Royal 02 - Royal Passion

by Jennifer Blake

  "Sorry,” Mara said, her tone brisk. She knotted her thread at the end of her darn and snapped it off.

  Estes said, “I am so tired of playing the knucklebones and watching Michael move his petits soldiers around on his chessboard that I could—"

  "Ahem,” the rest of the cadre said.

  "Complaints?” Roderic asked in gentle tones from where he had entered the room with nearly soundless steps. “Such injustice that any man should suffer dull lassitude for my sake. What will it take to return you to pleasure in my service?"

  "The gods preserve us,” Estes breathed, and it was a true prayer.

  "Jared, could I trouble you to move sufficiently to bring the swords?"

  "Holy mother of us all,” Jacques whispered, and got to his feet, wiping the palms of his hands on his trouser legs as his twin brother sprang up to do Roderic's bidding. The others exchanged glances and pushed themselves slowly erect.

  The swords were brought. They had long, slender blades chased in a Far Eastern design and fitted to silver and brass hilts. Supple and lethal, they had no buttons on the tips, which were commonly used for practice at swordplay, nor did the cadre fit them with any. Coats and boots were removed and sleeves rolled to the elbows. Then without the least protection for face or body, they faced each other.

  "To first blood only. Strike well but lightly."

  The apathy in the room had been most effectively banished. In its place was agitation allied to a curious gleeful apprehension and stark determination. They knew one and all that, in the heat of the fierce striving to win, anything could happen, minor to serious injury, disfigurement, maiming, even death. Mara sat mesmerized, unwilling to appear the coward by leaving, uncertain she would be able to watch.

  The most amazing thing to her was the pairing. Roderic's cousin Michael faced Jared, and the other twin, Jacques, stood in front of Estes, leaving Trude, their female member, to face the prince. It had not been at her own choosing, or even by default, but had been the direct order of Roderic.

  What was his thinking? As a gentleman, did he intend to allow her to inflict some small injury upon him? It did not seem likely, since at no time had Mara seen the woman treated as anything other than one of the cadre. And even if he did, could Trude bring herself to do it, feeling, as Mara suspected, the way she did about her leader? Could it be perhaps that Trude was swordsman enough to provide a challenge, one Roderic wished to test? It seemed a possibility since she possessed an unusual agility and strong wrists. It was possible, however, that if Roderic was the superior of them all, as indicated by their comments, he might feel Trude was safer with him. But how would he protect himself without injuring her? How could he allow himself to be defeated and still keep the respect of his cadre? Or how could he defeat Trude without drawing blood?

  "Ready?"

  "Ready,” came the answer in a ragged chorus.

  "Salute!” When the swords had swept up and down again in unison, the prince went on, “Our Chére will give the signal."

  Surprise held Mara speechless. She had not thought that he had even noticed she was there. Then as she realized they were standing, rigidly waiting, she picked up the heavy white linen table napkin she had just finished mending and held it out, tented, from her fingers. “En garde,” she said, and let the napkin fall.

  The swords clanged together with a musical dissonance, scraping, grating, springing apart. The movements were as stylized as a ballet and appeared hardly more strenuous. And yet within seconds drops of sweat appeared on their faces and their breathing became loud over the soft shuffle and slide of their footsteps moving back and forth. Still, every person in the deadly contest was fit. Each moved with oiled precision as muscles strained and bent in a thousand difficult exercises and improbable tasks. At no time had Mara been made more aware that they were a unit, trained and directed for fighting in concerted effort, than in this moment when they were striving against each other.

  Their concentration was intent, confined to the glinting sword tip and the appraisal of the person facing them. As the minutes ticked past, the apprehension seeped away, to be replaced by a dependence on skills well learned and a growing exultation. Grins appeared at the parrying of a finely aimed thrust and at the counterblow. A comment or two was made, mostly ribald. The swordplay became more daring, more spectacular. The blades tapped together in a peculiarly even rhythm, musically chiming, suddenly clanging, at some swift feint or aborted riposte.

  A pale gray light fell through the delicately tinted glass of the high windows. It gave the faces of the contestants a ghostly pallor and colored their clothing with shifting shades of yellow and lavender and rose. It lent a curious sense of unreality to the scene, as if those touched by it were bloodless shades of themselves or else trespassers from some more violent time. In the dimness the sparks as the blades scraped together were bright orange.

  Then Jacques lunged, drew back. Estes gave a great and histrionic cry of despair, clasping his arm. “Pinked, and by a child with a child's move. The shame of it, the shame!"

  "You let me do it on purpose, you randy old man,” Jacques accused, “because you hoped to have Mademoiselle Chère wrap you up in her napkin."

  "Wounded in arm and the quick of the heart, too! How could you think such a thing?"

  "I know you. Besides, I thought of it myself."

  "Insolent puppy. I have half a mind to take up my sword again and thrash you."

  "You can't,” Jacques returned smugly."I have first blood. It's over."

  But it was not over for the others. They fought on while Mara indeed wrapped the Italian's arm up with her napkin. The wound was fairly deep, but by no means serious. Estes crowed over his opponent about the attention he was getting from Mara, then strutted about with the piece of white linen around his upper arm as if it had been a decoration for valor or a mark of favor. He paced the floor, making pointed comments on the swordplay of the others like a spectator in a theater box, but instead of annoying them, it seemed only to add to their fighting fury and the atmosphere of strained hilarity. At the open doorway a crowd had formed. It was the servants, attracted by the clash of swords. They spoke among themselves, exchanging comments, exclaiming at a particularly cunning thrust. Mara would not have been surprised to learn that they were also contracting a discreet wager or two.

  Michael and Jared were closely matched. Their swords winked blue light, slipping, slithering, endlessly tapping. Abruptly, Jared attacked. Michael parried in quinte and drove into a riposte. Jared recoiled, but in the movement Michael's blade tip slashed across his hand. Jared cursed without heat and dropped his sword.

  So intent was Mara on the injury to Jared that she did not see the end of the match between Trude and Roderic. There was a flurry of swirling blades caught from the corner of her eye, then Trude was standing with her sword tip resting on the floor, staring at the prince with one hand held to her face.

  Mara moved forward with quick steps as Roderic stepped back. Before she reached Trude, however, the young woman slowly lowered her hand to look at the blood on her fingers. The wound was small, no more than a scratch. It would not even leave a scar, but Trude was white, swaying on her feet. She raised her hazel gaze to Roderic.

  "You never do anything without a reason,” she said on a choking breath. “Why?"

  "Think,” he recommended.

  Her voice cold and yet bewildered, she answered,"I would rather not."

  "That is your prerogative."

  At the doorway, the servants scattered as before a tidal wave, scurrying about their business. Juliana entered the room in impetuous style with her rose silk skirts swirling and the plumes in her rose velvet hat floating in the breeze of her passage. “Where, pray, are the brigands? I heard the din the instant I entered the house and flew to the fray. Don't tell me they have been routed already?"

  "There were no brigands,” Roderic said shortly.

  "No brigands? Burglars, stranglers, footpads, then, sneak thieves, assassins? Come, t
here must have been someone to inflict such carnage!” Her tones were strident, with anger masquerading as irony. It was prompted, Mara thought, by concern that had proven to be needless.

  Most unwisely, Michael said, “It was only a cure for boredom."

  "One likely to be permanent! I suppose if one of your number complained of headache the rest would cut off his head!"

  "You are becoming quite a scold,” Roderic said, drawing her fire from his man. “Viragoes are not to the taste of many men. Are you so certain your Prussian is following?"

  "Leave Arvin out of this!"

  "Gladly, except that we must weigh the effects on your temper of his coming or, alternately, his failing to show himself."

  "I am not the only one grown acerbic. If I had known how frustration would affect you, I would have shut the door on you and your ladylove last night and gone quietly away."

  "Would that you had,” Roderic said, unperturbed, “or that you had never come."

  "If you mean to make me feel unwelcome, you have succeeded to admiration, but it won't serve,” Juliana declared in magnificent scorn. “Here I am, and here I stay!"

  Mara did not wait to hear more. Gathering up her mending, she skirted the group and moved out of the room. She thought Roderic watched her go, but, if so, he made no attempt to detain her.

  Roderic's words to his sister seemed to indicate regret that they had been interrupted the night before. Would he have preferred that there had not been an opportunity for the heat of the moment to fade, for a cooler head to counsel caution? Certainly she must feel that way. She had come so close to completing her task, and so painlessly. How strange it seemed. She had known that there was more of the temptress in her than she had imagined after the incident with Dennis Mulholland—there must be or he would never have behaved as he did. Still, she was surprised to think that she had been quite undismayed by the idea of giving herself to the prince in those moments; it had seemed natural, indeed, almost inevitable. The feel of his arms around her, the tenderness of his kiss, the stirring of the blood she had felt, had been a shock to her somehow. She had resigned herself to seducing the man; she had not expected to enjoy it.

  It seemed almost depraved then, the degree of disappointment she felt that her object had not been accomplished. It was the fear, the feeling of precious time slipping away, that made her so emotional, or so she tried to tell herself. She only half-believed it. No matter. There were only eleven days left. Eleven days. She must make them count.

  Mara had not been in her bedchamber for more than a few minutes when a knock fell on the door. It was Juliana who entered at her call. The blond girl hesitated in the doorway, her teeth set into her bottom lip.

  "You may tell me to go away if you like and I wouldn't blame you. I was rude to you just now, but it was not intentional. I am afraid that in our family we have a tendency to speak our minds with unblushing frankness. It can cause difficulties."

  "Please come in."

  "Thank you.” She turned in a whirl of skirts to shut the door carefully behind her.

  "I have been thinking this morning,” Mara said, “that you will wish to take over the running of your brother's house. Perhaps that is what you wanted to talk to me about?"

  "Good heavens, no! I am not at all domestic.” Juliana's expression was blank.

  "I would not usurp your privileges as well as your rooms."

  "Please do. Please. From what I remember of this house from my last excursion here, you have produced wonders of refinement. I would not dream of interfering."

  "Then ... how may I help you?"

  The other girl shrugged. “I don't know. It was an impulse to come to you, to tell you that I didn't mean to hurt you just now. I was interested solely in puncturing the conceit of that brother of mine. He is entirely too sure of himself."

  "Do you always quarrel?” Mara led the way into the adjoining salon, indicating a chair. Juliana seated herself, sighed, then reached up to take off her hat and cast it on the floor beside her.

  "Not invariably, but often."

  Mara had wondered many times what it would be like to have a brother or sister. She had thought of them playing together, presenting a united front against the world, not of quarreling. She opened her mouth to say so, but realized in time that it was a dangerous subject for someone who was supposed to have no memory of the past.

  "Roderic usually manages to quarrel with everyone except our mother. Maman hates raised voices and so never indulges in tirades with words as weapons like the rest of us. But if she is pushed too far, she will rise up and annihilate you in a single phrase."

  "I have noticed Roderic's peculiar speech patterns and also, to some extent, yours,” Mara said, her voice dry.

  Juliana grimaced. “A trait picked up from our father. I try to curb it; Roderic makes no attempt. You should hear them when they are together. Or perhaps you had better not.

  When they disagree, bystanders are likely to be dissolved by the acid of their comments. Maman was always caught between them. I think, though I cannot be sure, that it was his concern for the pain such confrontations gave her that made Roderic leave Ruthenia."

  Juliana was speaking of Angeline, queen of Ruthenia, Mara's own godmother. Mara resolved to think of some way to discover more about her. “Roderic and his father are estranged then?"

  "I wouldn't say that. They are deep men, so it's hard to tell what passes between them. It could just as easily be that our father forced Roderic from Ruthenia because he thought it best my brother should be on his own, that he should make his way in the world. It was what he was made to do when he was that age."

  Mara frowned. “It seems hard."

  "Yes, but beneficial. Roderic survived very well, indeed. He and his cadre strike fear into half the courts of Europe."

  "Fear?"

  "They are called the Death Corps. Didn't you know?"

  Mara shook her head. There was a feeling of disquiet inside her, though she was not certain why. “What is it that they do?"

  "They fight, or at least so I suppose. They are always found where trouble is brewing. I remember hearing once that they helped to train special units of guards for royal houses, something like that. Assassination is always a threat these days. Everyone must guard against it in the best way they can."

  "I don't think I understand why the cadre should be feared if they train others to protect members of the courts."

  "It's the way they go about it, not just by honing a fighting force, but by infiltrating, gathering information, becoming friendly with all political elements so as to learn where the greatest threat lies. Some say that with their tactics it would be just as easy for them to overthrow a government as to save it, and on occasion what they have learned has made Roderic decide that the opposition would be best in power. It is a little like letting the wolf in at the back door in order to keep the vultures from the front, and so the title."

  "The Death Corps,” Mara whispered to herself, and shivered.

  In the brief pause there was a scratching on the salon door. Mara looked up sharply. “Come in."

  It was Trude who stepped into the room. “I am sorry to trouble you, mademoiselle, but I wondered if—"

  As the woman saw Juliana, she stopped abruptly, her tall form stiffening. Juliana lifted a brow, but rose at once."Don't mind me, I'm just going."

  "No, no, don't go,” Mara said. There had been no time to ask about Angeline. “Perhaps Trude would care to join us? We could order chocolate and cakes and perhaps chat a little."

  "I haven't the time,” Trude said, her tone distant. “I only wanted to ask if you had an ointment that I might put on my face. Estes suggested it might prevent scarring."

  "I'm afraid I don't,” Mara began.

  "I do,” Juliana said, “and most effective it is. If you will come with me, I'll search it out for you."

  "I couldn't allow—"

  "Nonsense. We women must stick together. The very idea of Roderic touching your face!
He could just as easily have hit your arm if he had wanted. I would not have believed he could be so careless."

  "It wasn't carelessness.” Trude's voice was harsh, as if the words were forced from her against her will.

  "Are you saying it was deliberate?"

  "It was a lesson to me, for accusing Mademoiselle Chère of vanity."

  "No,” Mara whispèred, rising to her feet."He couldn't."

  "You don't know him."

  The words were a reminder to Mara that she was new among them. They also held a certain bitter derision that might have been directed not only at Mara but at herself.

  "If what you say is true, I'm sorry."

  "There is no reason for you to be sorry. It was not done because of you, but for—for my own good."

  "Well,” Juliana said briskly when Mara made no answer, “whatever the reason, we must repair the damage. Come along."

  The two women left. Mara took up her mending, but though her needle moved steadily, she could not forget what Trude had said. Had Roderic injured Trude's face as a reprimand? And, if so, had it been done for the reason Trude had implied; as a lesson not to speak of vanity in other women without taking her own into consideration? Or had it been in retaliation for the embarrassment the woman had caused Mara, for an insult that the prince had appeared to dismiss at the time? That any man could act in such a cold-blooded way was disturbing to her. That she must become intimate with one who might have done so made it that much worse.

  The Death Corps. What kind of group was the cadre, indeed, and what kind of man was the one who led them? She had thought Roderic a playboy prince, handsome, intelligent, musically gifted, but of minor importance. The more she learned, the less she seemed to know or to understand.

  She met Roderic in the long gallery as she was on her way to the public rooms later that evening. He was coming from his apartment while she was making her way from her own through the central corridor rather than going through the rooms taken over by Trude and Juliana in her own wing. She paused as she saw him, unconsciously searching his face for some sign of his humor. He offered his arm. She took it, moving beside him a few steps before she spoke of precisely what was on her mind.