What Wild Moonlight (35 page)

“Are you certain you’re ready to be up and about?”

Ignoring the note of concern in his voice, she nodded tightly. “Quite certain.”

“Very well.” He paused, then continued lightly, “Now what’s this I hear about you going into town?”

“If you don’t mind, I should like to borrow your coach this afternoon. I have some business to attend at the casino.”

“Can’t it wait? Dr. Ellwood should be here shortly and—”

“I’m afraid it can’t. I’d like to leave now, if you don’t mind.”

He frowned, searching her face for a long moment in silence. Was there something different in his gaze? Something dark she had never seen before? Or was she merely imagining it?

“Is anything wrong?” he asked.

“Not at all.”

“You seem upset.”

She stretched her lips into what she hoped would pass for a confident smile. “Merely hurried,” she corrected. “I didn’t intend to sleep so late. I have an appointment to meet with Monsieur Remy to review my schedule of performances for next month.”

“Given last night’s mishap, surely he would understand if you can’t make it.”

“Perhaps. But I would like to go nonetheless.” She hesitated, then continued in a rush, “Why don’t you join me? I don’t believe you’ve ever met Monsieur Remy. He may have a little insight to shed on last night’s—”

“I’m afraid I can’t,” he replied, cutting her off. He lifted his shoulders in a light shrug. “Some other time.”

Katya nodded. “Yes, some other time.”
Idiot!
she screamed at herself. Why had she mentioned Remy’s name? Surely Nicholas knew the man could identify him.

Before she could guess his intention, he reached out and gently brushed a stray curl from her forehead. A shiver ran down her spine as his fingers brushed her skin, but it wasn’t the tremor of sensual anticipation she normally felt when Nicholas touched her. Instead, it was a shiver of ominous foreboding. His eyes locked on hers as he drew his fingers up her arm in a light caress. In a low, dangerous voice, he asked, “Is there something you’re not telling me, little gypsy?”

She swallowed hard and moved out of his reach. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“We had a pact, don’t you remember? Complete honesty.”

“Yes. I remember.” So naive, so foolish.

He studied her face for a long moment in silence, then said simply, “The groomsmen should have the coach ready shortly. Is there anything else you need?”

Yes!
her mind screamed.
You!
But all she could manage was a feeble shake of her head. “No.”

“Then I won’t keep you any longer.” He nodded politely and stepped aside.

“Thank you.”

She swept past him and moved toward the door. As she exited the room, she noted a wisp of charcoal-gray silk skirts and glanced to her left to see the Comtesse comfortably seated in the front parlor, a book in her lap. Undoubtedly she had overheard their entire exchange. Katya sent her a polite nod—and received in return a silent stare that was completely unfathomable. Before she could utter a word, the Comtesse turned her head and went back to her reading.

Just as well, Katya thought, making her way toward the courtyard where Nicholas’s coach awaited her. She was not capable at the moment of idle chatter. Her jaw hurt from clenching her teeth and her throat felt as though it had been filled with sand. She couldn’t swallow, couldn’t speak, could barely see past the tears that blurred her vision.

Katya turned away from the window as the coach began its descent into town. She had expected she would feel something when she saw Nicholas. Rage, anger, pain, grief, fear—perhaps a combination of all these emotions. But what she felt instead was entirely unanticipated, and even worse to endure.

Longing. Longing to touch him. Longing to laugh with him. Longing to confront him with the fact that her scroll was missing and to demand to know where it was. Longing to turn back the clock just twenty-four hours, back to a time when she trusted him entirely.

So shattered were her thoughts and so grim her emotions that she felt as though she had just sat down in the carriage when the groomsman pulled the team to a stop in front of the Grand Casino. She exited the coach and strode through the bustling gaming rooms toward the theater. She pulled open the broad doors and stepped inside, her footsteps echoing through the vacant hall.

As she reached the backstage area she nodded politely in greeting to the performers rehearsing their acts. She smiled and murmured empty words of thanks at their expressions of shock and concern over her accident, but it was evident that she was in no mood to talk. The small crowd that had surrounded her upon her arrival quickly dissipated, leaving her alone.

Someone had gathered her props and returned them neatly to her table, she noted. As she ran her fingers over the various pieces, all essential items for a conjurer, a chill shot down her spine. She had stood just like this last night before she stepped onstage.

She lifted the gun and cracked open the barrel chamber. It was empty now, but last night it had held three blanks. Or had it? Her gaze moved to the thick silver bowl that had figured so prominently in last night’s illusion. A heavy line disfigured the center of the bowl—the path the bullet had taken as it had ricocheted off the silver. She fingered the bowl thoughtfully as she considered the ugly bruise that marred her chest. If not for the bowl, the bullet would have traveled right through her.

Was it fate or merely blind luck that she had decided to change her act? She had introduced the silver bowl on a whim, because of the variation and dramatic appeal it added to the routine. Until then, she had caught the bullet in her hand. Had she done that last night, she would have been killed.

Clearly she was supposed to have died onstage… just as her parents had.

The realization sent the quiet horror that filled her soaring to a new level. She set down the gun and scanned the backstage area until she found the large wood-and-glass tank her parents had employed for their finale. Katya moved slowly toward it, a feeling of imminent dread balled tightly within her belly. She had not examined the tank since her arrival in Monaco; until that moment, she had had no reason to.

She traced her hands over the tank, a frown of deep concentration on her brow, as though listening for the piece itself to tell her what had happened. There were two locking mechanisms by which the tank was operated. The first was to the door the audience saw—the door through which her father had stepped when he entered the tank. The second was to the hidden compartment at the floor of the tank, through which her father exited and her mother entered. Katya pulled open both doors and examined the locks, finding nothing amiss. The locks clicked shut and released as smoothly as they had when the tank was new.

Not yet satisfied, she stepped inside the tank, pulling the door closed behind her. She examined the seams of the glass and wood, looking for any clue as to what might have happened. Finding no sign of tampering, she grasped the tiny lever that would release the door latch from the inside and gave it a quick tug.

Nothing. The lever didn’t work. Katya tugged again, harder this time. Still nothing. She bent down to try the lever that controlled the secret door on the floor of the chamber. Again, nothing. She was trapped inside. Sickening understanding spread through her. The release levers worked from the outside. But once her parents had been inside the tank together they had had no way of escaping.

Nor did she, she belatedly realized. But while she could cry out and bang on the wood to gain the attention of those around her, during her parents’ performance the tank had been filled with water, thus making it virtually soundproof. As that stark realization took hold, claustrophobia overwhelmed her, choking off her thoughts. Before she could call out for help, however, the tank door swung open. Her heart beating wildly, Katya spun around, expecting to see Nicholas standing before her.

To her relief, it was Monsieur Remy who held the door open.

“I hadn’t expected to see you so soon, Miss Alexander,” he said as she stepped from the tank. “How are you feeling?”

She ignored the question, bending down to re-examine the tank’s locks. She immediately found what she had missed before. The inside release levers had been filed down—not enough so that it would be immediately apparent. But enough to prevent them from working.

Her parents had been murdered. The conclusion was inescapable.

“Is something wrong?” Remy asked, wringing his hands as he studied her with an expression of nervous anxiety and wary confusion.

Katya nodded slowly. “Yes, I’m afraid so.”

A look of horrified understanding immediately showed on Remy’s face as his gaze traveled from Katya to her parents’ underwater tank. “You don’t mean—” he began, then broke off abruptly, making the sign of the cross.

“Who handles the security for the casino?” she asked.

“Monsieur Chatelain.”

“Is he discreet?”

Remy’s head bobbed up and down as tiny beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. “Very discreet.”

“Good.” She quietly closed the door to the tank. “I should like to speak with him,” she said. “Immediately.”

Marco waits for me in the great hall. It is nearly noon. In minutes I will be his bride. At dawn I climbed the Saint’s Tower and said a prayer of safekeeping for us both. As I finished, the clouds parted and a ray of golden light shone down. I do believe my prayer was heard.

Sacha’s final entry. Katya had nearly missed it entirely, so small and tattered was the scrap of parchment on which it had been written, as though it had been jotted down in a rush before she had left for her wedding ceremony. Katya had found it three days ago, just after she had returned from speaking with Monsieur Chatelain, the chief of security for the Grand Casino.

Sacha’s words were neither comforting nor informative, but they did seem eerily prescient. Particularly now, as Katya stood alone in her bedchamber in Nicholas’s villa dressed as a medieval bride.

As she finished her toilette for the Fete du Tarasque she studied herself critically in a floor-length looking glass. Perhaps her costume was historically accurate in detail, but it was sorely lacking in authenticity. She might be dressed in the guise of a medieval bride, but her eyes did not glisten with the eager joy one might expect to see in a young bride’s gaze. Instead the eyes that stared back at her were flat and hollow, shadowed by pale circles.

With the exception of the simple crown of flowers she wore, her hair was completely unadorned, cascading freely down her back in a rich mass of ebony spirals. She wore a long-sleeved, finely woven smock of misty green coupled with a surcoat sewn from rich silver brocade. The bodices of each garment had been cut in deep squares, revealing an enticing glimpse of the soft curve of her breasts. An ivory-and-green-striped kirtle emphasized the narrowness of her waist and the gentle sway of her hips.

Clearly the costume had been designed to evoke an image of both innocence and sensuality But whether or not it succeeded she could not judge. Nor did she particularly care, she decided, turning away from the mirror with a dull sigh. Her appearance was of little concern. She felt shaky and exhausted to the point of numbness, but her nerves had been too tightly wound for her to sleep. Nor could she eat. In fact, she had been able to do nothing from the moment she had discovered her parents had been murdered.

Her encounters with Nicholas had been deliberately brief and empty. Although he had come to her room in the evenings, she had claimed fatigue and turned him away. Inside herself, however, she had clung to his every word, his every nuance of tone, his every small gesture, analyzing everything over and over again in her mind. Surely she was wrong about him. The phrase echoed through her entire being, both a wish and a prayer. But one that she suspected was entirely futile. If the ancient legends were correct, their fates had been determined long ago.

In an attempt to avoid further contact she had kept mainly to her bedchamber, but the precaution had been unnecessary. Both yesterday and today she had watched him mount Avignon and ride out shortly after dawn, not to return until dusk. She had no idea where he went, nor did she ask. In truth, she strongly suspected she already knew. Now that he had found her scroll he was hunting for the Stone. But at the moment this was nothing but dark suspicion. Soon—possibly tonight—she would know for certain.

As that grim thought filled her mind, the sound of a hall clock striking eight drifted into her room. She could delay no further Nicholas was waiting for her. Summoning her resolve, she left her bedchamber and made her way downstairs. She found him standing alone in the back parlor, one knee propped up on the windowsill, his hands clasped behind him as he stared out over the sparkling Mediterranean. He was dressed in the costume she had seen days earlier. He wore a doublet woven from pale flax and a sleeveless tunic upon which was embroidered the emblem of the Maltese. The copper-colored braies that covered his long legs were tucked into a pair of rich leather boots. Completing the costume was a jewel-studded cape of indigo velvet.

The attire suited him. She watched as a warm breeze blew in through the open window and tossed the cape about his powerful shoulders. He looked like a beautiful medieval prince, she thought, her heart aching anew as she studied him. He seemed lost in thought, completely unaware of her presence. She read firm resolve in his expression, as well as profound sadness. Katya paused, frowning. Was she projecting her emotions onto him, or did he truly seem deeply troubled?

“Nicholas.”

She called his name without thinking, shattering the stillness that had enveloped him. As he straightened and turned toward her, she noted that he wore a wide belt slung low across his hips, from which was suspended a glistening dirk and a thick leather pouch.

He studied her for a long moment, his ebony eyes glowing with an inner fire. Then he crossed the room and took her hands in his. “You look beautiful, Katya,” he said, bending down to kiss her softly.