Princess (47 page)

She let the men watch as she nudged closer between his spread legs and embraced him more tightly. Furiously, he glared at the men standing behind her, for their gazes were fixed on her rounded backside as she bent over.

Serafina went on kissing him a moment longer, running her hands down his arms, which were tied behind him to the chair. Her caress stopped when she came to the ropes binding his hands.

Suddenly he felt an odd little jerk of his wrists.

He nearly choked on her kiss when his hands dropped, suddenly freed. He reacted immediately, holding his arms in position behind him so the men would not realize what she had done.

Unseen by them, she pressed a smooth, small cylindrical object into his hand. He knew at once it was the hilt of a small knife. He realized she had concealed it under her gown’s long sleeve. His fingers closed around the hilt.

He didn’t move a muscle as she released him with a smug, haughty little smile, her eyes locked on his.

“Goodbye, husband,” she said nonchalantly as sparks flew between their stares.

“You heartless hussy,” he ground out, but it was all he could do to make his tone harsh, as joy and sheer devotion for the magnificent, brazen creature blasted up from the core of his being, filling him with a last reserve of strength.

It all came clear to him, the significance of her little performance. He stared at her, feeling as though a veil were lifting from before his very eyes.

He thought of a little girl a long time ago, kicking and screaming when they tried to pull her away from his bedside as he lay there fighting for his life.

Loyalty. Absolute loyalty.

For him.

That was love, and she had just spoken it loud and clear in a language he could understand.

“I’ll think of you and your philandering when I spend your fortune.”

“You do that,” he drawled, eyeing her up.

She brushed by Tyurinov, whose sapphire stare followed her hotly. “Come along, Anatole.”

But then Darius’s blood ran cold.

Tyurinov’s hand clamped down on her shoulder. He spun her around. Darius only caught a glimpse of her terrified face as Tyurinov shoved her toward the wall.

“Right here, you sweet, hot-blooded little thing,” he said as he pinned her against the wall with his body. “Your husband will enjoy the show.”

The two blond giants started laughing.

“Do you have a good view, Spaniard?” Tyurinov asked as he reached for the falls of his breeches. “Let me show you how it’s done. When I and my men are done with her, there’ll be nothing left for you.”

Darius bit back a curse.

The two blond giants glanced at each other in amazement. The one on his right had been using only his fists, but the one on his left was wielding a club. Heart pounding, Darius flicked his fingers over the knife’s hilt behind his back, readying himself to spring.

Serafina stared up at Anatole, terrified, as she reeled back against the wall. Her ex-fiancé held her by the shoulders. Without warning, his mouth slammed down on hers, cold and dry.

Wild-eyed, she punched him and shoved against the solid wall of his chest, but he only laughed and answered her blows with a cruel squeeze of her breast.

She tried to knee him in the groin but he knocked her off balance when she raised her leg, using the maneuver to drive her legs apart with his knee. She had to grab his waist to keep from falling.

He reached down with one hand, exposing himself with lightning speed, then tearing her gown upward over her thigh. She heard hysterical noises coming from her lips, but all her struggle was useless. He was gigantic and he had absolutely no shame, no feeling, no remorse. He bent his knees, lowering himself as he prepared to penetrate her. She clawed his face.

He slapped her. “Be still and take it.”

Gasping in shock, she stared up at him, her face stinging. She couldn’t believe he had hit her. Suddenly there was a bloodcurdling scream and an explosive shout behind him from the direction where Darius sat.

Eyes glazed with lust, Tyurinov turned, panting. With his movement, her hand bumped something hard strapped over his hip. Her searching fingers found leather, metal, and wood.

A gun.

Before she even knew what she was doing, she slid Tyurinov’s pistol out of its holster and pressed the muzzle to his exposed throat.

He froze.

She felt his erection wilt against her.

“Step back,” she said, her voice shaking, chest heaving with fright.

He obeyed.

“Put that away,” she added in disgust.

As he hastily fastened his breeches again, she glanced over and saw Darius, locked in mortal combat with one of Anatole’s men. The other was dead, his throat a torn red mass.

With one hand, the blond giant was trying to strangle Darius. With the other hand, he held Darius’s right wrist. Darius’s arm shook with his effort to bring his bloody knife up to the big Russian’s throat.

Anatole took a step toward them.

“Don’t move,” she said in a steely tone, the gun outstretched in both her shaking hands.

He gave her a cold, cruel smile. “Lower the gun. You don’t even know how to use it.”

“I’ll figure it out.” Her finger came to rest on the trigger.

He took a tentative step backward.

She stepped forward, the gun steady in her double-handed grasp.

His gaze roamed over her as he laughed softly. “You’re not going to shoot anyone.”

She swallowed hard, wondering if he had called her bluff, for she did not think she could pull the trigger. She could not possibly kill someone, not even him.

But she wouldn’t have to, she assured herself as sweat began to gather on her brow. Any second now, Darius would fight his way free and finish this.

She flicked a glance in his direction just as the Russian dealt him a shattering blow to the knee with his club. Darius cried out furiously but as the Russian lunged forward, Darius thrust the knife up into the man’s belly. The Russian toppled partly on him with a high-pitched squeal that became a bellow, then lay there gasping with almost black blood pouring out of his lower abdomen.

Serafina swallowed hard in revulsion.

Anatole showed no reaction to his men’s deaths.

The gun wobbling slightly in her tense grasp, her gaze darted from Anatole to Darius. Her husband was on the floor, his face ashen in a grimace of pain. He glared at Anatole from under his forelock.

Anatole turned his back on her and took a step toward him. When Darius did not get up, she realized he couldn’t.

A chill raced down her spine. “Darius.”

He said nothing. He shoved the now-unconscious Russian off him and crawled onto all fours, favoring his right leg. He knelt on his left knee and labored to rise.

Anatole bent and punched him in the face, sending him sprawling back over the dying man. Darius cursed and struggled to get up again.

Anatole laughed and took another step toward him, sneering down at him. “Get up again, pretty boy. I like knocking you down.”

“Anatole,” Serafina said. A bead of sweat rolled down her cheek. She aimed for his back. “If you touch him again, I will shoot you.”

Rounding the body of the other dead man, Anatole glanced arrogantly at her over his shoulder, then came to stand across from her, towering over Darius. “No, you won’t.” Without warning, he drew back to kick Darius.

Darius curled his body to ward off the blow and she pulled the trigger.

Anatole gasped, jolting back a step as his blood spattered in an arc, dusting Darius and the dead body. Everything seemed to move slowly. She saw Darius turn away from the sprinkling of blood. Tyurinov dropped to his knees, clutching his chest. He looked down, then lifted his head and stared at her in shock. Blood flowed through his fingers, which were pressed to his chest.

She dropped the gun and stared, riveted, as blood surged up out of his mouth.

His eyes grew dim. He fell onto his face, crawled onto his side, and lay there, his blue eyes wide. Several times he gasped for air with a choking sound, then the choking stopped and he did not stir.

Darius and she stared at each other in silence.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

“Help me,” he croaked as she ran to him.

She crouched down beside him, her heart pounding.

“I think my knee is broken,” he forced out.

“Can you stand?”

He nodded, his face very pale. She helped him to his feet with difficulty. He couldn’t bend his right leg. She pulled his right arm over her shoulders and bade him lean on her. For once, he did not argue. Slowly, painfully, they crossed the room.

“Can you get up the stairs?”

He nodded grimly, his jaw taut, his lips white. Steadying himself between her and the banister, Darius pulled himself up each step, putting no weight on his right foot. She kept glancing anxiously at him, frightened by the sight of him in such pain. Sweat beaded his face. His breathing was shallow and he was shaking.

“Almost there,” she coaxed him softly.

He said nothing, his fingers digging into her shoulder as he gripped her tightly.

It seemed like an hour had passed by the time they reached the top of the stairs and progressed slowly down the hall, hobbling into the pink bedroom. Finally, Darius sat down on the bed, his heavy arm sliding off her shoulders.

He clenched his jaw, bracing himself for the pain as he swung his right leg up onto the bed. Gingerly, she helped him.

Lying on his back at last, he was panting with pain and exertion. “Thanks.”

She was already lighting a candle and pulling out the sewing basket in which she kept all her doctoring supplies. Every time the image of Anatole looking down at his wounded chest occurred to her, she thrust it away—far, far away.

The first thing she did was cut off his breeches above the knee, gingerly pulling back the broadcloth. She paled, looking down to find his knee swollen up to the size of a grapefruit. The blow had not burst the skin, but the entire area was red and discolored.

She looked at Darius and found him staring at her, his eyes large and anxious under his long lashes.

“Is it broken?”

“It could be, but let’s hope it’s just a bad contusion,” she said. “We won’t know for a couple days until the swelling goes down. Oh, how I wish we had some ice.” She moved toward the head of the bed, adjusting the pillow behind him. She wet one of the washcloths and gently wiped the dried blood from his split lip.

“My poor baby, look at you,” she murmured. He stared at her while she wiped his face with the cool, wet cloth. She caressed his hair and leaned down to kiss his clammy forehead, drawing strength and calm from the contact. He embraced her suddenly, pulling her to him. She hugged him with all her might. He buried his fingers in her hair.

“Are you all right?” he whispered. “God, that was the most awful thing I’ve ever seen. He hit your precious face—”

“I’m all right, Darius. He didn’t hit me that hard. Besides, it helps to know he got what he deserved,” she added grimly. “What about you? Are you all right?”

“I am now.” His arms tightened around her. “Never leave me, Serafina. Never leave me.”

“I never will. I was never going to.” She squeezed tears from her eyes. “We’re going to be all right, yes? We have the rest of our lives. Say we do.”

He caressed her hair, desperation in his onyx eyes that mirrored her own. “Yes, yes, we have forever, please.”

“Yes,” She closed her eyes and kissed his cheek. “I love you, Darius. You
must
know by now that I do!”

“Yes,” he whispered. “I know it, and I love you, too. God, I thought I’d lost you.”

“Never.” She pulled back and laid her hand on his cheek very gently. “Now I’ve got to go pump some cold water from the well.” She was not looking forward to going downstairs near the dead bodies, but she could make herself do it for him. “We’re going to put cold compresses on your knee, then wrap it with some good, firm bandages so it can’t swell any further. You’re going to be all right. I promise. Do you want some whiskey?”

He shook his head sternly, then apparently thought better of it. “Please,” he said sheepishly. “This hurts like hell.”

“See, now, was that so hard to admit?” she asked as she poured a shot for each of them.

They lifted their glasses to each other, then downed the shots. They glanced at each other, both wincing, eyes watering. He gave her back the small, empty glass with a look of disdain.

She smiled in spite of herself, shaking her head at him. “I adore you, Santiago.”

He was staring at her strangely. “You are a wild woman, Serafina.”

She shot him a demure smile. “Well, I have to be, with such a man for a husband, don’t I?”

“Nice shooting for a hothouse flower.”

She gave him a mock scowl. Just then, she heard distant hoofbeats and male laughter. Instantly she tensed, fearing that more of Tyurinov’s men had come. She flew to the window and moved the curtain back slightly, peering out.

“It’s Alec and the rest of your men!” she exclaimed. “Thank God!” She whirled from the window and sped toward the door. “You just lie still and try to relax, Darius. I’ll go get the cold water and send Alec for the constable and the doctor to examine you. I’ll take care of everything—”

“Serafina.”

She stopped, her hand on the doorknob, and turned back to him in brisk inquiry.

His face was still pale, but he looked a bit more himself as he arched one brow at her. “Do not leave this room until you change that dress.”

A grin spread over her face as she blushed bright red.

He suddenly smiled beautifully and held out his arms to her. “Come back here, you rascal.”

Joyously, she ran to him.

He pulled her onto the bed, flipped her over his hip onto the mattress, and turned on his side, kissing her whole face. “I love you, I love you, I love you!” he said between kisses.

She laughed, basking breathlessly in his playfulness. When he stopped and went still, gazing down at her, she slid her arms around his neck and held his tender stare.

“I love you,” she whispered. “There’s no part of you I don’t love. Remember that.”