She wiped the rust off her hands onto her skirt. She was no fool. With the bar in place, Raul could fight Jean-Pierre without the interference of the palace guard.
She would see this fight to its end. She could not simply leave Raul to his fate.
Raul flipped the breastplate and swung it, sharp edge out, ready to slice Jean-Pierre in half.
Jean-
Pierre rolled away and pulled his sword. He slashed, low and fast.
Raul leaped up and back, and when he landed, he had his knife in his hand. He threw.
Jean-Pierre parried, smacking the knife out of the air.
It skittered across the floor— but blood poured from Jean-Pierre’s hand.
The knife had taken its toll.
Victoria couldn’t see exactly what had happened, but Raul said, “You won’t need that finger.”
“You don’t need your head.” Jean-Pierre swung with both hands.
Victoria slapped her palms across her mouth to cover her scream.
Raul pitched himself backward into another suit of armor.
The suits went down like dominoes, one after another, clattering against the marble columns, floor, walls, in a cacophony of screeching metal that went on and on.
Raul disappeared behind a pile of armor and came up with an antique saber from the rubble, short and curved with a wide, wicked blade.
Jean-Pierre leaped the armor and the men’s blades met, the clang somehow clear above the ruckus of falling armor.
And they fought.
This wasn’t like the fight between Raul and Danel, the fight between two worthy adversaries. This was ugly and desperate and the outcome would decide the fate of this nation— and of Victoria Cardiff. For if Raul died, she would die, too. She would not once again tamely fall into Jean-Pierre’s hands.
When he came for her, she would be ready. This time, she would kill him, and when she had finished, she would escape. Somehow, she would escape, either into the arid life of a withered spinster … or into the grave.
Jean-Pierre moved with the grace of a well-practiced warrior; he handled his long sword with its stabbing point with a skill that tore tiny pieces from Raul’s flesh.
Raul retreated, blood flowing from a dozen wounds.
Victoria wanted to scream a warning. Instead she ran to the wall and tore down the closest set of pistols. They were not loaded.
She ran to the rifle. Not loaded.
She stood breathing hard. The de Guignards must have lived in fear of assassination. None of these weapons were loaded.
And Jean-Pierre was working Raul into a corner.
Raul stumbled on a piece of armor.
Jean-Pierre laughed and went for the kill.
Raul kicked the armor under Jean-Pierre’s feet, then swung his wide, curved, single-edged blade; it sang through the air and broke Jean-Pierre’s sword in two.
Now the men fought on even terms, teeth bared, sweat flying, in silence, their hatred tangible, tasting sour, smelling rotten.
When Jean-Pierre dropped his sword and went down on one knee, Victoria clapped her hands.
When he came up with a pistol, she screamed a warning.
Raul’s blade sang through the air, and the pistol was on the floor, Jean-Pierre’s hand with it.
Jean-Pierre lifted the stump of his arm and stared at the blood spurting from it; then with the snarl of a wounded badger, he leaped at Raul.
Raul brought the point of the short, curved saber up into Jean-Pierre’s belly, up to his breastbone, and then through his heart. As they were face-to-face, two adversaries at last at an end, Raul asked, “Do you recognize me now?”
Jean-Pierre hung there, staring at Raul’s features, recollection lending a last light to his eyes. “The boy …”
He gasped, and blood trickled from his lips. “The one who … so many years ago destroyed … the de Guignard picnic?”
“You do recognize me.” Raul nodded and smiled.
With his remaining hand, Jean-
Pierre clawed for
Raul’s throat. But before he could reach his goal, his arm dropped as if it was too heavy. He collapsed onto the floor, the last breath of life rattled in his throat … and he died.
Chest heaving, splattered in blood, Raul pulled the sword free of Jean-Pierre de Guignard’s body. Raul
wiped the blade on his shirt, then stood, looking down at his last, best adversary. “It’s over,” he said. “At last.
Two hundred years later. It’s over.” Lifting his head, he looked at Victoria.
Tears filled her eyes— tears of gratification at his accomplishment— but she wiped her hands across her wet cheeks and nodded. “Yes. It’s over. You’ve done what you came to do.”
Raul strode through the scattered pieces of armor, kicking chain mail and jointed knee pieces and breastplates aside to reach her. Taking her head in his hands, he looked at her, just looked at her, as if trying to see with his eyes, his mind, his heart that she was still alive.
Then he kissed her, wildly, passionately, claiming her lips and her mouth, erasing the memory of her anxiety, humiliation, and enslavement at the hands of Zakerie and Jean-Pierre.
He was what she needed, for she forgot everything but him— his heat, his scent, his breath in her mouth, and his hands on her body. He was alive.
They were alive.
Apparently that kiss was what he needed, too, for when he lifted his head, he was smiling faintly. “We’ve won. We’ve won the palace, but now I have to go back to the battlefield and win again.”
“No.” She stroked his hair back from his face. “No, stay with me. Be safe.” Immediately she realized that was the wrong tack to take. “Stay with me and keep me safe.”
He grinned. He was not so easily fooled. “You, my darling, can take care of yourself. How many times have you proved that?”
“Never,” she said in a small, feminine voice.
“It’s too late for that. You can’t fool me now. After you shot that rifle out of Jean-Pierre’s hand, I should have shot him, too. But I had only a pistol, so I had to jump him— my accuracy isn’t nearly as good as yours.”
He laughed as if even now he was astonished by her precision. “You have an amazing eye!”
“I hate to disillusion you, but I wasn’t trying to shoot the rifle out of his hand. I was trying to shoot him through the heart.”
He laughed again. “You are a remarkable woman.”
Yes, but even when you were freeing me from my bonds and I told you I loved you, you didn’t offer your love. Even when it was likely we would both die, you didn’t offer your love.
But she didn’t say that. There was no point.
He kissed her again, and this time he was tender, sweet, breathing her in as if she were his life force.
“We will survive this, won’t we?” She lightly touched his still-bleeding wounds suffered in the fight.
“We have won the most important battle,” he said.
“Together, we won.”
Her heart felt as if it expanded in her chest. She smiled tremulously.
He smiled back; his green eyes kindled, and in them she read pride, warmth, devotion, even … love?
They were saying things without words, important things, and for the first time she began to hope that, even if he could not speak of his feelings, he felt the emotion that filled her.
“Victoria …” He traced the curve of her face with his fingertips. “When I was a child, I left behind the warmth of my mother’s arms and the wisdom of my grandfather, and came to cold, damp England to live with my father.
The first months there, I thought I would die from loneliness and despair, but I clung to the thought that someday I would return to Moricadia and see them again.
When they died, when my father … discouraged … my mourning, I felt as if I’d had a limb amputated. Or my heart cut out.”
“Raul …” She touched his hair, and wished for the words that could heal him. “I am so sorry.”
“I can’t give you what I don’t have, and I know you believe that England is the only civilized place in the world, and perhaps it is, but, Victoria …” He gathered her hands in his. “Victoria …”
Boom! Something slammed into the doors to the throne room.
Victoria jumped, stared in that direction.
Boom! The doors swayed and creaked. Boom!
“Battering ram,” Raul said.
Now? she wanted to scream at the attackers on the other side. Now? You’re interrupting him now?
Boom! The glass rattled in the high windows.
But sensible Victoria recognized the danger and gave Raul the information to win this fight. “The bar is oak, but very old. The brackets are iron, and also old. It’s not going to hold forever.”
Leaning over Jean-Pierre’s corpse, Raul pulled a pistol off the body and handed it to her.
She checked to see that it was loaded. It was. She nodded.
Boom! The broken masses of armor shivered.
He slid a knife from his boot, pulled the sword from Jean-Pierre’s chest.
Boom!
Raul stood in the midst of a gory field of battle, sweat stained, covered in blood, angry, and focused, holding an ancient sword and ready to fight.
She picked up a shield and handed it to him. “No matter what happens, you are always and forever my hero. And I promise to use my shot wisely.”
He showed her one wicked, buccaneer smile. “A queen by every definition.”
It was a proposal of sorts.
He faced forward.
Boom! The bar broke. The doors smacked the walls.
The palace guard marched in, weapons at ready, Bittor in the lead.
The guard stared at Raul and Victoria.
They stared at Jean-Pierre’s broken corpse.
Bittor growled, a deep-throated sound like a pit bull at a dogfight. His bloodshot eyes fixed on Raul. “I will kill you!” He charged into the room.
Victoria took a terrified breath.
Raul lifted his shield and his sword.
And one of the guard said, “Hail, King Saber of Moricadia!”
Bittor swiveled to face them. “What did you say?”
The whole guard wavered, then more loudly: “Hail, King Saber of Moricadia!”
“I’ll kill you all!” Bittor lifted his hands and lumbered toward them.
In one unified motion, the guards lifted their rifles, pointed at Bittor, and fired.
A blast, and Bittor fell, riddled with bullets.
With their rifles still at their shoulders, the guards stood, staring down at Bittor’s broken body. Then like a welcome rain over a barren landscape, their grins broke out and they cheered, “Hail, King Saber of Moricadia!”
Chapter Forty-seven
When French commander François strode into the throne room in the palace in Tonagra, he walked into a methodical bustle and a buzz of low-voiced conversations. The courtiers, a well-dressed and organized bunch, scrutinized him, bowed, and went back to their business in a most civilized manner. One badly wounded fellow— he looked pale and English— sat close to the roaring fire, speaking to an elderly, black-gowned Moricadian widow who hovered over him.
Except for a few lopsided suits of armor propped against the wall, the chamber was large, clean, and orderly.
One gentleman, handsome and well dressed, with dark hair and striking green eyes, stepped away from the very attractive young woman to whom he was speaking, away from the account books spread out on the table, and strode forward. “General François, welcome to my court, and how good of you to be the first person to welcome me back to the throne of my country!”
So. This was Saber. The purported king sported a few injuries from his fight the day before. The fight in which, it was rumored, he had killed Jean-Pierre de Guignard.
But all in all, he seemed healthy and far too young to be the ruler of such a wealthy country with so many resources.
Yet here he was.
François, who had this very morning ridden with his troops into the country and the city without seeing any sign of the disruption he had expected, strode forward to embrace Saber. The two men touched cheeks while François struggled to deal with this unexpected situation. “Welcome indeed. I didn’t realize you would establish superiority so quickly.” He was perhaps abrupt, but he was a soldier, not an ambassador.
Saber laughed and waved the maid forward. When she brought wine and poured it, he said, “Thank you, Amya.” The girl curtsied— she was obviously used to service— and departed. Saber offered a goblet to the general and took one for himself, then answered with equal straightforwardness. “Except for a brief hiatus of a few hundred years involving the de Guignards, Moricadia is my family’s country. With the de Guignards dead, the French principality is at an end, and with all the accumulated wealth of the country in my hands, there’s no doubt who will sit on the throne.”
Saber’s first intention, obviously, was to clearly inform François that he had secured all Moricadia’s money in an unassailable account.
That was bad news, very bad news indeed.
So François sought a reason to doubt Saber. He was, after all, here to conquer Moricadia, not to confirm diplomatic relations. “What about the rumors that your cousin is challenging you for control of the throne?”
“I assume you mean my cousin Danel. Because sadly my other cousin, Zakerie, was killed in action yesterday.” Saber’s face was untouched by grief.
“I am sorry for your loss,” François mumbled.
Saber continued. “Of course, Zakerie was merely a distant cousin, never more than a footnote in our councils.”
Another message to François— If you trusted Zakerie, you were a fool.
A handsome man, a soldier by the looks of him, walked through the doors and across the floor. He carried a satin pillow and on it a short, curved saber, and he came at once to Saber and knelt at his feet.
The room grew silent with the reverence François associated with a church.
The fellow began to speak the gobbledygook that was the native tongue.
But Saber shook his head. “In French, please, Prospero. We have a guest.”
“My king, your sword has been cleaned and is awaiting your hand.” The man’s French was execrable, but François understood that the gist of his message.
Saber’s face settled into an expression of fierce satisfaction. “The blade was not harmed by its time spent in Jean-Pierre de Guignard’s heart?”
“I would say it was much improved,” Prospero said.
Saber’s hand settled onto the plain iron hilt. His knuckles tightened as he lifted the saber from the pillow and held it with an almost heathen pleasure.
The man Prospero stood, bowed, and backed away.
The sword itself was plain, undecorated, and functional, but François’s hands itched to touch it. “I know a bit about swords. This scimitar is of the type carried by the conquerors of old.”
“This was carried by Attila, stolen by his concubine, brought here to the wilderness to found this country of Moricadia. Unbeknownst to my family, it was hidden in Reynaldo’s suit of armor and revealed to me only yesterday.” Without warning, Saber slashed the air.
François jumped back.
But the blade sang with contentment.
Prospero said, “This sword knows the hand of its master.”
Saber summoned him and returned the blade to the pillow. “Thank you.” He placed his hand on Prospero’s shoulder. “How is Hada this morning?”
“Better, knowing her friends executed their duties well enough to make the mercenaries turn tail and run.”
Saber turned back to François. “Our women fought from the treetops with rifles, and suffered only one in-jury in the battle—a broken arm when one of our Amazons fell from her perch.”
Horrified, François asked, “You use women as soldiers?”
“Our women are fierce in the defense of their homes and families,
” Saber answered.
François looked around at the throne room, seeing the people in it with new eyes. Perhaps this cover of civilization was thin. Perhaps the battle that he had envisioned would not have been as brief and easily won as he’d hoped.
Prospero spoke again, raising his voice for all to hear.
“Hada was also much recovered when she heard Zakerie died fighting for our cause.”
From the center of a group of soldiers, someone snorted.
Prospero grinned.
Saber grinned, too, but with remembered rage. “It’s good he redeemed his honor at the end. Of course, he had no choice.” Turning, he called, “Danel! Our friend General François would like to meet you.”
The bandy-legged, shifty-eyed fellow who strode forward bore no resemblance to the handsome Saber except in his air of authority, which he wore like a well-accustomed cloak.
“Danel, General François of our visiting French troops. General, my cousin Danel, the winner of yesterday’s battle against the de Gui gnard mercenaries.”
Clearly at ease, Saber leaned against the table and crossed his arms over his chest. “Danel, the general is worried that we disagree on who should occupy the Moricadian throne.”
Danel threw back his head and roared with laughter.
“No, General, I understand why you’d think that. I am, after all, of the two of us the more kingly.” Wrapping his arm around Saber, he grinned a black-toothed smile. “If I’d wanted the throne, I would have taken it, but as you can tell, I’m a soldier like you, and haven’t the political skills to serve as king. No, Saber is the head of our family and Moricadia’s ruler. All we have left to do is arrange the coronation.”
“I think we must do it soon. While I would like to wait until spring and invite my fellow rulers to attend, the people want the security of a king on the throne once more. I was just discussing the funding of such a huge event with my head of finance.” Saber smiled at the beautiful young woman. “Miss Cardiff is a genius in the use and control of money. I’m grateful to have her on my team.”
The name was a shock to François. “Miss Cardiff?
Miss Cardiff is your … employee?” According to the spy Zakerie, Miss Cardiff was Saber’s inamorata.
Taken by the Prince Page 27
