“You know my answer,” she said, and then pulled free of his grasp and marched into the chapel, rolling up the sleeves of her shirtwaist as she went.
Throughout that morning, Annie listened with half an ear for more cannon fire, expecting another attack by the rebels. Incredibly, more wedding guests arrived instead.
Late in the afternoon, while she was sitting beside the courtyard fountain, Annie caught her first glimpse of Rafael. He stood on one of the battlements and, as usual, Mr. Barrett was at his side. As if he’d felt Annie’s gaze on him, the prince turned and looked in her direction.
Mildly stung that he had not inquired about her, given his attentiveness the night before, Annie stared brazenly back at him, refusing to avert her eyes.
Rafael started down a steep set of stone steps, motioning to Barrett to stay behind, and strode toward her. As he drew nearer, Annie saw that the prince’s manner was grim, and his lithe, powerful body was taut with tension.
In the hope of forestalling some of the things he might say, and because she truly was concerned, Annie blurted, “Is Felicia all right? Where is she?”
For a moment, Rafael looked even more solemn than before. He shoved a hand through his hair. “Don’t worry,” he replied irritably, “I haven’t clapped the woman in irons. She’s in a comfortable chamber, with a maid to take care of her. When the next ship drops anchor off the coast—and I admit to a wild hope that it will be one of the Trevarren vessels—Felicia will be brought aboard and escorted to a hospital in France.”
Annie felt heat rise in her cheeks. “I didn’t think for a moment that you had thrown the poor woman into the dungeon,” she said, her voice trembling with the effort to speak calmly. She drew a breath and released it slowly. “Do you have reason to expect a visit from my father?”
“Beyond the fact that I’ve written him, on several occasions, begging him to come to Bavia and collect his daughter?” Rafael asked coldly. “No.”
Annie was stunned. She should have known, she supposed, just how much Rafael wanted to be rid of her. It was difficult to believe that this was the same man who had taught her how to love with passion and with power, who had held her so tenderly after the tragic incident with Lieutenant Covington.
“Are we still under siege?” she asked evenly. Rafael, she realized, was trying to distance himself from her emotionally, and she knew he wouldn’t retreat from this stance.
“No,” he said, folding his arms—another barrier, Annie thought. “It might be days before anything else happens. How are you and the others faring against the fever?”
She sighed, feeling inexpressibly weary. “I think we’ve seen the worst of it,” she answered, “though heaven knows I’m no expert. Several of our patients have recovered and gone back to the village, so the chapel isn’t quite so crowded.”
Rafael turned at the clatter of carriage wheels on the drawbridge and watched as yet another horde of guests arrived. “Oh, to have this damnable wedding over and done,” he muttered, speaking more to himself, Annie suspected, than to her. “You’d think people would have the good sense to stay home, given the fact that the country is at war, but instead they risk their fat, foolish necks for free-flowing wine and sugar-cakes.”
“Occasions for joy are rare in Bavia these days,” Annie observed softly. “They can be forgiven for wanting to celebrate instead of mourn.”
Rafael made no move to go and greet his guests, though he watched them alight from their dusty carriages for several moments before turning his attention back to Annie. “How ironic,” he said, in the voice of a stranger, “that there is to be both a wedding and an execution within the week.”
Annie stared at him. She’d known about Peter Maitland’s sentence, of course, but she hadn’t expected it to be carried out so soon. “But Mr. Maitland had escaped with Jeremy Covington. Kathleen told me—”
“He was recaptured,” Rafael interrupted. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must oversee the building of the gallows.” He would have walked away from her then, but Annie caught hold of his arm as he passed, the color draining from her face.
“Rafael, you can’t erect a scaffold now, of all times—you’ll spoil the wedding. Think of how Phaedra will feel.”
His smile was cool and belonged, like his voice, to someone Annie had never met before. “You’ve apparently forgotten,” he said, “that I am still the ruler of this godforsaken country. I can do whatever I wish, Miss Trevarren. And I’m afraid my sister’s tender sentiments are the least of my problems at this point.”
With that, Rafael St. James, prince of Bavia, walked away, disappearing into the great hall.
Annie stood where she was for a few moments stewing and then went into the chapel. She was taken aback to find Phaedra there, with a flock of servants and half a dozen soldiers, spouting genteel orders.
“Please carry these people out,” the princess said, making a fluttering gesture with her handkerchief that took in all the patients who remained within those hallowed walls. “Every last one. Then I want the floors and pews scrubbed, and get as much air as possible flowing through this place.”
Annie approached slowly. “Phaedra?”
The princess turned to her with a slightly frenzied smile. “Hello, Annie.” She frowned and touched her friend’s arm, lowering her voice to a near whisper. “Are you all right? Dear heaven, after what happened last night, anyone else but you would be crouched in a corner, blathering and biting their nails—”
“I’m fine, Phaedra,” Annie broke in, a bit tart in her impatience. “Where are these people being taken?”
The smile was back, too bright and very brittle. Phaedra was not herself, though Annie supposed that was natural, given the upheaval and chaos all around them. “Away,” she said reasonably. “Annie, the wedding is to be held in this very chapel in only five days. I can’t have the place looking and smelling like a pesthouse.”
Annie closed her eyes for a moment. “Of course you can’t,” she said, after a brief pause. “But where will you put them?”
Phaedra waved one of the soldiers over, her pretty face full of polite confusion. “Pardon me, but where exactly are we going to put these poor people?”
Annie bit her lower lip and waited, barely resisting the urge to tap her foot. The soldier flushed at the princess’s inquiry, but answered with admirable restraint.
“We were expecting you to tell us that, Your Highness,” he said.
“Oh, dear,” said Phaedra, blotting her forehead with the handkerchief. Then she turned bewildered eyes to Annie. “Where shall we put them? It must be a place where they won’t be in the way.” There was a queer, greenish cast to her skin.
Patience, Annie told herself. This is your dearest friend, and she is overwrought, and as exasperating as Phaedra St. James can be, you love her devotedly.
“There are unused rooms in the area behind the kitchen,” Annie said, addressing the young soldier. “I believe the wounded rebels are being cared for there.”
There was a look of wry gratitude in the man’s eyes. He nodded and the process of transferring the patients progressed. Annie watched attentively as they were lifted onto makeshift stretchers, old doors and planks, and borne away to the interior of the castle.
The maids were already scrubbing industriously, and those few windows that could be opened were pried, squeaking, from their sills so that fresh air could enter. The front door was propped ajar as well, and Annie felt a touch of chagrin, along with her irritation, because she hadn’t thought of doing those things herself.
Phaedra linked her arm with Annie’s. “I need to talk to you,” she announced. “In private.”
“Heaven help me,” Annie muttered.
The princess laughed, a little wildly. “Do you really find me so difficult, Annie, dear?”
“Yes,” Annie answered forthrightly, but she let Phaedra take her hand and lead her to the back of the chapel, where they sat together on a pew, beneath a stained glass window. The light bath
ed them in dusty shades of blue and red and green and yellow.
“The dress is finished, you know,” Phaedra said.
Annie felt another flash of annoyance, recalling the fittings she’d endured for that blasted gown. She’d gone to great lengths to avoid Miss Rendennon and her minions for the past several days, lest she be made to stand still for more pinpricks and grumblings.
“I’m relieved to hear that,” Annie replied, smoothing her skirt.
Phaedra scooted closer, and her voice was barely more than a breath. “There’s something I must confide.”
Alarm niggled in the pit of Annie’s stomach. “What?” she demanded, almost angrily. Her own patience was greatly taxed.
The princess started, and her great gray eyes brimmed with royal tears. “I thought you of all people, Annie Trevarren, would be on my side!”
“I am on your side,” Annie insisted furiously. “But that doesn’t mean I never wish I could murder you!”
“I can’t marry Chandler Haslett.”
Annie’s very bones seemed to melt; she slumped against the back of the pew, amazed. “What?”
A tear escaped and ran, shimmering, down Phaedra’s cheek. The look of desperation in her eyes pulled at Annie’s heart. “I love someone else. I’m going to leave with him.”
“You can’t do that,” Annie cried, though in a low voice. “There are more wedding guests arriving every day, and the dress is finished, and Rafael will be furious—”
“There will be a wedding,” Phaedra said. “I just won’t be the bride, that’s all.”
Annie gaped for a moment, then recovered herself sufficiently to ask, “What the devil are you talking about?”
“Goose,” Phaedra chimed good-naturedly. “Don’t you see? I never intended to go through with the ceremony in the first place. That’s why I asked you to be fitted for the dress.”
The implication of that loomed before Annie, and she wondered that she had missed it before. “You want me to stand in for you at the wedding? Well, I won’t do it.” She folded her arms and spoke firmly, even though she already felt her resolve slipping. “Do you hear me, Phaedra St. James? I won’t do it!”
Phaedra seemed undaunted. “Of course you will,” she said reasonably, “because you know we’re talking about the rest of my life. Imagine it, Annie—my happiness, perhaps even my sanity, is in your hands!”
“Don’t,” Annie warned, but the word wavered. She had always protected Phaedra, and the habit was hard to break.
“Please,” Phaedra pressed, clutching both Annie’s hands in her own. “It’s the only way.”
Annie cast an uneasy glance toward the maids, but they were all busy, scouring and chattering among themselves. “Why can’t you just go to Chandler and tell him the truth?”
“He knows how I feel,” the princess said, “and he doesn’t care. Even with Bavia falling apart the way it is, Mr. Haslett has much to gain by marrying me. And you know how Rafael is—he’ll sacrifice me like a she-goat before he’ll go back on his precious honor.”
Annie closed her eyes. A month ago, she would have argued against Phaedra’s logic, but now she knew her friend was right. To Chandler Haslett and to Rafael, marriage was not a matter of love, but of contracts and bargains and exchanges of property.
“Who is this mysterious man you claim to love?” she asked, after a brief interlude of silence.
Phaedra looked down at her delicate hands, which were clasped in her lap. “I can’t tell you that just now,” she said.
“Don’t you trust me?”
“It isn’t that,” the princess insisted earnestly, tears spilling once again. “I know you wouldn’t tell on pain of death. But I don’t dare breathe his name—if someone were to overhear, word might get back to Rafael. And heaven only knows what would happen then.”
Annie was insulted on Rafael’s behalf. “You don’t mean you actually believe your brother would do the man some injury?”
Phaedra brought out her handkerchief and dabbed away her tears. “You wouldn’t question the possibility if you weren’t besotted with Rafael,” she accused, with a prim sniffle. “You don’t see his faults.”
That made Annie smile. She knew Rafael’s failings well enough; it was just that she accepted them as part of the whole person. “His insufferable arrogance, you mean? His stubbornness? Or perhaps you’re referring to the prince’s terrible pride?”
Phaedra subsided slightly. “You will help me,” she pleaded breathlessly, “won’t you?”
“I don’t know,” Annie said. “I have to think about this.”
“Since when do you think about things before you do them?”
Annie watched the maids at their work for several moments before answering. “A lot has happened to me since I came to Bavia,” she said finally. “Perhaps I’ve grown up a little.”
With that, Annie rose and walked out of the chapel, leaving the princess behind. She visited the dry and dusty rooms behind the castle kitchen where the sick had been taken. The three surviving rebel soldiers, wounded in the illfated attack on the castle, lay on cots next to the far wall. Two were asleep; one stared sullenly up at the ceiling.
Annie found a water pitcher and a clean cup and approached. “Hello,” she said.
The soldier glared at her with dark, insolent eyes, but Annie didn’t miss the slight, involuntary motion of his lips when he saw what she carried.
She poured, and he watched the progress of the water as it moved from pitcher to cup. “My name is Miss Trevarren,” she informed him. “What’s yours?”
“Why do you want to know?” he countered. “So you can have it carved on my tombstone?”
Annie smiled and held the cup to his lips, and he drank thirstily, almost desperately. “You won’t be needing one for some time, I think,” she said. “A tombstone, I mean. Are you hungry?”
He sank back onto his pillows, his brown hair as shaggy and matted as a wild pony’s mane, his skin pale beneath a layer of dirt. “No,” he said, even as his stomach rumbled.
“Your name?” Annie persisted, extorting the information by holding the cup near his mouth again, but just a little out of reach. “And don’t lie to me. There is no point in it.”
“Josiah,” he said, grudgingly. “Josiah Vaughn.”
Annie allowed him to drink his fill that time, though she urged him to sip slowly. When he’d finished, he was white with exhaustion. Blood was seeping through the dingy bandage someone had plastered to his right shoulder.
Josiah flinched as Annie lifted the cloth and looked beneath. He had been struck by shrapnel from a cluster shell, and the inflamed wound went deep. Annie thought she might have spoken too soon where the necessity of a tombstone was concerned.
“I’ll have to clean that for you,” she said. “There’s nothing to use but good Scots whiskey, and I’m afraid it’s going to hurt.”
Josiah was young, probably no older than seventeen, and Annie glimpsed abject fear in his eyes, though he quickly veiled it. He set his jaw for a moment. “His Highness the Prince will want his prisoners mended properlike, I suppose, before he chops us apart at the joints like rabbit carcasses.”
Annie shuddered, but her expression was wry. “Good heavens. That kind of thing was outlawed generations ago. Which is not to say that you aren’t in a great deal of trouble.” She left him long enough to collect a bottle of whiskey and a stack of clean cloths. Someone, probably Kathleen or one of her practical colleagues, had torn old linens into strips for bandages.
“Treason is punishable by death,” Josiah informed Annie, when she had dragged a stool over and sat down beside his cot with the liquor and cloth on her lap. “I could be shot for what I’ve done. Or hanged.”
Annie removed his old bandage and prepared to douse the wound. She’d heard her grandmother Lydia say, more than once, that alcohol sometimes staved off infection. “If I were you,” she said briskly, “I wouldn’t trouble myself, for the moment, with anything so spectacularly melodramatic
as being shot or hanged. You’ve got problems enough already, it seems to me.” She sighed. “Now, brace yourself, Josiah, and be strong. As much as I regret the fact, this is going to hurt like the very devil.”
Josiah set his teeth and closed his eyes.
Annie poured.
Josiah screamed and then swooned.
Before Annie had recovered from that, the man in the next cot bolted to his feet, swayed and bellowed, “What have you done to him? What have you done?”
Fortunately, some of Rafael’s soldiers were still in the chamber, and the raving rebel was subdued before he could reach Annie.
“Don’t hurt him!” she cried, as two men flung him down with such force that his cot nearly collapsed. “He was only trying to help his friend!”
Somewhat reluctantly, the soldiers stepped back, but Annie saw the desire to do violence coiled in their eyes and straining in their powerful young muscles, and she was afraid. When they’d moved away, she turned back to Josiah and noted with relief that he was already coming around. She stepped close to the other man’s bed.
He was middle-aged, unlike Josiah, a squat, burly bear of a man with a wild red beard and bushy hair that was full of briars and straw. “The lad’s young,” he said, in a hoarse voice. He was breathing hard, and his chest was bandaged. “He didn’t know what he was about, joining up with the likes of us.”
Annie’s heart twisted with pity but, since she knew Josiah’s would-be rescuer wouldn’t appreciate the emotion, she kept it hidden. “He’s nothing to fear from me,” she said quietly. “I’m only a guest in this keep—I have no power.”
He closed his eyes for a moment and when he spoke again, it was in tones as ragged as his clothes. “You were only trying to help,” he said. “I heard him scream, and I thought—”
“You were disoriented and you thought I was hurting your friend. I won’t harbor hard feelings if you won’t.”
“Tom?” Josiah spoke weakly from the next bed. “Don’t let her pour that whiskey on you.”
Tom made a visible effort to sound hale and hearty. “Well, if she does, you sure as hell won’t hear me carrying on the way you just did.”
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