Princess Annie Read online

  Barrett chuckled and shook his head, but something vaguely troubling flickered in his light brown eyes. His gaze, usually so direct, skirted Rafael’s. “The bridegroom seems in no particular hurry to put in an appearance.”

  Rafael frowned and leaned forward in his chair, nearly spilling the brandy onto his late mother’s priceless Persian rug. It was one of the few articles of value he had kept after returning to Bavia less than two years before, and in that time, he had given centuries worth of plundered artifacts, treasures and jewels over to the national coffers. Although the fact was not widely known, the St. James family now lived on private money, well-invested.

  Rafael never forgot, waking or sleeping, that his efforts had come too late, for him and, very likely, for Bavia.

  “What are you looking at?” Barrett asked, in a rather testy fashion, when he realized that Rafael was studying him closely.

  “You just made a rather odd remark, it seems to me. What do you care whether the princess’s future husband arrives tomorrow or next month or a week after doomsday?”

  Barren’s neck turned a dull shade of crimson, a phenomenon Rafael had not witnessed since their shared youth. He started to speak, then tossed back the remains of his brandy, drowning the words before they could pass his lips.

  Rafael’s nape was taut with tension; he wished he could lie down in a dark room somewhere and sleep until it was all over—Phaedra’s wedding, the coming revolution, the utter and final collapse of a family, however self-serving, that had ruled over that small European nation for seven centuries. Rafael yearned for peace and yet he knew full well that he would probably never live to see it.

  He settled back in his leather chair and closed his eyes for a moment.

  “You’ve fallen in love with the princess,” he said. “When did it happen? Last year, when she was home for summer holidays?”

  Barrett was silent for a long time. When he spoke, his voice was gruff and a little defiant. “Yes.”

  “You know, of course, that it’s hopeless. Phaedra’s marriage to Chandler Haslett was arranged within days of her christening. He is actually a distant cousin.” Rafael opened his eyes, met Barrett’s steady gaze, and made an effort to mask the sympathy he felt. “It is a matter of honor, this union. The bargain cannot be undone. Not even for you, my friend.”

  “She doesn’t love him.” The certainty with which Barrett spoke worried Rafael.

  “That doesn’t matter,” Rafael replied. “Arranged marriages are seldom, if ever, founded on love. They have more to do with property and political alliance.”

  Barrett did not argue, for he knew the weight of such customs as well as anyone, and it was tacitly understood that the subject was closed. He nodded and crossed the room to the massive double doors. “I’ll post a guard outside your chamber tonight, as usual.”

  “Fine,” Rafael answered, rising from his chair and frowning at the bulky dressings on his hands. How the devil was he supposed to accomplish anything, bound up that way? “Have someone watch Miss Trevarren’s room as well. For all I know, she climbs towers and walks on parapets in her sleep.”

  The bodyguard smiled, though the expression in his eyes was still somber. “As you wish,” he said, and went out.

  Rafael immediately rose from his chair, pulled off his bandages and tossed them into the fire. He flexed his fingers, grimacing at the pain even as he courted, endured, and finally forced it into a dark corner of his mind. That done, he poured himself more brandy and turned his thoughts to the problem of Annie.

  The prince smiled. He couldn’t very well have her thrown into the dungeon—Patrick Trevarren would horsewhip him for that, and be justified in doing so. Still, he’d promised that her foolishness would not go unpunished, and he intended to keep his word. He owed himself that much, at least, after such a harrowing night.

  CHAPTER 2

  Raising the hem of her nightgown a little with one hand, to keep from tripping, Annie climbed the four steps to her high tester bed and slipped beneath the covers. There, watching the firelight flicker and cast dancing shadows across the vaulted ceiling, she reviewed the disasters of the evening.

  Her intentions had been innocent, she insisted to herself, however ill-advised. She’d merely wanted an unobstructed view of Crystal Lake, which lay well beyond the keep itself in the heart of a dense green forest, and she had reasoned that the south tower would provide the best vantage point. Upon reaching it, she’d found that there was no window on that side, and her disappointment had spawned an inspiration. She’d climbed out the opening overlooking the courtyard and made her way around the side, taking care, of course, not to look down. Annie had long since learned that that was the cardinal rule of climbing.

  It wasn’t until she’d started inching her way back around the great stone cylinder that she’d suffered a sudden, heart-stopping attack of fear. She’d latched onto a gargoyle with both arms and clung to it until Rafael had climbed out to save her.

  Lying there, safe in her bed, Annie couldn’t help feeling a slight thrill at the memory of it. In some ways, being rescued was very romantic—particularly by Rafael St. James.

  She turned onto her side with a sigh, her gaze fixed on the place just inside the door where he’d stood earlier that evening, his hands wounded, his hair and clothing torn and wet with rain. She had loved Rafael since girlhood, but that night, when he’d come to her room, she’d felt a strange new mixture of things.

  Annie’s instincts had urged her to comfort the prince and bind his wounds, but she’d been a little afraid of him, as well as damnably besotted. She had never guessed, until that night, that there were dangerous depths with Rafael, places where dragons breathed fire and dark wings beat and angels of the night held sway.

  She closed her eyes, but she could still see the prince clearly behind her lids, looking just as he had earlier, watching her with that expression of bemused fury.

  Annie shivered. He’d vowed to punish her for nearly getting the pair of them killed, and she had no doubt he’d meant what he said. The question was, what could he actually do? It wasn’t the Middle Ages, after all—he couldn’t consign her to the iron maiden, burn her at the stake, sell her to a band of gypsies or banish her to a nunnery somewhere.

  Furthermore, she reasoned, much heartened, she was a guest at St. James Keep. To treat her with anything less than the utmost courtesy would be unthinkable.

  At least, for most men, it would be, Annie reflected, as her courage began to wane again. The prince of Bavia, however, was not most men. Annie had little knowledge of the politics of that small country, but she did know that the peasants feared Rafael and considered him a ruthless man, just as they had feared his father and his father before that.

  Annie tossed restlessly onto her other side, but Rafael’s image followed, and haunted her dreams and intermittent minutes of wakefulness for the rest of that night.

  The following morning, Rafael was seated in his accustomed place at the head of the table, in the great dining hall, when Annie swept in, wearing a bright yellow dress—the one of fame and fable, no doubt—her coppery blond hair tamed into a neat coronet.

  Rafael’s anger had been tempered somewhat, and as much as he would have liked to feel differently, he couldn’t overlook the fact that Miss Trevarren was by any account an enchanting little baggage.

  The prince hid a smile behind the piece of toasted bread he’d just raised to his lips, glad that no one else had come down to breakfast yet. For a few minutes, anyway, this entertaining, infuriating young woman would be his to watch and wonder at. The quicksilver change in his emotions did not escape his notice; Rafael knew himself well, and already he suspected that, given the chance, Annie might make him behave like a fool.

  His smile, tentative to begin with, faded entirely. Since Georgiana’s death, he’d been numb inside; now, all of the sudden, his emotions were thawing like a mountain stream in spring, and he was having whims and fancies, all of which were painful. He bit into the har
d, flavorless bread, chewed and swallowed. By the time Annie had filled a plate at the buffet and turned toward him, he’d summoned up an expression of royal indifference.

  She hesitated for just a moment, at the edge of the rug, and then marched resolutely to the table, carrying her plate.

  Rafael rose, out of habit more than deference, and remained standing until she’d seated herself, with rather a lot of ceremony, at his left.

  “Good morning,” she said and, although she wasn’t looking at him, her shoulders were squared and her chin was high.

  God, but she was a bold little creature, a bright and shining thing. Rafael admired courage above all traits except for honor, and after that came beauty.

  “Good morning,” he replied, sitting down again.

  Annie nibbled at a slice of bacon and pushed her eggs around on her plate with her fork for a time, then forced herself, with visible resolution, to look Rafael directly in the eye.

  “Do you plan to send me away?” she asked. There was a slight flush in her cheeks. “In retribution for what happened last night, I mean?”

  In truth, Rafael had already forgotten his rash decree. The brandy had done its work the night before; he’d slept well, and his hands, though somewhat sore, were already mending. His worst discomfort, at the moment, was an all-too-ignoble tightening, deep in his groin.

  Rafael settled back in his chair and frowned ponderously, but thoughts were rushing through his head. By rights, he should tell Annie the incident was forgotten and let matters go at that, but something in him, something powerful, refused to let her off so easily. He greatly enjoyed watching her displays of spirit, and there were few amusements in his life as it was.

  “Yes,” he said, at last, in a stern and, he hoped, commanding voice, straightening again and regarding Miss Trevarren through narrowed eyes. “You will stay within my sight all day, lest you climb something, fall off, and break your impetuous little neck.”

  What, Rafael wondered, the moment the words were out of his mouth, had made him say such a thing? Now the little chit would be underfoot until dinnertime, and he would get little or nothing accomplished.

  Not that it mattered, he thought cynically. His father, and the St. Jameses that had ruled before him, had run the country into the ground. There was no saving it now, no stemming the tide of consequence, though Rafael still worked long hours in the attempt, and had been doing so ever since his return from England. Even knowing the cause was hopeless, he could not bring himself to turn from it.

  Annie’s cheeks grew pinker, and her blue eyes flashed with something that might have been either rebellion or triumph. He couldn’t tell which and did not particularly care.

  “That ought to be excruciatingly dull for both of us,” she remarked, with an impudent little shrug and a sigh. For all her subtle defiance, she still avoided his gaze.

  Rafael hoped his amusement wasn’t too apparent, for he sensed her great pride, and admired it. “Most of my guests do not climb out onto rotting parapets for a view of the countryside,” he replied. Seeing her squirm slightly in her chair, he pressed his advantage, but gently. “If your father had been here to witness last night’s episode,” he said, “I believe you would have found yourself in considerable trouble.”

  She looked away quickly, and Rafael wanted to laugh out loud, though of course he didn’t. When she met his eyes again, her own were bright with cerulean fire, but before she could utter whatever scathing reply she’d summoned up, his young half brother, Lucian, sauntered into the room.

  Lucian resembled Rafael, but he was smaller, slightly built, with fragile, aristocratic features. Being physically agile and quite cunning as well, he made a worthy fencing opponent but, beyond that, he wasn’t of much use. The brothers were virtual strangers, since Lucian had been sent to another part of England for fostering, and they had little in common. For the most part, Rafael ignored his sibling, though there were periodic occasions when Lucian got himself into trouble and either Rafael or Edmund Barrett had to extricate him.

  Despite his time away from home, which should have served to mature him, the younger St. James son was in many ways as badly spoiled as Phaedra, who had lived in Bavia, fawned and fussed over by a series of nurses, governesses and maids until she was old enough to attend St. Aspasia’s.

  That morning, as Lucian filled his plate and then approached the table, it seemed to Rafael that there was a faint, predatory gleam in his brother’s eyes. He felt a twinge of irritation—nothing new where this dilettante was concerned—watching Lucian smile at Annie, like a young cavalier. He made a mental note to warn him off later, using threats if necessary, for the girl had been safer on the parapet of the south tower than she would be if she succumbed to Lucian’s practiced charms.

  Ignoring his brother completely, Lucian nodded to Annie as he sat down across the table from her. “I’m glad to see that last night’s adventures have left you unmarked, Miss Trevarren. Indeed, you are as beautiful as ever. Perhaps more so, for the joy of surviving.”

  Rafael’s irritation intensified at those words, and redoubled when Annie, the little fool, beamed a smile as warm as sunlight at Lucian. “Thank you,” she said.

  The prince laid down his napkin and the legs of his chair made a scraping sound on the stone floor when he pushed it back. “Come along, Miss Trevarren,” he said briskly. “I don’t have all day to sit in this dining room, watching you eat.”

  To Rafael’s delight as well as his chagrin, Annie blushed from the hint of cleavage visible in the lacy V of her bodice to the roots of her hair. She made a great show of pushing her plate away, although in fact she had shown precious little interest in the food, and stood.

  “Please excuse me,” she said to Lucian, in a crisp and somehow confidential tone, as though excluding Rafael from the conversation. “The prince has decreed that I am not to be out of his sight this whole day.”

  Lucian’s temper flared visibly in his eyes; Rafael watched without emotion as his brother suppressed his anger. “What is this about?” he asked, coldly polite. When Rafael did not reply, he added, “I want an explanation.”

  Rafael sighed. “Do you? What a pity you aren’t going to get one.” With that, he took Annie’s arm and hustled her toward the doorway, walking so fast that she had to hurry to keep up with him.

  Typically, Lucian did not follow, but Rafael could feel his brother’s gaze boring into his back. No love lost there, the prince reflected, with only minor regret. The estrangement between himself and Lucian pained him sometimes, but he had learned to accept it.

  Annie did not attempt to break away—her dignity was of the regal variety—but she was tight-lipped and silent. He had the impression that, on some level, she was enjoying the drama of the occasion, just a little. She was an enigma, that much was certain, and so were his own reactions to her.

  Rafael wished, as he ushered Annie along the passageway toward his study, that he’d eaten a small portion of crow, along with his breakfast, and let her off with a mild scolding. Now, there was no going back.

  Two of his cabinet ministers were waiting when they entered the spacious chamber from which Rafael managed an unmanageable government.

  Annie slipped out of his grasp and swept grandly over to the fireplace, her dress a flash of sunshine in the otherwise gloomy room. There, with a gentle and graceful billowing of petticoats and skirts, she sat herself down in a high-backed chair and serenely folded her hands.

  The elderly gentlemen looked surprised to find a woman in counsel chambers, but neither of them questioned Annie’s presence. Instead, they took their places in front of Rafael’s massive desk, one of the oldest and most ornate pieces of furniture in the keep, and pretended she wasn’t there.

  Rafael cleared his throat and ran one stiff, sore hand through his hair. It served him right, he thought, for behaving like an idiotic despot, handing down decrees. He had important matters to deal with and Annie was a distraction to say the least.

  “What news
do you bring from Morovia?” he asked the visitors, his voice a little louder than normal, and a bit gruffer, as well.

  Morovia, the country’s capital, overlooked the Mediterranean Sea, as did St. James Keep itself, and was just a short ride down the coastal road. Though the palace was there, and the formal seat of the Bavian government, Rafael rarely visited the walled city; he had too many memories, some agonizing, some poignantly sweet, of that place.

  “Things are quiet, for the moment,” said Von Freidling, minister of Bavia’s northern provence. His gaze, drawn like a plump child to a plate of sweetmeats, strayed to Annie, who sat in prim silence on the other side of the room, then swung back to Rafael’s face.

  Rafael was not reassured by the news Von Freidling conveyed. Things had been “quiet” just before Georgiana was shot, too. “No incidents of violence, anywhere?” he asked, and his disbelief was plain in his tone.

  Von Freidling and Butterfield exchanged glances.

  “There was a problem at Miss Covington’s residence, Your Highness,” Butterfield confided, with the utmost reluctance. He, too, stole a look at Annie.

  Rafael leaned forward in his chair, fear spiraling, cold, in the pit of his stomach. Felicia Covington had been his mistress during the year following Georgiana’s death and, although their association had settled into a purely innocuous friendship, he still cared for her deeply. If Felicia were hurt or killed, the guilt and regret would be beyond bearing.

  “What kind of problem?” he demanded, more breathing the words than speaking them.

  Von Freidling shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Some rebels tried to break in. Mr. Barrett’s men were well able to fend them off, however, and Miss Covington is fine.”