Royal 02 - Royal Passion

by Jennifer Blake

  Mara turned blindly to Roderic, twisting her hands in his cloak and burying her face against his chest. She was trembling deep inside, and those hidden tremors hurt worse than the most violent shivering. His arms closed warm and firm around her. Silently, he held her there in the darkness, his legs firmly planted as he gave generously of his great strength. In his touch was acceptance and welcome, without a trace of the unyielding hardness of anger.

  A sob rose in her throat. She drew back. “I must tell you what I've done."

  "Never mind. I overheard a little and the rest I know.” He paused, then went on. “I'm not sure how I know, but I could not be more certain if you had been, for a brief moment there with de Landes, a part of me, your thoughts my own."

  Her mother had had strange gifts, the sight. She could not depend on having them herself. “No, let me—"

  "Later,” he whispered, and lowered his mouth to take her lips, this time with the gentleness of a benediction.

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  18

  Here was security and warmth and sheltering darkness. The danger of the moment was past. They were alive and their senses quickened with the glory of it. Mara pressed against the man whose arms enclosed her with a dissolving feeling inside. That he was a prince, Roderic of Ruthenia, no longer had meaning. What kind of man he was, what he had done or might do in the future, could not concern her. She accepted and trusted what she knew of him. The quickness of his mind, his strength and instinct for command, evoked her respect. His flashing humor, his concern for those around him and understanding of their needs, and his willingness to expose the softer side of his nature touched her to the heart. The time they would have together might not be long, but for now it was theirs.

  He parted the edges of her cloak and slid his hand inside to cup the tender globe of one breast. “Sweet Mara,” he whispered, his voice rich and warm against the silken waves of her hair, “I meant to hold you unassailable, a precious thing, to prove your worth by returning to you the privilege of denial. I did not know that to keep the vow would shrivel the edges of my soul and make the inside of my skull fit for no more than a drinking cup."

  "I absolve you of it—gladly."

  "And if I said you are free to choose, that no one and nothing will coerce you to the joining of my desire, will you deny me?"

  His touch made her weak, and her words were low, unsteady. “If I had the wiles of a courtesan, I would entreat you or, if need be, seduce you all over again."

  "You need no such wiles; all that is required to bind me is a smile with promise."

  "Something you cannot see at this moment."

  "I have seen it a thousand times, enjoyed a thousand embraces in my dreams. Tell me it is there, and I will conjure it up."

  "From layers of imagination? But will it be mine?"

  He understood her fears and answered them without hesitation. “None other will suffice, not now, not ever."

  She wanted to believe it, and so she lifted her mouth to his, her lips trembling into a gentle curve.

  There was a promise of another sort in the infinite care with which he took her mouth, melding it to his, tasting its sweetness. He smoothed its delicate surfaces with his tongue, awakening the exquisite sensitivity that dwelled there before probing, easing deeper. She surrendered to that soft ravishment, touching the fine-grained tip of his tongue with her own, twining, inviting greater penetration, daring her own exploration.

  With close-held breath, she traced the even line of his teeth, the resilient inner lining of his mouth, the firmly cut edges of his lips and feint roughness of the beard stubble where lip and chin met. Inside her grew a deep and wracking need to learn his body inch by inch, every muscle and plane and angle. She wanted to impress his shape and size and form upon her own body, to take him into her to forge a memory past forgetting. Lifting her hand to his chest, she pushed aside his cloak, spreading her fingers over the hard-muscled surface of his chest.

  He shrugged from the cloak, letting it fall, and stripped the fastenings of his uniform coat free with hard fingers, guiding her hand to the buttons of his shirt. The warmth of his body, the heavy thudding of his heart under the fine linen of his shirt, the warm male scent of him, caused the muscles of her abdomen to contract with longing. She needed no urging to kneel with him, to spread the cloak he had dropped, to yield to the sure touch of his fingers as he untied her own cape and slipped the tiny buttons of her gown from their holes.

  He was not content with loosening their clothing, but lowered her to the soft wool on the ground and rid her of petticoats and camisole and pantalettes. He removed his own stiff garments, then drew her naked against his hard, unclothed length as if he divined her harbored need to press close and shared it.

  Vital, glowing with the heat of passion long suppressed, they paid no heed to the cool breath of the night, the damp ground, or such minor annoyances as twigs and stones under them. The blood in their veins ran as swift and full as the river that murmured in their ears. The smell of the earth on which they lay, musty and rich, was natural, and so went unnoticed. Lost in the sensations that flooded them as with heightened senses their two bodies touched, glided one skin surface upon the other, they did not hear the footsteps of the strangers who passed overhead.

  His hands cupped the rounded curves of her hips, gently squeezing. She could feel his springing, pulsating firmness against the small mound at the juncture of her thighs. Bending his head, he brushed his warm lips along the curve of her neck, her shoulder. He traced sweeping circles around the swollen mound of her breast that jarred with the thudding of her heart before capturing the tightly budded nipple with the soft adhesion of his mouth. With one hand, he smoothed from her hip down across the flat plane of her abdomen, slipping it between her thighs, questing, finding the sensitive source of her femininity. He followed a similar trail with his mouth, gliding from breast to slender waist, to hip, and lower still.

  It was pleasure nearly beyond endurance, spiraling, lifting until her every muscle was tense and full with its flow, until her being vanished into nothingness, floating, then was suddenly, violently reborn, made whole and new once more.

  With trembling hands and a vibrant need to return the wondrous gift she had been given, she caressed him with open palms and soft, searching lips. He gave himself up to her, touching her hair, her face with tender fingertips. At last he sighed with the ghost of laughter threading his voice. “It is now, darling Mara, sweet temptress, or else I will become flame to your tinder."

  Together they forged the link that made them one as he drew her beneath him with firm urgency and plunged deep into the moist and welcoming warmth of her. She took him deeper still, rising, opening, leaving nothing in reserve.

  Turbulent and beautiful, the fury took them. They moved to its ageless measure, caught in the violence and glory of time's most primitive dance, attuned with every fiber to its necessity, its labor, its boundless promise. There was, for those who felt its music, also a reward. It came to them in full bounty: the enthrallment, wild and without end, the stupendous eternity that marks the moment when humankind is most alone and yet comes closest to transcending their basic loneliness.

  And in its aftermath they held each other, staring into the darkness, comforting, being comforted.

  Roderic and Mara made their way back toward Ruthenia House some time later. They were met halfway there by Michael, Trude, and Estes. When Roderic's cousin had returned to discover that the prince and Mara were still missing, he, with Rolfe and the rest of the cadre, had launched a full-scale search. Hilarity sprang into Roderic's eyes as he saw his followers, but it was quickly extinguished. With every commendation for their swift action and gratitude for their concern, he gave them an expurgated account of what had happened. If his explanation of how the dirt and grime came to be decorating his and Mara's clothing was rather glib, no one seemed to notice.

  Grandmère Helene, driven from her bed by her fears for Mara's safety, waited in th
e salon with Angeline. Roderic and Mara were scolded and hugged in equal measure. The story had to be told again, from the beginning, and yet again as other search parties returned. Finally, Angeline took pity upon them and sent them away to bathe and change before dinner.

  The meal turned into a celebration, with three kinds of wine accompanying the courses, Mara's favorite tartelettes aux fraises for dessert as an offering of thanksgiving for her return from Madame Cook and the staff, and champagne served in the salon afterward.

  Due to the unrest in the streets, they were not disturbed by visitors, which was felt to be a blessing by all. The discussion of the political situation was lively. Rolfe felt that Louis Philippe could weather the crisis if he just held firm. Roderic disagreed. Some gesture was needed, he thought, to show the king was not intransigent, that he was aware of the march of progress and the changes in French society of the past forty years. Grandmère Helene, who seemed to have been rejuvenated by being once more in company, sided with Rolfe, as did Juliana. Angeline, however, was of the same opinion as her son, and Mara herself saw the logic of his reasoning. The cadre was equally divided in their opinions and equally vociferous. Despite the differences of opinion, and regardless of the gravity of the situation, everyone seemed to feel that the matter could be resolved so long as there was no violent confrontation between the crown and the reformists.

  Roderic excused himself early in order to see to what he described as a problem that demanded his attention. Mara discovered soon after that weariness from her adventures, combined with the wine she had drunk, was making her so drowsy that she could hardly hold her eyes open. Kissing her grandmother, she said her good-nights and left them also.

  She expected to find Lila waiting for her in her dressing room. The girl was not there. Mara swept into the bedchamber, thinking that she might be laying out her nightgown or mending the fire. As she went, she pulled from her hair the pins that were pressing into her scalp, letting the heavy skein slide down to uncoil over her shoulder. Her head was bent as she searched for stray pins in the shining swath. She glanced up and came to an abrupt halt.

  Roderic reclined in a slipper chair before the fire, his legs outstretched and crossed at the ankles, his hands clasped behind his head. There was a kindling deep in his eyes as he watched her, surveying the dark veiling of her hair, her red lips parted in surprise, and the rounded curves of her breasts, which were emphasized by the lift of her arms.

  Her mouth closed with a snap. “So this is the problem that required your attention?"

  "A very important one. You might call it a problem of strategy, a flanking movement.” He lowered his hands, coming to his feet in a fluid gathering of muscles and moving toward her.

  "I see, to outmaneuver your father."

  "It seemed more filial than defying him. He likes to think he is omnipotent, all in the best interests of those concerned. Sometimes he is, of course, and it's an endearing trait, but not now."

  "You love him very much.” There was no reason to be surprised at the knowledge; still, she was.

  "He is my sire twice over,” Roderic said simply, “and my father."

  Her weariness had vanished. She turned from him slightly, saying over her shoulder, “To avoid him, you may now have to stay here the night through."

  "I may,” he answered gravely as he reached to lift a soft, curling strand of her hair, rubbing it gently across her cheek. “Does it trouble you?"

  "Not if I can be released from this prison of clothes. What have you done with Lila?"

  "I? Why, nothing. But she went away when she saw I meant to stay."

  "Did she, indeed?” Mara said in derisive suspicion.

  He settled his hand upon her shoulder, turning her back to him. He bent his head to touch her tender nape with his lips, punctuating his words with soft kisses upon the smooth skin of her back as he released her buttons. “Autocrat that I sometimes am ... I may have given her reason ... to think ... that you would not be needing ... a maid..."

  Luca returned the following evening. Roderic received him in the salon with everyone present. Every inch the prince, he stood before the fireplace with his legs spread and his hands loosely clasped behind him while the gypsy walked down the room toward him. Luca saluted, and Roderic acknowledged it, but there were no glad greetings.

  Neither was there condemnation. Roderic, his voice softly incisive, asked, “Why are you here?"

  "I am of the cadre,” Luca said, his head high, his shoulders squared with gypsy pride. He wore his uniform, and it was pristine.

  "You left us once. What reason do you have for returning?"

  "You know what is happening in the city: the marches, the barricades of cobblestones in the streets. The word that reached us at the camp is that the National Guardsmen were called out to quell the riots, but instead of standing steady, they threw down their guns and joined the reformists. More, it has come to us that a man you have cause to distrust, de Landes, is gathering men. He buys toughs, riffraff, the kind who will do anything for a price. He jokes of needing an army to attack a palace. You are my prince, son of the boyar. You may have need of me. I am here."

  A wry smile twisted Roderic's lips. “It's been said, and truly, that there is no gratitude in princes. I cannot promise you the hand of my sister in return for your allegiance."

  "I don't expect it.” The gaze of the gypsy flickered briefly to Juliana's face, then away again. His expression was impassive, without hope, but also without resignation.

  "If I place you to guard my back, how can I know that you will not desert that post for the sake of the tents of the Tzigane?"

  "I have grown used, with you, to life lived at a faster pace, to thoughts that fly more swiftly and days that have purpose. I am addicted to these things as surely as the opium-eater is to the juice of the poppy. For them, and for your sake, I will cease to be a Tzigane."

  Roderic stared at him, weighing his words and the steady light in his eyes. Finally he said, “You will always be a gypsy—and that is as it should be. Welcome, Luca."

  He put out his hand and the gypsy took it. The cadre, with a volley of yells, closed in around them, slapping them on the back and buffeting them on the shoulders. Juliana, watching, made a sound of distress under her breath. Her blue eyes icy with contempt, she jumped to her feet and left the room. Luca saw her go, followed her progress with a somber look, but made no move to go after her.

  It was the next day, the twenty-third day of February, 1848, that King Louis Philippe, bowing to the will of the crowds in the streets of Paris, if not of his people, dismissed his foreign minister and most trusted advisor, François Guizot. In his place, the king appointed a man with reformist sympathies, Comte Molé.

  The news was slow in reaching the rampaging mobs. Later that evening they gathered in force outside Guizot's house on the boulevard des Capucines, chanting their slogans and brandishing torches. The military had been called in to protect the former minister and his property. They stood nervously fingering their rifles while the crowd grew larger and louder. Insults were hurled, along with a few stones and a great deal of rotten fruit and eggs. A man in the yelling multitude waved a pistol. Whether accidentally or with a purpose, the pistol went off. The soldiers fired a salvo directly into the crowd. People scattered, screaming, helping the injured to stagger away. On the ground, among the dropped torches, were left the bodies of twenty men and women.

  The reformist called them martyrs; the Bonapartist labeled them fools; the legitimist hailed them as pawns, but the Orleanist wept with rage as five of the corpses were trundled through the street, recognizing them for the symbols of the end that they were.

  Within twenty-four hours, Louis Philippe, king of the French, under pressure from the mobs in the streets and his own sons, abdicated the throne. As his successor, he named his grandson, the comte de Paris, with his daughter-in-law, the duchesse d'Orléans, as regent. Having learned well the harsh lesson posed by the executions of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinett
e, the bourgeois king did not tarry for heroic gestures, but fled Paris with his queen in a hired carriage. Possessed of little more than what they could carry in their hands, they crossed the channel to England and exile.

  The reformists were in disarray. Their accomplishment had far exceeded their hopes. They had expected to force change down the king's throat; instead, they had toppled the government. Among them were many who, like Victor Hugo, now looked for great things from the regency of the young duchesse, Helen of Mecklenburg-Shwerin, who was considered a liberal and intelligent lady. There were just as many reformists who suddenly wanted to have done with royalty, to establish a government of the people based on a constitution like that of the United States. The reformist meeting at Ruthenia House had been planned originally to discuss further means of bringing about the desired changes. It became instead a forum to discuss and reconcile their differences.

  They congregated in the long gallery. Chairs of various sorts had been brought in from other parts of the house. Tall candelabrums of brass were ranged down both sides of the hall. The candles that filled them burned bright, their flames wavering in the drafts that eddied in the enormous open space, sending smoke curling up to the vaulted and frescoed ceiling. The light was reflected, multiplying, in the tall, arched windows that faced each other along the length of the gallery. The men, perhaps fifteen in number in addition to the cadre, gravitated toward the fire since the night had turned bitterly cold.

  The conduct of the meeting had, so far, been vocal and yet sober. It was as if those gathered there felt the weight of what they were doing and of the changes they were making in the course of history. They had been calling for months for reform, for a revolt of the people; until that moment, it had not seemed like treason.

  Perhaps it was the sense of responsibility, the feeling of emerging onto a wider, more public stage, that made them accept the audience that gathered to watch. Grandmère, fascinated at being so close to this political process, had demanded to be allowed to attend, and Angeline, no less interested, had supported her. Juliana and Mara had added their requests—Juliana out of curiosity, Mara from a feverish need to be present, to see what would take place concerning de Landes.