What Wild Moonlight (36 page)

It was nothing compared to what they had experienced before. Just a mere whisper of a kiss—a light brushing of his lips against hers that left her aching for more and remembering everything they had shared in the past. Longing. Surrender. Rapture. How was it possible, she thought? Given everything she suspected him of, how could she still feel anything? Yet she did. With every fiber of her being.

The DuValentis are a merciless clan, not to be trusted at any cost. They are fierce in battle and swift to revenge. They will do anything to get their hands on the Stone.

The words echoed through her mind but the warning rang empty. It was too late. Is this what Sacha had felt? she wondered dimly. Had Marco had the same effect on Sacha that Nicholas had on her? Did the mere scent of his skin, the sound of his voice, the feel of his touch stir something within her that she had never felt before? Perhaps this explained why she had yielded so willingly to her fate.

“I have a favor to ask of you,” he said.

Apprehension coursed through her. “Yes?”

Nicholas lifted his hand and displayed a delicate gold necklace adorned with a small, glistening white rose carved from mother-of-pearl. “Of all the jewels my family possesses,” he said, “this simple piece has always been my favorite. It belonged to my mother. It would do me great honor if you would wear it tonight.”

Katya nodded wordlessly, fighting back a rush of bittersweet sentiment as he bent forward and fastened the clasp about her neck.

Once the necklace was secure he studied her for a moment in silence, his eyes glowing with a deep, satisfied emotion she couldn’t begin to define Was it possession she read in his gaze, or something darker? Before she could speak, he reached forward and brushed his fingers over the chain. A ghost of a smile curved his lips as he traced the shallow path of the delicate gold. “A primitive way of marking one’s conquests,” he mummered, almost as though to himself. Then he straightened and intoned politely, “If you’re ready, the coach is waiting.”

She searched his eyes, seeking some deeper meaning behind the necklace, but his gaze was unfathomable. “I’m ready,” she replied.

As they stepped out into the courtyard and made their way to the coach, a strong, hot wind buffeted her skirts. The Mistral was at its height, she noted. It seemed appropriate somehow that the weather should be at its most savage. She wanted the climate to reflect her emotions. Thunder and lightening, vicious rains and howling winds. Landslides.

Once she and Nicholas were seated inside, the groomsmen pulled the coach smoothly out of the drive, moving down the steep slope that led to the principality. She had always found the gentle rocking and swaying of his coach deeply soothing. But now it seemed as though every motion, every jarring bump and rolling turn, was designed to put her body in contact with his—to force their knees to brush or their hands to touch. His presence seemed all-engulfing. No matter how she tried to divert her thoughts, he was all she was aware of.

“You’re awfully quiet,” he said, breaking the silence that had been between them. “What are you thinking?”

Katya forced a small smile. “Just listening to the wind,” she replied automatically, lifting her shoulders in a light shrug.

“The Mistral.” He nodded in understanding. “I believe it’s at its peak. It should be subsiding in a day or two.”

“I see.” She turned and stared out the window, watching as the strong winds buffeted the cypress and pine that spread across the landscape. She returned her gaze to Nicholas, studying him through the dimness of the moonlit interior. Once again she noted the faint expression of pensive, almost pained resolve that was reflected on his chiseled features. “You’re quiet as well,” she remarked softly. “What are you thinking?”

He was silent for a long moment. Finally he replied, “I’m thinking how little I knew my father.” He arched one brow and finished dryly, “Not that that’s a complaint, mind you. Merely an observation.”

Uncertain where the conversation was leading, Katya merely nodded.

“The Comtesse spoke to you about the woman my father had been in love with, didn’t she?” he asked.

“She did.”

“I can’t help but wonder if it would have made any difference had Richard known.”

“You don’t think he might have suspected?”

“No, never,” he replied with certainty. “Neither did I. Yet in hindsight it makes perfect sense. Duty and sacrifice. For as long as I can remember it has been drummed into my head that nothing was more important than preserving our family legacy. But I never suspected what lengths my father would go to do so.” He paused and shook his head as his fingers ran absently over the blade of his dirk. “I suppose none of us truly know what we’re capable of until we’re put to the test.”

His words caused a shiver to run down her spine. Aware that her emotion would show on her face, Katya turned away, staring blindly out the window as they descended from the Tete du Chien and entered the bustling traffic of the principality. Fortunately Nicholas seemed as disinclined to further conversation as she was, and heavy silence once again filled the coach.

She watched as revelers dressed in medieval garb spilled out into the streets, gaily drinking and dancing and calling out merry insults to one another. Vendors pushed carts selling roasted meats on a spit, coarse breads, and candied fruits. Jugglers, musicians, and troubadours wandered about, performing on street corners and inside cafes. From the appearance of the crowds, it looked as though all of Monaco had turned out to celebrate the taming of the
Tarasque
. Although Katya had no interest in the festival, it gave her a point of focus, something other than Nicholas on which to direct her attention.

“It’s amazing, isn’t it?” he remarked after a few minutes.

“Quite,” she managed.

As she stared into the bustling crowds, her thoughts turned to the conversation she had had days ago with Monsieur Chatelain. A tall man with a hound-dog face, stooped shoulders, and an air of infinite sadness, he looked as though he expected nothing but the worst from mankind and was rarely disappointed. He had listened patiently as Katya had related her involvement with Nicholas and the events that had occurred since her arrival in Monaco, occasionally interrupting her to ask pointed questions, or steering her politely back on course when she strayed off the facts.

She had almost expected—almost hoped—he would tell her that her suspicions were ludicrous and that she was behaving like an excitable child. Instead, after examining her parents’ water tank and the silver bowl she had used the night she had been injured onstage, he had calmly informed her that her instincts were probably correct and that she truly was in danger. Until he and his men were able to unveil the person behind her mishap at the theater, he advised her to carry on as she normally did, acting as though nothing were amiss.

It had been his opinion that if another “accident” were to happen, it would likely happen tonight, while they were surrounded by throngs of people. As rich and powerful as Nicholas was, even he could not risk the suspicions that would arise if Katya were to fall victim to a fatal accident while at his villa. Too many questions would be raised—particularly after Allyson Whitney’s disturbing death in London.

Suppressing a shudder, Katya returned her attention to Nicholas as the coach rolled to a smooth stop in the Fontvieille, one of the principality’s oldest sections. As she exited the coach, she noted that the entrance to what was normally an open market square had been somewhat blocked by the placement of two huge towers and an elaborate drawbridge—obviously constructed to resemble the entrance to a medieval castle. A group of men dressed as knights of the Crusade stood guard, allowing entrance only to those who held invitations. Rows of seashells filled with olive oil and single burning candlewicks lined both sides of the walk, gently illuminating the entrance.

Katya gazed about her in wonder. The square had been transformed into a bustling medieval keep. In one corner, knights paired off, displaying their prowess with swords. In another corner a cluster of peasant women spun wool into yarn. She saw hunters and horsemen, milkmaids, shepherds and plowmen, farcical court jesters and obsequious courtiers, queens and fishwives, lowly serfs and haughty nobles. A beautiful maiden paraded serenely through the grounds atop a gentle white mare whose forelock bore the single horn of a unicorn. Children scampered and played underfoot, pigs and goats rooted through piles of straw for scraps of food. If not for the grim circumstances that had brought her here, the setting would have captivated her entirely.

As she scanned the crowds, her attention was caught by a rather stoic-looking friar who stood alone. Monsieur Chatelain was not by nature a jolly man. He looked even more pained and conspicuous than usual standing in a crowd of boisterous celebrants. Although her gaze momentarily fixed on him, he was professional enough to look right past her, displaying the same level of interest in her that one might show toward a fence post. But his presence and that of his men was reassuring nonetheless.

Remembering Chatelain’s advice that she act as though nothing at all were amiss, she turned to Nicholas and placed her hand on his forearm, asking in a tone of false brightness, “Is there anyone in particular you would like me to target this evening?”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Is there anyone you would like me to check for the scroll?”

“Ah, yes. The scroll.” His tone sounded slightly distant, as though he were speaking more to himself than to her. Then he met her gaze and smiled softly. It wasn’t the lazy, sexy sort of smile she was used to receiving from him, however. It was more the blank sort of smile one might give while exchanging empty pleasantries with a stranger.

“Come,” he said. “The tournament is about to begin.”

He placed his hand on the small of her back and guided her toward a large field overlooking the harbor. As they neared, Katya heard the blare of trumpets, followed by the low mummer of an excited crowd. Banners fluttered in the strong breeze. Large tents had been set up to encircle the field, beneath which were gathered Monaco’s most distinguished citizenry, all dressed in an exquisite variety of medieval finery.

Nicholas paused at a table to retrieve two chalices brimming with spiced wine and passed one to her. They made their way into the crowd and watched as the jousting commenced. In a magnificent display of thirteenth-century pomp and pageantry, two men outfitted as warrior knights mounted their powerful steeds, lowered their lances and shields, then charged each other at full speed. The audience collectively held its breath as the charge ended in the center of the field in a brutal clash of armament.

Although the spectacle was impressive, it did not hold Katya’s attention. Nor, she sensed, was Nicholas entirely captivated. A restless energy seemed to consume him, just as it did her. From time to time his fingers moved to the dirk and leather pouch that hung suspended from his belt, as though reassuring himself that the items were still there.

Once the jousting had ended they moved across the grounds to watch a display of crossbow and archery. Then on to exhibits of medieval candlemaking, dyeing of wool, and falconry. They watched jugglers and acrobats perform feats of great daring and skill, listened to a medieval choir, sampled grilled meats that had been dusted with cinnamon and curry, and witnessed a spectacular demonstration of swordsmanship. But despite the remarkable quality of the exhibits, Katya could see that Nicholas was no more interested than she. Like her, he seemed to be moving mechanically from display to display as though it were nothing but a chore that must be accomplished.

At length they reached a wooden stage that had been constructed near the grounds that overlooked the harbor. A group of minstrels, dressed in multihued jackets with peacock feathers bobbing from their caps and bells strung about their ankles, stood on an elevated platform above the stage. They called out to the passing crowds, beckoning their audience to draw closer. As soon as a sufficient number had gathered they lifted their instruments and commenced playing a merry tune, filling the air with the sounds of their lutes and viols, lyres and tambours. A group of dancers stepped onstage and swung about in a festive, whirring dance as the audience clapped along.

Once the music ended the dancers stepped back and the minstrels struck up a new tune. A sweet, haunting melody floated out over the crowd. A troubadour moved to the center of the stage and began to sing, telling the story of a wandering knight who had lost his lady love. The final lilting notes of the song drifted away, but the musicians continued to play as dancers once again took the stage. But this time there was no merriment in their movements. Their bodies swayed in time to the melody in a graceful, almost hypnotic series of twists and turns. After a moment the dancers gestured for a few members of the audience to join them onstage.

To Katya’s astonishment, Nicholas immediately placed his hand on her elbow and propelled her toward the stage. “Come,” he said. “Let us show all of Monaco that the Lord of Barrington and his lady are in attendance.”

As Nicholas generally preferred to remain in the background, the move was very unlike him. Then again, Katya remembered the first ball they had attended together. He had been determined to make them both as conspicuous as possible. For whatever reason, this seemed his intention once again.

As they reached the platform he swept the indigo cape over his shoulder and wrapped one arm around the small of her waist, then grasped her hand in his. Katya’s body pressed against his as they swayed in time to the minstrel’s melancholy tune. The troubadour softly resumed his song, telling the wistful story of love and loss. Following the lead of the performers who remained onstage, Nicholas guided her through the dance, executing a series of sweeping motions that drew them near then pulled them apart.

Until then, Katya had managed to keep her feelings tightly in check, maintaining a polite, cordial distance between her and Nicholas. But now she discovered just how fragile were the walls she had put up. She couldn’t say whether it was the words of the song that were her emotional undoing, or the fact that she was once again in Nicholas’s arms. All she knew was that her resolve to remain aloof was shattered.