Royal Passion

1

The fire leaped high, its resinous wood crackling and snapping so that orange sparks swirled with the smoke up into the dark branches of the overhanging trees. The glow of the flames was reflected in the paint of the gypsy caravans, highlighting their chipped red and blue glaze and their tarnished gilt. It shone on the bracelets and belts of polished coins worn by the gypsy women and on the earrings that hung from the ears of the lounging men. Polished brass uniform buttons and shining boots also refracted the blaze, glinting in the dimness as the men of the cadre of Prince Roderic of Ruthenia shifted on the piled rugs that formed their couches. They talked among themselves in low voices, laughing, lifting cups to drink.

The prince himself sat with his blond head bent over a mandolin. His strong, nimble fingers drew from it a wild rhapsody, a heart-quickening song that seemed to throb with gaiety and reckless passion in the cool night air. An old gypsy with a bent back kept pace with him on a violin. Roderic looked up, his face alight with laughter as together the two played point and counterpoint; the music blending, clashing, swelling with the fierce pleasure of the players. The fire's glow gleamed on the high cheekbones of the prince and shone bright in the vivid blue of his eyes while leaving the triangular hollows of his jaw in shadow. It caught the straight line of his nose and the square jut of his chin. It turned his hair to molten gold and made a pale blur of his open-necked shirt and white uniform trousers. He appeared relaxed there among his friends, without care, and yet there was about him a guarded awareness, a tension that could be released instantly into explosive action. Virile, broad of shoulder, he seemed like some hero of the ancient legends, sure of his power, without peer, frighteningly invincible.

Marie Angeline Rachel Delacroix stood watching from the shadows of an oak thicket, her wide gray gaze fixed upon the prince. Her head ached, and there was a burning wetness at her temple where a deep graze spread blood into the dark waves of her hair. She could hardly lift her right arm for the stiffness of her shoulder. Her cloak was stained with mud, her gown of white silk was torn loose at the waist, and she thought that only the thickness of her petticoats with their horsehair padding had saved her from a broken knee.

None of these things was surprising, considering that she had been pushed from a moving carriage not more than a half hour before. But it was not the pain of her injuries, or even the shock of what had happened, that caused the shudders rippling over her body and the feeling of sick fear in the pit of her stomach. It was the man she saw before her in the gypsy camp.

It was Prince Roderic of the Balkan country of Ruthenia; the man she must seduce. And betray.

She had never seduced a man in her life. Oh, she had flirted a little, had practiced the art of attracting members of the opposite sex at the various balls and picnics and pink teas arranged for the entertainment of young ladies making their first appearance in New Orleans society. But never had she set out to entice a man, to enthrall him so that he would willingly do her bidding. Never. No matter what others might say.

Or perhaps she had. She did not know, could not be sure. Still, whatever she may have done in the past, she did not deserve to be set such an impossible task.

The music of violin and mandolin rose to a crescendo, hovering, then with sweet resonance died away. The gypsies leaped to their feet, shouting, beating their hands and rattling tambourines in applause. The prince tilted his head in brief acknowledgment, smiling, and slapped the old gypsy on the shoulder. Then, with a smooth flexing of muscles, he rose to his feet and swung away from the fire. His long strides carried him across the clearing with incredible swiftness. He was moving toward where Mara stood, his movements sure, as if he knew precisely where he was going, had known of her presence for some time.

She took a hasty step backward, but it was too late. He was before her, reaching to take her hand and draw her into the light. She swayed a little, and his grip, warm and firm on her fingers, tightened in instant support.

"Welcome, fair wraith," he said, his voice gentle but cool, though a moment later it held the quiet scrape of drawn steel as he turned toward his men. "Fair or not, it is without doubt a wraith, else how could she get through the sentries?"

"The fault is mine, Your Highness."

From the darkness behind her stepped a young man. He was dark and handsome in a raffish fashion, with liquid brown eyes, a gold ring in his ear, and a cowrie-shell amulet on a leather thong around his neck. He held himself well, with no sign of submissiveness or guilt.

"Well, Luca?"

The gypsy Luca swept a hand in Mara's direction. "Look at her. Do you see a threat? I saw her thrown from a carriage. When she came this way, I followed."

"Graceless," said Prince Roderic, "you might have offered aid." The words were offhand, but he was frowning as his gaze rested on Mara's pale face.

"It seemed best to see what she would do."

Mara, hearing the note of lingering curiosity in the gypsy's voice, thought back to the moment when she had picked herself up and started toward the encampment. Had it seemed too obvious that she had known where she was going? She had been told in which direction to look, but after her jarring fall she had been stunned, disoriented. In the end, she had simply followed the sound of the music. Her progress had been slow, erratic. It could not have appeared otherwise. Her relief was weakening; her fingers trembled in the prince's grasp.

"Come," he said abruptly, and led her toward the pile of rugs he had left.

She sank down upon them. As she felt the warmth of the fire, she shivered, and the graze on her forehead began to throb. She reached up to touch the skin near it. The prince snapped his fingers, giving a low-voiced order, and immediately a pair of gypsy women came forward. They bathed her injuries and used a scarf of red cotton shot with gold silk thread to tie a bandage pad to her temple over the loosened waves of her dark hair, which fell to her waist. Pressing a cup of red wine into her hand, they moved silently back to their places.

The wine was new and harsh, but it gave her strength. She sipped at it, trying to clear her mind, to subdue the trembling inside her by force of will. Through her lashes, she could see the prince's men gathered around her. Their faces mirrored a disturbing sympathy combined with judicial patience. Near her on the rugs sat the prince, with one elbow resting on a drawn-up knee and his cupped palm supporting his chin. His gaze upon her was lucid, steady, assessing.

Roderic shifted his position, rubbing his finger along his nose. This woman was not the kind a man would use and discard; she was too fine, too fresh. Despite the shadow of fear that she sought to hide in the depths of her clear gray eyes, she appeared untouched, so untutored in the ways of men that he would swear it had not yet occurred to her how vulnerable her position was, there among them. More, she was beautiful, her skin soft and translucent, her mouth tenderly shaped, infinitely kissable. The line of her cheek, the curve of her neck, the firm molding of her chin were perfection. She had capable hands with long fingers, but so slim and white were they that it was plain she did no labor. The silk of her gown was finely woven, far from cheap, and the style, though fairly restrained, was easily recognizable as coming from one of the most fashionable modistes in Paris. No, she was not the kind of woman a man would take out into the French countryside and fling from him like some useless thing.

He leaned toward her."Gypsy hospitality does not require that a guest give a name; still, I ask it. Dark angel, who are you?"

Mara lifted her gaze to meet his hard blue stare. She moistened her lips, remembering her instructions. They had seemed easy, at least when compared to the enormity of what she must do, but now she could not seem to bring herself to follow them. Once she had spoken the words, once the lies had begun, there would be no drawing back.

"What?" Roderic said softly. "Is it guile that restrains you or conscience?"

The trap had been sprung so suddenly, and was so blatant, that Mara felt the stir of anger. It gave her courage. Allowing the distress she had been hiding to seep into her eyes, she shook her head. "I don't--I can't--remember my name."

"Ah, the misfortune of Ulysses, another waylaid traveler. A loss of memory can be most inconvenient--or entirely otherwise. Have you a purse about you?"

A purse, with some means of identification. Mara made a show of searching through the pockets of her cloak. "No. Apparently not."

"Robbed? Then the culprit was either inept or stupid, for he discarded what was of most value."

"You mean--"

"Holding you to ransom would have made much more sense."

There was a low rumble of comment among the uniformed men. For the first time, Mara allowed herself to look at them as individuals rather than as simply members of the prince's entourage. They were only five in number, though they seemed more.

Roderic, following the line of her gaze with a swift turn of his head, came to his feet. "Does my garde du corps disturb you? Perhaps a presentation in form would allay your fears? Michael, come forward and make your bow to our lady-guest."

The young man so named stepped near the rug and, with a click of his heels, inclined his head. Tall and slim, with dark hair, he had the same blue eyes as the prince, though they were more somber. He appeared to be a few years younger than Roderic, perhaps in his midtwenties. The impression he gave was one of earnest dependability.

"I give you my cousin Michael, the Baron von Brasov, son of Leopold the Steadfast," the prince said.

As Michael stepped aside, another of the garde du corps took his place. This one was also above average height, though his hair was silver-white and his eyes hazel. But as he bowed, Mara, blinking, saw that the hair was worn in braids wrapped close to the head and the uniform, impeccably tailored for fit, covered the form of a woman.

"Trude, our spear maiden."

The woman, straightening with all the pride and hauteur of a Valkyrie, gave Mara a stare that was as level and searching as a man's. Satisfied, she wheeled with precision and dropped back.

Advancing next came a matched pair. Their curling sandy hair was the same, their green eyes were the same, and so was the laughter in their faces, the level of their heads, and the set of their shoulders. They saluted her in unison, their swords held at the exact same angle behind them, and their smiles as they stood erect again were warm, almost caressing.

Roderic's tone was resigned as he made the introduction. "Jacques and Jared, the brothers Maniu, skirt chasers par excellence, twin crosses."

"But, my prince!" they said together in protest.

"My personal crosses," Roderic said firmly, and waved them aside.

As they moved, they revealed a short, slender man with thinning dark hair and merry eyes above a magnificent set of whiskers and mustache. Despite the cut of his uniform, he managed to appear rather seedy, and his bearing was less than military. At his side was a ragged mongrel with a scruffy coat of mixed black and brown, and drooping whiskers about his nose gave him a ludicrous resemblance to his master.

"Estes, the Count Ciano."

"And this," said the count, indicating his pet with a flourish, "is Demon, the very valuable guardian dog of the cadre." The dog, hearing his name, lolled out his tongue and wagged his tail in a complete circle.

The prince gave the animal a skeptical look. "A veritable Cerberus, one who makes up in valor what he lacks in discipline, manners, size, and appearance, or at least that's the claim."

The prince himself had not been introduced. She could not be expected to know who he was. Greatly daring, Mara said, "And you, sir?"

"I am Roderic."

The Italian count lifted a brow. "His Royal Highness, Prince Roderic son of King Rolfe of Ruthenia, my lady."

There was a silence. They were waiting, Mara knew, for some acknowledgment and for her to give her own name in return. She could not bring herself to meet their eyes. Stretching out a hand that trembled toward the dog, she said, "I am pleased to know all of you. I would tell you who I am, if I could."

Demon capered forward to lick her fingers, wriggling in delight as she scratched behind his ear.

"Disloyal brute," Michael said.

"Ugly, too," Jacques offered without heat.

"But lucky." Estes sighed as Demon tried to climb into Mara's lap.

Roderic transferred his gaze from the dog to the men before him. He did not speak; still, so forbidding was his glance that smiles faded and spines stiffened. The dog was removed at once. The cadre drifted away. The old gypsy began to play a quick tune, and a woman with loose, dusky black hair and high cheekbones got up to dance, capturing the attention of the others.

"Even the enigma of the Sphinx can pall. How is it that we may serve you?"

The tone of the prince was abrupt, dismissive. He meant, it seemed, to have done with her. That was not at all what Mara wished or needed. She looked up at him with panic rising in her eyes. "I don't know. I--I can't seem to remember where I came from, where I live."

"Your accent is not Parisian, but interesting, with the cadence of an old song. It is typical of your province?"

Another trap. "I couldn't say."

But she could, of course. Hers was the accent of the Louisiana French and was closer to that used by Parisians of the past century than of the present year of 1847. Oh, she knew the idiom; there was enough travel, enough commerce between Paris and New Orleans to keep it current, but the rhythm was different, slower, more musical, with now and then a word or a twist of phrase that had once been heard at the court of the Sun King.

Mara had lived much in New Orleans, journeying from her father's plantation near St. Martinville to enjoy the saison des visites in the city each winter with her widowed grandmother, Helene Delacroix. She had made her debut at the opera house dressed in the purest white, wearing white roses in her hair as she received the visits of friends, relatives, and the numerous eligible suitors who had ensured that the night was a success. How long ago that seemed.

Her father, André, had always accompanied her to New Orleans, but seldom stayed longer than a week or two. He had no heart for the amusements and entertainments that Mara and her grandmother had so enjoyed, preferring the quiet of his plantation with its waving acres of sugarcane. It had been different once, or so Helene said, when André Delacroix was a young man, before his marriage.

His wife, Mara's mother, had been Irish, a quiet woman with eyes the color of the fog on Galway Bay and the gift of second sight. The marriage had been considered a misalliance; the Irish were looked on as little more than uncouth savages by the French Creoles, those of French blood born on American soil. No one knew precisely what André Delacroix felt for the Irishwoman, but he had taken her to his plantation and had always treated her with kindness and honor.

It had not been enough. Mara's mother had soon discovered that her husband's deepest affections had been given, years before, to another woman. Angeline Fortin had been her name, and she had been taken from him under peculiar circumstances by a Balkan prince, Rolfe of Ruthenia, who had been visiting in Louisiana. When Mara was born, André, with unusual stubbornness, had insisted that Angeline in far-off Ruthenia be named as godmother to the child. Mara's mother had protested. The connection with Ruthenia would bring sorrow, she had insisted. André had remained adamant. In due course there had been the usual gifts of silver and lace from the woman who, by that time, ruled as queen of Ruthenia. There had also been unfailing gifts on Mara's birthdays through the years, with sometimes a note of great warmth and friendliness. But there had been no other contact.

Little by little, Maureen O'Connor Delacroix had retreated. She refused to come down when there were guests, never attended social occasions. She called her daughter Mara, instead of Marie Angeline, and because it was easier the servants and even her husband did the same. Gradually the lullabies she sang in Gaelic to her daughter ceased. She no longer intruded on the meals shared by father and daughter but ate in her room with a priest sometimes in attendance. She died quietly of a fever when Mara was ten, and she had hardly been missed.

Mara had grown up secure in the open adoration of her father and with the affection, guidance, and common sense of her grandmother. She rode on the plantation with André trotting behind him on a cream-colored pony, and followed behind Grandmère Helene in New Orleans, wearing a gown just like her grandmother's and a veil to protect her fair complexion, while buying for the household at the stalls of the French market. She had been installed in a convent school during a portion of each year until she was twelve so that though she was sometimes spoiled and willful, she also understood the value of self-discipline.

By the time she was fifteen, she had received three offers of marriage. André was in no hurry to see her wed, however, so had sent her to a finishing school in Mobile. There she had learned a thousand rules of etiquette, but also many arts, among them the agreeable one of flirtation. Until then she had not taken much notice of her effect upon the young men of her acquaintance, but, in practicing on the brothers, cousins, and friends who came to visit her fellow students, had found a heady sense of power in her own attraction. With lighthearted pleasure and a comfortable familiarity with men that she had learned in dealing with her own father, she had tried her hand at captivating the males who brought themselves to her notice.

When she returned to St. Martinville in the summer of 1844, the men swarmed around her like wasps to a ripening apple. Proud and indulgent, André placed no curb upon her. She did not pass the bounds of good behavior, but still she embarked on a constant round of rides, carriage drives, picnics, teas, and balls.

Before many weeks had passed she had collected a garden of bouquets, enough sonnets to her beauty to fill a volume, and so many cones and boxes of candy that her maid had gained pounds. There were any number of young men who had possessed themselves of one of her gloves, handkerchiefs, ribbons, or flowers from her hair, and it was rumored that at least two duels had been fought over her. One man emerged with his arm supported, most romantically, in a black silk sling. She never allowed a man to do more than kiss her fingers or put his hands on her waist when she dismounted from horse or carriage; still, the whispers began to circulate that she was far too at ease with gentlemen for her own welfare, that she was running wild and would come to no good end.

It made little difference. Even if Mara had known what was being said, she was having too much fun to consider the consequences. A year passed, two, and still she showed no indication of settling down. Finally, there came a reckoning.

Dennis Mulholland was one of her most persistent suitors. He was something of a firebrand, a touchy young man always spoiling for a fight. He had attended Jefferson Military College in Mississippi and spoke often of going off to join the army, which was involved in the border skirmishes taking place more and more often between the United States and Mexico. That was when he was not proposing marriage. He wanted to be possessive, but Mara, uncertain that he would make a suitable husband and mistrusting his ardor, kept him at arm's length. Though he danced well and rode better, he had a tendency to bring up the subject of the duels he had fought far too often, and to brag about his progress up and down notorious Gallatin Street in New Orleans when not among his elders.

It was a hot night in late May. Mara had planned a ball with a gold and blue color theme in the flowers and decorations, the favors, the programs, and the trimming of the ladies' ball gowns. It was a great success, with carriages lining the drive and extending into the road. The night was sultry and hot, however, with thunder in the air. The press of people made the ballroom stifling, airless. The musicians had played a set of fast dances ending with a polka. Mara whirled through them all, and could scarcely breathe due to the exertion and the tight lacing of her corsets. She was gasping, fanning herself near a window, when Dennis suggested a stroll.

His progress was not slow, however. He practically pulled her down the path to the summerhouse that sat wreathed in roses some distance from the main house. Once inside, he proposed yet again, though this time with greater force. The die was cast; he had joined the army and must report for duty, but before he went he wanted to make her his wife.

She tried to distract him by making some playful rejoinder. Incensed by her failure to take him seriously, he caught her in his arms and covered her face with kisses as he held her tightly to him. Her first reaction had been surprise, but it was quickly followed by real distress as she could not catch her breath. She pushed at him, but he would not release her, only muttering thickly about her damned coquettish ways that led a man on. A moment later she lost consciousness, feinting from lack of air in exactly the same boneless manner of the whey-faced females she had always despised.

The swoon had lasted no more than a minute or two, but when she opened her eyes she was lying on the floor and Dennis Mulholland's hand was under her skirts, groping at her thighs. He had been trying to loosen her stays, he claimed, but she did not believe him. Neither did her father, who came upon them before she could straighten her gown.

André Delacroix had been enraged, not the least reason being because he felt himself to blame. Most girls of Mara's age were already married with families, but he had kept her near him, discouraging any man who seemed too determined. Now he swore that the scoundrel who had dared to touch his daughter, who had compromised her with such impunity, would marry her or face his pistol at twenty paces.

Dennis was more than willing to be married; it was Mara who refused, who paced up and down alternately raging and pleading. In the end, she had her way, at least in part. There would be no wedding for the moment, but there would be a betrothal, and when Dennis returned from the war in Mexico they would be wed. She must make her mind up to it, for that was the way it would be.

Dennis had rode away, and though he had kissed Mara good-bye, his eyes had been hollow with the knowledge that she cared not at all for him. He had been killed in his first battle.

Everyone had been amazed at how her betrothal had subdued Mara's high spirits. Later they had watched with raised brows as she donned black for the death of her fiancé. There were those who said she was well paid for her flightiness, that she deserved to lose the man she loved, though others spoke of her Irish mother whom everyone knew had been unstable by both breeding and temperament. But as the weeks and months passed, and she grew daily paler and more withdrawn, their interest had turned to concern.

Mara had taken little notice. Day after day she sat staring out the window, often holding in her hand the letter she had received from Dennis saying that he cared not whether he lived or died if she did not love him. Guilt and remorse were weights she carried with her, dragging her down. She accused herself of being careless and self-centered. Her own emotions had been so little involved that she had not fully understood how deeply others could feel for her, how easily they could be aroused to commit acts of which they were bitterly ashamed. If she had realized, she would have been more careful, more restrained. Such thoughts were well enough, but they had come too late.

André, becoming alarmed at his daughter's state of mind, had sent for Mara's grandmother. Grandmère Helene had taken charge. A spritely and warmhearted woman with little regard for her increasing years, she had declared that Mara must accompany her to France. It had been ages since she had last made the voyage, and she longed to see Paris again. Too much for her? Nonsense! She was far from her dotage. They would visit relatives, attend the opera, absorb a bit of culture, but most of all they would patronize the modistes in order to banish the black and purple from Mara's wardrobe. The period of mourning was over; Mara must begin to live again.

Roderic, watching the flicker of emotion playing with the firelight over Mara's face, made an abrupt gesture. "There is a husband who will be anxious for your return? A lover?"

"No," she answered, her voice tight, then added, "at least, I don't think so."

"Ah, you don't think, but can virginity, like pregnancy, legitimacy, fidelity, prosperity, security, or liberty, be in doubt? Do you know if there is mother, father, or child waiting? Sister? Brother? Priest? Faithful maid? Lap dog? Is there no one who will mourn you if you don't return?"

"I can't say."

Her grandmother would not know where she was, what she was doing. Her grandmother who had brought her to Europe.

Paris had been everything Helene had promised, a place of grace and beauty and unbounded fascination. They had stayed with a distant cousin, an elderly woman of aristocratic habits and connections if rather reduced circumstances. When Helene was not tracing exhaustively the relationship of some elusive branch of the Delacroix family with their cousin, she and Mara had walked the streets of the city, crossing and recrossing the many bridges over the Seine. They had sampled the confections at the pastry shops, sipped cups of tea or coffee at the sidewalk cafés, stared at the antiques in the shops on the Left Bank, and searched out the houses where the famous and infamous had lived. They had duly visited the Louvre, strolling its endless galleries, admiring the paintings and sculpture they had only read about before, and promenaded in the gardens of the Tuileries, which were open to the public despite the fact that the Tuileries Palace was the official residence of King Louis Philippe.

These agreeable promenades had come to a halt following a visit to the fashionable modiste, Madame Palmyre. There had been time afterward for nothing except fittings and more fittings, or else shopping excursions for bonnets and shawls, gloves and whisper-light silk corsets and stockings from the shops on the rue de Richelieu. One of Mara's favorite purchases had been made at the Maison Gagelin where an assistant with a heavy English accent and the unlikely name of Worth had taken one look at her and brought out a shawl of a clear gray wool so finely woven it could be pulled through a wedding ring. It had been made for her alone, he had declared with fervor, and in truth it had made her skin appear as fine and delicate as porcelain and turned her eyes into pools of soft mystery.

With her wardrobe replenished, Mara and her grandmother had embarked on a round of entertainments: attending the opera, the Comédie Française; being fêted at dinners and balls kindly arranged by their hostess. It was at one of the latter that they had met Nicholas de Landes.

De Landes was an official of the court, serving in a minor capacity in the ministry of foreign affairs, though Mara had never discovered exactly what it was that he did. Slim and dark, with a close-trimmed mustache and beard, he had had the manners and breeding of a courtier of the ancien régime, and the same meaningless smile. He had declared himself enchanted to make the acquaintance of the ladies from Louisiana, once a much valued colony of France, and offered to do everything in his power to make their stay in Paris memorable.

Their Parisian cousin had warned them against him, saying that for all his airs he was merely of the petty bourgeoisie; his parents, the son of a notary and the daughter of a small landowner. He very much wished to rise higher; this was a known fact. Such obvious class consciousness had not impressed Mara and her grandmother. If anything, it had caused them to treat him with greater warmth, as if in compensation.

It would have been better if they had listened to their cousin. De Landes had introduced Mara's grandmother to one or two of the discreet gaming houses hidden away in the less fashionable districts of the city. Gaming was illegal within thirty miles of the city, but there were always those who would cater to so intriguing a pastime. At first the play had been exciting because it was forbidden and Helene had won small amounts, but by degrees it became an obsession. She lost more and more. De Landes acted as her banker, extending the loan of various sums and accepting her scribbled notes of hand in lieu of payment. Each morning after a disastrous night at the card tables Helene had vowed she would never return, but when night fell she could not seem to stay away. Mara, watching her, had been anxious, but had considered Grandmère Helene a reasonable woman, one with a firm grasp on the worth of money.

The morning had come when Nicholas de Landes had paid them a call. Though he was devastated to be forced to say such a thing to a lady, he could no longer support the gambling losses of Madame Helene Delacroix. She must repay what was owed to him with interest. He was sure there would be no difficulty since it was well known that the sugar planters of Louisiana commanded enormous wealth, and he knew that Madame's son would not fail to extend her the money, should she be temporarily embarrassed. The only question was how it was to be arranged.

Helene had been aghast at the total of her losses. How the sum could have mounted so high without her being aware of it, she was at a loss to explain. But there it was, neatly totaled day by day, an accumulated debt in excess of one hundred thousand francs. She did not have that much, or anything near it. Nor, she knew, did André.

The year of 1847 had seen a financial panic in the United States, and in the world, for that matter. The previous fall, a potato blight had destroyed one of the major food crops all over Europe, and unseasonably cold and wet weather had made the wheat harvest scanty. Now food was so scarce that prices had soared out of sight, and the French were calling it the Year of Dear Bread. André had been affected along with everyone else; he had, in fact, been forced to borrow against his next crop in order to find the cash to send them to Europe and to see Mara properly outfitted. With his finances already under such a strain, he would be forced to sell some portion of his holdings to meet this new debt, and that would take time.

De Landes was in no mood to wait. He required payment immediately. If it was not forthcoming, he would take drastic action. Madame would certainly not enjoy that, he promised.

Helene had been shocked at the ruthless mien that had been hidden under the façade of the courtier, but that was nothing compared to her agitation when he suggested in tones of implacable reason that if Helen could not find the money, her charming granddaughter might redeem her notes by doing a service for him. If Madame would permit, he would take Mademoiselle Delacroix for a short drive while he explained the matter to her.

The suggestion that de Landes had to make was so incredible, so insulting, that Mara had stared at him in disbelief. There was a Balkan prince who was being obstructive, he said. It would benefit de Landes and those with whom he was associated if this royal gentleman were to become susceptible to influence. In order to redeem her grandmother's notes, Mara would be required to seduce the troublesome prince, to become his mistress.

There had been a moment when she had not been able to speak, could not trust her voice, so great was her rage and indignation.

"Stop the carriage! Set me down at once!" When he did not comply, she reached for the handle of the carriage door.

He caught her wrist in a hard grasp, his fingers biting into her flesh. His tone smooth, but carrying a malicious undercurrent, he said, "To refuse is your prerogative, of course."

"I do refuse!"

"A hasty decision, and one far from wise. Before you give me your final answer, you should consider that accidents sometimes befall those who fail to pay their just gambling debts. The bones of elderly women such as your Grandmère Helene are so very fragile. Even a small mishap can have extremely painful--possibly even fatal--consequences."

Cold fear struck Mara, taking her breath. She sank slowly back against the seat. Her heart thudded in her chest as she gazed with sick comprehension into the narrow black eyes of the man beside her. He was, she thought, taking a peculiar pleasure in her apprehension. She moistened her suddenly dry lips.

"You are saying that if I don't do as you ask, you will harm Grandmère?"

"Crudely put but accurate. Her safety and comfort rests in your hands, my dear Mara. You must consider well."

It was blackmail, an ugly and sordid coercion, but it could not be fought. The authorities, as de Landes pointed out so reasonably, were unlikely to be interested in the difficulties of two American women, especially since illegal gambling was involved. And that was even if they could be brought to believe that he, in his official capacity, would offer so bizarre a proposal to a young female. She could apply to her elderly, aristocratic cousin for aid, but that lady would be no more able to prevent any accident that might happen than they were. Mara's father was far away, and she had no other male relatives who might come to her defense. It would be best if she resigned herself to the task, however unpleasant she might find it.

After two days of agonizing indecision, Mara had been forced to concede that he was right. She had no choice except to agree to de Landes's debasing demand.

It had not been possible to tell her grandmother what de Landes had proposed; Grandmère would have insisted on defying him and taking the risk. That could not be. The elderly woman, well past seventy, had aged years since her confrontation with de Landes. She had never seemed old to Mara, but now, almost before her eyes, she became frail and distracted, in need of care. Mara gave her grandmother to understand that she was expected to do no more than initiate a flirtation with the prince at some public function, then lead him to a rendezvous with de Landes's superior, François Guizot, the minister of foreign affairs and a favorite of King Louis Philippe.

Helene had fretted over the supposed assignment, but accepted the explanation at last. Affairs of state were often complicated, nearly impossible to untangle, and perhaps the favor was not so small as it seemed; indeed, it could not be since de Landes was willing to sacrifice such a sum to arrange it. She, Helene Delacroix, had little doubt that de Landes had known all along of their connection to the prince. She strongly suspected that he had enticed her into the gambling dens for exactly the end he had achieved.

Watching the clever way de Landes had persuaded her grandmother to act as his hostess for a house party at his chateau while leaving Mara behind to complete her mission, seeing the maneuvering and changing of carriages that had led the elderly cousin with whom she and Helene were staying to believe that Mara was going to the Loire Valley with her grandmother, Mara could only agree. The detailed instructions as to what she must say and do, which she had received on the long ride to the gypsy camp, and the violent way that ride had ended, had served to reinforce the impression.

There was no time to dwell upon what was done, however, for questions, as swift and lethal as an ambuscade of arrows, were hurtling around her.

"From whence did your carriage come? What was its color? How many horses, outriders? What folly caused you to be expelled? Was it lack of cooperation or too much? How came such beauty to be scorned? And where then is the fury? And the hell?"

The questions were directed with suspicion. That they were well founded did not prevent the rise of a feeling of ill-usage in Mara. "Doubtless," she said, sending the prince a flashing glance as she acknowledged the quote that had become a saw and traced it to its source, "in the same place as the rage of heaven."

"There are things, then, that you remember," Roderic said, his tone soft.

Mara stared into his bright blue gaze, refusing to look away. "So it would seem."

"How fortunate, otherwise you would be as a child again, wet, wiggling, and beguiling, as well as quite helpless..."

"Fortunate for you that I am not."

"Oh, I don't know. I might have enjoyed jogging you on my knee."

"A perilous undertaking, under the conditions you describe."

"You mean if you were wet?"

She had, of course, but it was disconcerting to be taken so literally, and with such an open and engaging, therefore dangerous, smile. She had been warned about the prince's penchant for games with words. He meant her to be disconcerted.

"It would be a natural condition," she said, her tone even.

The voice of the prince softened, lowered. "The man was a fool."

"What?"

"To discard you."

Mara felt something tighten inside her chest, but she refused to follow so obvious a lead. "It might have been a woman."

"Do you think so? An abbess, perhaps? But none would wish to be rid of such tender and easily sold merchandise. A jealous rival? She could have cut your throat as easily or else splashed vitriol here and there where it would do the most harm. A relative, perhaps, bent on discrediting you? But why? To destroy your good name and make you unfit for a proper bridegroom? Men can be such idiots about such things, as if a night in the dew mattered. Will it matter?"

"Oh, don't!" she exlaimed, swaying a little, frowning as tension caused her head to pound. "There is no need to mock me."

"I was thinking, instead, of sending you to your repose. It seems, above all, what you need."

Was that compassion she heard in his voice? She could not be sure. Repose, composure. No doubt he was right. She could not seem to think any longer. If she weren't careful, some unguarded remark would give her away. Her gaze shifted to the caravans drawn up around the fire, particularly to the one painted blue and white and decorated with scrolls of gold; one newer, neater, than the others.

"Where shall I sleep?" she asked, and began wearily to gather her cloak around her.

Roderic, hearing that simple question, caught his breath. The temptation to direct her to his caravan, his bed, was so great that he was startled into silence. Where had it come from, this sudden wave of desire for a bedraggled, injured female without a name? She was beautiful, but he had seen beautiful women before, had had more than his share of them. She intrigued him--not the least because the lilt of her voice and her choice of words were the same as those of his mother, easily recognizable as being of Louisiana--but women with mysterious pasts were ten per centime in Paris. No, it was something more, something indefinable, something of which he must be wary. Still, his caravan was the safest place.

Mara looked up and, seeing the blank, suspended expression on his face, felt her heart begin to pound. Inside her rose a terrible hope, and, just as wracking, a fear, that this seduction was going to be made easy. She felt a great need to reach out, to touch him, and knew with an instinctive certainty that it would be the right thing to do. The urge grew, burgeoning until she could not tell whether it was a mental and calculated desire or a real physical need. It made no difference. She could not force herself to move.

He surged to his feet, swinging away from her with the powerful grace of well-used muscles. His order sliced the night air with the feral quietness of a rapier blow. The music stopped. Men and women moved, gathering up rugs and pots and bowls and weapons, melting away from the fire, slipping away into the caravans or the encircling darkness. A young girl came and curtsied to Mara, taking her hand to lead her toward the blue and white caravan. Stiffly, Mara got to her feet to follow and would not turn to look back.

The prince stood alone beside the leaping flames, his expression grim. Then, with controlled movements, he lowered himself once more to the pile of rugs that were left. He picked up the mandolin and began to pluck out a tune.

Mara, catching the melody as she stepped into the caravan, stopped still. Torn between amusement, anger, and a strange feeling of being near tears, she had to force herself to move again. Mocking in its sweetness, haunting and delicate, the song the prince played was a lullaby.