The Wolf growled from his darkened corner. A breeze ruffled Dejeune’s thick hair. “You are a fool if you believed she would buy the signature of the tapestry’s creator.” Dejeune froze as the Wolf’s breath was hot on his neck and the servant melted back into the shadows. “You led her to the marker. You allowed her to discover the other marker. What do you intend to do now?”
Dejeune straightened in his seat and adjusted his tie with his sore fingers. His blood ran cold. He knew what they were suggesting, but he also knew he was not capable of it. He wasn’t capable of killing. He could forge historical documents easily; in fact, he had. He could lie without batting an eye lash, but killing was another thing entirely. He swallowed the lump in his throat. “Sire, there is no need for that step, especially right now. The island is swamped with the press because of King James’s death and the coronation of His Royal Highness next week. The disappearance of an American, hired by the royal family, would draw more attention than we can afford.” His mouth was dry. His palms were sweating.
The Wolf snarled. His green eyes pierced through the darkness. “You are correct. That is something that we can’t afford, however, we also cannot afford for her to interrupt our work.” The Wolf leaned into the light, the flickering of the dying fire glinting off the blond in his hair. “It is your responsibility to insure that she doesn’t interfere with our work. We will move forward as planned.”
The Wolf’s servant spoke from the shadows near the window where he had been watching the lights in Mikayla’s house. They flickered off leaving the house bathed in starlight. “And if she does interfere, my lord?”
The Wolf leaned back into his chair. A flicker of a lighter wavered in the gloom. A cigarette glowed to life. He exhaled a stream of sweet smelling smoke. The smoke circled around Dejeune, making his head swim. “As I’ve said before, if she interferes or moves away from her goal, we will dispose of the problem.” White teeth shone through the blackness; chills froze Dejeune’s body as he understood how deadly a game he was playing.
Dejeune bowed his head in assent. “Yes, Sire.”
I buried my father today. He was old for a man, in his sixties and well past his prime. I do not mourn him. I do not know that I know how. He was not a kind man. He was hard on myself and my sister, ruling us with an iron fist, when he had time for us, which was rare. My youngest brother avoided my father’s notice because he was still with his nurse, still in a nappy. I believe my father may have hated William since my mother died during William’s birth. I can’t be sure. As I said, he had little time for us.
The funeral was held in the cathedral outside of the walls of the Secluded City. It was built by workers brought from Greece and Italy. It is beautiful and frightening as it stands, shadowing the rest of the world. The priest prayed for my father and his soul in heaven. Then, the priest prayed for me as I will assume the throne now that he is gone. I have gone from being the Dauphin, Prince Malachi, to King Malachi in a matter of minutes, just long enough for my father to look me in the eye and make me promise to rule well. The streets were lined with the citizens of this island as we walked along the funeral route, bearing my father, the King, through the streets one last time before he went to his final resting place. All eyes were dry as we moved past, yet when my grandfather passed, all eyes were tearful. I wonder about the difference. I wonder at the hard looks the people gave me as I followed the coffin through the streets. Their eyes questioned me. I wonder if they were asking themselves, “Is the Dauphin like his father? Will he rule us with an iron fist also? Will he burn our homes and work our children to the bone so that he might live in that palace upon the cliffs?”
I will admit only here that I feared for my life. The people seemed to shout hatred even though not a word slipped from their lips. Is it perhaps the hatred of the people that my father feared so much? My father was a harsh ruler; I will not defend him. I will not be him either.
My grandmother came to me today as I stood on the parapets where my dear grandfather is rumored among the simple people to walk at night. She held me close and promised to help guide me towards peace in this land. She promised to be at my side when I should need her. She is a good woman. I wonder how she could have born the harsh ruler that my father turned out to be in her womb.
Two days hence I shall be crowned the King of Amor, and I shall take my rightful place as sovereign. I confess, I do not want it. I do not want the burden that comes with being king. I do not want to fear my subjects. I do not want to live behind high, stone walls designed to keep me separate from my people. I want to live among the people and celebrate their lives and their triumphs. I want to mourn their sorrows. I have no wish to be king, yet I know that duty awaits me. Destiny controls me.
Mikayla looked up from the diary entry. Her heart was heavy with the sadness that surrounded King Malachi as he made that transition from prince to king, from child to man. There was grief in his words, grief she would not have expected. She had believed always that men born into privilege of a royal family were happy to take the throne. It had never occurred to her that a man would wish to not be king, to not rule with ultimate power. Yet, here in his own words, Malachi, the greatest king of Amor, said he didn’t want it. It was interesting and heart-breaking at the same time.
The Mediterranean breeze tossed her curls around her head in a mad dance as the sun filtered through her hair, turning it golden and then burnished red. Her feet were bare, as were her legs except for the sorry excuse for shorts she wore, worn thread-bare from years of wear. Her shoulders gleamed with the faint hint of summer tan brought out by the spring sun. The spaghetti strap from her tank top slid seductively down one shoulder only to be yanked impatiently back into place. A glass of sun-tea sat on the wooden deck table, sweating in the sun and leaving a wet ring on the redwood. A faint line of sweat trickled down Mikayla’s neck to get lost in her shirt.
Will watched from the corner of the deck, hidden by a trellis of ripe, sweet-smelling flowers. The sea was a deep blue with crashing waves and the sand swirled in a seductive dance on the beach beyond. It was a perfect day for a sail through the majestic waters of the Mediterranean. He could see the white sails of boats bobbing and skimming, dancing across the water. If things had been different, if it had been just a few days before, he would have kidnapped Mikayla from her spot and taken her sailing on his own boat, but he knew there would be no sailing, there would be no laughter. His heart ached with the acknowledgment of that loss.
Will looked down at the perfectly formed crimson rose in his hand. Its petals were just starting to burst forth into full bloom. A thorn stabbed him in the thumb and he winced from the sharp pain. Blood the same color of the rose bloomed on his thumb forcing him to suck at the wound. He supposed it served him right. He had been less than honest with her, working with her for his own personal, greedy purposes only to find himself falling in love with the prim historian whose smile lighted the room.
He had believed all along that Mikayla’s presence was destiny. She was supposed to help him achieve his goal of finding the Eye of the Wolf. She was supposed to be a tool to help him beat the clock. She was talented and intelligent enough to accomplish his own personal goal, but he hadn’t expected her to be sweet, kind, and loving. He hadn’t expected that her disappointment would wound him so deeply.
Mostly, he hadn’t expected to find himself gasping for air when he felt himself fall. He had gone an entire lifetime without falling in love with one single woman whom he had been involved with. There had been beautiful, intelligent women before who had only been diversions. Why was it then, that this prickly, contrary woman had captured his heart. Why was it then, that now when he knew there was a world separating them, he wished to pour out his heart and tell her of the love he felt inside, that burned, practically injuring him with its heat.
He sighed deeply. He was in love with her. He knew he was. He also knew he had to apologize to her and beg for her forgiveness. He also knew he had to tell her how he felt
and the original purpose of his presence. The time for honesty had arrived.
“If you’re going to just stand there spying on me, you might as well get some sun tea and have a seat so you aren’t lurking about.” Mikayla’s voice was clipped and cut through to Will’s heart. She looked at him behind dark sun glasses that hid her eyes, hid her emotions. Her mouth was set, giving it that prim schoolteacher look that he adored, but the eye brows were lifted in annoyance.
Will wanted to smile, make a joke, kiss that prim look off of her face, but he knew that would get him nowhere so instead he walked into the kitchen, grabbed a glass of sun tea, and settled into the other chair on the deck. He looked across the table at her but her face was directed to the ocean.
Mikayla didn’t look at him; she couldn’t. She feared that if she did, if she looked into those deep, beautiful eyes, at that dazzling, shy smile she would get lost. She would give in to her heart, which cried out for him. She had known he was there, standing in the shadows, watching her almost as soon as he walked up. She hadn’t needed to see him or smell him. She just knew he was there. She hadn’t even been expecting him. After all, he had gotten from her what it was he had wanted. She had given the best part of herself to him knowing nothing of him except for his smile. Wasn’t that all that he had wanted. One mindless night that had left her weak and powerless, one night where she had surrendered to her most intimate of desires, desires she hadn’t known existed until she had met him. Now that the moment of passion had passed, there would be no more, she knew it. Somewhere, there was a princess or a duchess or an empress waiting for him to love.
She wanted him to go away and leave her in peace so she could finish what she had been assigned to do and go home. Home. A place of comfort. A place without romance in the very air. A place where princes didn’t just walk into your life with stormy gray eyes that matched the sea right after a storm and smiles that melted a heart into believing that smile existed solely for her.
Mikayla kept her eyes carefully concealed behind the glasses. She was afraid that if she took them off and looked at him, he would see that he had hurt her. She didn’t want to give him that power. He had taken away his right to have power over her when he had lied to her. She had given him something that was precious. Why had she believed that he would be any different than the other men who had been in her life? Why had she believed that he would find her intoxicating like men in romance novels were supposed to? Why had she believed that he could love her as deeply as she knew she loved him?
Mikayla had believed him when he had said she was beautiful. She had believed him when he said she wasn’t cold or aloof. She had believed him when he stoked that fire within her. Now, she just felt cold, cold to her very core.
Finally, she turned her head to look at him. He sat across from her in his white pin-point oxford with the sleeves rolled to the elbows showing off the Rolex diving watch he wore everywhere. His khaki shorts were rumpled, as if he had been climbing or exploring before arriving on her doorstep. His sandy hair blew absently in the breeze, not controlled, free. As always, he was adorable, but she couldn’t give in to that tug of desire that was within her. She didn’t remove her sunglasses, preferring to keep that barrier between them. There was sorrow within her that she couldn’t allow him to see. “What do you want, Your Royal Highness?” Her voice was sharp and wounded him. “Forgive me if I don’t bow or curtsy or whatever it is I’m supposed to do, but I think we’re beyond that point now.”
Will bowed his head. Her voice was cold, like the kind of cold that rolls in during the night, leaving frost and killing all of the plants that had bloomed in early spring. He gathered his thoughts and carefully laid the rose on the table between them, just as he had done that first time, knowing it was a futile gesture.
Mikayla’s eyes flicked over the rose and then back to his face. His face was lined with grief. Under his eyes were deep circles and smudges, as if he hadn’t slept well. Part of her felt sorry for him, knowing he had lost a member of his family, but the other part of her smothered that pity and stoked the anger that boiled within her breast. She left the rose where it lay and turned back to the sea. “You haven’t answered my question. Why are you here?”
Will reached across the table and lightly took her hand in his own. It was warm, soft, full of life. She jerked it back without a look and settled her hands in her lap. He frowned. “I came to see you. I’ve missed you.” He stated it simply, hoping again, that simple words would wind through to her heart just as it had that one night when he had held her close to the first rays of dawn.
Mikayla’s snort was her only answer. She kept her eyes trained on the waves crashing in the brilliant glare of the sun.
She stood from her seat and moved to the railing of the deck. Her eyes remained focused on the sea, but in reality, she saw nothing. She didn’t see the colors warming with the day. She didn’t see the cheerful sailboats skirting the waves. She didn’t see the children playing along the golden sand further down. She saw nothing because her senses were too full of him: his scent, his touch, his laugh, his eyes, his kiss. He was everywhere inside of her. She wanted to weep because of it, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her pain. So instead she focused her eyes on the sea beyond and gripped the railing tight, barely feeling the splinter that sliced her palm.
“Look at me, Mikayla, and tell me what you are thinking to my face.” Smoothness floated on the words, but the tension in his body slipped through.
Mikayla shrugged her shoulders. He was too near. Fear, angry, and grief laced through her even as her senses flooded with him. She kept her eyes on the water, afraid that even one look into those depthless gray eyes would weaken her.
Will stood from his seat and moved behind her. Gently, he laid his hands on her shoulders. “Mikayla, I care for you. You mean more to me than I ever thought was possible.”
Mikayla moved from beneath his hands, stepping away. He was too close; he was too warm, a warmth she knew she could just melt into if she allowed herself. “It doesn’t matter what you feel for me. I don’t feel anything for you. I am here to do a job, which I am going to do.” She looked over at him as he leaned on the railing, not looking at her. “Which reminds me, the Crown Prince, no, I apologize, the Dauphin owes me an interview.”
Will smirked to himself. “I believe I already told you about the Dauphin.” He ran a hand through his hair, mussing what hadn’t already been mussed by the breeze. “The Dauphin is a wastral, a party-boy. He cares nothing for the crown of Amor despite the duty that he was born into. He would like nothing better than to run off to London, New York, Boston, somewhere other than here and be a photographer.” He looked up at her. “He would like nothing better than to sail around the world with a beautiful woman at his side.”
Mikayla watched him from behind her sunglasses. “I don’t buy it, Your Royal Highness.”
“Stop calling me that!” Will’s voice rose. He whirled around on her and grabbed her arms pulling her close. “Stop calling me that. I’m nothing. I’m not His Royal Highness! I’m not the Dauphin! I’m nothing! I am just a man!” He shook her slightly before her faint cry of fear broke through the haze of anger and frustration. Her sunglasses had fallen off and now he could see into that well of fathomless deep blue. Fear laced with hurt and sadness before the wall built itself carefully, brick by brick, blocking him out of her soul.
Frustration swelled anew in him. He crushed her to him, drowning her in a kiss that seared through his body. All of his anger, sadness, fear, and need melted into that one kiss and poured into her body. If she wouldn’t see him for who he was, perhaps she could be reminded of the heat that had joined them. He held her arms pinned to her body as her pulse jumped across her skin.
Mikayla fisted her hands at her side and remained impassive to the kiss that threatened to swamp her in need. She could feel his aggravation, but she knew if she gave in, she would give in in everything and her heart couldn’t handle the pain that would
inevitably follow. So instead of giving in to the need that fisted itself in her belly, she stood still, waiting for him to release her.
Will pulled back from Mikayla and looked into her eyes. They remained an icy blue. Her face was impassive, almost humored. He growled and let go of her arms with a slight push that had her stumbling back a few steps. He turned his back on her and gripped the wooden railing until his knuckles turned white. He released his breath in a slow whistle, willing his own heart to slow.
Mikayla licked her bruised lips and held still. She could feel the bruises from his fingers on her arms developing beneath her skin. She said nothing. The air crackled between, tension and sparks.
Mikayla folded her arms across her chest and leaned against the weathered siding of the house. “You lied to me, Will.”
Will lifted his head but continued to stare at the ocean. “I didn’t lie to you, Mikayla, ever.”
Mikayla shook her head and sighed, her heart heavy in her breast. “You lied to me, Will, when you didn’t tell me who you were.” She folded her hands primly in front of her. “You made me into a fool. You knew I might never discover your true identity.”
Will turned slowly. She stood, her back against the house that his family had provided her. She looked small and delicate, as if the slightest breeze could fracture her into dust. “You aren’t a fool, Mikayla, and I never lied to you about who I am. If I didn’t tell you about my place in Amor’s history, it is because you didn’t ask.” When she began to protest, he held up a hand. “You assumed I was some island schlep with a camera.”
Her voice was cold as ice. “You owed it to me to tell me the truth. That isn’t something you hide from someone.”
Will shook his head. “I owed you nothing, Mikayla, except to help you with your research and to enjoy your company.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “I never hid it from you; you just never asked.” He paused. When he met her eyes again, his were honest. “And you’re right, I knew it would be difficult for you to determine my true role here.”
The Eye of the Wolf Page 19
