Princess (9 page)

Down the hall, Darius opened the door wider and led Serafina out of his room.

Instantly, the tug of desire in the pit of Julia’s stomach turned to a knot of animosity. She clenched her jaw to hear them joking together, and to see how Serafina’s radiant beauty caught fire when she gazed at him, her fresh cheeks flushed and pink, though the girl was haughty and cool with every other male.

Julia clenched her fist tightly again, noting the way his dark, velvety eyes followed the young girl’s every move.

Nauseating.

They took undisguised joy in one another, and her blood boiled to witness it. Bitterly, she marveled that they had come out of his bedroom at all.

But no, no! Miss Perfect-on-her-Pedestal was as pure as the driven snow.

Anatole would see to that, she thought wryly.

The stunning pair moved off down the intersecting hall, both raven-haired and beautiful of form, like matched horses. Silently, Julia watched them go. When they were out of sight, she turned away, folding her arms tightly over her chest.

So long as Princess Perfect was near, she knew she could not compete for Darius’s attention, not really. Hell, she could be in bed with him only to realize he was thinking of that girl. It had happened before. She had no choice but to bide her time until Anatole returned to take Serafina away.

Unconsciously, Julia’s rouged lips curved into a cold smile when she thought of the Russian prince. How amusing! The famous war hero had traveled all the way from Russia to woo the princess, and had stayed until the betrothal and alliance were drawn up, but Julia had quickly found that the bride-groom was as vulnerable to temptation as any man.

Shoving away from the wall to prowl silently down the hall, Julia recalled with smug pleasure the minor vengeance she had taken on Serafina, just for spite. Likewise on the battlefield, Anatole, the great, golden brute, had been every inch the conqueror in bed.

When Darius and Serafina came to the king’s privy council chamber, he opened the door for her. She brushed by Darius into the oak-paneled room and found that her father had not yet arrived to meet them.

She swayed nonchalantly toward one of the two leather-bound chairs before the massive desk and plopped down into it, swinging her legs over one side, lightly kicking her feet. Darius shut the door and strolled toward her, hands in his coat pockets.

“Your Highness?”

She examined the tips of her tresses for split ends, mentally rehearsing her strategy to make Papa assign Darius to her. “Would you quit calling me that? Did it ever occur to you that I might hate being the princess?” she asked idly. “What is it?”

“I just wanted to say . . .”

She looked over in surprise at his struggling tone.

He stared at her, mute, his inky eyes full of unreadable emotion.

“Yes?” she asked gently.

He shrugged slightly and lowered his head. “Thanks for the stitches.”

Slowly, she smiled at him. “You’re welcome, Santiago.” “Don’t be afraid about those spies, you hear? I’ll take care of everything,” he said with a good-boy earnestness that touched the very core of her heart.

“And who will take care of you?”

He tapped his chest.

“Of course. Yourself,” she said stiffly, lowering her gaze.

“No, I wear the medal here, remember?” he asked softly. “The Virgin.”

She looked up again, startled. He offered her an almost bashful half-smile, and for a long moment she merely stared at him, contemplating what was perhaps the single greatest mystery about him:
How can a man be so ruthless, and at the same
time, somehow, so . . . pure?

He was very still, then he walked toward her with slow, measured paces.

There was a look in his dark eyes that made her heart begin to pound with a wild thrill. She watched him round the back of her chair. When he stood behind her, he reached down and gently tugged one end of the bow she’d tied around her hair. The white ribbon came undone and he pulled it free.

“I’m stealing this,” he whispered.

Tilting her head back against the chair, she smiled in languorous pleasure. “Take whatever you want from me.”

“You shouldn’t give a man such invitations,” he told her with a dark smile.

“Not just any man,” she said.

He avoided her gaze as he considered this in silence, combing his fingers lightly through her hair.

“Mm,” she breathed, closing her eyes, heart racing as he slid his fingers slowly through her curls. He had never touched her this way before. Her head reeled.

“I like your hair down,” he murmured at length, sifting it through his hands.

“Then I shall always wear it so,” she sighed.

He said nothing, arranging her hair in front of her shoulders however he willed, playing with it, smoothing it against her skin. Slowly, he pressed a length of it along her neck. Inch by inch, he ironed a curl flat with his fingertips down across her chest, stopping at her neckline. When he released it, it popped back up into place, but his fingers remained where they were.

Eyes closed, she drifted, basking in the pleasure of his touch. She could feel him staring at her breasts, for their crests swelled to aching hardness with his hands so near them, so warm on her skin. For a moment, perversely, a part of her was glad of what Philippe had done, forcing Darius to look at her. It was right that Darius should be the first man to see her body— not Anatole. She held her breath as he tenderly explored her chest and shoulders with soft, gliding caresses, tracing her collarbones and the little notch between them.

Her whole body went heavy with sweet lethargy. He ran his fingertips gently up the curve of her throat with an expert touch, then behind her ears, playing with her hair again.

“Such beautiful hair,” he whispered. “I am memorizing every naughty little curl.”

“I say, Darius, are you flirting with me?” she asked, her voice dreamy and drugged.

“Why, no, child,” he murmured. “That would be against the rules.”

Just then, through the door and down the long hall, they both could hear her father coming, sweeping closer like a cheerful storm, bellowing orders to a lackey.

She flicked her eyes open and looked up in wonder and torment, meeting Darius’s tempestuous gaze. Wrapping the white ribbon around his hand, then slipping it into his pocket, he paced across the dim room. There, he turned to her, leaning against the bookcase in an idle pose of nonchalant elegance, hands in pockets.

He watched her intensely. “It was good to see you again.”

“You make it sound as if this is goodbye.”

“It is,” he whispered, his eyes soulful, luminous in the shadows.

“Oh? And where might you be going?” Linking her fingers, she waited archly for his reply.

He didn’t give one.

“Of course. Top secret, as usual.” She feigned a yawn. “You know, you really are the most charming hypocrite, Santiago.”

His broad shoulders stiffened. His onyx eyes narrowed at her. “Why do you call me that?”

“You think you are getting rid of me. That’s the only reason you touched me.”

He absorbed her accusation, but he did not deny it, nor did he apologize for the startling liberty he had taken. Hands in pockets, he merely stared at her for a moment, then lowered his head.

Fool,
she thought, adoring him. It was that rascal boy-thief in him, she supposed. He thought nothing would be given to him freely, only what he could steal.

“Forget it,” he muttered. “It was a mistake. Just . . . remember me. And be happy. That’s all I ask.”

“How, Darius?” she asked with a joyless laugh. “Tell me how to be happy and I assure you, I will try. Better yet, show me. You will have adequate chance to do so when we are rusticating.”

He looked up in shock.

She gave him a serene smile.

Safest to give him a little warning or else he might not forgive her for pulling rank on him, she calculated. It was all very well for his pretty mouth to tell lie after lie, but if ever anyone lied to him, he could easily turn dangerous.

Instantly he pushed away from the bookcase. “What are you scheming?” he whispered, glancing at the door, then back at her, his eyes ablaze.

“I’m going to repay your loyalty whether you like it or not,” she told him stoutly. “You need a rest, Darius. Your wound is deep.”

“Absolutely not, and that is final!”

“It is not final,” she said with a laugh of protest. “It will be fun.”

They both glanced at the door, for they could hear the king as he called a question to the palace steward, still a way off down the hall. They heard the old man’s unctuous voice, delaying His Majesty.

They ignored it.

“Not possible! I’ve got huge responsibilities riding on me, Serafina—”

“Aye, the weight of the world, poor sweet.”

“I will not have you interfering in my affairs!”

“Somebody’s got to take care of you, if you won’t take care of yourself. It’s my fault you were hurt, anyway. I feel responsible.”

“Nonsense, I was only doing my job.”

“Well, maybe it’s my job to take care of you.”

He gave her a baffled look, then glanced at the door again. “I can’t go with you. You have no comprehension what is at stake!” he whispered angrily.

“I know perfectly well what’s at stake,” she said indignantly. “I’m the one who is to pay the price, aren’t I? But I have a little time of freedom left, and I shall spend it as I choose, with whom I choose.” She folded her arms over her chest and leveled a pout at him. “I’m the Princess Royal and you can’t tell me what to do.”

“Serafina,” he clipped out.

She watched with interest as he came striding toward her.

“You will not interfere. Do you understand me? I am needed elsewhere. There is a crisis—”

“There is always a crisis,” she said in boredom. “Someone else can handle it this time. Must you always hoard the glory? Give another man a chance.”

“I don’t hoard the glory!” he scoffed, stopping midstride with a lofty look of righteous affront. “I merely want the job done right!”

“It will be, my dear,” she soothed. “You refuse to take care of yourself, so obviously I’m going to have to take care of you. Do you so hate the idea of spending time with me?” She sighed, not really wanting to know the answer to that. “It’s for your own good.”

His eyes narrowed. “This is because of Julia, isn’t it? This is about jealousy. You don’t own me,” he said savagely. “You have
no
claim on me.”

She stared at him, then lowered her head, saying nothing. He could kick and buck and behave in however ugly a manner he liked. She was not backing down.

He must have realized he had hurt her, however, because he came to stand in front of her, near the desk. “Don’t do this to me,” he said heavily. “Can’t you see it is impossible?”

“I don’t see why you object.”

“You and I?” he whispered fiercely, bending down to glare at her. “Locked up together in the middle of nowhere? Do you have any idea what could—” He faltered, swallowing hard.

“What could happen?” she finished for him. “Why, anything, I suppose. Maybe we’ll finally be friends again. Or, maybe we’ll kill each other, I don’t know. Then again, maybe, if I’m lucky, you’ll get the urge to tie me up.” She slanted him a wicked smile full of mirth.

Staring at her in shock, he loomed over her, giving her his darkest, severest, most intimidating look, but with Papa on his way, it didn’t much scare her.

“You will not do this,” he vowed.

“Oh, yes, I will.”

He stared at her as if no one had ever defied him before. Of course, even she had to admit that it was only her rank and her ability to manage Papa that gave her the advantage.

“It’s for your own good,” she said with finality.

Darius cursed under his breath in exasperation, pivoted, and strode away from her. “The answer is no, and that is final. No mischief. I am warning you.”

“My Papa’s coming, Santiago. Don’t make me blackmail you,” she said sweetly. “I believe you have my hair ribbon in your pocket?”

His eyes widened, then narrowed to blazing slits. “You treacherous
brat
.”

“You taught me everything I know.” She gave him an angelic smile, twirling a curl around and around her finger.

CHAPTER FIVE

She can’t do this to me,
he thought desperately. Only, he knew full well she could. If he protested too much to the king, it would look like he was being unreasonable, even suspicious.

“I’m warning you,” he whispered to her, knowing it was futile. He knew from long experience that when she took an idea into her head, there was no stopping her.

At that moment, the door banged back and there stood Darius’s boyhood benefactor, His Majesty, King Lazar di Fiore, a bold and seasoned warrior with black hair shot through with silver at the temples. His powerfully built frame filled the doorway, and his pirate grin broke out across his rugged, weathered face at the sight of Darius.

“Greenling!” he boomed with a hearty laugh.

The room got smaller as the king strode in, filling it with his forceful, charismatic presence. Darius offered a quick, informal bow, but Lazar clapped him in a bear hug, affectionately thumping him square on his wounded shoulder.

Darius grimaced.

“Papa, you silly oaf, be careful! He’s hurt.”

Lazar released him and turned with an inquiring look to his firstborn. “Oh, there you are. Where the devil have you been? You’d better get back to the ballroom or your mother’s going to strangle you. She’s been looking for you for two hours. You know, Cricket, it really is considered bad form to leave a ball thrown in your own honor, no matter how tedious the thing is.” Then he turned back to Darius. “Hurt, she says?”

He smirked arrogantly. “A scratch.”

Lazar grinned in approval of his bravado. “Pure steel, this one, my girl. Make no mistake!”

She rolled her eyes. One slim knee crossed over the other, her slippered toe bobbed rhythmically. Pretty as a picture, he thought, but well he knew in her haughty mood she was a force to be reckoned with, damned little Queen of Sheba. Oh, she was biding her time, watching him coolly, matter-of-factly, her slender arms folded under her sumptuous bosom, that luscious pout still fixed on her lips.