The Pirate Prince (8 page)

But no, that was impossible. It was just her overheated imagination again. No one could survive a jump two hundred feet into rocky, shark-infested waters, especially not a boy of thirteen. Just because they had never found his body did not mean the legend of the lost prince was anything more than that—a legend.

Like these tunnels?
she wondered.

The rebel walked over to her and lifted the torch roughly out of her hand. “Let’s get on with it, Miss Monteverdi,” he muttered.

He said her name as though he hated it.

Lazar marched along, sulking over the fact that it never even occurred to Allegra who he might be. He did not want her to know yet who he was—he was saving that revelation for her father, but when she failed even to wonder at the possibility, he found himself annoyed.

How the hell did she
think
he knew about the tunnels? Was it so very hard to believe that he might be the son of King Alphonse? At the same time, his own indignation, or perhaps wounded vanity, left him cynically amused.

Halfway through their march, he heard another little cry of pain behind him and turned back to discover that Miss Monteverdi had contrived to twist her ankle.

Suspiciously he went to where she had plopped herself down on the wet, rocky tunnel floor and was holding her ankle in both hands, rubbing it, tears in her eyes. He was certain she was feigning until he glanced down at the satin dancing slippers on her feet, already reduced to ribbons by the trek. Her white silk stockings also were torn and snagged and stained. Slowly he lowered himself to one knee before her.

“What happened?”

“I tripped,” she cried, as if it were his fault.

He handed her the torch.

“Let me see.” He brushed her fingers away and examined her ankle himself, disregarding her little, fussing noises of protest, running both hands down the graceful curve of her limb. When he pressed gently with his thumb on a spot in front of her ankle bone, she sucked in her breath in pain. She looked up at him, still biting down on her plump lower lip.

He moved back and looked down at her thoughtfully. She had been quiet since they had gotten under way, but now he could see that her endurance was beginning to wear thin.

It had been a rough night for her, he supposed. Near-rape, abduction, being chased by soldiers, dragged into a pond. Now she’d turned an ankle, and there was worse to come. Far worse.

He uncorked his flask and offered her some rum.

She looked at it and him in disdain, then reconsidered and took it. She raised it to her lips and took a wary sip. He chuckled when she burst out coughing and spluttering.

“Terrible!” she choked out, her honey-brown eyes watering. She covered her mouth with her hand and shot him a look of reproach.

“It will dull the pain.” He stood, offering her his hand. “Come on, my little captive. Up you go.”

He carried her piggyback the rest of the way. She held the torch, lighting his path. At first he was annoyed by the way she directed and chided him incessantly, warning him to look out for small pits in the floor of the tunnel or reminding him to avoid the clusters of rock here and there in his path or to bend down where the granite teeth jutted low above them. Eventually he got used to it.

What he couldn’t get used to was the feel of her arms around his neck, her legs around his waist, her slender thighs secured firmly in both his hands. There was something barbaric in carrying a woman off this way that pleased him inordinately. Her dress was still wet, and the damp material clung to her limbs and to him, conducting her body’s heat to his skin with mesmerizing intensity.

Every time her breath tickled his ear, it seemed to him less and less likely that Miss Monteverdi would emerge from the other side of the tunnel still a virgin.

And yet he had to kill her.

With every step, he brooded upon this fact and was beginning to feel strangely split off from himself. Since the earliest planning stages of his vendetta, Allegra Monteverdi had been just a name on paper to him, an object to be used to achieve a desired result, not a thinking, feeling, wondering creature with sweet, silvery laughter and freckles on her nose.

She hummed softly at his ear as he took the turn to the exit he had used before. She interrupted his silent war with himself, making conversation to pass the time.

“Thank you for saving me from Domenic,” she said, “even if it was only because you wanted to kidnap me.”

“Do you love him?” he heard himself ask.

“No.” She sighed as she laid her head down on his shoulder. “Is there a lady you love?”

“Aye.”

“What does she look like?”

“She has three decks, three masts, and the finest-built stern a man could desire.”

“A ship?” she exclaimed. “Oh, you are a seafarer. Of course! I see now.” She gave him a little squeeze around the neck, and he smiled in spite of himself. “You are a native Ascencioner, but you’ve traveled. I can tell by your accent.”

“Very good, Miss Monteverdi.”

“If I’m not mistaken, you are highborn, too.”

“My father was a gentleman,” he conceded, the understatement of the century.

Due to the fact that he’d been martyred, King Alphonse was being considered by the Vatican for sainthood.

For some reason Lazar hoped he didn’t get it, but he would probably never know. The cardinals wouldn’t rule on it for another thirty-five years, and Lazar had no intention of living that long.

“Am I too heavy for you?”

“Certainly not.”

“Does your arm hurt very much? It looks as though it has stopped bleeding.”

“It’s fine.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“You’ll see.”

She was quiet for a minute. He could almost hear the little cogs and wheels whirring in her brain.

“Can I ask you a question? Something Domenic said when he was being so awful still preys on my mind. You’re a man—you might be able to make sense of it.”

He shook his head to himself in exasperation as she proceeded before he could tell her to shut up.

“You see, Humberto, the main reason I wanted to marry Domenic is because he is going to be Ascencion’s next Governor.”

Don’t bet on it
, he thought. “They say power is an aphrodisiac.”

She gasped. “What a shocking thing to say! But that has nothing to do with it.”

“Of course not.”

“I mean it,” she said seriously. “I thought as his wife I could have some impact on the affairs of Ascencion, try to temper the injustices, ease the people’s suffering.”

“Admirable.”

“You know what they say,” she whispered, a teasing note in her voice as she set her chin on his shoulder. “Behind every great man is a great woman.”

He paused to shrug her higher up onto his back. “Sorry, but I doubt your fiancé will ever be a great man.”

“Ex-fiancé. I certainly will not marry that cretin now! I don’t know what I’ll do,” she mused. “Maybe join the convent.”

He cringed to hear her talk about her future when he knew she didn’t have one.

“Anyway, Domenic claimed he was justified in what he wanted to do to me because he said I was using him. I never wanted to use him!” she exclaimed. “I never thought about it that way. Was I unkind? Was I wicked for wanting to marry him to serve the common good? I mean, I think Domenic wanted to marry me only because of my father’s position. You see? I am confused. What do you think of it all, Humberto?”

“What do you think of it, Miss Monteverdi?” he replied quietly. “Your opinion is the one that matters.”

She was silent for a long moment. “I don’t know, but I feel guilty now.”

“That’s what he wanted you to feel,
cherie
.”

She laid her head on his shoulder once more, almost snuggling against him. “Humberto? No one has ever defended my honor before.”

He said nothing.

Maria
…

The first thought that wandered into his cloudy brain was that he wanted Maria, his mistress, loyal and obedient as a spaniel. Maria knew how to take care of him better than his own mama. He tried to open his eyes, but only the right worked. The left was swollen shut. His head was full of cobwebs and stars and fire.

Flowers towered over him in the dark. Marigolds loomed. The trumpet heads of daylilies peered down silently at him like the faces of worried women. For a moment he was uncertain where the devil he was or how he had come to be there.

Then he remembered.

Domenic Clemente dragged himself up, panting through his mouth, for his nose was not operating properly either. Still rather stunned by those half-dozen sledgehammer blows to the head, he stood looking around him for his wits, weaving on his feet slightly just as three guards came running into the garden.

“My lord!”

“You are hurt!”

“Brilliant deduction,” he growled, shaking off the steadying arm of the nearest man with his left hand while he kept his agonized right wrist close to his chest. “Miss Monteverdi?”

“He took her off on that horse he stole. We’ve got two squadrons after them right now.”

“We’ll bring her back in no time, sir. Don’t you worry! We’ll have ’em by morning!”

“Bring me that man,” he ordered them in a low voice. “He is mine.”

“Yes, sir!”

One of the men found Clemente’s dagger nearby and gave it back to him. Domenic put it away.

“You,” he ordered one man, “fetch the governor to meet with me at once in his office. And you,” he said to the other, “get me the best surgeon in Little Genoa. And you,” he said, nodding to the third, “see that my carriage is ready within half an hour.”

He needed Maria. As soon as he told his story to the dimwit governor and got medical attention, he was going to the little country house where he kept her. Maria would lick his wounds and soothe his bruised pride for him.

As for Allegra Monteverdi, prim little bitch, she was just going to have to rely on her father to rescue her. He’d done his share.

That black-eyed devil kicked your arse, you sniveling, pathetic weakling
.

Snarling at the thought, he tried to put himself back into some order, dusting the soil off his rumpled clothing, raking his left hand through his hair as he made his way into the palace. As he limped down the hall toward Monteverdi’s offices, avoiding the guests, giving the gawking servants cruel looks to make them mind their own business, he brooded on the perilous question of whom the governor would believe if Allegra told her father that he’d tried to have a little fun tonight with his frigid daughter.

Not that there was any harm in what he’d done. He’d only been acting in Allegra’s best interest, after all, so their wedding night wouldn’t come as so much of a shock to her. Monteverdi must be made to understand that he, Domenic, had merely been trying to protect the girl from that insolent lout.

Who was that man? If he was one of the rebels, which he had to be, why didn’t he have the coarse, peasant accent? Why had he called himself Allegra’s good friend? The ruffian had teased her as if the two were old friends.

Perhaps he’d had his brains rattled loose by those blows, Domenic thought, perhaps he’d had too much to drink, but something just didn’t fit.

If Allegra had obeyed him and called for the bloody guards as he’d commanded, none of this would have happened. Hell, it was her own damned fault she’d been abducted. He had done his best to protect her, but she had been so uncooperative, why, it was almost as if she’d wanted to be abducted.

An astonishing realization hit him full force.

She knew that man. Of course she did. Just as the rogue had idly said—
a friend, a very good friend
.

Allegra was one of the rebels.

Domenic stood motionless in the hallway, staring at nothing as he tried to absorb it. Of course.

She was a traitor.

All her little displays of rebellion—her wearing of the old Fiori colors, her disrespect for her father and for him, her childish arguments with the guests over matters she knew nothing about—he’d never taken any of it seriously.

She had set him up. This abduction was a hoax. She wasn’t in the slightest danger—she was merely playing along with the rebels to bend her father and the Council to her will. And she had been using him, toying with him all along.

Even more furious than before, Domenic stalked to Monteverdi’s dark-paneled office, went straight to the liquor cabinet, and fumbled with his left hand as he attempted to pour himself a whiskey.

“Damn it.” He went back to the doorway and bellowed down the hall for a servant to do it, and to light a few of the candles as well.

When the room was brightened and the servant handed him a tumbler of whiskey, he glanced in the mirror over the mantel and stared at himself with his one working eye, barely recognizing his own handsome face, now a mangled, prune-colored mess.

No wonder everyone had been gawking at him.

Instantly, he promised himself revenge on that rebel dog—no swift, simple hanging but a slow, lingering torture. And as for Allegra, who had dared try to make a fool of him, she would be sorry. Very, very sorry. He would have vengeance on her, too, but somehow he would have to get around her father.

He knew Monteverdi would never bring Allegra up on charges, the same way he had never brought his wife up on charges when she had found out the truth about the Fiori murders. Oh, coming up under the close tutelage of certain Councilmen, Domenic had eventually been made privy to the whole secret story of what happened to Lady Cristiana Monteverdi. Allegra’s mother had been eliminated before she had been able to take her story to Rome, as she had been secretly planning, but since her death had been made to look like a suicide, her husband was never the wiser. The governor had been too besotted with her to keep her in check.

Likewise, he thought, Monteverdi would use all his power to protect his little girl, even if she was a rebel turncoat.

Perhaps she
should
be spared, Domenic thought, an evil twist coming over his half-swollen mouth. When he looked down at his wrist, puffed up to twice its normal circumference, he decided there and then, if his right hand had to be amputated because of this break, he was going to uphold their betrothal. Then, as her husband, he could take his vengeance on her every night for the rest of her life.