Royal 02 - Royal Passion

by Jennifer Blake

  Roderic sat on the end of the bed with his back against the footboard and one leg trailing over the side. On his drawn-up knee rested his mandolin. His strong fingers brought forth a soft and beguiling melody, though his gaze rested on Mara.

  She was lovely this morning, the pink thing she was wearing reflecting color into her face. Still, there was an ethereal quality about her, and an elusiveness that troubled him. She was not as thin as she had been, however, or as pale. Her spirit was returning, too; last night when he had insisted that she drink her red wine to build her blood, she had waited until his back was turned and poured it into her flower vase. The daffodils had promptly wilted, but he had allowed her that small victory. He had grown so used to bullying her for her own good that he had not realized he might seem overbearing. It had been such a delight to see that small secret smile of triumph on her mouth, instead of listless acceptance, that it had been all he could do not to snatch her up in his arms and smother her with kisses. She was not ready for that. Not yet. He could wait until she was. And he would.

  Mara shifted on her pillows, grimacing a little. Roderic sat up and put aside the mandolin. “Would you like to lie down? Shall I move the pillows?"

  "No, no, I'm fine,” she answered, holding out a hand as if to ward him off. The pistol ball had torn across her ribs, breaking one and lodging just behind it. The wound might have been more serious if the ball had not been deflected and slowed by her corset stay. The doctor's probing for it had caused the most damage, adding to the scar she would always carry.

  Roderic studied her face, then, satisfied, sank back and picked up his mandolin once more.

  Mara sent him a quick look from under her lashes. He was always there, always ready with water, a pillow, a gentle rub for her back, soothing music; divining her need almost before she knew it herself. Nothing disturbed him, nothing made him uncomfortable. Whatever she asked, he did it at once, understanding with a frightening perception exactly what she required so that she needed to use only a minimum of words. So acute was he that she had come to rely on him before the others, even Grandmère Helene. She did not like that.

  She remembered very well the words he had said when she was so ill, and she honored him for them. But she would not depend upon them. He was a complex man with an enormous sense of responsibility that caused him, she was afraid, to blame himself for what had happened. He was compassionate, with a great capacity for understanding the working of the hearts and minds of men and women. Those qualities could lead him to say, not what was true or right, but what he felt a person most needed to hear at that particular moment. It was not that he lied; it was merely that his moral code put the welfare of the individual first. That code was flexible enough to allow that a half-truth told in the name of good was not wrong. But his code, though his own, was strict. Once a vow was given, he would not draw back from it. That was her greatest fear.

  If my love can hold you ... It could, of course, and always would, though he would never know it if she could help it.

  She closed her eyes, thinking. After a few minutes, the music died away. She felt the bed give as Roderic slid from it, heard him give a quiet order. The others in the room gathered themselves and went quietly away. She thought of protesting, but realized that the visit had tired her.

  Still, when the prince approached the bed, stood looking at her, and then turned away, she spoke. “Roderic?"

  "Rest,” he said, “I'll return later."

  "What happened to de Landes?"

  She waited for his answer. When it was not forthcoming, she opened her eyes. “I killed him, didn't I?"

  "He was a traitor to his king and a murderer who died of his own greed for power."

  "But I killed him."

  "There are some men who require killing, who will petition fete and their fellow men until someone relieves them of their miserable lives."

  "He wasn't even of the nobility, and he had gained so much already, an office in the ministry, a degree of power, and hope, surely, of more. Why should he risk everything to install a Bourbon king?"

  "Nobility can be conferred with the tap of a sword, the stroke of a pen. It is a potent promise for some.” He moved away from the bed, reaching to close the bonbon box, to straighten the vase of flowers.

  "Who made that promise?"

  "The same people who paid him to hire an assassin and to kill the man whether he succeeded or railed. The same people who suggested that, with my reputation for involvement in the overthrow of other rulers, I would make a good scapegoat; men who could with authority promise him a title and wealth if their needs were met."

  "The legitimist circle around the comte de Chambord?"

  "We can guess but never know. In any case, it doesn't matter. The revolution is over."

  "The young comte de Paris is king?"

  "Unfortunately not, or fortunately, as your politics dictate. The duchess d'Orléans went with her son to the Palais Bourbon to meet with the assembly and claim the crown for the young comte. The assembly was in agreement until they were overrun by a rabble, perhaps paid by the legitimists, perhaps instigated by the socialists. To save the situation, Lamartine declared a provisional government controlled by the reformists, along with a number of the socialists from the Hotel de Ville. France has now entered into the Second Republic with Lamartine at its head."

  "Will it endure?"

  "I have my doubts. The guiding of a country requires a hard head and a farseeing eye; there's little room for idealism. In this struggle we saw almost nothing of the Bonapartists. They are waiting in the wings, watching to see if Lamartine stumbles or misses his cue. When he does, they will pounce."

  "And Louis Napoleon will become king."

  "Or emperor, in imitation of his uncle."

  She frowned. “You think he would dare?"

  "Quiet men are often the most ambitious and daring."

  "Like de Landes."

  He faced her. “No, not like de Landes. Louis Napoleon's ambition is to build, to stabilize, to restore the pride of France, not to destroy everything in the hope of gaining some small selfish concession. I understand what you feel, Mara, and I honor you for it. To care is what makes us human. The current of life flows through all of us, and to stop it, even in a mad dog, is to diminish its force. But mad dogs must be stopped. My only regret is that I didn't do it when I had the chance."

  "So you could take the blame?"

  "It would have been my privilege."

  She gave him a level look. “The responsibility is mine, and the privilege."

  "Because,” he said, a smile curving his lips and rising into his eyes, “you saved my worthless skin?"

  "Call it reparation."

  His smile died away. His words abrupt, he asked, “For what?"

  "For the betrayal."

  "As to that,” he drawled,"I took my own reparation long ago."

  "And the night of the meeting?"

  "Overconfidence, mine. Lack of trust, mine. Too great a dependence on ... a form of communication that has limitations."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I thought I could read your thoughts. But all the time what I was reading may have been my own wistful impulses."

  "No!” She sat up suddenly, then fell back with a cry, breathing in short, shallow gasps.

  Roderic sprang forward with a curse. He held her as he threw her pillows aside and eased her flat on the bed. Brushing aside her bedjacket, he stripped open the buttons of her nightgown and pulled it aside without the least hesitation or regard for her modesty. He had done it many times before, she knew, but she had not been so aware then. Now she was.

  There was an ache in her chest that had nothing to do with the wound in her side as his hand brushed over her, searching for renewed bleeding, some sign that she had opened her wound. She saw the tension leave his features, the easing of the lines about his eyes, and had to swallow a hard lump in her throat. It was easier to be angry than to allow herself to be touched by his concern or
meltingly affected by the mere sight of him so near, bending over her. For an instant his knuckles rested against the swell of her breast as he tested the bandaging just beneath it. She slapped his hand away.

  "I'm perfectly all right!"

  "Yes,” he agreed, a faint smile playing about his mouth, “I think you are."

  He reached to refasten her nightgown. Once again she pushed his hand aside. “I'l1 do it."

  "I couldn't permit you to overtax your strength,” he said gravely as he returned to his task.

  "There's little danger of that with you hovering.” She caught his wrists this time, realizing too late that though she had prevented his access to her buttons, she had also prevented her own.

  "I am at your beck and call, a perfect slavey. Doesn't that make you happy?"

  "Oh, ecstatic, except that though you may come when I call, you don't go when you're not needed.” Under her fingers the pulse that beat in his wrists was hard and not quite even, a fascinating discovery.

  "I begin to understand. Shy, delicate blossom that you are, your modesty is offended,” he said, his tone caressing in its mock sympathy though there was wicked delight in the glance he lowered to her bared breasts. “How can you ever forgive me?"

  He could have broken her grip with laughable ease, and they both knew it. That he was content with the display she made, lying with her hair like a dark and shimmering background for her nakedness, her cheeks flushed with irritation and a belated awareness masquerading as embarrassment, they also knew. And yet beneath his enjoyment was such tenderness that she caught her breath.

  He saw that sudden, questioning vulnerability. It required an answer. Drawn irresistibly by the soft contours of her mouth, he leaned over her.

  There came a tap on the door. It was opened hard upon that brief knock, and a man stepped inside. Distinguished in appearance, of medium height, he was perhaps in his mid-fifties. His mustache and small, neat beard were sprinkled with gray, and his hair was thinning on top: His skin was olive and burned by a Southern sun to a deep brown. His eyes were dark and the deep lines around them indicated basic good humor, but now there was wrath building in them as he absorbed the sight before him.

  "What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.

  "I might ask the same—” Roderic began.

  "Papa!” Mara cried.

  "—except,” Roderic finished smoothly, “it appears redundant."

  As Mara, in shock, released his hands, he straightened and turned with smooth grace, placing his body in front of her as a screen. Behind him, she refastened her nightgown with trembling haste and flipped the edges of her bedjacket back into place.

  "You, sir, must be Monsieur André Delacroix,” Roderic went on, his bow a model of politeness. “I assume you have been welcomed in form to Ruthenia House, but I will add my own."

  Beyond Mara's father, Angeline stood in the doorway, her green gaze filled with rueful amusement overlaid by concern.

  "You also need no introduction,” André said in grating tones. “I would recognize you as Rolfe's spawn anywhere. You have the same look, not to mention the same damnable and undiluted gall!"

  "I thank you, sir."

  "It wasn't a compliment! Would you care to explain what you were doing with my daughter?"

  "No."

  That simple, unadorned syllable seemed to fuel Andrés temper as no flowery speech could. “Don't you, indeed? I receive a shocking letter from my daughter concerning events I can only describe as incredible. After weeks of travel to discover the full story, I arrive to learn that she has been shot, and then to see with my own eyes you forcing your attentions upon her while she is abed! As her father, I demand a full accounting of her presence under your roof."

  "An accounting that would not be necessary if you had escorted her to Paris as was your place."

  André gave him a fulminating stare. “Are you presuming to lecture me on my duty, sir?"

  "It seems someone should.” Roderic, his race grim, was unperturbed by the older man's ire.

  Angeline moved forward to step between her son and her former fiancé. “Please, I don't think—"

  "I require to see my daughter alone,” André said, his tone flat.

  "That is impossible."

  "See here, young man, you may be a prince, you may command where there are those who will obey, but you have no control over me or my daughter."

  Mara saw the muscle that stood out in the prince's jaw, saw his hands clench into fists. She tried to sit up, saying imploringly, “Roderic—"

  He heard the appeal, and his features relaxed. He glanced down at her, then, seeing her struggles, moved swiftly to raise her. His arm was an iron band of support across her back as he drew her pillows behind her, placing them with a practiced hand.

  "My son, as you can see,” Angeline said quietly to André, “has been caring for Mara since her injury. He has become quiet adept."

  "Men do not ordinarily frequent the sickroom of a lady."

  "Some men,” she corrected gently. “There are also those who have no fear of infirmity, men who are equal to any task."

  André refused to be mollified. “I still wish to speak to my daughter. I must ask to be left alone with her."

  Roderic faced him. “Mara is in no condition for a long discussion of events that she has already explained once to you in writing."

  "But she is in a condition to receive the kind of rough addresses you were pressing upon her? I should call you out!"

  A duel. The prospect filled Mara with horror. “Papa, no! Roderic—"

  "I am at your disposal, sir. However, it might be more to the point if you will come with me to my apartment where I will undertake to answer whatever you may wish to ask."

  "Very fine, but I prefer the truth."

  There was a close silence in the room. The tension vibrated in the scented, overheated air. It was a grievous insult, one for which any other man, at any other time, might well have answered with his life. Mara reached out to touch Roderic's arm with tears of distress in her eyes.

  He did not disappoint her. His tone even and deliberate, he said, “I will naturally adjust the facts only so much as is necessary to enhance the good opinion you hold of me, sir."

  Mara looked at her father. “What he is more likely to do by far is to shade the truth to protect me, leaving himself exposed. Otherwise, if you will listen, there is none who can better explain what has taken place."

  "Oh, I know,” André” said, flinging up his hands in querulous defeat. “An explanation couched in high-flown words and phrases so that the meat of it has to be searched out like picking a dragon's teeth. But if he can overlook an insult gratuitously given in his own house, I suppose I can at least hear him out."

  Her father stepped to the bed and, with awkward care for her injuries, gave her a hug and pressed a kiss to her forehead. Promising, with a defiant glance at Roderic, to return later, he went with the prince from the room.

  Mara watched them go, one straight and tall and golden-haired, the other thick of waist, graying, and infinitely dear. The tears spilled over her lashes.

  Angeline stayed behind, moving to straighten the bedclothes, setting Roderic's mandolin aside and rescuing Mara's book from under an extra pillow. Her busyness was an act of tact. Mara wiped her eyes on a corner of the sheet, impatient with her own weakness, as she turned to the older woman.

  "Do you think they will come to blows?"

  "They will try each other, but should not become dangerously at odds so long as Roderic maintains a degree of control."

  "But can he do that against such provocation?"

  Angeline paused to give her a warm smile. “You should know as well as any. No one else, I would venture to guess, has tried him quite so completely."

  "I would have thought his father—” Mara began, then stopped since the comment was hardly complimentary.

  "Well, yes, but you have attributes—for provocation, you understand—that Rolfe lacks."

&
nbsp; Mara gave her a faint smile, then turned her attention to a piece of nonexistent fuzz on the bedclothes. “Where is the king?"

  "Being a man of some discretion, and a most frustrating instinct for trouble, he left me to greet your father alone."

  "He didn't mind, that he is here, I mean?"

  "As to that, he may, but I will never know it unless he should judge that I am unhappy with his lack of jealousy."

  Mara leaned her head back on her pillows, looking up into the canopy of her bed. “Is nothing ever simple and straight-forward with him, or with his son?"

  "Oh, yes, often, usually when ordinary people would use a certain delicate circumlocution."

  Mara made a wry face. “In those difficult moments of embarrassment or—"

  "Or desire?"

  "Yes."

  "Forgive me, I seem to have caught the habit from them,” Angeline said with a shake of her head. “Is there anything you need?"

  How easy it would be to keep Roderic's mother there talking, merely for the pleasure of saying his name, of learning more about him. It would do no good, and was painful in its way.

  She summoned a smile. “No, thank you."

  "Then I must go and see to having a room prepared for André. I would send Juliana to you, or Trude, but I expect it would be best if you tried to rest, perhaps napped a little."

  Mara nodded. After a moment she heard the door click shut behind the older woman. She had never felt farther from sleep. What were Roderic and her rather saying to each other? She did not dare think. She could not remember ever seeing her father so upset. Not the least reason, she thought, being because Roderic's accusation had struck home; her rather had felt some stirring of guilt for allowing her and her grandmother to jaunt to Europe unprotected. It had been the grinding season when they left Louisiana, the season when the sweet juice of the cane from plantation fields was made into sugar. The process required close supervision, particularly this year when the yield was important to repair their fortunes affected by the panic. Still, André's worry left him open to the charge.