What had Hada called her? One of the principal singers. The heroine.
No. No.Victoria had made the decision to join Raul in his bed because … Well, just because. But that decision did not include her becoming some sort of guide— or, heaven forbid, the inspiration— for Raul’s people in the next few weeks. Never had the thought crossed her mind that she would stay through the revolution and beyond.
These simple Moricadians were making too much of the night between her and Raul— which they wouldn’t be doing if he hadn’t been happy!
She didn’t know the solution. Raul’s people were so involved in the pursuit of their goal that they were giving everything to their victory. They trained all the time.
They spied, they masqueraded, they schemed. Although for the most part they thought it was silly, they learned etiquette. Most of all, they knew they could die, they knew their families were in danger, but they believed the world they would create would be better than the world of poverty and fear they currently inhabited.
So what could she do? Whine that she didn’t want the responsibility they thrust on her? Ask that they go back to being rude so she didn’t grow affectionate toward people who insisted on putting themselves in the line of fire? Tell Raul he needed to stay safe because …
Because why?
It didn’t matter. She couldn’t tell Raul anything. He wouldn’t listen.
Her concerns for herself were piddling compared to his for his people.
She didn’t want to be the heroine. She most certainly didn’t deserve to be the heroine.
But for the moment she had no choice. She would return to the castle and play the part.
And when the revolution started, she would leave Moricadia, and she promised herself she would never look back.
On that decree, she started her descent.
After all, she didn’t want to be gone too long. Hada would worry about her.
She found the descent tougher than the ascent. The gravel on the steep path gave way under her feet, and she almost fell half a dozen times, catching herself on branches and rocks. The last ten feet dropped off precipitously. She was hot and tired, and she gazed at the slope and wondered at the desperation that had driven her to climb so high. On an indrawn breath, she started down, moving fast, using her hands to steady herself. She was almost on level ground, only five feet left to go, when she slipped, slid the rest of the way, and landed hard, her hindquarters in the grass.
Dirt cascaded down around her, and she sat there, feeling foolish, dusting herself off, paying no attention to her surroundings … when two massive black leather boots stomped into view and halted at the edge of her vision.
Startled, she looked up.
A man stood over her. Short, powerful body. Greasy dark hair braided on either side of his broad, flat face. Blackened teeth and wide, red lips. Pistols across his chest, a sword and two daggers at his belt. Fists on his hips, he grinned with such malice, she braced herself to run. “Look at what we have here,” the pirate said. “Cousin Saber’s sweet-mouthed little mistress come to pay us a visit.”
Chapter Thirty-four
When Raul spoke of his cousin Danel as a natural tactician and a possibility to be king of Moricadia, Victoria had never imagined this flea-bitten, smelly, round, and squat fellow. He was loud and disgusting. His contingent of men was loud and disgusting. All of these traits became apparent as Danel lifted Victoria facedown onto his horse, mashing her bonnet. He took his place behind her, and galloped toward his camp.
Worse, as they rode into his camp and circled the perimeter, Danel smacked Victoria’s bottom and shouted,
“I’ve captured the queen! I’ve captured the queen!”
Victoria was really tired of being flung around like a sack of grain and carried away against her will, and if she lived through this, she was going to somehow make Danel sorry he was born.
It was suppertime and the full deputation of his people was there, about seventy men and women watching, laughing, and cheering as he stopped the horse and shoved her off.
She landed on her feet and staggered backward, regained her balance, and jumped away from the prancing hooves. She would have said Danel was trying to kill her, but he handled the beast with such skill she knew she was never in any danger.
The camp was built in a small clearing in the forest, and consisted of two dozen tents surrounding a large central fire pit where a pot full of some questionable stew bubbled. A variety of tree stumps served as tables and chairs, and the tallest stump on the far end was dressed up with a rug and some cushions. One sizable tent of different colors of grimy velvet and a few gilded tassels stood nestled under the trees. This didn’t look like a respected group of rebels; this looked like an impoverished Gypsy encampment. Danel didn’t look like a candidate for the throne; he looked like a man who drank too much, ate too much, lived hard, and never cleaned his teeth. And he had hit her as if she were a strumpet off the streets.
Shaking out her skirts, she stalked away toward the cooking pot and the woman stirring it with a long spoon.
She pointed to herself. “Victoria.”
The woman, tall and thin with a black braid that fell to her waist, pointed to herself. “Celesta.”
Picking up a metal bowl,Victoria held it out. “Please,” she said in Moricadian.
Celesta looked startled, glanced at Danel, and when Victoria said, “Please,” again, she filled the bowl, tore off a piece of bread and placed it on top, and handed her a spoon.
Victoria glanced around.
Like some petty sheik of the desert, Danel had seated himself on the rug on the stump. He grinned at her—grinning evilly seemed to be his stock-in-trade— and indicated the cushion that rested at his feet.
Fine. They needed to talk.
She walked over and seated herself.
At once, Celesta came over with two horns of some thick, brown, foaming brew.
Victoria thanked her, then took a cautious sniff. The ale— she assumed it was ale— smelled like roots and barley, and when she tasted it, it was strong enough to make her worry it would melt her teeth.
Maybe that was what had happened to Danel’s… .
Danel drank his to the bottom of the horn. Wiping his hand across his mouth, he cleaned off his mustache; only the two long ends still hung heavy with mustard-yellow foam. “Drink up!” he told her. “It will cure you of worms and whatever else ails you.”
“That is certainly a worthy objective.” With every appearance of ease, she took a drink, then a bite of stew—venison, she thought, and some vegetables she didn’t recognize— and a bite of the flat, gritty bread. Looking him right in the eyes, she said in English, “Thank you for inviting me to your camp.”
She knew he understood her when he roared with laughter. “No wonder Saber adores you … That upstart rampallian.”
“He doesn’t adore me, and yes, he is a rampallian.”
Whatever that meant. It sounded bad. Still staring Danel in the eyes, she added, “Being a rampallian runs in his family.”
Danel grinned again. “Do you seek to insult me?”
“I seek to discover why you haven’t joined with Saber to end the de Guignards ’ reign of terror.”
Instantly, Danel’s mood changed from geniality to rage.The little tyrant leaped to his feet and strode across the camp, kicking at roots and rocks, shouting in Moricadian and waving his arms in wild gestures.
Victoria watched him, and she watched the reaction from his people, too.
No one cowered. They stepped out of his way.
Celesta continued to stir the pot.
They weren’t afraid of him and his temper.
By the time he stomped his way back to Victoria, she was eating her stew. “I didn’t understand you,” she said.
“Pardon me, but my Moricadian is not yet good enough.”
He glowered at her. “The children haven’t taught you enough?”
“They’re doing their best.” So he had
a spy, perhaps more than one, at the castle. She repeated her question.
“Now, why haven’t you joined Saber in defeating the de Guignards?”
“He should join me.” Danel pointed his thumb at his chest. “I’m older. I’m legitimate. I’m Moricadian. All the time Saber was hiding his yellow-striped toady ass in England, I fought the revolution. My people, my family fought the revolution. I know how to fight. I know how to win.” He spun in a circle.“But did my family celebrate me for my struggles? For my victories? Some of them did.” He held out his arms to embrace the camp. “The loyal members of my family are with me still. But when that reeking pustule of a cousin returned from England, some of my family, deluded with the belief that that half-breed was the true king, abandoned me to serve him.”
Victoria ate and watched, enjoying the drama and the fireworks like an onlooker at a play. When Danel stopped and glared at her, she put down her spoon and clapped. “That was magnificent!”
He radiated indignation. “Woman! My wrath is not a jest to amuse a simpleminded female!”
“I think you’re more than just angry. I think you’re hurt.” She watched the play of emotions across his face: rage, anguish, embarrassment … and again rage.
This time, Celesta shook her head. His people stepped back.
And Victoria knew that by accusing him of sentimental emotions, she had overstepped her bounds. She put down the bowl.
He kicked it aside, sending it and chunks of food flying. He kicked the spoon. It clinked when it smacked a rock. He kicked the mug, splashing beer from her hem to her nostrils. Reaching down, he grabbed her by the arms and hauled her to her feet. His brown eyes glowed yellow with temper; he shook her and he shouted into her face, “You are going to get me what I want! You are the bait that will bring Saber to me. He will fight for you— and he will die!”
She flinched from the bad breath and the spittle-driven malice.
Perhaps she had read Danel wrong. Perhaps he was truly as evil as she had feared.
He shoved her toward the large velvet tent. “By the time Saber gets here, I’ll have tupped you in every way possible, and he can die knowing you carry my babe in your belly!”
She shoved back, fighting Danel, kicking and shoving, shrieking and struggling, and all the while he held her against his fat belly and laughed.
He pushed her inside the tent.
She ran to the far corner, bent, and then straightened.
He stalked in, unbuckling his sword belt as he came.
His pants dropped to his fat, hairy knees.
She lifted the pistol in one hand and pulled back the hammer with the other.
At the click, he froze in place, his aghast expression a comedy that did not amuse her in the least.
“Get out.” She steadied the heavy piece with both hands.
“Where did you get that?” He looked down at the holsters that crisscrossed his chest, his horror escalating as he realized— “You stole my pistol!” He groped himself. “You stole both my pistols!”
“Yes, I did, while you were pushing me around. Did you think I would allow you to rape me with impunity?”
She was as furious as he had been earlier.
“You would have liked it! All my women like it!” He honestly seemed insulted.
“Get out,” she said again.
“Don’t be foolish, woman. You don’t know how to use that!” He believed it.
His mistake. She lifted the pistol and aimed.
A split second before she shot, he slammed himself full-length onto the floor.
She pulled the trigger.
The pistol discharged with a roar.
The velvet behind where he had stood wavered, blasted by the bullet.
He sat up and stared at the smoking rupture. Incredulously, he said, “You could have killed me!”
“I will kill you”— she picked the second pistol off the floor— “if you don’t get out of here and leave me alone.”
He stood up, pulled up his pants. “This is your last chance!”
She aimed.
He ran out, tearing through the flap like a ferret through a rotting log.
She heard the babble of voices as his people dashed to his side. She stood, waiting to see if they were going to rush the tent.
Nothing happened.
The din died down.
Finally, after she had waited in the dim, smelly, grubby tent for more than an hour, someone lifted the side of the velvet and shoved a fresh bowl of stew and a spoon through. A horn of the bitter ale followed. The hand— it was female— waved at her, then disappeared.
Victoria smiled wearily.
She recognized that hand and the gesture. That was Celesta.
The food was safe, untainted.
Victoria sat. She pulled the bowl toward her and ate and drank. She looked at the bed, calculated how long it had been since the furs and blankets had been cleaned, shuddered, and leaned against the brace on the wall.
And she waited for Saber to come and rescue her.
She had no doubt that he would.
He was, after all, Moricadia’s true king, and a dragon of unimaginable power.
Chapter Thirty-five
In the morning, Victoria came out of Danel’s tent, feeling grubby and tired from sleeping upright with a pistol in her lap.
The sun was peeking over the trees and into the glade. The air was still and clean, with the faint scent of wood smoke to give it spice. Danel’s people sat in front of their tents or drank from tin mugs and horns, and looked at her with interest and without hostility.
Danel stood in front of the central fire, scratched his fat belly, and grinned with disgusting cheer. “Ah! The queen arises. All hail the queen!”
She relaxed. She had guessed right. He wasn’t the type of man who could hang on to his ire, and this morning he was his usual overblown and genial self.
“Shut up, Danel.” Celesta pointed toward the woods.
“My queen, the privies are that direction. There’s a stream where you can wash. When you get back, porridge is in the pot.”
Victoria nodded her thanks, and as she turned to the woods, Danel yelled, “Hey! Give me back my pistols!”
A ripple of laughter went through the camp.
Danel glared around.
Amusement was smothered, but a lot of smiles and winks were sent Victoria’s way. Apparently her trick at lifting Danel’s pistols while he bullied her had earned their respect.
“The pistols are in the tent.” No need to keep them.
After all, they wouldn’t do her much good without powder and shot. So she headed into the woods.
As she performed her morning ablutions, she practiced what to say to convince Danel to collaborate with Raul. These men needed each other, and for them to remain at odds was a crime. Together, they would guarantee the success of their beloved revolution, for they both were willing to give everything for its triumph.
But when she walked back into the camp, Danel stood gazing toward the edge of the camp … and grinning. It wasn’t his genial grin, or his angry grin. It was triumph, pure and simple. He waved a hand. “Look, my queen. Your lover has come to avenge you.”
She knew what she would see when she looked.
Raul, dressed in the same clothes he’d worn to Tonagra the day before. He had discarded his coat, his cravat, his collar. He had strapped a scabbard at his side, and he gripped his sword— long, well honed, lethal— and pointed it at Danel.
His expression was cool.
His green eyes were murderous.
Danel’s people fell back, leaving him an open path to Danel.
In a weighty silence, Raul paced across the camp.
“Give her back.” Raul stopped within three feet of Danel, his sword pointed at Danel’s throat. “Give her back now.”
“I really don’t think this is necessary,” Victoria said.
The men seemed not to hear her.
“You want her?” Danel grinned,
showing all his half-rotted teeth. “After she spent the night in my tent?”
“Nor was that necessary.” Victoria wanted to slap Danel’s smug, nasty face.
But violence simmered between the two men, the situation balanced on the edge of Raul’s sword, and she didn’t wish to see bloodshed. Certainly not over her.
“Challenge,” Raul snapped.
“Accepted,” Danel answered.
As if they were performing a refined country dance, Danel’s men and women moved in a circle around the clearing.
“Really.” Victoria put all her persuasive power in her voice. “If we could discuss this like adults— ”
Raul sheathed his sword, then unbuckled his scabbard and placed it in Danel’s seat before the fire.
“Very good,” Victoria said, relieved. “Now, let’s sit down— ”
Raul and Danel each pulled a sharp, slender, curved knife from their belts.
Three of Danel’s men sprang forward. One accepted the knives and examined them. One drew a circle in the dirt before the campfire. The third tied the end of a long length of white cloth to Danel’s wrist, the other end to Raul’s wrist, leaving a two-foot length between the men.
Victoria didn’t exactly understand the dynamics, but she recognized incipient trouble when she saw it. “Really, gentlemen, this isn’t a good idea.”
The man with the knives put them behind his back, shuffled them back and forth, and stood waiting.
“You’re my guest.” Danel gestured with his free hand. “You choose.”
Raul nodded, pointed at the man’s left arm, and took the knife he was handed.
“Ah, you got mine.” Danel accepted the other knife.
“It is a good blade.”
Raul tossed it into the air. The steel glittered as it spun end over end.
Victoria hissed in fear.
Raul caught it by the handle. “Then you’ll be happy to have it cut out your heart.”
Danel laughed. If he was afraid, he didn’t show it.
“It would be best if we could negotiate a truce,” Victoria said.
She might as well have been talking to herself.
Danel’s three men each tested the knots that tied Danel and Raul together.
Taken by the Prince Page 20
