Fear spurted anew in her veins. She could well imagine how angry he must be with her. There was such a thing as male pride, of which he had more than an ordinary share, and she had bruised his—royally.
As her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she saw the prince was dressed entirely in black. After his finery of the night before, the severe clothing somehow only enhanced the effect of the hardened seducer. His loose-sleeved shirt hinted at the steely, sculpted arms and shoulders beneath, while his waistcoat snugly spanned his hard chest and molded his lean waist. His riding breeches were crafted of expensive-looking black leather which appeared both comfortable and soft; his glossy hessian boots shone.
He watched her with a cool, hooded gaze.
With an idly impatient gesture of one black-gauntleted hand, large and graceful through a dusty beam of sunlight, the prince caused the guards to search her, then he linked his fingers thoughtfully again before his seductive mouth.
The battle-hardened yeoman stepped forward at the unspoken command, pulled her to her feet, and began briskly patting her sides. But when he ran his hands over her chest, his sudden grunt of surprise turned to a yelp of pain as, reflexively, she brought up both clasped, manacled hands and swung at him. “Get your hands off me!”
She didn’t know where her burst of strength came from.
Whirling clear, she smashed the guard in the face, then spun and leaped to catch another full force in the chest with a well-aimed kick. When another guard stepped too near, her knee came up hard between the man’s thighs.
The soldier dropped, but in the blink of an eye a bayonet was pointed at her throat. She froze and stood stock-still, chin high, chest heaving.
Then, from high on the throne rolled a low laugh pierced by slow, insolent applause.
“Don’t you laugh at me!” she cried, hurting her parched throat with her shout.
When he spoke, his deep voice rumbled with gentle yet ominous indulgence: “Remove the mask.”
Tensed with anticipation, Rafe watched the yeoman round her warily. From behind the black hood, her fierce eyes tracked the man, snapping blue sparks.
Cautiously, the yeoman moved toward her. The girl cursed as the mask slid away. At once, a cascade of wavy chestnut tresses tumbled free to her shoulders and blazed in the slanted sun.
The men gasped and she all but hissed at them like a little cat, backing them off.
His men slunk back to give her space, responding instinctively to her unmistakable air of inborn command. Seemingly satisfied with their distance, Lady Daniela then turned her sharp, wary gaze to Rafe.
He sat motionless, his elbow on the chair arm, his curled fingers idly obscuring his lips, his heart pounding recklessly. One glance, and he wanted her just as urgently as he had the night before when he’d spied her in the crowd. Just as hotly as the first night he had met her in her threadbare salon.
She…woke him. His senses, his mind, his slumbering heart. Her beauty made him catch his breath like a splash in the face of icy water from some mountain stream, so cold it was painful, and yet exhilarating and crystalline pure.
Joan of Arc came to mind, with her hands bound before her, that irresistible saucy chin jutting high, a smudge of soot on her cheek, and her aura of angry pride shining around her like the morning light. The loose black shirt and vest she wore disguised her virginal curves, but her shocking breeches followed every line of her trim calves and thighs and gracefully turned hips. She was lean and wiry like a fine, fast filly.
When Rafe’s gaze flicked back up to her face, Daniela held his stare with bold, cool poise, neither intimidated nor impressed. And he, who knew all there was to know about women, still had no idea what to make of this one, who seemed little more than a child. She was not a ravishing beauty like the lovers in his past—if they were roses, she was a proud and wild tiger lily. They glared like so many cold chips of diamond beside the burning simplicity of a whole and perfect fire opal. There was so much more than beauty there: blazing spirit, tumultuous life.
Father had been right, Rafe thought with a slight, devious smile as he stared at her. He would need someone he could depend on by his side, and he could imagine no more staunch and fearless ally than the valiant Masked Rider.
A sleepless night of soul-searching and agonizing over both their fates had resolved him.
With one last outrageous scandal to shock the world, he was going to change his life, live up to his dying father’s hopes, amaze Ascencion with his brilliant leadership, and produce an heir to carry on the royal line. Her fiery beauty proved the spark that had ignited him. Moreover, he was going to break his father’s domination of his life and assert his own control over his destiny. Standing there defiantly before him, with her blazing aquamarine eyes, she was his declaration of liberty.
Of course, it would have been a fatal revelation to let her know how important she was to his plans. When women sensed an opening, they seized it, he well knew. Proceeding with caution, he had decided just what he was going to say to get what he wanted yet keep her in line, for she was a handful, all right.
Oh, he had made up his mind about Daniela Chiaramonte. And as he gazed at his future wife, he had a feeling from the bottom of his rake’s soul that he was the one who was doomed.
CHAPTER
SEVEN
Dani did her best to keep her chin high and her shoulders flung back in a defiant pose, but inwardly she quaked, more afraid of Rafael alone than his whole squadron of burly guards. With an almost bored flick of his hand, he dismissed his men. In a moment, they were alone, staring at each other in hostile silence.
The tender lover of the previous night had vanished inside this remote, brooding autocrat. His harsh, angular face seemed carved of granite. “I am displeased, Daniela. Most seriously displeased.”
“Go on, hang me! I don’t care!” she cried desperately, rattled and on the defensive. “I’m not afraid of you!”
“Hang you?” he asked blandly. “Let us think on this, my dear. Hanging seems much too light a sentence for the…pains you’ve given me.” He shoved up from the throne and walked casually down the three steps from the dais, approaching her.
He walked past her to the long rectangular table in the center of the room and pulled out one of the rough-hewn chairs, gesturing. “Sit.”
She kept a wary stare fixed on him as she walked over and lowered herself to the plain wooden chair, rather grateful for the invitation in her weakened condition.
“Hands on the table.”
Again she obeyed, burning with angry shame. It was terrible to be humiliated by her own actions in front of a man whose respect and admiration she secretly longed for. The longing itself shook her—but she had never known another person like him, so vibrant and magnetic, so exciting to be near.
He pushed in her chair with ironic chivalry, then bent over her shoulder, planting his hands on the table around her body, hemming her in. His face was but a hand’s breadth from hers. She could feel his warm breath near her ear. She closed her eyes and held perfectly still, helpless before her total physical awareness of him.
“You lost this at the ball,” he whispered, skimming her cheek with the tip of his nose as he placed a small object on the table before her.
She dragged her eyes open and found herself staring down at one of her silver spurs.
“You left it in my bedchamber,” he added silkily.
She huffed at his innuendo and turned away, blushing crimson, but at least she managed to hold her tongue.
With a slight, arrogant smile, as though he knew precisely his effect on her, he pushed away and walked languidly around the table. On the other side of it, he pulled out a chair, spun it lightly around backward, and straddled it, lowering himself. He folded his arms over the chair’s back, rested his chin on his arm, and stared soberly at her.
“Tell me everything.”
“I can’t talk until you give me water,” she croaked.
Studying her, he frowned and nodded, getti
ng up. He walked to the door, asked quietly for drinking water, and returned a moment later with a pitcher and a tin cup, pouring as he crossed the chamber to her. He held the cup out to her and she took it warily from his hand. He folded his arms slowly over his chest and watched her drink in lusty greed. She basked in the heaven of water filling her mouth, rushing down her parched throat, but her eyes opened when she felt him stop her with a firm hand on her arm.
“Slow down. You’ll be sick,” he murmured, reaching across the table.
She lowered the cup and peered longingly into it in order to avoid looking at him. When she glanced up at him hesitantly, she found him staring at her wet lips. She looked away, dizzy with the memory of his deep, slow, drugging kisses last night. Oh, he was a wicked man, somehow making her want him even when she knew he was about to send her to the gallows.
Resting both her elbows on the table, she buried her face in her hands.
A long moment of silence passed and neither of them moved, she sitting at the table with her head in her hands, he standing across from her, watching her with relentless patience, his arms folded across his broad chest.
“Why did you do it?”
She drew a deep breath and lowered her hands, watching her fingers as she interlocked them. “Two hundred souls count on my lands for their livelihood, Your Highness. When the drought struck and ruined our crops, I saw that if I did not come up with the money from somewhere, they would starve. I tried other ways. I sold off all my mother’s jewelry. But I could not sell myself to that swine Count Bulbati, so I invented the Masked Rider. But,” she admitted, swallowing a fraction of her pride, “I never intended for it to go this far.”
“It was a witless thing to do. You do realize, Lady Daniela, that I am bound by law to hang you?”
She steeled herself and lifted her chin. “If you are expecting me to grovel for mercy, Your Highness, don’t waste your breath. I have been aware from the start of the consequences of my actions and I am prepared to die.”
He stared at her. “Good God, are you always like this?”
She shrugged.
“My foolish urchin, your life is in my hands and so, might I remind you, are the lives of those peasant boys to whom you seem so inordinately attached.”
Her wary gaze flicked back to him at his mention of the Gabbiano brothers. “What about them?”
He rested his hands on the back of the chair across from her. “Tell me this. The eldest—Mateo. Is he in love with you?”
“What? No!” she scoffed, blushing instantly.
“I want the truth.”
Her scowl turned to a look of confusion. “I—I don’t know. I hope not.”
He pulled out the chair and sat down, skimming his fingertips restlessly over the nicked and scarred surface before him. “Yesterday, the man was willing to hang rather than reveal the Masked Rider’s identity. I questioned him myself and all he continued to do was insist that he was the Masked Rider. He was willing to die in your place.”
“Well, I’d do the same for him, but it’s not that kind of…”—she hesitated with an uncertain frown—“love. The Gabbianos are like brothers to me.”
He leaned forward and asked conspiratorially, “You mean your noble Mateo has never declared himself?”
“Good Lord, no! I’d run him through if he tried, and he knows it!”
He appeared to fight a narrow smile. “Then is it safe to presume you are not in love with him, either?”
“Love,” she declared, “is for fools.”
He studied her with a mystified gaze. “Aren’t you a little young for such a policy, my dear?”
“I am not your dear; I am not your anything!” she burst out, feeling trapped and blushing intensely at the hungry way he was staring at her. “Are you going to tell me my sentence or are you going to stand there tormenting me? Because I don’t see what this line of questioning has got to do with anything!”
“Obviously, it’s a matter of critical importance.” He gave her an aloof smile. “Forgive me, we royals must be as blunt in these matters as horse breeders. Too much is always at stake for the niceties, you see. Questions of legitimacy are a part of royal life.”
“And what has that got to do with me?” she retorted.
“Well, for example, when you bear my sons you will have to do so before a small audience. Another case in point—after our wedding night, proof of your virginity will have to be shown to the elders of the council—”
Dani didn’t wait to hear the rest.
She shot up out of the chair, only to be stabbed by a bolting pain in her stomach from gulping the water. She let out a small yelp and fell back down to her seat again. Clutching her stomach, she doubled over in her chair.
Rafael was by her side in an instant, down on one knee, steadying her with a large, firm hand on her shoulder. “Shhh, breathe deep. It’ll pass.” He stroked her back in long, soothing caresses, slowly quieting her spasms as the pain dispersed. “Thata girl,” he whispered. “You’re a tough one, Daniela Chiaramonte. God knows you’ll make one hell of a queen.”
“What are you talking about?” she rasped, her face searing red.
“Did I forget to mention? You are going to marry me. That is your sentence.”
She stared at him blankly. “You must be drunk.”
“Sober as a churchman.”
“Are you out of your mind?” she nearly shouted.
He smiled—charmingly.
“I will not marry you! No! No!”
“Of course you will, my dear. Come, Daniela—here I am, down on bended knee for you. I lay my kingdom at your feet.” His tone was jaunty, his eyes twinkling. “It appears I have rendered you speechless.”
Ohhh, a joke. Yes, that was it. Now she understood. She wanted to strangle him until that boyish grin wilted off his fine mouth. “Don’t you dare try to charm me, Rafael di Fiore.” Wretched with nausea and fury and disbelief, still holding her stomach, she glared at him, her hair hanging lankly in her face. She could not believe a woman could look such a wreck and receive a marriage proposal from the catch of the century.
“First you shoot me! Then you have me dragged to your room and try to seduce me! What kind of perverse game are you playing with me now?”
“Tsk, tsk, Daniela, so suspicious.” He smoothed a lock of her hair behind her shoulder, touching her as though he owned her already.
She felt herself starting to panic in earnest. “You’re not serious.”
“Oh, yes, I am.”
“I can’t marry you! I don’t even like you!”
“That’s not what your kisses told me last night,” he whispered with a knowing smile.
“Do you think I’m such a country bumpkin that I can’t see what you’re doing?” she demanded, narrowing her eyes. “You’re trying to make a fool of me!”
He lifted his eyebrows. “Why would I do that?”
“To get back at me for robbing your witless, shallow friends! I know you’re going to hang me or worse, so just quit this cruel game—”
“Quiet,” he said firmly, cupping her face in his black-gloved hand with a touch so soft it brought tears to her eyes. He held her gaze in steady reassurance and solid confidence. “This is no jest. You’ve got yourself into some serious trouble here. Let’s just say it amuses me to help you. Naturally,” he added, as his touch on her face turned to a light caress, “I expect you to help me in return.”
She stared at him, slack-jawed with disbelief. “How?”
“Oh, several ways,” he whispered, stroking her cheek with his knuckle. “You have the proper lineage. You are, I daresay, in sound health for bearing me sons.”
“Sons?” she echoed, paling. Dear God, he was serious. His princess? His queen? She did not know the first thing about being a queen. Her head swam as she gaped at him. True, she had the great Chiaramonte name to boast of, but she had never even been presented at court due to her family’s financial plight.
“I apologize if my offer lack
s romance, but I am not of a sentimental nature,” he said with a breezy shrug, lowering his hand. “Besides, you said love is for fools, which I can attest is true. You told me at your villa that you intended never to marry, but I’m afraid you forfeited your freedom when you took to lawless behavior. You see, Lady Daniela, the plain fact is I have a use for you.”
“A use—for me?” she asked weakly.
He nodded. “Fortunately, criminal though you are, you were never dangerously violent. We both know the Masked Rider is loved by the people of Ascencion. You are something of a national heroine, while I, on the other hand—well, the commoners are less than enamored of me. They are only commoners, I know, but I desire my people to care for me as they care for my father. You, my lady, are just the instrument I need to win them over. This will serve as your dowry.” He lifted her black satin mask from the table and dangled it before her eyes.
Wide-eyed, she looked from it to him. “His Highness wishes to use me…for my influence with the people?”
He was watching her reaction closely, a flicker of some mysterious emotion in the green depths of his eyes, but his tone remained light. “Yes. That sums it up rather neatly.”
“I see,” she said, dropping her gaze, her mind reeling. “What exactly would my role involve?”
He shrugged cynically. “You need do little more than stand by my side, wave to the crowd, and look happy.”
But he had mentioned sons. She studied him, debating. Of course, as the crown prince, it was one of his chief duties to produce heirs, she knew, just as it was his future wife’s raison d’etre to give them to him. She had long harbored an abnormal fear of childbirth, but at the moment, the notion of actually bearing his children seemed so impossible, implausible, unimaginable, and unreal that it did not really frighten her.
What frightened her was the thought of having an unprincipled, unreliable, and utterly charming rake for a husband—and worse—far worse—falling in love with him. Becoming his thrall, his slave.
“Be wise, Daniela,” he murmured, watching her emotions war in her face. “This is no place for your pride.”
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