by Kresley Cole
"Famed?"
"Quite. All the Andorrans love to whisper about the royal concealed in their midst. How else do you think I found out about you?"
She gave him a blasé look.
"They say other things about your simmering Castilian blood," he murmured, drawing closer. "I can hardly wait to get to the bottom of the rumors."
"My manners?" she hastily asked. "Is that why you chose me?"
He moved to a polite distance, but gave her a look that let her know he was patronizing her. "No, I will wed you because marrying the daughter of the oldest family in the land is strategic."
"Why all this trouble for tiny Andorra? I can understand why someone like you would set your sights so low, but why not Monaco?" She tapped her cheek. "Isn't the Vatican a country?"
He chuckled. She hadn't meant to entertain him—she'd meant to make a point.
Taking a seat behind his desk, he motioned for her to sit as well. She didn't. He motioned more sharply, and something unsettling flashed in his eyes.
Gritting her teeth, she sat. "You want Spain, don't you? Those are the rumors."
"Yes. After I've solidified my place here."
She gave a sharp scoffing sound. "How original. What would you be? The sixth general du jour to try in the last two decades?"
He laughed again, seemingly delighted with her, and the smoothness of the sound grated on her nerves. "I'd be the sixth general to succeed in the last fifteen years. But unlike my predecessors, I will have something that the others didn't." He stood to approach once again, then touched her face, and she knew every fear she'd had about him was true.
The queen and her general weren't good rulers, but they had to be better than Pascal. If she could get a message to Aleix, he could warn the outside. "You said in your letter that you would free my brother and his men as soon as we marry. How can I trust you to keep your word?"
"Because my first priority will be your happiness," he said so suavely.
She raised her hand to stop him. "I've agreed to this charade, but I refuse to pretend when it's only you and I."
He inclined his head. "Very well. Llorente will be my supporter. He's descended from kings—he'll be a worthy enticement in the eyes of the people."
"Never."
"Just as you would never agree to marry me?" He smiled down at her. "I've found that all it takes is the right incentive to make anyone do as I wish." When he touched her lip with a too-soft finger, she cringed. "Now there's a dress laid out for you in your room. Go upstairs and get ready for a dinner tonight. We are having guests."
Ordered. Another cretin was ordering her. She rose and regarded him with all the arrogance bred into her, then turned to leave.
"And Annalía?" She froze, shoulders tensing. "Any servant found helping you communicate with your brother will be publicly eviscerated."
She turned back to him, lips parted, aghast. His seemingly genuine smile was still in place, his expression earnest. His broad shoulders filled out his uniform and his medals were colorful and proud. Her future husband was perfect.
A perfect monster.
Well into the night, Aleixandre Mateo Llorente pounded on his cell door, yelling until his throat—and the bottoms of his fists—were raw. Today Pascal had notified him that they would be brothers.
Annalía was going to wed a killer thinking to save him, but Aleix knew he would never leave this windowless, dank room alive.
He also knew nothing would prevent her from going through with it, and that conviction ate at his gut. The marriage would only damn them both. How he wished for one minute with her—to convince her that she was no martyr, especially for such a lost cause, to shake some sense into her. "God damn you all," he bellowed. "Open this door."
And then someone…did, but the shock of light blinded him after so many days of darkness. When his eyes painfully adjusted, he found a young woman there with her hair free and clad in nothing but a gauzy nightgown. His breath whistled in. She was beautiful, even with her eyes heavy lidded as if she were still half asleep. And even with the gun she had trained on him.
"If you don't shut your mouth," she snapped. "I'll kill you myself."
This he never expected. "I apologize if my wish for freedom—and my wish not to die—have disturbed your sleep."
She shrugged. "I reside directly above you. You must cease knocking on the door."
"Who are you?"
She frowned. "What purpose would it serve to tell you?"
"A dying man's last wish?"
She shrugged again. "I am Olivia."
She couldn't be his daughter. "Olivia Pascal?" he asked in a low tone.
Her chin went up either proudly or defensively. "Sí."
"I should take your threat more seriously then. If your blood is any indication, you are capable of any atrocity."
Her smile was a cruel curve of her lips. "Very capable. I'm also capable of whistling for the guards to beat you again just on a whim."
In a heartbeat he started for her. She took one step back, but coolly cocked the hammer, her hand steady. "Don't be a fool." Her voice was hard, her face like marble. "I'll do it just so I sleep better."
Assured she would, he moved to lean against the wall, arms crossed. "I've never heard of that. Someone who sleeps better at night because they killed someone."
"Who said killed? I only have permission to maim you until your sister is wed." She began closing the door. "But I promise to wish them well for you."
Court's hand shot out to wrench Vitale through the doorway. "What did you say?" he demanded as he slammed the door behind him.
The others raised their eyebrows when Court dragged Vitale to the parlor, then tossed him into a chair.
"I said you are a pig, an ingrate. My mistress saved your life—"
"You said something about a marriage."
He refused to answer so Court jostled him until he said, "That's where she's gone!" He gestured heatedly. "To save her brother. The general was holding him to force her."
"She's gone to marry him?"
When Vitale nodded, Niall said, "Aye, Court, a real spoiled, calculating woman. Marrying Pascal to save her brother's life. She's chilling."
"This canna be right. The rumors were that he was marrying some Spanish royal. Not Andorran nobility. How do you account for that?" Court recalled her snapping to him, I'm Castilian, but royal?
Vitale hesitated. "Why should I tell you?"
"Because if you do, I might just decide to go get her back."
His eyes widened and he blurted, "She and her brother are the last direct descendants of the ancient House of Castile. They hold the last titles."
"That's impossible. Her father was no' Castilian."
"The titles passed through the mother."
When Court still looked unconvinced, Niall added, "Some houses can pass down matrilineally."
"This is insane. That would make her…. That would mean she's…" Court could barely believe what he was hearing, even while thinking that this would handily explain her arrogance. "Why did she no' plead for her family's help?"
"She did. As I told you before, she and her brother are estranged from the family and shun that life, but she swallowed her pride and attempted to contact them. We think the message never made it out of Andorra."
Niall whistled and said, "Pascal's a clever bastard. He's going after Isabella's crown."
"But that would mean Annalía's useless to him while her brother's still alive. The minute he has her, Llorente's dead."
"No, he won't be," Vitale declared emphatically. "Pascal will try to use Master Llorente as a figurehead."
"Wrong." Court shook his head, giving Vitale the same expression he knew his five men were giving him as well. "Your master's going to be killed if he is no' already."
"And you just ensured she'd go," Niall muttered from behind him. "Good on you, Court."
He shoved a hand through his hair. "Damn it! Why did she no' ask again or explain everything?"
When Court pictured her alone and afraid in Pascal's always darkened home, he had an off feeling in his chest, like a painful shifting. "Oh, bloody hell, Vitale. You might've mentioned this earlier."
"Six or half a dozen?" Niall swore under his breath. "Court, you really are cursed."
Chapter Nine
Last night for the dinner welcoming several odious supporters of the general, Annalía had been given a demure yet luxurious gown. Tonight Pascal had sent her a wholly red, ridiculously low-cut farce to wear. While everyone else enjoyed the village festival, she and Pascal were to have a private dinner. Just the two of them. With a dress like this, Annalía could guess why.
She was endeavoring to work it higher over her breasts with hopping and yanking when Olivia entered without knocking. The witch strolled straight to the wardrobe to survey Annalía's clothes with an acquisitive gleam in her eyes. This morning her jewelry had suffered the same indignity.
"What do you want?"
"Tell me," Olivia said casually as she took out, appraised, and returned a gown, "why he is unmarried."
In an instant, Annalía had her whirled around and her hands clenched around Olivia's arms. "You've seen Aleix?" She could tell she'd surprised her. "Have you?"
Olivia shoved her arms loose. "Why isn't he married?" she stubbornly asked again.
Did her curiosity mean she was attracted to Aleix? All the women in the village thought he was handsome with his tall build and his somber, golden-colored eyes. Mare de Déu, could this spawn of Pascal have feelings for him? And how could she use that to their advantage?
"He's a widower," she admitted, though she felt as if she dangled a bare foot to a viper. "His wife died in childbirth."
Olivia's face was a blank slate. Annalía couldn't read her. "He has a child?"
"No, his daughter died as well."
Olivia shrugged. So that Annalía wouldn't slap her, she forced herself to imagine that Olivia hiked her shoulders every time something particularly upsetting was said.
"Why are you interested?"
She ran her finger across the coverlet on her way to the window. "I was merely curious about my father's prisoner."
"Let me tell you more," Annalía said as she perched on the edge of the bed. Olivia turned to stare out the window, but she didn't say no.
"Aleix is a good man, a strong man. He lives in a beautiful manor overlooking pastures filled with his champion horses. Each day he watches them run, and though he says nothing, I know how pleased he is with them."
Had her shoulders relaxed somewhat? "He's very intelligent and well read. He went to school overseas at Cambridge. He's somber now, but he wasn't always." Annalía decided then to divulge something she considered private. "He's just very lonely up on his mountain."
Olivia shrugged again. "I can't abide this prattle any longer." She crossed the room to the door.
"He's here, isn't he?" Annalía asked. "I'm in the far end of this house because he's in the other."
Olivia turned, with her gaze flickering over her, and Annalía could tell she was calculating her answer, knew she would never say anything unless it somehow served her. "Pascal wants you downstairs in five minutes. Do not displease him. Both of you will suffer for it."
She hadn't denied that Aleix was here! Though she hadn't said anything to confirm it either, Annalía was convinced. "Thank you for the advice. I'll give you some in return. You're about to be married, Olivia. And to one of those loathsome men last night."
"Hold your tongue. How would you know that?"
"In cruelty and killings, I'll gladly defer to you, but I know marriages. Pascal's in a tenuous position and he just happens to convene a meeting with his supporters? How convenient that each one is socially and politically well connected in Spain—and unwed."
Coach-and-six. A father would pay a surprise visit to his daughter at school, and when she walked into the drawing room, he'd introduce her to her new, rich, politically connected fiancé. The man's looks and temperament would be incidental and would rarely match his prospects, but the commerce of marriage would've been decided before the girl ever had any idea she was leaving. With a handshake, her life was snatched from her.
Annalía didn't know that she could wish one of those men even on Olivia.
Olivia glared at her. "You won't manipulate me into dissension. I'll simply ask Pascal." She turned for the door.
"And I'm confident he'll tell you the truth," she called after Olivia before hurriedly tussling with the bodice one last time. Finding no success there, she made sure her choker—or her "collar" as the hateful Scot had called it—was in perfect place. With luck, her formal jewelry, which Pascal had insisted she wear, would be glittery enough to draw his gaze away from her breasts.
Though she dreaded being seen like this, she would never be late and anger the general. Her brother's treatment was to be commensurate with her behavior.
Annalía knew Aleix was in this house, and she planned to persuade Olivia to help them. Though Pascal had said he would kill any servant who helped them, surely he wouldn't hurt his own daughter if she were caught.
Annalía's brows drew together when she recalled how Pascal had smiled at her last night in a way she might describe as lovingly. She'd determined that how strong and proud and good he appeared was directly proportional to how evil he was. Remembering his charisma and startlingly handsome visage in the candlelight, she concluded that yes, he would harm his own daughter.
But then, Annalía thought as she rushed out of her room to meet him, she was ready to take that risk.
After the ordeal of dinner was over, and Pascal had escorted her from the table, Annalía asked for permission to go to her room to rest for an hour. He assured her that she would need her rest for he had much to teach her at week's end, then leaned in to kiss her.
When she dared to give him her cheek, patting his chest before turning toward the doorway, he chuckled behind her. "Ah, Annalía," he sighed as she strolled from his sight.
Once alone, she sprinted up the stairs to her room, then wedged a chair against the doorknob. She scrubbed her face with water before sitting at the mirrored vanity, staring blankly. She would become a shell of her old self under Pascal's "tutelage."
She'd said six or half a dozen, but now that she knew Pascal, if she had to relinquish her innocence to one or the other, it would definitely be to MacCarrick. At least she wasn't personally aware of his atrocities.
The general was more handsome than the Scot—more handsome than any man she'd ever imagined—but it didn't matter. Next to Pascal's engaging smile, soft hands, and murderous impulses, the Highlander's scarred face, blunt speech, and aggression were practically seductive.
And still the hours until her wedding kept creeping by. My wedding.
People had wondered how she could be around Aleix and Mariette, so completely in love and devoted to each other and not crave her own marriage. It was because of their love that she couldn't. She'd seen what God in heaven had had in mind for a man and a woman, had seen their fidelity to each other, and never would she have knowingly slighted herself with a loveless marriage.
Especially not to the degree that I'm about to… She couldn't think like that! She was able to help Aleix now. She had a value with which to bargain—
Guns went off, their shots popping, making her jump. The lowbrow revelry of the deserters consisted of drunken yells and shooting pistols in the air. Adding insult to injury, her hair was curling, escaping its pins. She reached for her brush. She liked the clacking sound her bracelet made as she raised her arm, and the strokes across her hair were soothing.
Her mind drifted again to thoughts of the Highlander. "I'll no' work for yo
u for anything less than you," he'd said in that rumbling, gruff voice. Despicable man. She prayed Vitale would heed the last command she'd given before riding away—that he stay clear of him. She wished she had…. She froze, the brush halting in midstroke.
On that night in the study, had MacCarrick said he'd seen her hair? He had! Her hair and the other treasures she'd hidden.
She slammed down the brush. The only place she wore it loose was in the bedroom. MacCarrick had spied on her while she slept! Why would she expect anything different from an ill-mannered ogre like him? He would always do what he wanted regardless of other people's desires and without respect for their feelings.
Annalía was sick and tired of men running roughshod over her. What about her wants? She hated having no control. She confined her hair more tightly than usual, then adjusted her choker, tightening it, still furious—
Something scraped outside near her window. The music trilled on, punctuated by shots, but she thought she heard a noise coming from just below the sash. Maybe the breeze had stirred a lantern.
A huge boot slipped in through the window, followed by a man unfolding to his full height. She scrambled to her feet. "I know you! You were with MacCarrick." He was the oldest one. "Tell me why you're here or I'll scream!"
Another followed him into the room. Oh, not the whelp!
"We're here to take you to safety, lass," the first said as he advanced on her. "And you ken they canna hear you scream."
"To hell with you both!" Mercenaries! Bloody, cursed mercenaries. Taking her to safety, her foot! When the young one captured her wrist she screeched, "Why can't you all just leave me alone?" then lashed out, her nails and teeth bared.
"Ach, Gavin!" he exclaimed, releasing her. "She bit me. I say we tie the little witch!"
"No, no, son, let me handle—Bloody hell! She got me, too! And he forced this task on us to avoid the fighting?" Gavin muttered angrily as he reached for her again. "Lass, we will no' hurt you, you ken? We're saving you."
"If I leave here, you're condemning my brother!" She kicked at his legs, but her skirts got in the way. "So I'm not leaving!" When he seized her wrists she struck wildly, yet it was only a matter of time. To her fury, he bound her hands.