Princess (7 page)

“Hold still, now,” she coached him, stalling. “This won’t hurt a bit.”

He let out an impatient sigh. “Whenever you’re ready, Your Highness. I thought you knew what you were doing.”

She shot a scowl at the back of his glossy black head, but his remark gave her the impetus to do what she must. She pricked the bronze velvet of his skin.

“Ow,” he muttered as she pushed the needle through.

“Aha, so you are human, after all.”

“Watch what you’re doing, please.”

“Thankless rogue,” she mumbled.

Her hands perspired but were steady as she closed the gash with each careful stitch, fully absorbed in her task as his blood stained her hands. She lost herself in concentration, until at last she tied off the thread and snipped it triumphantly with her sewing scissors. Reaching for the cloth, she wiped away the slight amount of bleeding that had occurred during the procedure.

“There you are. How does it feel?” she asked as she washed her hands in the second basin, then dried them.

“Better.”

“Hmm, now you’re humoring me. Try not to move it too much for a few days.”

“Right,” he said cynically.

“You are impossible,” she murmured. She stepped near him again, examining her work.

It was somehow automatic to run her hand through his hair now that the crisis was past, second nature to bend down and kiss him lightly on the temple.

“You were very brave,” she murmured playfully.

Only when Darius tilted his head back and looked at her for a long moment did it occur to her that perhaps she was being too forward with him again. Instantly she blushed, scolding herself. She was not a child anymore who could climb all over him like he was her own pet wolf.

She looked away. “Never fear, Santiago,” she said with forced lightness, “I shall not hurl myself at you again.” She picked up her scissors and began sharply ripping a clean linen sheet into strips to use as bandages for him. “Ow!”

“What is it?”

“I hurt my hand when I smashed Philippe a facer,” she muttered.

“What?”
Darius began to laugh skeptically.

“You think I’m joking? I got him with my ring. See?” She stepped nearer and held out her injured left hand to show him.

He took her outstretched hand and examined it, his black forelock veiling his eyes.

The gold filigree of the setting had bent with the force of the blow. The acorn-sized diamond of her engagement ring was squashed off to the side. The gold band had buckled slightly on an angle, cutting into the tender flesh between her fingers.

“I punched him. That’s how I was able to get away from them. I ran into the maze. I thought I could hide there. It always worked when I was trying to evade my governess.”

He lifted his head and stared up at her in frank amazement. “Well done, Serafina.”

Usually the compliments of men made her yawn, but the simple acknowledgement from him made her blush bright red.

He gently drew her closer. “Come here. You sit right down, girl,” he murmured. “You should have looked after yourself first.”

She stammered a self-conscious protest, but she obeyed when he directed her with a nod to the ottoman across from him. Muscles rippling all down his chiseled belly, Darius reached over and lifted the second basin of now-tepid water from the low table nearby. He set the basin on her lap, his fingertips brushing her knee. She steadied the basin with her right hand as he picked up the soap and let it float in the water.

“Let’s get this off you.”

“It’s stuck.”

“We’ll see about that,” he growled. Taking her left hand gently between both of his, he dunked her hand in the basin all the way up to her wrist. He held it under the water for a moment.

Both staring down at their joined hands, neither of them spoke.

Next, he took the small oval of soap, smoothing it back and forth across her palm with his thumb until tiny bubbles appeared. He massaged the bubbles gently all over her hand, up the tapered length of each finger and her thumb. She could have groaned aloud with the pleasure of his touch, tingling all the way up her arm. Her heartbeat quickened with each caress of skin on wet, slick skin.

When he had coated her hand in the pearly sheen of the suds, he took the gold band of the ring between his thumb and forefinger, squeezing it hard, but with precision. She kept her head down, biting her lip against the pain, but she watched the powerful muscles leap all the way up his arm with his careful exertion. Then he changed his grip, holding the gold band with all four fingers and thumb, and began working it off of her finger.

“Am I hurting you?” he murmured.

She shook her head, her voice captured in her throat.

The ring was still bent too much to fit over her swollen middle knuckle.

“A little more,” he said.

Again, he soaped her hand, sliding his wet forefinger slowly into the V between each of her fingers. She watched the play of muscle across his hard chest, gazed longingly at the small, tawny circles of his nipples, and the silver medal shining against his gold, gleaming skin.

So beautiful,
she thought with a soul-deep ache, for he would never be hers. Her longing for him filled her with self-directed anger and misery. Would she never get over this man? Had she no pride? She had tried to hate him but could not.

She stared sorrowfully at his downswept lashes and high cheekbones and the intent look on his finely sculpted face as he squeezed the gold band back into a rough circle and tried to pull it off her. Again, it didn’t work.

“I think there is no getting rid of it,” she whispered.

Under his forelock, he looked up, meeting her gaze with a directness that nearly knocked the breath from her. His voice was soft but ferocious. “I will free you from it. Trust me.”

She stared at him, taken aback.

He lowered his head again. Carefully he eased the ring over her knuckle at last and removed it from her finger. When he looked up and met her gaze, the fiery intensity glowed in his eyes, this time with dark satisfaction.

“You did it,” she breathed.

“Leave it off.”

“A-all right,” she stammered, wide-eyed.

He rinsed the suds from her skin very tenderly. Placing the broken ring in her hand, he curled her fingers around it in his own. The curved scar on his lip tilted as he gave her his rarest, truest smile. He had a smile like molasses, dark and rich and bittersweet, and it melted her completely.

“Get dressed, Princesa, then we’ll go see your father,” he murmured, but before he let her go, he lifted her hand to his lips.

She stared in amazement as he closed his eyes, bent his head, and pressed to her injured knuckle a single, ardent kiss.

Serafina had gone into the dressing room to put on a fresh gown while Darius slipped his damp, bloodied shirt back on and went out into the hallway, where he ordered a footman to fetch his aide, Lieutenant Alec Giroux. He instructed the servant to have Alec meet him at his suite in the royal block as soon as possible.

Shirt flowing open down his chest, Darius paced in the sitting room while Serafina dressed in the adjoining compartment.

Those moments with her had fired his resolve with new passion.

Now all he had to do was meet with the king, catch the spies, and be on his way to Milan.

Seven weeks ago, when one of his most trusted contacts informed him of the French spies who had infiltrated the palace, Darius had left Moscow at once. He had been forced to cut short his meticulous background investigation of Anatole Tyurinov, but he had already learned more than he needed to know, and there had been no time to lose.

On the voyage back from Russia to Ascencion, he had spent the weeks at sea refining his plans and making peace with his fate.

He knew what he had to do. The king’s hands were tied in this matter, but his own were not.

Serafina would not be the virgin sacrifice to buy them protection from the tyrant Napoleon.

The brute Tyurinov would never get his hands on her.

At the same time, Darius could not allow Napoleon to invade with his superior forces and take Lazar’s throne from him. He had to protect his benefactor, the kingdom, and Serafina all at once. It was an impossible situation, but he had one final bit of Gypsy magic up his sleeve. He need only go to the heart of the problem.

To Milan.

He paused in his pacing, eyes ablaze. No one could be allowed to guess what he intended, not Serafina, not even the king. It would only put them in danger.

On May 26, mere days before Serafina’s wedding, Napoleon was scheduled to appear in Milan to receive the Iron Crown of Lombardy.

Darius would be there, too.

He was an able diplomat and a good spy, but when it came to the assassin’s art, he had a gift.

With one true shot of his rifle, he could disable the French war machine and remove the need for Serafina’s marriage to the Russian.

Napoleon Bonaparte must die.

He had no illusions about surviving the mission. Others had tried to assassinate the emperor and all had gone to the gallows or stood before the firing squad.

It didn’t much matter to him. The deed would immortalize him, and a glorious death was better than this life where he could not reach for the one thing that might have saved him— the promise in Serafina’s eyes of a dream beyond anything he had ever experienced.

He only knew he would not fail. One bullet, and he could make the world a safer place for everyone.

One bullet, and Serafina would be free.

“Here I am!” she called gaily, stirring him out of his dark thoughts.

He turned as she emerged from the dressing room with a dazzling smile, a vision in violet silk. His heart clenched.

“Shoes,” he ordered.

She flashed him a mock pout and turned back to get some slippers, then came out again and twirled for him. “How do I look?”

Fighting a smile, he eyed her up, from her slippered toes to her luxurious midnight tresses still loosely tied back with the white ribbon in a bow.

If she was not worth dying for, he did not know what was.

“You’ll do,” he said.

He picked up his waistcoat and cravat, draped them over his arm, and escorted Her Highness out into the hall.

CHAPTER FOUR

His spurred bootheels struck loud with each step, resounding down the marble corridor, while her skirts made an airy rustle as she strode beside him. Darius felt her watching him, and looked down at her with a dry, inquiring expression.

“Why do you always look so serious?”

He heaved a growling sigh and attempted to ignore her, but Serafina would not have it.

“So, Colonel. About these spies. What happens next?”

He glanced over his shoulder, then spoke in a low tone. “Your father and I will select a small band of highly trained men to protect you. They’ll remove you from the palace and keep you guarded until I’ve apprehended the remaining members of Saint-Laurent’s organization.”

“Where will they take me?” she asked, wide-eyed.

“Safe house.”

“What’s that?” she exclaimed.

He reached over and pinched her cheek, amused by her alarm. “Oh, just a pleasant little country house with some ingenious fortifications. You’ll be perfectly safe. Think of it as a holiday,” he suggested. “Rusticating.”

“Rusticating.” She wrinkled her refined nose. “Can my friends come?”

“No. You’ll have to manage without your entourage for a while,” he said rather sarcastically. “You will also have a very limited staff. And no animals.”

She frowned. “I don’t think I like this.”

“It’s not optional.”

“I shall be bored out of my skull.” Suddenly she whirled to him. “Will you be going, Darius?”

He shuddered. “Er, no.”

She stared at him with that intelligent gaze belying her frivolous, darling-of-the-court manner. “You should, Darius. You could use a holiday.”

“I have spies to catch, my lady.”

“Hmm,” she said, eyeing him askance.

When they reached his suite, he found Alec waiting outside the door.

“Good Lord, Colonel, what happened to you?” the fair-haired junior officer cried, seeing his bloodstained shirt.

“Oh, the usual,” he drawled.

He instructed Alec to send a few men of the Royal Guard out to the maze to dispose of the bodies, then ordered him to seek an audience for them immediately with the king. Alec gave him a smart, martial bow in reply, but Darius smirked to see his assistant steal a lovelorn glance at the Jewel of Ascencion.

She gave a haughty sniff and turned away, nose in the air. The lieutenant scurried away.

“He’s harmless.” Darius chuckled, unlocking the door.

“Tell him he can keep his eyes to himself, thank you,” she said primly.

He laughed under his breath. As if she did not love it that every man who saw her was her slave.

“Stay here. I’ll be right back. Shout if anyone approaches you.”

He opened the door slowly and entered his suite, weapon drawn. He was always a target, so there was the chance that his rooms had already been broken into. He took a careful moment to listen and smell the air, stealing silently from room to room until he was sure the suite was clear. Returning to the entrance, he led the princess inside and shut the door behind her.

He had no business bringing her into his rooms, but propriety or no, he thought stubbornly, he wasn’t letting her out of his sight. His Majesty would expect no less of him. Besides, it would only be for a moment, just long enough for him to dig some fresh clothes out of his traveling trunks, unloaded scarcely an hour ago from the ship, and to put them on.

It was dark in his suite. Knowing his window was probably being watched, he didn’t bother to light a glim. He dragged one of his sea chests out into the middle of the floor and opened it while Serafina went exploring his private domain with her light, dancing step over the creaking floor, humming to herself.

Well, she certainly made herself at home, he thought sardonically. For someone who was the target of an abduction plot, she didn’t seem overly concerned.

Because she feels safe with me,
trailed the thought through his mind. He ignored his own aching reaction to the realization, pulling out a starchy lawn shirt and fresh cravat.