“All right,” she said ruefully. “I’ll do it.”
CHAPTER 5
Annie avoided the dining hall the next morning. Even though she had been ravenously hungry from the instant she opened her eyes, she was afraid to encounter Rafael. Her emotions were in turmoil—one moment, she felt the most profound joy; the next, the most pitiful despair—and the echoes of his lovemaking still thrummed and spilled and caught in the deepest reaches of her womanhood. She was absolutely certain that the prince, with his greater knowledge of the world and its ways, would guess these embarrassing secrets at a glance.
The prospect of that encounter being unbearable, Annie had dressed hastily and allowed Phaedra to lead her through endless passages to the other side of the castle.
“This is the solarium,” Phaedra announced, when they stepped into the large, round, sunny room, with its towering windows, flourishing plants, and bare stone walls. “In the old days, the ladies of the keep used to come here to chat and work their embroidery, and sometimes musicians played for their entertainment. Papa had glass put into the windows—they were open before—and there were the most beautiful tapestries for decoration, until Rafael inherited the crown.” The princess paused, a slight frown crinkling her otherwise flawless face. “He said the air was ruining them and gave the lot to the public museum in Moravia.”
Annie turned slowly, admiring the vast, chilly chamber. It was circular, with a high, dome-shaped ceiling and a balcony that stretched all the way around. Imagining the place as it must have been in medieval times, she could almost see the St. James women in their kirtles, smiling and sewing, and hear them chatting and humming under their breaths with the soft notes of a lyre for accompaniment. “What a wonderful room,” she whispered.
Phaedra pointed to the balcony, which loomed at least twenty feet off the cold stone floor. “A long time ago, a princess leaped to her death from up there. The servants claim that her ghost haunts St. James Keep to this day.”
A delicious tremor coursed down Annie’s spine. She would like to make the acquaintance of such a creature, she decided, provided it was well-behaved and not too ugly.
“Now remember, you promised to be fitted in my place,” Phaedra added, in a whisper, as a clatter sounded near the open arch that served as the main doorway. A short, plump woman with gray hair and an unfortunate mole just to the left of her nose bustled in, with two servant girls bumbling at her heels. The first young woman carried an enormous bolt of shimmering white moire, the second a sewing basket overflowing with lace and ribbon and measuring tape. Both looked harried and anxious.
The woman in the lead placed her hands on her ample hips and assessed both Annie and Phaedra with bright, beadlike eyes. “Which one of you is the princess?” she demanded, and from her tone a person might have concluded that there was a beheading scheduled for that sunny, rain-washed morning, instead of a fitting for the most magnificent wedding dress in all of Europe.
“I am,” Phaedra responded coolly, drawing herself up. While there was nothing of the snob in her nature, she did not like to be addressed in too casual a fashion. “This is my friend, Miss Annie Trevarren. She’ll be standing in for me during the fitting. Annie, Miss Augusta Rendennon.”
The new arrival, obviously the seamstress Miss Covington had retained, and a personage of some renown in addition to that, reddened slightly and pursed her lips. She had used none of her purported skill in the making of her own garments, for hers was a plain gray gown, unremarkable in every way. Her high-button shoes were scuffed and the small lace cap perched on the crown of her head had seen better decades. Her eyes were narrow as she studied Annie.
“Hmmm,” she said, her tone and expression ripe with censure.
Annie blushed, both embarrassed and indignant, and would have elbowed Phaedra in the ribs if the princess hadn’t been judicious enough to step out of reach. “I don’t think—” she began lamely.
“Hush!” hissed the dressmaker, walking around Annie in a slow circle now. “Madame is not called upon to think. Yes … yes, I believe you will do, though I dare say I’ll need to make adjustments at the waist.” She reached out and gave Annie’s side a hard pinch. “A bit fleshy, but to tell the truth, men like a woman to be soft in the appropriate places.”
Annie cast a scathing look in Phaedra’s direction, though the heat in her face rose not from this current humiliation, but from memories of the day before, when Rafael had touched and stroked and kissed every inch of said flesh. “Surely if it is to be the princess’s dress, then she should be the one to—”
Phaedra was already flitting toward the door, nimble as some forest nymph vanishing into the trees. Eyes narrowed in warning, she nonetheless blew Annie a farewell kiss. “Miss Rendennon will take care of everything,” she chimed, before vanishing as quickly as any ghost could have done.
Annie’s stomach gave a loud and unmistakable rumble, and Miss Rendennon sighed in a martyrly fashion.
“Barbarians,” she muttered to herself. “Nothing but barbarians.”
One of the maids, having set her bundle of fabric down on a nearby couch, curtseyed to Annie and said, “I could find you something to eat, miss.”
“Eat?” bellowed Miss Rendennon, horrified. “There will be no food within a hundred fathoms of these exquisite goods! Besides, I won’t have the seams bursting.”
Annie’s cheeks burned anew. Perhaps she was a bit more voluptuous than Phaedra, but Miss Rendennon made it sound as though she were an oddity, fated to spend the rest of her days touring with circuses. “My dear woman, I hardly think—”
The dressmaker did not allow her to finish, but clapped her hands loudly and ordered one of the maids to fetch sheets to cover the floor, so that the precious moire would be protected, and began taking Annie’s measurements, clucking and muttering and fussing all the while.
Once a large part of the floor had been covered, and Annie had been stripped to her chemise, the length of fabric was unfolded and the process of draping began. Annie stood like St. Joan at the stake, her stomach grumbling, watching dust motes floating in the spears of sunlight stabbing through the windows, and passed the time by plotting revenge against Phaedra.
A tingling sensation on her nape was the first indication that she was being observed, and when Annie raised her eyes, she was startled to see Rafael standing on the balcony, arms braced against the ornate masonry railing, watching her. Although she could not make out his expression, because of distance and shadows, she felt oddly vulnerable, as though she’d been bared for him, like a harem favorite for the sultan.
When Miss Rendennon looked up and saw the prince, her insolent manner changed in an instant. She nodded and beamed. “Good morning, Your Highness,” she said.
Rafael, wearing a white shirt and dark breeches, nodded an acknowledgment but did not speak. Annie willed herself to look away, but she found that she could only stand there, aching with passion and with pride, remembering that she’d made a fool of herself for this man only the day before. And wanting with all her heart to do the same thing over again.
The prince remained where he was, without speaking, and Annie couldn’t guess who was more undone by his presence—herself or Miss Augusta Rendennon. Alternately murmuring and twittering, the formidable dressmaker bungled her way through the rest of the fitting. She finally undraped the glimmering fabric and left Annie standing in the middle of the floor in her chemise.
One of the maids had the presence of mind to hand Annie her gown, and she fairly leaped into it, being careful not to raise her eyes to the place Rafael had occupied on the balcony, telling herself that he would certainly have gone by now. As prince of Bavia, he surely could not waste his time standing about on balconies, watching dress fittings.
Annie had no more reached this comforting conclusion when she heard the sound of boot heels clicking on a stone staircase. In a sidelong glance, she saw Rafael crossing the chamber floor, his expression pensive.
Still only half-dressed, Anni
e clutched the bodice of her gown closed and stared stupidly as he approached. He came to a graceful stop a few feet in front of her.
“What are you doing?” he demanded, in a distracted undertone.
Annie felt accused somehow, as if she’d been caught pilfering in the counting house, and her irritation was profound. Did Rafael think she’d enjoyed standing still as a statue, for upward of an hour, while Miss Augusta Rendennon pricked her with pins and muttered comments?
She executed a brief and slightly mocking curtsey, her eyes flashing with indignation. “It seems that Phaedra had better things to do this morning than being fitted for her wedding gown,” she said. She swallowed as some of her bravado deserted her.
The sudden flash of his smile startled Annie, and she blinked, as dazzled as if she’d glimpsed the center of the sun. By the time she could see clearly again, Rafael’s face had turned solemn.
“There is to be a ball this Saturday evening,” he said, as though the upcoming event were a funeral instead of a celebration. “At the palace in Morovia. Both you and Phaedra will be wanting proper gowns, I suppose.”
Annie was buttoning her dress, a spring green garment of soft, whispery cotton. She couldn’t help smiling at the prospect of a visit to the royal palace and a gala in the bargain. “Phaedra’s engagement ball—how wonderful!”
Rafael sighed. “Yes. Wonderful,” he said glumly.
She tilted her head to one side, watching him with curiosity. “You don’t want to go?”
“It isn’t that,” he replied, his gaze leaving Annie’s face to scan the balconies and the shadowy heights of the ceiling. “Morovia is a dangerous place, for members of the St. James family, at any rate. And to the people of Bavia, the palace symbolizes seven hundred years of excess and abuse.” When Rafael met her eyes again, he seemed to regret what he’d confided. “Don’t worry, Annie. We’ll all be perfectly safe—Barrett and his men will see to that.”
Before Annie could assure him that she wasn’t at all fearful, for herself at least, he raised one hand and brushed the backs of his fingers lightly over her cheek. His mouth curved into a brief and somehow sorrowful smile, and then, in a low voice, he spoke again.
“I’m sorry about yesterday, love.”
Annie averted her eyes. She trembled with the effort of keeping herself from shouting that she didn’t want him to be sorry, that she had always loved him and always would, and her heart was pounding so hard that she was certain he would hear it. She said nothing, not daring to speak.
Rafael cupped his hand under her chin and made her look at him. “Somewhere on this weary earth,” he said quietly, his pewter eyes full of mirth and mourning, “there walks a man so fortunate that even the angels must envy him. One day soon, he will put a golden band on your finger, Annie Trevarren, and take you to his bed with all the blessings of heaven. When you give yourself up to his love, my sweet, nothing in the past will matter any longer.”
Annie was about to blurt out that her time alone with him, in the cottage by the lake, would always matter, that there would be no other man for her, ever, when she heard slow, mocking applause from the balcony.
Both Annie and Rafael looked up at the same moment and saw Lucian standing high above their heads, clapping.
He smiled and let his hands fall to his sides.
“An excellent performance, Brother,” he said. “Very poetic, with just the right touch of drama.”
Annie shifted her gaze back to Rafael’s face, just in time to see him clench his jaw.
“Enough,” Rafael said simply and quietly. Still, the word carried to the balcony and struck Lucian with visible impact, like a stone from a slingshot.
Lucian recovered in an instant. His smile returned, at once chilling and cordial, and he leaned against the balcony railing with the same easy grace Rafael had shown earlier. “So the rumors are true,” he said, with acidic cheer. “You’ve had your way with yet another lovely wayfarer. And now you’re telling her the tragic truth—that nothing can come of the episode, however pleasurable it was, because you are fated to die a grand and noble death. Brilliant, Rafael. Nothing less than brilliant.”
“Lucian,” Rafael said hoarsely. “I’m warning you. Stop this, now.”
Undaunted, the younger brother descended the same stairway Rafael had used and entered the great chamber. “Did you believe him, beautiful Annie?” he asked in a soft, sly voice. “If so, you mustn’t berate yourself. You certainly aren’t the first.”
Rafael did not immediately respond, and yet the room seemed to pulse with tension and fury. Looking on, Annie felt genuine fear, as well as outrage toward Lucian, for she recognized violence in the prince and knew that he could barely restrain it.
Lucian went recklessly on, ignoring his brother, concentrating on Annie. “You must be more discreet in the future, Miss Trevarren,” he said, “or at least give up the pretense of being a lady.”
It was then that Rafael sprung, his hands closing around Lucian’s throat.
Annie screamed, certain that there would be a murder, and Lucian freed himself, temporarily, by flinging his arms upward and breaking Rafael’s hold. Only an instant later, however, Rafael landed a punch in the middle of Lucian’s stomach, driving the breath from his lungs in an audible rush.
Rafael hurled Lucian down and straddled him, once again pressing his thumbs deep into his brother’s windpipe. Lucian, his eyes bright with angry disbelief and humiliation, was turning purple for lack of air. Nevertheless, his hatred was palpable.
Annie made an effort to pull Rafael off, only to be pushed away with such force that she nearly fell. God only knew what would have happened if Edmund Barrett hadn’t dashed into the room just then, followed by two of his men. Breaking Rafael’s hold on Lucian, Barrett dragged him back off of his brother.
Rafael struggled, strong as a panther, but Barrett, gripping the prince’s arms from behind, had gained the advantage. Barrett’s men hoisted Lucian to his feet and, at a nod from their captain, one of them led him, stumbling, from the chamber. Rafael freed himself with a violent shrug, but did not pursue his retreating brother.
“Good God, Rafael,” Barrett growled, having apparently forgotten, as the prince had, that Annie was there, “isn’t it enough that you insist on staying in Bavia until the rebels run you to the ground and kill you? Are you so bent on sacrificing yourself that you’ll do murder under your own roof, just so you can hang for it?”
Rafael muttered something, and his gaze skimmed over Annie and then came back to her face. In that instant, she saw in his eyes the depths of his suffering, and the sight nearly brought her to her knees.
He was in agony.
“Annie,” he whispered. The name sounded ragged, broken.
She took a step toward him and stopped. Rafael was determined to die. She covered her mouth with one hand, to stifle a sob, and fled. In the doorway, she nearly collided with none other than Miss Felicia Covington.
Miss Covington’s pretty forehead was crumpled into a concerned frown, and her dark eyes were full of kindly concern. Up close, she was as beautiful as a Botticelli angel and apparently as compassionate. She gripped Annie’s shoulders for a moment, in a distracted effort to steady her, before proceeding into the chamber.
Annie lingered in the shadows just beyond the threshold, wanting to be elsewhere and yet too stricken to move.
“Rafael,” Miss Covington cried, hurrying over to the prince and taking his upper arms into her hands. “What did you do to Lucian?”
Rafael moved to twist free of her, but she held on in a way only an intimate friend would dare to do. “It’s nothing,” he spat. “Leave me alone, Felicia. Please.”
She smoothed his hair and, oddly, the gentle gesture tore at Annie’s heart, causing her to shrink deeper into the shadows and hold her breath while she struggled for self-control.
Felicia nodded to Barrett, who reluctantly left the room, passing Annie without seeing her. “Why, Rafael?” Miss Covington whispered, slip
ping her arm around his lean waist. “Why do you hate Lucian so much? He is your half brother.”
Rafael sighed and shoved a hand through his hair. Although some of his fury had dissipated, Annie could see that there was still tension coiled within him. “I don’t hate Lucian,” he responded. “He hates me. And sometimes I share his opinion.”
Felicia smiled up at Rafael, smoothed his tousled hair and stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. Annie, still looking on, wanted to despise the woman, but she found it impossible.
“Was it your poor brother you wanted to kill,” Felicia asked gently, “or was it yourself?”
Rafael sighed again, and slipped his arm around Felicia’s slender waist. Miss Rendennon would never call her fleshy, Annie thought, in despair, slipping behind a suit of armor as the two of them passed by.
“I’m ten kinds of a bastard,” Rafael confided.
Annie watched through tears of envy and despair as Felicia linked her arm with Rafael’s and smiled up at him.
“And why is that, Your Highness?” she teased.
Even though they were retreating rapidly along the passageway, Annie heard Rafael’s reply with brutal clarity. “Lucian accused me of using someone,” he said. “And he was right.”
The admission struck Annie with all the force of a battle-ax. She sagged against the wall, unseen, feeling the cold stone at her back, and breathed deeply until the worst of the pain had passed. When she’d recovered a little, and was certain Rafael and Felicia were in another part of the keep, she made her way back to her room.
There, she splashed her face with tepid water, took her hair down from its pins, brushed it fiercely, and then put it up again. After that, she got her writing box and set out for the gardens. She meant to draft a letter to her mother and father in Nice and tell them to expect her soon. She could not stay in Bavia; she realized that now. It would be unbearable to remain, even for something as important as Phaedra’s wedding, knowing that Rafael pitied her, that he had indeed used her.
Princess Annie Page 8