The Awakened Prince

by Elise Marion

  * * *

  Graceful, angelic figures stared down from the painted ceiling at the mad whirl below. Men in silk breeches, starched cravats, and snowy white linen twirled elaborately dressed ladies across the dance floor. The wide skirts of their ball gowns fanned outward like the petals of flowers blooming in spring, overwhelming the room with splashes of vibrant color. Hundreds of glowing candles cast their light upon towering arrangements of fresh flowers and polished silver. Opulent diamonds, rubies, and sapphires sparkled around the wrists and necks of the ladies, and at the fingers and throats of several men.

  The eyes of painted angels all seemed to be turned toward the curved staircase, where the princess would soon make her grand entrance. This was the night of her eighteenth birthday, and this ball would mark not only her coming of age, but her readiness to marry the Crown Prince.

  The orchestra ended their lively tune with a flourish, and the dancers bowed and curtsied to one another. The hum of conversation could just barely be heard over the next melody, and the men wandered off in search of their next partners.

  Before the twirling could begin again, a hush fell over the crowd. The musicians pulled bows away from strings, and liveried footmen paused in the midst of serving bubbly glasses of champagne. All eyes turned toward the staircase where a vision in white stood smiling down at them. Whispers of her beauty had made the rounds at various functions, but now she appeared amongst them, in the flesh for the very first time.

  Princess Isabelle possessed wispy locks of blond hair so light they glowed almost white in the pale glow of candlelight. Tonight, that hair had been curled and swept away from a heart-shaped face, pinned in an elegant chignon at her nape. Delicately arched eyebrows a shade darker than her hair curved over wide, pale blue eyes fringed with matching lashes. Without the aid of cosmetics, her skin fairly glowed and her lips looked as though they had been kissed by the petals of a rose.

  She appeared to float right down the staircase to the waiting arm of her escort for the evening, her fiancé, the Crown Prince. The butterflies in her stomach fluttered their wings as she placed her gloved hand in his, allowing him to lead her to the center of the floor for the next dance. She met his gaze only briefly before fixing her stare on his tiepin, but she did not need to look up into his face to know how his eyes would appear.

  The same rich blue as the sapphire gleaming against his cravat, the prince’s eyes would be sharp as a hawk’s, and just as cold and calculating. She stole another quick glance at him, and found that his long mahogany locks had been brushed neatly away from his high forehead and tied at his nape. He gave off the faint aroma of shaving soap.

  As the first chords of the waltz were struck, he gazed down at her and smiled.

  It wasn’t quite a smile, really; not one pearly white tooth could be seen. But the corners of his mouth did turn up and the hardness in his gaze softened in that moment. The princess breathed a sigh of relief in light of that smile. Her relationship with her betrothed thus far had consisted mostly of chaperoned meals and walks on the palace grounds. During those meetings, he’d always struck her as detached, a bit cold. Though, she’d always found him beautiful—in an untouchable sort of way. That smile transformed him a bit, making him seem less intimidating and more … real.

  He led her in the waltz before the admiring eyes of the crowd, and stood dutifully beside her to endure their applause when it was over, his arm a strong cradle for her hand.

  After that first waltz the evening became a blur as the princess was led into dance after dance. With each passing partner, she longed for the arms of the prince again and the easy grace of the waltz they had shared.

  Claiming exhaustion and begging the pardon of her next dance partner for a break, the princess edged her way along the perimeter of the ballroom, seeking a reprieve from the mad crush and stifling warmth. Cooling her flushed cheeks with her fan, she rushed toward the open doors leading to the garden. She turned to glance over her shoulder before continuing to the hedgerow maze, satisfied that no one would see her hasty retreat and follow.

  Once alone in the middle of the maze, she plopped onto a nearby bench and heaved a very unladylike sigh of relief.

  “And here I thought I would find myself alone.”

  The masculine voice tickled the side of her neck and the princess nearly jumped out of her skin, until she realized it was only her fiancé lowering himself beside her.

  The princess turned to meet his gaze, drawing a sharp breath at the warmth she found there. Her eyes widened as he smiled, a real display of teeth, and took her hand in his. She noticed for the first time that he had taken his gloves off and now gently tugged at hers. Once her hands were bared, he took one and raised it to his lips. She shivered at the contact, stunned into awed silence.

  He had never touched her other than to offer his arm or place a chaste kiss on her hand. He had never really smiled at her before.

  He had never placed one hand at the back of her neck and pulled her in slowly for a kiss…

  * * *

  Isabelle suddenly came awake, sitting upright in her bed. Her heart raced, pulse galloping in her throat, her mouth gone dry. She flopped against the pillows with a sigh, closing her eyes and hoping drowsiness would pull her back under. She wanted nothing more than to return to the poignant dream, recapturing the night of her eighteenth birthday. The night that had changed everything.

  After a few minutes of trying and failing, she shoved the bedclothes aside and rose. Lighting the lamp on her bedside table, she carried it to a nearby armchair, where she had been reading earlier in the evening.

  She wrapped herself in a thin shawl and sat. She took up a book, but could not seem to get past the first paragraph. It wasn’t uncommon for her to become restless at night, unable to sleep. Reading often provided a much-needed escape, occupying her mind until sheer exhaustion sent her back to her bed.

  However, she was too distracted for it tonight, all her thoughts running in several directions all at once.

  She gave up and set the novel aside. Closing her eyes, she sank more comfortably into her chair, thinking back over her dream. On the night of her coming out, she’d been presented to the royal court at a ball also meant to celebrate that she was now of age to wed the Crown Prince. It had been meant as an engagement ball of sorts, and Isabelle smiled as she remembered being so nervous while preparing for it. While Gayle had drilled her to ensure she remembered her etiquette so she didn’t embarrass herself, Isabelle had been preoccupied with thoughts of her prince. Would he enjoy the evening at her side or find it tedious? She knew they would dance together. Oh, what if she accidentally stepped on his foot? She had been instructed by one of the best dance masters in Cardenas, yet feared that anxiety would make her a klutz.

  Would he kiss her?

  She had begun to sense that he’d wanted to, his gaze lingering on her lips when they spoke. He was reserved in the company of others, but from time to time Isabelle had liked to think she’d seen hints of who he truly was. She’d started to see that even if he had not loved her, he’d desired her. That had certainly proved true the night of the ball, as he’d greeted her in the center of the garden maze with a kiss. A sweet, perfect melding of lips. Her very first kiss.

  Touching the tips of her fingers to her mouth, she opened her eyes, startled to realize she’d forgotten what it felt like. Once, she had only needed to close her eyes to recall the taste of Lionus’ lips or the feel of his skin against hers. She’d felt the loss of his touch, the phantom imprint of his fingers seeming to be indelibly etched into her skin.

  Now, try as she might, she couldn’t conjure his scent or the sound of his voice. She no longer felt that phantom touch. It was as if those small parts of him were slowly crumbling to pieces, just like her husband’s corpse in the ground.

  She missed him—the razor sharp wit so many people were unaware he’d possessed, the smiles he’d reserved only for her, the heady thrill of learning passion and desire in his arms. It h
ad been more than she’d expected to get out of a marriage of convenience. That she would fall in love with her chosen husband, or that he would come to love her in return … it had all seemed like a dream come true.

  Until the dream had become a nightmare, complete with death and blood.

  Hoping to escape the depressing turn of her thoughts, she swiped at the tears lingering on her cheeks, and left her armchair. Gayle had always said a pot of chocolate was just the thing for lifting one’s spirits, and she was inclined to agree.

  Deciding a trip to the palace kitchens was in order, she pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders and lifted her lamp. Scanning the darkened hallway to ensure no one would see her traipsing about in her nightgown in the middle of the night, she slipped from her chamber. Two of her bodyguards slept in nearby chambers, while the others must be near at hand. She never saw them this late, but knew they’d devised a night guard schedule in the event of an abduction attempt. It seemed unnecessary given how long she had lived in Cardenas without being accosted, but they were nothing if not vigilant in their duty.

  There was no need to seek them out and ask for an escort. She knew her way around the palace and didn’t expect anyone in the household posed a danger to her. She would make the chocolate and retreat back to her lonely bedchamber without incident.

  As she reached the stairs leading to the second level of the palace, a faint sound echoing down the corridor caused her to halt with one foot on the top step. She stared down the passage and wrinkled her brow, straining to make some sense of the distant noise. The east wing on the second floor of the palace belonged to Serge, and she felt certain she heard a man’s screams coming from his suite of rooms.

  Gathering the hem of her nightgown in one hand and raising her lamp with the other, she hurried toward the sound. She did not stop to think what she would find, couldn’t form one rational thought beyond needing to get to him if he were in some sort of danger. He had been before, and they’d lost him for an entire year. This family could not withstand another loss.

  Heart thudding in her chest, she swung the door open and thrust the lamp before her, spilling the flickering light across the dark room. A shadowy form thrashed about on the bed, and when she drew closer she realized that Serge lay trapped in the snares of some hellish nightmare.

  Beads of sweat had broken out over his forehead where strands of his hair were now plastered. The bedclothes tangled about his flailing legs, and his voice was a hoarse cry echoing from the walls.

  Placing the lamp on the bedside table, she leaned over him and managed to grip his face in her hands.

  “Serge!” she screamed to be heard above his cries. “It’s Isabelle. I’m here Serge, wake up!”

  Chapter 3

  Through the fog clouding his mind, Serge registered a familiar voice calling his name. It was faint and distant, but he clung to it as if for dear life, reaching toward it from the darkness of his nightmare. He could hear it over the clatter of carriage wheels, and the thundering of horses’ hooves. It emanated at him through the clash of swords, and the cries of dying men.

  A pair of warm hands touched his face and he stilled, sighing with relief. When he opened his eyes, he found Isabelle looming over him. Something stroked his face, and he realized she was using her own shawl to dab at his sweat-soaked face and neck.

  The tension melted from his muscles, his body easing into the mattress as he submitted to her ministrations. It never occurred to him to ask what she was doing in his room, or worry that she might notice he wasn’t wearing anything under the bedclothes. He only knew that she was here and he was no longer alone, trapped in the throes of a dream brought on by his hellish memories.

  When she had finished, he allowed her to prop the pillows behind him and help him sit upright. She gazed into his eyes, seeming to ask a silent question.

  Was he all right? Did he need anything?

  “Brandy,” he croaked. “On the table, there.”

  She hurried to a small, round table near the window where he’d sat to enjoy a nightcap before turning in. The decanter she lifted remained more than half-full, his used glass sitting empty beside it. He accepted the tumbler she’d filled almost to the brim with a shaking hand, wincing at the evidence that his dream had affected him more than he wanted her to know.

  She waited beside the bed with the decanter while he drained the glass in a few big gulps, then refilled it for him. He drank with relish, savoring the fiery burn of it going down and the warmth spreading from his belly when he was finished. She took the glass from him and set it aside, clasping her hands in front of her as she returned to the bed.

  “I’m sorry for barging in like that. I was on my way to the kitchen and I heard you screaming.”

  “I’m glad you came,” Serge said before he could think better of it.

  It wasn’t right for him to say such things, even if they proved true. Upon awakening from his coma, her face had been the first thing he’d seen. He’d had the inappropriate realization that he could have happily woken to such a sight every day for the rest of his life.

  He steered his mind away from those dangerous thoughts, even as they offered a bit of a reprieve from his dreams.

  He’d been reliving the attack that had ended with Lionus’ death every night since he’d awakened, but he hadn’t known screaming aloud accompanied the frightening memories.

  “I might have roused the entire palace if you hadn’t come,” he said with a dry laugh.

  Isabelle found a chair near the bedside and pulled it closer to the bed before sinking into it. He wasn’t certain what she’d been doing out of her room that she could hear his screams, but she didn’t seem in a hurry to return. Truth be told, he wasn’t keen on watching her walk back out the door.

  “You know, I spent a lot of time in this chair, keeping you company.”

  Flashes of memory came to mind at her words, like splintered fragments of glass.

  “I remember.”

  At her shocked expression, he smiled and went on.

  “Not much, outside of the pain of it, trying to come awake and being pushed under because my mind couldn’t seem to handle the strain. It was … terrible. Frightening. I didn’t know how long it had been, and there are large, dark holes in my memory of the past year. There isn’t much there at all, past that moment I saw Lionus get impaled with that sword.”

  She sniffed, blinking as if holding back tears. “I hate that you had to be there to see it … that you suffered in a way none of us can ever fathom.”

  He tried to shrug as if it were all better now that he was awake, but the motion was half-hearted at best. “There were bright spots in the midst of all that. I can recall a few things in vivid detail, as if I were wide awake. One of my fondest memories is of you sitting in that chair, your voice filling the room as you read aloud. It was as if my mind reached for something and it latched on to the sound of your voice. When you would talk to me or read beside the bed…”

  He looked away in embarrassment, realizing just how close he’d come to revealing his true feelings for her—how loving her as he did might just be responsible for the strength he’d found to fight for his life.

  He cleared his throat and continued. “Well, I just wanted to thank you for being here and not giving up on me.”

  “Damien, Esmeralda, and I never gave up,” she replied, leaning forward to clasp one of his hands. “Not for a moment.”

  A sudden jolt of awareness shot through him at her touch, his pulse quickening to a swift drumbeat. He became acutely aware that they sat alone in a dark bedchamber, both inappropriately dressed. He pulled the bedclothes a bit higher and fisted them in his free hand, fighting every impulse urging him to pull her into the bed with him.

  “What are you doing up at this hour?” he asked. “And why were you going to the kitchen by yourself?”

  If he kept her talking, maybe the unseemly thoughts filling the organ between his legs with blood would abate.

  �
�I could not sleep,” she said with a shrug. “I craved a pot of chocolate, but didn’t want to wake anyone to get it for me.”

  “Don’t let me hold you up, then,” he replied. “I am sure you would like to get back to it. I’m fine now, really.”

  “Actually, I had hoped you wouldn’t mind some company. That is if you aren’t too tired.”

  Damn it all to Hell. Yes, he wanted her company. But he didn’t want only that. He wanted her in his arms, in his bed, naked and under him. He wanted her sighing in pleasure and screaming his name and declaring her love for him.

  None of which he would be getting tonight … or ever.

  She isn’t mine … she belongs to Lionus.

  Lionus is dead.

  The warring thoughts only made him feel worse. What sort of brother was he to have coveted his sister-in-law? What kind of man did it make him that he’d even entertain thoughts of lust and desire when her husband—his brother—now lay cold and dead in the ground.

  Still, he’d spent far too much time alone, trapped in his own head. Telling her to leave seemed far less palatable than sitting here with her while keeping his hands to himself.

  “I doubt I will get much sleep tonight. I’d like it if you stayed.”

  “Perhaps I could read to you?” she offered. “It might help put you back to sleep and occupy my mind.”

  “That would be fine,” he said. “There are several books in the sitting room.”

  She rose and moved to the door of the adjoining chamber. While she was gone, he adjusted himself to get more comfortable, making sure he was adequately covered. The proper thing to do would be rising to put on more clothing—even just a shirt would do. But, he couldn’t risk her returning at the wrong moment and find him hobbling bare-arsed back to the bed, so he stayed put.