Royal 02 - Royal Passion (33 page)

"Your hero looks like you."

"Well?” the Italian inquired, preening as he smoothed his thick mustache.

Trude tipped her head toward the count, speaking to Mara.

"He thinks he is the Eros of the nineteenth century."

He leered at her. “You think I am not?"

The blond amazon actually grinned at him. “Eros Estes."

Estes shook his head, his dark gaze mournful as he looked at Mara. “She doesn't understand literature. She thinks it's a joke. I had to fall madly in love with a big, blond amazon who laughs at me in her ignorance."

Estes got to his feet and wandered away with his head hanging. Trude chuckled. “He is a funny one. This love he has for me is the biggest joke, I think. At least—isn't it?"

It was the gypsy, Luca, who was the hardest to know. He seemed to fit no pattern. He was of the cadre and dressed in their uniform, but it always looked different on him, more rakish, less militarily correct though it was difficult to say just how the impression was gained. He performed the maneuvers expected, trained for strength and agility and quickness of reflexes in the various galleries and courts of the house as assiduously as any, and yet there was in his movements a hint of the unpredictable.

Something else not readily evident was why he had wished to join the cadre. The reason was not loyalty to a man. He respected Roderic and followed his orders without complaint, but there was nothing of devotion in his manner. It was not to belong to a company of his fellows. He mixed with them, laughed with them, drank with them on an equal footing, but he often slipped away by himself. It was not the military trappings, for though he was proud of his uniform and accouterments, he wore them only when occasion demanded. When it did not, he put on his gypsy clothes and was content. Usually he slept in one of the bedchambers occupied by the men of the cadre, but sometimes he still left the house to sleep in the courtyard, in the open.

Mara sometimes thought that though he had been drawn by many things, it was Juliana who held him. He leaped to be the first to perform a service for the princess and was always ready to act as her escort. Often, when she was not looking, he watched her, and once Mara had seen him pick up a glove the girl had dropped and slip it into his pocket. But he made no excuse to be with her and, when in her company, had little to say. He was an enigma, darkly handsome, a little wild, but steadfast and protective.

It was Luca who invited the household to the gypsy encampment. The band was growing restless with the inactivity of the restraint Roderic had imposed upon them. They had heard that the
boyar
was in Paris, and they wished to have their master, and also his son, among them once more. There would be feasting and music and singing, and they would dance the night away. Would they come?

They smelled the roasting pork and poultry before they reached the caravan, the rich aromas mingling with the tang of woodsmoke and the scents of hay and horses. The caravans stood in a circle, acting as a break against the cold, blustery wind. Inside the ring, cook fires burned bright red with coals, while another fire for warmth and light leaped high with orange tongues of flame licking toward the dark sky. Rugs were piled around the edges, and upon them men and women lounged. Children were rolled in the smaller rugs for warmth, or else raced here and there, playing with the dogs that ran in packs. Music throbbed, an undercurrent to the chatter and laughter and high-pitched yelling of children that rose inside the enclosure.

The dogs discovered their arrival first and hurtled down upon them, furiously barking. Roderic and Luca quieted them with a harsh command, but could not subdue the shouts and screams of welcome as the presence of Rolfe, the
boyar
, hereditary ruler, was discovered. The gypsies crowded around, trying to touch him. He accepted their homage with every sign of pleasure and enjoyment, slapping the men on the back and kissing the women who flung themselves into his arms.

With scant ceremony but much affection, he was led to the place of honor on the richest of the rugs before the fire. Roderic was placed at his right and Mara was pressed down beside the prince. The man who led the band in Roderic's absence, a rough fellow with a craggy face and straight black hair covered by a kerchief, was seated on the
boyar
's left so that they might consult together. Juliana was welcomed and seated beyond the gypsy leader. Luca took the place beside her. Michael procured a chair from a nearby caravan for Grandmère Helene, setting it down next to Mara and dropping down beside it; the others found seats where they could.

Wine was poured and handed around. A mandolin was put into Roderic's hands. The music of gypsy violins began softly, rising into the night. Wild and sweet, it spoke of life and love and freedom of the spirit. Roderic picked up the counterpoint, the notes falling mellow and pure from his fingers.

Mara had thought to be diverted, perhaps amused. She found instead that she was content. Above her was the open sky with its tiny pinpricks of stars. The night and the winter wind were held at bay by the caravans and the roaring fire. The wine was raw and new but good, warming her inside. The music was soothing and, at the same time, exciting in an unexpected fashion. But it was the gypsies themselves who affected her most. They might be curious, but they did not intrude. They accepted her as she was, without question, without judgment. She was there. It was enough.

Around her, the others were also leaning back, smiling, drinking. It was only as the tension slipped away that she realized how tightly strung they all had been. It was as if beneath the careful masks they displayed they were in grim anticipation of some further cataclysm. For tonight they could relax, could believe as the gypsies did that life was life, and no matter how it was lived, it was far better than death. It was this that Roderic had tried to tell her that night he had found her in the Seine. His words had hardly registered then in her distress, but now they echoed clearly in her mind.

Listen carefully,
ma chère,
and heed me well: There is no fate worse than death...

There had been something more, but she could not quite bring it to mind. No matter. The words held a certain power, and she cherished them.

Into their circle toddled a small girl not much more than a year old. Her hair grew in soft, feathery, dark curls over her head, and her eyes were deep black and laughing. Behind her came an older girl of five or six scolding like a mother as she tried to head the child off.

The little girl, hardly more than a baby, stumbled on the edge of the piled rugs, falling toward the fire. Roderic thrust out a hand to catch her, clutching a handful of skirt by which he swept her, one-handed, into the curve of his arm. He put his mandolin aside and tossed the child up so that her startled whimper turned into a radiant chortle of joy.

"A tender morsel, but too precious for roasting,” Roderic said.

The baby grabbed at his hair, tangling sticky fingers in its gold strands while placing a very wet kiss on his nose. He discovered the damp condition of the gown he held and heaved a resigned sigh.

"Drooling and encroaching, incontinent and inconveniently affectionate. It's a mystery how the human race has survived."

Mara, watching him patiently disentangle the small hands and cuddle the child, nuzzling her tender neck, felt a foolish smile curve her mouth at this unexpected insight into the prince of Ruthenia. Why she should be happy or surprised, she could not tell. They had spoken of babies, she and Roderic, on the night they met, but there had been little to indicate that he liked them. Or was good with them.

When it was ready, the food was delicious, seasoned with herbs and garlic, the fat crisp, brown and crackling, the meat succulently tender. The bread, baked in the coals, was crunchy and tasted faintly of smoke, a perfect accompaniment. It was all washed down with more wine, after which they, at least those who were guests, wiped their greasy fingers on rough toweling that had been dipped in water scented with vetiver.

They were still eating when a troop of horsemen approached. Silence fell as the uniforms they wore were identified. It was the gendarmes. The gypsy leader cast aside the turkey leg he held and rose to his feet. With Roderic, who was already standing, he walked to where the mounted police had stopped.

It was a matter of a stolen horse, or so ran the whisper around the caravan. The gendarmes wished to search for the animal and the thief. The gypsies had nothing to hide, of course they did not. Let the police enter. Give them food and drink. Play, dance, sing.

Roderic, as courteous as if in his own salon, directed the men to places on the rugs. Wine and roast pork were brought and put before them. The music rang out loud and gay. A young woman carrying a bright red scarf embroidered in gold ran from the edge of the circle and began to whirl, scarf flying, around the main fire. The cadence of the dance was picked up by the gypsies as they began to clap in time to it. The dancer's eyes gleamed and her smile flashed as she turned and stamped and undulated. The coins strung in a necklace about her neck clashed. Faster and faster she danced until with a crashing discord she flung herself down before the gendarmes and Roderic. There was a burst of applause that quickly died away as the music began once more. It was a slow and sensual melody in a minor key, and the movements of the dancer as she rose were smooth and controlled, timeless in their seductive power. She danced for the gendarmes, trailing her scarf across their faces and over their shoulders, but, most of all, she danced for Roderic.

The prince's smile remained polite, but there was appreciation in his eyes. Watching him, Mara felt her stomach knot inside her. She looked away. Demon sat begging at her feet, his eyes anxious. She handed him the pork rib she held and wiped her fingers, then picked up her cup and drank deep. The race of the wine in her blood was half pleasurable and half painful. Her contentment was gone. It was not hard to find the reason. She was jealous.

She had been forced to seduce a prince and had made the mistake of falling in love with him. It was a stupid thing to do, stupid and useless and humiliating. He was from a different world, a world of privilege and power and careful alliances. Even if they had met under normal circumstances, because of the slight family connection, it would have been unlikely that they could overcome the differences in their stations. After her betrayal of him and the scandal that she had brought upon them both, it was impossible. The best that she could hope for was to prevent him from learning how she felt and so salve her pride.

She looked away from Roderic and her gaze fell on Luca. The gypsy sat with his arm resting on the top of a drawn-up knee and his attention upon the face of Princess Juliana. The firelight flickered over his dark features, limning in orange-yellow gleams the naked emotions that hovered there. Because Mara felt the same longing that she saw reflected in the gypsy's eyes, she recognized it at once. The newest member of the cadre was in love with Roderic's sister.

The dance continued. Now a gypsy man signaled for slower music and began to move to its rhythm. With majestic sureness, he posed and strutted, circling the crowd gathered around. At last he chose a woman, beckoning, his smile enticing. She joined him, and together they glided, turning back to back with arms extended, whirling suddenly to be face to face, coming close, springing apart, holding perfectly to the heartbeat pulse of the music. With their hands on each other's hips and passion in their eyes, they moved in a ritual of suggestive courtship, advancing, retreating. The music quickened; faster they danced, and faster still. Until, abruptly, the man pulled his chosen woman into his arms and swept her through the crowd and into the darkness beyond.

The night progressed. The gendarmes, growing maudlin on strong wine, began to sing, and the gypsies joined in. They sang old peasant songs and the lyrics from the most popular operettas; arias from the operas of Donizetti and Bellini; and risque ditties from Left Bank cabarets. By the time they had run out of songs, the horse thief had been forgotten. In any case, so great was their feeling of comradeship that when the gypsies offered once more to let them search, the gendarmes declined with fervor. Shortly thereafter they rode away to make their report to their superior.

The children were put to bed. Grandmère Helene nodded off in her chair. Roderic took up his mandolin once more and began to play a soft and haunting tune. The violins picked it up, the sounds blending, rising, falling, passionately pleading, heart-stopping in its sweetness.

The music seemed to reach inside Mara, to touch the ache in the center of her chest. Driven by an urgent need to escape it, she drained the last of her wine and rose to her feet. She pushed away from the circle about Rolfe, skirting a cook fire and following the enclosing line of caravans. She came to an opening between them and eased through it. Beyond was windswept darkness, lit here and there by a scattering of fires where more gypsies were encamped. It was cold away from the fire. She drew her cloak around her, shivering.

From the caravan just beside her came the sweet smell of hay. Though it had solid sides and the same curved top as the others, it had no back. Wisps of hay, apparently fodder for the horses raised by the band, spilled onto the ground. It would make a soft seat and the caravan's walls would offer some protection from the wind.

She had been seated for no more than a few minutes when the music that had so disturbed her died away. The relief was intense. Allowing her muscles to relax, she leaned back upon the hay piled up behind her. She closed her eyes, willing herself not to think, trying to recapture some of the careless philosophy of the gypsies. Life is life. Each moment is a gift. Enjoy.

The bed of the caravan creaked at a shift of weight. The hay rustled. Mara opened her eyes to see the shape of a man outlined at the end of the caravan. With a smothered cry, she threw herself to one side, ready to slide past him.

"Don't be frightened. It's only me,” Roderic said.