Unexpected memory wakened. Seated at John Hunyadi’s table, catching something very like the same glance. Several times. While he’d been talking to Ilona Szilágyi, the girl with the laughing brown eyes that had no right to look so soft when they pierced like a sword point. Of course, Ilona was Mihály’s daughter.
Maria was not high on his list of people to entertain, but he didn’t forget her. Later in the evening, he approached her and asked if she was enjoying herself.
“Oh yes!” said Maria with the enthusiasm of a child. “And please allow me to congratulate you and wish you many happy returns.” The difference between this confident woman and the frightened supplicant who’d come to him in the summer was marked. Intrigued, Vlad teased her.
“Thank you. I think you must find your estates very dull.”
“Very,” she agreed frankly, then, as she realised what she’d said, her eyes flew back to his. “That is, I’m so grateful to have them, only living on them…”
“…can be tedious,” Vlad sympathised. “Nothing, I imagine, like your old position with Countess Hunyadi. How is the countess?”
“Well, I believe. Though devastated by the loss of her husband.”
“It must be a comfort to her to have your understanding.”
Maria looked blank. She may have picked up his hint of sarcasm.
“Having lost your own husband,” Vlad reminded her gently.
“Oh! Well, it might be…”
“Then what do the two of you talk about in those long letters?”
Maria blinked with incomprehension. “Countess Hunyadi never wrote to me in her life! But then, to be fair, I think I only ever wrote to her once, after I was married. Ilona writes to me, though, which is how I know the countess is well.”
For some reason, that annoyed him. His half-formed plan to take Maria to bed tonight—it was unfinished business, after all, and part of him rather liked the idea of suborning the Hunyadis’ informant by seduction—died before it was born.
In the end, he took an older lady, a widow like Maria, and quite as passionate and urgent. She had the advantage of lacking Maria’s connections.
Chapter Nine
Visegrád, Hungary, 1474
Ilona woke to birds’ song and the knowledge that things had changed. For a few moments, she lay still and let it wash over her.
Last night’s conversation through Vlad’s prison door had the quality of a dream. It was more than possible she’d fallen asleep here and dreamed of going in search of him, dreamed of the things he’d said and the things she’d agreed to.
What had she agreed to? And what did it matter if it was only a dream?
Was it?
In the years following Vlad’s exile and imprisonment, she’d dreamed of him a lot. Not wild or sensual dreams—or at least not very often. Most of them had been rather like last night’s—quiet conversation after coming upon him unexpectedly. In those dreams, talking to him had made everything all right. She’d been happy. And waking, knowing it was merely a dream, had broken her heart all over again.
“Real or not real?” she whispered.
“Beg your pardon, lady?” said Margit cheerfully.
“Nothing.” Ilona sighed, pushing back the covers and reaching for the grey dress.
“Oh, madam, not that one,” Margit begged. “Half the court will be watching…!” She bit her lip. “Don’t look like that, my lady, you know what this place is, how public everything is. Wear this gown. It will look beautiful.”
Ilona tugged indecisively at her hair. She hadn’t dreamed that he’d been here in this room. The assignation under the auspices of Aunt Erzsébet was real enough. She picked up the dull, grey gown. She didn’t care about the watchers.
People would make fun of him, tying himself to her for the sake of an unstable principality on the Ottoman border.
No one looks down their noses at Szilágyis.
Yes, they do, Father.
But no one must disrespect him, so which dress…?
“Here we go again,” she whispered, pacing around the room, dragging her fingers through her hair. “Back on the sleigh ride, up and down, turned this way and that, churned up like snow beneath its blades. All because I don’t know which wretched dress to wear? For God’s sake, what is wrong with me? It doesn’t matter!”
She snatched the new silk from Margit’s stunned hands.
Unsure why, Margit began to laugh.
***
Vlad made sure he was early. There was no way he’d subject her to the stares of the curious alone. Of course, she probably wouldn’t be alone. She’d have the countess in tow at the very least.
Because he hated to be idle, he brought a book—one of Matthias’s fine collection—and some letters to answer. Accompanied by Count Szelényi, he entered the gallery, inclined his head to every eye he caught, and settled down on a carved bench with his book. He remembered to turn the pages, but he didn’t read them.
A faint rustle of activity alerted him before even Count Szelényi’s murmured, “Sir.”
He glanced up and forgot to breathe.
Countess Hunyadi was nowhere in sight, just Ilona’s attendant of last night, more gorgeously attired. But Vlad barely noticed her.
Ilona was beautiful.
Her shining dark gold hair was braided, pinned up, and veiled as was appropriate for a mature lady, but with such discreet artifice that it covered only the streak of grey. Her crespine was light but jeweled. The dark red silk of her gown intensified the pale roses in her white cheeks and soft lips, emphasising the taut skin over her high, delicate cheekbones. Heavily brocaded under her breasts, the gown was cut into a low V at the front, showing the palest pink of the underdress. The wide oversleeves were folded back, revealing brocaded cuffs, and the pale pink sleeve beneath. And on her fingers, she wore two rings. One of them, he’d given her.
Vlad’s throat constricted because she’d taken such care. Or, at least allowed it, surely, for the right reasons.
She walked quickly, not with pride but with a certain distance that gave a false impression of self-esteem to anyone who didn’t know her. Ilona was still held together by a thread, but she’d made the effort, and he wanted to laugh and weep at the same time. She was the only person in the world who’d ever had that effect on him.
He rose quickly, dropping his book on top of the letters, and went to meet her. She let herself see him then, and he could have sworn some more colour entered her cheeks before they paled.
“Countess Ilona,” he said formally and bowed.
Ilona curtseyed. “Prince.”
She was shaking. He could feel it. He lifted his arm and offered it to her. Her breath caught. Then one slim, still elegant hand lifted and rested on his velvet forearm. It did tremble, vibrating his skin, stirring memory and desire and a need to protect that had become urgent.
They began to walk.
She said, “I can feel their eyes like a thousand pinpricks in my back.”
“They’re admiring your beauty.”
“Oh, please…”
“As am I.”
“Vlad…”
“Yes?”
She glanced up at him uncertainly. And slowly, the tiny frown between her brows smoothed out. Her eyes seemed to clear. She said, “We talked last night.”
“I remember.”
A sound like a laugh came from her, quickly choked off. “I wasn’t sure I did. I—sometimes—I’m confused.”
Sharp as nails, Ilona. His gut twisted, but he said only, “I spoke to you often in dreams.”
Her step faltered. No wonder—she’d closed her eyes. He stopped and, for the benefit of watchers, turned her to face a painting—some garbage purporting to depict the birth of the Hungarian nation.
She whispered, “How awful has it been for you?”
“Not so bad. Even amusing in places. They wheel me out to frighten Ottoman embassies and other foreign dignitaries they want to impress.”
Ilona’s lips t
wisted. “On the assumption that a king who can keep the Impaler imprisoned must be powerful indeed?”
“You always had an incisive grasp of politics.”
“Of my cousin Matthias. And do you?”
“Frighten the dignitaries? I do my best to scowl and look fierce. I think it actually frightens the Hungarians more, but I can live with that.”
“Shh-shh!” Ilona looked around for eavesdroppers.
“Countess Hunyadi promised us privacy, remember? In fact, where is she?”
“I haven’t seen her this morning. I expected to, but she didn’t appear.”
“So you came anyway?”
Again that faintest of flushes that reminded him unbearably of the girl she’d been. A girl too honest and too serious to flirt, though never too serious to laugh.
“I felt I should. I didn’t know if you’d be here. Even if I hadn’t dreamed…our last conversation.”
“You haven’t changed your mind? You’re still content with this betrothal?”
She gave the strange, choking sound again. “Content? That’s a strange word.”
“You once thought happy was a strange word.”
“No, just your interest in its connection with me.” The light in her eyes dulled and vanished. “I don’t know what you want, Vlad, but I know I can’t give you it anymore.”
He reached with his free hand and covered hers on his arm. It jumped at his touch and was still.
“Ilona,” he said, low. “Ilona.” It was a plea, to keep her there with him, but words had deserted him. A tear began to form, trembling at the corner of her eye. “This is impossible,” he said intensely. “We can’t do this here… Ilona, you are the only gift I want. Then together we can make it right.”
“Make what right?” she asked in despair.
“Whatever is wrong.”
She brushed impatiently at her eye before she would look at him. She swallowed. “I—I am not the—help—to you I’d once hoped to be.”
“With you beside me, I’ll defeat the world single-handed. Wielding nothing more deadly than a wet fish.”
A tinkle of laughter broke from her. Encouraged, he smiled into her eyes. “It’s good to talk to you, Ilona Szilágyi.”
She held his gaze, searching. Then her eyes dropped and her head bent, and he thought with despair that he’d lost her again. Then he realised she was still moving. In front of all eyes, she laid her forehead on his arm, and when she lifted it again, she was smiling.
“There you are!”
So much for privacy. Not only Countess Hunyadi but the king himself.
“Renewing old acquaintance, I see,” said Matthias with false indulgence. “How wonderful. I have summoned another old friend for you to meet.”
“Stephen,” Ilona blurted, as if reminded she should have warned Vlad before. As if he hadn’t known the moment Stephen arrived. “Stephen is here.”
“So he is,” Matthias agreed. He smiled at her with open affection. “I mean yet another old friend, my sister. Do you know, Ilona, in view of your reluctance to enter the matrimonial state, I think a convent would suit you best. My sister shall marry the Prince of Wallachia.”
***
Erzsébet Hunyadi’s heart smote her. For an instant, gazing into the violent storm of Vlad’s furious green eyes, she wondered if they were doing the right thing. All very well to rescue Ilona. She owed Ilona. But to save her niece, only to throw her daughter to the Impaler?
“He’ll give my sister all the respect that’s her due,” Matthias had said impatiently. “And she won’t care about his temper or his wild starts. It’s the perfect solution for all of us. Vlad gets a better deal—sister instead of mere cousin. We get someone into his household we can trust.”
“She won’t be able to influence him!” Erzsébet had objected, instinctively protecting her daughter.
Matthias blinked. “And you imagine Ilona will? At least my sister can tell what’s going on. These days, I doubt Ilona knows what day it is.”
But it seemed the soon-to-be-Prince of Wallachia did not appreciate the honour done to him. Erzsébet was not fainthearted, but if looks could kill, she was well aware that both she and her son would be dead. And he had a nasty tongue. When his full, sensual lips parted, she prepared to sustain herself against whatever verbal vitriol was to come.
However, before he could speak, Ilona had jerked free of him, and he was distracted. Her hand clutched her veil as though to drag it off.
“Not again,” she whispered, and without another word began to walk away from them. Fiercely, Erzsébet signaled to the waiting woman, Margit, to go with her. She, Erzsébet would follow in a few minutes, and at a more dignified pace.
Vlad dragged his gaze away from Ilona’s back. Almost between his teeth, he said, “We have already given our words. I have contracted to marry Ilona.”
“My sister is better. Younger, fitter for childbearing, closer kin to me.” Matthias smiled. “And she wants to be Princess of Wallachia.”
As a warning, it wasn’t very subtle. Vlad must have understood it, and yet he continued to stare at the king as if waiting for more. Erzsébet found herself frozen, unable to move away. Even Matthias began to grow uncomfortable in the silence.
Matthias said, “You cannot insult…”
And Vlad interrupted him, leaning forward to say in that dangerous, soft voice that still made Erzsébet shiver, “I will not play, Matthias.”
And he turned and walked away. Troubling no more than Ilona had with the bad form of turning one’s back on the king.
Matthias called angrily after him, “Then I’ll find someone who will!”
“You want Vlad,” Erzsébet reminded him dryly.
“Yes,” Matthias admitted with an angry little shake. “And Vlad wants Wallachia. He won’t give that up by holding out for Ilona, will he?”
But it almost seemed that he would.
Ilona wouldn’t speak to her. By the time Erzsébet caught up with her, she was back in her own apartments, sitting curled up on a corner of the bed, her veil askew, gazing blindly out of the window, merely smiling faintly, abstractedly, if either she or the woman, Margit, spoke to her.
Eventually, Erzsébet gave up and went in search of Vlad instead.
He too was in his own apartment, but alone, with the door wide open. There was no sign of his servant, or of Count Szelényi. Perhaps he was deliberately reminding them that he stayed because he chose to, not because he was imprisoned.
It was tempting to slam and lock the door on his infernal insolence, remind him who had the power to make his incarceration considerably less comfortable. But he knew they wouldn’t do that. Not if they were planning to give him the sister of the king.
Like Ilona, he sat by the open window, letting the breeze stir his thick, still-black locks. But unlike her he was busy, writing furiously.
“Come in, Countess,” he said as her shadow fell across his doorway. He put aside his paper and pen and rose to his feet. “I was hoping to talk to you.”
“Now that you’ve recovered your temper?”
His smile was so thin it was barely a smile at all. “You are mistaken. My temper is far from recovered.”
“Then perhaps I’ll wait until it is.”
“No,” he said quickly, gratifying her that at last she had got to him. “Please, sit. Despite my temper, I promise to be good and not shout or scream. Countess, in your own way, you care for Ilona.”
“As my own daughter. She was my brother’s favourite child.”
“I know.”
She condescended to sit in the chair he placed for her, but annoyingly he stayed looming over her. He knew exactly how intimidating he was, but perhaps he considered her beyond that. She’d thought she was too, until now.
Then, with rare difficulty he said, “You can’t keep doing this to her. It’s tearing her apart, you must see that.”
“I see that she needs peace,” Erzsébet said stiffly. “Which is why the king and I have fo
llowed her wishes and released her from the obligation to marry you.”
“I do not release her.”
“Then you are tearing her apart!”
“No,” Vlad said. “No. Countess…” He drew in his breath, and she wanted to crow because this was so difficult for him. He didn’t want to ask, his pride forbade it, and for a moment, she was sure pride had won. Then he said abruptly, “What happened to her? Why is she so…frail?”
Erzsébet raised her eyes to his face. She refused to feel guilt. The greater good of the family always came first. And yet she wanted another reason. She needed one, and surely it lay in Vlad himself. “You tell me.”
“I can’t.”
“Oh, I think you can. She came to your castle, she and her mother, Countess Szilágyi. Before they left, my sister-in-law was dead and my niece no longer herself.”
“You’re wrong. She wasn’t like this when she left me.”
Erzsébet stared. “You deny that she was upset? Over her mother? Maria? And whatever else you did.”
Vlad stared at her, at a rare loss for words.
She said, “You’d lost to the sultan; your days as prince were numbered. The Ottomans were practically at your castle gates. Would you really have noticed what state she was in?”
Having reduced him to silence, the silence, surely, of guilt, Erzsébet was triumphant, and struck home. “What did she see there? What did you do to her, Vlad?”
She was aware of the risk of riling him. She’d calculated on it. But she never anticipated the thoughtful, almost quiet look that entered his eyes.
He crouched down at her feet so that he could look directly into her face.
“Oh no,” he said softly. “That isn’t it, is it? She left me distraught, grieving, frightened, but strong. I’m beginning to think the question is rather what did you do to her?”
Chapter Ten
Wallachia, 1457
If Ilona had ever been in any doubt as to her welcome, it vanished before they even entered Maria’s house. As she stepped out of the carriage, a luscious female figure in bright blue flew down the front steps, careless of the blustery March wind, and hurled itself into her arms, squeaking out her name in uninhibited joy.
A Prince to be Feared: The love story of Vlad Dracula Page 13