Coronets and Steel (45 page)

“No-double-thanks!” I snarled as the back of my skirts rustled against the paneling of the wall. “Now, if you don’t mind—”

“Unfortunately, my friends are late, and—” He grinned. “—your expression of virtuous outrage is as charming as that American twang. Let’s try an experiment.”

With three long strides he closed the distance between us. My enormous skirts kept me from vaulting over the table as I would have if I’d been in my normal clothes. I tried to wrench free, but he was much stronger.

“I wonder if this’ll seem like incest? So far it doesn’t,” he murmured, eyes nearly closed, and pulled me against him with one of my hands clipped against the small of my back. He brought his head down and kissed me.

No, it didn’t feel like incest. Would it have if we’d grown up together? I can’t answer that. All I can say is that I wasn’t fighting, or he’d have had a tough time getting anywhere near my face. Angry as I was, there was also that attraction, hot and bright. Denying grace, honor, friendship, even respect. I did not feel the kinship of blood, but even more important, there was no kinship of the mind, of the spirit—but damn, was there chemistry.

The kiss was incredibly hot, but I was still mad. Since the poufy skirts kept me from effective resistance, and he had one arm pinioned, I leaned into him so my satin-and-lace bosom brushed his chest. And I felt his grip falter.

We broke for breath, he laughed, and pressed soft kisses against my lips, my eyes, even the tip of my nose as I groped blindly at the side of his waist, where I knew from the too many times I’d seen Percy’s costume that the butt of the toy pistol stuck up from his sash. There it was. As Tony zeroed in for another lip-lock I grasped the gun handle, yanked, and poked him hard in the chest with the barrel.

I meant to use it to clock him if he grabbed me again, but he freed me at once, taking a couple of steps back, palms out. Cold air rushed between us as I realized this heavy pistol was not a toy.

So I brought it up and leveled it past his right ear, hoping it looked like I was about to drill him between the eyes. He dropped back another step or two, shaking with silent laughter.

After scrubbing my free hand across my mouth, I said with hearty loathing, “YUCK!”

“Hey! And I got so much pleasure out of it, too.”

“And you’ve been drinking. Ugh! No, don’t move, I’m mad enough to shoot you now and dance on the remains.” I kept my eyes and the pistol trained on him as I edged sideways toward the window.

His eyes were wide as they flicked to the window and back; that glance gave me an idea where it was.

He stepped forward, palms toward me. I straightened my arm as if taking aim, and he halted as I groped with my free hand, found the curtains . . . the curtain edges . . . the window—

“Could you shoot an unarmed man in cold blood?” he asked, smiling ruefully, gazing straight into my eyes as he advanced—unhurried but deliberate.

Grinding my teeth together, I pawed for the handle to the window. He took another step, another—

“No,” I shouted as the window swung free. And, knowing I had maybe a second before he reached me, I flung the pistol out the window, then started after it. The million yards of fabric stuck me tight in the window.

We both heard the mighty splash as the pistol hit an unseen pond, then his hands closed on my shoulders.

I twisted away with an angry wrench and stumbled against a straight-backed chair, my skirts swooshing all over the place. As I kicked at them in disgust—I’m here to say you
cannot
adventure successfully in a ball dress—Tony dissolved into helpless laughter.

“Oh, God, a fishpond! How’ll I explain that to Dieter?” he said unsteadily. “He was so insistent about my taking this antique, though it only fires a single shot at a time, and it’s a bastard to reload.”

“I’m so glad one of us is amused. So I’ll leave you to it—”

“No, no, you’re far too much fun.” He leaned against the window, still laughing.

To deflect his attention as I began edging my way toward the door I said sweetly, “Would
you
be able to use that thing on an unarmed person, in cold blood?”

“No,” he said. “But I wouldn’t chuck it into a fishpond, either.”

“Maybe I should have kept it,” I said, as he advanced on me.

“You wanted that kiss as much as I did,” he retorted.

“True.” My voice shook. “But it’s over.”

“And I can’t tell the difference?” He pushed back the blond lock hanging in his eyes. “I’m glad we’ll have the time to explore this matter; I wonder if part of what’s going on between us is how alike we are.”

“That’s an insult if I ever heard one,” I shot back.

He laughed. “We’re very much alike. The strange thing is, my sister couldn’t be less like either of us—”

I whirled and sprinted for the door.

It was a good try. But when Tony caught up with me the door opened and three men entered.

I recognized the first man’s hard-lined, angry face—the man in khaki at Anna’s wedding. Behind him came a cute guy with curly black hair. He gave Tony a rueful grimace over the first man’s shoulder; I felt Tony shrug slightly and his chin lift in a private signal, or private message.

The guy in khaki gave me a nasty smile, and raised the back of his hand to strike me. Tony pulled me back against him, snapping in a voice completely unlike his usual, “Dieter! Back off.”

The man dropped his hand. In the other he held a pistol—not an old-fashioned one, but a heavy caliber handgun. And as I struggled against Tony’s grip I smelled a thick, cloying odor that made me shudder instinctively as the third man, blond like Tony, fumbled with a cloth and a small silver bottle; the guy with the curly hair grabbed it.

Over my head Tony gasped, “Hurry, Niklos. Damn, that stuff reeks.”

Despite my desperate efforts to free myself the wad of cloth was bumped up against my face. A brain-numbing sweet stink scoured its way through my sinuses into my lungs. I coughed violently, but it was too late; darkness settled gently over my vision. I sagged in Tony’s arms and drifted into oblivion.

 

Another awful smell, trailing eddies of nausea, hauled my brain from its well of velvet darkness into light, with an unavoidable sense of urgency.

“Nooo . . .” I moaned, turning my head.

Once again the smell pinched at my nostrils. I jerked away and opened my eyes. Aunt Sisi bent over me, holding a bottle of nail polish remover. Nausea clawed up my throat. When I gagged she capped the bottle.

I fought against nausea, and won, then stared at her, trying to comprehend her presence. My head ached and my sinuses felt like they had been packed with dried chili beans.

Aunt Sisi gazed back at me, eyes wide and intense, mouth pressed into a line. “Anton’s in trouble.”

I was in a room I’d never seen before. Stretched on a bed. My skirts lay in a softly glistening mountain over my legs.

Gone were the pearls and tiara. She was dressed in a severely plain navy blue pants suit.

“He drugged me,” I croaked.

She twitched her head, dismissing this irrelevant detail. “My son is in serious trouble and cannot help me.” Her voice was trembling, and even more uncharacteristic, she spoke in English. “My daughter is still a prisoner at the Eyrie, and apparently this Dieter Reithermann wishes to use her life to bargain with.”

“What?” I was breathing slowly and deeply, trying to clear my head and conquer the residue of nausea.

“You must help me get her out.”

Adrenalin burned along my nerves. I forced myself to sit up on my elbows. “Where am I?”

“You are in my house,” she replied in that same quick voice. “My Gaspard found you in a palace anteroom and brought you here to safety.”

“Where’s Alec?”

“I do not know. Someone at the palace said he was out chasing after some of this Reithermann’s gutter-scum. Someone else thinks he is busy pursuing my son.”

“How can I help? Isn’t the Eyrie guarded?”

“There is a way into it only known to my son and me. Even if Reithermann has people watching up there, we should be able to find Aurelia and get her out before anyone can interfere. But the passage is steep and narrow, and I would have extreme difficulty with it. I have no one left whom I can trust. Will you come?”

I didn’t even ask where the von M’s were. Of course they’d be worthless as aid. My biggest worry was the necklace—which, I was relieved to discover, was still around my neck. Tony was a villain and ten kinds of a jerk but at least he wasn’t a thief.

“Sure,” I said, struggling to sit all the way up. “Let me go back and change and then I’m yours.”

“I’ve things here—”

“No,” I croaked. “Argh. May I have some water? Ysvorod House first. With my own hands I am going to put this blasted necklace in Alec’s room.”

Her brows rose. She cut a fast look over her shoulder; my gaze followed, but too slowly. All I caught was a flicker of movement as someone left the doorway.

“I’ll get you some water.” She walked out.

I got to my feet. Other than feeling like my body was made out of stone, I was all right. The gown was rumpled, the headdress completely gone, and my hair was coming loose from the pins.

Aunt Sisi returned quickly; I drained the water as she said, “I believe we should go now, and in haste.”

“What about the ball?”

“C’est fini, tout à fait.”
She led the way out front, to where Tony’s Austin was parked.

“Tony’s car?” I said blankly, also switching to French.

Her head twitched again. “It’s mine. He borrows it when he’s in the city.”

We got in (me having to stuff those skirts around me, no small feat) and she started it up. Her hands trembled as she turned the keys.

In silence she drove to Ysvorod House. The ground floor was ablaze with light. She studied it silently, her mouth grim. Then Emilio’s wife, the housekeeper, appeared in the doorway, followed by Madam A, who at the sight of us clasped her hands prayerfully.

Aunt Sisi said to me, “I’ll talk to Alexander’s people. You change as rapidly as you can.”

Her tension sent adrenaline shooting through me again. I bustled in, giving Madam A a breathless, “Hi. I’m all right. I have to help Aunt Sisi.”

I whizzed into my room before she could protest.

All right, first thing. No ball gowns for castle breaking-and-entering. I squirmed and hopped and struggled, but finally freed myself from that gown. Breathing freely for the first time all evening, I ripped clothes out of drawers, and found a pair of brand-new, never worn designer jeans. They were tighter than I like, but they’d do. For a shirt I took down an expensive full-sleeved black silk, thinking of protective coloration. Next was the elaborate hairstyle; I ripped the pins out, wound my hair up on my head and secured it with my hairclip.

I only slowed down when I unclasped the diamonds that Alec had touched several hours ago. I turned to my mirror. Even in the dimness of my room with only one lamp lit the diamonds flashed with celestial fire as I lifted them away from the V neck of the black shirt.

Then, after jamming my feet into my old flat sandals, I carried the glittering necklace down the hall to Alec’s room.

The door opened under my hand; the air inside was cool and still in the way of rooms long unused.

Consumed with curiosity, I forgot my haste and turned on a lamp.

The furniture was plain dark wood, the bed covered by a pale gray wool comforter that matched the gray rug. I saw only two hints of personality in the room. On one wall was a beautifully framed oil painting of a young man seated stiffly next to a table. One hand lay on the cover of a book, the other rested on the arm of the chair, a familiar sapphire ring on the ring finger. The uniform I also recognized, and the sash: Alec had worn replicas of them and the sword at the man’s side earlier tonight. Or maybe he had worn the same items. The face was long and solemn, with heavy brows, a high-bridged hawk-nose and a spade chin. The mouth was well cut, completely expressionless, the eyes wide-set and gray in color, but the shape and the heavy dark lashes were Alec’s.
Milo.

On the opposite wall, framed under glass, was a battered copy of a rare Beatles poster from 1963. Not the Official Beatles Poster, but the more interesting and casual shot of the Fab Four that was depicted on the
Meet the Beatles
album. This poster had not been sold to fans, having been used for advertising in record stores—during the days when such things existed. I stared silently up at George with his bowl haircut, his ridiculous suit with no lapels, hand on Ringo’s shoulder, whose arms were crossed, Paul laughing, John . . .

I’d grown up hearing Beatles music. Dad and Mom had convinced me how exciting it was to hear the Beatles when they were young; how with music four guys could change the world, making anything seem possible. Now they seemed the ultimate in romance—and I wondered if Alec saw them that way, too.

A rainbow flash over the poster, echoed in the prisms hanging from the lampshades reminded me of the necklace dangling in my hand. I laid the diamonds on top of the bureau, then I shot my forefinger at the Fab Four.

“Better run for your life if you can,” I said, and left.