Royal 02 - Royal Passion Page 11

  "It's kinship you feel then?"

  "Particularly when the weight of being the latest future king grows heavy."

  "You would like to forget duty and become a vagabond?"

  "Why not? In a hundred years who will care what I do now?"

  "Perhaps your children?"

  "Insufferable, snotty-nosed brats, destructive and degenerate? I remember my own childhood too well to feel a concern that they are unlikely to deserve."

  His sons would be sturdy and proud, his daughters angelic with golden curls and sweet, self-contained smiles. At this time of night they would come in their long white gowns to be kissed good night. Mara banished the mental picture with an effort, and also with a sudden fear that had not plagued her in years, a fear that she might have inherited her mother's second sight.

  Involvement with the house of Ruthenia will bring sorrow. Had her mother's words been, perhaps, a prophecy? This memory, too, she pushed from her.

  "You have obligations,” she said, her voice low. “You are the prince, like it or not. There are things you must do—things we all must do."

  "Lamentable but true."

  A log in the fire broke, crumbling into flames that leaped higher. Along the wall, a draft stirred the heavy draperies. Outside, the wind whined around the eaves and the gargoyle downspouts. The house was silent; the servants had gone to bed or else retreated to the warmth of the kitchens. Beyond the salon, the long corridors seemed to echo with emptiness.

  It was instinct that made Mara pick up an apple from the fruit basket. It was red and firm and cool to the touch. The silver fruit knife lay beside the basket, and she picked it up with the other hand. “Would you care to share an apple with me?"

  Roderic stared down at her, at the red globe she held that was so nearly the same rich color as her gown, at the gentle curve of her cheeks and the dark shadows that her lashes cast upon them. The whiteness of her skin above the neckline of her gown, the straightness and the touch of pink in the line of the parting of her black hair affected him with an astonishing feeling of tenderness, He wanted to take the knife from her before she cut herself, to make her look at him without the evasion that he always sensed in her. He spoke almost without thinking, as a screen for his thoughts.

  "Among the gypsies, a girl choosing her lover tosses him an apple. It stands as a symbol for the heart."

  The apple seemed to fly out of her hand. She had no conscious intention of throwing it to him. One moment it was in her possession, the next in his. His fingers closed on it, gripping hard. The look in his eyes was wary, edged with brightness, but his voice soft as he asked, “Has tomorrow come then?"

  She met his gaze, her gray eyes wide with surprise at her own temerity and an odd excitement. The pink of a flush crept under her skin, warming it, routing the paleness. “Tomorrow?"

  "A conversation we had once, a promise you made."

  "I ... don't remember."

  "But I do."

  He stepped toward her and, with the apple in one hand, reached to take the knife in the other. With a quick movement, he sliced the fruit, handing her one half. His voice deep, he said, “I am your nourishment, you are mine. We are the feast."

  It had the sound of a ritual or an incantation. Slowly, Mara lifted the apple to her mouth, taking a small bite. The prince bit into his section, chewing slowly as he put the rest aside. He took her hand then, drawing her to her feet and into his arms. She came willingly, easily, her mind giddy with relief that the long waiting was over, and with a lacing of fear for the firm touch and unrelenting intention of the prince. She swallowed convulsively. His throat moved as he did the same.

  He brushed her lips with his in a feather-light caress that seemed to burn. His hold was close, but not tight. She could feel the press of his uniform buttons and the hard beat of his heart against her breasts. His thighs were firm ridges through the thickness of her skirts. The urge to move nearer warred inside her with the need to draw back before it was too late. She did neither, only standing still.

  Her lips parted, only partially by design. She slid her arms around his neck, enjoying the faint roughness of his uniform and the warmth of his skin under her hands. There was about him the scent of starched linen and soap in combination with his own fresh maleness. He tasted of wine and coffee and apple, a sweet and heady blend. His lips were warm and tender, gently moving, tasting. He explored the soft surface of her lips with the tip of his tongue, making them tingle, and tested the moist and sensitive corners.

  With slow sureness, his grasp tightened. The pressure of his mouth increased. She answered it with her own, straining against him. His tongue touched hers with rasping warmth, and she accepted it, returning the minute strokings, feeling her senses expand with the onrush of sensual delight. She had never known such a sensation before. The discovery that she could find pleasure in this enforced seduction was shocking. And yet it seemed very much like a gift, a reward for her endurance.

  His lips seared her cheek, her eyes, between her brows; he found the delicate hollow under her ear, and the warm flick of his tongue there sent a shiver along her nerves. She twined her fingers in the short and silky curls that grew low on his neck, her breathing quick and shallow. The blood raced in her veins, and she was flushed with warmth. Her hands seemed to have no strength, and in the lower part of her body was a quickening in the midst of heaviness.

  He trailed heated kisses along the turn of her jaw to the tender curve of her neck and the hollow of her throat. He moved lower as she lay in his arms, his mouth searing as he pressed his face to the soft, white curves of her breasts pushed up by her corset. He inhaled the heady scent she wore and her own sweet fragrance, and the sound of his breathing was ragged.

  "Chère,” he whispered, and, with one hand cupping her breast, took her lips with his once more in a hard, yearning kiss.

  There came the tapping of heels outside. The door burst open and a woman swept into the room. Roderic released Mara, but held her in the curve of his arm as he swung, alert and incensed, to face the intruder.

  The woman paused. She wore a traveling costume in luxurious sea-blue velvet that was fitted like a glove to her tall, elegant shape. A dashing hat with a waving cream plume was tipping forward on her high-piled, silver-blond hair. She carried a great beaver muff fully the size of a bed pillow, while trotting at her side on a leash was a Pekingese who, on seeing Roderic, immediately took refuge under the skirts of her mistress.

  "My dear brother,” the lady exclaimed with laughter in her clear voice, “if you must do your wenching in the salon, you might at least have the decency to lock the door!"

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  6

  The tension went out of Roderic's hold. There was resignation and affection in his voice as he said, “Dear Juliana, tell me you have the gendarmes on your heels; that will make it complete."

  "An incensed father and a puffed-up Prussian, nothing more. But what kind of welcome is this when I have come so far?"

  "Did you expect bugles and cymbals and dancing bears? I fear we can't accommodate you. Permit me to present the lady at my side. She is called Chère, lacking any other name. My sweet, this is my sister Juliana."

  The two women nodded. Juliana lifted a brow. “Lovely, quite lovely. But what will Papa say when he hears you have installed your inamorata here?"

  "She is not my inamorata, my mistress, my trull; she is a lady and hears perfectly well, if you would care to address her?"

  Julian moved swiftly forward, a rueful smile on her face as she stretched out her hand to Mara. “Have I been rude? Forgive me, if you please. It was the surprise."

  Their banter had given Mara a few moments to regain her composure. “Not at all. Do I understand that you have left your home? Or is it some other father who seeks you?"

  A laugh, light and gay, broke from the other girl. “Oh, I like you! No, no, not some irate papa whose son I have wronged! I have run away, creeping out of my locked room in the still of ni
ght, eluding all pursuers in order to fly to my brother. Is it not romantic?"

  "Bringing a yapping Pekingese and a few dozen trunks, and dressed in your most elegant ensemble,” Roderic suggested.

  "Not my most elegant,” Juliana said, flicking a quick glance down her form, “but acceptable."

  "Are you certain our revered parent didn't leave the door unlocked for you?"

  Juliana stared at him with wrath dawning in her eyes."You mean you think he allowed me to leave?"

  "You are here, are you not? It seems unlikely you would have escaped the borders of Ruthenia otherwise."

  "It would be just like him! Now why? Why?"

  "The answers, I suspect, may lie in the Prussian."

  "Arvin? But Papa dotes on the man! He has been entertaining him with hunting and hawking, with sweetmeats, the best wine, and showers of guile. He has, in a word, been treating him like a son-in-law, preparing to offer the crown prince his most precious jewel. Me!"

  "I take it you wish to decline the honor."

  "Precisely."

  "Crafty boyar that he is, could it be that the king was reluctant to give his, er, jewel but was loathe to offend Prussia?"

  "So he shouted me a homily on duty and the joys of being the mother of tiny, bald-headed giants, all the while whipping up my horses?"

  Diverted, Roderic asked, “Bald? Your Prussian is bald?"

  "Or shaven, I never felt to see which. He is also big,” Juliana said absently as she frowned over her problem. “Damn all men and their playing at statesmanship. Why could Papa not have told me?"

  "And offended you by having you suspect that the reason he preferred not to marry his daughter into the Prussian nobility had nothing to do with fatherly affection but was because Prussia has a habit of gobbling up smaller countries? He could not risk you deciding to encourage the bald one out of spite."

  "I am not so stupid!"

  "No, but deny being regrettably volatile."

  "That,” his sister told Roderic with satisfaction, “is what Papa says about you."

  "Does he, indeed?” he said softly.

  Mara, sensing a quarrel of epic proportions in the making, hastily intervened. “Did I understand you to say, Juliana, that your Prussian might be behind you?"

  "Arvin is not brilliant, but he has tenacity. If he can discover where I have gone, he will follow."

  "Given the state in which you usually travel—” Roderic began.

  "I had only two outriders and two footmen, and, of course, my maid and a man to travel with the baggage wagon!"

  "Why didn't you tie bells to the carriage or hire a herald to announce your coming?” Roderic said conversationally.

  Juliana drew in her breath for a retort, but it was not made. Her attention was caught by a movement in the open doorway. Luca, his expression grim, stepped through. The Pekingese began to bark, backing deeper under Juliana's skirts all the while. The girl swooped down to pick up the dog, scolding, “Hush, Sophie, hush."

  The gypsy spoke to Mara, studiously ignoring Juliana. “The baggage of the lady has been unloaded as ordered and moved into the house. But there is some problem with the suite of rooms."

  "Yes?” Mara asked.

  Luca looked uncomfortable. “It seems that when in Paris she usually stays in the suite of rooms that Mademoiselle-well, the fact is—"

  "Oh, I see,” Mara said,"then my things must be moved."

  At the same time, Juliana spoke up. “There are other suites of rooms in that wing; any of them will do so long as I have a pillow to place my head upon."

  Roderic shook his head. “Such nobility. It would be touching if I didn't know the pillow was required to be cased in silk, preferably monogrammed."

  Ignoring his comment, Mara said, “I would not take your place."

  "Another noble female,” Roderic told Luca.

  "Nor I yours,” Juliana said with firmness.

  "I assure you—"

  Juliana turned toward Luca. “Tell that foolish woman of mine to stop making a fuss and put my things in the first convenient bedchamber."

  Luca sketched a bow. “I will ring for a servant to carry your message,"

  "Nobility, gypsy fashion,” Roderic murmured.

  "Oh,” Juliana said, staring at the tall, dark-haired man who had defied her for a long moment before turning to her brother. “What an unusual ménage you keep, Roderic. A mistress who is not and a guest who makes his bed in the courtyard!"

  "And I appear to be adding to it a relative who must be constantly reminded of her conduct.” His tone spritely, he made his sister known to the gypsy.

  Juliana gave Luca her hand. “I am stupid from weariness. Will you accept my apology?"

  Her smile was warm and engaging, her manner without the least condescension. Luca, raising her hand to his lips, met her bright blue gaze and his expression took on a dazed look, as if he had been struck by a heavy blow. “With all my heart, Your Highness,” he answered.

  It was only then that Mara realized the young woman who had spoken with such naturalness and familiarity was a princess. No doubt she should have curtsied when she was presented. It was too late now to be concerned.

  Juliana went on to the gypsy, “Perhaps I could prevail upon you to escort me to my rooms? Not that I fear footpads in the corridors, but it is extremely dark. This wind has blown out half the candles in the girandoles, and, like all these old houses, there were only half enough to begin with."

  "I am yours to command,” Luca said, bowing with his best form.

  "But not to order?” Juliana sent him a smiling glance from under her lashes.

  "No one does that."

  "Ah, a strong declaration. I admire strength of will in a man."

  They had moved away beyond the doorway. Roderic called after them, “One moment!” To Mara, he said in low tones, “If the Prussian comes, we may count ourselves lucky if we don't have to pluck a gypsy knife from his back."

  Mara agreed, but her mind was on Roderic's movements as he lifted her hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the palm.

  "In any case,” he went on, “you seem to have lost your shadow, your cavaliere servitore. Are you sorry?"

  "He was hardly that.” Luca and Juliana stood waiting, talking, laughing, oblivious of anything except each other.

  "Near enough. He is susceptible to women, is Luca. He is not alone; I seem to be more susceptible than is wise to you."

  "Why is it unwise?” His grip on her hand was warm, firm. The look in his eyes was the same. He was going to dismiss her. She knew it.

  "There is an innocence about you that it would be wrong to betray. You would hate me if, when you regain your memory, you found you were a beloved fiancée or a wife."

  He would not keep her with him because he thought she did not know who she was, and if she told him otherwise, he would send her away completely. There was a terrible irony in the situation, but she could not appreciate it.

  "You are wrong,” was all she could think of to say.

  "I prefer that to a lifetime of regret for you.” She would have protested again, but he lifted his voice. “Chère will go with the two of you. She is ready for her bed."

  The cadre was bored. They had the night before, following the visit to the theater, commandeered a pair of cabriolets and raced each other back and forth across the Pont Neuf until the four ladies of the evening who were their passengers had screamed in terror. They had engaged a pair of French guardsmen from the corps that protected King Louis Philippe in a drinking bout, and in the process extracted everything the guardsmen knew about the habits, predilections, and movements of the French king. The presence of Juliana, who had been known to them since she had emerged from the nursery, had enlivened matters for a while, but since she had gone off immediately after breakfast to make a round of the shops, the distraction did not last.

  They lay on the floor in the long gallery where they had been practicing tumbling. Even acrobatics had palled, however, mainly because Mara ha
d laughingly refused to be their pupil any longer, pleading that there was too much work to be done. She had ushered in a tray of apple tarts and coffee at midmorning when she had brought in her mending to do by the gallery fire, but she could think of nothing else that might relieve their ennui.

  "What we need,” Michael said, staring into the flames in the great fireplace with his chin resting on his hands and his thin face serious, “is a good war. Not a large one, just a small one with a nice skirmish or two."

  Estes sighed, “Yes, one with a few villages to capture, preferably with plenty of maidens, pretty ones."

  "Or even only passably pretty,” Jared said.

  "Just not quite plain,” Jacques agreed.

  "Wives. Not maidens, but bored and frustrated wives. I remember once in the lowlands—"

  "Ahem,” Michael said, clearing his throat with a warning sound. Estes, after a quick glance at Mara, ducked his head, leaving his tale unfinished.

  "They are rising in Poland and Parma, rioting in Venice and Vienna, agitating in Berlin, Milan, and Rome,” Trude said in disgruntled tones. “Why is it that with all the nice little revolutions in Europe, we have to be stuck in Paris?"

  "In Paris!” they groaned as one, and the cry was only half-mocking.

  "I've had better sport,” Estes said with deliberation, “in a cockpit behind a fourth-rate bawdy house in a two-cart town in the Croatia. Fourth-rate? I am not sure, not at all, that it could be rated so high. The women in this house were so ugly they wore their unmentionables over their heads and their kerchiefs over their—"

  "Ahem,” Michael said.

  "Why don't you throw the dice?” Mara suggested tactfully.

  "None of us has anything to be won or to lose,” Jared said.

  Jacques, rolling over so that he lay on his stomach at Mara's feet, looked up at her. “Of course you could offer a prize, say a kiss..."

  "Brilliant, brother, brilliant,” Jared exclaimed, roused to sudden interest as he raised himself on one elbow.