by Princess
She inched back, longing for him to have his fill of her and be done, but he became carried away by his own ardor, laying siege to her. She fought disgust, refusing to open her mouth in spite of all his efforts. Her jaw was clamped, and she hated every stroke of his tongue upon her lips, but when she felt the jut of his erection pressing against her stomach, she froze, frightened now and seized by waves of sheer repugnance.
“That is quite enough, sir!” she gasped out, pushing past him.
She heard his low, rough laughter behind her as she fled, wiping her mouth on her arm in trembling revulsion.
“You’ve got a lot to learn, child,” he called after her. “But I’ll teach you to like it.”
Sometimes he told them to go to hell in Russian, sometimes in Spanish, English, Arabic, Italian, just to keep them guessing. Stoically, he had thwarted his captors’ every attempt to make him talk, answering their questions with nothing but a slight, cold, mocking smile.
They had been gentle. So far, he had only a black eye, a swollen jaw, and a few bruised ribs. Later, Darius knew, things would get rougher. For now, they were saving him for his audience tonight before the emperor.
His arrogance was in place like a shield. Behind it, he was calculating a second chance at killing Napoleon somehow when he was brought before him.
At the appointed hour, the big, apelike corporal with the reeking breath quit pummeling Darius’s abdomen. He was pulled to his feet, dragged from his cell, and herded outside. He stole a glance at the moon and thought of Serafina dancing in her garden.
He smiled to himself, disconnected from everything, then they shoved his head down, throwing him into another carriage.
I’ll get him this time. Just put me in the same room with the little bastard.
After about an hour’s drive, they pushed him out of the carriage amid his guards, before a vast Baroque palace somewhere in the countryside. Uneasily, he scanned the landscape, taking stock of his surroundings.
Chin high, he was herded and prodded through the halls past gawking courtiers and ladies, driven ahead like a wild animal captured for some rich man’s menagerie. He swaggered and smiled coolly at the women just to irk his captors.
At the end of the gleaming hall, huge doors were opened before him and he was shoved into a glittering great hall. He caught his balance, chains rattling, then swaggered in slowly, shoulders squared, chin high. Straight ahead of him at a long banquet table sat the man he’d tried and failed to kill. Failed.
Worthless, worthless.
He stared insolently at Napoleon and Napoleon stared insolently at him, looking rather bemused.
Darius was ordered to halt in the center of the room. They were eating dinner. Silver tableware, he noted in the back of his mind. Somewhere up there had to be a usable knife.
Contemptuously, he glanced askance at his guards, then surveyed the others in the room.
La Beauharnais sat between her husband and her son, Eugène, former contender for Serafina’s hand. The empress and Eugène gazed at him in trepidation, but Napoleon’s brothers looked at him with a purely Corsican thirst for revenge in their eyes. He cast them a sneering smile, then, for the sake of insolence, let his gaze wander freely over the three Bonaparte sisters.
When his stare wandered to Princess Pauline, he found her avidly inspecting him. He arched one brow as her gaze slowly traveled down his half-bared chest.
“Hey, sweetheart, why don’t you come over here and get on your knees for me?” he called softly, giving her a look.
She gasped. Sounds of outrage filled the hall.
Darius smiled. Someone bludgeoned him in the backs of his knees and he fell. He was struck repeatedly. Ah, childhood memories, he thought. As he waited for the beating to end, he mused to himself that anyone who judged that underfed Corsican hussy in the same league with his Princesa had obviously never seen Serafina and did not know what a real princess was.
Darius heard young Eugène clear his throat. “That’s really quite enough, isn’t it? There are ladies present.”
“I don’t see any,” Darius muttered from the floor.
Another swift kick in the ribs. He snarled, his whole body tensed, but they were done beating him for now so he climbed wearily to his feet and faced his captors with a bruised smirk.
Napoleon appeared amused, lounging on the arm of his chair, one hand thrust into his waistcoat as he stroked his stomach thoughtfully. “Closer, mystery man. Let us have a look at you.”
Gladly, Darius walked forward, aware out of the corner of his eye of each gleaming knife on the banquet table.
“That’s far enough,” the captain muttered, holding him back a good eight feet from the emperor.
“I would be interested to hear what you have to say for yourself before I sentence you.”
Darius considered. “Only that you make a very small target, General.”
This remark got him rather severely beaten again.
“This is getting tedious,” he growled as the soldiers pummeled him and finally backed off again.
“Who are you?” Napoleon asked pleasantly.
Darius dragged himself up off his knees and forced himself to stand, eyes blazing. He wove slightly on his feet, willed himself to stand tall and be steady. “No one of any consequence,” he replied.
“Why did you try to kill me?”
He shrugged. “Don’t like you.”
Napoleon stared at him for a few seconds with an expression of intense thought, then abruptly laughed. “You may well be the cockiest bastard I have ever met in my life. Take him away. By morning, I want to know every secret he has to hide.”
“What, no hasty execution?” Darius drawled. “If a quick death was good enough for the Duc d’Enghien, it’s certainly good enough for me.”
Napoleon’s eyes narrowed and his face instantly grew flushed. “In due time,” he promised through gritted teeth. He sent his men a violent, simmering nod to take him away.
As they stepped toward him to lay hold of him again, Darius lunged forward, running for the table and the nearest knife. Women screamed. The apelike corporal and a few others tackled him, tripping him in a tangle of chains, then there was more unpleasantness.
Napoleon was on his feet, throwing down his napkin. “Kill him! Now!”
Darius looked up from the floor under a pile of men and glared at Napoleon. The emperor moved nearer his wife protectively.
When they finally let Darius get to his feet, he kept his chin high, his stride a lazy saunter in a show of fearlessness, but he really was not looking forward to the next half hour. Glancing over his shoulder one last time, he saw Princess Pauline still staring at him.
The guards shoved him toward the huge doors.
“Wait!” a high-pitched voice called behind them.
“What is it, Paulina?” Napoleon snapped.
“My lady-in-waiting knows who he is,” Princess Pauline said.
His back to them, Darius froze.
His mind was transported back to that morning several days ago when he had ushered Cara, Serafina’s traitorous friend, into banishment.
“Turn around, you,” the captain ordered him.
Suddenly he had a sick, cold lump in the pit of his stomach. Mentally cursing, Darius reluctantly obeyed. Sure enough, he saw the petite, blue-eyed blond standing behind Pauline, her viperous stare fixed on him. She had promised revenge on him and he had laughed it off.
“He is Count Darius Santiago,” Cara spoke up, malicious triumph in her alpine-blue eyes. “King Lazar’s adopted son and Princess Serafina’s favorite. Ascencion will pay any price to have him back alive.”
Napoleon began to laugh softly, tilting his head back.
“It won’t work,” Darius started. “Lazar will never bargain with the likes of you—”
“No? I recall the story a few years ago of how you saved your king’s life—nearly in exchange for your own—and I know that in spite of all his liberal policies, Lazar is an Italian of the o
ld school. Loyalty comes before everything.”
“It won’t work,” Darius said again, heart pounding. “I’m not that valuable.”
“We’ll see.”
“We should have known he was no common criminal.” Pauline’s glance flicked over his body.
Darius looked at her, feeling as though he might be sick.
Cara went on staring at him, gloating, her arms folded over her chest.
Napoleon chuckled. “Take him away, make him comfortable. I have to thank you, Santiago. You have made things so much easier for me. Why fight a war when I can just hand you over in exchange for the navy? And then there is that gorgeous bird, the princess. If we act quickly, we can snatch her right out of Tyurinov’s hands and put her in yours instead, eh?” he said, elbowing his stepson. “On the other hand . . .” Napoleon turned to Josephine and gave her painted cheek a teasing pinch. “Maybe I’ll get rid of you, old girl, and marry the chit myself.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
His self-disgust was deepening by the minute, but Darius kept up his show of nonchalance as a dozen guards ushered him into a rich, windowless chamber in a distant wing of the palazzo. A doctor was sent to look him over for broken bones and lacerations, then his right hand was unchained so he could eat the small portion of food and water that were brought to him.
He was so jittery, his stomach in knots, that he didn’t want the food. But old ways were coming back to him. He ate voraciously, forcing the food down, eyeing the soldiers. No one spoke. They waited for him to finish the meal, then manacled his hands again before him. Finally, they locked him in, a few men posted outside the room’s only door.
With a disgusted sigh, he lay back on the thick mattress, still barely able to comprehend how he had come to this. Why wasn’t he dead? Not even his finest insolence had managed to get him killed. He’d thought for certain his lewd remark to Napoleon’s sister would do the trick.
He cast his forearm over his brow and tried to still his mind, but countless times, lying there, he relived the moment he had fired the first shot at Napoleon, trying to understand what had gone wrong. He was still in shock that he had missed. As the immediate danger ebbed for now, humiliation set in.
Worthless. You failed at everything.
He had made a good show of arrogance, but here, in the silence, his pride was crushed and he felt not the slightest bit sorry for himself. He was supposed to be a trained, top-level agent and assassin, yet he had made an amateur’s mistake, firing prematurely. Then, when the moment came to eat the arsenic, he had shown his true colors. That little, unwanted Gypsy pickpocket he had been so many years ago had emerged without warning, thwarting all his plans, saying, hell, no, would he ever kill himself off. He had survived too much to throw it all away. That was the part that shamed him most.
After all these years of striving to become something better, in the crucial moment he had proved himself the same as when the king and queen first found him. In the moment of truth, he had chosen survival over honor.
And why should his choice come as a surprise? he thought angrily. Honor! He was so bloody sick and tired of honor. Look where it had gotten him.
He got up and paced to burn off some of his restlessness, chains clanking like a ghost in a castle. Just then, he heard men arguing in hushed voices outside the door.
He listened intently, his senses leaping to the alert. Lord, what now?
“Are you mad? You’ll get us all court-martialed!”
“Just do it,” another snapped. “You’re getting paid, aren’t you?”
All of a sudden, four soldiers burst in and strode over to him.
“Oh, so you’re awake, eh, cocky? Come on.”
He stared at them and his blood ran cold, for he knew all in a flash as they dragged him out of the chamber that Napoleon had changed his mind.
It was time.
He began to sweat as he realized he was going to be executed before the firing squad, just like they’d done to the young Bourbon duke, d’Enghien.
He fought for calm while they tied a black blindfold over his eyes. Eyes covered, wrists bound before him, he hadn’t felt the full panic of helplessness since childhood.
He thought of Serafina and steadied himself, lifting his chin. He had failed at everything and they’d take his life, but they would never take his pride. Heart pounding, he could not resist one sly attempt to learn his fate.
“Ah, so you’ve finally found the balls to shoot me,” he said coolly as they led him out of the room.
He heard laughter. “Getting a little nervous, are you, pretty boy?”
“Fuck yourself.”
Someone shoved him. He caught his balance and walked carefully, unable to see where he was going.
“Stairs. Up,” a man nearby grumbled.
They climbed a long staircase. Up? he thought. Shouldn’t they be going down to the yard, where the firing squad could shoot him against the wall?
“Here.” The guard did not sound at all happy when they stopped. “In.”
He heard a door being opened. Someone pushed him from behind. He stumbled forward and nearly fell with a low curse.
“He’s all yours,” the guard grumbled, then the door slammed behind him.
Darius listened for all he was worth, but the room was utterly silent. He felt a presence. Napoleon? he wondered, bracing himself for the blow, expecting a hard boot in the face or in the ribs.
But there was only silence. He had too much pride to ask who was there.
He jumped slightly when soft hands alighted on his arm. He smelled a woman’s perfume. Understanding flooded his mind. Oh, Jesus, he thought. Here we go.
“Let me help you up,” said a soft voice with a Parisian accent carefully crafted to disguise a Corsican one. “Don’t be afraid. You are safe now.”
“The hell I am,” he muttered under his breath.
He shook her hands violently off his arm and climbed to his feet, his whole body tense. The blindfold slid away from his face and he found himself in a candlelit boudoir, Pauline Bonaparte standing before him clad in a rather transparent, gold-tinted peignoir.
Unsurprised, he stared at her without a word.
She gave him a coy little smile. “Hello.”
He glowered at her.
“Do you know who I am?”
He rather sneered at her, saying nothing.
She gestured to a cozy settle. “Sit. We shall have a little visit, my lord. Would you care for a drink?”
His only reply was a flat stare.
“Very well. Sit, please,” she said in amusement.
When she turned away, he glanced about swiftly at his surroundings for any means of escape. She might prove a very useful instrument, he thought. He had to be extremely careful, however, for he could hear the guards posted outside the door. Warily, he sauntered to the settle and sat.
The dark-haired woman came back with a glass of wine and sat down beside him. “We’ll share,” she said, smiling. She took a sip, then held the glass up to his lips. “Go on, have some.”
Watching her as he drank, he decided he had never met a woman he trusted less. She was very difficult to read.
Smiling, she lowered the glass from his lips and raised it to her own. Then she folded her slim legs under her, one slender arm draped over the back of the settle. She sat there studying him. He kept his head down, but from under his forelock his gaze scanned the dim room.
Her fingertips began toying with the back of his hair. He clenched his jaw. She touched his chin, gently turning his face to her. He met her stare guardedly.
“They gave you a bit of a black eye. That wasn’t very nice of them.”
He said nothing.
Staring at him, she smiled again with a look of calculation, brushing his cheek with her knuckles. “Poor, brave Condé,” she murmured. Her fingers trailed down his shoulder and his arm. “Perhaps I can ease your pain a little.”
He pulled away, shooting her a simmering look. “What do you thin
k I am?”
“You know, Condé, I paid well for a little of your time. Aren’t you glad to be out of your dungeon? You never know how I might be able to help you. You could be civil.”
“Forgive me, it’s been a rough day,” he said through gritted teeth.
She laughed gaily. “So,” she said, linking her fingers over her crossed knee, “you are a friend of the splendid Princess Serafina. How good a friend?”
He looked at her suspiciously.
“Are you her lover?”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “Her Highness is unmarried and pure.”
Pauline bristled. “My lady-in-waiting, Cara, who used to attend Serafina, says the princess has been in love with you all her life. Is this true?”
“How should I know?” he replied. “I would never presume to know such a thing about a member of the royal family.”
“You do not care for her?” She leaned forward with a little, calculating flare in her dark eyes.
Not in a thousand years would he discuss Serafina with this malicious cat.
“Cara betrayed her. That is all I know,” he said.
For a long moment, they sat in silence. Furtively, he eyed up the window, knowing it was too high to jump. He could hear the guards outside the door chuckling to each other over the way she had had him brought to her like a stud horse, a male whore.
He could play the part. He knew it well: It was a role he had been perfecting since he was thirteen and had discovered this particular way of avenging himself on the female race.
Only, after Serafina, any other woman’s touch sickened him.
Again, she reached out and touched under his chin, turning his face to her. “What’s wrong, Condé? You weren’t shy before.” She rested her hand on his thigh and began caressing him.
God, I have to get out of here.
Just then, his gaze caught on a gold glint in her dark hair. A hairpin.
He went stock-still as his heart began to pound. He flicked his gaze away smoothly from the hairpin as Pauline moved closer, caressing his chest. Suddenly she leaned toward him, kissing his cheek near his mouth.