More cheers.
“Does your appearance always create such a sensation?”
“Last night’s incident at the ball signals the beginning of the revolution. The de Guignards simply don’t realize it yet.” He offered the goblet. “Drink.”
She took a sip.
It was wine— warm, red, and hearty.
She handed the goblet back, only to see him turn it and, smiling at her over the rim, sip from exactly the same spot she had.
Her breath caught.
The great hall quieted. Then a buzz started, and Victoria recognized the various notes: excitement, dismay, fascination.
“I promise you,” he said, “there’ll be no comments about our sleeping arrangements.”
It was at times like these when she saw the king and artful diplomat he would become.
Raul held up his hand.
Again the hall quieted.
“This is my guest, Miss Victoria Cardiff from England.”
He waited while the men bowed, the women curtsied.
“She is not yet fluent in our language, and I would take it as a favor to me if you would speak to her in English.”
He turned to Victoria and in a bitter voice he said, “Everyone in Moricadia understands a little English, French, and Spanish, and almost all of them speak a little, also.
Language is necessary for a Moricadian to have a chance to work at one of the hotels— and that is the only way to make enough money to live without starving.”
“I find that, for those in service, a grasp of languages is an unassailable advantage.” Her answer included more than a little snap to it.
How dared he insinuate she had never known need or desperation? She, who had suffered under her stepfather’s hostile domination for every moment of her youth?
Then she realized how closely he watched her, how well he read her anger and her anguish, and smoothly withdrew her emotions from sight.
She was, after all, Miss Victoria Cardiff, not some sensitive female who demanded attention and nurturing.
What Raul thought, she did not know, because he turned again to speak to his people. “Miss Cardiff is a governess, and she has agreed to teach us etiquette.”
Prospero lowered his goblet. “Etiquette?”
“Etiquette,” Raul repeated.
“Have you lost your mind, my king?” Prospero’s tone was deferential. The words were not. “What in the hell do we need etiquette for?”
The men muttered in agreement.
The women were silent, watching, indecisive.
Raul spoke to the women. “When the day arrives that we move into the royal palace in Tonagra, we must become not warriors, but courtiers accomplished in the business of diplomacy.”
Prospero shook his head. “I respectfully suggest we cross that bridge when we come to it. For now, every moment should be spent in training to fight.”
“My wish is that you attend the classes and treat Miss Cardiff with all honor.”
Fists clenched, Prospero glared at Victoria.
She wanted to point out that teaching etiquette wasn’t her idea, that she didn’t care if Raul’s court was the laughingstock of Europe. But she recognized Prospero’s challenge, and looked steadily back at him, refusing to lower her eyes, to back down from his hostility. In a slow, metered tone she said, “It would reflect well on Mr. Lawrence if, when he is ruler, his family eats with silverware and refrains from issuing sounds from their bodily orifices.”
“I speak out of a bodily orifice,” Prospero retorted.
“Exactly,” she said.
Everyone laughed.
Everyone except Prospero, who turned ruddy with rage.
When Raul stopped chuckling and caught his breath, he said, “Ah, Prospero, I’ve discovered myself it’s not wise to match wits with Miss Cardiff. She makes one feel like an unarmed man.”
Prospero was trapped, angry and foolish and unable to take it out on Victoria. So he pointed his stubby finger at Hada. “Woman! Pay attention. I need more ale.”
Hada tossed a glance at Victoria that promised retribution, then carried the pitcher over and filled up his goblet.
“She’s not his servant,” Victoria said to Raul.
“Worse. She’s his wife.” Raul touched her lightly on the arm. “Don’t worry. Ultimately, she holds the reins.”
Raul pulled out the chair next to his.
Victoria seated herself.
He seated himself.
The arrangement was medieval—the head table across the head of the hall, two long tables down the sides, spoons at each place, and knives, long, curved, and wickedly sharp, provided by the diners themselves. Zakerie and Prospero sat at the head table at Raul’s right hand. Hada and Thompson had seats at Victoria’s left— not that either of them sat for more than a minute at a time. The fighting men sat on long benches. Thompson and Hada directed the women who served the meal: huge platters of skewered sausages, peppers and onions, the spitted beef, mountains of roasted potatoes, round, flat loaves of bread, and golden mashed carrots with herbs.
The conversation, the laughter, the savory smells slowly relaxed Victoria. The moment with Prospero had been tense, and he made it clear she would pay for her cheek, but she had no doubt she could deal with him.
After all, she understood and taught children.
Thompson carried the platters to the head table.
Raul served her, explaining that the sausage was spicy, the bread was dark and wheaty, the carrots were one of cook’s specialties. But he refused to allow her to drink from her own goblet, insisting that she share his, and every time she sipped, she was aware of his satisfied gaze on her.
The man had a way of putting his stamp on that which he coveted.
As a proud, independent woman, she shouldn’t like being a “that” … but as a woman who had never been able to depend on anyone except herself, his assumption of responsibility for his entire family— and the way he included her in that family— reluctantly warmed her.
And why was she listening to his voice and smiling?
Why was she trying to learn his language to please him?
Because she hadn’t slept well the night before.
Because the food and wine were stealing her common sense.
Because obviously she was exhausted.
Tomorrow she swore she would be back to normal.
Tomorrow she would defy Raul again.
As the meal wound down, she leaned back and surveyed the great hall. It was full to the rafters, yet by her calculations, there were no more than one hundred and fifty men and a third fewer women, and that seemed inadequate for the plans Raul had made. When he turned to her and inquired after her comfort, she asked, “Is this your whole army?”
“We also have soldiers out on patrol, spies in the city, men and women in place in the hotels and in the royal palace,” Raul told her.
“While I don’t pretend to understand war or battles, it seems that as a revolutionary force, it’s alarmingly small.”
“Think of the Spanish Armada, crushed by Queen Elizabeth’s tiny fleet.” Raul’s voice rumbled, low and comforting.
“How many mercenaries are you facing?” she asked.
“A thousand men.”
“And the de Guignards themselves? Are they fighters?”
“Every rat, when cornered, will come out fighting.”
“Then you’re outnumbered five to one.”
“Four to one,” he said.
Prospero must have trained his hearing, for he leaned across Zakerie. “The woman is right. We need more men to win this battle. My king, we could have more fighting men.”
“No, we couldn’t,” Zakerie snapped at Prospero.
Victoria looked among the three men, at Prospero’s frustration, Zakerie’s bulldog determination, Raul’s still expression, trying to comprehend what they would not say. “What do you mean?”
“Prospero believes we could join forces with my cousin Danel,” Raul sai
d.
His calm forbearance served only to build Victoria’s frustration. “If it’s possible, why would you not?”
“Danel is challenging my right to be king,” Raul told her.
Prospero sat forward again. “I know Danel. He’s a proud man, but if you would simply go and talk to him— ”
Zakerie interrupted, “I know Danel, too. He’s my cousin, too, my blood kin.”
Prospero drew back as if he were a cur who had been reprimanded. Raul might mean it when he said Prospero was part of his family, but for Zakerie, clearly blood was thicker than water.
“I grew up with Danel. I was his second in command, and when he heard that Saber had returned, he called him a usurper and swore to kill him the same way the de Guignards killed Reynaldo.” A lock of Zakerie’s dark hair fell over his forehead, and his amber eyes were earnest.
“Why would he do that?” Victoria was trying to discern not so much who was right and who was wrong, but why they disagreed on such a basic issue.
“Danel is older than me, and legitimate, with no foreign blood in him. Some believe age brings wisdom; ergo Danel is wiser than me. Some believe it’s important that your parents be married at your birth.” Raul gave a world-weary shrug. “But that which sways most of those who will not support me is my English blood.
I’m not full Moricadian. So while I was abroad, it was assumed he would lead the revolution and be crowned king in my place.”
Now she understood Danel’s claim, if not the dissension among Raul’s commanders. “I see. So this divides your family.”
“It does.” Raul looked stern and distant, as if everywhere he turned, he ran into this insurmountable wall.
She wanted to talk more, to listen to the voices, to analyze the situation in depth— but a yawn caught her by surprise.
Raul chuckled softly. “You need your sleep.”
She had, incredibly, forgotten what she faced at bedtime— a night in Raul’s room. With Raul. She straightened. “No! That is …”
Rising, he put his hand under her arm and lifted her to her feet. “Come, my dear. It’s time to beard the big, bad wolf in his very own den.”
Chapter Twenty-three
“Good night.” Raul lifted his hand in farewell to the room. “Miss Cardiff and I are going someplace private, where she will tutor me in etiquette.”
Victoria flushed, glowered, and looked less panicked and more imperious— she would have been glad if she had realized it.
Laughter followed as he escorted her out of the great hall. He knew his people were watching, speculating, judging.
Some of them would say that since he was going to be king he could take whatever woman he wished.
Some would say he should cleave to his own kind, take a Moricadian woman as mistress and, eventually, as wife.
Some would wonder what he intended with this woman who was so unlike any woman they had ever seen.
For Victoria was different from any he had ever taken to his bed. Victoria learned languages at an amazing rate, spoke her mind, analyzed his battle plans, observed the dynamics of his family … and was beautiful, graceful, and intelligent beyond her years.
But what no one knew except him … and her … was that he had never touched Miss Victoria Cardiff except in the most innocent of ways.
Not that his intentions had been innocent. But she had been. He’d been the first man to taste her. He’d been the only man to realize that beneath that cool facade, she was a woman of passion, a woman who disciplined herself, hid the truth about herself. He’d been the man who wanted her so much he risked dishonor to have her.
If he were a good man, he wouldn’t be delighted to now be taking her to his bedchamber to seduce her.
But he wasn’t a good man. More to the point, he didn’t think he would succeed. Not tonight, anyway.
He opened his bedroom door for her.
Tired, yet defiant still, she lifted her chin at him.
He ushered her inside, and shut the door behind them.
She turned on him.
He braced himself for her attack.
Instead she asked, “How well do you trust your cousin Zakerie?”
Astonishing how she managed to distract him and cut right to the heart of his disquiet.
“You think I should talk to my cousin Danel.” He held out his hand, indicating she should precede him.
“Am I so obvious?” With every assumption of ease, she seated herself on the chair by the fire.
A good tactical move. Amya had made up the sofa as a bed for Victoria. She had laid out Victoria’s nightgown. If Victoria had sat there, it would look as if she were extending him an invitation— and he would have taken it.
Instead, he pulled up the footstool and seated himself at her feet. “As Zakerie said, he was Danel’s second in command, and when I came back to Moricadia and Danel refused to support me, Zakerie abandoned him because he believes I am the one who should be king.”
She chewed her lip. “He believes it? Or he says he believes it?”
Raul took a long breath.“Yes, I, too, had doubts about his loyalty. I’ve wondered if he was true to Danel. I’ve wondered if he’s selling me to the de Guignards. But I’ve twice set a scenario wherein he could betray me, and for a profit, and he steadfastly remains loyal.”
“I see why you trust him. I fear it indicates cynicism in my personality, but … when a man turns his back on profit, it probably indicates he is loyal.”
“That’s not cynicism. That’s a shrewd reading of the human character.”
She stifled a yawn. “Pardon me. I am interested in our discussion.”
“I fear a short night, a long day, and the wine have contributed to your weariness.” He indicated the sofa.
“Perhaps you’d like to …”
“No.” She blinked and straightened. “How dangerous is Danel to your cause?”
“In England, I studied classical warfare. I know the strategies; I know how Alexander the Great beat the Persians at the Battle of the Granicus.” He was discussing warfare with the woman he wanted to seduce.
Madness.
Yet he was interested in her opinions, valued her clear vision. So he continued. “Classical warfare doesn’t win the day in Moricadia. Danel knows the people, knows the terrain, knows how the de Guignards think. He’s a natural tactician; no one could lead the battle for freedom as well as he. But if all goes his way, he could be king. Why would he give that up to support me?”
“I wonder why these two men you trust so much disagree so heartily about Danel. I ask myself— if you join forces with him, what would each man have to gain?
What would each man have to lose?”
“An astute observation. Have you studied diplomacy?”
“All women study diplomacy. It’s how we survive.”
She smiled at him, then caught herself, hastily sobered, and looked down at her clasped hands. Gathering her thoughts, she returned her attention to his face, but without the smile. “If a meeting could be arranged without either Zakerie’s or Prospero’s knowledge, and in a neutral setting— then you must meet with Danel. You need him, and the only way to know whether he truly wishes to supplant you is to see for yourself.”
To talk to Victoria was like talking to a friend with no stake in the game and his best interests at heart. “Thank you.” He placed his fist over his heart in the gesture of honor she must now comprehend. “I value you.”
The always-composed Victoria jumped to her feet.
Her alarm brought him to his feet, also. Was his respect really so frightening?
Wide-eyed, she wavered for a moment, rushed over and grabbed her nightgown, and clutched it to her chest. Turning to face him, she said, “I’m glad I could help.” Rushing into the closet, she shoved the door closed.
He heard the slap of something against the door, probably some great weight she’d placed in there earlier to protect herself against such a moment, and him— as if anything could keep him out i
f he wanted in. He wasn’t proud of himself, but the idea of holding Victoria Cardiff in his power made him want to laugh.
Walking to the fireplace, he used the implements to rake up the coals, then placed seasoned branches and, when the fire began to consume them, larger pieces of wood on the flames.
He heard her come out, but took care not to turn until he knew she was under the covers on the sofa. He faced her then, seeing the golden flames shimmer across her tightly braided hair and dance in her wide, tired blue eyes.
If he were any kind of gentleman, he would leave her alone tonight.
Such restraint was beyond his control.
Going to the sofa, he knelt beside her.
She had pulled the covers up to her chin and clutched them tightly. She viewed him as if he were a mountain goblin. Not a flattering image, but one that amused him even while he struggled against the demon inside— the one that demanded he lift the covers and help himself to the woman fate had so neatly handed him.
Although some would say— Victoria could say— that fate did not kidnap her, transport her to the castle, or lock her in his bedroom.
And if he settled into complacency, if he assumed that as king he had privileges above all other men— who was he then?
Prince Sandre? Or worse—Grimsborough?
No, he wouldn’t take Victoria.
She would give herself to him. Every night, she would release a little bit more of herself until she was his, completely and without reservation.
He had studied her; he knew how to seduce this woman.
He brushed his knuckles up her cheek, tucked her hair behind her ear, then feathered his fingertips down her jaw until they reached her chin. He outlined her lips, watching as she first tried to turn her head away, then grew still, hypnotized by pleasure.
Her lids drooped. Her mouth opened slightly. Her breathing grew deep and slow.
He circled her lips again and again, rousing the nerves so close beneath the plush, rosy flesh. Moving without urgency, he leaned down and brushed his lips across her eyelids, shutting them completely. He kissed her cheek, then gradually replaced his fingers with his mouth on hers.
Her eyelids fluttered. Her breathing deepened.