The Longest Night

by Jennifer Ashley

  Mary gave him an indignant look. “I would never be ashamed to be your wife. But I must understand you.” She leaned closer after a glance out the door to the crowd in the next room. “You say you do not blame Duke Rudolfo for standing by while the Imperial Prince hurt your sister, but how can that be true? I’d be enraged at anyone who didn’t keep my son, or Egan, or my sister-in-law—anyone I loved—from harm. At anyone who stood by to save his own skin, in fact.”

  She was stubbornly proud, his Highland lass. The strength of her people flowed through her, and Valentin loved her for it.

  He released her hands. He remembered the impossible rage that had filled him when he’d found Sophie in a tight ball on her bed, too stunned and shocked to even cry. Sophie’s maid had told Valentin the tale, every detail. The maid herself had been beaten until she couldn’t stand by the Imperial Prince’s guards because she’d tried to protect Sophie.

  Valentin folded his arms across his chest, closing in on himself. “I was angry with Rudolfo, yes, and I still have that anger—I will not lie. Duke Rudolfo should never have let him touch Sophie. If he’d shot the Imperial Prince that day, I doubt the Council of Dukes would have minded.”

  “Will you try to kill Rudolfo now?” Mary asked him. “You can make him pay for being a spy and take your revenge at the same time. Two birds with one stone.”

  He liked her no-nonsense tone—Mary ever saw a thing for what it was. “It is complicated,” Valentin answered. “I am angry, yes, but I also have my duty to Damien and Alexander. My personal wishes are no longer important.”

  Mary gave him an astonished look. “Of course they are important. You think it is too Nvengarian for me to understand, and you are right. I don’t understand. I am too Scottish to understand. In my world, the personal is far more important. A clan lord would grant you leave if you had to take care of a personal feud before answering his call to arms. He might even help you. That way, he’d know you’d be finished with the business and not distracted.”

  “I am finished,” Valentin said in a firm voice.

  “Are you? How can I be certain you won’t rush off on an unfinished vendetta as soon as you take me home with you? Or that Grand Duke Alexander won’t send you to do your ‘duty’ with another insurrectionist? When will you stop being the dagger hand of Prince Damien and the Grand Duke and simply be Valentin? The man I can love?”

  Valentin’s wolf growl emerged. “I am not their servant …”

  “Aren’t you?” Mary put her hands on her hips. “And yet every time I see you, you are on some assignment for them. I want you, Valentin. Not the bodyguard or the spy or the hired assassin. Dear heavens, Alexander expects you to murder a man if he turns out not to love Prince Damien.”

  “Of course he does.” Valentin clenched his fists, willing her to understand. “You do not know how dangerous men like Rudolfo can be. If I discover he is working to bring down Prince Damien, Rudolfo will make certain I never report to Nvengaria. He would not hesitate to kill you, or your Sir John or even Julia to stop me. In my world, secrets must be kept secret. At all costs.”

  “Well, it is a bloody inconvenient world, isn’t it?” Mary stepped to him, her dark eyes swimming with tears. “I don’t think I could live there. I have a son to think of.”

  “Mary, let me finish this, and then we will speak.”

  She gave him a sorrowful look. “I want life and love, not death. I will not marry that.”

  Valentin suppressed a snarl. He’d never been given to demonstrating his rage, always needing to keep the beast inside him at bay. He knew that if he ever gave into that beast and its basic, volatile emotion, he’d become more of a monster than the Imperial Prince had ever been.

  “I did not offer marriage,” he said. “I told you I could not. Not yet.”

  “I know. You offered me compromises, conveniences even. That is not what I want.”

  “What do you want, then?”

  “I have told you,” Mary said.

  She wanted certainty—Valentin saw that—and Valentin’s entire existence was based on uncertainty. He was logosh, he was Nvengarian, he was working to regain the trust of Prince Damien and Grand Duke Alexander. He pressed his lips together, his heart a burning lump in his chest.

  When Valentin said nothing, Mary kissed the corner of his mouth, picked up her bag of medicine, and walked away from him. Her skirts whispered as she went, her footsteps light as she left the room.

  The click of the door closing behind her was the bleakest thing Valentin had ever heard in his life.

  * * *

  Mary was ready to run back to London that very evening, but after a bout of agitated pacing in her bedchamber, she decided to stay.

  Leaving would draw attention, plus she would not let herself be such a coward. She would stay and face Valentin and the world, not rush off to lick her wounds and cry into her pillow. She could not justify abandoning Julia or wresting the girl from Hertfordshire when Julia was so enjoying herself. Mary had never seen her this happy before.

  Resolved, Mary arrived at the supper table that night in time to hear Duchess Mina reveal more plans for her very English Christmas.

  Mary sank to her place in the richly paneled dining room where she’d ministered to Valentin, both relieved and worried to not see Valentin there. He’d gone out, Duke Rudolfo said, to look for the shooters again. Rudolfo was convinced the gunmen had given up and gone away, but Valentin had insisted on checking.

  Hunting, Mary amended in her head. She could imagine him moving through the woods and across fields in his wolf form, tracking the shooters, stopping every once in a while to sniff the air. He’d sit still while wind ruffled his fur and moonlight glinted on his sleek black body.

  “A mummers play,” the duchess interrupted from her end of the table, her shrill voice making Mary jump. “As I was saying to the others, Mrs. Cameron, we’ll be the mummers ourselves and invite the neighbors round to see us.”

  Mary reflected that the neighbors might well have had enough of their foreign visitors trying to be so very English, but she nodded. Julia jiggled in excitement—she adored dramatics.

  Julia and Duchess Mina conferred on the play in the drawing room after supper, asking for pointers from Mary and Sir John on how to keep everything traditional.

  To Mary’s dismay, the ambassador announced that he would not be needed in London until after Boxing Day, so he and Valentin could stay and take part in the theatricals. Sir John then announced that he’d jolly well take a holiday from business too. Everyone seemed happy, natural, animated. Everyone, Mary thought grumpily, except herself.

  Valentin did not return, and though Mary lay awake most of the night, Valentin never ventured to her room, either as man or logosh. She was angry with him and did not want to see him. So why did she remain awake in the darkness, listening, hoping to hear his step?

  Mary regretted now that she’d run away from Scotland and the family celebrations there. She’d told herself she was tired of all the traditions and festivities, and that a Christmas alone with her son in London would be peaceful and restful.

  She now realized that a cheerful family Christmas was exactly what she needed. Meeting Valentin here had brought home to her how much she hated being alone.

  Mary wanted Valentin, wanted to be with him in all ways, but Duchess Mina’s story had chilled her. Not that she believed Duchess Mina’s idea that Valentin lived only for vengeance, but Valentin had hidden so much from her—who knew what else he kept to himself? Mary saw his pain whenever he spoke of Sophie, but he’d never volunteered any information about this tragedy in his life until Mary had pried it from him. She wondered how long he’d have waited before mentioning he’d had a sister at all. If not for Duchess Mina, Mary would never have known.

  She slept at long last, and rose, groggy and late for breakfast.

  In the sunny morning room, Duchess Mina passed out the parts for the mummers play and told everyone to work very hard so they could be ready by
the next day, which was Christmas Eve. Mary kept herself from snapping a reply that the duchess should have thought to begin preparing long before they came to Hertfordshire.

  Mary again bit back irritation when Valentin, looking fresh and rested, strolled into the ballroom where they’d adjourned to rehearse. Mary had been wakeful and uncertain all night, and he looked cool and unruffled, drat him.

  The duchess and Julia had decided to improvise a story involving Saint George—sans dragon—a very traditional mummers play. Duke Rudolfo would be Saint George. Sir John would play a dark knight, and he and Rudolfo would battle it out with swords. Saint George would be slain, but a powerful magician, played by Valentin, would bring him back to life.

  Julia would be Saint George’s intended bride, ready to weep copiously at the death of her beloved. Mary was to play Athena, goddess of wisdom, who came in at the end to drive the sword of justice into the dark knight.

  The duchess, as the playwright, decided to narrate and direct. “It is a good way to practice my English,” she said. “Mary will make a splendid Athena, will she not, Baron Valentin? So stately in her robes, and she will carry my husband’s saber.”

  Valentin gazed at Mary in silence, and she turned away, unable to meet his eyes.

  The rehearsal began. Valentin read out his part in a quiet voice. The only time the play would take Mary near him, it turned out, was at the end, when she would point her sword at Valentin and declare that he was the best of them, because he gave life. That was a mercy at least.

  The duchess had them run through the lines and then through the scenes before they broke apart hours later to find appropriate costumes. They would have a rehearsal in costume, Duchess Mina said, and then dinner, as the afternoon was waning. Mary obeyed without argument, too tired to fight Duchess Mina’s iron-handed enthusiasm.

  Upstairs in her room, Mary donned an ivory-colored evening dress, then instructed her skeptical Scots maid to help drape a sheet around her in classical-looking folds. Mary knotted her hair on top of her head and let a few curls fall to her cheeks. Deciding she looked sufficiently Greek, she made her way to the ambassador’s rooms to borrow his saber.

  Duke Rudolfo was alone in his sitting room, already strapped into Saint George’s makeshift armor. The servants had taken apart several real suits of armor from the main hall and fitted bits of them to the ambassador. The armor looked strange with the swath of white bandage on the duke’s shoulder, but Rudolfo had insisted that he was well enough to enact a sword fight—he would use his uninjured arm anyway.

  “The English knights must have been uncommonly small,” the ambassador complained, adjusting his metal breastplate. “How on earth did they squeeze into this lot? Here is the saber, my dear.” Rudolfo lifted a metal sheath from a table and handed it to her, the rings meant to fasten it to a sword belt clinking. “I have put on the tip guard so you do not accidentally skewer Sir John.” His eyes twinkled.

  Mary lifted the saber and examined the intricately etched blade. The sword was a thing of beauty, the hilt bearing small and colorful gemstones in a mosaic of abstract design.

  “A fine piece of work,” Mary said. “I will be careful with it.”

  “Given to me by the Council of Dukes for my many years of service.” Rudolfo looked proud.

  “Not a fighting blade, then?” Mary didn’t think so—weapons of war tended to be plain and utilitarian. Castle MacDonald was full of war-nicked swords and claymores.

  “No, no. It is meant to be worn on formal occasions. But the blade is plenty sharp, so be careful you do not cut yourself.”

  Mary continued to study the saber, a bright and deadly beauty. “Were you wearing this on the day you went to Baron Valentin’s?”

  “No, as I said, it was ceremonial …” Rudolfo trailed off, reddening. “Ah, I see what you mean. No, I did not draw it against the Imperial Prince when he went to poor Sophie. It was a dreadful day. I am not happy to think of it.”

  “Valentin doesn’t blame you, you know,” Mary said. “Nvengarian politics are so very convoluted and bloody. Or at least they used to be. From what I hear, Prince Damien is trying to stop all that.”

  Rudolfo looked uncomfortable. “Indeed.”

  “I blame you, though.”

  Rudolfo jerked his head up, and then he sighed. “What do you want from me, Mrs. Cameron?”

  “Me? I want nothing.” Mary clenched her hand around the hilt of the sword, the cool metal and smooth gems a contrast to her hot anger. “It is Valentin who hurts. You have never spoken to him of it, have you?”

  Rudolfo shook his head. “There is nothing to say.”

  “An apology if nothing else,” Mary said, voice firm. “Valentin lost everything that day, you know. The sister he loved. His position in your society—though I believe he was past caring about that. The Imperial Prince was already a madman from what I understand, uncontrollable. He acted as predicted. You acted to save your own skin.”

  “And that of my wife and daughter,” Rudolfo said quickly.

  “I understand. I might have done the same.” Mary paused. “No—I would not have. Dougal, my son, would never forgive me if he knew I’d let a young woman be hurt in order to protect him. He’d expect me to sail in and try to save her. You are Nvengarian—I’m certain you had some sort of weapon handy, even if not this one.” She ran her hand along the saber’s polished blade.

  Rudolfo’s face darkened. “You cannot know, my dear. Since that day I have lived with such shame. It eats at me inside. You are quite right—I should have killed the Imperial Prince and faced the consequences. But I feared the retaliation of Grand Duke Alexander against my family as much as I did the Imperial Prince’s. One never knows what Alexander will do, even now.”

  “Your wife seems to think he would have applauded you.”

  Rudolfo shrugged. “Or made an example of me to show the people of Nvengaria that assassination is discouraged. Even if Alexander himself rejoiced at the death of the Imperial Prince.”

  Mary lowered the saber. “My brother, Egan, and his wife both speak highly of Grand Duke Alexander. I cannot believe he would be quite so awful to you. He wanted to rid your land of the horrible man as much as you did.”

  “And he did, as rumors say.” Rudolfo spread his hands. “With poison perhaps. No one knows for certain.”

  “And then the mad old man’s son—Damien—took the throne,” Mary said slowly. “I imagine you weren’t pleased about that either.”

  “You English have a saying, eh? That the apple does not fall far from the tree?”

  “I am Scottish, and I think the apple fell very far in this case. I’ve met Damien only briefly, but my brother is his best friend, and Egan could not love a man if he were anything remotely like the old Imperial Prince.” Mary gave Rudolfo a decided look. “Egan says Damien is a good man. Valentin believes in Damien as well.”

  The ambassador frowned, puzzled. “You are wrong about that, my dear. Valentin tried to assassinate Prince Damien. Sneaked into the palace and attacked him with a knife while Damien and his wife sat down to supper. Even now Valentin awaits a chance to topple him from the throne.”

  Duke Rudolfo spoke with certainty. Was he simply pushing his own desires onto Valentin? Or did Rudolfo believe, with his wife, that Valentin was vengeance-mad?

  “Do you truly think you were the intended target, yesterday?” Mary asked. “Not Sir John, as he believes?”

  Duke Rudolfo looked surprised. “Of course it was me. Why would someone want to murder your Sir John? He is harmless.”

  “Yes, he is, really.” Mary deflated. “Sir John’s wife, my girlhood friend, doted on him.”

  “It could only have been me they wanted to shoot,” Rudolfo said. “I am high in the Council of Dukes, an important man. I imagine all sorts of people wish me dead. Valentin is only one of them.”

  “I think you should speak to Valentin, Your Grace. Make it right between you.”

  The ambassador smiled. He was a handsome ma
n when he wasn’t trying to be the oily diplomat. “I will try. However, I will insist that I not meet Valentin alone and that I am allowed to stand well beyond reach of his sword when I do.”

  “I can arrange that. Thank you for lending me your saber, Your Grace. Now I am to go practice my part with Sir John. Your wife says he needs to die more convincingly.”

  Duke Rudolfo held out his hand. “Thank you, Mrs. Cameron.”

  He sounded relieved. Mary nodded, relieved as well, as he bowed over her hand, but she couldn’t go without a parting shot. “See that you do it.”

  Mary left the ambassador looking properly chagrined and returned to her chamber to re-pin a drape that had fallen from her shoulder. As she turned from the mirror to snatch up the saber she’d laid on her bed, she glimpsed Sir John walking through the twilit snowy park to the summerhouse at the edge of the garden, near the wood.

  “Where is he going?” Mary murmured. She was to have met Sir John in the ballroom.

  As Mary peered down from the window, a woman in white, draped similarly to Mary except for a fold of sheet over her head, emerged from the house and hurried after Sir John. A chance beam of the setting sun caught on the sheathed saber the woman carried, very like the one Mary now held.

  Mary straightened in shock. Clutching the sword, she hurried to her door and turned the handle. The door refused to budge. Mary shook it, but it was solidly locked.

  She was trapped, while outside, Sir John Lincolnbury trotted happily into the summerhouse, followed, he thought, by Mary as Athena, to practice his death scene.

  Chapter 9

  Valentin knew Mary was in danger even before he heard her muffled cries. He discarded the velvet robe that was his magician’s costume and fled the ballroom where servants were laboring to render it a makeshift theatre.

  He realized as he took the stairs two at a time that no one else had sensed what he had. But the logosh in him urged him to find her, protect her …