

A woman began to bid, and she seemed determined to acquire him. The cost went up and up, but since Bryce didn’t know the language, he couldn’t guess how much was being offered. He yanked on the chains, straining, trying to break free. The crowd gestured and shouted as if they were at a zoo and the lion about to jump the fence.

The slaver beat him, and several others rushed over to join in. They whipped and yelled, people throwing objects. At some point, he was knocked out, and what transpired after that he couldn’t imagine.

When he awoke, he was on a boat again, but not in the hull with the rats. He was lying on a bed, on a feather mattress with crisp, clean sheets that had a lovely scent he’d never smelled prior. He was floating in a white beam of sunshine, and everything was bright white: the air, the blankets, the walls and rugs and curtains. Out the window, he could see he was on a river, but he had no idea which river it might be. It too was white, as was the foliage on the white banks.

It was very quiet, very peaceful, and he was so content. Was he in Heaven? Had he died? If so, it was safe, calm, and beautiful. He recalled that his body had been wrecked by much brutal battering, but he felt no pain. He felt nothing at all except an abiding happiness.

He glanced over, and his father was sitting in a chair, silently observing Bryce. He was dressed in tan trousers and a flowing white shirt, knee-high black boots, a jaunty red kerchief tied around his throat. He was young, handsome, physically commanding. His black hair was pulled into a ponytail, his blue, blue eyes studying Bryce, missing no detail.

“There you are,” his father said. “I was hoping you’d rouse before I had to go.”

“Am I dead?”

“No, it’s not time yet. Not for many, many years.”

“Where am I?” Bryce asked. “How did I get here?”

His father didn’t answer, and he seemed to be fading away, his form not as distinct as it had been.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be with you when you were a boy,” his father said, “but I always watched over you as best I could.”

“I know.”

“I’ll keep watching over you. Don’t ever be afraid.”

His shape was becoming fainter by the second, and Bryce panicked. “Don’t leave.”

“I have to. I can’t stay.”

“Take me with you,” Bryce begged, wanting to be with his father forever, to walk off with him into the serene white light.

“You can’t come.” His father’s smile was kind, reassuring. “You still have an important task to complete.”

“What is it? What must I do?”

“Tell your mother I’m waiting for her on the other side. I’ll be the first one to greet her when she arrives.”

Then he vanished, and Bryce drifted off. As he revived, his mother was there, tending him. She was leaned over him, swabbing his face with a cool cloth.

“Mother?” he gasped.

“Yes, Bryce.”

“Father was here.”

“I know.”

“Where have you been?”

“In Australia, you silly boy.”

“Are you alive? Am I? Are we in Heaven?”

“No.”

“Father is waiting for you there.”

“I know,” she said again.

“Am I dying?” he asked. “Do you think I will?”

“Not if I can help it. Rest now. Don’t talk. Just rest.”

He smelled her perfume, the delicious scent of roses filling the air as he drifted off yet again. He suffered in fevered dreams, seeing deceased relatives and friends, seeing strange and frightening sights. Often he was hovering outside his body, trying to join his father in the light, but something kept pulling him back.

Kat…

The name slithered by.

When he opened his eyes, his head was pounding, his throat parched. He moved his arm the slightest inch, and he groaned with pain, agony shooting through his whole torso down to the smallest pore.

So…he wasn’t in Heaven anymore. He wasn’t hovering between Heaven and Earth. He was alive and injured and ill. But…he sensed he was better than he had been, that he’d turned a corner or had stumbled out of a very dark forest.

He was in a different bed, the white light gone, the white décor replaced with very typical Cairo cottons and silks. He glanced over, yearning with all his heart for his father to still be there, but instead Valois was sitting in the chair.

“Hello, my friend.” Valois’s crisp French accent was a welcome sound.

“Where am I?” Bryce inquired.

“In my villa. Where would you suppose?”

“How did that happen?”

“My men and I rescued you, with some fine assistance from Mr. Hubbard.”

Bryce scowled, struggling in a weary fog to recollect what had occurred. “I was sold as a slave.”

“Yes.” Valois grinned. “I own you now. You cost me an exorbitant price too, but I’m happy to sign papers setting you free. You won’t have to work as my houseboy.”

Chase suddenly appeared, and he took Bryce’s hand in his own.

“You scared the devil out of us,” Chase said.

“Why?”

“Because we thought you’d passed away a half-dozen times.”

“I always told you I’m too tough to die.”

“Well, you didn’t have to stroll out to the edge of mortality and prove it to me.”

Chase eased away, and Bryce gazed over at Valois again.

“Am I better? Will I survive?”

“My Moorish healer tells me your infections are mending and your fever vanquished. But you will be weak and tired for a very long while.”

Bryce frowned, a memory creeping in. “I have to do something important.”