With a tentative smile, Annie left the terrace for the interior of the room. A second maid had arrived, carrying a plain wooden tray. She set a crockery teapot on a small table next to the windows, along with a plate of scones and the appropriate condiments, and scurried out. Only then did Annie glance at the walls and floors and realize that, like those in St. James Keep, they were bare of decoration.
The first serving girl lingered, unpacking Annie’s trunk and laying out her gowns, one by one, on the spacious bed.
Annie sat down at the table, poured tea, and added butter and jam to a scone. She was feeling melancholy and quite hopeless at the moment, but she knew a little sustenance would do wonders for her state of mind.
“What’s your name?” she asked the maid, who looked up at the question, and flushed crimson.
“It’s Kathleen, ma’am,” she said, with a quick curtsey.
Annie felt a touch of exasperation. “You needn’t call me ‘ma’am’ or bend your knees like that when I speak to you, Kathleen. I’m not a member of the aristocracy, after all.”
Kathleen glanced at her and smoothed the skirts of Annie’s new yellow gown with stubby-fingered, work reddened hands. “Very well, ma’am,” she said, bobbing her head. “Whatever you say.”
With a sigh, Annie reached for her teacup, which was chipped at the rim. “What’s it like to live here?” she asked, once she’d swallowed a few sips of the hot, bracing brew. “I mean, are there riots whenever you try to go out to the shops or the market?”
The servant unpacked another garment and laid it out carefully. There was something almost reverent in the way Kathleen touched the rich fabric. “No, miss,” she said. “We don’t have no problems of that sort unless someone from the royal family comes to stay.” She risked a look in Annie’s direction and blushed again. “Begging your pardon, miss.”
Annie finished her tea and nibbled at the scone with an unusual lack of enthusiasm. “It’s Rafael—the prince—they hate, isn’t it?” she asked sadly.
Kathleen had progressed to hanging Annie’s gowns in the ornate antique armoire. “Yes, miss,” she answered, with a note of resignation in her voice. Plainly, she would have preferred silence to conversation.
Pushing her chair back, Annie left the table and stood at the window, her back to the room, and gazed on the tops of roofs and trees rising beyond the palace walls. “No one who really knew the prince could ever hate him,” she said.
“No, miss,” Kathleen agreed readily.
Annie sighed, Rafael, she pleaded silently, be careful.
The village was a small one, nothing more than a few huts huddled together at one end of a long meadow, really. There were a handful of sheep wandering about, bleating mournfully, and most of the residents kept chickens, which scattered, squawking, when Rafael, Barrett and the band of soldiers arrived.
Rafael didn’t see one woman or child. He supposed they’d been ordered into hiding when the party of horsemen was first sighted, but the men of the village had gathered to greet them. They were armed with primitive weapons, stones and bits of firewood, and Rafael felt genuine grief as he looked upon them.
They had reason to fear, he thought bitterly, after the raids his father and grandfather—and countless other St. Jameses before them—had carried out in village after village. Women had been raped, children terrified and trampled, precious sheep and cattle killed and roasted over the raiders’ campfires.
“Tell them we don’t mean them any harm,” Rafael said to the man who rode at his left. Barrett, as usual, had stationed himself to the prince’s right.
The soldier nodded and climbed down from his horse to approach the villagers. While all Bavians spoke English, and had done so for centuries, because of an early alliance with Great Britain, Rafael dared not approach the common people without an emissary to open the way. To speak to them without proper introduction would have been a violation of custom.
While Barrett’s man addressed the villagers, they muttered among themselves, and cast suspicious glances at Rafael.
Barrett shifted uneasily in his saddle. He hadn’t wanted to make this journey in the first place; he’d made that plain enough, and he’d been sulking ever since they’d left the keep. Without looking at Rafael, he muttered, “Here they are, Your Highness. Your loyal subjects.”
Rafael’s only reply was a rueful smile. The soldiers behind them stayed in ranks, but he could feel their restlessness and impatience; they were boys, really, used to being billeted at the keep in relative comfort, where they played at cards and dice in their free time, and stood guard or practiced with swords and rifles while on duty. In actual warfare, they would probably be virtually useless, Barrett’s leadership skills notwithstanding.
The conference between Barrett’s lieutenant and the men of the village continued in fiery undertones. Finally, the young soldier turned from them, addressing his words to Barrett, not Rafael himself.
“They’re afraid of us, sir. And they’re hungry.”
Rafael spoke before Barrett had a chance to reply. “Tell them we’ll share our rations,” he said.
This announcement roused an angry murmur in the ranks; Rafael quelled it by standing in his stirrups and taking in the entire company in one scathing glance. His gaze caught on Lucian’s pale, furious face and he tendered a mocking salute before shifting his attention back to Barrett.
To Rafael’s relief, he saw a certain amused approval in his old friend’s eyes. Barrett inclined his head, then reined his horse around and rode to the rear. The supply wagon was just catching up to the troops.
Dried beans, potatoes, flour and turnips were hauled to the front and given to the villagers, who quickly divided the booty and carried it off to their huts. In the meantime, Barrett ordered his men to set up camp in the next meadow and, as the sun crumbled into dancing crimson pieces on the dark sea, bedrolls were unfurled on the soft grass and campfires were kindled.
“Just what do you hope to accomplish by this?” Barrett asked of Rafael, once the soldiers had settled down to eat and talk and play dice near the fires. They were seated on the ground, consuming their dinners of boiled turnips and hard bread from metal plates. “Giving these poor wretches a few staples won’t make them forgive seven hundred years of oppression, you know.”
Rafael set his plate aside. “I had only one aim in mind,” he replied grimly. “To fill their bellies for a day or two.”
Barrett consumed a second piece of bread, the reflection of the fire flickering over his face. “You’re a few centuries too late, I think.” He sighed and turned to face his old friend in the gathering darkness. “All your efforts have been too long in coming. You can’t change anything by staying in Bavia. Or by dying here.”
The image of Annie Trevarren filled Rafael’s mind; he felt a corresponding wrench in his heart and a heavy thickening deep in his loins. She hadn’t been far from his thoughts since that morning on the balcony of the solarium, when she’d touched him so intimately, and flung his own challenge back in his face. Imagine being inside me, Rafael, she’d said.
Rafael had been suffering exquisitely ever since.
“I don’t want to die,” he told Barrett, at length, “though I know that’s what you think.”
“Of course it’s what I think,” Barrett scoffed, taking up a stick and idly stirring the fire from where he sat. “Some part of you wants to atone for the sins of the St. James family, like a sacrificial lamb. If that wasn’t so, you’d have closed the palace and the keep long ago and left Bavia forever. God knows, you’ve got private money—enough to start a new life anywhere in the world. Or have you given that away, too?”
Rafael’s smile was bitter. Yes, he had a small fortune—the remains of his grandmother’s dowry, wisely invested—but Bavia was the only home he’d ever known. For all the sins of his forefathers, and they were many, he loved that small, beautiful country, tucked between France and Spain, the Mediterranean Sea sparkling at its white, sandy throat like a living
jewel. He cherished the fishing villages, the medieval churches, the broken remnants of roads built by the Romans, the castles and the cottages. Most of all, he loved the people, the simple, hardworking, spirited souls who were the essence of the country.
And they despised him in return.
“This is my home,” he said, after a long silence.
Barrett settled back against his saddle. “Home isn’t necessarily a country or a castle, Rafael,” he replied. “Sometimes, it’s a person.”
Rafael was vaguely troubled by Barrett’s words, poetic as they were. He almost asked his friend if he’d gotten over his silly infatuation with Phaedra, but in the end he kept silent. Barrett was no fool; he knew the preparations for the princess’ wedding were well underway, and of course, he’d met Chandler Haslett. By now, he had surely come to his senses and taken up with some maid or tradesman’s daughter.
“Someone like Annie Trevarren, for instance,” Barrett said, reaching for the metal cup that held the grainy, foul-tasting coffee.
The remark took Rafael by surprise, though he supposed it shouldn’t have. Rumors had spread quickly after he and Annie had been found together in the fishing cottage and Barrett had arrived in plenty of time to assess the situation for himself.
“Exactly what do you mean by that?” Rafael asked evenly, reaching for his own mug of coffee, and staring blindly into the fire. He took a mouthful of the swill and spat it out before Barrett had a chance to reply.
The bodyguard laughed, but there was sadness in the sound, a sorrow that resonated in Rafael’s own spirit. “We are old friends,” Barrett said, after a few moments of reflection. “Still, I suppose there are some things we cannot speak of.”
“Oh, yes,” Rafael agreed grimly. “There are, indeed.”
“But the lovely Miss Trevarren is another matter.” Barrett took the liberty of presuming. “Sometimes I think she is not a mortal woman at all, but an angel come to lure you out of this godforsaken place.”
Rafael made a low, contemptuous sound. “Annie? An angel? Have you forgotten already, Barrett, that she nearly got herself killed through mischief, only a few nights ago?” The more he thought about the idea, the more preposterous it seemed. “An angel,” he muttered, recalling how she’d deliberately tempted him, on more than one occasion, how she’d pretended to come to his aid and then pushed him into the courtyard fountain at St. James Keep. “More like a devil,” he finished.
Barrett chuckled and, once again, despondency echoed in the sound. “Or a perfect combination of the two,” he speculated, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. His face was in shadow when he turned to look at his companion. “Don’t be a fool,” he urged, and by his voice, Rafael knew he was utterly serious. “Annie is beautiful and spirited, and she loves you. Take her to France, or to America—good God, Rafael, take her anywhere away from here! Marry her, and sire a houseful of children—”
“Never,” Rafael vowed, looking up at the dark sky, scattered with silvery stars, but the dream had been roused, and it would not be laid to rest so easily.
With an exasperated curse, Barrett thrust himself to his feet. “I’ll see to the men, Your Highness,” he said, with biting politeness. “Rest well, and in the morning, we’ll proceed on our foolish and useless quest.”
Rafael would not have tolerated such insolence from any other man on earth, but because Barrett was his closest friend, and because he understood the man’s frustration, he said nothing. After laying out his bedroll Rafael went to the edge of camp to check on his horse. Along with all the others, the gelding was confined within an improvised corral of rope strung between several trees.
Nodding to the guards, Rafael summoned the animal with a low whistle, and it came to him eagerly, nickering, ready to take wing and fly if that was what its master wanted.
Rafael stroked the gelding’s coal black nose and gave him one of the lumps of sugar he’d brought along in his saddlebags for just this purpose.
“He obeys you,” commented a familiar voice, from just behind Rafael’s right shoulder.
He didn’t turn to face Lucian, but continued to stroke the horse. “Yes. You might learn from him.”
Lucian would not be ignored; he moved to stand beside Rafael. He looked different in his plain soldier’s clothes, a blue coat and breeches, boots and a gray shirt. “You win, Rafael,” he said hoarsely. “I’ve had enough of taking orders from men who wouldn’t have presumed to look me straight in the eye just yesterday.”
Rafael sighed. He meant to release his brother from the Bavian army before the revolution came, of course, but in the meantime, he thought a little discipline might do Lucian good. Perhaps it would even strengthen him, render him fit for some kind of useful life after he’d left the country. “Not yet, Lucian,” he said.
Lucian started to grab Rafael’s arm in a burst of temper, but when one of the guards started toward him almost within the same instant, he let his hand fall to his side. “What do you mean, ‘not yet’?” he demanded, in a harsh whisper. “Do you want me to grovel, is that it? Do you expect me to beg?”
“No,” Rafael said, reluctantly turning away from the faithful gelding and starting back toward the main part of camp. “That would be a pointless humiliation, considering that no amount of pleading would ever change my mind. You’re a soldier in the Bavian army, Lucian. Accept it.”
Lucian scrambled along at his side, barely controlling his desperation. “Rafael,” he gasped, “I’m afraid.”
At that, Rafael stopped and faced his half brother, laying his hands on Lucian’s shoulders. When he spoke, it was with genuine affection for the boy Lucian had once been, and for the man Rafael knew he could become if only he made the proper choices.
“I’m afraid, too,” Rafael said. “We all are.”
Tears of anger and frustration rose in Lucian’s eyes, but he offered no further arguments. He simply twisted free of Rafael’s grasp and strode away toward the main part of the camp.
Rafael hesitated briefly, then returned to his own fire, pulled off his boots and crawled into his bedroll. He held off sleep as long as he could, fearing the terrible nightmares of blood and fire and death that had been troubling him of late.
Still, he was exhausted and was soon overtaken by slumber. Instead of destruction, he dreamed of Annie Trevarren, smiling up at him as he stood on the balcony of the solarium at St. James Keep, swathed in the glimmering white silk of a wedding dress.
After the drama of their arrival at the Royal Palace of Morovia, the quiet days that followed were something of a disappointment to Annie. Everyone else in the house, however, seemed vastly relieved to enjoy some peace and quiet.
Phaedra soon recovered from whatever had ailed her on the journey from the keep to the capital, though Annie often found her standing at one of the windows, watching the gate and the street behind it.
Miss Agusta Rendennon followed them into the city, unmolested by rebels or malcontents, and brought Phaedra’s burgeoning, unwieldy wedding dress with her. The tiresome fittings continued, and the princess always managed to be in some other part of the palace—no one seemed to know exactly where—whenever Miss Rendennon decided to work.
It was after one such session, when the dressmaker had gotten into her carriage and gone back to her shop, that Annie managed to run Phaedra to ground in the library, and confront her.
“I’m tired of being fitted for a dress I’ll never wear,” Annie blurted out, without offering so much as a nod of greeting first. Having gotten up steam, she continued with conviction. “Why, it’s downright silly, Phaedra St. James! What do you mean to do if, on your wedding day, you go to put the gown on and it doesn’t fit? Answer me that, if you please. What will you do?”
Phaedra laughed. “You’re letting your imagination run away with you, Annie,” she scolded, taking a leatherbound book from a shelf and tracing its edge with the tip of her index finger. “Of course the gown will fit, goose—we’re almost exactly the same size. How many times have we
worn each other’s frocks?”
Some of Annie’s steam evaporated, but her irritation did not abate. “It’s still odd,” she insisted. “Any other bride would be excited—”
That dreamy, somewhat tragic expression shadowed Phaedra’s eyes again, but only for a flicker of time. “Oh, Annie, do stop behaving like such a curmudgeon. I am excited—Mr. Haslett is a dear and kind man—it’s just that standing still for those fittings would bore me to the very edge of madness!”
Annie sighed. “I can testify from personal experience that it would,” she agreed ruefully, but a smile was already tugging at one corner of her mouth because this was the Phaedra she knew and loved. The one she’d almost given up for lost.
“And speaking of excitement,” Phaedra began, lowering her voice and glancing toward the library doors to make sure they weren’t overheard, “I believe it’s high time we had some.”
A rush of expectancy and sweet terror went through Annie’s system. She, too, glanced toward the doors. “Tell me!”
Phaedra came to stand within confiding distance, her forehead practically touching Annie’s. “We’re going to explore the shops,” she whispered.
Annie loved an adventure as much as the next young woman, perhaps more, in fact, but the memory of the angry, stone-throwing mob that had greeted them on their arrival at the palace had not faded from her mind. “You can’t be suggesting that we leave the grounds—”
Already, Phaedra was nodding. “It’s not a suggestion, Annie Trevarren,” she teased. “It’s a royal decree.”
“But the rebels—”
The princess folded her arms and tapped one daintily slippered foot in annoyance. “For mercy’s sake, Annie, I’m not saying we should have the palace carriage brought around! We’ll dress as maids, in plain dresses, with scarves on our heads and baskets to carry.”
The idea was rash, but it was also intriguing. It would be an expedition like none they had ever undertaken, even in their heyday at St. Aspasia’s. It would be a spectacular exploit they could both smile over in later years.
Princess Annie Page 13