Princess (25 page)

“I know everything about him,” she replied. “Everything.”

Serafina folded her arms over her chest. “How, pray tell, would the banker know about Darius’s father?”

“Simple, my dear Principessa, because of the drafts which Darius withdrew on his father’s behalf.”

Serafina stared at her. “You mean to say his father wanted money from him?”

“Naturally. The man was a penniless drunkard.”

Amazed and a little infuriated that she should learn such intimate details of Darius’s past from this source, Serafina turned back to face the mirror, utterly routed.

She was also appalled to think that the callous man who had not acted the smallest part of a father to Darius when he was a boy—a man who had not protected him or provided for him, but had left him to fend for himself—had had the nerve to come looking for a handout.

“Oh, Your Highness, I almost forgot to mention . . .” Julia’s smile was as smooth as the flat of a razor, but a few words sufficed to flick the blade. “Did you hear the news? Your husband arrived just after breakfast.”

She stared at her, turning pale. “He’s not my husband yet.”

Julia took another sip of tea, then smiled. “Goodness, how we’ll miss you when you’re gone.”

Serafina was suddenly out of patience. “Enough!” she snapped at the seamstresses ringing her in. They scrambled out of the way as she stepped down off the stool before the mirror and marched toward the dressing room, ignoring Julia and the others giggling at her.

“I will make a fine countess, don’t you think?” Julia was asking the others blithely as Serafina slammed the door.

A few minutes later, she was striding down the hallway with one burning purpose in mind: to find Darius Santiago and give him a piece of her mind about his petty secret-keeping. Omission of the truth amounted to the same as lies, and she was sick of his spy machinations—and sick as well of her own naïveté. She had thought they were as close as two people could be, but he had been playing her false all along.

What an accomplished liar he was! she thought, her hackles up for a fight. She knew exactly why he had not told her about his title. He had hidden behind his lowly, half-Gypsy status because he did not want her to gain any inkling of the fact that he was, in reality, a perfectly eligible bachelor.

She had never cared what his birth was or what he owned. She had only ever loved him for himself. Why did that terrify him so much?

No doubt he would give a great sigh of relief when she was finally married to Anatole and could no longer plague him with her tedious, adolescent infatuation! But he had not found her breasts tedious, had he? she thought in a perfect fury, for if she didn’t stay angry, she was going to start crying, and if she started, she was never going to stop.

“Where is he?” she muttered under her breath. The pair of footmen posted at the end of the hallway glanced at her in alarm as she passed. She strode out of the block that housed the royal living quarters and into the main corridor, where the courtiers and ladies lurked. She passed the open doors of the blue salon, where she saw, and was seen by, half a dozen of her devotees.

Young, clean-shaven faces lit up. She rolled her eyes and marched past the doors, continuing on her way, curls flouncing angrily down her back.

“Princess Cricket!”

“Principessa! Wait!”

She clenched her jaw, ignoring them as they ran out of the salon after her.

“May we walk with you?”

“This place has been a mausoleum without you!”

“What about the ball tonight? Is Prince Tyurinov going to let us dance with you?”

“I don’t know. I don’t even want to go,” she grumbled.

“He’d better! The man’s too jealous by half. You must save a dance for me—”

“And me!”

“All of us! Where are you going in such a huff, my lady fair?”

“Come play billiards with us!”

“You should have seen the joke we played on Roberto while you were gone—”

In truth, she adored her silly friends—it was, in part, for their sakes that she was marrying Tyurinov to prevent a war, for she could not imagine any of these pampered dandies surviving a battlefield. At the moment, however, she was in no mood for them.

Full of high spirits, giving her compliments, telling her jokes and exchanging boasts, they chattered rapidly as they followed her in a pack down the main hall. She paid them little mind, glancing in every gallery down the main hall. No trace of Santiago anywhere.

Maybe he was in bed with a new lover already, she thought in despair, someone he would have no qualms about giving himself to completely, as he had denied her the consummation she had all but begged for.

As she crossed the sprawling marble entrance hall, from which five hallways led to the various wings of the palace, one of the boys grabbed an orange lily from the huge bouquet on the center table and swept down on one knee in front of her.

“For our goddess,” he said in playful gallantry, his eyes teasing her as he held out the flower.

She threw up her hands. “Leave me alone!”

“Do as she says.”

They all looked over at the sound of a cold, accented voice.

For a moment, Serafina froze, the color draining from her face.

At once she backed away from the boy with the flower, her hands curling into fists at her sides as her betrothed held her in his frigid stare.

Framed by the hallway stood Prince Anatole Tyurinov, a massive man with a copper-gold mane, which he wore, vainly, spilling down upon his gigantic shoulders. He was clad in a dark blue uniform with shiny gold buttons down his broad chest. His eyes were the light azure blue of a bright January afternoon, sunny but pitilessly cold.

“Anatole,” she forced out, dropping her gaze. She sketched a slight curtsy, her heart pounding.

“I am glad you remember me,” he said in polite reproach, offering her a slight, mechanical bow. Still politely bent, he glanced up and shot her a knowing smile. She felt the crushing wave of his innate brutality rushing toward her.

The lily fell from the boy’s hand as he murmured an apology and backed away.

When Anatole lifted his square chin, surveying the room as if he owned it, the boys shrank away like dogs before an approaching lion.

Serafina was left standing in the wide entrance hall alone with him. He was several yards away, but she felt cornered.

He began slowly striding toward her. She swallowed hard but held her ground, inwardly switching over to the regal manner she had been trained to execute from an early age.

With her hand, she swept a slight, graceful gesture toward the entrance hall. “Welcome to Ascencion and our home.” She had to tilt her head back to look up at him as he neared.

His face cracked into a smile.

“Goddess, eh?” he murmured as he stepped squarely onto the fallen lily. “I hate to think I am wrecking their religion. Who was he?”

“That boy?” she stalled.

“That boy,” he said indulgently.

“No one of any consequence, Your Highness.” She forced one of her most winning smiles. “How was your journey?”

“Anatole,” he whispered.

She quaked inwardly. “How was your journey, Anatole?”

He smiled and gently tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear. She fought not to flinch when he touched her.

“Have you been a good girl, my bride?”

For a second, she thought she would slap him. Delicately, she slipped away from him and took a few steps across the wide, empty hall, heart pounding. She went to the center table and made a show of smelling the flowers, turning her back on him, but then she could feel his eyes on her body. Nonchalantly, she rounded the center table so she could hide herself from his leer behind the bouquet.

Slowly, he trailed her. She kept the table and the giant flower arrangement between them.

“Were you long on the ship?” she asked with forced brightness.

“The voyage dragged, for my eagerness to see you.” His voice was like a rusty plow being dragged over gravel.

She plucked a withered leaf from a peachy rose. Her smile remained fixed but her hand shook. “And when did you arrive?”

“Two hours ago. I’ve been having a drink with your most excellent father.”

His compliment to her father did not go unnoticed. Her tension eased a degree or two. She looked up at him. “I hope Papa did not go sentimental on you. He is having trouble with my leaving. He is very protective.”

“Yes, I know,” he mused, “which is why I found it strange. . . .” He paused, rubbing his chin in thought.

“Found what strange, sir?”

“That he sent you unchaperoned into the country with a man over whom you once made a fool of yourself.”

Staring up at him, she turned utterly white.

He cracked another terrifying smile. “Do you think this Santiago is the only one who can learn another’s secrets, my bride?”

She parted her lips to speak. No sound came out.

“Of course, your father has no inkling of your fascination with this man.”

“I was quite young,” she forced out.

“Did he lay a hand on you?”

“No.”

“Did he?” he demanded.

“No!” Her heart was beating like it would explode, her knees shaking.

“Your father trusts him.”

“He has no reason not to. Santiago’s conduct is impeccable. As for my prior infatuation with him, I will not deny it. The man took a bullet for my father.”

“Does this impress you so? It is a common event on the battlefield for a man to give his life for his friends.”

“I was twelve, Anatole, a mere child. I was standing right there. I had his
blood
on me.”

Merely saying it sent odd reverberations down into her being.

He gave her a sour look, but he looked a trifle mollified. “You’re telling me, then, that you were merely starstruck by this hero of yours.”

“As a child I was, but that was years ago. Santiago and I have little more than a passing acquaintance now.” She held his gaze matter-of-factly, hating herself for these bold-faced lies that seemed to cheapen the sweetness, tenderness, and beauty of what she and Darius had shared. She could only pray she was convincing.

Rounding the table toward her, Anatole gave her a sideward smile that probably beguiled other women. “I hope you are not lying to me, my sweet island rose.” He reached to stroke her arm. She jerked away, cheeks flushing in a riot of color. “For I
will
find out the truth on our wedding night, won’t I?” he added.

She gasped and pivoted, striding away from him on legs that shook beneath her. She heard his laughter behind her.

He followed. “Serafina—”

“Sir, you are too familiar,” she said coldly as she walked swiftly ahead of him.

“Your Highness, I was only testing you.”

She whirled around. “
Testing
me?”

“Aren’t you glad you passed?”

Staring up at him, amazed by his effrontery, she found herself slowly being backed toward the wall. She folded her arms tightly over her chest, shielding herself instinctively, glaring up at him in defiance as he loomed over her. He had sought to intimidate her like this last time they met, she recalled, the time he’d told her he must tame her.

Supremely sure of himself, he tilted his head, gazing down at her, the blond locks flowing over the front of his shoulder. “A little bird told me that three years ago, at your debut ball, when you flung yourself at this poor fellow, he fled. This says to me he is a man of honor, as you claim, and that he understands his place. I approve.”

“You approve. I see.”

He held up his hand to silence her, a long-suffering expression on his rough-hewn face. “Your father should be glad for such a man; such loyalty is rare. My only question is whether or not you sought to tempt poor Colonel Santiago again during this . . . cozy little sojourn in the country. A woman like you cannot abide a man who refuses to succumb to her charms, and a man can only be pushed so far.”

“A woman like me?” She stared up at him in disbelief. “You obviously know nothing about me. Excuse me, Your Highness. I answered your question three times already.” She turned to moved past him.

He stopped her, pinning her against the wall with one fingertip jabbed none too gently into the front of her shoulder. With so little effort, he held her in place. It was humiliating.

“Don’t go. Pray, indulge me, my bride,” he said, smiling.

At that moment, the front door banged back and in walked Santiago.

Oh, God.
Her stomach plummeted.

There was a split second before he saw them. Anatole barely troubled himself to glance over his shoulder to see who had come in. Head down, the forelock veiling his eyes, Darius took a couple of slow, weary steps into the entrance hall, then he lifted his head, saw them, and froze.

His stare homed in on her, then locked on Anatole, and his eyes turned to blackest fire.

The air of weariness around him fell away. Without hesitation, he strode swiftly across the room, threw Anatole back, and punched him—a shattering blow across the face.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Serafina gasped as Anatole tripped back a step. Darius pursued, driving him back to slam his spine hard against the far wall.

“You know who she is? You put your hands on her?” Darius roared at him.

Anatole grabbed Darius by the throat. Darius turned nimbly and drove his elbow into Anatole’s abdomen. Anatole doubled over slightly for a moment with a curse. Darius looked down his nose at him in pure contempt and snarled something at him in Russian that brought pure savagery leaping into Anatole’s blue eyes.

Anatole charged him.

The fight ensued. Serafina had never seen anything like it in her life. She could only stand there in shock, eyes wide, both hands pressed over her mouth, as her fiancé and her lover clashed like two powerful wild animals battling for supremacy. Tyurinov had the size and brute strength of an enraged bull, Darius the speed and finesse of an attacking panther. She knew she could not possibly separate them, but she could not seem to move to go for help, afraid that if she so much as looked away, they would kill each other.