Royal 02 - Royal Passion (46 page)

Mara closed her eyes. Peace. Stillness. The crackling fire. A candle flame sputtered. Her chest lifted and fell in a silent sigh. She was motionless.

Roderic watched her, hardly breathing. After a time, he got to his feet and gently placed her hand upon the mattress. He lifted the coverlet and drew it over the thin fingers. With a hand that had a distinct tremor, he brushed the fine black strands of her hair back from her face. He closed his eyes, tensing the muscles of his shoulders and then releasing them with a shuddering ripple and a hard shake. Moisture gathered under his eyelids. He wiped it away, then turned from the bed.

Her hand had grown slippery with perspiration. She must not become chilled by having it outside the covers. The fever had broken.

A week later, Mara lay in bed propped up on pillows. She wore a bedjacket of pink lace. A wide band of pink ribbon held her hair back from her face. Beside her on the bed was a turned-down book, while on the bedstand sat a box lined with silver paper holding bonbons. The room was warm and heavy with the smell of flowers, violets and daffodils and narcissus and hothouse roses that sat on the mantel and on tables. Trude and Estes were playing a vicious game of vingt-et-un at a small table near the fire. Michael lay stretched out on the carpet with his chin in his hand trying to read a newspaper. Jacques and Jared, lying nearby, were pretending to be taking naps, though Jared had a puppy staggering around on his chest and Jacques had one licking his ear. The parents of the pups were curled together with their other two offspring not far away, both studiously ignoring the antics of the missing pair. It was the first time that Mara had been allowed visitors, and it gave her pleasure to see them all so at ease in her bedchamber.

Roderic sat on the end of the bed with his back against the footboard and one leg trailing over the side. On his drawn-up knee rested his mandolin. His strong fingers brought forth a soft and beguiling melody, though his gaze rested on Mara.

She was lovely this morning, the pink thing she was wearing reflecting color into her face. Still, there was an ethereal quality about her, and an elusiveness that troubled him. She was not as thin as she had been, however, or as pale. Her spirit was returning, too; last night when he had insisted that she drink her red wine to build her blood, she had waited until his back was turned and poured it into her flower vase. The daffodils had promptly wilted, but he had allowed her that small victory. He had grown so used to bullying her for her own good that he had not realized he might seem overbearing. It had been such a delight to see that small secret smile of triumph on her mouth, instead of listless acceptance, that it had been all he could do not to snatch her up in his arms and smother her with kisses. She was not ready for that. Not yet. He could wait until she was. And he would.

Mara shifted on her pillows, grimacing a little. Roderic sat up and put aside the mandolin. “Would you like to lie down? Shall I move the pillows?"

"No, no, I'm fine,” she answered, holding out a hand as if to ward him off. The pistol ball had torn across her ribs, breaking one and lodging just behind it. The wound might have been more serious if the ball had not been deflected and slowed by her corset stay. The doctor's probing for it had caused the most damage, adding to the scar she would always carry.

Roderic studied her face, then, satisfied, sank back and picked up his mandolin once more.

Mara sent him a quick look from under her lashes. He was always there, always ready with water, a pillow, a gentle rub for her back, soothing music; divining her need almost before she knew it herself. Nothing disturbed him, nothing made him uncomfortable. Whatever she asked, he did it at once, understanding with a frightening perception exactly what she required so that she needed to use only a minimum of words. So acute was he that she had come to rely on him before the others, even Grandmère Helene. She did not like that.

She remembered very well the words he had said when she was so ill, and she honored him for them. But she would not depend upon them. He was a complex man with an enormous sense of responsibility that caused him, she was afraid, to blame himself for what had happened. He was compassionate, with a great capacity for understanding the working of the hearts and minds of men and women. Those qualities could lead him to say, not what was true or right, but what he felt a person most needed to hear at that particular moment. It was not that he lied; it was merely that his moral code put the welfare of the individual first. That code was flexible enough to allow that a half-truth told in the name of good was not wrong. But his code, though his own, was strict. Once a vow was given, he would not draw back from it. That was her greatest fear.

If my love can hold you ...
It could, of course, and always would, though he would never know it if she could help it.

She closed her eyes, thinking. After a few minutes, the music died away. She felt the bed give as Roderic slid from it, heard him give a quiet order. The others in the room gathered themselves and went quietly away. She thought of protesting, but realized that the visit had tired her.

Still, when the prince approached the bed, stood looking at her, and then turned away, she spoke. “Roderic?"

"Rest,” he said, “I'll return later."

"What happened to de Landes?"

She waited for his answer. When it was not forthcoming, she opened her eyes. “I killed him, didn't I?"

"He was a traitor to his king and a murderer who died of his own greed for power."

"But I killed him."

"There are some men who require killing, who will petition fete and their fellow men until someone relieves them of their miserable lives."

"He wasn't even of the nobility, and he had gained so much already, an office in the ministry, a degree of power, and hope, surely, of more. Why should he risk everything to install a Bourbon king?"

"Nobility can be conferred with the tap of a sword, the stroke of a pen. It is a potent promise for some.” He moved away from the bed, reaching to close the bonbon box, to straighten the vase of flowers.

"Who made that promise?"

"The same people who paid him to hire an assassin and to kill the man whether he succeeded or railed. The same people who suggested that, with my reputation for involvement in the overthrow of other rulers, I would make a good scapegoat; men who could with authority promise him a title and wealth if their needs were met."

"The legitimist circle around the comte de Chambord?"

"We can guess but never know. In any case, it doesn't matter. The revolution is over."

"The young comte de Paris is king?"

"Unfortunately not, or fortunately, as your politics dictate. The duchess d'Orléans went with her son to the Palais Bourbon to meet with the assembly and claim the crown for the young comte. The assembly was in agreement until they were overrun by a rabble, perhaps paid by the legitimists, perhaps instigated by the socialists. To save the situation, Lamartine declared a provisional government controlled by the reformists, along with a number of the socialists from the Hotel de Ville. France has now entered into the Second Republic with Lamartine at its head."

"Will it endure?"

"I have my doubts. The guiding of a country requires a hard head and a farseeing eye; there's little room for idealism. In this struggle we saw almost nothing of the Bonapartists. They are waiting in the wings, watching to see if Lamartine stumbles or misses his cue. When he does, they will pounce."

"And Louis Napoleon will become king."

"Or emperor, in imitation of his uncle."

She frowned. “You think he would dare?"

"Quiet men are often the most ambitious and daring."

"Like de Landes."

He faced her. “No, not like de Landes. Louis Napoleon's ambition is to build, to stabilize, to restore the pride of France, not to destroy everything in the hope of gaining some small selfish concession. I understand what you feel, Mara, and I honor you for it. To care is what makes us human. The current of life flows through all of us, and to stop it, even in a mad dog, is to diminish its force. But mad dogs must be stopped. My only regret is that I didn't do it when I had the chance."

"So you could take the blame?"

"It would have been my privilege."

She gave him a level look. “The responsibility is mine, and the privilege."

"Because,” he said, a smile curving his lips and rising into his eyes, “you saved my worthless skin?"

"Call it reparation."

His smile died away. His words abrupt, he asked, “For what?"

"For the betrayal."

"As to that,” he drawled,"I took my own reparation long ago."

"And the night of the meeting?"

"Overconfidence, mine. Lack of trust, mine. Too great a dependence on ... a form of communication that has limitations."

"What do you mean?"

"I thought I could read your thoughts. But all the time what I was reading may have been my own wistful impulses."

"No!” She sat up suddenly, then fell back with a cry, breathing in short, shallow gasps.

Roderic sprang forward with a curse. He held her as he threw her pillows aside and eased her flat on the bed. Brushing aside her bedjacket, he stripped open the buttons of her nightgown and pulled it aside without the least hesitation or regard for her modesty. He had done it many times before, she knew, but she had not been so aware then. Now she was.

There was an ache in her chest that had nothing to do with the wound in her side as his hand brushed over her, searching for renewed bleeding, some sign that she had opened her wound. She saw the tension leave his features, the easing of the lines about his eyes, and had to swallow a hard lump in her throat. It was easier to be angry than to allow herself to be touched by his concern or meltingly affected by the mere sight of him so near, bending over her. For an instant his knuckles rested against the swell of her breast as he tested the bandaging just beneath it. She slapped his hand away.

"I'm perfectly all right!"

"Yes,” he agreed, a faint smile playing about his mouth, “I think you are."

He reached to refasten her nightgown. Once again she pushed his hand aside. “I'l1 do it."

"I couldn't permit you to overtax your strength,” he said gravely as he returned to his task.

"There's little danger of that with you hovering.” She caught his wrists this time, realizing too late that though she had prevented his access to her buttons, she had also prevented her own.

"I am at your beck and call, a perfect slavey. Doesn't that make you happy?"

"Oh, ecstatic, except that though you may come when I call, you don't go when you're not needed.” Under her fingers the pulse that beat in his wrists was hard and not quite even, a fascinating discovery.

"I begin to understand. Shy, delicate blossom that you are, your modesty is offended,” he said, his tone caressing in its mock sympathy though there was wicked delight in the glance he lowered to her bared breasts. “How can you ever forgive me?"

He could have broken her grip with laughable ease, and they both knew it. That he was content with the display she made, lying with her hair like a dark and shimmering background for her nakedness, her cheeks flushed with irritation and a belated awareness masquerading as embarrassment, they also knew. And yet beneath his enjoyment was such tenderness that she caught her breath.

He saw that sudden, questioning vulnerability. It required an answer. Drawn irresistibly by the soft contours of her mouth, he leaned over her.

There came a tap on the door. It was opened hard upon that brief knock, and a man stepped inside. Distinguished in appearance, of medium height, he was perhaps in his mid-fifties. His mustache and small, neat beard were sprinkled with gray, and his hair was thinning on top: His skin was olive and burned by a Southern sun to a deep brown. His eyes were dark and the deep lines around them indicated basic good humor, but now there was wrath building in them as he absorbed the sight before him.

"What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.

"I might ask the same—” Roderic began.

"Papa!” Mara cried.

"—except,” Roderic finished smoothly, “it appears redundant."

As Mara, in shock, released his hands, he straightened and turned with smooth grace, placing his body in front of her as a screen. Behind him, she refastened her nightgown with trembling haste and flipped the edges of her bedjacket back into place.

"You, sir, must be Monsieur André Delacroix,” Roderic went on, his bow a model of politeness. “I assume you have been welcomed in form to Ruthenia House, but I will add my own."

Beyond Mara's father, Angeline stood in the doorway, her green gaze filled with rueful amusement overlaid by concern.

"You also need no introduction,” André said in grating tones. “I would recognize you as Rolfe's spawn anywhere. You have the same look, not to mention the same damnable and undiluted gall!"

"I thank you, sir."

"It wasn't a compliment! Would you care to explain what you were doing with my daughter?"

"No."

That simple, unadorned syllable seemed to fuel Andrés temper as no flowery speech could. “Don't you, indeed? I receive a shocking letter from my daughter concerning events I can only describe as incredible. After weeks of travel to discover the full story, I arrive to learn that she has been shot, and then to see with my own eyes you forcing your attentions upon her while she is abed! As her father, I demand a full accounting of her presence under your roof."

"An accounting that would not be necessary if you had escorted her to Paris as was your place."

André gave him a fulminating stare. “Are you presuming to lecture me on my duty, sir?"

"It seems someone should.” Roderic, his race grim, was unperturbed by the older man's ire.

Angeline moved forward to step between her son and her former fiancé. “Please, I don't think—"

"I require to see my daughter alone,” André said, his tone flat.

"That is impossible."

"See here, young man, you may be a prince, you may command where there are those who will obey, but you have no control over me or my daughter."