The Eye of the Wolf (26 page)

The
servant squeezed the hand tighter, enjoying the fear in Dejeune’s eyes,
enjoying the power that came with being the right hand of the Wolf. “And, how,
pray-tell, did Doctor Knight find both the engraving on the stones at the
mountain peak and the stitching in the tapestry? Mind you, we have been looking
for that second marker, on the mountain top for three years.”

Dejeune
swallowed. His eyes darted from the Wolf’s eyes that glowed green in the
darkness to those of the servant who pinned him to his chair, making his
shrink. Normally, he was a tall, proud man who moved about the world with
purpose, but before his Master, whom he had sworn to protect and serve, he was
weak. “I believe she just stumbled upon the second marker. I was with her when
she discovered the first marker, but I explained it away. I was positive she
had bought the idea that it was a signature of the creator.”

The
Wolf growled from his darkened corner. A breeze ruffled Dejeune’s thick hair.
“You are a fool if you believed she would buy the signature of the tapestry’s
creator.” Dejeune froze as the Wolf’s breath was hot on his neck and the
servant melted back into the shadows. “You led her to the marker. You allowed
her to discover the other marker. What do you intend to do now?”

Dejeune
straightened in his seat and adjusted his tie with his sore fingers. His blood
ran cold. He knew what they were suggesting, but he also knew he was not
capable of it. He wasn’t capable of killing. He could forge historical
documents easily; in fact, he had. He could lie without batting an eye lash,
but killing was another thing entirely. He swallowed the lump in his throat.
“Sire, there is no need for that step, especially right now. The island is
swamped with the press because of King James’s death and the coronation of His
Royal Highness next week. The disappearance of an American, hired by the royal
family, would draw more attention than we can afford.” His mouth was dry. His
palms were sweating.

The
Wolf snarled. His green eyes pierced through the darkness. “You are correct.
That is something that we can’t afford, however, we also cannot afford for her
to interrupt our work.” The Wolf leaned into the light, the flickering of the
dying fire glinting off the blond in his hair. “It is your responsibility to
insure that she doesn’t interfere with our work. We will move forward as
planned.”

The
Wolf’s servant spoke from the shadows near the window where he had been
watching the lights in Mikayla’s house. They flickered off leaving the house
bathed in starlight. “And if she does interfere, my lord?”

The
Wolf leaned back into his chair. A flicker of a lighter wavered in the gloom. A
cigarette glowed to life. He exhaled a stream of sweet smelling smoke. The
smoke circled around Dejeune, making his head swim. “As I’ve said before, if
she interferes or moves away from her goal, we will dispose of the problem.”
White teeth shone through the blackness; chills froze Dejeune’s body as he
understood how deadly a game he was playing.

Dejeune
bowed his head in assent. “Yes, Sire.”

I
buried my father today. He was old for a man, in his sixties and well past his
prime. I do not mourn him. I do not know that I know how. He was not a kind
man. He was hard on myself and my sister, ruling us with an iron fist, when he
had time for us, which was rare. My youngest brother avoided my father’s notice
because he was still with his nurse, still in a nappy. I believe my father may
have hated William since my mother died during William’s birth. I can’t be
sure. As I said, he had little time for us.

          The
funeral was held in the cathedral outside of the walls of the Secluded City. It
was built by workers brought from Greece and Italy. It is beautiful and
frightening as it stands, shadowing the rest of the world. The priest prayed
for my father and his soul in heaven. Then, the priest prayed for me as I will
assume the throne now that he is gone. I have gone from being the Dauphin,
Prince Malachi, to King Malachi in a matter of minutes, just long enough for my
father to look me in the eye and make me promise to rule well. The streets were
lined with the citizens of this island as we walked along the funeral route,
bearing my father, the King, through the streets one last time before he went
to his final resting place. All eyes were dry as we moved past, yet when my
grandfather passed, all eyes were tearful. I wonder about the difference. I
wonder at the hard looks the people gave me as I followed the coffin through
the streets. Their eyes questioned me. I wonder if they were asking themselves,
“Is the Dauphin like his father? Will he rule us with an iron fist also? Will
he burn our homes and work our children to the bone so that he might live in
that palace upon the cliffs?”

          I
will admit only here that I feared for my life. The people seemed to shout
hatred even though not a word slipped from their lips. Is it perhaps the hatred
of the people that my father feared so much? My father was a harsh ruler; I
will not defend him. I will not be him either.

          My
grandmother came to me today as I stood on the parapets where my dear
grandfather is rumored among the simple people to walk at night. She held me
close and promised to help guide me towards peace in this land. She promised to
be at my side when I should need her. She is a good woman. I wonder how she
could have born the harsh ruler that my father turned out to be in her womb.

          Two
days hence I shall be crowned the King of Amor, and I shall take my rightful
place as sovereign. I confess, I do not want it. I do not want the burden that
comes with being king. I do not want to fear my subjects. I do not want to live
behind high, stone walls designed to keep me separate from my people. I want to
live among the people and celebrate their lives and their triumphs. I want to
mourn their sorrows. I have no wish to be king, yet I know that duty awaits me.
Destiny controls me.

Mikayla
looked up from the diary entry. Her heart was heavy with the sadness that
surrounded King Malachi as he made that transition from prince to king, from
child to man. There was grief in his words, grief she would not have expected.
She had believed always that men born into privilege of a royal family were
happy to take the throne. It had never occurred to her that a man would wish to
not be king, to not rule with ultimate power. Yet, here in his own words,
Malachi, the greatest king of Amor, said he didn’t want it. It was interesting
and heart-breaking at the same time.

The
Mediterranean breeze tossed her curls around her head in a mad dance as the sun
filtered through her hair, turning it golden and then burnished red. Her feet
were bare, as were her legs except for the sorry excuse for shorts she wore,
worn thread-bare from years of wear. Her shoulders gleamed with the faint hint
of summer tan brought out by the spring sun. The spaghetti strap from her tank
top slid seductively down one shoulder only to be yanked impatiently back into
place. A glass of sun-tea sat on the wooden deck table, sweating in the sun and
leaving a wet ring on the redwood. A faint line of sweat trickled down
Mikayla’s neck to get lost in her shirt.

Will
watched from the corner of the deck, hidden by a trellis of ripe,
sweet-smelling flowers. The sea was a deep blue with crashing waves and the
sand swirled in a seductive dance on the beach beyond. It was a perfect day for
a sail through the majestic waters of the Mediterranean. He could see the white
sails of boats bobbing and skimming, dancing across the water. If things had
been different, if it had been just a few days before, he would have kidnapped
Mikayla from her spot and taken her sailing on his own boat, but he knew there
would be no sailing, there would be no laughter. His heart ached with the
acknowledgment of that loss.

Will
looked down at the perfectly formed crimson rose in his hand. Its petals were
just starting to burst forth into full bloom. A thorn stabbed him in the thumb
and he winced from the sharp pain. Blood the same color of the rose bloomed on
his thumb forcing him to suck at the wound. He supposed it served him right. He
had been less than honest with her, working with her for his own personal,
greedy purposes only to find himself falling in love with the prim historian
whose smile lighted the room.

He
had believed all along that Mikayla’s presence was destiny. She was supposed to
help him achieve his goal of finding the Eye of the Wolf. She was supposed to
be a tool to help him beat the clock. She was talented and intelligent enough
to accomplish his own personal goal, but he hadn’t expected her to be sweet,
kind, and loving. He hadn’t expected that her disappointment would wound him so
deeply.

Mostly,
he hadn’t expected to find himself gasping for air when he felt himself fall.
He had gone an entire lifetime without falling in love with one single woman
whom he had been involved with. There had been beautiful, intelligent women
before who had only been diversions. Why was it then, that this prickly,
contrary woman had captured his heart. Why was it then, that now when he knew
there was a world separating them, he wished to pour out his heart and tell her
of the love he felt inside, that burned, practically injuring him with its
heat.

He
sighed deeply. He was in love with her. He knew he was. He also knew he had to
apologize to her and beg for her forgiveness. He also knew he had to tell her
how he felt and the original purpose of his presence. The time for honesty had
arrived.

“If
you’re going to just stand there spying on me, you might as well get some sun
tea and have a seat so you aren’t lurking about.” Mikayla’s voice was clipped
and cut through to Will’s heart. She looked at him behind dark sun glasses that
hid her eyes, hid her emotions. Her mouth was set, giving it that prim
schoolteacher look that he adored, but the eye brows were lifted in annoyance.

Will
wanted to smile, make a joke, kiss that prim look off of her face, but he knew
that would get him nowhere so instead he walked into the kitchen, grabbed a
glass of sun tea, and settled into the other chair on the deck. He looked
across the table at her but her face was directed to the ocean.

Mikayla
didn’t look at him; she couldn’t. She feared that if she did, if she looked into
those deep, beautiful eyes, at that dazzling, shy smile she would get lost. She
would give in to her heart, which cried out for him. She had known he was
there, standing in the shadows, watching her almost as soon as he walked up.
She hadn’t needed to see him or smell him. She just knew he was there. She
hadn’t even been expecting him. After all, he had gotten from her what it was
he had wanted. She had given the best part of herself to him knowing nothing of
him except for his smile. Wasn’t that all that he had wanted. One mindless
night that had left her weak and powerless, one night where she had surrendered
to her most intimate of desires, desires she hadn’t known existed until she had
met him. Now that the moment of passion had passed, there would be no more, she
knew it. Somewhere, there was a princess or a duchess or an empress waiting for
him to love.

She
wanted him to go away and leave her in peace so she could finish what she had
been assigned to do and go home. Home. A place of comfort. A place without
romance in the very air. A place where princes didn’t just walk into your life
with stormy gray eyes that matched the sea right after a storm and smiles that
melted a heart into believing that smile existed solely for her.

Mikayla
kept her eyes carefully concealed behind the glasses. She was afraid that if
she took them off and looked at him, he would see that he had hurt her. She
didn’t want to give him that power. He had taken away his right to have power
over her when he had lied to her. She had given him something that was
precious. Why had she believed that he would be any different than the other
men who had been in her life? Why had she believed that he would find her
intoxicating like men in romance novels were supposed to? Why had she believed
that he could love her as deeply as she knew she loved him?

Mikayla
had believed him when he had said she was beautiful. She had believed him when
he said she wasn’t cold or aloof. She had believed him when he stoked that fire
within her. Now, she just felt cold, cold to her very core.

Finally,
she turned her head to look at him. He sat across from her in his white
pin-point oxford with the sleeves rolled to the elbows showing off the Rolex
diving watch he wore everywhere. His khaki shorts were rumpled, as if he had
been climbing or exploring before arriving on her doorstep. His sandy hair blew
absently in the breeze, not controlled, free. As always, he was adorable, but
she couldn’t give in to that tug of desire that was within her. She didn’t remove
her sunglasses, preferring to keep that barrier between them. There was sorrow
within her that she couldn’t allow him to see. “What do you want, Your Royal
Highness?” Her voice was sharp and wounded him. “Forgive me if I don’t bow or
curtsy or whatever it is I’m supposed to do, but I think we’re beyond that
point now.”

Will
bowed his head. Her voice was cold, like the kind of cold that rolls in during
the night, leaving frost and killing all of the plants that had bloomed in
early spring. He gathered his thoughts and carefully laid the rose on the table
between them, just as he had done that first time, knowing it was a futile
gesture.