Gaelen Foley - Ascension 02

by Princess

  She threw up her hands. “Leave me alone!”

  “Do as she says.”

  They all looked over at the sound of a cold, accented voice.

  For a moment, Serafina froze, the color draining from her face.

  At once she backed away from the boy with the flower, her hands curling into fists at her sides as her betrothed held her in his frigid stare.

  Framed by the hallway stood Prince Anatole Tyurinov, a massive man with a copper-gold mane, which he wore, vainly, spilling down upon his gigantic shoulders. He was clad in a dark blue uniform with shiny gold buttons down his broad chest. His eyes were the light azure blue of a bright January afternoon, sunny but pitilessly cold.

  “Anatole,” she forced out, dropping her gaze. She sketched a slight curtsy, her heart pounding.

  “I am glad you remember me,” he said in polite reproach, offering her a slight, mechanical bow. Still politely bent, he glanced up and shot her a knowing smile. She felt the crushing wave of his innate brutality rushing toward her.

  The lily fell from the boy’s hand as he murmured an apology and backed away.

  When Anatole lifted his square chin, surveying the room as if he owned it, the boys shrank away like dogs before an approaching lion.

  Serafina was left standing in the wide entrance hall alone with him. He was several yards away, but she felt cornered.

  He began slowly striding toward her. She swallowed hard but held her ground, inwardly switching over to the regal manner she had been trained to execute from an early age.

  With her hand, she swept a slight, graceful gesture toward the entrance hall. “Welcome to Ascencion and our home.” She had to tilt her head back to look up at him as he neared.

  His face cracked into a smile.

  “Goddess, eh?” he murmured as he stepped squarely onto the fallen lily. “I hate to think I am wrecking their religion. Who was he?”

  “That boy?” she stalled.

  “That boy,” he said indulgently.

  “No one of any consequence, Your Highness.” She forced one of her most winning smiles. “How was your journey?”

  “Anatole,” he whispered.

  She quaked inwardly. “How was your journey, Anatole?”

  He smiled and gently tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear. She fought not to flinch when he touched her.

  “Have you been a good girl, my bride?”

  For a second, she thought she would slap him. Delicately, she slipped away from him and took a few steps across the wide, empty hall, heart pounding. She went to the center table and made a show of smelling the flowers, turning her back on him, but then she could feel his eyes on her body. Nonchalantly, she rounded the center table so she could hide herself from his leer behind the bouquet.

  Slowly, he trailed her. She kept the table and the giant flower arrangement between them.

  “Were you long on the ship?” she asked with forced brightness.

  “The voyage dragged, for my eagerness to see you.” His voice was like a rusty plow being dragged over gravel.

  She plucked a withered leaf from a peachy rose. Her smile remained fixed but her hand shook. “And when did you arrive?”

  “Two hours ago. I’ve been having a drink with your most excellent father.”

  His compliment to her father did not go unnoticed. Her tension eased a degree or two. She looked up at him. “I hope Papa did not go sentimental on you. He is having trouble with my leaving. He is very protective.”

  “Yes, I know,” he mused, “which is why I found it strange. . . .” He paused, rubbing his chin in thought.

  “Found what strange, sir?”

  “That he sent you unchaperoned into the country with a man over whom you once made a fool of yourself.”

  Staring up at him, she turned utterly white.

  He cracked another terrifying smile. “Do you think this Santiago is the only one who can learn another’s secrets, my bride?”

  She parted her lips to speak. No sound came out.

  “Of course, your father has no inkling of your fascination with this man.”

  “I was quite young,” she forced out.

  “Did he lay a hand on you?”

  “No.”

  “Did he?” he demanded.

  “No!” Her heart was beating like it would explode, her knees shaking.

  “Your father trusts him.”

  “He has no reason not to. Santiago’s conduct is impeccable. As for my prior infatuation with him, I will not deny it. The man took a bullet for my father.”

  “Does this impress you so? It is a common event on the battlefield for a man to give his life for his friends.”

  “I was twelve, Anatole, a mere child. I was standing right there. I had his blood on me.”

  Merely saying it sent odd reverberations down into her being.

  He gave her a sour look, but he looked a trifle mollified. “You’re telling me, then, that you were merely starstruck by this hero of yours.”

  “As a child I was, but that was years ago. Santiago and I have little more than a passing acquaintance now.” She held his gaze matter-of-factly, hating herself for these bold-faced lies that seemed to cheapen the sweetness, tenderness, and beauty of what she and Darius had shared. She could only pray she was convincing.

  Rounding the table toward her, Anatole gave her a sideward smile that probably beguiled other women. “I hope you are not lying to me, my sweet island rose.” He reached to stroke her arm. She jerked away, cheeks flushing in a riot of color. “For I will find out the truth on our wedding night, won’t I?” he added.

  She gasped and pivoted, striding away from him on legs that shook beneath her. She heard his laughter behind her.

  He followed. “Serafina—”

  “Sir, you are too familiar,” she said coldly as she walked swiftly ahead of him.

  “Your Highness, I was only testing you.”

  She whirled around. “Testing me?”

  “Aren’t you glad you passed?”

  Staring up at him, amazed by his effrontery, she found herself slowly being backed toward the wall. She folded her arms tightly over her chest, shielding herself instinctively, glaring up at him in defiance as he loomed over her. He had sought to intimidate her like this last time they met, she recalled, the time he’d told her he must tame her.

  Supremely sure of himself, he tilted his head, gazing down at her, the blond locks flowing over the front of his shoulder. “A little bird told me that three years ago, at your debut ball, when you flung yourself at this poor fellow, he fled. This says to me he is a man of honor, as you claim, and that he understands his place. I approve.”

  “You approve. I see.”

  He held up his hand to silence her, a long-suffering expression on his rough-hewn face. “Your father should be glad for such a man; such loyalty is rare. My only question is whether or not you sought to tempt poor Colonel Santiago again during this . . . cozy little sojourn in the country. A woman like you cannot abide a man who refuses to succumb to her charms, and a man can only be pushed so far.”

  “A woman like me?” She stared up at him in disbelief. “You obviously know nothing about me. Excuse me, Your Highness. I answered your question three times already.” She turned to moved past him.

  He stopped her, pinning her against the wall with one fingertip jabbed none too gently into the front of her shoulder. With so little effort, he held her in place. It was humiliating.

  “Don’t go. Pray, indulge me, my bride,” he said, smiling.

  At that moment, the front door banged back and in walked Santiago.

  Oh, God. Her stomach plummeted.

  There was a split second before he saw them. Anatole barely troubled himself to glance over his shoulder to see who had come in. Head down, the forelock veiling his eyes, Darius took a couple of slow, weary steps into the entrance hall, then he lifted his head, saw them, and froze.

  His stare homed in on her, then locked on Anatole, and his eyes
turned to blackest fire.

  The air of weariness around him fell away. Without hesitation, he strode swiftly across the room, threw Anatole back, and punched him—a shattering blow across the face.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Serafina gasped as Anatole tripped back a step. Darius pursued, driving him back to slam his spine hard against the far wall.

  “You know who she is? You put your hands on her?” Darius roared at him.

  Anatole grabbed Darius by the throat. Darius turned nimbly and drove his elbow into Anatole’s abdomen. Anatole doubled over slightly for a moment with a curse. Darius looked down his nose at him in pure contempt and snarled something at him in Russian that brought pure savagery leaping into Anatole’s blue eyes.

  Anatole charged him.

  The fight ensued. Serafina had never seen anything like it in her life. She could only stand there in shock, eyes wide, both hands pressed over her mouth, as her fiancé and her lover clashed like two powerful wild animals battling for supremacy. Tyurinov had the size and brute strength of an enraged bull, Darius the speed and finesse of an attacking panther. She knew she could not possibly separate them, but she could not seem to move to go for help, afraid that if she so much as looked away, they would kill each other.

  She was aware of footmen who had come running. There were shouts. A servant ran off to get help, but no one dared go near them. Serafina was frozen where she was.

  Scarcely breathing, she looked on in bewildered terror, flattening herself back against the wall as they crashed to the floor by her feet, rolling like embattled wolves. Darius wound up on top as Tyurinov and he tried to strangle each other.

  He punched Tyurinov across the face again, causing the other man’s grip on his throat to slip. In that instant, she saw Darius’s hand go smoothly for his dagger. Horror filled her.

  “Darius, no!”

  He looked over at her, chest heaving, and she saw the beast in his eyes—the ferocious creature who had saved her that terrifying night in the maze. But as his gaze fixed on her, the savagery cleared.

  In that second, Anatole recovered and dealt Darius a reeling blow under the chin.

  The guards came flooding into the hall then and pulled the two men apart. It took several men to hold them back, and all the while Darius and Tyurinov screamed at each other in Russian.

  “What are they saying?” she cried.

  None of the guards knew.

  She could not believe Darius had attacked Anatole so rashly. Of all the times he had been insulted by the courtiers who loved to bait him, he had never allowed himself to be drawn into a brawl under her father’s roof.

  Darius roughly shrugged off the men and turned away from them, raking a hand through his hair. Anatole’s fury, too, began to simmer down to bristling edginess, but each man was still ringed by guards.

  Anatole’s mouth was bleeding at the corner, and she could see the crimson stain on Darius’s shoulder where his stitches must have torn open again with his exertion.

  Serafina dropped her face in both hands. She didn’t know which of them to go to.

  At that moment, she hated them both.

  She lifted her head, cheeks burning with shame, and looked at Darius. Hair tousled, chest heaving, his fiery stare was fixed on her. His coal-black eyes glowed with stormy, anguished passion. In that moment, he was as beautiful as an avenging angel, and she had the strangest premonition that she was never going to see him again.

  Seated at her writing desk in the privacy of her rooms, scratching out another flaming diatribe to a creditor who would not stop hounding her, Julia Calazzi was still stewing over the fact that, stupidly, she had showed her hand, revealing Darius’s title. It was unlike her to act on emotion, but she had been simply unable to stomach Princess Perfect’s gloating, lording it over everyone because she had had Santiago all to herself for nearly a week.

  Julia really didn’t wish to face the question of whether or not anything had happened between them while they were gone, but clearly Serafina was more in love with Darius than ever.

  Anatole’s arrival should bring her back down to earth, she thought in smug satisfaction.

  Just then, Teresa burst in on her and swiftly related the news of the fight between Santiago and Tyurinov. Teresa gushed with the details as if this were some delicious scandal, but Julia’s blood ran cold. The others did not know Anatole as she did.

  When Teresa was through, Julia forced a cool smile. “Well, darling, you’d best run along. He may need some nursing.”

  “My thoughts exactly!” Teresa laughed gaily and hurried out of the room.

  Julia’s gaze traveled absently over her desk while her heart pounded. She refused to let herself panic. Instead, she rose, went to the mirror, and touched up her makeup as she considered her strategy.

  She gave Anatole one hour to cool down, then left her rooms and walked slowly to his suite, chin high. At his door, she closed her eyes for a moment, gathering herself, then she knocked.

  His valet admitted her. She walked into a room crowded with the towering Russian officers and nobles of Tyurinov’s entourage. She could not understand their words, but the tension in the air made her certain this gathering was something of a war council. She knew who the enemy was.

  She had come to plead for Santiago’s life.

  Oddly, she felt small and weak among them, but they parted before her so she could follow the valet, who beckoned her into the adjoining bedroom.

  She stepped inside and found two men in whispered consultation with the prince. Anatole sat in an armchair as though it were a throne. He was bare-chested, golden hair flowing over his magnificent shoulders, his cold stare fixed straight ahead with a sullen look.

  When his sapphire stare flicked to her, piercing her, he lowered the muslin-wrapped ice from his jaw and dismissed the two men. They brushed past her. The valet closed the door, and she was alone with him.

  She thought of asking him if he was all right, but hesitated. No, that would only insult him.

  “Quite a welcome,” he remarked. “Don’t you think?”

  She crooked her mouth into a cool smile. “I’ve come to welcome you properly.” She walked over to him and leaned down, gently kissing his bruised, sullen mouth. At once, he shoved his hand between her legs, cupping her mound. Julia hid her annoyance and straightened up, taking a step back.

  “Not yet,” she chided with a coy smile.

  Smiling at her, he trailed his fingers lightly under his nose. “What happened?” she asked as she went to lean with seeming idleness against the footboard of his bed.

  “An insane Spaniard attacked me. For this, he is a dead man, of course.”

  “He is very close to the king,” she pointed out. “What do you intend, a duel?”

  “I haven’t decided yet. Come sit on my lap,” he invited her.

  She arched a brow, smiling in smooth patience. “Not yet.” “It was a long voyage without women.”

  “Ah.” She trailed her hand over the curve of the footboard. “Anatole? Is it really a good idea for you to rid the world of Santiago? You realize the man has been her guardian all her life. She is like a little sister to him. How is he supposed to react when he sees you threatening her?”

  “You should know better than to ask me to feel mercy, Julia.”

  He was right, she thought, staring at him. She wasn’t going to get anywhere unless she appealed to his self-interest.

  “And I doubt his feelings are brotherly,” he added in a rumbling growl.

  “These people are very clannish, Anatole. In fact . . .” She folded her arms under her breasts and decided to go out on a limb. “It is sometimes whispered that Darius Santiago is actually the king’s byblow.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “I don’t know if that is true or not,” she lied, “but I do know as a boy he was a ward of the king. If he is Lazar’s son, you can well see it would be unwise to kill him. Besides, it is commonly known that if Santiago favors any one woman aro
und here, it’s me.”

  He propped his blunt, square chin on his fist and considered her words. “Brother and sister . . . ?”

  “If you had a sister and perceived a threat to her, what would you do?”

  He gave her a sullen look and glanced away, shifting in his chair.

  “Anatole, really. I know everything about everyone in this palace, and Her Highness is not in love with him. How could you possibly doubt yourself?” She began walking slowly toward him, rolling her hips with each step. He watched, his eyes agleam.

  She rounded the back of his chair and reached down to caress his chest slowly with both hands. “No woman could prefer any man to you,” she whispered.

  He lay back against the chair, soaking up her touch. When he closed his terrible, piercing eyes, she was glad.

  “What if an accident befell him?” he murmured.

  “They would see through it. Darling, I’d hate to see this minor incident prove a stumbling block in your marvelous career. So many people are counting on you, Anatole. Let him go. He’s not worth it. He’s nothing.”

  “He is nothing,” he agreed as she continued stroking his smooth, ironlike body.

  “Come, grant me this favor, Anatole,” she wheedled softly. “There will be no more trouble. I’ll keep him away from your bride for you.”

  The sapphire eyes swept open. His gaze locked on her face in cool amusement. “What’s in it for you, Julia?”

  “Well, if you must know . . . money.” She lowered her lashes. “His money. I mean to marry him.”

  He began laughing. It was the coldest sound she had ever heard.

  “I am in rather dire straits,” she protested, a bit rattled by the sound. “If you kill him, I don’t know what I shall do.”

  Still chuckling, he closed his eyes again. “Having you for a wife is perhaps punishment enough in itself.”

  “God knows, I don’t want to be anybody’s wife, but I must have some security,” she said indignantly.

  “Do you promise to cuckold him until he is a laughingstock?”

  “That is my way,” she conceded.

  “Give me a massage,” he rumbled.