Princess Annie (11 page)

Rafael, wearing a white shirt and dark breeches, nodded an acknowledgment but did not speak. Annie willed herself to look away, but she found that she could only stand there, aching with passion and with pride, remembering that she’d made a fool of herself for this man only the day before. And wanting with all her heart to do the same thing over again.

The prince remained where he was, without speaking, and Annie couldn’t guess who was more undone by his presence—herself or Miss Augusta Rendennon. Alternately murmuring and twittering, the formidable dressmaker bungled her way through the rest of the fitting. She finally undraped the glimmering fabric and left Annie standing in the middle of the floor in her chemise.

One of the maids had the presence of mind to hand Annie her gown, and she fairly leaped into it, being careful not to raise her eyes to the place Rafael had occupied on the balcony, telling herself that he would certainly have gone by now. As prince of Bavia, he surely could not waste his time standing about on balconies, watching dress fittings.

Annie had no more reached this comforting conclusion when she heard the sound of boot heels clicking on a stone staircase. In a sidelong glance, she saw Rafael crossing the chamber floor, his expression pensive.

Still only half-dressed, Annie clutched the bodice of her gown closed and stared stupidly as he approached. He came to a graceful stop a few feet in front of her.

“What are you doing?” he demanded, in a distracted undertone.

Annie felt accused somehow, as if she’d been caught pilfering in the counting house, and her irritation was profound. Did Rafael think she’d
enjoyed
standing still as a statue, for upward of an hour, while Miss Augusta Rendennon pricked her with pins and muttered comments?

She executed a brief and slightly mocking curtsey, her eyes flashing with indignation. “It seems that Phaedra had better things to do this morning than being fitted for her wedding gown,” she said. She swallowed as some of her bravado deserted her.

The sudden flash of his smile startled Annie, and she blinked, as dazzled as if she’d glimpsed the center of the sun. By the time she could see clearly again, Rafael’s face had turned solemn.

“There is to be a ball this Saturday evening,” he said, as though the upcoming event were a funeral instead of a celebration. “At the palace in Morovia. Both you and Phaedra will be wanting proper gowns, I suppose.”

Annie was buttoning her dress, a spring green garment of soft, whispery cotton. She couldn’t help smiling at the prospect of a visit to the royal palace and a gala in the bargain. “Phaedra’s engagement ball—how wonderful!”

Rafael sighed. “Yes. Wonderful,” he said glumly.

She tilted her head to one side, watching him with curiosity. “You don’t want to go?”

“It isn’t that,” he replied, his gaze leaving Annie’s face to scan the balconies and the shadowy heights of the ceiling. “Morovia is a dangerous place, for members of the St. James family, at any rate. And to the people of Bavia, the palace symbolizes seven hundred years of excess and abuse.” When Rafael met her eyes again, he seemed to regret what he’d confided. “Don’t worry, Annie. We’ll all be perfectly safe—Barrett and his men will see to that.”

Before Annie could assure him that she wasn’t at all fearful, for herself at least, he raised one hand and brushed the backs of his fingers lightly over her cheek. His mouth curved into a brief and somehow sorrowful smile, and then, in a low voice, he spoke again.

“I’m sorry about yesterday, love.”

Annie averted her eyes. She trembled with the effort of keeping herself from shouting that she didn’t want him to be sorry, that she had always loved him and always would, and her heart was pounding so hard that she was certain he would hear it. She said nothing, not daring to speak.

Rafael cupped his hand under her chin and made her look at him. “Somewhere on this weary earth,” he said quietly, his pewter eyes full of mirth and mourning, “there walks a man so fortunate that even the angels must envy him. One day soon, he will put a golden band on your finger, Annie Trevarren, and take you to his bed with all the blessings of heaven. When you give yourself up to his love, my sweet, nothing in the past will matter any longer.”

Annie was about to blurt out that her time alone with him, in the cottage by the lake, would always matter, that there would be no other man for her, ever, when she heard slow, mocking applause from the balcony.

Both Annie and Rafael looked up at the same moment and saw Lucian standing high above their heads, clapping.

He smiled and let his hands fall to his sides.

“An excellent performance, Brother,” he said. “Very poetic, with just the right touch of drama.”

Annie shifted her gaze back to Rafael’s face, just in time to see him clench his jaw.

“Enough,” Rafael said simply and quietly. Still, the word carried to the balcony and struck Lucian with visible impact, like a stone from a slingshot.

Lucian recovered in an instant. His smile returned, at once chilling and cordial, and he leaned against the balcony railing with the same easy grace Rafael had shown earlier. “So the rumors are true,” he said, with acidic cheer. “You’ve had your way with yet another lovely wayfarer. And now you’re telling her the tragic truth—that nothing can come of the episode, however pleasurable it was, because you are fated to die a grand and noble death. Brilliant, Rafael. Nothing less than brilliant.”

“Lucian,” Rafael said hoarsely. “I’m warning you. Stop this, now.”

Undaunted, the younger brother descended the same stairway Rafael had used and entered the great chamber. “Did you believe him, beautiful Annie?” he asked in a soft, sly voice. “If so, you mustn’t berate yourself. You certainly aren’t the first.”

Rafael did not immediately respond, and yet the room seemed to pulse with tension and fury. Looking on, Annie felt genuine fear, as well as outrage toward Lucian, for she recognized violence in the prince and knew that he could barely restrain it.

Lucian went recklessly on, ignoring his brother, concentrating on Annie. “You must be more discreet in the future, Miss Trevarren,” he said, “or at least give up the pretense of being a lady.”

It was then that Rafael sprung, his hands closing around Lucian’s throat.

Annie screamed, certain that there would be a murder, and Lucian freed himself, temporarily, by flinging his arms upward and breaking Rafael’s hold. Only an instant later, however, Rafael landed a punch in the middle of Lucian’s stomach, driving the breath from his lungs in an audible rush.

Rafael hurled Lucian down and straddled him, once again pressing his thumbs deep into his brother’s windpipe. Lucian, his eyes bright with angry disbelief and humiliation, was turning purple for lack of air. Nevertheless, his hatred was palpable.

Annie made an effort to pull Rafael off, only to be pushed away with such force that she nearly fell. God only knew what would have happened if Edmund Barrett hadn’t dashed into the room just then, followed by two of his men. Breaking Rafael’s hold on Lucian, Barrett dragged him back off of his brother.

Rafael struggled, strong as a panther, but Barrett, gripping the prince’s arms from behind, had gained the advantage. Barrett’s men hoisted Lucian to his feet and, at a nod from their captain, one of them led him, stumbling, from the chamber. Rafael freed himself with a violent shrug, but did not pursue his retreating brother.

“Good God, Rafael,” Barrett growled, having apparently forgotten, as the prince had, that Annie was there, “isn’t it enough that you insist on staying in Bavia until the rebels run you to the ground and kill you? Are you so bent on sacrificing yourself that you’ll do murder under your own roof, just so you can hang for it?”

Rafael muttered something, and his gaze skimmed over Annie and then came back to her face. In that instant, she saw in his eyes the depths of his suffering, and the sight nearly brought her to her knees.

He was in agony.

“Annie,” he whispered. The name sounded ragged, broken.

She took a step toward him and stopped. Rafael was determined to die. She covered her mouth with one hand, to stifle a sob, and fled. In the doorway, she nearly collided with none other than Miss Felicia Covington.

Miss Covington’s pretty forehead was crumpled into a concerned frown, and her dark eyes were full of kindly concern. Up close, she was as beautiful as a Botticelli angel and apparently as compassionate. She gripped Annie’s shoulders for a moment, in a distracted effort to steady her, before proceeding into the chamber.

Annie lingered in the shadows just beyond the threshold, wanting to be elsewhere and yet too stricken to move.

“Rafael,” Miss Covington cried, hurrying over to the prince and taking his upper arms into her hands. “What did you do to Lucian?”

Rafael moved to twist free of her, but she held on in a way only an intimate friend would dare to do. “It’s nothing,” he spat. “Leave me alone, Felicia. Please.”

She smoothed his hair and, oddly, the gentle gesture tore at Annie’s heart, causing her to shrink deeper into the shadows and hold her breath while she struggled for self-control.

Felicia nodded to Barrett, who reluctantly left the room, passing Annie without seeing her. “Why, Rafael?” Miss Covington whispered, slipping her arm around his lean waist. “Why do you hate Lucian so much? He is your half brother.”

Rafael sighed and shoved a hand through his hair. Although some of his fury had dissipated, Annie could see that there was still tension coiled within him. “I don’t hate Lucian,” he responded. “He hates me. And sometimes I share his opinion.”

Felicia smiled up at Rafael, smoothed his tousled hair and stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. Annie, still looking on, wanted to despise the woman, but she found it impossible.

“Was it your poor brother you wanted to kill,” Felicia asked gently, “or was it yourself?”

Rafael sighed again, and slipped his arm around Felicia’s slender waist. Miss Rendennon would never call
her
fleshy, Annie thought, in despair, slipping behind a suit of armor as the two of them passed by.

“I’m ten kinds of a bastard,” Rafael confided.

Annie watched through tears of envy and despair as Felicia linked her arm with Rafael’s and smiled up at him.

“And why is that, Your Highness?” she teased.

Even though they were retreating rapidly along the passageway, Annie heard Rafael’s reply with brutal clarity. “Lucian accused me of using someone,” he said. “And he was right.”

The admission struck Annie with all the force of a battle-ax. She sagged against the wall, unseen, feeling the cold stone at her back, and breathed deeply until the worst of the pain had passed. When she’d recovered a little, and was certain Rafael and Felicia were in another part of the keep, she made her way back to her room.

There, she splashed her face with tepid water, took her hair down from its pins, brushed it fiercely, and then put it up again. After that, she got her writing box and set out for the gardens. She meant to draft a letter to her mother and father in Nice and tell them to expect her soon. She could not stay in Bavia; she realized that now. It would be unbearable to remain, even for something as important as Phaedra’s wedding, knowing that Rafael pitied her, that he had indeed used her.

She was striding resolutely through the great hall when it struck her that she was hungry, in spite of all that had happened that awful morning. She would start trembling soon, and develop a headache as well, if she didn’t take the trouble to feed herself.

Annie headed for the kitchen, only to find Lucian there, having his aristocratic forehead bathed in cool water by a very sympathetic maid. He spotted Annie before she could retreat, and then it was too late to flee for her pride was not going to allow her to be driven off.

She passed him, with a cool nod, and swept into the pantry, where she helped herself to some brown bread, an apple and a portion of cheese. When she came out, balancing these items along with her writing box, Lucian had dismissed the maid and stood waiting, blocking her way to the door.

Looking closely at his fine-boned, elegant face, Annie had a flash of insight. Lucian would never be anything but a caricature of his older brother, she realized, and she felt a stab of pity for him.

“Let me pass,” she said, raising her chin. “I have nothing to say to you.”

“But I have something to say to you,” Lucian responded smoothly, folding his arms. In spite of the thrashing he’d taken from Rafael, he was actually smiling. “I didn’t mean to insult you this morning. I was attempting, in fact, to protect your virtue.”

The objects Annie was holding shifted, and she struggled, for a few moments, to keep from dropping them. Then she met Lucian’s gaze directly. “I can do without your particular sort of chivalry, Mr. St. James,” she said, in even tones. “Furthermore, I am quite capable of taking care of myself.”

He arched one eyebrow. “The way you did in the cottage the other day?” he countered.

Annie felt heat surge into her face, and in that instant she hated Lucian, truly hated him. She’d had quite enough humiliation since arriving in Bavia without his reminders that everyone in the keep knew about her afternoon of indiscretion.

“You are a gossip, Lucian,” she said. “Among other things. You need something constructive to keep yourself occupied.”

He grinned, but there was a tightness to his mouth that frightened her just a little. “It is so refreshing,” he said, ignoring her question, “that you don’t bother to deny what happened between you and Rafael. I warned you about him, Annie. Why didn’t you listen?”

She lifted her chin. “I will not discuss this with you. Let me pass.”

He stepped aside, but his reply made her stop after only a few steps. “Rafael will seduce you again. Despite his pretty apologies, his talk of his own doom and his noble predictions of another lover awaiting you beyond some future sunrise, he will make you his mistress, Annie. He’ll set you up in a grand house in Paris or London or Rome or Madrid, and shower you with jewels and gowns and gifts, none of which will shine half so brightly as the things he’ll say to you, late at night, after he’s made love to you. And once you’ve given him what he wants—a sturdy, strapping son with fresh, bold American blood in his veins—he’ll take your child to raise as he wishes and kick you aside like some piece of filth he’s stumbled across in the street.”