What Wild Moonlight (31 page)

“Did you hear that?” she asked.

“Hear what?”

“I thought I heard—”

Her words were cut off by a shower of pebbles raining down the grassy bank opposite them. Nicholas jerked up his head in the direction of the sound. Silhouetted against the brilliant sunshine was the tall figure of a man—a man who had been watching their every move. Before Nicholas could utter a single oath, the stranger turned and raced toward his mount.

Katya quickly tugged her blouse and camisole back into place as Nicholas plunged across the shallow stream and scrambled up the steep slope. She tensed, listening for the sound of angry shouts or fisticuffs. Instead all she heard was the distinct rhythm of hoofbeats echoing furiously into the distance. The person who had been watching them was getting away.

That fact was confirmed moments later as Nicholas climbed down the sheer bank and made his way across the stream.

“Did you see who it was?” she asked.

“No. The only view I had was of the back end of his horse, and even that was moving too quickly for me to get a good look.”

“Oh.”

She searched her mind for something intelligent to say, but her thoughts and emotions were too jumbled for her to construct a single coherent statement. The state of Nicholas’s attire didn’t help. He wore no shirt, revealing the vast expanse of his bronzed chest and stomach. His pants were soaked to the middle of his thighs, showing every muscle and sinew in his long legs. His dark hair was disheveled, doubtless from her having combed her fingers through it only minutes earlier. His ebony eyes—eyes that had been filled with heat and passion—were now guarded and alert.

“Do you think it had something to do with the scroll?” she finally managed, forcing her thoughts back to the issue at hand.

He lifted his shoulders in a casual shrug. “Perhaps. Perhaps it was nothing but a bored farm boy looking for something more interesting to watch than a herd of sheep grazing in a pasture.”

She nodded and attempted a sophisticated smile, amazed that he could be so indifferent. He might be so accustomed to midday dalliances that he could make light of what had passed between them, but she enjoyed no such irreverence. She searched for a suitable jest that would match his tone, but once again her mind came up blank. What was expected of a man and a woman who had just shared the kind of passion and intimacy they had shared? A light, teasing remark and the whole liaison was laughed off? Was it nothing but a way to pass an otherwise dull afternoon, or merely her own insecurities that made her read more into his tone than she should?

Unable to resolve the question, she turned away and sat down on a low stump to pull on her stockings and boots. She stood and moved toward Daisy, giving Nicholas a murmur of thanks as he lifted her into his saddle. For the first time that day, his hands did not linger about her waist. Instead he moved with brisk efficiency, dropping his arms and turning away the moment she was seated on her mount. Then he swung into the saddle of his black and tapped his heel against the gelding’s flanks, sending the animal into a smooth, rolling gait. They moved side by side, making light conversation as they rode. But it was evident from his expression that he was as disturbed by the incident as she had been. An air of somber preoccupation hung over them both.

Once they reached the villa, Nicholas adjourned to his study while Katya retired to her bedchamber to rest before her performance that evening. But the rest she sought eluded her completely. Finally succumbing to the impatient energy that seized her, she threw open her window and paced a bit before it, allowing the warm wind to gently brush her skin.

Within a matter of minutes her attention had turned to the false-bottomed trunk at the foot of her bed. She removed the clothing she had stored within and released the hidden spring, opening the compartment that contained Sacha’s diary. She had become addicted to the journal, searching the words contained therein the way a sailor might search the sky looking for guidance among the stars. Katya carried the ancient documents to her bed and spread them around her as she sifted through the fragile stack. After two hours of translating badly smeared Latin and faded bits of ancient French, her head was pounding and her spirits were sinking. All she had uncovered for her trouble were a two letters written by a knight—a rather boorish and conceited knight, she thought—attempting to woo his lady love by cataloging his awesome battle skills and deeds of daring.

She stacked the bundle of parchment papers back together in irritation, wishing someone before her had assumed the task of sorting and separating out the relevant pages. It would take her days more to get through the scrambled mass of papers. As she lifted them, one withered piece of parchment escaped the bundle and drifted down to fall into her lap. She gave it a cursory glance as she moved to stuff it back inside.

There is evil afoot.

Immediately recognizing the writing as Sacha’s, Katya froze, her attention riveted on the page.

There is evil afoot. I am frightened in my own home. Perhaps I should not admit this, even in these pages, but who other than me will read these foolish words? Where else can I turn to reveal my despair?

Sometimes I think he must be mad. He professes to love me, yet his intensity frightens me so. How foolish I was, how wholly vain to let myself be flattered by his attentions Now it is too late. Last eve I felt his gaze upon me and turned to see him watching me. His eyes were cold, yet they burned with a deep, possessive fire. He doesn’t think I understand but I do. He no longer sees me. I have taken the form of his vengeance.

I have spoken with Father but my fear only angers him. He will not listen. Even if I were to waver in my conviction to marry—which I certainly do not—it is too late to plot a new course. The king’s emissary and his men have already arrived.

In a matter of days—nay, hours—I will become Marco DuValenti’s wife. I tremble to think what might happen once the ceremony has taken place. But I must trust in the fates that have brought us together. Perhaps Father is right. Perhaps I am only behaving like a nervous, foolish bride and there is nothing to fear. I pray that it is so.

Katya set down the page as a wave of grim comprehension and defeat washed over her. So Sacha had learned to fear Marco. The realization was a bitter blow. She had been so certain that if she kept digging she would find some explanation for what had gone wrong between the ancient lovers. Instead she had found verification of the DuValentis’ quest for vengeance, the essence of the feud that had torn their families apart for centuries.

She let out a sigh and stood. She had foolishly been tracking her relationship with Nicholas to that of Sacha and Marco, reading parallels in every line of her ancestor’s diary. The first meeting, the giddy blush of awakening desire, the heady bliss of sexual satisfaction, the thrill of falling in love. Each deepening emotion had been repeated between her and Nicholas. She had been certain that finding a happy ending for them—or at least an explanation for what had gone wrong—would mean a happy ending for her.

But no longer.

The ancient legends had brought her this far, but now it was up to her to set her own course. It was time to move forward. Katya gathered up the parchment pieces and resolutely put them away in the bottom of her trunk. She felt a sudden urge to see Nicholas, to feel his strong arms around her. She wanted some physical assurance that the tragedy that had befallen Sacha and Marco would not touch them.

She left her room and proceeded downstairs, searching for Nicholas in his study. The room was empty; a hollow stillness rang through the chamber. Katya moved to his desk and ran her hand over the leather chair where he customarily sat.

“Are you looking for Nicholas, Miss Alexander?”

She glanced up to find the Comtesse standing in the doorway, one slim hand resting on the ivory-carved handle of her walking cane. She sent her a soft smile and moved away from Nicholas’s desk. “I am.”

“I’m afraid he’s already left. He thought you were resting and didn’t want to disturb you. He asked me to convey to you that he had some business to attend to in town and would see you after your performance this evening.”

“I see.” She hid her disappointment with a polite nod. “Thank you.”

“If you have a moment, may I ask how you are progressing in your search for the scroll?”

“Not very well, I’m afraid. We’re rapidly running out of suspects. Either my touch isn’t as deft as Nicholas assumed, or the person who has the scroll has hidden it someplace where we can’t possibly find it, perhaps locked away in a hotel safe, buried in a garden, or…” She paused, shrugging her shoulders. “Who knows where it could be?”

The Comtesse let out a sigh. “I suppose it was unrealistic of us to expect that the person who had stolen it might be carrying it on his person.” She moved into the room and seated herself on a small burgundy settee. “I suspect Nicholas is aware of that as well,” she said. “Perhaps he hoped that if the two of you made a flamboyant appearance here in Monaco, your presence might help to draw out the thief and force him into making a move.”

Katya nodded. “I thought it would, as well.”

“But it hasn’t worked.”

“No, it hasn’t.”

An expression of quiet pain filled the Comtesse’s gaze as she turned toward the portrait of Nicholas and Richard seated before their father. “Perhaps the person we’re seeking can’t risk making his presence known. With each day that passes, I can’t help feeling that the truth has been before us all along and we have simply refused to see it.”

“You mean Richard?”

The older woman hesitated for a long moment, then finally replied, “Yes.”

“Then you don’t believe he’s dead?”

“No, I do not.”

“You’ll think I’m foolish, but I read Nicholas’s palm,” Katya blurted out. “His brother lives, I saw it.”

A small, sad smile curved the Comtesse’s lips. “You’re no more foolish than I have been, for my opinion is based on nothing more than an old woman’s sentiment. In my heart of hearts, I can’t help but believe that I would feel it if Richard were gone.” She thought for a moment, then shook her head. “But if Richard is alive, why would he continue to let us believe that he is dead?”

“Nicholas mentioned that his brother had accrued a vast sum of gaming debts—debts that Nicholas refused to settle. Could Richard have fabricated his own death in order to escape his debts?”

“Certainly not,” the Comtesse objected immediately. “He would not have done anything so cowardly.”

Katya paced for a moment before Nicholas’s desk. “If we are correct, where does that leave us?” she asked. “If Richard was not murdered and did not commit suicide, and if he is not hiding from his debts—”

“Then why has he not shown himself?” the Comtesse finished for her with a dark sigh. “We could talk all day, yet we keep circling around the same answer, do we not? It would appear that Richard has been behind the scheme to steal the scroll all along, and was likely behind Miss Whitney’s death as well.” An expression of profound sorrow filled her eyes as her gaze returned to the portrait she had been studying earlier. “I know he had his faults, but I would not have thought him capable of something this… ugly.”

“Indeed,” Katya replied, glancing away as she brushed a piece of lint from her skirt. Although she had tried to keep her tone neutral, it was evident from the Comtesse’s expression that she had not succeeded. The older woman’s mouth tightened into a grim line as her gaze narrowed. “Obviously you do not share my shock at this appalling turn of events, Miss Alexander. I can only assume that this is because your opinion of Richard differs profoundly from my own. Am I correct in my assumption?”

Katya hesitated. “I never knew Richard. I have only heard others speak of him.”

“I take it you are referring to the baseless, demeaning gossip that pervades society here in Monaco.”

“Yes,” she admitted.

“I should like to hear those rumors.”

“I’m afraid I’ll only offend you by repeating them.”

“I expect you will,” the Comtesse replied, drawing herself up into a posture of regal assurance. “But I would appreciate an honest answer nonetheless.”

“Very well.” Although Katya had never sought out gossip regarding either Richard or Nicholas, neither had she attempted to avoid it. Given the scandal that had surrounded them, it would have been impossible. “From what I’ve heard,” she said, “behavior of this sort would not be entirely uncharacteristic of Richard Duvall. Rumor has it that he was a profligate rake, appallingly impertinent, and lacking in any sort of discipline. Apparently he was the image of his father in both temperament and appearance.”

“I see,” the Comtesse replied slowly. “How very enlightening. So that is what is said.” She rose from the settee and moved to the window, leaning heavily on her cane as she stared out over the magnificent gardens. The early evening light cast a soft shadow over her slim frame and immaculately coiffed silver hair, giving her the appearance of uncharacteristic frailty.

Katya felt a sudden pang of remorse at having spoken so brashly and immediately tried to soften her words. “I suspect those rumors are as absurd as the ones that surround Nicholas,” she said.

The Comtesse turned to her and waved an imperious hand. “Do not attempt to mollify me, Miss Alexander. It has been my experience that rumors generally have some basis in fact—however distorted they may grow once they are spread.” She lifted her shoulders in a faint shrug. “The objection I have is not in the content of what is being said, but in its narrowness.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Richard was a selfish rogue,” the older woman conceded, “of that I have no doubt. But he could also be charming, as charming as the devil himself. Just as my brother William was charming in his day—and kind, and loyal, and gallant, and a host of other traits you find so compelling in Nicholas.” The Comtesse gazed for a long moment at the family portrait that hung on the wall before them, lost in silent reminiscence. Finally she turned to Katya and smiled softly. “That surprises you, doesn’t it? I can see it in your face.”