Lucian gave a second insolent salute, indulged in another fleeting and bitter grin, and reined his horse away.
Barrett’s attitude was still distant, and while Rafael knew that it was probably for the best, his old friend’s disapproval made him ache inside.
“Ready, Your Highness?”
Rafael swallowed a surly response and said simply, “Yes.”
The party left Morovia through the western gate and, to Rafael’s surprise, they were neither challenged nor pursued. The rebels, he reflected ruefully, were probably too busy razing the city to give chase.
There were dozens of men, women and children fleeing Morovia by the coastal road, however. The track was choked with them, and they pleaded for protection, crying out in the darkness like disembodied spirits. Against Barrett’s advice, Rafael issued the command that twenty men accompany the refugees to the keep, where they might have sanctuary.
It seemed that luck was with the prince that night, for even with a diminished escort and two lumbering prison wagons to slow them down, the company reached the drawbridge of St. James Keep without incident. A long delay ensued, during which a guard came out to make certain that it really was the master of the house asking admittance, and not a party of crafty rebels. At last, after much ado, the massive gates were thrown open and the portcullis was raised.
Rafael rode wearily into the main courtyard, swung down from the saddle, and surrendered his horse to a waiting groom. All around him, pandemonium reigned, while men who had gone traveling exchanged tales with those who had stayed behind. The prison wagons roused a great deal of curiosity, of course, and when it was learned that the men inside were to be confined to dungeons that had not been used for the better part of fifty years, there was a considerable stir of interest.
Pulling off his gloves, emotionally exhausted, Rafael started across the courtyard, thinking of the store of fine liquor in his study and the clean comfort of the feather bed in his private quarters. He was caught off guard when a slim but shapely form slipped out of the shadows to bar his way, and he had already clasped the handle of his sword before he realized that it was Annie.
He hid a smile as he assessed her boy’s clothes. He wanted her as much as ever—nay, more, now that he knew what pleasures she could offer—but to indulge would be a breach of honor. “It’s late, Miss Trevarren,” he said. “You should be in bed.”
Light from the moon and the torches inside the great hall glimmered in her hair, which was doing its best to escape the thick plait that trailed over her right shoulder like a rope woven of fire and shadow. She stiffened and raised her impertinent little chin. “I’m well past the age where I need someone to remind me of my bedtime,” she pointed out coolly. Then, in the next instant, she flew at him, hurling her arms around his neck, clinging to him and burying her face in his shoulder. Her tempting body trembled with the force of her sobs and although Rafael knew every angel in heaven was bidding him to put her away from him, he could not obey. He held her close against his chest.
“Annie,” was all he could say, and it was a murmured sound, barely more than a breath.
“I thought they’d killed you for certain!” she wailed, dampening his shirt with her tears. “I was sure I’d never see you again!”
It was then that Barrett walked up alongside them. His gaze linked with Rafael’s for a moment, over Annie’s head, but he proceeded into the great hall without speaking.
“Hush, now,” Rafael said, loosening his embrace and cupping Annie’s face in his hands so that she had to look at him. “I’m here, safe and sound. I need you to be strong, love. Nothing weakens me like your tears.”
She nodded and snuffled with an endearing lack of grace, and Rafael put his arm around her shoulders. Together, they entered the castle, and they got as far as the main staircase before Annie made another of her outrageous announcements.
“I want a sword,” she said.
Rafael, who wanted to take Annie to his bed and knew he could not, had been silently consoling himself with the prospect of brandy, a hot bath, food and sleep. He stared at her, certain he must have misunderstood.
“What?” he asked, stupidly perhaps.
“I said I’ll need a sword.” Annie indicated his own blade with a nod. “I’m not very good with guns, you see, and—”
Rafael held up one hand to silence her. The thought of Annie armed, be it with pistol, bow and arrow, cannon or sword, chilled his blood. “Miss Trevarren,” he said evenly, “in this keep, the men still do the fighting. If you truly want to help, then just stay out of trouble until we can return you to France and the safety of your family.”
Annie looked stunned, as though he’d slapped her. Rafael suppressed an urge to pull her back into his arms, knowing that if he did so, he would certainly be lost, honor or no honor. He knew his own limits only too well, and when it came to Annie Trevarren, they were severely strained. He could not allow his need to prevail over his good intentions.
She sniffed once, disdainfully. “I see,” she said.
“Good,” Rafael sighed. God in heaven but he was weary, to the very marrow of his bones and the center of his soul. Despite his better judgment, and his integrity, he longed to seek sanctuary in Annie’s embrace, to lose himself in the sweet fury of her passion and spill his seed into her warm depths. Oh, to sire a child with her, that very night, to make a son or daughter who would live on after he’d perished. The wanting was so keen-edged, and so hopeless, that he wanted to weep for the sorrow of it. “Leave me,” he murmured. “Please.”
Annie regarded him for a long moment, and he read a parade of emotions in her blue eyes—frustration, and then tenderness, followed by resignation. Standing on the first step, so that her face was almost level with Rafael’s, she leaned forward and kissed his forehead. “I know you mean well,” she said gently, while the kiss still burned upon his flesh, like the thumbprint of an avenging angel, “but you need me, Rafael. You need my love and my help. Let me stand beside you, as I was born to do.”
He closed his eyes, remembering his beautiful, brave wife. Georgiana had been his helpmate and his lover. She’d taken her place at his side, and believed with her whole heart that she’d been created to share his life. She’d been standing beside him, in fact, when an assassin’s bullet had pierced her chest and exploded in her heart.
“No,” he said aloud, speaking to Annie as well as to the memory. Desperation swelled within Rafael; it was too easy to imagine Annie dying in the same way Georgiana had. “Jesus,
no.”
Annie laid a cool, soft hand to his face. “I love you,” she said.
She had spoken those words to him before, but now Rafael knew that she meant them, and he was terrified for her. He had to avert disaster somehow, to make Annie stop caring before it was too late.
Rafael spoke with cold dispatch, though the truth of what he felt for Annie Trevarren was something very different, something he wasn’t ready to face or put a name to just yet. “You are not the first young woman to make that mistake,” he said. “But the fact is that I don’t return your tender sentiments. I wanted a woman last night. You were there, willing and untried, and I used you.”
The color drained from Annie’s face, and Rafael gritted his teeth to keep from taking back the lie. To her credit, she raised a hand and slapped him so hard that he felt the blow all the way to the soles of his feet. Tears brimmed in her eyes as she watched him touch his fingers to his jaw, but he soon concluded that these weren’t tears of remorse. No, they were made of pure fury.
“You can lie about your feelings all you want, Rafael St. James,” Annie hissed, “but it’s already too late, because last night your body told me the truth!”
Rafael closed his eyes for a moment, summoning all his inner resources. “No, Annie,” he said. “You’re wrong. Last night, you believed what you wanted to believe, because you were too naive to
accept
the truth.”
She stared at him, her eyes shimmering, and her cheeks, pale as death a moment before, were suddenly mottled with crimson and pink. “You’re pretending,” she said, with unnerving conviction. “You want to protect me, to stop me from loving you so I won’t be hurt. Again, Rafael, it’s too late. God knows you don’t deserve it, but I’ve long since pledged my heart to you, and there’s no going back!”
Having said that, Annie turned and fled up the stairway, leaving Rafael to stare after her and wonder exactly when he had lost control of the situation.
If, he thought ruefully, he had ever
had
control in the first place.
What, Annie asked herself, had she expected? An avowal of undying devotion? A proposal of marriage? She paced her room, pounding her palm once with her fist. Rafael was cornered; he was fighting for his life. He had been honest with her before coming to her bed, explaining that he could offer her nothing beyond the pleasures of that one encounter. What had made her think things had changed?
Annie brushed away her tears with a wild motion of one arm. She’d been overcome with relief when she’d seen Rafael crossing the courtyard earlier, fearing until that moment that he was dead or dying. She’d lost her head, plain and simple, and now she owed him an apology.
She went to the washstand and splashed her burning face with tepid water. Then she stood in front of the looking glass for nearly a minute, trying to decide whether to exchange her breeches and shirt for a dress. In the end, she went as she was, leaving her chambers and hurrying toward Rafael’s study on the other side of the keep.
Annie made the trip for nothing, as it happened; the room was dark and there was no sign of the prince, within or without.
That meant Rafael was in one of two places—his bedchamber, or the kitchen. It was conceivable that he might be hungry after his journey, and had not wanted to rouse the servants from their much-needed slumber. It was also possible that he’d gone to bed, and was already sleeping, Annie admitted to herself. In that case, he probably wouldn’t welcome an intrusion, no matter how high-minded the intentions of the intruder might be.
Annie went downstairs to the kitchen and found that chamber empty, too, except for a gray cat sleeping on the hearth.
Reasoning that she could just as well extend her apologies to Rafael in the morning, Annie was disappointed nonetheless. She knew her conscience would keep her awake the rest of the night and, besides, Rafael would probably be leaving the keep on some mission or closeted away with his advisors before she even went down to breakfast.
It might be days, in fact, before she could tell him she was sorry for her lapse. Frankly, Annie couldn’t bear the prospect of that.
She made her way resolutely through the dark passageways, carrying a single candle purloined from a wall sconce to light her path. After traveling a considerable distance, she arrived at the threshold of Rafael’s bedchamber.
There was a golden strip of light under the door. Annie hesitated only a moment, then rapped on the heavy wood.
A muffled response came from within—Annie decided it was a summons and turned the heavy brass latch.
Rafael was standing in front of his fireplace, naked except for a towel wrapped around his middle, his hair wet and his flesh glistening from a recent washing. In one hand, he held a snifter with a splash of amber liquid in it.
Seeing Annie, he nearly dropped the glass.
“I thought you asked me to come in,” she said, closing the door for the sake of privacy but staying near it.
Rafael’s expression was ominous. “The devil himself had better be chasing you, Annie Trevarren,” he warned. “I won’t accept any other excuse.”
She flushed at the implication that she might have come to Rafael’s quarters for an improper reason. She wasn’t above doing that very thing, of course, but since it really hadn’t been her intention, she felt justified in being insulted. “I’m not here to seduce you,” she replied briskly. “I came to apologize, though now, to be quite frank, I’m wondering if the exercise wouldn’t be utterly wasted.”
He rolled his magnificent silver eyes and muttered something that might have been a plea for patience. “And what, pray tell, has inspired this noble effort?”
Annie kept her temper, though just barely. “Perhaps you should have passed a term at St. Aspasia’s yourself, instead of sending Phaedra. The nuns might have taught you to be charitable when someone is trying to make amends.”
Rafael put down the snifter and stepped behind a folding screen. When he came out again, he was tying the belt of a dark green robe. Only then did he respond to Annie’s remarks. “Did they ever mention, these illustrious nuns, that it is worse than improper for a young lady to venture into a man’s bedchamber, Miss Trevarren?”
She swallowed hard. “No,” she replied, at length. “They didn’t.”
“That would account, then,” Rafael observed, taking up his brandy again and regarding Annie solemnly over the rim of the glass, “for your unfortunate oversight.”
Annie had endured all she could or would. “Do you want me to apologize or not?” she snapped.
It seemed that Rafael’s eyes twinkled, but it might have been reflected candlelight she saw in them, instead of amusement. “Oh, by all means, Miss Trevarren. Pour out your many sins.”
“If you want to be ungracious, go ahead,” Annie retorted. “I came to tell you that I’m sorry for throwing myself at you when you returned from Morovia tonight. It was only that I was glad you weren’t dead.”
Rafael took a leisurely sip of brandy while considering her words. After a long and awkward silence, he finally answered. “Thank you for that. Being glad I’m not dead, I mean.”
Annie raised her chin a notch. “If you persist in this attitude, sir, I may have to revise my opinion.”
He laughed and saluted her with the snifter, but then his expression turned serious again. “I still don’t quite understand why you felt you needed to ask my pardon,” he said.
Her lips were dry, all of a sudden, and she moistened them with the tip of her tongue. “I forgot our bargain,” she said.
Rafael arched one eyebrow. “Our bargain?”