What Wild Moonlight

by Lynne, Victoria

Longing. Longing to touch him. Longing to laugh with him. Longing to confront him with the fact that her scroll was missing and to demand to know where it was. Longing to turn back the clock just twenty-four hours, back to a time when she trusted him entirely.

  So shattered were her thoughts and so grim her emotions that she felt as though she had just sat down in the carriage when the groomsman pulled the team to a stop in front of the Grand Casino. She exited the coach and strode through the bustling gaming rooms toward the theater. She pulled open the broad doors and stepped inside, her footsteps echoing through the vacant hall.

  As she reached the backstage area she nodded politely in greeting to the performers rehearsing their acts. She smiled and murmured empty words of thanks at their expressions of shock and concern over her accident, but it was evident that she was in no mood to talk. The small crowd that had surrounded her upon her arrival quickly dissipated, leaving her alone.

  Someone had gathered her props and returned them neatly to her table, she noted. As she ran her fingers over the various pieces, all essential items for a conjurer, a chill shot down her spine. She had stood just like this last night before she stepped onstage.

  She lifted the gun and cracked open the barrel chamber. It was empty now, but last night it had held three blanks. Or had it? Her gaze moved to the thick silver bowl that had figured so prominently in last night’s illusion. A heavy line disfigured the center of the bowl—the path the bullet had taken as it had ricocheted off the silver. She fingered the bowl thoughtfully as she considered the ugly bruise that marred her chest. If not for the bowl, the bullet would have traveled right through her.

  Was it fate or merely blind luck that she had decided to change her act? She had introduced the silver bowl on a whim, because of the variation and dramatic appeal it added to the routine. Until then, she had caught the bullet in her hand. Had she done that last night, she would have been killed.

  Clearly she was supposed to have died onstage… just as her parents had.

  The realization sent the quiet horror that filled her soaring to a new level. She set down the gun and scanned the backstage area until she found the large wood-and-glass tank her parents had employed for their finale. Katya moved slowly toward it, a feeling of imminent dread balled tightly within her belly. She had not examined the tank since her arrival in Monaco; until that moment, she had had no reason to.

  She traced her hands over the tank, a frown of deep concentration on her brow, as though listening for the piece itself to tell her what had happened. There were two locking mechanisms by which the tank was operated. The first was to the door the audience saw—the door through which her father had stepped when he entered the tank. The second was to the hidden compartment at the floor of the tank, through which her father exited and her mother entered. Katya pulled open both doors and examined the locks, finding nothing amiss. The locks clicked shut and released as smoothly as they had when the tank was new.

  Not yet satisfied, she stepped inside the tank, pulling the door closed behind her. She examined the seams of the glass and wood, looking for any clue as to what might have happened. Finding no sign of tampering, she grasped the tiny lever that would release the door latch from the inside and gave it a quick tug.

  Nothing. The lever didn’t work. Katya tugged again, harder this time. Still nothing. She bent down to try the lever that controlled the secret door on the floor of the chamber. Again, nothing. She was trapped inside. Sickening understanding spread through her. The release levers worked from the outside. But once her parents had been inside the tank together they had had no way of escaping.

  Nor did she, she belatedly realized. But while she could cry out and bang on the wood to gain the attention of those around her, during her parents’ performance the tank had been filled with water, thus making it virtually soundproof. As that stark realization took hold, claustrophobia overwhelmed her, choking off her thoughts. Before she could call out for help, however, the tank door swung open. Her heart beating wildly, Katya spun around, expecting to see Nicholas standing before her.

  To her relief, it was Monsieur Remy who held the door open.

  “I hadn’t expected to see you so soon, Miss Alexander,” he said as she stepped from the tank. “How are you feeling?”

  She ignored the question, bending down to re-examine the tank’s locks. She immediately found what she had missed before. The inside release levers had been filed down—not enough so that it would be immediately apparent. But enough to prevent them from working.

  Her parents had been murdered. The conclusion was inescapable.

  “Is something wrong?” Remy asked, wringing his hands as he studied her with an expression of nervous anxiety and wary confusion.

  Katya nodded slowly. “Yes, I’m afraid so.”

  A look of horrified understanding immediately showed on Remy’s face as his gaze traveled from Katya to her parents’ underwater tank. “You don’t mean—” he began, then broke off abruptly, making the sign of the cross.

  “Who handles the security for the casino?” she asked.

  “Monsieur Chatelain.”

  “Is he discreet?”

  Remy’s head bobbed up and down as tiny beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. “Very discreet.”

  “Good.” She quietly closed the door to the tank. “I should like to speak with him,” she said. “Immediately.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Marco waits for me in the great hall. It is nearly noon. In minutes I will be his bride. At dawn I climbed the Saint’s Tower and said a prayer of safekeeping for us both. As I finished, the clouds parted and a ray of golden light shone down. I do believe my prayer was heard.

  Sacha’s final entry. Katya had nearly missed it entirely, so small and tattered was the scrap of parchment on which it had been written, as though it had been jotted down in a rush before she had left for her wedding ceremony. Katya had found it three days ago, just after she had returned from speaking with Monsieur Chatelain, the chief of security for the Grand Casino.

  Sacha’s words were neither comforting nor informative, but they did seem eerily prescient. Particularly now, as Katya stood alone in her bedchamber in Nicholas’s villa dressed as a medieval bride.

  As she finished her toilette for the Fete du Tarasque she studied herself critically in a floor-length looking glass. Perhaps her costume was historically accurate in detail, but it was sorely lacking in authenticity. She might be dressed in the guise of a medieval bride, but her eyes did not glisten with the eager joy one might expect to see in a young bride’s gaze. Instead the eyes that stared back at her were flat and hollow, shadowed by pale circles.

  With the exception of the simple crown of flowers she wore, her hair was completely unadorned, cascading freely down her back in a rich mass of ebony spirals. She wore a long-sleeved, finely woven smock of misty green coupled with a surcoat sewn from rich silver brocade. The bodices of each garment had been cut in deep squares, revealing an enticing glimpse of the soft curve of her breasts. An ivory-and-green-striped kirtle emphasized the narrowness of her waist and the gentle sway of her hips.

  Clearly the costume had been designed to evoke an image of both innocence and sensuality But whether or not it succeeded she could not judge. Nor did she particularly care, she decided, turning away from the mirror with a dull sigh. Her appearance was of little concern. She felt shaky and exhausted to the point of numbness, but her nerves had been too tightly wound for her to sleep. Nor could she eat. In fact, she had been able to do nothing from the moment she had discovered her parents had been murdered.

  Her encounters with Nicholas had been deliberately brief and empty. Although he had come to her room in the evenings, she had claimed fatigue and turned him away. Inside herself, however, she had clung to his every word, his every nuance of tone, his every small gesture, analyzing everything over and over again in her mind. Surely she was wrong about him. The phrase echoed through her entire being, both a wish and a prayer. But one tha
t she suspected was entirely futile. If the ancient legends were correct, their fates had been determined long ago.

  In an attempt to avoid further contact she had kept mainly to her bedchamber, but the precaution had been unnecessary. Both yesterday and today she had watched him mount Avignon and ride out shortly after dawn, not to return until dusk. She had no idea where he went, nor did she ask. In truth, she strongly suspected she already knew. Now that he had found her scroll he was hunting for the Stone. But at the moment this was nothing but dark suspicion. Soon—possibly tonight—she would know for certain.

  As that grim thought filled her mind, the sound of a hall clock striking eight drifted into her room. She could delay no further Nicholas was waiting for her. Summoning her resolve, she left her bedchamber and made her way downstairs. She found him standing alone in the back parlor, one knee propped up on the windowsill, his hands clasped behind him as he stared out over the sparkling Mediterranean. He was dressed in the costume she had seen days earlier. He wore a doublet woven from pale flax and a sleeveless tunic upon which was embroidered the emblem of the Maltese. The copper-colored braies that covered his long legs were tucked into a pair of rich leather boots. Completing the costume was a jewel-studded cape of indigo velvet.

  The attire suited him. She watched as a warm breeze blew in through the open window and tossed the cape about his powerful shoulders. He looked like a beautiful medieval prince, she thought, her heart aching anew as she studied him. He seemed lost in thought, completely unaware of her presence. She read firm resolve in his expression, as well as profound sadness. Katya paused, frowning. Was she projecting her emotions onto him, or did he truly seem deeply troubled?

  “Nicholas.”

  She called his name without thinking, shattering the stillness that had enveloped him. As he straightened and turned toward her, she noted that he wore a wide belt slung low across his hips, from which was suspended a glistening dirk and a thick leather pouch.

  He studied her for a long moment, his ebony eyes glowing with an inner fire. Then he crossed the room and took her hands in his. “You look beautiful, Katya,” he said, bending down to kiss her softly.

  It was nothing compared to what they had experienced before. Just a mere whisper of a kiss—a light brushing of his lips against hers that left her aching for more and remembering everything they had shared in the past. Longing. Surrender. Rapture. How was it possible, she thought? Given everything she suspected him of, how could she still feel anything? Yet she did. With every fiber of her being.

  The DuValentis are a merciless clan, not to be trusted at any cost. They are fierce in battle and swift to revenge. They will do anything to get their hands on the Stone.

  The words echoed through her mind but the warning rang empty. It was too late. Is this what Sacha had felt? she wondered dimly. Had Marco had the same effect on Sacha that Nicholas had on her? Did the mere scent of his skin, the sound of his voice, the feel of his touch stir something within her that she had never felt before? Perhaps this explained why she had yielded so willingly to her fate.

  “I have a favor to ask of you,” he said.

  Apprehension coursed through her. “Yes?”

  Nicholas lifted his hand and displayed a delicate gold necklace adorned with a small, glistening white rose carved from mother-of-pearl. “Of all the jewels my family possesses,” he said, “this simple piece has always been my favorite. It belonged to my mother. It would do me great honor if you would wear it tonight.”

  Katya nodded wordlessly, fighting back a rush of bittersweet sentiment as he bent forward and fastened the clasp about her neck.

  Once the necklace was secure he studied her for a moment in silence, his eyes glowing with a deep, satisfied emotion she couldn’t begin to define Was it possession she read in his gaze, or something darker? Before she could speak, he reached forward and brushed his fingers over the chain. A ghost of a smile curved his lips as he traced the shallow path of the delicate gold. “A primitive way of marking one’s conquests,” he mummered, almost as though to himself. Then he straightened and intoned politely, “If you’re ready, the coach is waiting.”

  She searched his eyes, seeking some deeper meaning behind the necklace, but his gaze was unfathomable. “I’m ready,” she replied.

  As they stepped out into the courtyard and made their way to the coach, a strong, hot wind buffeted her skirts. The Mistral was at its height, she noted. It seemed appropriate somehow that the weather should be at its most savage. She wanted the climate to reflect her emotions. Thunder and lightening, vicious rains and howling winds. Landslides.

  Once she and Nicholas were seated inside, the groomsmen pulled the coach smoothly out of the drive, moving down the steep slope that led to the principality. She had always found the gentle rocking and swaying of his coach deeply soothing. But now it seemed as though every motion, every jarring bump and rolling turn, was designed to put her body in contact with his—to force their knees to brush or their hands to touch. His presence seemed all-engulfing. No matter how she tried to divert her thoughts, he was all she was aware of.

  “You’re awfully quiet,” he said, breaking the silence that had been between them. “What are you thinking?”

  Katya forced a small smile. “Just listening to the wind,” she replied automatically, lifting her shoulders in a light shrug.

  “The Mistral.” He nodded in understanding. “I believe it’s at its peak. It should be subsiding in a day or two.”

  “I see.” She turned and stared out the window, watching as the strong winds buffeted the cypress and pine that spread across the landscape. She returned her gaze to Nicholas, studying him through the dimness of the moonlit interior. Once again she noted the faint expression of pensive, almost pained resolve that was reflected on his chiseled features. “You’re quiet as well,” she remarked softly. “What are you thinking?”

  He was silent for a long moment. Finally he replied, “I’m thinking how little I knew my father.” He arched one brow and finished dryly, “Not that that’s a complaint, mind you. Merely an observation.”

  Uncertain where the conversation was leading, Katya merely nodded.

  “The Comtesse spoke to you about the woman my father had been in love with, didn’t she?” he asked.

  “She did.”

  “I can’t help but wonder if it would have made any difference had Richard known.”

  “You don’t think he might have suspected?”

  “No, never,” he replied with certainty. “Neither did I. Yet in hindsight it makes perfect sense. Duty and sacrifice. For as long as I can remember it has been drummed into my head that nothing was more important than preserving our family legacy. But I never suspected what lengths my father would go to do so.” He paused and shook his head as his fingers ran absently over the blade of his dirk. “I suppose none of us truly know what we’re capable of until we’re put to the test.”

  His words caused a shiver to run down her spine. Aware that her emotion would show on her face, Katya turned away, staring blindly out the window as they descended from the Tete du Chien and entered the bustling traffic of the principality. Fortunately Nicholas seemed as disinclined to further conversation as she was, and heavy silence once again filled the coach.

  She watched as revelers dressed in medieval garb spilled out into the streets, gaily drinking and dancing and calling out merry insults to one another. Vendors pushed carts selling roasted meats on a spit, coarse breads, and candied fruits. Jugglers, musicians, and troubadours wandered about, performing on street corners and inside cafes. From the appearance of the crowds, it looked as though all of Monaco had turned out to celebrate the taming of the Tarasque. Although Katya had no interest in the festival, it gave her a point of focus, something other than Nicholas on which to direct her attention.

  “It’s amazing, isn’t it?” he remarked after a few minutes.

  “Quite,” she managed.

  As she stared into the bustling crowds, her tho
ughts turned to the conversation she had had days ago with Monsieur Chatelain. A tall man with a hound-dog face, stooped shoulders, and an air of infinite sadness, he looked as though he expected nothing but the worst from mankind and was rarely disappointed. He had listened patiently as Katya had related her involvement with Nicholas and the events that had occurred since her arrival in Monaco, occasionally interrupting her to ask pointed questions, or steering her politely back on course when she strayed off the facts.

  She had almost expected—almost hoped—he would tell her that her suspicions were ludicrous and that she was behaving like an excitable child. Instead, after examining her parents’ water tank and the silver bowl she had used the night she had been injured onstage, he had calmly informed her that her instincts were probably correct and that she truly was in danger. Until he and his men were able to unveil the person behind her mishap at the theater, he advised her to carry on as she normally did, acting as though nothing were amiss.

  It had been his opinion that if another “accident” were to happen, it would likely happen tonight, while they were surrounded by throngs of people. As rich and powerful as Nicholas was, even he could not risk the suspicions that would arise if Katya were to fall victim to a fatal accident while at his villa. Too many questions would be raised—particularly after Allyson Whitney’s disturbing death in London.

  Suppressing a shudder, Katya returned her attention to Nicholas as the coach rolled to a smooth stop in the Fontvieille, one of the principality’s oldest sections. As she exited the coach, she noted that the entrance to what was normally an open market square had been somewhat blocked by the placement of two huge towers and an elaborate drawbridge—obviously constructed to resemble the entrance to a medieval castle. A group of men dressed as knights of the Crusade stood guard, allowing entrance only to those who held invitations. Rows of seashells filled with olive oil and single burning candlewicks lined both sides of the walk, gently illuminating the entrance.