by Princess
When they received the czar’s letter, Darius had explained to her what was written between the lines. Had Tyurinov lived, his criminal trial would have caused a terrific scandal for the czar personally, as his cousin. It also would have polarized Tyurinov’s supporters in the army and among the conservative nobles against his administration.
As far as Princess Margaret’s family was concerned, the czar wrote that he condoled with them personally and explained the true facts of her death. Now that Anatole was dead, they felt a small sense of justice knowing their daughter had been avenged.
Els brought her out of her thoughts. “I love the color.” She smiled as she took a turn about the room.
As the redhead cooed over the Greek antiquities placed tastefully here and there, Serafina’s gaze came to rest on the desk. Darius’s spectacles sat atop the thick ledger for his ship-and-trade firm.
Though he still acted as special diplomatic counselor to the Office of Foreign Affairs, the role of the prosperous merchant prince was as dangerous a lifework as he cared to undertake these days. She thanked God for it. He had worked hard enough for his adopted country and able, new men were stepping forward for the dangerous assignments. She liked to tease him that the world had not come to an end without his managing it, after all.
The two women continued their tour up the stairs.
Els turned to her. “What do you think of Alec?”
Serafina hid her smile. “Oh, he’s very sweet. Very dependable. A good man.”
“Straitlaced, though, and he’s awfully tame,” Els replied cautiously, knitting her brow.
“Maybe he needs someone to spice up his life.”
Els snorted but blushed. Serafina chuckled and showed her the various rooms, until at last they came to the pink bedroom.
“Ah, the love nest.”
“Els!” Now it was Serafina’s turn to blush.
Els sighed. “You’re so lucky. Such a life. Such a husband. Such a house.”
“I know it,” she murmured, folding her arms under her bosom as Els walked over to the window to inspect the view.
Serafina looked down to find her bare toes on the edge of the tapestry rug. She gazed down at the softly faded colors depicting the youths and maidens dancing around the maypole, with the world brightly flowering around them.
“Your poor brother,” Els sighed as she stood looking down on the gathering below. She shook her head as Serafina joined her. “Look at him. He is not the same anymore.”
Under the crisp, azure sky, the sunlit fields rolled out in every direction as far as the eye could see. Nearer, the golden fall day embraced the villa and all her guests, seated variously around the pleasingly landscaped back garden. Mama was presiding at the center with her sleeping infant, Prince Lorenzo, in her arms. Pia was sitting next to her, ready to offer aid and beaming down at the baby. By the garden wall, Papa was bending down to examine the late-blooming red roses.
But Rafe sat apart from everyone, sprawled in a chair, his handsome chin propped on his fist as he stared restlessly at the horizon.
Serafina shook her head in concern. She felt sorry for him. “We heard Julia Calazzi has been seen in Rome,” she confided. “It appears she has attached herself to Pauline Bonaparte.”
“No!” Els gasped.
She nodded, turning away from the window to go sit on the bed. “Birds of a feather, don’t you think? Julia could be captured easily enough, but Rafael won’t allow her to be prosecuted. He told Darius all he wants is to go to her and ask her why.”
Els shook her head sadly and continued gazing at the prince.
The gleeful clamor of children’s shouting voices suddenly floated to them from a distance. Serafina smiled knowingly to herself at the sound. He’s late.
“That cannot be your husband . . . oh, my Lord,” Els said, staring, “I don’t believe my eyes.”
Smiling, Serafina walked back toward her. “Ah, yes, the Pied Piper.” She joined Els at the window and laughed with sheer happiness at what she saw.
Kite ribbons trailing, the great Santiago and his entourage came trudging back toward the house through the sunlit fields.
Els turned and gaped at her. “Your husband is covered in children!”
“They’re the local peasant children. They come to see him nearly every day.” Children swung from his arms, skipped around him, and craned their necks to gauge his every smile and glance, all talking at once. Darius did not look particularly annoyed. When they came nearer, he pointed to the table laden with food. En masse, they ran for it like a tribe of wild heathens, ignoring the royal personages present.
Els stared, openmouthed.
Darius set the kites on the grass at the edge of the garden, then went and shook hands with her father. The two tall, dark men stood there in conversation for a few minutes.
Having helped themselves to the food on the table, the children promptly ran back to Darius, popping cookies in their mouths, wielding chicken drumsticks like tiny clubs. They tackled him until he gave in, laughing, and let himself be thrown onto the grass, then they piled on him.
“I am in shock,” Els said.
“He is spoiling every single one of them,” Serafina replied archly. “He used the scraps of wood the carpenters left and built them a playhouse. He reads to them. Arbitrates their quarrels. Now he is talking of buying a pony so he can teach them all how to ride.”
“You sound jealous,” Els laughed.
“No,” she said softly. “They are my accomplices. They are helping me drown him in love.”
Below, the children had relented and let Darius sit up. Presently, they all watched, spellbound, as he used his Gypsy magic to pull a shiny gold coin out of one little boy’s ear.
He brandished the coin and grinned. They screeched and piled on him again.
Els shook her head in astonishment. “I’d say you had better give that man a baby.”
“Actually . . .” Serafina began to blush.
Els turned to her in question, staring at her, her green eyes flying open wide. “Cricket!”
Serafina smiled shyly, turning bright pink.
Els threw her arms around her. “Oh, I am so happy for you!”
Serafina returned her hug, laughing with tears in her eyes, then she drew back and held both her friend’s hands, giving them a squeeze. “I just found out myself. I can’t wait to tell him.”
“He doesn’t know yet?”
“I was going to wait till tonight after everyone had gone—”
“No, no! You must tell him now, then you can share your happiness with all the people who love you both,” Els said, her voice choking up with emotion. She quickly banished the tear that rose in her eye.
“Hmm,” Serafina mused. “Maybe you’re right.”
“Of course I am! Come, now. You go tell him your wonderful tidings. I’m going to get something to eat before those little heathens devour it all.”
Arm in arm, they returned to the gathering below. Els shot her a look of encouragement, then drifted over to try and coax a smile out of Rafe. She saw her brother lift his gaze to Els, but Serafina walked past them toward the onyx-eyed magician ringed by children on the grass.
“Uh-oh, everyone, here comes the fairy queen,” Darius said to his captivated audience, his gaze holding hers with the shadow of a mischievous smile. “You must be on your best behavior. If you’re very good, she’ll make your wish come true. She did mine.”
“And if you’re bad, I will turn you all into toads,” she finished, standing over them, hands on hips, as they screeched and laughed uproariously at this threat.
“I want to be a toad!” one yelled.
Serafina spread her hands over them. “Abracadabra, abracadoo, you are all toads!”
“I’m a toad, I’m a toad!” they cried. They began playing leapfrog.
Darius glanced at the leapfrogging children, then arched a brow at her from under his forelock. “Not bad.”
“It is the least of my powers
.” She smiled. “Come with me,” she said softly, “I have something to tell you.”
He jumped up off the grass and took her hand. They walked close together as she led him under the grape trellis a short distance away. In its green, leafy shadows, he drew her into his arms and gazed down at her, then lowered his head and kissed her softly.
She caressed his clean-shaven face, parting her lips to taste him.
Desire leaped between them. He pulled back from the kiss with a shivery little sigh that silently expressed his regret for the inconvenience of company present. He stroked her hair and they stood holding each other.
“What is it you wanted to tell me, beauty?” he murmured after a moment, nuzzling her cheek.
She felt a twinge of anxiety, but when she lifted her gaze and looked into his dark, velvety eyes, glowing with warmth and kindness, her fear dissolved.
“The first thing is that I love you, Darius.”
“And I love you.” His smile widened. “What’s the second thing?”
“Well . . .” Sliding her arms around his neck, she pulled him down and whispered in his ear.
All the guests looked over, when, from under the grape trellis, came the sound of deep, rolling, wonderful laughter. The curious children crept in to investigate, and a few minutes later, the children herded them back out to the party, arm in arm, Serafina blushing, Darius beaming with a grin of exhilaration.
“What are you two scoundrels up to now?” Rafael drawled at them from his chair on the lawn.
Darius held out one arm, turning toward them all. “My family,” he said, unable to contain his smile, “we have an announcement. . . .”
The celebration had just begun.
HISTORICAL NOTE
On July 31, 1798, Horatio Nelson burned the French fleet in the Bay of Abukir. As a consequence, Napoleon was never able to catch up to British sea power. The lack of a strong fleet posed a continual problem for Napoleon, marking a limit to how far he could extend his power, no matter how victorious his armies were on land.
It seemed an easy enough stretch to imagine for this story’s purposes that Napoleon would seek to ally himself with any country that had a strong navy, especially a country neighboring his native Corsica. Those of you who have read The Pirate Prince may remember how King Lazar of Ascencion came into power with an excellent navy already under his command!
Another aspect of extrapolating this plot from historical facts was that Napoleon’s life was constantly being threatened. My research revealed he even employed body doubles in order to confuse those who wanted him dead. The threat of assassination was an annoying problem for him, but it was the Great Conspiracy that made him really angry. A lone gunman here and there was one matter, but this handful of would-be assassins, he discovered, had been sponsored financially by the British government. Napoleon was so outraged, he vowed to invade England and bring it to its knees. However, his lack of a strong fleet continued to pose a problem. My sources revealed he even considered using hot-air balloons to transport his troops across the English Channel! Instead, he muscled Spain into an alliance and took control of what remained of the once Great Armada. But before he dared launch his invasion, he needed to get rid of his old nemesis, the indomitable Nelson.
Meanwhile, William Pitt was orchestrating the Third Coalition, an alliance of countries uniting to stand against Napoleon, including England, Russia, Austria, and Naples.
Two other pertinent historical facts I used to tie into this story were the mysterious circumstances behind Czar Alexander’s succession to the throne after his mad father’s murder, and Napoleon’s ambition to wed his siblings as well as his stepson to authentic royalty in order to legitimize his growing empire. Eugène Beauharnais, incidentally, ended up marrying a Bavarian princess in 1806. In fact, after Napoleon received the Iron Crown of Lombardy in Milan (there was no assassination attempt there, by the way—pure fiction) he returned to Paris, leaving Eugène in charge as viceroy, though he was barely twenty-five. Eugène is still remembered in Lombardy as an enlightened and benevolent ruler.
Perhaps I owe Princess Pauline Bonaparte Borghese a bit of an apology, but after studying her and learning how she relished her reputation as a femme fatale, I can’t help but think she’d have gotten a kick out of her role as Darius’s unwitting rescuer.
As for Ascencion itself, you won’t find it on any map—it is strictly a kingdom of the imagination. However, I based its topography, climate, and many aspects of its folkways on a blend of those of Corsica and Sicily.
Finally, I learned from the letters of the poet Percy Shelley that the two favored suicide poisons of the day were prussic acid and essential oil of bitter almonds. However, both of these are liquids, and for plot purposes, I needed to equip Darius with a powder. Thus I used arsenic, though this compound did not really become the poison of choice until a decade or so later. I hope the reader will forgive this and other liberties I have taken with history, keeping in mind that in works of the imagination, all else is secondary to the story. At least that’s my opinion!
Thank you for visiting the mythical kingdom of Ascencion with me. I hope you will return again when the royal rogue Prince Rafael, disowned by King Lazar for his rakehell ways, seizes one last chance to prove himself worthy of the crown in King Lazar’s absence.
Naturally, the moment he comes to power, all hell breaks loose on Ascencion.
The power-mongering courtiers challenge him, the people still think him a rake and resist his authority, and a drought jeopardizes the island’s crops. But when a mysterious Robin Hood figure begins leading raids on royal carriages, his headaches have just begun. Because to the defiant and impoverished young Lady Daniela Chiaramonte, Rafael di Fiore is anything but Prince Charming.
See you there!
Best wishes,
Gaelen
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PRINCESS
by Gaelen Foley
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CHAPTER ONE
Ascencion, 1816
There was a stretch of the King’s Road, up from the port, where the moonlight seemed to dim, where a coach’s blazing lanterns seemed to shrink down to flickering rushlights in the swallowing gloom. Here, even veteran coachmen felt their knees turn to jelly and were wise to whip their teams faster and reach for their guns.
As the heavy-wheeled wagon rolled slowly toward that cursed bend, the grizzled old farmer slapped the reins halfheartedly over Ned’s swayed back, but the old draft horse could go no faster, especially not uphill. The docile beast plodded along, his huge, long-feathered hoofs sinking deeply into the clouding, red dust.
The farmer glanced warily up at the high, wooded embankments, but it was too dark to see much. The silence was eerie. Scowling at his own flighty nerves, he reminded himself that the Masked Rider did not attack poor, simple folk like him. No, indeed, the Masked Rider preyed only on the rich, useless aristocrats and their wild, rakehell sons, the type who snapped their fine fingers at right and wrong and ran headlong into whatever wickedness took their fancy.
A man couldn’t let his maiden daughter out of his sight these days, the old farmer thought gruffly. He looked up quickly at some noise overhead, but it was only the hot, dry breeze like a dragon’s breath, rattling the parched leaves.
This damned drought. He thought of his shriveled crops and shook his head bitterly. Ever since Good King Lazar fell ill, ’twas as if a sickness lay over all the land. Yes, he thought, the world was unraveling.
As his wagon moved deeper into the wide curve, the farmer felt eyes upon him from the woods. By the Baptist’s head, if the Masked Rider was real, he would catch a glimpse of the bold lad for himself. That would be something to brag about tomorrow at the taverna!
Bravely, he lifted his feeble lantern and peered into the woods. He held his breath at the sight of shadowy, black
figures among the trees.
One mounted figure slowly lifted a black-clad arm in silent salute. Petrified, the farmer only nodded, his heart in his throat, but when his wagon came out safely on the other side, he laughed aloud in amazement, and the sparkling stars guided him home.
Two hours later, the next traveler on the King’s Road wasn’t so fortunate.
“Looks promising,” Mateo whispered, even as the boy signalled the owl’s call from the distance.
The Masked Rider nodded and gestured the others into position.
Through the moonlight streaked a team of six smart, matched bays, their galloping strides eating up the ground, pulling a well-sprung coach of gleaming black and mahogany.
Down on the road, the liveried coachman laid his whip over the team’s backs and slid his pistol out of his coat, his face sweaty and pale under his top hat. There’s no such thing as the Masked Rider. No silly Robin Hood! It’s just another peasant tale—yes, that’s it. The driver’s gaze skimmed nervously over the embankments.
Perhaps he should have said something to his passenger, he thought, warned him of the possible danger. Only, the man in the coach scared him worse than the shadowy Masked Rider.
A bead of sweat ran down the driver’s face as the coach continued hurtling up the road.
Dead ahead lay that cursed bend.
Inside the coach, the disgraced prince sat in granite stillness, arms folded over his massive chest. Only his immense silhouette was visible in the coach’s gloom, but the aura of authority around him was palpable, eloquent in the expansive planes of his shoulders and his hard-lined jaw, edged with the faintest flicker of starlight. As he brooded in silence, the space of the coach seemed full to brimming with his leashed, long-nursed anger and cunning, implacable will.
On this, the greatest night of his life, Prince Rafael di Fiore was carefully biding his time. Deep in his thoughts, his harsh gaze fell dead ahead and in his stillness, he was as dangerous as a rogue lion in the shadows, idly flicking its tail, silent, keenly watching.
