Chandler chuckled at this recounting, but he also handed back the napkin Annie had folded so carefully only a few minutes before. “Were you hurt?”
She dabbed at her eyes with the cloth, drew a deep breath and turned to face her new friend, smiling. “Oh, yes. My pride was fractured, and my heart was crushed.”
He arched an eyebrow, regarding her with that inherent warmth and humor she had seen in him from the first. “But all your bones were intact?”
“Every last one.”
“Did Rafael have any idea that he’d broken your heart?”
Annie shook her head. “I don’t think so. But Georgiana knew. And I’ll never forget how kind she was, and how gentle. Mama and Papa were away that afternoon, you see, so it was Lady Georgiana who saw to my scrapes and bruises and told me I would find a love of my own someday.”
Chandler sighed. “Ah, Georgiana. She was a remarkable woman, and fine—too fine for this earth, I think. It was inspiring, though, to see a love match in our circle.”
It was the perfect opportunity to broach a certain concern of hers, and Annie wasn’t about to let it pass. “Are they uncommon? Marriages of love, I mean?”
The look in Chandler’s light brown eyes told Annie, even before he spoke, that she hadn’t been subtle enough. He smiled again, but the expression was sorrowful somehow. “Are you asking me, Annie Trevarren, if I’m in love with the Princess Phaedra?”
She squared her shoulders, trying to ignore the fresh blush burning in her face. “Yes, I guess I am. Are you?”
He rubbed his eyes with one hand and sighed again. “And what gives you the right to ask so personal a question?” he inquired, with curiosity but no evident rancor.
“Phaedra is my best friend. We share everything.” Not everything, corrected a voice in the back of Annie’s mind. You haven’t told Phaedra what really happened between you and Rafael, and she’s keeping a secret from you, too. You saw it shining in her eyes just last night, remember?
“I see. Well, I guess it is only fair, after your account of tumbling out of the pepper tree in the middle of Rafael’s marriage proposal, that I speak frankly. No, Miss Trevarren, I do not love Phaedra in the way you mean. I have had neither the time nor the opportunity to develop such a sentiment.”
Annie was disappointed. “But the way you looked at her, when you got out of your carriage—the way you kissed her hand—”
Chandler chuckled and shoved splayed fingers through his hair. “Oh, Annie, what a fanciful spirit you are! Yes, my expression was probably fond when I first looked upon Phaedra—she is, after all, a breathtakingly beautiful woman. And our families have been connected for centuries—”
“That was all?” Annie cried, leaping to her feet.
Chandler rose, too, and stood facing her, his gaze earnest and pained. “No,” he said. “When I saw Phaedra, all grown up, I realized that one day, with thought and effort on both our parts, we might love each other very much. And that knowledge made me happy indeed.”
Annie opened her mouth to speak, realized she had nothing sensible to say and closed it again.
Chandler laid his hands lightly on her shoulders, as a brother might have done. “It’s no wonder, really, that you have such whimsical ideas about love,” he said hoarsely. “You are a young girl, after all, and you’ve been sheltered—how could you know that such glorious passion is rare? And what a wretch I am for disillusioning you with the sad truth.” He drew in a deep breath, let it out again in a heavy sigh. “Annie, my lovely one, most of us never find that kind of love. We have to content ourselves with lesser sentiments that might eventually blossom into happiness.”
When he was through, Annie lifted her chin. “How glad I am,” she said, “that I am not you.”
He allowed his hands to fall to his sides. “God help us all,” he murmured. “You’re telling me that you feel this sort of love for Rafael, aren’t you?”
Annie’s chin went up yet another notch. “I believe I said that in the first place. And if you don’t feel the same for Phaedra, and she for you, then there shouldn’t be a wedding. Not yet.”
Chandler turned from her, in apparent frustration, plowing a hand through his hair in an agitated gesture before facing her again. “Forget about Phaedra and me, for the moment,” he said. “Annie, you must not allow yourself to care so deeply for Rafael St. James.” He raised both hands when she started to protest. “No, no, I’m not saying he isn’t a good man—he’s one of the finest I have ever known. But Rafael is doomed, Annie, just like this crumbling old keep and this damnable country. If you give him your heart, he will probably take it to the grave with him.”
Annie retreated a step and closed her eyes, just for a moment, against the painful impact of Chandler’s words. “So be it,” she said.
“Dear God,” Chandler murmured, pale. “You can’t mean that, Annie. You’re so young, so beautiful—you were born to marry, to drive some fortunate fool crazy with exasperation and the wanting of you, to mother children and to spin dreams …” He fell silent, regarding her with quiet despair. “Run away, Annie. Leave this place and take your sweet, foolish heart with you.”
Annie herself had made almost exactly that decision, not an hour before. As she stood there in that lush, untended garden, however, she knew she would never willingly leave St. James Keep, before or after Phaedra’s wedding, unless Rafael was at her side. Slowly, she shook her head.
“I’m staying,” she said, and knew she’d just made the most sacred vow of her life.
Chandler sighed and, with a muttered farewell, left her alone in the garden. Annie watched him go—she didn’t blame him for doubting the wisdom of her decision, since all his assertions about Rafael had been rational ones. Yet Annie knew from watching the lifelong romance between her parents continuously unfold that love was not necessarily a rational thing.
Rafael had been watching the garden encounter between Annie and Chandler from a high window and he was not pleased. What the devil had they found to talk about, in that out-of-the-way place? What did Haslett think he was doing, touching Annie the way he had, ministering to her so tenderly, as though she, not Phaedra, were his intended bride? And then there was the most troubling question of all—what had ended their meeting so abruptly?
He’d found that more disturbing, somehow, than the earnest conversation and the touching.
Irritated with Chandler, with Annie and, most of all, with himself, Rafael turned from the window and proceeded along the passageway toward one of the rear stairways. He’d been a fool to go after Annie when she’d ridden away from the castle the day before, and an even greater one to kiss her, to teach her the first poignant lessons of pleasure. Now, because he’d so nobly turned from her before taking the satisfaction she would willingly, even eagerly, have given, he was obsessed with the little chit. He had come close to strangling his own brother, and now he was watching people from windows, like some gossiping old woman, and imagining intrigues and betrayals in the bargain.
Cursing, Rafael sprinted down the ancient, foot-worn stairs and strode out into the forgotten garden. Annie was gone, and only Pan remained, with his weather-pitted pipe and impish, insolent smile.
Rafael scowled at the statue and went back inside the castle, fully intending to get a grip on his emotions and press on with the business of preparing for Bavia’s inevitable apocalypse. By an ironic coincidence, he almost collided with Chandler, who was standing in the same hallway Rafael chose to pass through, his back and one foot resting against the wall, his head lowered in grave thought.
“You,” Chandler scowled, as though faced with the devil himself, and privileged to demand an accounting.
Rafael merely nodded. He was grimly amused but, at the same time, he wanted to pummel his old friend to a pulp for daring to touch Annie Trevarren.
Chandler straightened, tugging at his sleeves—he’d always been insufferably neat—and then turned to face Rafael squarely. “You must send the Trevarren girl away,” h
e said. “Immediately.”
A venomous sensation surged through Rafael’s system, an ugly one that he had never felt before. “Oh?” he asked calmly. “Why do you ask such a thing? Does the lady present a temptation?”
Blood surged up Chandler’s neck and throbbed along his jawline, which had gone taut with fury. His hands were knotted at his sides, and his eyes flashed with what Rafael would have sworn was righteous indignation. “A ‘temptation,’ Rafael?” he countered. “Are you implying that I would betray your sister’s trust? That, indeed, I would betray you, my cousin as well as one of my oldest friends?”
Rafael tasted bile in the back of his throat. He ached to fight with this valued ally and despaired, in the same moment, of his own reason. He tried to speak, but nothing came out.
Chandler relaxed slightly, and laid a hand to the prince’s shoulder. “This is no time for us to have differences, Rafael,” he said. “You must know by now that I am a man of my word, even if your burdens press you to pretend you believe otherwise.”
Now it was Rafael who leaned against the wall, bracing himself with one shoulder and struggling for control. “What were you saying to Annie, out there in the garden?” he asked raggedly, and at great length. “Why were you touching her?”
Chandler laughed, but the sound was bitter and hollow. “So that’s why you were suspicious of my intentions. You saw me with Annie.”
Rafael nodded. All his earlier tension returned; it took all the restraint he could muster not to grasp Chandler by the throat and choke an explanation from him.
“Annie told me that she’s in love with you,” Chandler said mercilessly.
“No,” Rafael said. It would have hurt less if Chandler had run him through with a broadsword or bludgeoned him with one of the archaic spiked clubs gathering dust in the dungeon. “Dear Jesus, no. Annie is a girl, barely out of the schoolroom. She only thinks she feels—”
Chandler shook his head. “No, Rafael,” he said gravely. “You’re wrong on all counts. Annie Trevarren knows precisely what she feels, I’m convinced of that. Furthermore, if the rumors that have been rattling the walls of this old pile of rocks since yesterday are true, you’ve given the young lady reason, damn your eyes, to think you might care for her in return.
“Damn it, Rafael, you can’t just leave that lovely creature twisting in the wind. Either treat her honorably, or send her from this place while there’s still time to spare her reputation and her life!”
Rafael did not answer, indeed, he could not. The things Chandler had said were too true, and they’d struck too deeply.
And he, Rafael, should have known what Annie thought and felt, after the way she’d surrendered the day before, after the way she’d bucked and strained under his tongue and his hands and his silken urgings. Yes, he should have known, but he hadn’t—he truly hadn’t. He’d been loved purely and thoroughly by Georgiana, his cherished, lost Georgiana, and no mortal man could be so blessed twice in one lifetime. Surely not him, Rafael St. James, the gypsy’s whelp, the imposter prince.
“Send her away,” Chandler pressed, when the silence lengthened.
Rafael moved past his friend, dazed, stumbling a little, blinded to his surroundings by visions of a soft, sweet, yearning body, writhing and arching in unabashed pleasure on the cottage bed. What had he done? What in the name of God had he done?
Annie found Rafael in the chapel an hour after nightfall, sprawled facedown on the front pew, still as death. He might have been a penitent saint, had it not been for the fact that he reeked of whiskey.
Annie glanced nervously toward the altar. “He’s been under a lot of pressure,” she whispered, to Whoever might be listening. “And it wouldn’t hurt You to help him out a little, either.”
The prince stirred on the pew, then groaned. Annie hoped he wouldn’t retch right there in the chapel, because of his sinful indulgence in ardent spirits. Rafael had trouble enough, it seemed to her, without throwing up on God’s sandals.
Tentatively, she touched his shoulder.
“Go away,” he moaned.
Annie drew a deep breath, strengthening her resolve. “I’m not going anywhere, Rafael St. James, unless you go with me.” She wasn’t just refusing to leave the chapel; she was refusing to leave the keep, and Bavia, but she didn’t elaborate for he obviously wasn’t ready to hear her declaration.
“Rafael,” she insisted, in an anxious whisper. “Sit up. I think you’re committing blasphemy or something.”
He laughed, a low, rumbling and utterly despondent sound, and turned over onto his back, nearly rolling off the pew onto the cold stone floor in the process. “Ah,” he said, with a crooked grin. “An angel. I must be dead.”
“You’re very much alive,” Annie said, grasping his upper arms and hauling him upright, “and it’s a good thing, too, for it’s certain you’re out of grace just at this moment.”
“Out of grace,” Rafael echoed stupidly, slurring the words and sagging against the back of the pew.
Annie had seen her share of drunks alongside the docks while sailing on her father’s ship, though her parents had done their best to shelter her, and she knew an accomplished rum-sucker when she met one. Rafael St. James was definitely an amateur.
“Get up,” she ordered, laboring in a largely fruitless effort to hoist the prince to his feet, “before you’re struck by lightning or something. Though, of course, you probably deserve it.”
“Hasn’t anyone ever told you,” Rafael inquired, staggering verbally, “that it’s foolish to coddle a drunk? Only makes them worse, you know.”
“I quite agree,” Annie said, breathing hard as she managed, at long last, to get Rafael up off the pew, “and once we’re out of this chapel, you’re on your own!”
He threw back his head and laughed. “You really think I might be smited by the hand of God,” he accused.
Annie headed for the door with very little help from Rafael, who was leaning heavily on her shoulder. “Smote,” she corrected. “Not ‘smited.’ And I’m taking no chances.”
They traveled the length of the center aisle and passed through the doorway into the courtyard, which was now lit only by moonlight and the glow of a few torches on the castle walls.
“I have a confession to make,” Rafael said.
“You might have thought of that in there,” Annie replied, indicating the chapel with a toss of her head. They were approaching a stone bench, next to the fountain, and Annie’s strength was flagging. Just a few more steps, she told herself.
Rafael drew in a great gulp of fresh air and promptly hiccoughed. “About my confession,” he persisted.
They were getting nearer and nearer their destination. Annie concentrated on the goal and said nothing.
“I used you, Annie.”
“I know,” Annie replied. Then, with a great and final expenditure of effort, she pushed Rafael St. James, prince of Bavia, into the small pool beneath the courtyard fountain.
He went in with a satisfying splash, and came up tossing his head and swearing. He was furious, but he was on his way to sobriety.
“You were right before,” Annie said sweetly. “One should never coddle a drunkard.” She started toward the castle doorway at a quick pace then, but Rafael caught up to her in only a few paces and wrenched her around to face him.
Annie might have been frightened of another man in a similar state of annoyance, but this was Rafael, and he was a prince, in his heart as well as his country. For the longest time, he just glared down into her face, breathing hard, his hair drenched and his pewter eyes smoldering with fury. When he spoke, however, his voice was not a shout or a snarl, but a near sob.
“Don’t love me,” he pleaded. “I’m the wrong man.”
She touched his pale, dripping face. “You don’t get to decide what I feel, Rafael,” she replied. “And believe me, if I’d had any choice in the matter, I certainly wouldn’t have lost my heart to you, of all people.”
Rafael removed her hand from
his cheek, but only after planting a light, defiant kiss on her palm. “Who would you have chosen?” he demanded.
Annie raised her chin. “Not you.” She started to walk away, but he still held her wrist, and he drew her back so that she collided with him and felt the wetness of his clothes seeping through her dress.
“Who then?”
Annie thought quickly. “Someone honorable and brave—like Chandler Haslett, or Edmund Barrett. If one of them seduced a lady, they’d do right by her.”
Rafael’s face tightened, then relaxed again. It was an interesting spectacle and Annie enjoyed it. “Are you saying that I seduced you?” he asked.
“What would you call it?” Annie countered. “You might not have actually … well … deflowered me, but you most certainly took liberties. And now, of course, my reputation is ruined.”
He opened his mouth, clamped it shut again, then pushed his hair back from his face with an angry, abrupt motion of one hand. That freed Annie to walk away, and although Rafael didn’t try to stop her, he kept pace.
They were midway across the great hall which, fortunately, was empty, before he found his voice. “What do you want me to do?” he rasped.
Annie assessed her prince out of the corner of one eye. “I want you to marry me,” she said, calling upon all the boldness she’d ever possessed.
“What?”
Annie sighed. “To tell you the absolute truth,” she confided, as they proceeded toward the stairway, “I enjoyed the things we did. I want to do them all again—as your wife.”
“Annie!” Rafael sounded so shocked, so scandalized, that she had to smile.
“If you won’t marry me,” she said, pressing her advantage, “I shall have no other choice but to seduce you. Your virtue is not safe with me, sir.”
At that, Rafael stepped in front of Annie, blocking her way, glowering down into her earnest and upturned face. “Good God, woman, do you have any idea what you’re saying?”
“Of course I do,” Annie said. “You’re the only man I’ve ever loved, and most likely the only one I ever will love. Therefore, if you insist on staying in Bavia and getting yourself killed, I’ll just have to make the most of the time in between, won’t I?” With that, she moved around Rafael and left him standing, flabbergasted and sopping wet, in the middle of the great hall.
Princess Annie Page 10