by Princess
“Well, then?”
She held him in a beseeching gaze, then dropped her head. “Don’t you ever get lonely, Darius?” she asked, barely audibly.
“Everyone’s lonely, Serafina.” He examined the topography scale on the map of the local area, then her cold words struck at him.
“Go on, shut me out. I never would have guessed it, but I see now you’re just like everyone else.”
“Beg pardon?” He looked up, rather taken aback.
He found her chin high, her cheeks flushed with anger, her fists bunched at her sides.
“Everyone looks at me but nobody sees me, Darius. You used to, but you don’t anymore. Now you won’t even look at me. Maybe I should open my gown. That seemed to get your attention. I could be standing here naked before you and you wouldn’t care—”
“For God’s sake, Serafina!” He threw down the pen and visored his face in both hands, elbows propped on the desk, his thumbs pressing his throbbing temples.
She was silent for a moment. “Why don’t you want to be with me? What did I do to wrong you so terribly?”
“Nothing.” He didn’t move. He could feel her staring at him.
“There must be a reason. How do you think it feels when the one person you depend on and care for most walks out of your life?”
“I know exactly how it feels,” he bit back, and immediately wished he had not said it.
He had been nine years old the last time he had seen his mother. Of course, by the time she finally left for good, he had already hardened himself to her frequent disappearances, so he scarcely cared, or told himself so.
“You hurt me, Darius.”
He did not know why his heart was pounding. Carefully, coolly, he shrugged. “It’s your own fault. You should have used better judgment. You should have kept your feelings to yourself. You gave me no choice but to leave.”
“You had a choice,” she said softly in a voice full of meaning.
He leveled a wary stare at her from under his forelock. “Ah, so, we’re finally going to have this conversation, are we?”
“Are we?” she echoed sorrowfully. “I’m sure you can come up with some excuse to dodge away this very moment, if you try.”
He let out an exasperated sigh and covered his eyes with one hand. “Leave it alone, Serafina. Just leave it alone.”
“Do you think not talking about it will make it cease to exist? I thought you were a brave man, Santiago. Wasn’t it you always telling me when I was a little girl that I must be truthful, honest? You should take your own advice.”
“Why are you doing this to me?” he asked heavily.
“Because I am sick of your hiding and your silence and your pretending there is nothing between us. I will not allow you to ignore me a moment longer! Furthermore, I am worried about you. At the very least, I deserve answers. Why did you run from me?”
“What was I supposed to do?” he retorted. “Don’t you see the position I am in—or is it that you can’t bear for one man not to fall at your feet?”
She gasped.
“You ask the impossible,” he said. “Do you think I don’t know what you want? Do you think I feel nothing? But sometimes, Princess, what we want doesn’t matter. Sometimes what we want is wrong.”
She stared at him while his chest heaved with the force of his anger.
“Wrong?” she asked softly. “Surely you don’t mean that.”
He looked away. “You know damned well a match between us would have been absurd.”
“Well, God forbid we should ever appear absurd.” She wandered to the window and looked out. “I waited for you, you know. I suppose I’d have waited forever, but you never came, then this crisis with Napoleon arose, and I had to assume the duty of my birth.”
His glance flicked to her profile. “Then . . . you marry him strictly out of duty?” he asked in a careful tone, holding his breath.
From across the room, she gave him a tortured look. “Go to hell, Santiago.”
“What?”
“How dare you ask me to reveal my heart to you when you refuse to show your own? You cruel man.”
“You want answers?” he cried, flushing with an exquisite pang of guilt. “Fine, then! I’ll tell you why I never asked you to marry me—because it would have been the joke of the century! You were born a royal princess, and I’m the bastard son of an impoverished Spanish count and a Gypsy dancer! We’d both have been ruined!”
“What do I care? At least we’d have been together!” she shouted, her violet eyes afire.
“You would ruin yourself to be with me?” he asked, incredulous. “Are you mad?”
“I don’t care what anyone says or thinks! I hate everyone, anyway!” she burst out. “Do you think I enjoy my life as an ornament, living in a fishbowl, on display? I am surrounded by people who neither know me nor care to! I wanted to be with you!”
“You say that, but you don’t know what it’s like, being on the outside,” he said harshly. “You don’t know what it’s like, never belonging anywhere.”
She gave him an anguished wince. “You belong with me.”
He strove to soften his tone. “Look at us, Serafina. We are from different worlds. I would not wish my world on my worst enemy, let alone drag you into it. Haven’t I always sought only to protect you? I care for you too much to ruin your life. I cannot do what you ask. I don’t have it in me.”
“To love someone?”
“I don’t know how,” he said.
She lowered her head. One hand on her hip, she pinched the bridge of her refined nose for a moment, then lowered her hand and looked up. “These are all fine excuses, Darius, but I hope someday you will let somebody love you, even if it isn’t me. I don’t know what you are afraid of, but I never would have hurt you. Not for the world.”
He didn’t know what to say. God, he had to get out of here.
There was a long, awkward pause.
Serafina folded her arms over her chest and scrutinized him. “Perhaps that’s what I’ll do to amuse myself today. Find you a suitable wife.”
“No woman will ever tie me down,” he muttered.
With a glance world-weary beyond her years, she arched a brow at him. “But you tie them down, I hear.”
He scowled at her.
She gave a short, joyless laugh and turned away, walking toward the door.
“Where are you going?” he demanded.
“To entertain myself, as ordered,” she answered, not turning around. “You see? I don’t always need to get my way. Enjoy your solitary suffering, Colonel. It becomes you. Have a nice day brooding. I wouldn’t dream of intruding on your self-absorption.”
He narrowed his eyes at her slender back.
“I will have to check your stitches later, however,” she added. “I know you like to suffer, but I must draw the line somewhere. One of us has to be sensible.”
“You, sensible?” he baited her, almost as if a part of him wished to delay her exit.
She cast him a sweet, treacherous smile over her shoulder. “Oh, but do keep in mind that as soon as my mother sends those chaperons, you’re not going to be allowed anywhere near me.”
With that, she walked out, leaving the door wide open behind her.
At once, the breeze from the open front door was fresh but made all his neatly stacked papers flutter chaotically.
“Damn it,” he mumbled, trying to hold them all down, but it was useless. They flew like feathers from a shredded pillow, scattering over the floor.
Exasperated, he gave up trying to catch them and watched the sway of her hips instead with slow, burning hunger. She strode down the hall to the foyer straight ahead.
He couldn’t stop himself from watching her go out the front door, watching the breeze mold her skirts around her long legs as she stepped outside and lifted her face to the sunshine, light twining like golden ribbons through her blowing sable curls.
She turned back with a dazzling smile.
“Dari
us, it’s a wonderful day!” she called in her warm, scratchy voice.
Longingly, he stared, knowing she could not see him down the hall. It was only her futile, bullheaded faith that kept her peering into the shadows, waiting for him to emerge.
God, how he craved that light, that carefree wholesomeness.
Violet eyes brilliant in the sun, she might have been the goddess of love standing there; he almost believed she could open her hand and bestow the abundance of nature. She was strong and proud and pure, everything he wanted, needed.
Couldn’t have.
No, he would go to his grave never having been loved, never having been known by anyone.
Violently, he threw down the pen and rose from his desk. He crossed the room, slammed the door, and stood in his dim cage, trembling.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Serafina spent the afternoon gathering medicinal plants for her collection of herbs. At least it was something to do.
Using a footstool for a desk, she sat surrounded by tall grasses in the middle of a field, her wide-brimmed straw bonnet shading her face and shoulders from the beating afternoon sun. Around her, butterflies teetered from flower to flower, and daisies waved in the breeze. She thumbed through her massive botany tome, trying to put Darius Santiago out of her mind.
Why was he like this? Why did he say things deliberately to drive her away? All she wanted was to help him. She had so much to give, and no one to give to.
Restlessly, she got up, fixed the lid on the basket in which she had stored her plant specimens, and walked off, barefoot, toward the woods. She had found a small stream under the woods’ shady boughs, and needed to collect more of the wood violets which grew on the muddy banks.
Though she did not like being alone, admittedly, the afternoon out here under heaven’s blue dome had been one of the most peaceful days she had spent, of late. Her pace in the social whirlwind had been frantic since her engagement a few months ago, for she knew Anatole might never let her come back to visit Ascencion again.
There was no way around it: Her husband-to-be was a bully and his price for his protection was her complete obedience. She could not escape the gnawing fear that, over time, the strain of living in submission to him would slowly crush her spirit.
She thrust these thoughts aside and plucked a daisy as she walked, her feet cushioned by the dry, tall grasses.
She liked to be barefoot whenever possible. Having her feet firmly planted on the ground made her feel more connected to the earth and all living things.
She wished Darius would have come out to share the day with her.
Am I still in love with him? Am I that hopeless?
She glanced in distress at the blue sky from under the brim of her hat. She saw a hawk circling, fixed to fall on some poor field mouse. It made her think of Napoleon’s imperial eagle, and the vision flashed through her mind of this lovely field, charred and strewn with the bodies of soldiers, the azure sky blotted out with the black smoke of gunpowder.
She squeezed her eyes shut, routing the image.
There would be no war, not when she had the power to stop it. She was not Helen of Troy, who had betrayed her people for the sake of her lover and her own reckless heart.
There could be no war, even if the only man she would ever love was in hell, as she knew he was. She had seen the mad, fractured suffering in his onyx eyes. Though she did not understand its source, she felt his pain as her own.
Perhaps it was just as well she did not have the skill to reach him, she thought bitterly.
Bound to her duty, she could not save Darius, nor could Darius save her. But in that moment, she was agonized, torn between loyalties. For, in truth, she would have given anything to taste the nectar of true love just once in her life.
Just for a day.
All afternoon, Darius worked on his report to Czar Alexander and the Russian government. The document was an integral part of his larger plan. The lengthy report comprised his official testimony on the facts about Prince Anatole Tyurinov’s political ambitions, which Darius had unearthed during his covert inquiry into the young general’s background, as well as his legal and financial affairs.
Darius had honestly never meant to sabotage the betrothal.
True, there was a secret, savage part of him that seemed to feel that if he could not have Serafina, no one could, but he had held it in check and conducted his investigation fairly and with an open mind. He had no royal crown, nor armies with which to protect Ascencion, after all, nor did he even want a wife. The Russian match appeared best for Ascencion, and what was best for Ascencion was best for Lazar, to whom Darius owed everything.
He had never expected to learn that Tyurinov was angling to replace his twenty-five-year-old cousin, Czar Alexander, as the supreme ruler of Russia.
Several years ago, Czar Paul, Alexander’s father—a known madman—had been murdered by a handful of men in the government, who then presented the throne to the gentle, scholarly Alexander. The common speculation was that Alexander had had a hand in the plot, but these rumors were swept under the carpet in Russia’s collective relief merely to be rid of the evil Czar Paul.
Tyurinov had been quietly resurrecting the rumors of Alexander’s involvement in the murder, painting Czar Paul as a martyr, the strong-handed ruler Russia needed, and Alexander as a patricide. Tyurinov had a huge army in the palm of his hand, of course, and by his manipulations, he had won the support of many of the older nobles, who deplored Alexander’s liberal new policies and French-influenced manners.
With his charisma, his victories, his authentic royal blood, and his famous hatred for the godless Napoleon—whereas Alexander’s stance toward the Corsican wavered—Tyurinov was well loved by the vast Russian populace. With a woman like Serafina by the man’s side, Darius could well imagine that Tyurinov would quickly have the entire Russian court at his feet. The right wife was essential in the political arena.
Darius had been compiling his list of the Russian nobles whom Tyurinov had won over to his treasonous cause when Lazar sent him word that, due to increased pressure from the French, and seeing that his daughter found Tyurinov agreeable during their visit, he had already given the match his blessing.
Darius couldn’t believe it. He had been incensed. How could the king make such an important decision without waiting to hear from him first? Darius had not even sent him his report yet. Though the wedding date had already been set, Lazar wrote that he wished Darius to continue the background investigation, and if possible, to bring it to a swift and happy close.
Though it seemed pointless, Darius pursued the thread of Tyurinov’s political ambitions, only to discover, to his shocked horror, the truth about the death of Princess Margaret, Tyurinov’s first wife.
At that point, Darius did some careful thinking.
Prone to hotheadedness especially where his little girl was concerned, the king, Darius calculated, would be outraged— partly in fury at himself for being taken in by Tyurinov’s charm. Without forethought, Lazar would call off the marriage at once. But to deny Tyurinov his chosen bride based on the accusation of murder—without evidence—would have caused a mammoth scandal. One with possibly grave political consequences for Ascencion. After all, Russia was always in need of Mediterranean ports. Such an insult to the cousin of the czar could easily have provided the Russians with a handy excuse to try to take Ascencion by force, exactly as the French wanted to do.
So Darius had searched frantically for evidence that would hold up against one of the most powerful men in the civilized world. To free Serafina from the disastrous match, he needed proof so damning that even Tyurinov’s closest friends would abandon him.
His search was cut short, however, when he received the tip from one of his most trusted colleagues that the notorious French spy Philippe Saint-Laurent was running an operation out of the palace at Belfort, with orders to abduct the princess before she could be married.
This new threat had forced Darius to leave Moscow
immediately. His departure meant he had to abandon hope of finding evidence against Tyurinov. The prince had covered his tracks too well. More drastic measures would need to be taken.
And so Darius had begun honing his aim with a rifle.
The girl was more damned trouble than she was worth, he thought grouchily as he set his quill pen down, pulled off his wire-rimmed reading spectacles, and stretched his neck this way and that. He flexed his cramped right hand, absently inspecting the black ink smudges on the heel of his palm. His gaze traveled over the pages he had spent the past several hours drafting, strewn over the desk.
Why was his life so complicated? he wondered. In his quest for the evidence, he had spun convoluted webs of lies. He had invented various new identities for himself, manipulated countless people, bribed a few, had even seduced one of Tyurinov’s ex-mistresses for information. He had broken laws, burgled Russian government offices.
Spending so many months studying the golden, glorious Anatole, he had come to hate the man. Everything Tyurinov stood for was a lie. Darius knew he, too, was a liar and not worth much, but at least he did not pretend to be a hero to the world, and the wicked things he did, he did to protect the people who had been kind to him. Tyurinov had no honor.
Indeed, he mused, as he chewed thoughtfully on the arm of his spectacles, Tyurinov would have scoffed at his antiquated code, for the only law the prince obeyed was self-interest.
The worst part of it in Darius’s view was that Tyurinov did not even love Serafina. If the man had truly cared for her, that might have made a difference, but her beauty had made her merely a trophy to Tyurinov, an object to be attained in order to glorify himself and announce yet again his greatness to the world.
And how did Serafina feel about the glorious Anatole? Darius wondered for the thousandth time, trying to scoff at his own insecurity over the question. But truly, had she been taken in by the prince’s well-documented charm?
She was a smart girl, and Darius had taught her as a child to be wary of anyone who was overly friendly, but she was a young woman now, ripe for love.
The thought made his groin tighten with a tingling warmth. Turning his face restlessly toward the one window, he saw the sky was ablaze with gathering sunset, the gold and pink streaked with violet.
