Royal 02 - Royal Passion (31 page)

It was cowardice, and also an enduring hope that it would not be necessary, that had made her put the explanation off until now. Grandmère Helene had guessed, when she had seen the chateau and realized that there were to be no other guests, that she was being held to ensure Mara's cooperation in de Landes's scheme. She had taken it for granted, however, that the prince, in coming to her aid, had acted the honorable part, responding nobly to a simple appeal from Mara. She seemed to think that the lapse of time was due to her granddaughter's need to become better acquainted with Roderic before placing her trust in him.

There was no way of knowing how her grandmother would react to the knowledge of the sacrifice that Mara had been forced to make for her sake. She was made of sterner stuff than Mara had known, as had been proven during her recent incarceration. And yet she could not help being hurt. Regardless, she must be told. She would be, as soon as they were alone.

Mara had not counted on how hard it would be to make the elderly woman understand the situation.

"What do you mean you cannot stay, my dear?"

"I will not place myself under Roderic's protection, not be his mistress a moment longer. I am sorry if my plain speaking embarrasses you, but—"

"Embarass me? I am no miss from the English court of Victoria! I assure you we spoke much more plainly even than that when I was a girl. What I want to know is why you feel you cannot abide the man."

"He—Oh, you must know! He has no idea of marriage."

"Has he said so?"

"He is a prince!"

"That was not a bar to the marriage of his father and Angeline. From what you say, you seduced the man, and for a reason that had nothing to do with his attraction to you. You must give him time to come to terms with the idea."

"It wasn't quite like that."

"A promising admission. What was it like?"

"It was—Never mind! Oh, Grandmère, don't you see? We can't stay here. It would be immoral."

"You are afraid you will be hurt. Angeline was like that, running away when she most wanted to stay."

"If you are suggesting that I care for Roderic—"

"Don't you?"

Mara turned quickly away. “Of course not."

It wasn't true, but if she pretended strongly enough that it was, it might be in time.

"You used him, Mara. Think what that means to him."

"He knew what I was doing and permitted me to continue out of mere curiosity.” She could not prevent the bitterness from rising in her voice.

"He could guess. Whatever he may have said, he could not know. The wonder is that he did not murder you or abandon you the instant he discovered the truth. I find it ... interesting that he did not, that he offered his usefulness as—"

"As a means of taking you hostage."

"As protection."

"He will use you to force me to his will. He said as much. You think him charming, but he can be ruthless. You don't know him as I do."

"You have a different view, which is as it should be."

Mara turned back. Speaking with slow emphasis, she said, “I will not continue as his mistress."

"And a good thing, too! You will naturally sleep in your own rooms, close to mine. But I do not think that I want to remove from Ruthenia House, not at this juncture. In any case, I have already sent for our things. We will stay."

"I can't, you must know I can't!"

Grandmère was not to be moved. “Then you will have to leave alone, and what will you say to our cousin when she asks why?"

The thought of yet more explaining, of the salacious interest and censure she might meet with, was unendurable. Roderic liked her grandmother; it was possible that he would not wish to disillusion her at once. Mara agreed, finally, to stay until morning but no longer.

She did not expect to be able to sleep under the same roof as the prince. She had thought to lie awake, dreading a summons or perhaps even a visit from Roderic. If either came, she did not know it. Exhausted by the journey and her own conflicting emotions, she was still in bed the next day when Lila brought hot chocolate and rolls at noon.

Mara rose and allowed herself to be dressed with reluctance. She had no wish to resume the duties she had made her own here in this house; to do that would be too much like conceding defeat. But neither did she feel like playing the guest, sitting and simpering in the salon. She had no idea what Roderic meant to do now, how he meant to behave toward her. To be forced to continually fend off his advances would be a severe strain; it would be impossible to know what form they might take next. Worse still might be enduring his anger with its outrageous verbal barbs. It was in that guise that he had spoken to her last. She had not enjoyed it. Hardest of all to bear might be in the mien he was most likely to show her, that of his indifference.

She emerged at last, however. It was more of a strain to sit alone wondering how she would be received than it was to come out and see for herself. Lila, with a shy smile, told her that her grandmother was already up and receiving in the public salon, and requested that Mara join her there at her convenience.

The spate of morning callers had slowed. Grandmère Helene and Roderic were just bidding the last of them goodbye. There did not appear to be anyone remaining behind for the noon meal, though whether from luck or the lack of an invitation, it was impossible to tell. Juliana was absent, as was the cadre.

"How delightful you look,” Grandmère Helene said, holding out her hand from her chair beside the fireplace as Mara entered. “Don't you think so, Roderic?"

The prince, standing behind her chair, inclined his head. “Delightful, indeed."

"Thank you,” Mara said, her voice tight.

His words were so banal, compared to his usual eloquence, that his agreement was mere politeness. It had been a mistake to take such pains with her appearance.

She had done it to make herself feel better, for no other reason. She certainly did not want Roderic to think that it was for his benefit. The gown she wore was her own, however. At some time during the morning a carriage had been sent to the house of their elderly cousin, along with a note from Grandmère requesting that their clothing be packed and given to the driver. Lila had brought the gown she was wearing to her freshly pressed and was even now putting the rest of her things away in the armoire in her bedchamber. The gown was of gray-blue challis printed with small gold fleurs-de-lis and had its own matching jacket in gray velvet. Wearing her own things gave Mara confidence since she knew that Roderic had not expended a centime on them.

Roderic moved to place a chair for her before the fire. She sent him a brief upward glance as she murmured the ritual thank you. The bright appreciation she caught reflected in his eyes sent a flush rising to her hairline. He had behaved as he had in order to provoke her, and he was well aware that he had succeeded. Such a man would not hesitate to entice a woman into his bed if she were chaperoned by a phalanx of nuns, much less a mere grandmother. Why Grandmère Helene could not be brought to see it was beyond understanding.

Mara sought in her mind for some topic of conversation that could not be twisted for use against her. Before she could decide on one, the noise in the entrance court of a hard-ridden horse caught her attention. Her grandmother said something she did not quite hear as she was listening to the fast tread of booted feet on the stairs. Glancing at Roderic, she saw that he had heard it, too, and was looking toward the door.

It was Michael who entered. His dark hair was ruffled, and there were spots of angry color on his cheekbones. He strode toward them waving a newssheet printed on cheap yellow stock. Handing it to Roderic, he said, “Read this."

As the prince took the paper, more footsteps could be heard outside. Trude pushed into the room, followed by Jacques and Jared. Close behind them came Estes. Of the four, three had copies of the newssheet clenched in their hands.

"What is it?” Mara asked, looking from one to the other.

Trude, her movements abrupt, handed the paper she held to Mara, then moved to stand near the arm of her chair in a peculiarly protective gesture. Estes, with a shrug, gave his newssheet to Grandmère Helen. The elderly woman looked at the glaring headline, then gasped, falling back in her chair.

PRINCE SEDUCES SISTER! GODDAUGHTER OF QUEEN LOSES INNOCENCE TO HIS HIGHNESS!

Mara stared at the words. For long seconds her brain, in shock, refused to function. Then abruptly she knew. Her lips formed the name without conscious direction.

"De Landes,” she said softly.

"De Landes,” Roderic repeated, and in his voice was such boundless menace that the soft skin of Grandmère He-lene's face, as she lifted her head to stare at him, was suddenly pale with fright.

Mara drew a difficult breath and raised her head to meet the prince's gaze. “It is to be, I think, the Praslin affair all over again."

"The Praslin affair?” Grandmère Helene said, her fear making her querulous. “What are you thinking of? This is nothing like that murderous business."

"It's the scandal among the nobility that is the same and the possible effect upon the present regime."

"Roderic's title isn't French!"

"But he is a public figure, well known in the city and one close to the throne."

"A masterly conclusion,
ma chère
,” the prince said, his voice limpid. “Who pointed it out to you?"

"No one.” She was briefly proud of the fact that her voice remained even.

"Not even our incubus, our Machiavellian friend with delusions of evil? Not even de Landes himself?"

"No."

Roderic shook his head, a smile, which did not reach his eyes, curving his mouth. “Remiss of him. He might also have suggested the only proper and holy redress for so obscene an accusation, the only bright and shining sword with which to cut through this Gordian knot of a problem. He might have told you to request marriage."

He waited with pent-up breath for her answer. What he wanted of her was unreasonable: that she should refuse for the right reasons so that he might persuade her to accept for the wrong ones. He held himself erect, his arms at his sides. Not by so much as a gesture would he influence her.

"Never,” she said, her eyes dark with disgust. She got to her feet, swinging away from him.

He breathed again. “Why? Have you no desire to be a princess?"

"Not to your prince."

"Though governments clatter down around our ears and kings lose their heads with their crowns? It's a fine thing to place a high value on independence, but you must ask yourself: Am I worth it?"

What was he doing? His voice was too light, too insouciant. He was goading her, or so it seemed, but for what purpose? Her rage would not let her see it. All she knew was an overpowering desire to strike a blow that would force him to answer from the heart instead of from the pure and logical computations of his mind.

She turned to face him, her voice ringing clear. “I am an American. What are titles to me, or the useless trappings of kings? I care not whether governments fall or ancient family escutcheons are stained beyond cleansing. What I require in a husband is a man, not the arrogant son of a king who takes pleasure in manipulating those around him."

"What you require,” he said, his voice daunting in its sudden rich warmth as he moved toward her, “is someone who will make you forget who you are or whether he is or is not your husband."

Swiftly came her answer. “Not you!"

"Me. For reasons we all know and those you have not yet begun to guess, you will be my wife."

"No!” She backed away from him as he advanced.

"Oh, yes. You will. There is nothing and no one who can prevent it."

So intent had they been on the crisis that they did not hear the sound of a new arrival. There came a decided stir at the door. A man stepped inside. He stood straight and tall in the white uniform of the men of Ruthenia, though his hair shone silver-gilt in the pale sunlight shining in through the windows. As he spoke the slashing quiet of his voice reached every corner of the room.

"I can prevent it, and while I breathe I will. If you doubt it, then try me with your threats, my clamorous son, my valiant and most amorous son."

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"YOUR MAJESTY!"

The exclamation came from Grandmère Helene. She pushed herself from her chair and, with one hand on its arm for support, sank into a deep curtsy. In the sudden silence Roderic executed a curt bow that was echoed with greater reverence by Michael and the other members of the cadre. Mara, lowering her gaze, made her own curtsy.

Rolfe, king of Ruthenia, made a brief gesture of acknowledgment, then moved forward to give his hand to Mara's grandmother. “Madame Helene Delacroix, I believe, whose other name is Mercy."

"You remember that stupid gaffe of mine when first we met!” Helene said, flushing with pleasure. “How extraordinary and how kind."

It was indeed extraordinary since the incident had occurred nearly thirty years before. Mara had heard the tale many times, one Grandmère liked to recount, of how the prince, in thanking her for allowing him and his cadre to come uninvited to her soirée, had said to her in graceful compliment, “your fair name shall be mercy.” Her grandmother had replied in some confusion, though with a willingness to please, “as you wish, your Highness, but I have been called Helene from birth."

Mara's grandmother went on, “It's been a long time."

"Many years too long,” Rolfe replied. “How fares André?"

"Well. And Angeline?"

"Anxious about what transpires here in Paris. I am her emissary and unofficial minister of justice. It seemed there might be a need for such a dispensation."

In its way it was a question concerning the situation, or at least the part the elderly woman and her granddaughter had in it. The answer of Grandmère Helene was oblique.

"If you have been informed of what has been happening, then you will be aware that the young lady at the center of the controversy is my granddaughter. May I present her to you, sir?"

Rolfe turned and stepped toward Mara with a faint smile curving his mouth and stringent assessment in his eyes. Those eyes were no longer as vividly blue as his son's, and his hair was more silver than gold. His face was weatherbeaten, etched with lines of experience and character, and yet there was in it an implacable strength and insurmountable will that, added to his years, made him seem for the moment even more formidable than his son, if such a thing were possible.