How despicable was this falseness. She lowered her lashes. “Then common though it may be, perhaps Chère would be best."
"As you like. Are you hungry?"
"Not very."
"Yet you ate nothing last evening, unless it was before you reached us. Have you a fever?"
He reached out to touch her forehead, and it was only by an immense effort of will that she prevented herself from flinching. “I believe not."
"No,” he agreed, lifting his hand. “What then will it take to tempt your appetite? Lark's tongues? The locusts of the Mediterranean and the wine of Bacchus that opens the gates of the heart?"
"No,” she said, shuddering.
"Can you stomach a roll, then, and chocolate with goat's milk?"
If he had meant to make the plain fare acceptable, he had succeeded. At her nod he smiled and, with smooth grace, slid from the bed and began to dress. Mara stared fixedly at her hands, all too aware of the hot flush suffusing her face. He had been naked. She had suspected as much, but that had not been like knowing. Strong and vital and virile, wrapped in the powerful aura of his noble title, this man had shared her bed for a night and left her untouched. It was deflating. It was also the source of guilt twice over. She should have done something, anything, to arouse him. But what a terrible thing it would be to use a man, as she must, who was so considerate in his relationships with females.
The depression of her spirits caused by his forbearance remained with her when he had left the caravan. She tried to tell herself that he had desired her; she had been forced to refuse him in the early-morning hours, hadn't she? But he had taken her refusal so well. In a man used to having his way, as he must be, she would have expected some attempt at persuasion, some sign of temper or affront at the very least. These were the reactions of wounded pride, of course. Perhaps it was simply that his consequence was so great that he could not conceive of a woman refusing him except for the most extreme of reasons.
She smiled a little at the idea. No, it could only be that his interest had been momentary, because she was conveniently at hand. His desire being no more than a passing fancy, he had not been upset at her withdrawal. That was all there was to it. She had failed to take the chance that fortune had thrown into her lap, and it was unlikely it would come again.
The day was cold and damp. Mara had her rolls and chocolate in bed, brought in by the same girl who had acted as her maid the night before. While she ate, the girl brought needle and thread and made sketchy repairs to Mara's gown. The needlework was less than expert, but the result was wearable and the impulse had been generous. The warmth of her praise drew a fugitive smile from the berry-brown gypsy girl and opened the way to a few bits of information. The cadre of the prince and most of the gypsies had left the camp that morning, ordered out to search for some sign of the carriage that had brought Mara and to question anyone who might have seen it.
The gypsy Luca had been subjected to a rigorous interrogation as to what he had seen and heard. The carriage had been pulled by four matched grays, without postilions, he said; it was new enough for the paint to shine even on a dark night and constructed in the latest shape. The carriage lanterns had not been lighted, so it had been impossible to tell the color. The voice of a man, not rough but raised in anger, had rung out as Mara was thrown to the ground. Immediately afterward, the carriage door had slammed shut and the vehicle had bowled away at high speed. At first Luca had thought it was a body that had been dumped upon the roadside. There had seemed no hurry to investigate. When she had moaned and staggered to her feet, he had seen the sheen of her white dress and had realized it was a woman. She had moved off in the direction of the camp, and he had let her go. She was a problem he thought it best that the prince handle himself.
Movement, the effort of getting dressed, seemed to ease some of the stiffness of Mara's shoulder. She was relieved, for she had begun to fear that it might have been dislocated. She could not lift her arms enough to put up her hair, however, and so allowed the gypsy girl to braid it for her and wrap it in a coronet around her head.
When she was presentable, she wandered about the caravan, watching the girl make the bed and put away the discarded clothing of the prince. She did not know what to do with herself, whether it would be best to go outside and try to talk to Roderic or to stay where she was and hope that he would seek her out. For herself, she would have preferred that his men be present; someone else to help carry the conversation. She had been taught the art of saying nothing for hours, of asking the questions that would put another person at ease, but she seemed to have lost her facility at it in the last year. And there was so much that she could not talk about because of her supposed loss of memory, so many pitfalls that she could fall into with such ease. Her brain felt numb, incapable of the task of being witty and entertaining. If she could not pretend to that capability, what was the point in engaging the attention of the prince, or of any man for that matter?
The rain had stopped, but the morning was cloudy and gray. The low area where the gypsies had camped was a morass of mud and rocks. The dampness made the cold penetrating. It was necessary to move about, to be active in some way, to keep the chill from the bones. Inside the caravan, Mara huddled into her cloak, wondering if she dared to build a fire in the small ceramic stove that sat in one corner. In the end, it seemed easiest to leave her shelter for the warmth of the fire in the center of the camp.
Demon, leaping about, wriggling, wagging his whole body as well as his tail, welcomed her with ecstasy. He licked the hand that she held out to him and jumped up to claw at her skirts. So violent was his greeting that she could hardly walk without him under her feet.
The prince, standing near the fire, turned and snapped his fingers. “Down, Demon."
The dog looked at him and dropped his tail, but an instant later had leaped up to lean on Mara once more, his mouth open and his tongue lolling out in his frantic affection.
"He obeys so well,” Roderic said, his tones laced with irony.
Mara glanced up with a smile from where she stood, rubbing the dog's head. “I don't mind."
"It's bad for discipline."
"Oh? Whose?"
"His. He'll run to the wrong person one day and get his throat cut."
She looked up, startled. “Surely not?"
"Not everyone holds life dear, whether animal or human."
"Yes,” Mara said, her tone subdued as she thought of Dennis Mulholland riding, careless of his life, into battle.
"What, a bad memory?"
At the soft query, Mara caught her breath, then forced a smile. “I—I'm not sure. Something close, perhaps."
Prince Roderic watched her, his features closed in. He made no answer, however, for the twins, Jacques and Jared, with Trude between them, rode in then. Gypsy children, playing in the mud, squealed and ran to escape the dirty water thrown up by the horses’ hooves. Demon barked and ran in a circle, which roused the hounds of the Tziganes, and in turn set the donkeys to braying and the geese and chickens in their crates slung under the caravans to squawking and cackling.
The two young men and the woman dismounted and walked forward to report. The carriage, insofar as they could tell, had headed straight for Paris at high speed immediately after depositing Mara at the gypsy camp. There was nothing to distinguish its track from a thousand others. It was a pity they had not set out after the vehicle the night before when there might have been some chance of catching it, if news of it and its occupant was of such interest.
Roderic, frowning, made no return to that last sally other than a brief nod of acknowledgment. It was Trude, magnificent in her white uniform, who turned to stare with quelling force at the twins, as if she considered them impertinent even if Roderic did not. There was something very nearly protective in her manner. It caught Mara's attention. The presence of the woman had seemed odd the night before, but she had been too upset to consider it. Now she could not help wondering how she had come to be one of the prince's trusted band and just
what her position was among them.
The cadre itself, the small group of followers with the prince, did not seem odd at all. She had heard so much from Grandmère Helene about Prince Rolfe, Roderic's father, and the men who had come with him to Louisiana all those years ago that it might have seemed strange if Roderic had not had a bodyguard, his own garde du corps, around him.
There had been five members in Rolfe's cadre also. Grandmère had enjoyed telling her of how they had arrived at the ball she was giving in the country near St. Martinville, of how they had entered the room with their dress uniforms flashing with gilt braid and the gems of military orders, their movements precisely coordinated as if they were on parade. So brilliant had they appeared in such country society, so stunning had been their attendance there, that it had been as if a phalanx of peacocks had seen fit to invade a dovecote.
The ball had been disrupted. Prince Rolfe had singled out Angeline Fortin for his attention. His cousin Leopold, his half brother Meyer, the veteran with one eye, Gustave, and the twins Oscar and Oswald had also found partners. They had danced one dance, then, at the signal of the prince, departed, leaving behind ladies drooping and sighing—those who had been disappointed, and ladies sighing with ecstasy—those who had been honored. The night had been one of triumph for Grandmère Helene: Her house had been honored by a prince! She had not known then that the same prince would steal away the woman her son loved.
Prince Roderic had identified the first of his cadre that he introduced to her as his cousin Michael, son of Leopold. This must be the same Leopold who had been in Louisiana with Rolfe. Were the others also the children of some of that original loyal band? Mara wished that she could ask, but so long as she had to keep her name and background secret, so long as she must pretend to have no memory of her own past, she could not. It was frustrating.
Despite her handicap, however, there came an opportunity to discover some few details later that day. The others, Michael and the Italian count, Estes, had returned. A noon meal of stew and hard-crusted bread washed down with wine was eaten. The camp was nearly empty; many of the gypsies had been gone since before daybreak, dispersed throughout the country on various errands and schemes. Roderic had ridden out with Michael and the twins, leaving Estes and Trude behind, ostensibly to watch the camp, but actually to keep an eye on her, or so Mara thought.
The blond amazon busied herself currying her horse. Finished at last, she came to drop down on the rug beside the fire. Mara looked up from where she had been pulling the burrs from the long hair around Demon's muzzle. Estes had been with her, entertaining her with tales of droll happenings while the cadre had been on campaign in Italy, but had excused himself to make a circuit of the camp. She gave the other woman a tentative smile, well aware that Trude was less than pleased at her guard duty.
"Estes tells me that the cadre has been in many battles all over Europe. Were you—that is, do you fight with the others?"
"Estes talks too much.” The voice of the other woman was grim, but far from masculine.
"He was bearing my company, a kindly impulse."
"He was ingratiating himself. He likes the company of women, any woman."
The scathing tone touched Mara on the raw. “And you, I suppose, have little use for your own kind?"
"I would as soon not listen to their giggling and constant talk of clothing and conquests."
"You care not at all for such things, in fact?"
"No."
"You like killing instead.” The woman's attitude made it impossible not to press her.
"I don't like it, but I can do it."
"Then you should be well suited with your place."
"I am, indeed,” Trude said, her voice flat.
"Strange,” Mara said, tilting her head, “you don't sound happy."
Trude did not answer directly. After a moment she said, “I would give you some advice if I thought you would heed it."
"Yes?"
"You have attracted Roderic's attention. He is curious about you, and there is nothing he likes so well as a mental puzzle. But his interest will last no longer than it takes to penetrate your mystery. If you expect more, you will be hurt."
"It is ... kind of you to tell me.” The choice of words was suggestive. Had it been deliberate?
"I do it for your own good."
It might have been true. Mara did not think so. Since she had no personal interest in the prince, however, it seemed unnecessary to say it. Her voice soothing, she said, “You seem to know Prince Roderic well."
"We have been together since we were in our cradles."
"You are related, perhaps?"
"Not at all. My father was the King Rolfe's, Roderic's father's, good right arm."
"I only asked because of your coloring. You said was; may I assume that your father is no longer—"
"He is dead, a soldier's death in battle."
"I'm sorry. You must be proud of him. He was a handsome man, I should think?"
The other girl was visibly startled. “I wouldn't say so. He was a bull of a man, with only one eye."
That piece of information identified the man who had sired Trude. She was the daughter of Gustave, the oldest member of the original cadre then, a man who, in the memory of Grandmère Helene, had been a veteran well past first youth when in Louisiana. It seemed fitting somehow.
"Are you like your mother then? Was she as attractive as you?"
"Are you trying to flatter me? My mother was a German milkmaid, big and blond and rather simple. She died while I was still at the breast, which is why I was brought to Ruthenia by my father to be raised by the queen."
The woman was so serious, so lacking in grace and humor, that it was impossible to resist the impulse to tease her. “I see. You were raised as a sister to Roderic then."
"He has a sister, Princess Juliana."
The reply was flat with displeasure. Mara set her teeth on the flesh inside her lip to prevent a smile. It was so obvious that Trude had a tendre for the prince. She was surprised that the other members of the cadre seemed unaware of it. As for Juliana, a girl near her own age, Mara had known about her, though she had nearly forgotten her existence. Still, it was Trude, who must be nearly twenty-seven years old to Roderic's twenty-eight, who held her interest at the moment.
"You must forgive my prying,” Mara said. “It's only that I am fascinated by the idea of a woman in uniform."
"Why? I am as capable as a man with sword or musket."
"But surely in hand-to-hand fighting you are at a disadvantage?"
"Perhaps,” Trude said coldly, “then perhaps not. It has never come to that."
"You haven't been in battle."
"I didn't say that. No man has gotten close enough to grapple with me."
There was something about the bald statement that made it believable. “You have proven yourself then. Not many women have had the chance."
"No,” Trude said, then went on as if the words had been dragged out of her. “It is because Roderic is a fair man that I had mine."
"Fair?"
"Ah, fair indeed!” Estes cried, approaching them in time to hear the question. “Two ladies, one dark and mysterious, one blond and glorious, both beautiful. Lucky, lucky man that I am to be here alone with the pair of you. I am tempted to spirit you both away. What say you? Shall we leave this gray climate and seek the sun on Capri, the three of us?"
"Conceited popinjay,” Trude said, and, rising to her feet, walked away.
"She doesn't love me,” Estes mourned, “while I am besotted, puny worm that I am, with every magnificent inch of her!"
It should have been funny since Trude topped him by half a foot at least. But listening to the strain in the mock outrage of the Italian, Mara thought there was too much truth in it for amusement.
The gypsies straggled back into camp as darkness began to fall. They came in ones and twos, some of those returning alone no older than four or five years. It was not uncommon, according to Estes,
for children of that age to forage for themselves, begging at farm doors or stealing chickens and geese by “fishing” for them with a baited hook on a piece of line. They seldom became lost. There were trail markers left by the gypsies for each other, small arrangements of stones or twigs called patterans that always pointed the way toward reunion with the band, whether it was stationary or traveling. Because no one paid much attention to them, these youngsters were highly efficient at gathering information useful to the tribe.
The gypsy men tended the horses and did odd repair jobs around the camp before throwing themselves on the rugs around the central fire. The women cleaned the turkeys brought by several of the children, throwing the refuse to the waiting dogs. They stuffed the birds with herbs and onions and set them to roast over the coals of a separate cook fire. The children played, chasing each other around the caravans or knocking a ball about with a stick. The old violinist began to play. A man picked up the mandolin, strumming it, and they were joined by someone else on a concertina. A young woman, stirred by the music, pushed away from where she leaned on a caravan and began to dance. Her hair, held only by a fillet around her forehead, spilled in a wild black tangle down her back. Her eyes were dark and lustrous with pleasure. Her blouse of soft cotton hugged her body, while her skirt swirled around her in its bright-colored fullness, now outlining her hips, now lifting to show her knees and thighs. She swayed as if in a trance, whirling; her legs and arms, feet and hands, moving in smooth, natural rhythm, a pure interpretation of the night and the moment and the sweet passion of the music.
The evening advanced, but none seemed to care about the hour or even to notice it. Food would be forthcoming when it was ready. Babies who cried were given the breast at once or fed bits of meat or bread soaked in wine or goat's milk before being put to bed. The elderly nodded, half asleep. In the meantime, life was life and meant to be lived. Who knew what the next hour might bring? Let the music play. Dance. Sing. To Mara, watching, it seemed a beguiling philosophy.
She did not hear the arrival of the prince. Whether it was truly as silent as it seemed or if it was just that she was lost in the music and the dance, she could not tell, but one moment she was alone, the next he was beside her.
Royal 02 - Royal Passion Page 4