Once a Princess

by Johanna Lindsey

  The doubts, of course, took precedence. They were just too numerous. Incompatibility, hostility, the fact that the only thing they had in common was some distant relations she knew nothing about. Then there was marriage itself, the very thought of which she despised. To be under the control of a normal man would be bad enough, but Stefan wasn't a normal man, he was an all-powerful king, for crying out loud. And she'd already had a thorough taste of just how controlling he could be, with her own wishes being consistently ignored.

  And she mustn't forget Stefan's baffling attitude toward her. He wanted her but wished he didn't; thought she was beautiful but wished she weren't. And his wanting her was only for one time. He'd admitted as much and was probably of the same opin­ion as Vasili, that royal marriages were political, not personal, and didn't require much intercourse of any kind between the couple. But where would that leave her? Still wanting Stefan with no hope of ever having him? Would she willingly put herself through that kind of hell? She'd have to be as stupid as they seemed to think she was.

  As she would have done with Vasili, she'd have to refuse to marry Stefan—if it were all true. And unfortunately, she was nearly convinced that it was. And then she learned how naive she was about what she could or couldn't do. Stefan had said it once himself—that as a subject of Cardinia, she would have to obey the king just like everyone else. She had assumed that meant obey or get thrown in a dungeon or some such distasteful alternative. Again it was Sasha who enlightened her when they were having another of their daily talks.

  It began when she asked how Stefan had received his scars. For once the little man didn't want to an­swer her and said as much.

  "Stefan should be the one to tell you about it, if he chooses."

  "It's been a peaceful voyage, Sasha. " Her tone was as dry as parchment. "Do you really think I should change that by requesting an audience?"

  He chuckled. "It is nearly five weeks since you have seen each other. Perhaps you could now manage a few minutes alone, only a few, mind you, without cutting each other to shreds. You haven't missed him?"

  "Not even a little," she said with absolute certainty, but only for Sasha's benefit.

  Actually, she did miss Stefan a little, or more exactly, the stimulation of being in his presence. What she didn't miss was the insults, and even Vasili was being on his best behavior now that they suspected she was starting to believe everything, even that she was a genuine princess.

  "Has he said anything," she continued, "that would lead you to think he—ah—misses me?"

  Sasha smiled at her hesitancy, but shook his head, saying, "The truth, your Highness, is that since he has been away from you, he has reverted to his normal habit of keeping his feelings strictly to himself."

  "He's brooding?" she asked with interest.

  "No. He simply speaks of nothing of a personal nature."

  "You mean he hasn't even asked after me?" she demanded, not caring how indignant she sounded.

  "For what reason? Everything he could possibly want to know is told him before he need ask."

  Her eyes flared wide. "By you?"

  "Certainly. "

  "You mean you tell him what we talk about?" she fairly shouted.

  "There is no reason for this display of anger, Princess," Sasha said soothingly. "I haven't told him anything that might displease you."

  "How would I know? And don't you dare tell him I asked if he misses me!"

  "The subject is already forgotten," he assured her, only to venture to add, "But perhaps if he thought you wouldn't mind a chance meeting with him—"

  "I would mind," she insisted stubbornly. "I would have to be a glutton for punishment if I wanted to talk to him again. Why, the very last time we spoke, he asked my price. My price, Sasha! Do you know how insulting that was? No, I like it just fine that he's arranged things so that we don't run into each other by accident or otherwise."

  Sasha's cheeks flushed as he tried to explain. "If you were a whore, then you would surely be delighted at the mention of price. They all think you a whore, so half of what you take as insult is not meant as insult. Why do you not tell them it isn't so?"

  She wasn't offended by such plain speaking, not from Sasha, and she didn't prevaricate either. "Why should I bother? Would it change their plans for me?"

  "No. You are going to marry King Stefan of Cardinia. It is the old king's wish. It was the wish of the king before him, your own father. So there is nothing you can do to prevent it from happening."

  "I can say no."

  "It can be accomplished without your permission. You were raised in a country where many voices make the law, but you were born in a country where only one voice is the law. Stefan has merely to order it so, and this he will do because it is his father's wish. "

  "But not his."

  It was not a question, but Sasha treated it as one, admitting, "It was not his wish when he came to find you. Now I am not so sure."

  Tanya was sure. Duty before preference, as Vasili had put it. Stefan would marry her whether he wanted to or not. And now she knew that she would have no choice either. She wouldn't even be allowed the satisfaction of putting them to the trouble of forcing her.

  Sasha became disturbed by her silence. "Perhaps I should tell you how Stefan came by his scars, after all, to help you understand him better. "

  "Don't bother," she said glumly. "I'm no longer interested."

  Chapter 31

  Tanya might have lost her interest in learning about Stefan's scars the day before, but it was the first thing she asked Lazar the next morning when he and Serge joined her for breakfast in her cabin.

  "Stefan's scars? That is a touchy subject, Prin­cess," Lazar began.

  "One Stefan wouldn't like us to discuss," Serge added with a warning look at his friend.

  "Well, heaven forbid you do something he wouldn't like," Tanya said with just enough scorn to goad them.

  But Lazar merely grinned at her, aware of what she was doing. "That tactic won't work. If you knew how unpleasant it is to have Stefan annoyed at you—"

  Serge wasn't amused, and he broke in, grumbling, "She knows. But like most females, she doesn't care how she goes about getting what she wants."

  "That isn't so," Tanya retorted. She tried to look offended, couldn't manage it, so settled on a shrug. "Never mind. I suppose I can just ask Stefan, even though it's such a touchy subject."

  Both men were now scowling at her. "From one tactic to another—"

  "Women always fight dirty—"

  "Oh, for crying out loud." Tanya cut them both off in disgust. "You'd think it was a secret that could topple your whole country." And then she tossed out a challenge. "Or is it something Stefan is ashamed of?"

  "Ashamed?" Lazar stood up to lean across the table so she couldn't mistake how angry she'd made him. "Stefan risked his life to save another's. There was no shame in that, your Highness."

  "So why couldn't you just say so?" Tanya re­torted, annoyed with herself now for pushing them. "It sounds like he was a hero."

  "Tell her, Serge," Lazar said as he sat back down. "Maybe she'll be wise enough not to mention it again—at least not to him."

  Serge began grudgingly, but soon he was merely relating the incident. "He was heroic, or foolhardy—­depending on how you look at it. But he was only twenty-one that year, with no important duties weigh­ing on him yet, no worries other than his studies, which, unlike for some of us, were incredibly easy for him, and his every wish granted—"

  "Stick to the story," Lazar complained. "She doesn't have to know how wonderful his life was up to that point, when her own life has been so de­prived. "

  Tanya blinked in surprise. Serge flushed with embarrassment. But she suddenly remembered Stefan's impassioned speech about what she'd suffered through fate when she was supposed to have been reared gently, with a fortune at her disposal. He'd been angry for her, not at her, though she hadn't seen it that way at the time. Did these two think she was resentful, perhaps, for no
t having had the privileged life that her birth should have guaranteed?

  She hadn't even thought about it, but it was hard to feel resentment for lacking something she'd never expected to have in the first place. If she resented anything, it was how easily they all assumed she was tarnished goods just because of where she'd been raised, when one of the major concerns of her life, every day for the past eight years, had been how to stay out of men's beds.

  "I'm sorry, your Highness," Serge told her with touching sincerity.

  The man was apologizing for the wrong thing as far as she was concerned. But she would just get angry if she tried pointing that out to him.

  "Don't be absurd," she said instead. "Stefan doesn't strike me as a man who feels very privileged right now, so what do I have to be envious about? The fact that he isn't allowed to choose his own wife?"

  "There is no one else he wants to marry," Serge assured her, then added, "Not anymore."

  "Serge!" Lazar admonished incredulously.

  Tanya was amused by his objection. "What, am I supposed to be shocked that he wanted to marry someone else? He's thirty years old or thereabouts, isn't he? I'd be amazed if he hadn't wanted to get married at least once by now."

  "I'm no older than he is, and I've never wanted to get married," Lazar said.

  "Nor have I," Serge put in.

  "But he did, and my oh my, that must have really set a fire under the royal temper when he was re­minded he already had a betrothed. Is that about the way it went?"

  Lazar nodded reluctantly. "But he found out he was better off without her. She was nothing but a..."

  The fact that his face suffused with color told Tanya she didn't have to ask what the woman was. "I see. Another whore," she said evenly as she stood up, then with more heat, "Get out, both of you."

  "Now, Princess, I wasn't comparing—"

  "Like hell you weren't, or you wouldn't have stopped and turned ten shades of red! And to think I thought you two, at least, could contain your con­tempt. "

  "If the word is so objectionable to you, Princess Tatiana," Vasili said from the open doorway, his voice expressly dispassionate, "then you should have found some means of preserving your virtue."

  She stared at him furiously for a moment until she realized he was actually scolding her for becoming upset over what they all considered a fact set in gold and minted. And he was right, of course. Until she denied the charges, she had no business getting angry over their allusions to them. Sasha had told her the same thing. And if she looked at it from their point of view, her offended sensibilities must seem very hypocritical.

  The trouble was, it was hard to make her feelings be logical or tolerant. She supposed she was hoping the men would judge her by her behavior since they'd known her, not by their assumptions, but she was forgetting Vasili's first encounter with her, when he'd found her sitting on Stefan's lap. And she doubted Stefan had ever bothered to tell him that he had put her there. She was also forgetting the things she had said in her anger, lies to get back at them, but which they took as the literal truth.

  But even knowing all that, accepting it, being ashamed for her part in it, she still couldn't exonerate them, not all of them. Lazar had blundered into of­fending her. Vasili did it deliberately every time.

  So she sat back down and said curtly, "You're not welcome in here. They are, but you aren't. "

  Typically, he completely ignored her statement and sauntered further into the room. "We have been ordered to keep you company, occupied, and amused. I see we are doing splendidly well in the matter of amusement, but I doubt Stefan will appre­ciate the topic under discussion."

  "She asked about Stefan's scars," Lazar ex­plained, his voice uneasy. "Were we supposed to let her broach the subject with him?"

  "Morbid curiosity doesn't deserve to be ap­peased," Vasili replied, and for once, he got angry. His amber eyes were glowing nearly as bright as Stefan's could when they came back to light on Tanya. "Was it too much to hope you might overlook a few minor flaws? You women are all alike, con­cerned only with appearance. You never look beneath the surface to what is inside a man, do you?"

  She stared at him incredulously, unable to believe she was actually being accused of this, too. "Now there you happen to be very wrong. With you, Vasili, all I see is what's beneath the surface." She didn't elaborate. She just gave him a look so full of disgust, he couldn't help but understand her meaning per­fectly.

  His smile was so brittle, it should have cracked. "So you want to cross swords with me, Princess? I'd have you in tears in a matter of minutes."

  "I don't doubt it. That is your specialty, isn't it, belittling anything you deem unworthy? And, of course, I am beneath your contempt, a whore who must be constantly reminded that she is a whore, because I'm so dense I somehow keep forgetting it. But tell me something, Vasili, just out of morbid curiosity. What would you do if you found out you had misjudged me, that I'd learned at a young age how despicable men could be, and so I wanted no part of them, not even to better my life with a few extra coins?"

  "Is this merely a supposition, Princess, or are you saying you had no choice in the matter, that you were forced to lead such a life?"

  She wasn't sure what had prompted that question from Lazar, curiosity or indignation on her behalf, but she wished he could have contained it a little longer, until she'd had her answer from Vasili. The peacock was merely looking scornfully dubious. And how the devil had they drawn this new conclusion from what she'd said?

  "Forced? I didn't wear that knife on my hip for decoration, Lazar," she reminded him. "Any man who tried to force himself on me ended up losing a lot of blood for his trouble." Except for Stefan, but since he'd never managed to finish what he started, he didn't count. "Now how about an answer, Vasili? Just use your imagination and picture me as chaste as the day I was born. What would you do?"

  Vasili refused to cooperate. "I'm afraid my imag­ination is not that—"

  "Never mind," she interrupted, losing her pa­tience and temper. "I know what you would do. Nothing—except maybe find something else to con­demn me for."

  "Your opinion of me has sunk rather low, Prin­cess," he said with some surprise.

  "I assure you it didn't have far to sink."

  He looked mildly annoyed. "Very well, we will play your silly game. If you are found to be virginal, Stefan will be furious because you never once pro­claimed your innocence. I would have apologized profusely, probably on my knees, but Stefan will insist on a grander gesture to atone for us all, myself being the likely offering."

  He wasn't being the least bit serious, so neither was she. "Your head?"

  "My tongue, delivered personally. "

  "And of course you do everything he asks?"

  "Certainly."

  "Then start hoping he doesn't ask, Vasili. For that alone I'd be willing to give up my virginity."

  "You better hope you don't have any to give up, Princess, because when I said Stefan will be furious, I meant with you. If you're going to turn into a virgin on your wedding night, miraculously, you damn well better make sure Stefan isn't surprised by it."

  That had come out so seriously, it sent a chill up Tanya's spine. But all she replied was, "I see you have a splendid imagination after all, Vasili."

  Chapter 32

  It wasn't until nearly the end of that long voyage that Tanya remembered to ask again about Stefan's scars. She was on the deck with Vasili and Serge this time, and the men were explaining that there was no easy way to reach Cardinia from the sea. It was situated at more or less an equal distance from the Adriatic Sea in the south, the Black Sea in the east, and the Baltic Sea in the north. The only reason they had sailed north was the possibility of being delayed by pirates in the Mediterranean or by the capricious Ottomans, who controlled the entrance to the Black Sea.

  It made no difference to Tanya, who didn't know enough about Europe, anyway, to care which route they took. She had already been told that once they docked in Danzig har
bor on the Prussian coast, it would still take another two or three weeks, depending on the weather, to reach Cardinia by land. The only thing she might have preferred was the warmer climate of the southern seas, for the end of October in the North Sea, particularly when they rounded Denmark, was colder than anything she was used to. Seeing the coasts of France and the Netherlands had been interesting, though, especially when the ship stopped to take on supplies and she got a much closer look at the foreign ports. The smooth, sandy beaches along the Prussian coastline were almost boring in comparison. But the conversation wasn't. Of course, it never was with these companions of hers. She was either learning something about where she was going, being taught, clumsily at best, court etiquette by two counts and a baron who didn't give a damn about court etiquette themselves, or putting up with Vasili's diabolical wit—or steering the topic to Stefan, which she did more often than she realized.

  When she broached the subject of Stefan's scars now, Vasili didn't object. He merely watched Tanya carefully, which should have warned her she wouldn't like what she was going to hear. And Serge didn't elaborate this time either.

  Briefly, he recounted, "The royal family was traveling to their hunting lodge in the north woods, where they spent several weeks every year—­Sandor, Stefan, his younger brother, Peter, and only about fifteen attendants. It was spring, the winter had been especially harsh that year, and there were reports of villagers being attacked by wolves in the area they were passing. Peter was warned not to venture from the camp alone, but at ten years of age, he rarely did as he was told. Stefan heard his screams and reached him first."

  "That's enough," Tanya whispered, but with the wind on the deck, Serge didn't hear her.