by Princess
He stole a glance around the stone saint’s shoulder and ducked back as gunfire roared.
The exit was too heavily guarded even to try.
Oh, God, he thought. Arsenic.
Pressing his eyes closed for a second, he reached into his waistcoat and pulled out the tiny, folded envelope. He blessed himself rapidly with the sign of the cross, then tore the paper and poured the arsenic powder into his hand. Chest heaving, he struggled to raise it to his mouth.
Oh, God, oh, God, I don’t want to die, he thought, raising his pleading stare to the blue sky.
He saw her then—the golden Virgin above him. Her expression was so sweet, so sure, the only mother he had ever known. He gazed helplessly at her and then, as if she had blown the air from her lips herself, the wind scattered the little white mound of arsenic right out of his hand.
Darius gasped, clutching uselessly as the powder slipped away.
He could hear the guards coming closer. French voices shouted at him.
“Give yourself up! In the name of the emperor, I command you to surrender!”
Heart hammering, his back pressed up against the stone saint’s back, Darius stared straight ahead at the edge of the roof.
It was the only way.
Shoving away from the base of the spire with all his strength, he charged the edge. He would scream Serafina’s name when he leaped .
Half a dozen paces from the edge, the guardsmen tackled him to the ground.
He fought like a madman, cursed at them like a demoniac, willing one of them to kill him so his death might protect Lazar. There were ten men piled on him, kicking him, punching him. They wrested his sword away and whenever he struck one with his ebony-handled dagger, another soldier merely took his place.
They nearly broke his wrist to make him let go of the dagger. How many he wounded or killed, he did not know. He didn’t feel their blows—he was too enraged. Fury poured and seethed from him, possessing him. It was as though some terrible door inside him had been opened. He was someone he didn’t know, tasting his own blood in his mouth. He was frenzied, screaming threats at them even as they threw him down on his face and manacled his hands behind his back.
He was shoved and dragged down the many stairs, and thrown into a waiting carriage under heavy guard. He heard them say they were taking him to the ancient Castello Sforzesco, which served as the French troops’ barracks.
It was a swift ride, for the ancient fortress was situated only several blocks north.
While in the cathedral Napoleon grasped the Iron Crown of Charlemagne and placed it upon his own head, Darius was thrown into the dungeons beneath the castle.
Panting, bruised, he stared through the rusty bars at the soldiers.
Their captain sauntered into their midst, the dim lanterns illumining his harsh, narrow face and gray hair. He reminded Darius of his father. The old man must be laughing at him from hell.
“You will tell us your name,” the captain said.
“Come here and let me kill you,” Darius spat at him.
The captain smiled, a cruel smile. Darius glared back at him, gripping the bars, then shoved himself back and began pacing, barely containing his frenzied ire. He watched them as he paced, chains clanking from arms and ankles. He listened to them discussing him quietly. Apparently he had killed seven and wounded three.
He could hardly congratulate himself at the news when he had missed the one man he had come to kill. Failed. Worthless.
A few minutes later, the captain ordered the warden to open his cell. With a large, beefy corporal in tow, the captain entered. He nodded from the corporal to Darius.
“Search him.”
With a cold sneer, Darius endured as the corporal slammed him up against the clammy wall. They removed his cravat to stop him from hanging himself, his spurs to keep him from slashing his wrists. They cut his waistcoat away, leaving him in his torn shirt. When this was done, the corporal jerked him around to face the captain again.
Darius looked down his nose at him masterfully.
The captain narrowed his eyes. “Bravado won’t save your life, my friend. What’s this?” The captain’s gaze fell to his chest. He stepped forward and lifted the medal of the Virgin in his hand.
Darius saw the captain’s fist tighten on the medal, felt the chain go taut against his skin.
“Take it and I swear to God I’ll rip your throat out,” he said softly through clenched teeth.
Debating with himself, the captain held his stare for a long moment, then smirked at him and stepped back, dropping the medal against his chest. “A worthless trinket.” The captain pivoted and left the cell.
The big corporal followed, sliding the rusty metal door shut and locking it securely.
Darius could only wonder how much worse he had just made things for himself.
Lying in bed on her side, staring at nothing, Serafina expected at any hour to hear news of Darius’s fate. She had waited for two days, and now, again, night was closing in. She had to wonder if she was going a little mad, for in some bizarre way she was convinced she could keep him alive by an unflinching, inward focus on her love for him.
She had her father’s solemn oath that he would send for her the moment he heard anything. The sound of her mother’s sobs upon learning the news, as well as the prime minister’s injunction to them all, still rang in her ears. We must not give the Russians any cause for suspicion. Life must appear to go on as normal. Word will come soon. Until then, we can do nothing but wait.
She, too, could do nothing but wait. She couldn’t understand why she was the only one who believed that Darius could indeed succeed in killing Napoleon. Maybe she was mad, like him.
She held his carefully penned little note to her heart. Her gaze traveled over her tokens of him with which she had surrounded herself on the bed—his guitar and the Chinese kites and the countless other gifts he had given her over the years. There were treasures from all over the world to delight the little girl in her, satin dancing slippers from Constantinople with toes that curled upward, a headdress made of delicate chains hung with strange coins, a tiny piece of an ancient temple from Greece, a perfect ball of violet quartz from an African mine. But these exotic baubles were nothing compared to what Darius had given of himself—the tenderness and safety he had shown her.
Now he had given his life for her.
No. She refused to believe he was dead. The Blessed Mother was taking care of him, just as she always had. If she concentrated very hard, deep down in the core of her being, she felt the bond between them, sure and alive, like a resplendent flame in the darkness. She closed her eyes.
My unicorn, my champion, my wolf. How I miss you.
Her blood ran cold as a knock sounded at the outer door.
It’s time.
She had thought herself ready for this moment, but now that it had come, she did not know how to face it.
A moment later, Pia appeared in the doorway to her bedroom. The maid’s timid voice brimmed with sorrow and worry. “Your Highness, His Majesty sends for you.”
As if outside herself, Serafina watched herself calmly get up from her bed. She watched herself smooth her hair and walk out of her apartments, hands steady at her sides.
She was a royal princess with a proud lineage seven hundred years old, she told herself with every step. In her veins was the blood of kings. She would bear the fatal blow with her chin high.
At her father’s office, she took a deep breath, then opened the door, at once taken aback to find that Anatole was already with him. The atmosphere was fraught with tension. At her entrance, both men looked over.
“Good, you’re here,” her father said sternly.
Anatole jolted with a half-remembered bow. He offered her one of the chairs in front of Papa’s desk. Warily, she glanced from one tense man to the other, then walked over and sat, folding her hands in her lap.
Her father sat down heavily at his desk and searched her face.
Her han
ds twisted in her lap. “No news, Papa?”
“No news.”
Thank God. He could still be alive.
“Cricket, the reason I’ve called you here is because, in light of Darius’s actions, Anatole feels it would behoove us to move the wedding up to tomorrow.”
She glanced quickly at Anatole. “Tomorrow! But that is impossible!”
“Why wait, Your Highness?” he asked curtly, his sapphire eyes glinting with anger as he knowingly held her gaze. “Pardon me for speaking frankly, but I was disturbed from the outset to learn that this information was kept hidden from me. With all due respect, sir,” he said to her father, “your Santiago will never succeed. Since the great conspiracy involving the Duc d’Enghien last year, Napoleon is extremely careful about his public appearances. Security at the coronation will be impossible to penetrate.”
“You don’t know Santiago,” she said.
He cocked his head toward her. “Can he make himself invisible? Is he immune to bullets?”
“Sometimes.”
“Even if he gets in, he won’t get out. He will be captured, and when the link between him and Ascencion is discovered, France will turn on this island with a vengeance. He cannot possibly succeed, and by failing, he has endangered you all, and made war all but inevitable. The certainty of my protection is your only hope. Our alliance must be sealed before news reaches the world that a man of Your Majesty’s inner circle tried to assassinate Napoleon. Sire, you will be instantly implicated.”
“What if Darius succeeds?” she broke in softly.
“He can’t succeed! You are missing the whole point, Your Highness,” he lashed out at her. “Don’t you care what happens to your father? To your people? Is this Spaniard’s miserable life all you care about?”
“Watch your tone, sir,” her father growled at Anatole in warning.
He looked over and the iron mask of his charm clanged back into place.
“Forgive me.” He went down on one knee in front of her and took her hand, putting on a pretty show for Papa. “After my first wife, Margaret, died, Serafina, I was so broken, I said I would never remarry. But when I met you and heard of Ascencion’s plight, I knew I must offer myself as the solution.”
“And we are grateful for your generosity, my lord,” her father said in a brooding tone, “but let us remind you that our daughter could win the heart of any man on the planet.”
“Papa.” She shot him a quick glance over Anatole’s golden head. He only used the royal “we” when his anger was stirred. Perhaps he was beginning to see through Anatole’s polished mask at last.
“Indeed she could, sir,” Anatole agreed softly.
Serafina gazed at Anatole, wondering if there was one shred of sincerity behind his sudden show of solicitude. She didn’t think so. All she knew was that she had to buy time until news came of whether or not Darius had killed Napoleon and survived. If he had failed, she would still need to marry Anatole, in which case it would be suicide to anger him.
She must manage him.
“Anatole,” she said, her voice at its softest and most feminine as she carefully laid her hand over his. “You know I am fond of you and honored to become your wife, but I see no need to rush things. Mama has taken such pains to make everything perfect for the day. I daresay she has taxed herself overmuch with all her work, and in her delicate condition. The food, the church, the choirs, the fireworks. Of course, you understand these matters better than I, but please, can’t we let the date stand?” She tucked her chin and offered him a shy smile, gazing at him.
Anatole stared at her, looking quite thoroughly enchanted.
She was aware, from the corner of her eye, of her father staring at her in astonishment.
“Please, Anatole?” she said cajolingly.
He stammered. “I—I—”
Just then, there was a knock at the door.
“Come,” her father ordered.
She heard veiled mirth in his deep voice. When Anatole looked over at the door to see who had come, Papa shot her a knowing wink.
Anatole stayed where he was, crouched down before her, holding her hand as if it were made of delicate china.
The palace steward opened the door, bowed, and brought the king a note. “Urgent, Sire,” he murmured.
Realizing that even here and now might be news of Darius’s fate, Serafina watched, her heart hammering, while Papa opened it. His eyes widened as he read it. Abruptly he shoved up out of the chair with a look of mixed joy and dread.
“Cricket, your mother’s in labor!”
“Good Lord!” she cried, jumping out of her chair past Anatole.
Papa was already striding across the room. “Anatole, we’ll have to finish this later. Forgive my indelicacy, but the babe was not expected for another three weeks. My wife is strong, but she is not a girl anymore. I must go to her!”
He swept to his feet. “By all means, Sire.”
“Me, too!” Serafina hurried after him, but Anatole grabbed her arm as she stepped over the threshold.
“A word with you, please, Your Highness.”
She was in the doorway, but her father was already halfway down the hall.
“Papa, wait!” she called in distress, loath to be left alone with Anatole.
“You two work it out for yourselves,” her father called with a wave of his hand. “Consider it a premarital lesson in compromise. But don’t forget I warned you, Anatole,” he added in a jaunty tone. “My girl always gets her way.”
Oh, damn, she thought as her father disappeared around the corner. After that little display of her wiles in his office, Papa had no doubt concluded that she held Anatole in the palm of her hand, as she did so many others. In truth, she was not sure if the Russian’s fleeting, smitten expression had been real or false. She looked up to find him studying her face.
“Let us finish this business, my bride.”
She regarded him warily, saying nothing. Her chin was high as she leaned her back against the doorframe and folded her arms over her chest.
“Why do you want to delay our marriage?” he asked.
“Why do you want to move it up?”
He tilted his head, looming over her. He braced his hands on the door above her. “I’ll tell you why. Because I think you are scheming to discard me.”
“I am not.”
“You’d better not be. We are pledged to each other, you and I. I am not a man to be trifled with. You insult me, you insult Russia, for without my armies, the czar is nothing. You insult Russia, and Ascencion will lose the friendship of all the allies of the Third Coalition. No one will give this island the slightest relief when Napoleon comes. Not even England.”
“How do you know?”
He ticked them off on his fingers. “Naples is helpless. Sweden is too far away to care. Austria’s strength is wasted. England will only give gold. But Russia’s population is vast: We are the soldiers. We are the cannon fodder.”
She winced and looked away.
“That’s right, my sweet island rose. Human lives. That is the currency with which I’ve bought you.”
She refused to heed him. My Darius can do it! she thought in rebellion. He will kill Napoleon and come back to me. I know he will escape. He has to.
She had to get out of here. Mama was in labor. Suddenly she seized upon a solution.
“We cannot move the wedding up because I will not get married without my mother present. She will need time to recover from the birthing. Anatole, you must respect that.”
He stared at her for a long moment assessingly. “A baby is always born when someone in a family dies.”
She looked up at him in agony. What a cruel and horrible thing to say.
He cracked a half-smile. “Don’t imagine I will dote on you the way your father dotes on the queen.”
“I would not so deceive myself, Your Highness.”
He traced the curve of her face with one fingertip. “Anatole,” he whispered.
She cl
osed her eyes, clawing for strength, for she was still knocked off guard by his cruel remark. “Anatole,” she repeated in a humiliating show of obedience.
Again she felt trapped by him and this time, Darius wasn’t coming to her rescue. Where did Anatole get his talent for intimidating her? She had always been headstrong, never easily bullied.
Had he intimidated his first wife this way?
She opened her eyes and they studied each other in hostility.
“You have never spoken of Princess Margaret before.”
“You knew of her.”
“I knew of her, but you never spoke of her. Were you in love with her?”
“Very much. As I am in love with you.”
She lifted a brow in astonishment, her jaw dropping open slightly.
“Are you so surprised?” he asked with a laugh. He touched her hair. “I am very attracted to you, Serafina.”
That is not love, she almost said, but instead she thrust home for her opportunity. “Then indulge me, Anatole, and let the wedding date sit as planned.” She gave him one of her most deliberately dazzling smiles.
He smiled back at her, eyes bright and cold.
“Well,” he said softly, “persuade me, Serafina.”
She flattened herself uneasily against the doorframe, inching back as he drew closer. “What do you mean?”
“Ask me nicely. I think you know what I mean.”
She scowled up at him, barely biting back her opinion of him. “Will you let the date stand or won’t you?”
“If you let me kiss you,” he murmured.
Startled by his unforeseen request, she blushed and lowered her head, gooseflesh creeping down her arms. Fine, she thought, if it would buy her time for Darius.
“A-all right.”
He stepped closer and touched her face, tipping her mouth upward, one hand firmly securing her chin. She was very tense as she leaned against the doorframe, her hands behind her. She tried not to grimace or wince as he lowered his head and pressed his hard, cold lips to hers.
His kiss bruised her lips against her teeth but she forced herself not to pull away. He gripped her hair hard, painfully, resting his other hand on her shoulder, where it squeezed and pawed her flesh.
