Captivated

by Bertrice Small

  She'd miss that most.

  For a few moments more, she memorized the sight of the man who had appropriated her heart and then she cautiously left the bed. She stood for a short interval more, wanting to remember every detail and minutiae, wanting to be able to bring the image of him into her mind with perfect clarity a thousand years from now.

  But the clock in the hall softly chimed the hour, drawing her attention, and, with time so critical, she went to find Gregory.

  "He wants me to leave with him tonight or tomorrow," she said, seated across from her troop captain in the downstairs steward's office.

  "And will you?"

  "If I could persuade him to wait two days, could you telegraph Milosh and have him set the schedule ahead?"

  "Everyone's been ready for six months, Your Highness. Only your scruples have curtailed our plans."

  "And my mother? Can you guarantee me her safety?"

  "Like I have a thousand times before. Katerina will take her out through the tunnel and back to Hungary. It won't be a problem."

  "I should go myself and see her out."

  "And risk your husband's insanity? I'll personally see that you don't." He leaned back in his chair and shut his eyes for a moment. "Forgive me. My words were uncalled for."

  She twisted the brocaded ties of her robe, ran the silken fabric through her fingers, her agitation pronounced. "We're taking an enormous chance with everyone's lives."

  "It's necessary. Everyone knows it. Everyone's known it for a long time. Leave it all to me. Stay with the marquis for a fortnight, a month if you like. By that time, all will be resolved and you can come home in triumph."

  "I'm allowed this small bit of happiness?"

  "You deserve more, and if it were in my power, I'd give you the world, you know that." His heart was in his eyes, but he spoke with a brusque authority.

  "I know, Gregory. Thank you," she softly said, understanding how he felt about her. He was her rock and guardian, her protector. "Two days then before we ostensibly escape?"

  "I'll see that Pierce has access to the stables two nights from now. I'll send a telegram once all is in place for your return."

  "My return," she softly murmured.

  "You'll rule with or without an heir. The stipulation requiring a child is in effect only so long as your husband remains on the throne."

  She nodded and rose from her chair. "Godspeed," she murmured, "in this treacherous game of state."

  chapter 3

  They fled the estate two nights later, Pierce having smuggled three mounts out of the stables. By morning they were halfway to London, and after stopping briefly at Dalsany House for fresh horses, clothes, and a quick luncheon, they continued north to the marquis's estate at Woodhill. It was dark by the time they arrived, but within minutes lights were blazing from every window, the entire staff bustling to see that the master and his guest were made comfortable.

  The princess was introduced to Hugh's majordomo, his housekeeper, steward, and, at the last, his chaplain, John Wright, who said with a smile, "Hugh and I have been friends since boyhood. He's very generous with his tenants and the parish." By omission, the princess understood, the chaplain overlooked the less righteous qualities of his patron. And after a variety of orders had been transmitted by the marquis to his staff, he and the princess retired to his chambers.

  "So this is where you were going to rusticate when I took you away," she said, gazing out on the moonlight lawns.

  "This is wherewe're going to rusticate," he corrected, coming up behind her and enclosing her in his arms. "Just past those hills is the village. I'll take you there tomorrow and show you off."

  "And no one will wonder who I am?"

  "Let them wonder. A Princess Sofia is sharing my life. What else do they have to know. And if I love you, they will, too. Life is very simple here," he went on, filled with a rare contentment, the warmth of her body against his sufficient to make him believe in paradise.

  "A simple life sounds very nice," she softly said, covering his hands with hers.

  "We'll raise our child here. Our children. And if this is insanity," he said, a smile in his voice, "don't wake me up." "Nor me," she murmured, tears welling in her eyes.

  The days passed in such joyful pleasure, the marquis and princess found themselves feeling pity for the rest of the world. They spent every minute together in a kind of harmony poets portrayed in lyrical stanzas and sonnets and those less poetical condemned as fantasy. They lay abed some days and made endless love; on others, they rose at dawn and rode or walked the estate, the gardens, the village lanes. Everywhere they went, people turned to watch them, such happiness startling, awesome, as if bliss and exaltation had taken corporeal form.

  And when, after a fortnight, the princess noticed her courses hadn't come and shyly told the marquis, he decided to call the entire household and village to a celebration feast. "I won't embarrass you," he said, grinning from ear to ear. "We'll call it some summer harvest festival or the name day of some saint; we'll think of something." But many a watchful eye that day and evening when the parish ate and drank and danced on the marquis's front lawn took note of the marquis's tender attention to his princess and a countdown of days began.

  "He'll have to marry her now," the housekeeper stoutly said, tipsy after several glasses of the marquis's best wine, "or his heir won't come into the title right and tight."

  "Can't if'n she's married already," the head groom noted, casting a cool gaze at the housekeeper.

  "He'll have to buy her a divorce then," the majordomo solemnly maintained, his hauteur still intact despite numerous glasses of the aqua vitae he favored. "The House of Lords does it all for a tidy sum."

  "Which himself can afford. Did you see the new diamonds he gave to the princess? She wore them to dinner last night."

  "And also while swimming in the pool in the white garden this morning, I hear," the groom roguishly pronounced.

  "You tell those nasty stable lads to mind their own business or I'll box their ears," the housekeeper hotly returned. "I declare, there's not a speck of manners between the lot of them."

  And as the evening progressed, bets were made and taken on the arrival date of the marquis's new heir.

  While the master and his guest enjoyed the festivities in their own private way.

  At ten, they excused themselves to a roar of ribald cheers and comment and retired to a small guest cottage beyond the noise of the festivities on the manor lawn.

  The small stone house was lit by candles, the golden glow warm and inviting, the scent of lilies and roses permeating the rooms. Vases of flowers stood on tables and consoles, a cold supper had been left in the small dining parlor, the bed had been turned down in the tiny bedroom tucked under the eaves.

  "Do you like it?" Hugh asked, holding her hand in his as they stood on the threshold of the bedroom.

  "It's like a doll house or a fairy tale cottage."

  "And quiet."

  "Yes. But everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves. You're much loved."

  "John and my steward see to most of it. They're very competent."

  "They couldn't do it without your approval." She knew firsthand how brutal and uncaring authority could be.

  "My tenants might as well enjoy some of the benefits of my wealth, too. I'll show you my farms at Alderly tomorrow. We're trying out some new crops and machinery."

  She smiled, thinking how different the country marquis from his libertine persona. "I'd like that," she said.

  "Is there anything else you'd like?" he murmured, bending to nibble on her ear.

  "Supper in bed?" she teased. "I'm famished all the time."

  "And you should be. I want my baby well fed," he lightly declared. "Now, lie down and I'll bring up food and feed you."

  "Youare a darling."

  "And you're the love of my life," he murmured, drawing her into his arms.

  That night, after their supper and after they'd made love, much later when the moo
n was moving toward the horizon, he quietly said, holding her in his arms, "I want you to divorce your husband."

  He felt her stiffen in his arms.

  "I can have a divorce secured without fanfare. No one need know the details or circumstances. My lawyers will be discreet."

  "My husband won't allow it."

  "I'll see that he does." He spoke with an authority that had never been gainsaid.

  "Let's talk about it in the morning. Would you mind?"

  "No, of course not," he gently said. "I'll do whatever you wish. But you know I want this child to be legitimately mine."

  "I know," she whispered, and, reaching up, she kissed him, tears welling in her eyes.

  "Don't cry. I'll make everything right," he tenderly said, wiping her tears away with the back of his hand.

  "I know you will." Her smile quivered for only a moment.

  She was gone when he woke in the morning.

  He tore the house apart, the village, the parish, searching for any clue to her whereabouts. He hired detectives from London, from Paris, but there was no Prince Marko and consort; he had every British consulate looking for her, too, without success. She'd disappeared, as if the earth had swallowed her up.

  When he retired from the world shortly after, there was talk of various maladies and illnesses. Some said he'd turned hermit as penance for his numerous sins; those who knew him better saw his desperate pain and sorrow and worried for his sanity. But as the weeks turned into months, he came to accept Sofia 's disappearance as inevitable and the rhythm of his life settled into a pattern measured only by the seasons of the field and farm. He kept to his estate at Woodhill, although his closest friends would come to visit. He traveled to London only rarelyfor the marriage of his niece and later that of his friend Charles, or for business once or twice a year; he appeared at an occasional race meet when his stable was performing well, and his local hunt club enjoyed his presence regularly during the hunt seasonalthough the level of risks he took at the jumps reached such proportions, wagers were made on whether he'd survive the sport.

  Two years passed, with the young marquis living a life so antithetical to his former existence, all the ladies of his acquaintance despaired of ever experiencing the pleasure of his company again. More determined than most of the pursuing women, the lovely Countess Greyson once managed to infiltrate his household and appeared in his bed.

  He took one look at her, she later related, calmly remarked, "I prefer sleeping alone," and left his bedchamber without a backward glance. After that episode, he gave new orders to his staff concerning his privacy, and no one breached the gates of Woodhill without his approval.

  One August afternoon, several months later, he was going through his daily correspondence, the study doors open to the warm sun and summer breeze. What was she doing right now? he wondered as he often did when opening the latest letter from the detective firm in Paris he still kept on retainer. Expecting no more than the usual quarterly invoice without any new information, he unfolded a brief note and lifted out a news page photo. "Is this the necklace?" his contact in Paris had written. Raising the scrap of paper closer, he gazed at the indistinct image. An arrow had been drawn on the newsprint, indicating a woman in the background at a soiree for the Austrian ambassador in Paris.

  Her face rose out of the crowd and his heart seemed to stop.

  Cautioning himself against rash hope, he quickly scrutinized the photogravure. The woman was blonde; the hair color changed Sofia 's looks but the eyes were hers, and the perfect mouth. His gaze moved to the highlighted necklace, and his last present to Sofia glittered at her throat. Suddenly the blonde hair altered in his mind's eye to a rich, warm auburn and the woman in the background of the thronged soiree stepped from the page back into his life.

  He left Woodhill within twenty minutes and was crossing the Channel five hours later. When the detective bureau opened in Paris the next morning, he was waiting at the door, having just arrived from the Gare du Nord, unshaven, disheveled, demanding immediate answers.

  It took the remainder of the day to track down enough people in the photo to positively identify the woman with the diamond necklace.

  She turned out to be Princess Mariana, regent of a small principality on the border of Dalmatia and Montenegro. Her son, for whom she ruled, was the young Prince Sava.

  His journey took him from Paris to Salzburg to Zagreb. The train traveled through countryside dark with floods outside Zagreb before coming to the Adriatic, which looked that day like one of the bleak Scottish lochs. Sky, islands, and sea were all merged into the gray mist and sweeping rain. He took a steamer down the coast, past Korchula, Gruzh to Ragusa. There he hired a carriage and went inland.

  The country through which he drove was so picturesque, it had the appearance of a stage set: high mountains, deep lakes, orchards and vineyards in the valleys, roses frothing over every wall and ledge. The woodlands were the clearest green laced with dark pines, the forest overseen by a majestic, snow-covered peak in the distance. He passed waterfalls that burst straight from the living rock, the limestone country cleft asunder as if by a giant's hand. Judas trees, fig trees, poplars, beech, wisteria vines were in wild abundance like an earthly paradise, and when he came at last to the small capital city he was reminded of a miniature Venice, all pale palaces and churches shimmering in the summer light.

  The royal palace was constructed of gleaming white marble, its various levels and terraces spilling down a steep hillside amidst flowering shrubs and roses. But the marquis had no eye for the magnificent beauty of the setting or the splendor of the building.

  All he could think of was seeing her again.

  Guards stopped him at the entrance gates, but he insisted on seeing Gregory, speaking to the soldiers in a half dozen languages until they at last understood him and took him to a small sentry's lodge to wait.

  When Gregory opened the door and saw him, he said, frowning, "I was hoping you'd forgotten her."

  "But then, I was hoping she'd stay with me at Woodhill," the marquis replied, his voice chill. "So we were both wrong."

  The captain came into the room enough to shut the door. "I can keep you away from her."

  "Don't make this difficult," Hugh said, his gaze direct, challenging. "The British prime minister is more than willing to take a personal interest in my affairs."

  Gregory minutely shifted his stance. "Why would he do that?"

  "Because I'm his godson, which isn't so important," Hugh blandly remarked, "but he actually likes me as well and finds the old matter of my coercion intriguing." He tipped his head slightly toward the door. "So I suggest you tell the princess I'm here."

  "What do you intend to do?"

  The marquis held the captain's gaze for a long moment, a palpable tension in the air. "I'm not sure," he finally said.

  She'd had time to compose herself after the initial shock of Gregory's announcement, and when she walked into the salon where the marquis waited, she was able to say, poised and unruffled, "You found me."

  "Did you think I wouldn't?"

  She shrugged, the flowered silk ruffle on her shoulder fluttering marginally. "It's been almost three years," she said, not mentioning his reputation for forgetting the females in his life.

  "You're well hidden," he coolly replied.

  "It was necessary." Only monumental self-control allowed her to speak as though he were a stranger when his presence filled the room, when his eyes burned with such fury, when she could still remember how it felt to be held in his arms.

  "You didn't think I'd care that you kept my son from me?"

  "Of course I did."

  "But?" he sardonically murmured.

  "You're not that naive, Crewe."

  "No, I suppose I'm not," he softly agreed, thinking of all the British consul in Ragusa had told him. "Your husband's dead, I hear."

  "Yes." It took effort to withstand the scorn in his gaze.

  "Did you kill him?"

  She didn't ans
wer immediately. "I suppose in a way I did," she finally said, lifting her chin a fraction as if to ward off his disdain. "Did you come all this way to revile me?" she coolly asked, not willing to take on the role of villainess regardless of his perceptions. "If you did, I'll bid you pleasant journey back to England."

  "What color is real?" he brusquely asked, gesturing at her pale hair.

  "Does it really matter?" Tart, acrid words.

  "I remember you differently, that's all," he softly said, his tone suddenly alteredkind, warm again, the voice she remembered from the days and nights at Woodhill. "I saw you had my necklace on in Paris."

  She forced herself to an exterior calmness she was far from feeling, the husky intimacy of his voice triggering a flood of memory she'd tried to lock away forever. "I wear it often," she replied. Every day, she reflected, although she didn't tell him that, his gift her sustaining talisman in a lonely world not of her making.

  "You should have written. At least when our son was born."

  "I wanted to; I wanted more than that, but"she softly sighed"circumstances wouldn't permit it. I don't have a personal life, Hugh. You must know that."

  "Nor have I since you left. I've missed you," he softly murmured. He stood very still, tall, dark, sinfully handsome just as she remembered, his words the fantasy she'd dreamed and wished would come to life.

  "I didn't dare miss you. I wasn't allowed," she said with the faintest of smiles, thinking perhaps prayers were answered after all.

  "Gregory."

  Her smile broadened minutely. "He bolsters my sense of duty."