Royal 02 - Royal Passion

by Jennifer Blake

  Quiet descended. The boats rose and fell, and the cold wind whistled around the stone piers of the bridge. The water made a chuckling, ruffling sound. The faces of the men were ghostlike in the faint glow of the lanterns. Michael and Trude were dutifully, grimly ready. Estes, with the Prussian, appeared huddled against the chill but willing, while the crown prince was merely impatient. Luca and Jacques were poised now; the twin, like his brother, turning his attention to the task ahead. Roderic spoke a soft order or two, but sat relaxed and competent, replete with concentration that was unimpaired by the least sign of inebriation. They waited.

  Above them came a flare of orange light as a torch was lighted. The voice of the elder Dumas rang out in some eloquent speech, the words of which were lost in the windy night. Then, with fine dramatic timing, the torch was tossed from the bridge above. It flared as it fell, smoking, then was extinguished by the water. The boats surged from under the dark shadow of the bridge. The race had begun.

  Like whales leaping free, heavily falling, like horses springing out of a farmyard gate into summer's green pastures, the boats, thrust by strong backs and hard, knotting muscles, plowed the waters of the Seine into splashing furrows as they raced with the stream down the course. The oars shrieked and groaned and thudded, digging into the water, throwing spray into the air. The river gurgled and hummed. The men shouted in jubilance and fierce competition as they strained, grunting, into the oars. Behind them on the bridge the cheers of the prince's guests soared, then faded quickly as the craft swept away.

  Neck to neck, the boats held their positions as the rowers beat the river. Now one, then another, eased forward, fell back, separated by only the lengths of the oars. The wind created by their passage flapped their cloaks and tore at their hair. The outflung droplets fell like rain, splattering onto their heated faces and mingling with the dew of sweat.

  The shouting died away. Along the quayside streets on either side appeared the shapes of fast-moving carriages as the guests tried to keep up with the boats. Men hung out of the windows, waving their hats, or else yelled from the coachmen's boxes where they had taken seats to see better.

  It settled down to a hard contest. The face of the Prussian in the rear of Mara's boat was set in bulldog grimness. Estes grimaced with each pull, but kept to the same unrelenting pace as the crown prince. Roderic's face, in the light of the boat lantern across the way, was reckless in its gaiety, yet concentrated. He lifted his voice and began to sing, a ribald sea chantey that held a strong and steady rhythm. Jared, Jacques, and Luca, the other members of his team, took it as their mark and. pulled together with smooth, hard-bellied strokes.

  Within moments the boats began to pull apart, dividing to take the separate channels of the river. Notre Dame with its flying buttresses bulked ahead of them like some ancient squatting stone spider. The boats swept around it, and the night was suddenly quiet as the wind died, blocked by the stone building. The quay on their left was high, a wall of stone brought nearer as the arm of the river narrowed. Above it rose the tall houses of Paris, their windows dark and sightless, the shops on the lower floors closed and with awnings rolled up.

  They pulled on in a stone-lined tunnel of dank and black night, the lantern bobbing up and down spreading yellow-orange light on the luminous water ahead of them. The men pulled until the veins stood out in their temples and their breathing grew bellow's deep and gasping, and they had no thought for anything except the next pull, the next breath, the slow-moving turn of the river.

  On her seat Mara braced against the regular tugs of the oars and strained her eyes to see ahead. Her thoughts were on the others racing around the opposite side of the islands, nearest to the Right Bank; thoughts hurried by distrust. There might be none who could remember how this race had come about, but she would be willing to wager that there was one who knew it well. Roderic, drunk or sober, did nothing without a purpose. If he was racing down the Seine at this moment, it was for a reason. What was it? What was he doing?

  Ahead of them appeared gray rags of fog. It drifted on top of the water, swirling, curtsying around them as they struck through it. It grew thicker, and the light of the prow lantern reflected from it, turning it into a dirty and opaque curtain. It hung close, stifling sound, making the world seem distant. When they rounded the point of the Île de la Cité, it lay like a snug coverlet over the width of the river with the Pont des Arts arching above it, an edging of iron lace. And slicing through it, skimming like red-eyed gulls, were the skiffs of Roderic's team, a boat length ahead.

  The Prussian cursed, and the boat in which Mara sat leaped forward. It began to close the distance between it and the leaders, but it left behind the boat driven by Michael and Trude. Finally it drew even. For long moments, the three boats held steady, then slowly the other boat of Roderic's team, the one carrying Luca and Jacques, began to fall back. The Pont des Arts swept past overhead. Driven by the river's flow and the heat of the race, the two leading boats moved slowly closer together. The Pont Royal loomed ahead of them, a mass of stone pierced by five fog-filled arches. In a line upon it were the carriages of the guests who had raced ahead to watch the end of the race. The carriage lanterns shone like rubies as the fog wreathed up and around them.

  The barge came from the right. It was drifting with the current, rolling low and sluggish in the water, dead in front of them. There was no one on it; it had broken loose from its moorings. Arvin led to the left to pass it by, guiding the boat with his rear oar.

  They were going to miss the barge, but Roderic did not have enough room. The Prussian, instead of veering away from the drifting barge enough to allow both boats to pass, was holding to his narrow course. He was going to force Roderic to give way or else collide with the barge, and even so only desperate measures would prevent Roderic's boat from crashing head-on into it.

  "Dear Lord, among unpalatable choices,” Roderic said, the words coming clear over the water, “I turn like a needle without its magnet. I give it back to you, Arvin."

  He made no move to check, but instead bore down harder upon his oar, turning his boat, which was slightly in the lead, toward that of the Prussian. And abruptly it was the choice of Crown Prince Arvin whether to widen the gap to let the prince of Ruthenia's boat through or to ram it.

  It was Estes, cursing under his breath in the prow, who chose, overriding the control of Crown Prince Arvin to send the prow of the boat wide with his own oar. Arvin, rage on his heavy features, counteracted with a sweep of his rear oar, but the other boat shot through the opening Estes had made, with Jared and Juliana cheering and Roderic singing a soft song in grunts through his teeth as he lay into his own sweep.

  But that vicious counterthrust of the Prussian swung the boat, with Mara crouched in it, across the current. The river caught it, sweeping it around and plunging the stern toward the barge. The wooden hull slammed into the heavier craft. Its planking cracked with a sound like breaking eggshells, and it was sucked half under the barge. The water poured over the side, filling the bottom so that it was dragged down like a leaf in an open sewer. The lantern died, hissing. Mara sprang to her feet with water halfway to her knees, and an instant later she was dumped headfirst into the river.

  Cold, cold. The water snatched her breath and turned her cloak and skirts that billowed up around her into a smothering, enveloping shroud. She went down and down, slowly turning, numb to the bone. Her lungs began to burn, her brain shook off the shock with a silent scream, and she kicked upward, fighting to free her arms of the clinging, waterlogged cloth. Her head broke the water and she gasped, choking, opening her eyes to see. She had been carried under the barge to the other side.

  She could not swim. She could keep her head above water for a few short minutes by frantically kicking and moving her arms, but she knew that her strength would not last long, especially with the heavy weight of sodden material that was her clothes dragging her down. She was being carried by the river, a piece of human flotsam. She could not see the others and
knew that they must be somewhere behind her. She had no strength to look, however, no dependence on them to save her, not when there were Crown Prince Arvin and Estes to be picked up, too.

  Ahead of her was the bridge. The guests of the prince were screaming and calling out. Did they see her? She could not tell; it was dark and the river was wide. But there was a supporting pier for one of the arches moving fast toward her.

  She struck it with stunning force. Pain flared white-hot along her side, but she reached to catch at the pier's dark solidity. Her numb fingers slid along the stone, which was slick with a vile growth. Her nails broke as she clawed at it, reaching higher. Then she struck clean stone. Her grip caught, held. She clung, coughing, her breath harsh and hollow, in her ears.

  She could not keep her hold for long. She was so heavy there in the water with the river pulling at her, and her fingertips had no feeling. She had a curious sensation of warmth in her feet and legs and knew with an edge of horror that it meant her body was beginning to freeze from the icy water. It was dark under the bridge, even darker than it had been out there upon the river. In a moment she would loosen her grasp and slip away into even greater darkness. Still she clung obstinately, delaying the moment, hanging by her fingers with her cheek cushioned on slimy stone and her eyes closed.

  There was a splash beside her. A finger of fog touched her face, sending a tremor of peculiar feeling like warm pain through her. A corded support passed around her waist, easing the weight of her hands; still she would not let go.

  "Rest, lean on me,” Roderic said at her ear, his arm tightening about her.

  "No."

  "Pride or prudence? Listen carefully, ma chère, and heed me well: There is no fate worse than death, none. Nor, I swear it, is there one worse for me than that I should lose you without ever knowing you."

  They were still, riding there in the bone-chilling water with the numb bodies pressed close. Then Roderic swung away from her. He whistled a sweet, shrill sound.

  There came the thump and squeak of oars, and a boat pulled toward them. Strong and hard, the grasp of the prince took Mara's weight, and, sighing, she surrendered. She was held for a brief instant, then sent surging up out of the water. Hard hands reached for her, pulling her with rough competence over the gunwale into the boat. The small craft rocked as Roderic heaved himself over the side, then the two of them were tumbled together in its bottom, lying in a welter of algae and fishy-smelling water under Roderic's uniform jacket as Luca and Jacques pulled for the quay.

  A carriage stood waiting as Roderic carried her up the steps. At the door he paused and turned to face his guests, who crowded around, staring, exclaiming, asking questions in wondering voices. His face was shaded with weariness and distaste as he spoke.

  "The evening has come to an end. You may go."

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  9

  The carriage ride back to Ruthenia House was cold and racketing and endless. Mara huddled within her clammy clothes, shuddering with her teeth clenched, trying not to lean too heavily upon Roderic, who held her. It seemed wrong to take his warmth, given in charity, for her own need. Wrong, too, to inflict her nearness upon him when it would not be pleasant for him. She would have clung to him to share her own meager warmth if he had needed it, but he did not. Perhaps because of strong brandy, his exertions at the oar, and his efforts to find her in the water, he came near to steaming with wet heat. The water ran from his hair, oozing from the gold strands he had slicked back with his fingers, dripping from his nose and chin. He seemed not to notice.

  "What—what about Estes and Crown Prince Arvin?” she asked.

  "They follow with Michael and Trude, who picked them up. Estes, being somewhat excitable, hasn't stopped talking. Arvin does not speak."

  "I h-hope you're happy."

  He looked down at her. “Should I be?"

  "As a bird in May, tra-la. You f-forced the crown prince to expose his weakness, the n-need to win at all costs."

  "But, admit it, if there had been no weakness, if he had displayed gallantry by allowing my team a fair and equal chance, he would now be in a position to offer terms as the man who accepted defeat rather than risk the injury of his beloved and her brother."

  "Did you arrange the b-barge?"

  "What a conniver you make me! Do you think I did?"

  "I am trying to d-decide.” It was growing harder to prevent her chattering teeth from interfering with her speech. She clasped her arms tighter across her chest.

  "What would you prefer, a man who seizes the chance of the moment or one who makes his own?"

  "W-what has what I prefer to do with it?"

  "You haven't thought. I put you in the boat with Arvin."

  She looked at him, straining to see his shadowed face in the dimness lit only by the outside carriage lantern. “Another test, a double one? Enlighten m-me: Did I pass or fail?"

  "I am convinced that you are not Arvin's tool."

  "Did you think I was?"

  "You arrived so close together,” he said apologetically.

  "I don't believe you thought any such thing!"

  "Don't you?"

  She did not, but she saw with disturbing clarity that, for all his presence of wry amusement, he had some concern. She asked, “Do I look like a Prussian?"

  "No, and the efficacy of annoyance is such that neither do you now look like a half-drowned kitten or sound like one."

  They had drawn up in the entrance court of the house. He stepped down and helped her out. But though his answer had been light, dismissive, she was not deceived. He had not made his oblique accusation to rouse her to warning anger. That had not been it at all.

  She had half expected him to carry her into the house. Instead he went ahead, and the quiet acerbity of his orders could be heard as she slowly mounted the stairs to the entrance gallery with her cloak trailing water over the marble. She started along the gallery toward her suite of rooms, but, at the St. Andréw's cross, found her path blocked.

  "There is, of long habit at this time of night, a bath waiting in my dressing room,” Roderic said. “Saras is adding hot water. I make you free of it."

  The thought of a hot bath was like balm. She drew herself up. “It's kind of you, but I will wait until one is prepared in my own rooms."

  "I cannot permit it. Be sensible."

  "I am all sensibility. You don't want me in your apartment, therefore I will not make you suffer my presence."

  The others were arriving; there were the sounds of wheels on the cobblestones and raised voices at the entrance. His voice light, almost pleasant, Roderic said, “Do you enjoy being carried here and there like a sack of flour from the mill? I am willing to oblige, but it would be helpful if I could know you like it."

  "Don't be absurd!"

  "Then come into my dressing room now."

  There was in his voice that soft edge she had heard before when he addressed the cadre, a promise of sure retribution for denial or challenge. It would be childish to pit her will against his merely for the sake of defiance. She was well aware that if for some reason he wanted her in his rooms, he was capable of placing her there. In any case, though she had no idea whether his motives were anything other than altruistic, it would be foolish of her to miss the opportunity of furthering the task she had been given. Besides, the shuddering of deep chill was returning to rack her body once more.

  "V-very w-well,” she said, and, holding her head high in spite of that betraying tremor, moved into the antechamber that led to his apartment.

  The dressing room was a small chamber adjoining the bedchamber, small so as to be more easily warmed by the fire that leaped and spat in the hearth. The bathtub was of the style known as a hip bath, of porcelain on copper painted with a design of ivy and with a high back for reclining while sitting in it. Thick Turkish toweling was laid out on a rack, with a cake of red-brown sandalwood soap in a crystal dish attached to the tub's rim. On a nearby chair lay a robe of deep blue velv
et cuffed in white and embroidered with a crown on the pocket. A tall floor candelabrum held six candles, the only illumination in the small room.

  Mara turned in a shower of drops from the hem of her cloak, waiting for the prince to leave her alone. He closed the door behind him instead and advanced upon her. He stopped before her, his gaze contemplative. She stared up at him with perplexity in her face and the purple shadows of sleeplessness and exhaustion under her eyes. With steady hands he reached to unfasten her cloak, dropping its sodden weight to the floor, then began to probe the straggling mass of her wet hair for its few remaining pins.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Performing a service."

  "Lila will help me, if you will send for her."

  "It will be quicker if I do it."

  His voice was beguiling, the warmth of the fire a sap upon her will. Summoning a tart tone, she said, “Not necessarily."

  "You doubt my experience?"

  "Your motives."

  "Oh, they are the purest.” He drew his splayed fingers through the black silk of her hair, spreading it over her shoulders, then put his hands on her upper arms to turn her back to him. She felt his touch at the hooks of her gown.

  She should stop him. Or so a part of her insisted. She would if she could find the strength. She did not understand him, did not trust him. He was a complex man, one difficult to become close to and so difficult to know. She had learned only a little and that little made her afraid. Now she was trembling not just from the cold.

  His movements were deft and sure upon the hooks. His fingers brushing along her backbone were warm and gentle; still, her skin was so sensitive that each light touch left a stinging sensation in its wake. She stood unmoving, with her head bowed in unconscious grace, until she felt the tug as he began to unlace her corset.