Princess (40 page)

He squeezed the horse’s midnight sides with his calves and they sprinted the short distance to the lake. There, Darius flung down out of the saddle and tried to feel the way he had felt here before, when it was safe to tell her anything about himself because there were no consequences—it was temporary—he had thought he was going to die.

The feeling escaped him, just beyond his grasp.

He couldn’t even apologize, because truly being sorry meant trying to change, he thought as he stared at the lake, and he had no intention of doing so. He respected her too much to give her a sham apology. Couldn’t she see by now that maybe a liar was what he needed to be? That maybe the truth, the full truth about him, was too damned pitiful for him to share with anyone?

Didn’t she see that sometimes a lie was all a man had?

While his horse sneaked a few mouthfuls of the long grass behind him, Darius raked both hands slowly through his hair and drew a long, steadying breath. He was trapped.

I’m going crazy. I am obsessed with her. I can’t hide from
her forever.

Tell her. Tell her everything,
said his heart.
Trust her.

The thought was too threatening. He got back on his horse again and rode and rode, circling endlessly within the confines of his cage.

Julia awoke with the boy curled around her and hazy, candlelit images in her mind of the night before.

Forever, she knew, the taste of chocolate-covered caramels would remind her of her loverboy. It had been a strange week.

She had closeted herself in her rooms, crying ill, in order to hide the humiliation of her bruised face from everyone. The only visitor she admitted was Rafael. It was no use trying to discourage the youth from coming to see her. He came every day, supposedly to cheer her up. She knew the inevitable outcome, but, to her amusement, he wanted to get to know her first. She had the dismal feeling he was on a quest to save her.

All week, their visits had been innocent as she waited for her bruises to heal and calculated what she might be able to get out of this. Every moment in his presence she counted as a blow struck against Darius Santiago. Each day, they sat in her tiny antechamber playing chess, the boy asking her endless questions about herself, most of which she evaded. He must have divined her financial plight, for he had given her an enormous amount of money, no questions asked, saying with simple good-heartedness that he was glad to help a friend in need.

Of course, the full sum she still owed was three times his generous gift, but she didn’t tell him that. Instead, she began wishing desperately he would wise up and quit coming to see her.

Each day, her swollen face healed a little more, then, yesterday afternoon, Rafael had showed up at her door with a box of chocolates. They ate the chocolates as they played chess, then suddenly, out of the blue, he had leaned across the table and kissed her. One kiss, that was all, then he gave her a slow, secret smile that very nearly melted what once had been her heart.

That evening, she had put in an appearance in the drawing room, for she was now able to hide the bruise with light makeup. The prince swaggered in half an hour later, and somehow, around eleven, she wound up in Rafe’s room with him.

His enthusiasm was boundless, his energy and sheer appetite astonishing, but his touch was nothing short of reverent when he caressed her and took her breast into his mouth. It was all so new to him, the feel of a woman’s body. He was so different from any man she’d ever known. They made love sitting on the edge of his huge, carved bed, but she had soon found herself laughing softly and kissing away his embarrassment, for he came almost immediately the first time. The second time, she knelt astride him, gently making him hold back, teaching him control. He was an apt pupil.

Very apt, she mused, running a hand down his warm, velvety-smooth back, for the third time, he’d brought her to climax with a tenderness she had not experienced in years, if ever.

She did not like it.

The way he had held her afterward had been unsettling. This could not last, obviously. For God’s sake, he was nineteen. She was twenty-seven. He would be king one day. She was a jaded soul. Countless men had lain with her, and yet only this boy, with his sun-kissed hair and reckless grin, had somehow gotten inside of her. She was not sure she could forgive him for that.

Sooner or later, the queen was bound to learn of their liaison. There could be no worse enemy than Allegra di Fiore when it came to her boy. Fortunately, Her Majesty was preoccupied for the moment with the new baby, her daughter’s scandal, and the threat of war with the French, but she would find out in time, and then what was Julia going to do? She would be asked to leave, and where could she possibly go?

How stupid of her to let this infant beguile her, she mused. She could only attribute it to the fact that he had found her in her moment of utter weakness—her hopes crushed, her creditors closing in, her face bashed and bleeding.

Presently, mama’s royal favorite slept like a worn-out puppy atop her, but he didn’t stir in the slightest when Julia pushed against his muscled shoulder and rolled him off her.

She got up silently and surveyed her surroundings as she began putting on her garters and stockings. She noticed the clock—half-past eleven already. Well, they had stayed up late, she thought. Then the sight of Rafe’s gigantic, cluttered desk caught her eye. With a shrewd expression, she glanced over her shoulder to make sure he was still sleeping, then walked over to the desk and silently began opening the drawers, one by one, and going through them.

What she’d find, who could say? Experience had taught her she could always unearth something useful. She doubted the boy had any real skeletons in his closet; it was mere force of habit that sent her riffling through his belongings.

But the gold she struck was sitting right out on his desk, practically begging for her discovery. Gingerly unrolling the large scroll, she sliced the prince a sideward glance to make sure he was still asleep. His brown, muscled body was still, sprawled on the sheets, his baby-face angelic in sleep.

She examined the parchment. At first she thought it was some schoolboyish project. Then she realized she was staring at highly classified maps of the legendary Fiori tunnels.

Staring, her heart began to pound.

There was a myth that King Bonifacio the Black, the founder of the royal house, had ordered subterranean tunnels built throughout the island for the royal family to use in case of invasion or other emergency. In seven hundred years, no one outside the royal family had ever been admitted into the secret—except perhaps that Spaniard whom she hated more than hell itself.

Her gaze traveled over the detailed drawings.

You stupid boy. How could you leave this where I would find
it?
Eyes burning, she looked over at him again, sleeping there, a young Adonis.

The French were harbored in the bay.

Put it back, Julia
, whispered her feeble conscience.
You give
this to the French, you take his whole future away from him.
Maybe even his life.

Such a betrayal would kill the very tenderness and simple kindness in him which had moved her so dangerously.

But the force of habit was too strong. She would be rich. She could go anywhere she wanted. Never again would she have to depend on that most shiftless of creatures, the human male. The boy would have to sink or swim. The world was a jungle, his soft life an illusion. She told herself this was the most valuable lesson she could teach him.

Let Santiago save him, she thought acidly. She finished dressing quickly, her hands shaking, then walked silently to the door, the scroll in her grasp. Stepping over the threshold, she paused and stole a final, long gaze at him.

Something inside of her cracked and broke permanently, at that moment. Bitterness was in her mouth, her whole body shaking.

Stupid boy,
she thought. She turned and left, pulling the door closed silently behind her.

By midmorning, Darius arrived at the villa once more.

He left Jihad with a groom and strode into the house, dreading the empty, lonely day ahead. What was he going to do with his time? he wondered. He had already exhausted every shred of work he could think of to occupy himself.

Walking into the foyer, he passed the morning room where he saw his young wife, writing something at the table beside her breakfast. His stolen glance took in the morning sunlight twining through her silky, sable tresses and gleaming on her skin like powdered pearls. Her head bent over her work, she was twirling a curl around her finger, which meant she was deep in thought, so he hurried past and down the hall to his office without trying to say hello.

He took breakfast in the library down the hall. The food was like ashes in his mouth, knowing she was so near and yet this was how it was.

At length, he pushed the food away in disgust and merely drank his coffee, reading for the thousandth time the letter from Richards.
An intriguing enterprise . . .

How good it would be to feel he was of use again and to have something else to do instead of sitting around here, mentally cataloguing all the ways in which he was not good enough.

Just then, there was a knock at the door and a moment later his too-beautiful, too-highborn wife came in. Her chin was high, her expression one of cool hauteur. Her regal poise terrified him.

He rose slightly and bowed. “Madam.”

She sliced him a nod, her gaze fixed on the floor. “I have come to say I am going into town to hire artisans to effect some repairs around here. The grounds are atrocious. The roof needs attention. And obviously, we must have fresh paint. We must also have modern w.c.’s put in and I want new cabinets for the kitchens.” She lifted an insolent look to him, as though waiting for him—no, daring him—to deny her.

He did not. “The repairs you mention are indeed in order,” he warily replied.

She studied him archly. “These changes are only the beginning. Half of the furniture’s falling apart. Most of the rooms are hopelessly outdated. We will be redecorating after we rebuild.” Again, she waited smugly for his refusal.

He wasn’t worried. His pockets were deep, else he’d never have let things between them get this far. Shopping was, after all, the delight of her life. “I trust you will bring us to the height of fashion,” he said. “In fact, I know an excellent architect by the name of Signore Ambrosetti.”

“Has he offices in town? I will go see him.”

“Not so fast,” he said gently but firmly, staying her with a gesture. “I will send for him and fetch him here, then you can show him yourself what needs to be done. Order him around to your heart’s content, if you like, but I don’t want you going into town.”

She folded her arms under her breasts. He checked his stare.

“I am
going
into town.”

“No. It is not safe.”

“Why?” she demanded.

“Because I said so,” he replied, declining to tell her about the possibility of Tyurinov’s presence. Nothing had been confirmed. Why burden her with something that was his problem? He could handle it alone and certainly there was no point in scaring her on top of making her wretched. “Signore Ambrosetti will need to make a survey of the property anyway.” He smoothed his coat and sat down again.

“Darius.”

To emphasize the point that the conversation was closed, he forced himself to take a nonchalant bite of his breakfast. The omelet had gone cold and rubbery. Disgusting, he thought as he chewed. Bravado wasn’t worth this.

“Darius!”

“No.”

“Look at this.” She suddenly flung some papers onto his desk and stepped back, hands on her hips. “I didn’t want to show you this, but I daresay now you’ll see why I must go into town.”

“What’s this?” he murmured as he took them. It appeared to be a collection of those lurid gossip newspapers she was always reading. He looked down at the top page and promptly choked on his mouthful of cold eggs.

“They are lampooning us everywhere,” she declared.

He stopped his choking with a swallow of hot coffee, then stared at the newspaper. It was the issue printed the day their scandal broke.

The headline was three inches tall: IN FLAGRANTE DELICTO!

“Dear God!”

Below it was a heartless caricature. He was depicted bare-chested, a snarl on his lips, his sword drawn to fight off a crowd of outraged people around her bed, while Serafina, curls wild, was shown on her knees behind him, clinging fearfully about his waist.

She’s mine!
read the caption.

He stared at the sketch for a long moment and then, slowly, he began to laugh.

“You think it’s funny?” she cried in outrage.

“Well,” he said. “We can either laugh or cry.”

“We can bloody well do more than that, Santiago!
Ugh,
you may suffer in silence as usual if you want, but I’m not going to take this. I’m going into town. They think we are hiding our faces in shame here, but I’ll show them! I’m going to walk in there and hold my head up and—and show them
all
that I don’t give a fig what they think.”

“Ah-hmm,” he said skeptically as he skimmed the article.

Meanwhile, she paced, full of angry, pent-up energy.

His heart sank when he looked at the final column on the front page. It had a smaller headline that asked, TROUBLE IN PARADISE? and went on to proclaim that their marriage was already in ruins.

How the hell did they know that? he thought angrily. Damned journalists must have been spying on them somehow.

From across the room, she turned to him, arms tightly folded. “Now, are you coming with me or not?”

“Serafina, for the eighth time, you’re not going anywhere.”

“Yes, I am!” With a sudden look of fury, she marched toward the desk and braced both hands on the edge, leaning toward him, curls flying, violet eyes blazing, her chest heaving with anger, magnificent in her ire. “I am going mad here! There is no one to talk to and nothing to do!”