by Princess
He merely laughed at her, lowering his head toward his knees to fight the nausea.
“Were you stabbed, or is it an incise wound?” she asked in a patient tone.
“Bastard gave me a good slice over the shoulder,” he mumbled, chastened, for the girl sounded genuinely concerned.
“The front?”
“Front and back, I think.”
“Any tingling in your fingers? Numbness?”
“I don’t know,” he sighed, closing his eyes as he leaned against the wall. “I’m just so damned tired.” He hadn’t meant to say it. Not so earnestly, so quietly.
In the dark, her soft hand came to rest on his cheek, caressing him. “I know you are, poor creature. You never stop, do you? You never give yourself time to heal.”
Her touch was heaven. He rested against her hand for a moment, then pulled away abruptly, appalled that she should say such a thing, appalled he had admitted to such weakness.
“I’m fine. Just not as young as I used to be,” he muttered. With one hand, he loosened his cravat. It helped marginally. He took a deep breath and steeled himself. “All right. Sorry. Let’s go.”
“Sorry?” she echoed.
He forced himself to stand.
The way she took his elbow now annoyed him. He shook her off. “For God’s sake, I’m not an invalid. It’s just a little scratch.”
“All right, Darius. It’s all right,” she said soothingly, backing off, but still near.
He growled at her placating tone.
By the time they came out into the dimly lit servant hall on the third floor of the royal block, he was feeling steadier and had regained his arrogance. He swept a hand before her, presenting the way with sardonic gallantry. “After you, Your Highness.”
Her skeptical glance flicked over him, her violet eyes a little too shrewd for his comfort, then she turned and walked ahead. As they went down the hall, she stared at the brooms and brushes neatly arranged on the walls, the shelves of crisp linens. Cynically, he realized she had probably never seen the palace before from the servants’ side.
Little did she know her servants were his main source of information, he mused, for no matter where his missions took him, he followed her every move from afar. Lately, he knew, she had been more outrageous than ever—the suitors, the parties, the tantrums, the shopping. She always turned reckless when she was nervous or afraid, and it was not difficult to surmise the source of all her latest brushes with scandal—the swift approach of her wedding day.
As if I’d ever really let that vainglorious brute get his hands on her, he thought, bristling with carefully contained ferocity. He wished he could have told her right then, to put her mind at ease, but he could not jeopardize the mission. When it was over, she would know the gift he had given her.
A short way down the corridor, they came to an innocent-looking panel on the wall between two cases of utility shelving. Darius paused in front of it, ran his hand down the seam, pressed firmly, and stood back as it popped open.
He glanced over at Serafina as the panel whispered back into the wall, opening into her darkened bedchamber.
He watched her violet eyes widen. Then her gaze slid downward, and she paled slightly.
He waited for her to throw a maidenly fit of outrage to realize he had this secret access to her inner sanctum, but she kept her jaw stubbornly clamped.
“Saint-Laurent’s associates are still at large,” he said by way of explanation. “I’m not letting you out of my sight. Your Highness,” he added meaningfully—her humble servant.
She stared straight ahead as a blush flooded her creamy cheeks. “You need not explain, Darius. I have complete trust in your honor.”
She sounded so determined, he wondered whom she was trying to convince. Nevertheless, her words pleased him.
“Who else knows of this panel?”
“No one, my lady.”
The architect was dead, the king had probably forgotten, and Darius had not seen fit to tell his successor to the post of captain of the Royal Guard about this particular door. It was nothing against Orsini personally. Darius simply trusted no one where the princess was concerned. He had never even considered violating her privacy—not seriously, anyway—but most men didn’t have his self-control.
Maintaining his show of cool amusement while his shoulder throbbed, he gestured. “After you.”
She lifted her chin, slipped around the chair that sat in the way, and swept regally into her chamber. He followed, stepping over the threshold onto what most of the men he knew would deem holy ground. He turned back to slide the panel shut, then drifted into her magic bower.
Rain pelted the wide windowpanes. Thriving plants lined the sills and the floor all around the windows. Her bed was an enchantment, canopied clouds of gauzy white mosquito netting and pink satin sheets. A white Persian cat slept curled amid the plump pillows.
Serafina glided across the room, where she opened a door. Light slanted into the dark bedroom, then she disappeared into the adjoining room. He lingered, taking in the scene.
An ornate birdcage was near the bed, the tiny door standing open. He noticed the teal parakeet studying him from its post on a curtain rod above the window, then her little pet monkey leaped out of nowhere, giving him a start. It screeched at him, the intruder, and began cavorting around the rails of her bed.
Ungrateful creature, he thought, sternly regarding the talapoin monkey hissing at him.
Darius had given the animal to Serafina as a gift for her fifteenth birthday. He had told her it looked like her. He disregarded the monkey and narrowed his eyes, his gaze picking out the items on her bedside table several feet away, silly female frippery. A hairbrush. A novel.
Just then, her lithe silhouette appeared in the doorway. She was toweling her long hair.
“Darius.”
He looked over and smiled, caught at his spying.
He sauntered toward her, noting that she had discarded his big, shapeless jacket in favor of a dressing gown, the sash tied in a bow around her slim waist. She tossed a towel to him and went to collect the little monkey, speaking sweet, babyish nonsense to it. It scampered up onto her shoulder and promptly perched atop her head, the tiny black hands holding on to her forehead.
Serafina turned to him, striking a pose like a fashion illustration. “Do you like my hat?”
“Charming,” he said dryly.
“Oh, thank you.” She walked over to the monkey’s cage and gently pried the animal off her head, wincing as it grasped at her curls. Then she gave it a kiss on the head and tumbled it into its cage. She smiled at him, brushing past him on her way into the other room.
“Come,” she said.
He slowly dried his face and ran the towel over his hair, eyeing the slim, elegant curves of her figure as he followed her. Sauntering coolly into the adjoining room, Darius almost stepped on a pile of torn wet silk in the middle of the floor.
His eyes glazed over, staring down at the remnants of her dress. She must have simply peeled the thing off. His gaze swung to her as he realized that very likely nothing lay beneath her blue satin dressing gown but fair skin, still damp with rain.
God, give me strength.
As if her sole aim were to torment him, she now bent down gracefully before the hearth, where a low fire burned. His practiced eye appraised the smooth curves of her backside, and his mind brimmed with splendid, sinful notions.
Ah, but she trusted him far too much.
She borrowed a flame from the hearth and lit an expensive beeswax candle from it. This she carried from one wall sconce to another, brightening the little sitting room with the cheerful blaze of a dozen lights, careless as ever of the cost.
“Sit,” she ordered him, nodding to the laziest-looking armchair he’d ever seen.
“No, thank you.”
She looked over at him in surprise. “No? You nearly passed out on the stairs, Darius. Sit, please.”
“My clothes are wet and there’s blood a
ll over my shoulder,” he said crisply, stung by the inglorious reminder.
“Do you think I care about the chair more than I care about you?” She laughed. “What a clod you are, Santiago. Sit down, for heaven’s sake, before you fall down.”
With a long-suffering sigh, as if he were not wholly grateful for the invitation, he threw the towel she’d given him over the back of the chair so he wouldn’t get blood on the fine, pale yellow brocade.
“Try not to take forever,” he drawled as he dropped into the chair. “I have a policy against waiting for females to dress.”
She gave him a knowing smile, then turned to root through the odds and ends on the mantel. He blew his forelock out of his eyes, folded his left ankle idly over his right knee, and sat there toying with the silver spur on the edge of his riding boot.
He watched her for a moment or two, enjoying the way the light from the wall sconces played over the satin’s glossy surface, following her curves. Then his gaze wandered around the room done up in shades of peach and cream and gilt.
So, this is her world. Oddly, the comfortable chaos of her life’s day-to-day clutter did not irk his meticulous military sense of order. Against the broad-striped wallpaper hung portraits of her cat, her white mare, her family, and a few prettily arranged display cases, some exhibiting ornate bits of lace he guessed she had made, others with pressed flowers she’d collected. In the corner her archery equipment lay in a heap, while on the nearby low table a microscope inlaid with mother-of-pearl edged out the tea service.
Ah, yes, the great lady naturalist, he thought in an odd mix of fondness and mockery. On the floor near the table was a fat textbook creased open to a page showing drawings of the stages in the life of a butterfly. He frowned, squinting down at the book when he noticed it was in Latin.
“Darius.”
He looked over inquiringly as she pulled a long, white ribbon out of a porcelain box on the mantel. He was startled to notice that beside the box was a small framed portrait of himself.
It was a copy of the life-sized one the queen had insisted upon commissioning after he’d been shot saving the king’s life. He was in full-dress uniform—white jacket, gold medals, red sash—and one very serious, piercing stare.
The eyes of an ancient in a young man’s face, he thought, oddly saddened by the picture.
His life would be over, it seemed, before it had even begun. Yet he felt a strange, fierce ache in his chest to see that she kept this memento of him in full view, where she would pass it every day.
“Darius,” she said again, breaking into his thoughts.
“Yes, Your Highness?” he asked absently.
She didn’t even glance at him. “Take off your shirt.”
He paused, not sure he’d heard her correctly. His stare swung to her back and her sweet derriere wrapped in blue satin. She merely continued tying the white ribbon around her flamboyant mane of unruly curls, mink-black against her pale skin.
His tone was carefully amused. “Excuse me?”
“Take off your waistcoat and shirt, please.”
“Ahh, Your Highness,” he said lightly. “Believe me, I’m flattered, but I’m not in the mood.”
She jerked her lovely face over her shoulder to scowl at him. “I’m not propositioning you, Santiago. For heaven’s sake! Don’t just sit there bleeding like a dolt. Undress. Now.”
For about two seconds, he considered obeying, then he merely watched her march across the room to another door, relieved to see at least she had the decency to blush. Most of the women he knew lacked that charming ability, or lost it, at any rate, by the time he was through with them.
She disappeared into the next compartment carrying a candlestick. He leaned forward in curiosity, peeking in. Aha, her dressing room. There were gowns on pegs, rows of the shoes the chit never could keep on her feet.
When she came back into the sitting room, she had some hand towels draped over her arm, a sewing basket in one hand, and a bottle in the other of what appeared to be whiskey. She set everything on the floor near his chair, then dragged the ottoman over and sat down on it across from him.
“Is there a problem, Santiago?” she asked, folding her graceful hands in her lap.
He stared at her.
“This will not do. You still have on all your clothes.”
Isn’t that my line? he thought, regarding her suspiciously.
Lifting both brows, she gave him a bland smile of waning patience. “Why do you prefer to suffer?”
“Because then I always know what to expect,” he replied with his most arrogant smirk.
She ignored it. “Why won’t you let me help you?”
He eyed the sewing basket, then glanced at her. “With all due respect, Your Highness, I’d rather not serve as the royal pincushion.”
“I know what to do,” she said. “I help at the pensioners’ hospital once a week.”
Dubiously, he arched one brow. He knew the saintly queen commanded her daughter to spend at least one day a week living for aught other than herself and her pleasures, but surely these visits to the pension house only involved giving out radiant smiles and bestowing a few words of meaningless cheer to the wretched.
“If I need stitches,” he told her, his heart pounding suddenly, “I’ll do it myself.”
“You said the cut runs over your shoulder to your back. Use your head. How do you intend to reach a wound that’s on your back?”
“I’ll see the surgeon.”
She gave a smile of sugared treachery and reached up to tap his chin fondly with one fingertip. “Don’t tell lies, Santiago. I know you won’t see him. Don’t you trust me?”
Was she deliberately being obtuse or tormenting him just for fun? he wondered, inching back in his chair away from her. Maybe an aged pensioner of seventy could endure the touch of those silken hands without ravishing her, but he wasn’t half that old yet.
She shrugged to herself, then went on about her business, rising to go pour water into the unused teapot, then putting it over the low fire to boil. Returning to him, she knelt down on the floor and opened the sewing basket.
“Will white suffice for your stitches, Colonel, or would you prefer something more dashing?” she asked, trailing one graceful fingertip over the various hanks of thread. “Scarlet? Gold filigree, perhaps?”
“I really haven’t time to play doctor with you.”
“Don’t make me pull rank on you,” she advised him, the sewing needle between her lips as she pulled out a neat loop of white thread and unwound some of it. “If you refuse, I shall have to make it an order. Strip, sir.”
He didn’t move. He couldn’t, suddenly. His heart was pounding and he couldn’t find his voice.
Done threading the needle, she set it carefully aside. She laid both hands on her thighs, gazing up at him.
He stared down at her, feeling increasingly cornered, unable even to spit out the words to explain his protest. What was he to say, Don’t touch me? He wasn’t that skilled a liar. Truly, over the past few years there had been moments, desperate moments near the edge of his solitary endurance, when he wanted this girl so much he quite despised her. He could not be fire for her, so he had chosen to be ice.
Now she was gazing at him as only she ever did, as if she saw things in him no one else could see, those unforgettable violet eyes looking too deeply into him, her gaze like a flash of lightning, illumining landscapes within him he preferred to keep dark.
Save me. The thought trailed through his mind, he knew not why. He could only sit there, captivated, immobilized, halfterrified. Someone wanted to help him and he didn’t know how to react. Not just anyone.
Serafina.
The only living thing he’d ever trusted.
The only one he couldn’t have.
Staring at her, he couldn’t force out a single word.
Yet somehow she seemed to understand him.
“Very well,” she said softly, searching his face. “You just sit. I’ll do it.
”
He couldn’t find the wherewithal to stop her or to move. He knew she shouldn’t be touching him. She knew it, too, of course, but when had she ever done as she was told? And when had he ever disobeyed a royal command?
She slid his untied cravat from his shoulders first, then came closer, kneeling between his legs. Wary as a wild animal, he watched her every move as she unbuttoned his simple black waistcoat. He was only minimally helpful as she pushed it down carefully off his wounded shoulder, then freed him from it. His shirt remained, sodden, ripped, bloody. A lot of blood.
“Poor thing,” she murmured. When she reached out and began gathering the wet cotton of his shirt in both hands so she could slip it off over his head, he pulled back, staring at her, heart racing.
“What’s the matter, Darius?”
He swallowed, dry-mouthed. The way she said his name could make him drunk.
Between his legs, she stood, bracing her hands on his knees. He watched her rise and felt his loins pulse, felt his whole being in thrall to her, as if he were an uninitiated boy being slowly seduced by a goddess.
Hands on her hips, she frowned at him in puzzlement. Then a strange, tender smile of understanding curved her lips.
“Shy?” she asked softly.
He stared at her, unable to speak, his soul in his eyes. He did not know all of a sudden what was happening to him.
Slowly, he nodded.
She reached out and caressed his cheek, then gently brushed his forelock out of his eyes. “I won’t hurt you, Darius. Don’t be shy. After all”—her gaze slid away from his—“you saw mine.”
Mischievously, her eyes flicked back to his.
Her impudent remark shocked him out of the trance. He stared at her in awe.
“You bad little girl,” he breathed, suddenly afire for her.
Her smile flashed.
Jesus, what was he doing? His very hands burned with the need to touch her, run his palms from her slim waist down her elegantly curved thighs, part that dressing gown and smell her rain-scented skin. He curled his fingers tightly over the edges of the chair’s arms, fighting it for all he was worth.
If anyone ever found out about this, he thought feverishly, if the king ever found out about this . . .