by Cheryl Holt
He rode out of the villa, a servant trotting with him who would return to the villa with both horses once Bryce booked his passage.
He studied the hectic street, absorbing the sights and smells, eager to imprint the busy details into his memory so he’d never forget. He’d trekked to Egypt because he’d been adrift and depressed. He’d wanted to follow in his father’s footsteps, to find some of the man in himself. With Valois’s assistance, he’d achieved that and much more.
He grinned, finally feeling—now that he was about to depart the country—that he was glad he’d come, glad he’d dared.
Suddenly there was a loud bang. His horse shied, its hooves slipping on the cobbles. Valois’s other horse raced by, its rider unseated.
Bryce peered back, figuring the servant must have fallen, but the man was lying on the ground, blood pouring from his chest. People had gathered, and they were shouting and pointing.
“What happened?” Bryce called in English, then he repeated the question in Arabic, but over the raucous noise, they couldn’t hear him.
It looked as if the servant had been shot or stabbed, and as Bryce pulled his horse around to nudge the crowd out of the way, he was hit very hard from behind.
He tried to shift in the saddle to learn who had assaulted him, but before he could react, he was struck again. His arms went limp, and he dropped the reins. A third blow knocked him out of the saddle, and he couldn’t stop his descent.
He landed with a painful thud, and though he ordered himself to rise, to protect himself, he simply couldn’t move. Was he dead? He didn’t believe so. He could still see the surging horde of passersby, could still hear their strident voices.
Soon a man was hovered over him, and he was wearing the vest and trousers favored by the Parthenians.
He leaned in very close and spoke in French. “Dirty dog, we have been waiting for you to exit the villa so we could kill you.”
Bryce answered in French. “I’m too tough to die. I’m the son of Julian Blair. A cur like you could never harm me.”
“We’ll see what we can do,” the man threatened. “I’m thinking death would be too easy for you. I have a better plan. We’ll see how you like it. We’ll see if you are too tough to die.”
Again Bryce ordered himself to stand, to fight, but he seemed paralyzed, his body unable to obey a single command.
Rough hands lifted him, and his wrists and ankles were trussed. Then he was tossed into the bed of a cart. His attacker jumped in after him, and it took a moment for Bryce to realize the villain had his eyes on Bryce’s sword, that he intended to steal it. He withdrew a large knife and sliced through the leather, claiming the remarkable weapon for his own.
“I have admired this for many days,” the brigand crowed. “It will rest more comfortably on my hip than yours. Thank you, Monsieur, for this very fine gift.”
“You can’t have it, you filthy swine,” Bryce managed to spit out. “It was my father’s.”
“Well, it is mine now, and you needn’t fret. I will always cherish it.”
He laughed and leapt to the ground. He marched to the front, the vehicle swaying as he climbed onto the seat and grabbed the reins. The animal pulled away, and Bryce vanished as quickly and quietly as if he’d never been there at all.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“I’m delighted by your return.”
Kristof smiled at Katarina, but she didn’t smile back.
“I didn’t have a choice,” she curtly said. “Let’s not pretend.”
“Of course you had a choice,” Kristof smoothly replied. “You’re Katarina Morovsky. There’s no one to tell you what you can and can’t do.”
“Yes, all right. Pretend if you wish.”
Dmitri piped up from the corner. “The whole country is glad.”
She leveled a glare at Dmitri that was so cutting Kristof was taken aback by it. He’d never seen her glower that way. She possessed a new aura of power and authority he didn’t recall witnessing before. What could have occurred during her time away to render such a change?
Kristof was suddenly half-afraid of her, and Dmitri appeared stunned.
She whipped her gaze to Kristof and hissed, “I will not converse with you when that traitor is in here with us.”
“I can’t leave,” Dmitri insisted. “There are too many matters we must discuss.”
She continued to stare at Kristof. “You are king, and I am soon to be queen. Must we suffer the rude interruptions of a servant I can’t abide?”
Dmitri sputtered with affront, but tamped down whatever comment he’d planned. He scowled at Katarina, obviously wondering—as Kristof was—how she’d become a fuming virago.
“Dmitri,” Kristof said, “why don’t you step out for a bit? Katarina has only just arrived. I’m sure she’s exhausted from her trip.”
“I’m not tired,” she declared. “I simply will not bother to address your low-born cousin. Nor has he my permission to talk to me.”
Dmitri was too confident of his position with Kristof to depart. “The men who escorted you from Cairo inform me that you abandoned Miss Clementi in Egypt. She was in service to the Crown while bringing you home, and the situation can’t go unremarked.”
Katarina cocked her head as if Dmitri was a gnat buzzing by her ear. She rose to her feet, looking furious and omnipotent, as if she were an ancient Olympian goddess and destroyer of worlds.
“Were you speaking to me, Dmitri Romilard?” she asked in a snide voice. “How dare you, sir! I am certain I just demanded you excuse yourself from my presence.”
Dmitri glanced helplessly at Kristof, visually begging for him to intervene, but Kristof was disturbed by her display of temper. In all the years he’d known Katarina, she’d been kind and cordial. Nothing had ever ruffled her. Nothing had ever enraged her. She was a mediator and problem-solver who hated to bicker.
Her calm, composed nature was the reason it had been so easy to shove her brother off the throne. She was so damned nice. She hadn’t understood how to wage a battle, let alone win it.
“Dmitri,” Kristof said, “give us a few minutes, would you?”
“I won’t,” Dmitri huffed. “Am I your chief advisor or not? She can’t stroll in here and treat me this way.”
Katarina advanced on him, approaching until they were toe to toe. Dmitri was several inches taller than she was, but somehow she seemed larger.
“I will count to ten,” she seethed. “If you are not gone from my sight, I shall call for the guards and have you dragged away.”
Dmitri bristled with dislike, but wisely shut his mouth. He likely realized there would be plenty of opportunities in the future to get even with her, to get and keep the upper hand, but this moment wasn’t one of them.
He marched out, his anger barely in check. Katarina was frozen in place until he’d exited, then she went to her chair and sat as if naught had happened.
She stared innocently at Kristof, her burst of indignation completely concealed. The abrupt alteration in her character was so disorienting he felt dizzy.
He’d expected meek, compliant Katarina to return from Egypt. He’d expected to deal with the same woman who’d left so many months earlier. But this was a stranger he had no idea how to coerce or bully.
They were in his private solar, with Katarina and her escort of guards having just ridden through the palace gates. They’d brought her to him immediately, with Kristof wanting to confer with her before anyone else had a chance.
She had to grasp how vital it was that she be viewed as widely as possible. He had parades, suppers, and festivals arranged in her honor. The rumors that she’d been murdered, that Kristof was her killer, had never died down, and he had to explain the gossip, had to convince her to agree it was silly, that the stories had to be quelled for the good of the nation.
She had to appear happy to be back, happy to be marrying Kristof, and she couldn’t exhibit the slightest hint that there was any duress on Kristof’s part.
He would make all sorts of promises, but she had to remember that the safety of her brother and sister was her responsibility. Should she betray him in even the tiniest fashion, her siblings would pay the price.
“I apologize for that unpleasantness.” He pulled up a chair and sat directly across from her. “Dmitri can be exasperating.”
She ignored his amiable overture, pushing him off balance again.
“I’m weary from my journey,” she said, “and I was not permitted to wash or change before I was delivered to you.”
“That’s because I was so eager to see you. I had you conveyed to my chambers at once.”
“What is it you are so anxious to tell me?”
“I’m glad you’re back.”
“Fine. May I be excused?”
“In a minute.”
He frowned. She wasn’t normally rude, wasn’t a grouch or a grumbler. Yet she was oozing blatant disdain. Perhaps she was as weary as she claimed. He couldn’t imagine what else would be creating such an alteration of her personality.
He walked over and poured himself a goblet of wine. Without asking if she’d like one, he poured one for her too. She took it and gulped down the entire contents. It was another new trait. She’d always sipped wine like the noblewoman she was, a few dainty swallows and no more than that. Had she become a drunkard while she was away?
“When is our wedding scheduled to be held?” she inquired.
“Three months from today.”
“Why must we delay? I’d rather get it over with.”
“It’s a royal event, Katarina, the first in the palace in thirty years. There are plans to be made, food to be ordered, invitations to be sent, and I couldn’t begin until you arrived.”
“It’s autumn already. In three months, it will be winter, and the mountain passes will be closed. Maybe we should put it off until spring.”
A muscle ticked in Kristof’s cheek. He couldn’t abide any postponement for he couldn’t give this snide, powerful Katarina too many chances to evade his marital noose. There would be a constant risk she might vanish again or that she’d change her mind or muster supporters.
He would be delighted to proceed immediately, but he’d been waiting his whole life to be king. He’d dared to seize the throne, to take what he’d always dreamed of having, and he wanted the royal wedding that was his due. He wanted nobles from other countries to attend, wanted to establish himself as a monarch to be esteemed.
If he had a hasty, secret ceremony, there would be no pomp, no grandeur. He’d remain the overlooked, pathetic king of a tiny principality no one cared about and no one respected.
He’d received letters from some other monarchs, and they weren’t letters of congratulations. They were angry with Kristof, and the world was an unstable place. None of them liked to have a ruler deposed. It made them nervous. It made them worry the same thing could happen to them.
But Nicholas was a boy, and Kristof would be a much better king. He had to host an impressive spectacle so he’d be observed in all his regal splendor. It was the only way to ensure he was recognized as having been right to stage the coup.
“Let me think on this.” He tried to sound magnanimous, but with how she was glaring, it was difficult to project much supremacy. “I will notify you tomorrow whether it will be in three months or whether we will wait until spring.”
“I will be on pins and needles until then.” Was that sarcasm?
“There is one other matter we must address.”
“What is it?”
“I’ve arranged a series of honorary gatherings.”
“For what purpose.”
“To welcome you back. You and your siblings of course.”
“Oh, of course.”
“We’ll ride out together every morning.”
“To do what?”
“To allow the public to see the three of you.”
“Why? Don’t claim the citizenry has been missing us. I’ll never believe you.”
Kristof’s cheeks flushed bright red. “Well, there has been some gossip since you left.”
“Gossip about what?”
“People were a tad concerned over your condition.”
“Over my condition?”
“Yes.”
“It was no great mystery. I can’t stand that we have no friends in this country where my family has ruled for centuries. Why would we have stayed?”
“No one knew your reasoning, so your disappearance seemed odd.”
Katarina scowled, then she laughed maliciously. “They thought you killed us?”
“As I said, there was gossip.”
“That you killed us specifically? I was wondering why you were so desperate to get us back.”
He smiled a tight smile. “I wasn’t desperate. My advisors simply decided it might be best if you and I wed. They felt it would generate a sense of stability.”
“And show you hadn’t murdered me.” She laughed again, then stood to go. “I’ll play your game, Kristof. I’ll let you parade me around, and I’ll grin and wave and pretend I’m glad to be home.”
He rose too, irked that she would sashay out before he gave her permission. She’d always been too independent, but she was about to have a husband, and suddenly he was exhausted at the prospect of how much training he would have to provide so she would be a proper wife.
“All I ask, Katarina, is that you comport yourself as the royal consort you were born to be.”
“I can do that, but the instant my brother or sister is imperiled, I will murder you in your sleep.”
He sucked in a sharp breath. “I will tell myself you’re tired so you didn’t realize your comment might be viewed as a threat.”
“Yes, I’m tired. Where are my brother and sister? Are they here?”
“Yes, they’re here.”
“I’ll be in my rooms. Have them sent to me at once.”
“I’ll inform the servants.”
She sidled over to the door and opened it herself. The servants on the other side snapped to attention.
She glanced back at him. “Don’t forget what I said about Nicholas and Isabelle. If I’m ever worried about them…”
There were dozens of courtiers in the outer chamber, so she didn’t finish her sentence. Instead she furtively motioned with her finger, indicating she’d slit his throat if he wasn’t careful.
She whipped away and left, and he gestured to the servants to shut the doors, to conceal him from all those prying eyes.
He was watched every second, and where in the beginning it had been thrilling, with all of them agog over his daring, now they simply whined about his missteps and mistakes, about how he wasn’t as fearsome or awe-inspiring as they’d assumed.
He sank down in his chair, his head in his hands, fretting over how he’d control Katarina, how he’d keep her sufficiently frightened so she’d act as was required.
Dmitri stomped in, and he marched over, nagging, “How could you let her speak to me that way?”
“How could I stop her?”
“You’re her king, and you’ll soon be her husband.”
If she doesn’t kill me in my sleep first.
“What happened to her while she was away?” Kristof asked.
“What do you mean?”
“She’s powerful and angry. She seems very different. I’m alarmed by her.”
“Don’t be,” Dmitri said. “She’ll settle in and remember her place. If she doesn’t behave herself, I’ll deal with her.”
Kristof wasn’t sure any of them knew how anymore. Katarina had abandoned Pippa on the dock in Alexandria, and there’d been no word from her. Once they’d landed in Italy, Captain Romilard had sent two men back to Egypt to search for her, but there’d been no trace.
Katarina and Pippa had been friends practically since their days in the cradle. If Katarina would be so cruel to Pippa, if she would revenge herself in such a dastardly manner, were any of them safe from her wrath?
He was alm
ost trembling with concern, but he refused to have Dmitri notice. He went to the sideboard and poured himself another glass of wine. He drank it down, then drank another too, continuing until the shaking in his hands wasn’t visible.
* * * *
Bryce held very still, the noose around his neck cutting into his skin. The slavers to whom he’d been delivered had grown weary of fighting him, and he was completely restrained. There were shackles on his wrists and ankles, his body wrapped in chains, his arms pinned to his side so he couldn’t lash out as they walked by.
But it was the noose that was most vexing. If he moved the slightest inch, it had a special knot that tightened imperceptibly. Gradually it was strangling him, and he had to give them credit for the crafty device. It had definitely curbed his more violent impulses.
He didn’t know where he was, but he was fairly certain he wasn’t in Cairo. He’d been beaten nearly to death by the Parthenians who’d attacked him, had been unconscious for a lengthy period, though he wasn’t positive how long. When he’d awakened, he’d been dumped into the sludge in the hull of a boat with rats nibbling at his toes.
He was unwell, sweltering with fever, likely from drinking fetid water. If he eventually discovered he was dying of typhus, he wouldn’t be surprised. His arm was probably broken, a couple of ribs too. One of his eyes was swelled shut, and there were oozing gashes on his back where he’d been flogged.
After being dragged to a slave market, he was on the block and about to be sold to the highest bidder. Yet he hadn’t gone quietly to his fate. He’d battled to the last, which had simply left him injured and starved.
Who would dare to purchase him? He had to be a ferocious sight, wounded, aggrieved, fettered, and eager to commit mayhem.
Standing out in the open as he was, the tropical sun beating down, it was harder and harder to focus. He kept drifting in and out of consciousness, but each time he faded away, his body would slump and the garrote on his neck would constrict and yank him awake.
He didn’t think he could survive much more, didn’t think it was possible for a person to endure all that he’d endured. Vaguely he thought about Chase, curious if he’d departed for England. Bryce recalled his beautiful country, the cool, rainy weather, the vibrant greens of the fields and trees, and he wondered if that was what Heaven would be like.
