The Serenade: The Prince and the Siren [Daughters of the Empire 2] (BookStrand Publishing Romance) (6 page)

The child took some moments to reflect before answering. Slowly he replied, a sincerity of purpose in his manner, “I wish to pray for you, Señor Esteban. And then, let us pray for my family and…for España.”

As Esteban studied the child, it was his turn to discover a tear in his eyes. At eight years old, Alejandro de Bonifácio, crown prince of Spain, had left his childhood behind.

Chapter Four

If you don’t love me, I love you

And if I love you…

Watch out for yourself!

—
Georges Bizet,
Carmen

Entirely against his will, he was being absorbed into the story unfolding before him. He was Corporal Don José to her Carmen. She wooed and enticed him, all the while telling him that she would never be his.

Every note she sang stabbed at his heart while sending him into ecstasy.

Could he follow this woman, forsaking his home and betraying his country as Don José had done?

Not a chance in hell.

He made certain that he was always in control where the gentler sex was concerned and that he kept his heart intact. He knew full well that women represented the one area of his life that he did not give to Spain, and he resented fully that part of his heart which he had selfishly withheld— and despised himself for it.

He never allowed any woman to dictate his actions and most certainly not his thoughts and his feelings.

Even through the unbearable pain, he refused. He would never let anyone compromise his values. She would have to kill him first.

Which was beginning to seem likely…

“You cannot be serious! I will not stand for it!” Alejandro exclaimed, his anger mounting. It wasn’t possible. Once again, the place where his heart dwelled was being ripped from his body. At fifteen years of age, there was nothing left to live for except his duty. He stared straight ahead at El Anselmo’s headmaster, who delivered the news from behind a massive walnut desk, crouching in his chair as if a piece of furniture might protect him from his conscience or the fury of a young prince.

“I–it was not my decision, Your Highness,” stuttered El Anselmo’s headmaster. “I would never suppose…that is to say…” His eyes nervously darted about the room while his neck remained immobile, held in place by a very tall, very stiff collar, which was turned over and pressed into wings. The headmaster wore a cutaway morning coat and a high-buttoned waistcoat. He had a full beard and moustache in contrast to his balding head. He fidgeted with a pipe in his hand, apparently purchased to further complete his contrived persona of the Spanish gentleman. “The king has decreed it.”

“Of course. And did the king give a reason for his arbitrary decision?” Alejandro studied his white knuckles as he attempted to regain his composure, biting his lip. Whatever else happened,
he would not cry
. He would not let his grief be a source of amusement for others.

Besides, it wouldn’t make any difference. Just as yelling would not make any difference.

“King Don Bartolomé feels…he believes…that Señor Xalvador is no longer suitable to…uh…educate you.” The headmaster was noticeably shaken under Alejandro’s outburst and subsequent scrutiny.

“Suitable.” Alejandro slammed his fist on the table and jumped to his feet, causing the headmaster to jump in his chair before resuming his hunched-over state. “Might you explain to me what is meant by
suitable
, Señor Claudio?”

Someone as cold and unfeeling as his father, he supposed. Someone who would make his every waking moment hell, as it had been before Esteban had taken an interest in him.

With lightning speed Alejandro played all the possible explanations through his mind. He had spoken warmly of Esteban Xalvador on his Christmas and summer holidays to his family, and now, by an odd coincidence, Esteban was being removed.

How could I have been so stupid?
Alejandro hadn’t thought his father would exert himself to this degree on his behalf--he had not for seven years since sending him away.

But apparently it was not enough for the king to withhold his own love. He wanted to ensure that no one else had the opportunity to care about him either.

He wanted to kick himself, he wanted to scream, he wanted to bash his head in two. He had misjudged, and now the innocent would suffer because of his lack of comprehension. He clenched his fist in fury. He had sought intimacy with his father and been punished severely for it.

Never again will I make that mistake
.

As he pictured his father, strangely an image of Esteban flashed before his eyes. The boy on the verge of manhood saw everything about his teacher in great detail. Even in grief he felt his heart lighten as the waistcoat embroidered with peacocks came to mind.

Everything Señor Esteban did was undertaken with great forethought and attention to detail. But it was far more personal than the expression of conspicuously unique clothing and jewelry.

When Esteban looked at him, Alejandro felt that he was the only person in the room.

He felt that he wasn’t even present with everyone else.
Señor Esteban was the only person in the world who made him feel visible.

“I do not propose to know the mind of the king,” replied the headmaster nervously.

“You will tell me, Señor Claudio.” Alejandro fixed his gaze upon him, ready to rip the headmaster’s throat out for the answer. The humiliation of having to be told by a second party that which should have come from his father’s lips was not lost on him.

Señor Claudio must have understood the intent in Alejandro’s eyes, as he sat still for some seconds before answering. He cleared his throat and quickly took a drink of water, spilling some of the liquid down the front of his perfectly pressed shirt.

The older gentleman’s eyes remained fixed on Alejandro. “His Royal Highness f–f–feels…King Don Bartolomé believes that you need someone s–s–stricter…
harsher
…who can prepare you for your imminent entry into military school.”

Harsher
. Alejandro understood “harsh” very well and had no further need of instruction in that arena. King Don Bartolomé could not be troubled with a personal visit to impart this information, which removed the only person who loved Alejandro from his life, nor was input sought on this decision that impacted him so dramatically.

Never in his life had Alejandro defied his father, even when he was torn from his family at eight years old. He had obeyed and done his best.

And he would continue to do so.

Exiting the headmaster’s office, he hurried for the stables, saddling his own horse as he frequently did. His independence combined with his complete adherence to rules would pay off on this day.

He leapt upon his Andalusian stallion and rode. Only this time he took a unique turn and jumped the northeast-corner fence, easily accomplished with his horse. He rode for many hours straight until he reached his destination.

It felt like an eternity later.

As the Palacio Real came into view, it pained him to realize that it no longer felt like home. He had never before visited his family without a formal invitation, which came at Christmas and at school holidays. This place was not his home, and El Anselmo was not his home.

My home is wherever Esteban dwells.

And now his duty lay elsewhere. He patted the magnificent white stallion whose ancestors were brought to Spain eight thousand years ago by the Moors, the best horse breeders of their time. “I have driven you hard today, Adonis, and you have borne my temper with patience. There shall be a reward for you, my friend.”

Adonis neighed and jerked his head, his long, lush mane and tail swishing in unison.

After issuing his orders as regarded his stallion and inquiring after the king’s whereabouts, Alejandro strode through the Plaza de Armas toward the royal throne room of the largest palace in all of Europe in sporty riding dress. Glancing in one of the many floor-to-ceiling mirrors surrounded in gold, he checked the appearance of his close-fitting beige riding pants, knee-length black boots, and navy-blue jacket, all showing signs of the five-hour journey. The chiseled lines of his face revealed that he was becoming a man—he needed the reassurance today—but he had a slim build yet. His dark-brown hair was overlong, which he knew his father would not like, and his lush eyelashes gave him a pretty look, which annoyed him.

“How did you get here?” demanded King Don Bartolomé, seated upon his throne, staring suspiciously as if he suspected the person before him of being an imposter.

“I got on my horse and rode, Father.” Even after five hours of hard riding, Alejandro was still livid with anger, but his manner was calm and his delivery polite. He stood before the throne, two bronze lions facing him. He was surrounded on all sides by embroidered-velvet red walls, and he did not need to look overhead to see the elaborate fresco painted on the domed ceiling which depicted gods, titans, and the numerous vast and magnificent regions of the world once under Spanish dominion.

“Where are your body servants?” King Don Bartolomé sputtered. The king wore formal riding dress designed for show rather than riding. It consisted of snow-white pants, black-leather boots to his knees, a red-and-gold riding jacket, and a blue sash. Even his long moustache, curled up at the ends, overcame its natural tendency to emulate a smile.

“It was quite simple for me to leave the grounds, as I have never before attempted to do so,” Alejandro replied cordially.

“This is preposterous, Alejandro!” King Don Bartolomé’s heavy eyebrows rose. He turned to the servants present and dismissed them. Furious, he returned his gaze to Alejandro. “You could have been hurt or killed. And what of the future of España then? Do you think only of yourself?”

“I honestly thought another attempt on my life for the newspapers might please you, Father. That this one is planned by me instead of by you is of no moment.” Alejandro was surprised to hear the words come from his own mouth, but he was too angry to care.

The king began to sputter, but Alejandro’s mood was stone-cold, and he had no intention of wasting any more time. “You have made me a pawn in your game long enough, Father. That I can and will endure for the sake of my country. But I will not stand by while you hurt innocents.”

“What nonsense are you speaking, Alejandro?” King Don Bartolomé’s expression was one of genuine surprise.

Alejandro sneered. It did not surprise him that though King Don Bartolomé had only just dismissed the person his son loved most in all the world, he had no inkling of what might be the source of his firstborn’s distress.

“I speak, of course, of Señor Esteban Xalvador’s dismissal,” replied Alejandro, almost in a whisper, striving to maintain his temper.

“Señor Xalvador is no longer suitable.” King Don Bartolomé waved his hand in dismissal. Alejandro reflected that his father never discussed, he only pronounced.

Prince Alejandro resolved then and there to never be such a king.

“Then you shall compensate him accordingly for his years of service, Father,” stated Alejandro with a command in his voice to match the king’s.

“Remember this, Alejandro,” King Don Bartolomé blustered, inflamed. “I am king. I take orders from
no one
and most certainly not from my own son.”

“And you remember
this
, Father. I swear to you, if you hurt anyone else in my vicinity, I will take a sword to my heart—or to yours, if I deem that better for the future of España.” If he had learned anything in his fifteen years, it was to act through his fear. Even so, he surprised himself at how readily the words came to his lips.