Royal 02 - Royal Passion Read online

  "There are things, then, that you remember,” Roderic said, his tone soft.

  Mara stared into his bright blue gaze, refusing to look away. “So it would seem."

  "How fortunate, otherwise you would be as a child again, wet, wiggling, and beguiling, as well as quite helpless..."

  "Fortunate for you that I am not."

  "Oh, I don't know. I might have enjoyed jogging you on my knee."

  "A perilous undertaking, under the conditions you describe."

  "You mean if you were wet?"

  She had, of course, but it was disconcerting to be taken so literally, and with such an open and engaging, therefore dangerous, smile. She had been warned about the prince's penchant for games with words. He meant her to be disconcerted.

  "It would be a natural condition,” she said, her tone even.

  The voice of the prince softened, lowered. “The man was a fool."

  "What?"

  "To discard you."

  Mara felt something tighten inside her chest, but she refused to follow so obvious a lead. “It might have been a woman."

  "Do you think so? An abbess, perhaps? But none would wish to be rid of such tender and easily sold merchandise. A jealous rival? She could have cut your throat as easily or else splashed vitriol here and there where it would do the most harm. A relative, perhaps, bent on discrediting you? But why? To destroy your good name and make you unfit for a proper bridegroom? Men can be such idiots about such things, as if a night in the dew mattered. Will it matter?"

  "Oh, don't!” she exlaimed, swaying a little, frowning as tension caused her head to pound. “There is no need to mock me."

  "I was thinking, instead, of sending you to your repose. It seems, above all, what you need."

  Was that compassion she heard in his voice? She could not be sure. Repose, composure. No doubt he was right. She could not seem to think any longer. If she weren't careful, some unguarded remark would give her away. Her gaze shifted to the caravans drawn up around the fire, particularly to the one painted blue and white and decorated with scrolls of gold; one newer, neater, than the others.

  "Where shall I sleep?” she asked, and began wearily to gather her cloak around her.

  Roderic, hearing that simple question, caught his breath. The temptation to direct her to his caravan, his bed, was so great that he was startled into silence. Where had it come from, this sudden wave of desire for a bedraggled, injured female without a name? She was beautiful, but he had seen beautiful women before, had had more than his share of them. She intrigued him—not the least because the lilt of her voice and her choice of words were the same as those of his mother, easily recognizable as being of Louisiana—but women with mysterious pasts were ten per centime in Paris. No, it was something more, something indefinable, something of which he must be wary. Still, his caravan was the safest place.

  Mara looked up and, seeing the blank, suspended expression on his face, felt her heart begin to pound. Inside her rose a terrible hope, and, just as wracking, a fear, that this seduction was going to be made easy. She felt a great need to reach out, to touch him, and knew with an instinctive certainty that it would be the right thing to do. The urge grew, burgeoning until she could not tell whether it was a mental and calculated desire or a real physical need. It made no difference. She could not force herself to move.

  He surged to his feet, swinging away from her with the powerful grace of well-used muscles. His order sliced the night air with the feral quietness of a rapier blow. The music stopped. Men and women moved, gathering up rugs and pots and bowls and weapons, melting away from the fire, slipping away into the caravans or the encircling darkness. A young girl came and curtsied to Mara, taking her hand to lead her toward the blue and white caravan. Stiffly, Mara got to her feet to follow and would not turn to look back.

  The prince stood alone beside the leaping flames, his expression grim. Then, with controlled movements, he lowered himself once more to the pile of rugs that were left. He picked up the mandolin and began to pluck out a tune.

  Mara, catching the melody as she stepped into the caravan, stopped still. Torn between amusement, anger, and a strange feeling of being near tears, she had to force herself to move again. Mocking in its sweetness, haunting and delicate, the song the prince played was a lullaby.

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  2

  The caravan of the prince was little different from the others on the outside, except perhaps that the paint was brighter. The interior, however, was furnished in what appeared to Mara to be royal, rather than gypsy, fashion. The appointments had been chosen for richness and quality, but also with a care and variety that seemed an indication of the man.

  Two walls of the caravan were lined with books in five languages, volumes on philosophy and the arts, religion and history, music and the theory of war. The other two walls were richly paneled and set with brass whale-oil lamps in gimbals. In one corner was a table with folios of music strewn across it, half hiding a chased sword of steel and brass, while underneath were cases holding musical instruments. Nudging the table for the room was a desk. On its surface was an inkstand of gold and glass with a gold pen in its holder and several sheets of foolscap in a precise pile. A straight-back chair was behind the desk, but for comfort there was also an armchair with a winged back and a matching footstool, both covered in dark blue velvet. The floor was of polished wood parquet centered with a Turkish rug in cream, gold, and blue. Built-in armoires flanked an alcove at one end that held the bed in a lengthwise position. The bed curtains fell from a gilded rod that was shaped like a giant's spear and were looped back on either side with tasseled cords. On the mattress was a bolster and pillows encased in cream linen piped with dark blue, cream sheets discreedy monogrammed, and a coverlet of white fox fur. The impression was one of utility and aestheticism, with more than a touch of opulence.

  The girl who had led Mara into the caravan lighted the lamps, brought a can of hot water, and then laid out linen toweling and a block of soap with the fragrance of sandalwood. She offered her services as maid to aid Mara in preparing for bed. Mara allowed her to release her from her gown and stays, then dismissed her. A moment later, she wished she had not been so hasty. She had no nightgown, nothing to sleep in other than her camisole and pantalettes.

  It hardly mattered. All she really needed was to be left alone, to lie down and close her eyes in some dark place away from the questions, the scrutiny, and the suspicion. It was a pity she couldn't also hide from her own thoughts.

  She had passed the first test. The realization was slow in coming. It was only after the creep of minutes into hours that she allowed herself to believe it. She was here with the prince, here, in the gypsy camp among the people who claimed him as their own. She was in his caravan, even sleeping in his bed. De Landes had been right in thinking that this was the best approach to him, here where he was relaxed and at ease away from the city, here where there were no authorities to take charge of her and few distractions to turn the attention of the prince from her. She had, she thought, aroused Roderic's curiosity, and perhaps his sympathy.

  That was not enough, not nearly enough. There had been an opportunity, she was almost certain, to do more, and she had failed to seize it. Her resolution had wavered when faced with the man himself. She must not let it happen again, she could not, for her grandmother's sake. Oh, but could she force herself to smile and be enticing? Could she take the final, irrevocable step of inviting the man into her bed?

  With a sudden convulsive wrench, she turned onto her back, staring up into the darkness lit only by the orange flicker of firelight reflected into the caravan from outside. She must take that step. She must become intimate with the prince, must persuade him to take her with him when he returned to Paris. There was no other choice.

  She thought of her grandmother in the hands of de Landes. Was there truly a house party at his chateau, or had that merely been an excuse? Was she being ill-treated? Was she warm? Was she
being given enough to eat? Was the place she was being held a comfortable country house, or was it some crumbling stone fortress with dungeons, bare cells with barred doors, and straw on the floor for a bed? Was it some former nobleman's seat that de Landes had taken as the spoils of his office?

  There were many such places in France, landed estates that had changed hands dozens of times with every shift of government since the revolution. The rich lands and great houses of the Loire Valley were particularly coveted by the new rich of each administration. Every tumbledown house with its neighboring village became an excuse to add the ennobling “de” to a surname, purloining the old glory. Few cared to live in such places, however. The lure of Paris and the court of Louis Philippe, staid though it might be, was far greater; besides, the great, drafty houses were bitterly cold and uncomfortable in winter.

  A shiver ran through Mara there in the prince's bed. The chill came from within, however, and could not be banished, not even by the covering of thick, soft fur. She lay staring with burning eyes into the dimness.

  She was awakened by a sound so slight that she could not tell what it was. After a moment, she discovered that rain had begun to fall. It pattered overhead on the roof of the caravan, neither heavy nor light but relentless, though there came an occasional splattering of windblown drops. It was a moment before she recognized that, persistent though the sound was, it had not roused her. She raised herself on one elbow.

  "Don't be alarmed,” the prince said from the darkness. “All I seek is shelter."

  She was supposed to have lost her memory, not her common sense or her courage. She answered with some asperity, “I'm not alarmed."

  "Aren't you? I had not looked for such sangfroid."

  The words were accompanied by soft rustling. It took no great effort of imagination to understand that he was undressing there in the darkness. Mara felt her heart begin to beat with quick, throbbing strokes. A suffocating feeling rose in her chest as she realized that another opportunity was upon her. All too aware of the stretching silence, she searched her mind for something to say.

  "Did—did you get wet?"

  There was laughter in his voice as he answered, “As a puling brat with no one to change or to dandle the darling child."

  It was a reference to their earlier conversation. She let it pass. “Not, I hope, from a reluctance to disturb me."

  "'A very, parfit gentil knight,’ suffering rather than intrude upon a lady's sanctity? Nothing so gallant. The horses were restless."

  "And you acted as the groom?” She could not keep the surprise from her voice.

  "Not alone. Horses are the livelihood, the transportation, and the wealth of the Tziganes, the gypsies, and particularly this group, who are breeders and traders of fine stock. But I, myself, have an aversion to being left afoot when there is something I can do to prevent it."

  Mara did not doubt that there were servants in plenty he could have called to see to the matter. That he had gone himself gave her pause. She had thought of him as the consummate aristocrat, with the carelessness of that breed for the welfare of underlings and animals, and for anything that did not directly affect his own comfort and consequence. This was no time, however, for explorations of personality. What the prince was like as a man had no bearing on what she had to do.

  "You must be ... cold."

  "Are you by chance offering to warm me?"

  All she had to do was to say yes, and yet the very boldness of the question shook her resolve. She said in haste, “Only to share the covers."

  The air wafted in a faint draft, then his voice came from just above her as if he had moved to kneel beside the low bed. “No soft pillow on your breast, no sweet sucklings and bouncing joy before I drift into sated sleep?"

  "I am not—not your nurse!” The catch in her voice was caused not by panic, but by the warm curling of some odd pain in her chest.

  "An excellent thing,” he said, then, rising in one swift movement, lifted the fur coverlet and slid in beside her.

  She flung herself away from him with a sharp exclamation, then, as she realized what she was doing, abruptly stopped. She was a fool. She could have wept with pent-up nerves and self-castigation. Somehow she must learn to control herself, to force her body to accept the dictates of her will. If the prince made another advance, if he reached out to touch her, she must not, would not, retreat. She would accept it and, pray God, respond.

  He did not move. She might have been alone in the bed, so scant was the evidence of his presence. If he was breathing, she could not tell it, so quiet was he. The lack of strain in the coverlet over them both was an indication of his complete relaxation. It seemed after a time that he must have the facility for instant sleep, for he made no restless shifts of position. By degrees the tension left her own muscles and she allowed her eyelids to close. The rain drummed on the caravan roof with a soothing, unfaltering rhythm. Her shoulder, which was uncovered, grew cool, and she eased the fur higher, snuggling under its warmth.

  The gray creep of daylight into the caravan brought Mara awake once more. She lifted her lashes with reluctance. She tried to stretch and stifled a small sound of distress. She was sore in every muscle, and her shoulder was so stiff that she was not sure she would be able to move it. It was not memory, however, but some tingling sense of awareness that reminded her that she was not alone in the bed. She swung her head to one side and stared into the eyes of the prince.

  He lay on his side watching her, with his head propped on one hand. The cover had slipped from him so that his torso was bare. The soft light of morning gleamed bronze across the sculptured muscles of his wide shoulders and caught glints of gold in the soft mat of hair on his chest. The appreciation in his gaze was bright, but underlying it was concentrated and cogent thought.

  Her dark hair lay in shining serpentine waves around her head on the pillow. The pure oval of her face grew slowly flushed with delicate shell-pink color that also extended along the graceful turn of her neck to the curves of her breasts beneath the low neckline of her silk camisole. Her lips, parted in surprise, were sweetly molded, soft and moist. But her hand, which lay on the coverlet, was clenched into a fist, and the smudged gray of her Irish eyes was slowly darkening with apprehension.

  Roderic leaned toward her. Her lashes, like black silk fringes, fluttered downward to hide her expression. She made no move to draw away. It seemed ignoble then to press his mouth to hers, but he was not driven by simple desire. The slight physical contact was a test. He was curious to see what she would do about it, whether she would accept it or repulse him.

  Mara lay still, her lips cool, and yet so heightened was their sensitivity that she registered the warmth and smoothness, the firmness and pressure of his mouth in some deep recess of her being. Her fear receded, to be replaced by an intimation of pleasure. Minutely, she moved, molding her mouth to his. The pressure increased, and she felt the subtle touch of his tongue.

  Dennis had kissed her like that on the night of the ball, thrusting his tongue wet and hot into her mouth. With remembrance came welling panic, and she wrenched her mouth away, lifting her hand to push at Roderic's shoulder.

  He released her at once, but still he lay studying her: the livid bruise on her temple revealed where her bandage had been dislodged in the night; the smudged shadows under her eyes; the fine transparency of her skin that now glowed with a flush from some emotion, the origin of which he could only surmise. She was a beautiful enigma, this woman who had come to them out of the night. He scented a mystery, something more than a mere lady in distress who had misplaced her identity.

  The schemes and plotting of the courts and political factions of half the countries of Europe were as familiar to him as the patterns of his own thoughts. He had developed an instinct for dangerous undercurrents, one he had learned to trust. He knew now that the best thing he could do would be to leave her to the gypsies. And yet she was beginning to fascinate him with her tentative advances and swift retreats. There was
something in her eyes that disturbed him, like a doe he had once seen turn at bay after being hunted by hounds.

  "Forgive me,” he said, the words abrupt. “It was wrong of me to take advantage of your injuries."

  How much easier it would be if he would just take advantage of her completely so that the thing was over and done. A wry smile for the desperation of that thought tugged at Mara's mouth, then disappeared. “I suppose you are used to—to waking with a woman in your bed."

  "Not one for which I have no name, professional or otherwise."

  "I told you—"

  "I remember vividly. It creates a problem, does it not? I could snap my fingers or whistle when your attention is required, but it seems awkward. Every new soul needs a name, and like a child born last night, you have the opportunity to be freshly christened, created anew, this morning. What then shall you be called? Chère is too common, and chère amie somewhat premature."

  "Yes,” she said, sending him a look both incensed and frightened. She was not his mistress, his chèrie amie, yet, and though she thought his words were meant to be teasing, a way of easing the tension between them, she could not be sure he had not guessed her purpose. He was said to be extremely acute.

  "Shall you be Claire or Caroline then, Candance or Chloe? It isn't everyone who is permitted to choose."

  The urge to say her own name was strong. She could not afford the gesture, however. “I don't know. Call me what you will."

  "You tempt me. Circe, from the pagan sorceress who turned men into swine? Daphne, who became a laurel tree for the sake of love? Or perhaps after the beautiful and faithless Helen?"

  "Nothing so classical, I think. But need there be anything? I may recall my own name shortly."

  "And may not."