Gaelen Foley - Ascension 02

by Princess

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  EPILOGUE

  HISTORICAL NOTE

  PRINCE CHARMING

  By Gaelen Foley

  Copyright Page

  This book is dedicated to my lifelong and most loyal friends,

  my sisters,

  Shana, Elizabeth, and Janeen.

  Special thanks to my mom, whose insight, based on her years of work with victims of family violence, contributed greatly to my understanding of the scars such tragedy leaves, and the hope for healing that its brave survivors inspire in us all.

  She is a pearl whose price hath launched above a thousand ships, And turned crowned kings to merchants.

  —SHAKESPEARE

  He after honor hunts; I after love.

  —SHAKESPEARE

  “You are mine,” he ground out. “You know you are.”

  She stared up at him in silence, barely daring to breathe.

  He was panting, his onyx eyes flashing like heat lightning. She did not know what he intended, she only knew he was far stronger than she. His hard chest against her, she could feel his rushing pulse.

  “You know you are mine,” he whispered again. “Say it.”

  Was he asking for permission to deflower her? she thought in alarm. She meant to ease him back to reason with a tactful reminder that she was soon to marry another man—a man who would probably kill her if she came to her wedding night not a virgin—but when she opened her mouth, only one word slipped out. “Yes.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  May 1805

  The sound of her rapid, shallow panting filled the narrow space between the box-hedge walls of the garden maze. The hedges towered over her, closing in on her, and the pounding of her pulse was so loud in her head she knew they would hear. She inched down the narrow lane, her bare toes creeping silently over the cool, lush grass, her chest heaving. Constantly she looked over her shoulder. Her whole body was shaking, her hand bleeding, maybe broken from punching Philippe in his smug, sneering face with the sharp edge of her huge diamond ring. But at least she had managed to throw herself out of his iron grasp and had torn into the maze, where she thought she could evade them. She dared not call out for help because only the three men would hear.

  No one else was outside on such a night, when the breeze spattered rain from a sky deepest indigo smeared with gold clouds. The cicadas roared in waves, while the wind, as it rose and fell, brought fragments of a tinkling minuet spilling out over the vast gardens and the royal park from the ball in progress—her engagement party. Her fiancé had been unable to attend.

  She jerked her face wildly to the left, hearing movement on the other side of the dense hedge.

  He was right there. The acid taste of the wine she’d drunk rose in the back of her throat.

  She could see the shape of him, tall, bedecked in his finery. She could see the shape of the pistol in his hand and knew her pale silk gown was sure to be visible through the branches. She crouched down and moved silently away.

  “Don’t be afraid, Your Highness,” came Henri’s mellifluous voice from several rows away. “We’re not going to hurt you. Come out now. There’s nothing you can do.”

  They had split up so they could surround her. She choked back a sob, clawing to keep hold of her fragile control as she tried to decide which way to go. She had run around in this maze since she was a little girl, but she was so frightened she had lost all sense of direction.

  She heard the lulling splash of the fountain in the tiny center courtyard of the maze and used the sound to try to orient herself. Clenching her fist so tightly her nails dug into her palm, she huddled against the bush, edging inch by inch down the lane. At the end, she pressed her back flat against the scratchy bushes, too scared to turn the corner. She waited, shaking, praying, trying to gather her nerve, her stomach in knots.

  She didn’t know what they wanted.

  She had been propositioned many times by the gilded, predatory courtiers of the palace, but no one had ever attempted to haul her away before. No one had ever used guns.

  God, please.

  She would have cried, but she was too terrified. The breeze rose again. She smelled cut grass, jasmine, man.

  They’re coming.

  “Your Highness, you have nothing to fear. We are your friends.”

  She bolted, her long, black hair streaming out behind her. Thunder rumbled, the scent of a summer storm on the wind. At the end of the lane, she stopped, again too petrified to turn the corner, lest she find Philippe or the blond one, Henri, standing there waiting to catch her. She kept thinking how her ex-governess always said something like this would happen to her if she didn’t mend her wild ways, stop acting so bold.

  She vowed she would never be bold again. Never flirt. Never trust.

  Her chest lifted and fell, lifted and fell.

  They were coming. She knew she could not remain where she was for more than a few seconds longer.

  I am trapped. There is no way out of this.

  And then there came another voice, barely audible, a ghostly whisper.

  “Princesa.”

  The single word seemed to rise from the earth, or to slip out of the very air.

  She nearly sobbed aloud to hear it, wanting with all her heart to believe it was not her panicked brain playing tricks on her. Only one person called her by that name, the Spanish version of her proper Italian title, Principessa.

  If ever she’d had need of him, it was now.

  Beautiful, blackhearted Santiago.

  He alone could have saved her from this nightmarish game, but he was far away on the king’s business, intelligence-gathering and protecting the ambassador in Moscow, where the new alliance against Napoleon was being formed.

  Darius Santiago was an insolent, arrogant heathen, of course, but he did not know the meaning of fear and she quite believed he could do anything. She had not seen him in nearly a year, but he was always lingering near the outskirts of her heart, with his arrogant smirk and his coal-black eyes, as though watching her from across the miles by some occult vision.

  “I grow weary of this chase, ma belle,” Henri warned. She saw movement through the rows, made out tousled blond curls. She saw the Frenchman stop and cock his head, listening.

  Wide-eyed, both hands pressed to her mouth to silence her ragged panting, Serafina began backing away. At a tug on her hair, she almost screamed, whirling to find that one of her long black curls had merely snagged on the grasping bushes.

  “Princesa.”

  She knew she heard it that time! But how could it be? She froze, her gaze darting wildly.

  Could he know somehow that she was in danger? Could the bond between them still be so strong?

  And then she realized she felt him there, felt his strange, silent power all around her in the night like the imminent storm.

  “Make your way to the center co
urtyard,” the dark, airy murmur instructed her.

  “Oh, my God,” she whispered, closing her eyes, almost sick with relief. He had come.

  Of course he had come.

  Even though he did not want her, even though he would never love her, she was of the royal blood and he was honor-bound to protect her.

  Darius Santiago was the king’s most trusted man, a master spy and assassin. His loyalty to her father was absolute. If ever there was dark work to be done protecting the kingdom and the royal family of the small Italian island kingdom Ascencion, Darius was there to shoulder it without complaint. His presence here now made her realize there was even more to Philippe’s attempt to abduct her than she had guessed.

  She lowered both hands from her mouth to her sides. Her chest still heaved with each breath, but she lifted her chin, awaiting Darius’s instructions.

  “Go to the courtyard, Your Highness. Hurry.”

  “Where are you?” she breathed, trembling. “Help me.”

  “I am near, but I cannot get to you.”

  “Please help me,” she choked, stifling a sob.

  “Shh,” he whispered. “Go to the inner courtyard.”

  “I’m lost, Darius, I forget.” Blinded now by the tears she had been staving off since Philippe had first seized her, she stared through the dense green lace of the hedge trying to see him.

  “Stay calm, be brave,” he softly instructed. “Two right turns. You’re very close. I’ll meet you there.”

  “A-all right,” she choked out.

  “Go now.” His whisper faded away.

  For a moment, Serafina could not seem to move. Then she pierced the cold fog of fear, forcing herself. She set out for the tiny, brick-laid courtyard, legs shaking beneath her, her scraped knee still burning from before, when she had slipped on the grass. The mist-hued gown of gossamer silk she had been so delighted to wear now had a tear at the knee. Each movement was torturous with her effort to be silent, slowed by her tremors of fear, but she painstakingly followed the lullaby of the fountain splashing in its carved stone basin.

  With every inch gained, her mind chanted his name as if she could conjure him, Darius, Darius, Darius. She came to the first corner.

  Steeled herself. Peeked around.

  Safe.

  She moved on, gathering confidence. Images flashed through her mind of Darius watching over her all through her childhood, calming her with a look, her stern, beloved knight who would always protect her. But when she had finally grown up, nothing had gone according to plan.

  Darius, don’t let them get me.

  Ahead she saw she’d have to slip past a break in the left wall of the lane where it intersected another path. She prayed her pursuers weren’t down there to see her pass. At the break in the hedge, she hesitated, her courage faltering.

  A bead of perspiration ran down her cheek.

  Let them put that in the newspapers, she thought madly, brushing it away with the back of her hand. Shocking news— the Princess Royal sweats!

  She shut her eyes briefly and said a prayer, then darted past, stealing a fleeting glance down the lane as she went. Some twenty feet away, Philippe’s thuggish driver lay sprawled on his face, unmoving. A length of wire glinted in the moonlight. He had been garroted, she realized, sickened. Darius had passed this way.

  She marched on with stiff, jerky strides while cold horror spiraled down to her belly. The cicadas’ song stretched to one flat, vibrating note she thought would snap her nerves. When she reached the end of the lane, she grimaced, fighting a silent, mighty battle for the courage to look around the corner. She forced herself.

  Clear!

  The entrance to the courtyard was in sight at the far end of the corridor. She was almost there. All she had to do was pass yet another gap in the bushes halfway down the lane.

  She turned the corner and ran for it.

  Her breath raked over her teeth, her bare feet bore her swiftly over the silken grass. The break was coming, while straight ahead lay the entrance to the courtyard. The sky flung a handful of rain on the breeze into her face. Clouds covered the gold half-moon.

  “Get back here, you little bitch!” a deep voice roared.

  She shrieked and looked over her shoulder as Philippe tore around the corner behind her.

  As she passed the gap, running full force, Henri exploded out of the intersecting path. He caught her in both arms and she screamed. Philippe was bearing down fast, and then Darius was there, death gliding out of the shadows, attacking with the leap of the wolf.

  Henri shouted, lost his hold on her trying to ward off Darius. She tore free, tackled her way clear of him, heard ripping silk as she pulled, wrenching forward. She sprinted toward the courtyard, sobbing now. She stubbed her toe on the bricks, stumbling into the small enclosure. She passed the leering, stone grotesque of the Pan fountain, with its mossy mouth trickling water, and flung herself into the shadowed corner.

  She crouched down, praying Philippe would choose to stay and help his friend fight Darius rather than coming straight-away after her, but the prayer was no sooner through her mind than the Frenchman loomed in the entrance between the neatly trimmed hedges.

  Panting hard, he saw her at once, and his sneer turned his handsome face ugly. He strode to her and hauled her up from her crouched position. She cried out. He hurled her about face and put a knife to her throat just as Darius came running up to the entrance.

  She sobbed his name.

  Philippe wrenched her. “Shut up!”

  Darius drew himself up short, breathing hard as he took in the scene before him. His fiery onyx eyes pierced the night with hellfire intensity. Heat lightning flashed across the sky with a brilliancy that illuminated his dark, exotic beauty for an instant—then darkness.

  Serafina fixed her stare and all her faith on him as she clung with both hands to the steely arm around her throat.

  “Stand aside, Santiago,” Philippe warned. “You come any closer, she dies.”

  “Don’t be an ass, Saint-Laurent. We both know he doesn’t want her harmed.” His tone was coolly scornful, his stance relaxed, but danger emanated from him as he sauntered into the courtyard, his body sleek and lean, gold moonlight glancing off his broad shoulders. Impeccably attired in black, he moved with predatory grace.

  He had a high brow under a glossy, raven forelock. Inky, brooding eyes reflected all the tumult and fire of his passionate, secretive nature. The austere angles of his high-boned cheeks and haughty, aquiline nose warred with the sensuality of his rich, sulky mouth. A small scar like a crescent moon marred the sculpted sweetness of his lips with a bitter twist.

  Serafina stared, mesmerized, but Darius did not even look at her, as if she were of no consequence. Instead, he spiked Philippe with a sharp glance, a half-smile on his lips.

  “I thought you were a professional, Saint-Laurent,” he said, his soft, lulling voice tinged with a Spanish accent. “Is this how you conduct business? Putting knives to young girls’ throats?” He gestured toward them with idle elegance. “I often wonder how you people stomach it,” he remarked. “Serving a man who is without honor.”

  “I didn’t come here to philosophize with you, Santiago,” Philippe ground out, as tense and heated as Darius was cool. “I’m going now, and she’s coming with me.”

  “If you believe I shall let you pass,” he said gently, “you are deceiving yourself.”

  “I’ll cut her!” Philippe warned.

  Darius gave him a chilling smile. “Your master wouldn’t like that.”

  The silence sharpened to a razor’s edge as the two men stared at each other, both trained to kill, each waiting for the other to strike, until Serafina couldn’t bear it any longer.

  “Please,” she choked out, “let me go.”

  At her plea, Darius’s coal-black eyes flicked to hers. For one disastrous instant, she read the truth there—the fury, the desperation behind his cool control. The fleeting look vanished at once and his scarred lips curved ag
ain in that mocking half-smile, but it was too late.

  Philippe had seen it, too. “What’s this?” he asked with a taunting laugh. “Have I stumbled upon a weakness? Is it possible the great Santiago has an Achilles’ heel?”

  Darius’s finely chiseled face hardened as he cast the facade aside. His long-lashed eyes narrowed on Philippe, glittering in the dark.

  “Ah, of course,” Philippe went on, heedless of the danger, “I recall someone telling me you were her bodyguard when she was just a wee thing.”

  Darius’s voice softened to a terrifying murmur. “Lower your weapon.”

  “Get out of my path.”

  “Release the princess. Surrender is your sole option. Your men are dead, and you know full well I want you alive.”

  “Hmm, he grows angry,” Philippe mused aloud. “He must be rather attached to you, my dear.”

  The words pained her more than he could ever know.

  “You are making things worse for yourself, Saint-Laurent. I’ll remember how you annoyed me when you and I have a talk later about your associates and your orders.”

  “Ah, but my orders don’t exist, Santiago. I don’t exist. I cannot go back empty-handed, so you see, you’ll get nothing from me,” Philippe snarled.

  Darius started toward them with slow, wary strides.

  “Stay back!”

  He paused. “Move away from the princess,” he said very softly, his stare unwavering, relentless.

  Serafina was saying a fragment of a prayer over and over again in her mind. Against her body, she could feel Philippe’s heart pounding in his chest. He tightened his hold on her neck. She felt his increasing desperation as he cast about for some means of escape. She glanced at the knife poised so near her throat, then shut her eyes, praying more desperately.

  “Tell me, Santiago . . . between colleagues,” Philippe barked suddenly. “Now that your little charge is so, shall we say, grown up, haven’t you ever wondered? I mean, look at her. Some say she is the most beautiful woman alive—in the top three, at least. Certainly my patron agrees. Helen of Troy, he says. Men fight wars to possess such beauty. Shall we have a look?”

  Her eyes flew open wide as Philippe laid hold of her dress where Henri had already torn it. She gasped with shocked horror as he ripped it open down her back with one lightning-like movement.