Jean-Pierre considered his prince.
For the moment, he looked like the old Sandre, anticipation and cruelty sparkling in his blue eyes. “Yes. Yes! How delightful! A nighttime hanging. I’m sure the fellow is fearing the morning. Let’s in all charity erase his fear.”
Jean-Pierre tossed the cards— a winning hand— rose, went to the door, and summoned the nearest of the palace guards.
The man moved briskly, but nothing could hide the terror in his eyes.
“What’s your name?” Jean-Pierre asked.
“Your honor, I’m Salazar.”
“That’s right. You’re new.” Recruited after Jean-Pierre had had to kill one of the other guards for trying to stab him. “I have your wife in the dungeon, don’t I?”
“Yes, your honor.”
“Well, good news. While you’re down there, you can visit her. But first, tell Bittor to bring Aguirre up. We’re hanging him tonight.”
Salazar stared and swallowed. “Bittor … I’m to speak to Bittor?”
Bittor was the leader of the royal guard, more monster than Moricadian, thin as a whippet, with long white teeth and dark, soulless eyes. He frightened his fellow guardsmen, and with good reason.
Rumors abounded that he liked to torture women in imaginative ways.
They were all true. Jean-Pierre had witnessed his brutality. “Bittor is in charge of the dungeons, and of you.
Don’t worry; he won’t hurt you. Not until I tell him to.”
Jean-Pierre smiled as Salazar turned and almost ran away.
Then he sobered. He’d lost too many of his handpicked men. Some he’d had to kill for stealing or suspected treachery. Some had disappeared, he supposed into the rebel forces. That was why he’d recently taken to keeping the guards’ families in the dungeon. And yes, that kept them under control, but it also made cowards of them all.
He’d been forced to hire mercenaries: a hulking Prussian with white blond hair and his troop of a thousand handpicked killers. They were Jean-Pierre’s army, and they kept the palace and the country secure.
He sighed. Keeping the Moricadians subdued was a heavy burden … and one he carried alone.
He looked again at Prince Sandre. And if he was carrying the burden alone, why did he need his cousin?
Jean-Pierre and Prince Sandre rode into lower Tonagra like a chill wind, bringing fear like a gift. The guard rousted the peasants out of their homes, assembled the shivering crowd around the gibbet, and dragged the screaming, begging prisoner up the stairs. They put the noose around his neck, dropped the trapdoor from under his feet.
The hanged man jerked his feet and clawed at the noose … but only briefly.
Prince Sandre gestured at the gibbet. “Look. He’s already dead. What is wrong with the people in this country? Have they no spirit? Have they no pride? Why don’t they fight? They used to fight.”
“They’re starving and hopeless,” Jean-Pierre said.
Prince Sandre turned toward Jean-Pierre, and for a moment the gleam in his eyes was as virulent as Jean-Pierre remembered. “So?”
“You asked a question. I answered it. It wasn’t a critique. It’s a fact.” Another fact— that cruel gleam in Sandre’s eyes no longer frightened Jean-Pierre.
Nothing frightened Jean-Pierre anymore.
He started toward the horses.
“It’s boring. I’m bored.” Prince Sandre trailed behind him like a whiny child. “I almost wish the Reaper would return.”
“He’s gone,” Jean-Pierre snapped. “And I would think after what happened to you, you’d be glad of that.”
“What about our family? Where are they, I say? A year ago, we would have had a dozen de Guignards to cheer every punishment. Now there’s only you and me.”
“They’ve fled the country.” JeanPierre bared his teeth. “They’re afraid.”
“I know.” Prince Sandre sounded grieved, and sighed.
“I suppose I could go back and work on my accounts.”
Jean-Pierre mounted his horse, looked down at the prince. “Don’t you have a bookkeeper for that?”
“Yes, of course!” Prince Sandre swung into the saddle and busied himself adjusting the reins. “But this concerns the wealth of the whole country. No one can be trusted with all the money from the casinos and the spas.
No one.”
“I suppose not. But such a sedentary occupation on such a promising night seems a waste.”
“We could go back to the palace and play cards,”
Prince Sandre suggested.
Jean-Pierre couldn’t bear it. He couldn’t bear it.
Where had the charming master of cruelty he once served gone? Not long ago, Prince Sandre had not been satisfied to end the night unless he had danced, drunk, debauched a virgin, and tortured a prisoner. Now he liked to sit alone in a room and stain his fingers with ink, or to play cards in an endless ritual that involved complaints of boredom if he always won and petty tantrums if he did not.
Jean-Pierre felt the bubble of madness rising in him, tearing at him, trying to get out. He didn’t dare kill his prince; that would be the end of whatever honor he held dear. So something had to be done.
Inspiration struck. “Shall we go see what Bittor is doing?”
“Does he have someone down in the dungeon?” Sandre asked.
Jean-Pierre waved a hand at the hanged man. “His wife.”
“Does she have valuable information?”
“Probably not, but what does that matter? Bittor can make her confess to anything.”
“Let’s do that. I’m in the mood to get my hands dirty.”
Prince Sandre spurred his horse up to the road toward the palace.
Jean-Pierre followed, his grin flashing— it was good to see Prince Sandre up to his old tricks.
At the sight, the Moricadians recoiled in fear.
Chapter Nineteen
Raul heard voices. Victoria’s. Thompson’s.
A thump. A curse in Moricadian.
Prospero.
Another thump.
Another curse, more vicious this time, and Thompson’s reproving tone.
Then tapping, a constant, annoying tapping.
Without opening his eyes, Raul judged that he had been asleep two or three hours, that Victoria was doing something meant to torment him, and that he didn’t care. Whatever it was, it could wait. He needed another three hours’ sleep, and nothing less than the start of the revolution would interrupt him.
Then he slid back into his dreams.
When he woke again, the room was so quiet his first thought was that Victoria had escaped. Then he opened his eyes, and knew she had not.
Because she had made changes throughout the room.
She had taken a long iron pole— it had a spike on one end, so it was a lance of some kind— and hung it over the window by iron hooks driven into the mortar. On it she had placed a moth-eaten blanket, pulled to one side and secured with another hook and a rope… .
Curtains. Curtains hung over the window. Why, he didn’t know. This castle sat atop a rocky crag in the middle of the forest, and this room sat in the top tower of the castle. They were up so high not even the eagles could gaze in to watch her undress, yet nevertheless … And on the floor. From somewhere she’d unearthed a carpet woven, by the looks of it, in medieval Spain.
Actually, except for the worn edges and faded colors, it didn’t look bad.
Where had she found it? In the attic? In the dungeons? Could no one control her wanderings?
Silly question.
He sat up— and grinned.
Never mind the curtains. Never mind the carpet.
There it was, the cause of the thumping … the short sofa had been replaced by a sofa long enough for Victoria to comfortably stretch out and sleep. It was both a statement to the residents of the castle and a challenge to him.
He was up for the challenge— noticeably and inconveniently up, considering Victoria was nowhere in sight, and also unwilling
.
But soon she would be willing, and then …
Tossing back the covers, he dressed and went in search of his guest. Went hunting his guest.
Hanging over the rail on the landing over the great hall, he scanned the downturned faces. Thompson sat at one of the long side tables, his accounting spread out before him.
Hada, his housekeeper, inspected the spoons, slapping the ones not clean enough to meet her approval to the side, and occasionally speaking sharply to the three girls who swept and dusted and cleaned the glass chimneys on the lamps.
At this time of day, the population of the castle was slight, yet nowhere among his dark-haired kin and help was that one golden head.
Damn the woman. Where was she?
He strode down the stairs, irritated and, more than that, worried. He would not be a fool about Victoria; she was too intelligent for a woman, and he didn’t underestimate her ability to slip away or, more likely, charm her way out of the castle. And then … there was peril in that forest unlike any she could imagine.
Thompson rose to greet him. “Sir, I apologize for the earlier disturbance, but— ”
“I know exactly whom to blame. Where is Miss Cardiff?”
“She’s in the kitchen with the children.”
Raul stared at him, narrow eyed. “With the children,”
he repeated.
“The children are teaching her Moricadian, and she’s teaching them English … among other languages.”
“I see.” Raul’s irritation rose. “And are we trusting the children to guard Miss Cardiff?”
“She has access to only two exits, one into the great hall”— Thompson indicated the stairway that led down to the kitchen— “and one that leads into the courtyard, where the men are practicing their bowmanship. I felt as if both of those circumstances would deter Miss Cardiff from escape.” His cool tone never changed, but Raul didn’t make the mistake of thinking he was pleased.
“You’re right. I apologize.” Raul realized he had been indeed foolish; Thompson was the antithesis of irresponsible, and it was he who had first suggested Victoria should be acquired for the purpose of curbing her tongue.
“Of course, sir.”Thompson was not so easily appeased.
“Amya’s with her, too.” Hada had made no bones about eavesdropping on the conversation. “Not that Miss Cardiff is too fond of Amya right now.”
“Amya?” Raul thought. “The maid from the hotel?
The one who reported Miss Cardiff’s faux pas?”
“That’s the one. She’s not good for much except being a lady’s maid, so I put her to work for Miss Cardiff.
But apparently Miss Cardiff is carrying a grudge.” Hada scowled at a spoon and slapped it on the table with the others. “When she saw her, she was not happy.”
Raul lifted his brows in surprise. “Miss Cardiff was rude?”
“Damn, no. She was so polite, she almost gave Amya frostbite.” Hada chuckled. “Scared the poor timid scrap of a thing to death.”
Raul grinned. “Yes, I can see her doing that.”
A young, fragile-looking woman, Hada walked with a limp so extreme Raul had had a special shoe built to give height to her left side. But for all her apparent frailty, she ruled the household and all the women who worked in it. As her husband said, Hada has a fearsome way with words.
Prospero was right, and no one challenged Hada with impunity.
“The men are out in the field?” Raul asked.
Hada snorted. “At last. After sleeping like babies and snoring like great, fat bears.”
Raul grinned at her.“Celebrated when they returned, did they?”
“Yes, my liege. For hours.” Hada looked weary.
“You’d think they’d brought the House of de Gui gnard down, rather than prodding it with a sharp stick.”
“It’s a start.” Raul proceeded down the stairs to the kitchen, where the newly installed iron stove glowed red, the cook swore at his two minions, and Victoria Cardiff sat at the end of the long servants’ table, Amya standing at her right shoulder, a dozen children at her feet.
Raul paused in the shadows, observing Victoria hungrily.
She wore a different dress, brown wool, clean and ironed. She wore her hair in a chignon at the back of her head; it was damp, and the blond tints were subdued, the color of old gold coins.
Sometime while he slept, she had bathed and changed, and a smile tugged at his mouth. She must have felt abhorrently grubby, else she would not have consented to use his warm water and his soap. How she must have hated settling into his house in such a way!
And how he wished he had been there to lift the bucket of warm water and sluice it over her breasts, her belly, her thighs.
Soon, tonight, he would start the slow process of seduction, knowing that when he did, she would have no chance. For in her kisses, he had tasted a hidden, heady passion … for him.
Now she pointed at the steer carcass rotating before the fire and said, “Beef.”
“Beef,” the children repeated; then they shouted,
“Govadine! ”
“Govadine,” Victoria repeated. Pointing at the pans hanging on copper hooks from the ceiling, she said,
“Pans.”
“Pans,” they said, then, “Scovrada.”
“Scovrada,” she repeated. Looking around, she saw the cook glaring evilly at the children, and said, “The witch who cooked Hansel and Gretel.”
The children looked bewildered.
“Miss Cardiff, if you do not mind?” Amya said.
“Yes, Amya, if you would please translate my little joke.”
Hada was right. Victoria’s coolness made Amya shiver.
But the maid turned to the children and spoke quickly, translating “Hansel and Gretel” into the Moricadian version of the folktale.
The children caught on quickly, laughing uproariously while Cook scowled.
Raul stepped into the light. “Pray to God, Miss Cardiff, he doesn’t quit. Good cooks are difficult to recruit when I offer so little in the way of fame or fortune or exquisite settings, and you don’t want to be subjected to the meals my people would produce.”
At the sound of his voice, the children came to their feet and pelted toward him, all grubby hands and grinning faces. He picked up two of the littlest, twin three-year-olds who let him hold them for as long as it took them to realize their mother stood on the stairway.
Then they struggled to get down and run to her. The other kids, two four-year-olds, two five-year-olds, four six-year-olds, one seven-year-old, and two eight-year olds, hung on his legs and his hands, grinning up at him.
Amya curtsied, her brown eyes round with awe.
Victoria stood, taking particular care to straighten her skirt and ignore him with all her might.
Irritation gave an edge to his voice. “I suggested you teach my adult relatives manners, not teach the children English.”
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Mr. Lawrence. They are teaching me Moricadian. And they are very good teachers indeed.” The tone of her voice made them wriggle with delight, and she deliberately offered her hands to the children.
Two of the littlest girls willingly joined her. Victoria’s gesture was natural, friendly, yet as she walked past him, he knew she was using the children to put a distance between her and him.
“Previously, I hadn’t been able to understand a word, but I had been trying to relate it to one of the romance languages— French or Spanish. It actually reminds me more of German or Russian.” She chatted to keep him at a distance, too, using the same cool tone she’d used on Amya.
Did she really believe that was going to work on him?
“They say it’s the language of Attila.” He stayed close on her heels, taking care not to trip on the other children who clustered around him.
“The language of Attila, seventy generations later,”
she said.
“Yes.” He could almost see her mind arranging the words she’
d learned into some kind of order, utilizing her linguistic skills to comprehend the world into which she’d been so abruptly thrust.
He had told her he admired her intelligence; he did, but more, at the sight of her surrounded by children, he felt the tight pinch of possessiveness.
Jealous of a dozen children … for with them, she showed pleasure unguarded by the wariness with which she viewed him.
Before she left the kitchen, she stopped by the cook.
“Thank you for your forbearance. I have greatly enjoyed watching you work, and look forward to tasting your creations.”
He turned his back.
But as she climbed the stairs, Raul noted Cook turned to watch, and Raul scowled at him. He didn’t like the man’s interest, or the knowledge that men, all men, so blatantly responded to her beauty.
In the great hall, the pace had picked up. Hada directed the maids as they set the tables in preparation for dinner. Thompson had gathered up his accounts and stood in the foyer, speaking to the footmen about requiring the returning soldiers to properly scrape their boots.
Victoria made her way to an open window, picked up one of the moth-eaten tapestries that had previously hung on the wall in the upstairs gallery, and seated herself. Looking like a proper English young lady, she began to mend it.
He wanted to grin at the sight of his chosen woman acting like the chatelaine of his castle; he was not so foolish.
Still in that maddeningly cool tone, she said, “I am in your home. I have no method of escape even if I knew the way.”
He stood over her. The scent of lavender mingled with her own scent, lingering like an enticement in the air. “So?”
“So stop stalking me.”
Chapter Twenty
“I simply came to inquire after your well-being.” Raul seated himself beside her.
Victoria shot him a rightfully scornful glance.
For although he knew better than to admit it, he was stalking her, watching her as the royal cat observed an unwary mouse that had by mistake wandered into its kingdom. It was a game he was playing, and he should have been ashamed … but he was not.
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