CHAPTER TWELVE
“You know who wrote it?” Darias’s voice was gruff with urgency.
“Someone who knows medieval French literature. It’s from an epic poem written by a little-known monk called LeBrec.”
“And this is the exact wording?”
“More or less. A little is lost in translation to English. I suppose they wanted to make sure the message didn’t get lost on someone without a command of medieval French.”
“How do you recognize it?” Darias looked suspicious.
“I was educated at a very ancient French boarding school. This kind of thing was standard reading for us.”
“I thought you were from the Middle East?”
Gibran shrugged. “It’s a long story. I am the illegitimate son of a king who wished to be rid of me. I was also in the French foreign legion. But this note tells us a few things. It’s written by someone educated, versed in history.”
“Is it connected to the secret society, the Cross of Blood? I believe it has its roots in France.”
“As does your family. The Leone line is descended from Charlemagne, king of the Franks.”
“Yes, illegitimate descendants, like yourself. But he granted my ancestors the territory that became Altaleone.”
“Your family has had many rivals over the centuries.”
“Of course.”
“Recently?”
“The days of broadswords and bloodshed are long over. Our rivals now are competitors in the fine wine industry and the diamond trade, or rival investors. My family has made most of its fortune in recent decades from speculative venture capital projects.”
“Is there one rival that stands out?”
“There is one thorn in our side. The Aldobrando family has long laid claim to a large lake along our western border. Their argument holds no water, of course.”
“Unlike the lake,” Emma couldn’t resist joking. This whole situation made her so tense she was almost shaking.
Both men turned to stare at her. Darias’s stern expression softened into a smile. “Indeed. It’s a beautiful lake, and I suspect they would like to develop it. Their estates lie close by but they lost access to the lake in the fifteenth century, when their ancestor paid it as a gambling debt.”
Emma lifted her brows. “You’d think five centuries would be enough time to get over it.”
Darias shook his head. “Five centuries is nothing to the aristocracy of Europe. And Lorenzo Aldobrando is a sharp-minded speculator. He’s tried several times to obtain a lease on the old summer palace on the lake.” Darias frowned, then stared hard at Emma. “Which—possibly not coincidentally—is the palace where the murders took place.”
Gibran blew out.
Emma’s brain raced. “Maybe he was hoping that the murders would destabilize the family and devalue the property enough that he could get it cheap, then possibly buy the land.”
Darias shrugged. “That seems a bit drastic for a property investment.”
“Is Aldobrando involved in this secret society?” asked Gibran
“I don’t know yet, but I think we have our first real suspect.”
Darias and Emma lay next to each other in bed that night, her alternately fretting about how to lay her hands on her contract with Darias and how to interpret the odd verse, and Darias poring over an age-stained nineteenth-century copy of the old French text that had been unearthed on a high shelf in the palace library. “But battle brings the sound of thunder. What the hell does that mean?”
“Cannons?”
“This was written in 1242. They didn’t have cannons. At least I don’t think so.”
“Thundering hooves?”
Emma was trying to pick up some basic French vocabulary by reading a language website on her phone. She felt very useless. And hated herself for noticing how powerful Darias’s fingers were as they stroked the smooth pages of the old book. Did she have no conscience?
“Look at this.” He beckoned her to come closer. She braced herself before leaning close enough to inhale his intoxicating scent. “The next line is something like, ‘Distracted by a maiden fair, the king will lose his all.’” He frowned. “Okay, that doesn’t really rhyme. I’m no linguist.”
“Do you think the person who wrote that note intended you to read the book and see what happens?”
“Sure. Wouldn’t anyone?” His brown eyes rested on hers. “A maiden fair.” His mouth softened. “That’s you.”
She held herself stiffly a few inches from him, not wanting to be too rude when he needed her to see the book, but hoping he wouldn’t sense her attraction.
“I do hope I’m not being a distraction to you.”
“Well…” His soft gaze fell to her mouth. “I won’t say my thoughts haven’t wandered to consider all the things we haven’t been doing.”
She swallowed, as her lips responded to his stare. “They think you’re distracted by being madly in love with me. Of course they couldn’t be more wrong.” She lifted her chin, hoping she sounded convincing. And why wouldn’t she? She knew Darias wasn’t in love with her and so did he.
“I think we’ve presented a very convincing front to the world. Enough to baffle my enemies.” He laid the book on the covers and shifted so that his gorgeous bare torso turned toward her.
She shrank away from him a bit. It was hard not to look at his muscled chest. Why couldn’t he wear a pajama top like he had before?
“Either you’re a very good actress…” He lifted a hand and stroked her cheek. “Or you’re as attracted to me as I am to you.”
“I’m a terrible actress.” She’d been trying to hide her feelings, not exaggerate them. Could he really see right though her? How embarrassing. “I’m just trying to do my job here and not overstep my bounds. I’m glad you think I’ve been doing okay.”
“Okay? You’ve been magnificent. My whole family has fallen in love with you.”
Except you.
“I’m not so sure that Beatriz loves me. I think she’s still rather suspicious.”
“That’s her nature. She has my best interests at heart. But I don’t want to talk about Beatriz.” His hand still rested on her cheek, which now burned under its warmth. Her nipples thickened, and her heart beat so loud she could almost hear it. Adrenaline rushed through her, and she half wanted to leap from the bed and run from the room.
The other half of her wanted to—
Before she had time to finish her thought, Darias leaned in and kissed her firmly and forcefully on the lips.
Oh, no. The thought forced its way through her consciousness, as her body said, Oh, yes, and pushed itself into Darias’s warm embrace.
She twisted toward him and her arms wove into his without her consent, pulling him close until her breasts bumped against his chest.
Oh, yes.
The kiss deepened, his tongue slipping gently inside her lips, sparking arousal that thrilled every inch of her. She could feel one of his big hands sliding over her torso, past her waist, to gently cup her backside under the sheet. Her skin sizzled under his claiming touch.
His chest rose against hers, as if he were drinking in the scent of her as he drew her tighter into his arms. Her fingers reached up into his thick, soft hair, touched the firm line of his jaw and traced the powerful curve of his shoulder.
Oh, no.
She felt her heart open with all the emotions she felt for this man who’d put his own needs and desires aside to fulfill his duty to his family and his country. She’d fallen half in love with him the day she met him and knew him only as a talented artist. What she’d seen and learned since had only made her fall harder.
This would burn like fire when he grew tired of her and moved on.
At last their lips parted enough for her to gasp for air and try to cool the fevered rush of desire flooding through her.
“Emma, my Emma. I had no idea what I was getting myself into when I made my unromantic proposal to you.” He inhaled deeply, pushing a lock of hair back from her shoulder. “I thought I was a man in control of my desires, but being so close to you—sharing a bed with you—has driven me half mad.”
Me, too.
She didn’t want to confess it. Better to keep her feelings to herself until she knew where this was going.
“I promised myself that I wouldn’t seduce you. That I’d keep things calm and cool between us, but I’m only human and I’ve failed in my quest.”
His eyes sparkled with familiar mischief. Obviously, he wasn’t beating himself up too hard over his lapse. “I made the mistake of choosing a woman far too beautiful to be only a pretend lover.”
His gaze roamed over her face, and she felt color rise to her cheeks under his warm appraisal. “I want to paint you.”
She stared. Most men would say, “I want to make love to you.” Darias wasn’t most men. “Do you have painting supplies here?”
“Of course. I have a studio set up on the top floor.” He took her hand, ready to tug her gently from beneath the sheets.
“Now? It’s after midnight.”
“An enchanted time.”
Butterflies stirred in her stomach. Letting him paint her would be safer than letting him make love to her. At least until she got her mind in the right place and reminded herself that this kiss didn’t mean he was falling in love with her.
He climbed from the bed, gorgeous in the half-light, and tugged on some clothes, then grabbed her silk robe and handed it to her.
“What if someone sees us?”
“What if they do? Would it be so strange for me to take my gorgeous wife up to my studio to immortalize her?”
His words tugged at something deep inside her. She had to remind herself that one kiss didn’t mean theirs had suddenly become a real marriage. He’d married her to avoid a tiresome lifetime commitment.
He took her hand and led her along the dimly lit corridors. The palace was so quiet at this time of night, though she knew security guards stood outside.
Of course that would be no protection if the enemy was inside the palace.
The tall doorways and high sconces cast long shadows in the hallways, giving the whole scene a mysterious air. “Are you afraid of the killer?” She looked around her, wondering if it was foolish to wander around in the dark.
“Being afraid won’t do me any good. I need to use my brain to unravel the mystery. Painting gives me my best moments of clarity.”
They climbed a staircase she’d never seen before, up to the third floor, where silent hallways led them to another staircase. “I didn’t realize the palace had more than three floors.”
“The upper attic is hidden behind a parapet wall and can’t be seen from the outside. It used to be divided into fifty tiny servants’ rooms. We don’t need that many these days, because of washing machines and fridges and cars—plus staffers want to live in their own homes—so my mom had them knocked together into a big studio.” At the top of the stairs he keyed in a code and a low doorway opened into darkness. Darias switched on the light to reveal a large, low-ceilinged space lined with half-finished canvases.
“How have you found time to paint?”
“I haven’t. Some of these are from years ago.”
She looked around at the canvases, several of them contained shadowy half-painted images of women. Her predecessors. She was only one in a long line of girls to grace Darias’s canvases.
“Why don’t you come sit on this chair?” A gilt chair, probably an eighteenth-century original, sat in the middle of the room. He pulled a sheet from a trunk and draped it over the chair. Which was good, as probably a number of naked women had sat on that brocade-covered seat.
“I suppose you want me to take my clothes off.”
“Please.” He was preoccupied with squeezing some paint onto an easel, as if he could care less whether she was naked or not.
She took off her robe and pajamas and placed them in an awkward pile on the floor, then sat gingerly—totally self-conscious—on the chair. “How would you like me to sit?”
“Whatever feels natural. No need to pose. You can move if you like. As you know, I am more interested in painting your essence than the angles and curves of your body.”
“You’re the only representational artist at Keane Moss. Usually, he’s all about enigmatic installations and cryptic word art.”
Darias laughed. “I know. Representational painting is very old fashioned. In-the-know people say I only get away with it because I’m a prince.” He winked, sending a shimmer of heat to her core. “Perhaps they’re right. I don’t care.”
“Your paintings are beautiful. When you paint women, they always look powerful and intriguing.” That was intimidating to think about. She didn’t feel very powerful or interesting.
“I just paint what I see. And if people want to buy them and hang them in their living rooms, that’s fine with me.” His self-deprecating expression was adorable. “I’ve always loved painting. It’s my way of escaping into my own world, where no one expects anything of me.”
“Even now that you’re famous and people are waiting for your paintings?”
“All that goes right out of my head when I pick up a brush.” He rolled up his shirt sleeves, revealing strong forearms. She blinked. The memory of that hot kiss made her lips tingle.
“You’re lucky. I don’t think many people have that kind of escape.”
He flipped through a stack of stretched canvases, pulled out a large one already washed with a ghostly gray-brown and fastened it to a big easel. He squeezed some dark paint onto a palette, pulled a brush from a big jar, then stood in front of the canvas and looked right at her.
His hot gaze traveled over her like a searchlight, making her nipples tighten and her skin shiver. “I’m feeling self-conscious,” she admitted. She probably shouldn’t talk. Maybe he needed to concentrate. It didn’t seem fair that he wore clothes and she was naked. But if you took that thought further, it wasn’t fair that he was a wealthy prince and she was—
She wasn’t even sure anymore. Not a teacher. Not a student. Not even a daughter, now that her mom was gone. She was still sister to Jonas, the true reason she’d ended up here.
The canvas was angled so she could watch the deft movements of his hands across its surface, sketching the outlines of her body and shapes of the imaginary landscape he drew around her.
She wondered if this painting would end up on the wall of Keane Moss and whether her former boss would recognize her. It seemed presumptuous to suggest that. Maybe this one would just be buried in his archive.
“What do you dream of?” he asked, suddenly.
“Uh, I have a lot of anxiety dreams. I’m waiting for the PATH train and it’s not coming, that kind of thing.”
He laughed. “Not that kind of dream. What kinds of goals and aspirations do you have?”
She hesitated. “Well, I always wanted to be a teacher. I had some really good ones when I was young. I’ve dreamed of owning a house, but obviously I’m years away from that. I always wanted to travel, but honestly I never had any practical plans to do so. I was too busy working and saving and studying.”
“And now you’ve traveled to another country.” His dark gaze roamed over her body. “To live.”
“I guess you never know what’s around the corner. Well, unless you’re born a prince and you grow up knowing you’re going to be king and live in a palace.” She tried to sound teasing.
“My dad was supposed to rule next. I had no plans to be back here so soon.” His rueful expression tugged at her heart. “No one really knows what life has in store.”
Especially when there’s a murderer hiding somewhere in the shadows.
“Do you think the murderer wanted to lure you back here for some reason?”
“Certainly a possibility.” He frowned, but his attention was on the painting. “I’m watching my back, along with all the armed guards we hired. I do wonder if the coronation will flush them out. Do they want me to be crowned king, or do they seek to prevent it?”
Anxiety spiked in her gut. She didn’t want to admit that she was scared for him.
“Either way, I won’t be hiding in the shadows. I welcome the opportunity to draw them out into the open.”
Darias obviously liked to talk while he painted. They discussed art and music and shared their favorite movies, while he sketched and shaded. She couldn’t see much of the image from where she sat, but she’d seen enough of his paintings—which, while representational, were fairly monotone and abstract—to imagine what it must look like.
He painted in a muscular style, with broad, bold sweeps, and she loved watching his body move.
He’d kissed her. She got a weird rush of sensation and emotion every time she thought of it. Would he kiss her again?
Probably. Darias wasn’t a man to leave something half finished.
“It’s four A.M.,” he said, at last. “I think we should go back to bed.”
Her insides quivered. Surely they wouldn’t lie in bed, each firmly rooted on their side of the mattress, now that they’d shared that kiss and he’d sketched her naked form onto a huge canvas?
If they did, though, she resolved not to be too disappointed.
He lifted her robe off the floor and held it while she slid her arms in. Of course her nipples stood to attention in his presence. He tied the sash around her waist, then slid his arms around her. Heat flashed through her as he lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her with fierce intensity.
Colors and lights flashed behind her eyes while their tongues moved together.
“Damn, you have no idea how badly I’ve been wanting to do that.”
“While you were painting me.”
“And before.” He stroked her cheek. “You have no idea how much self-control I’ve exercised over the past weeks.”
Me, too. But she didn’t dare admit it. Better to keep her feelings to herself so he didn’t feel pressured. “It has been strange sleeping together but not touching.”
“Let’s sleep together touching tonight.” His eyes were dark with passion. His hands roamed over her body through the thin robe. “If we can make it back to our room first. My personal situation is becoming explosive.”
She glanced at his crotch and saw his erection straining against the zipper of his black jeans. A smile tugged at her mouth. There was something exciting about knowing she had this kind of effect on him. “We’d better hurry.”
They left the studio, and he turned off the lights and locked the door. They crept back through the empty corridors, trying to keep their footfalls silent on the stairs and the shiny marble floors. Their stealthy movements made her nervous. “If someone sees us sneaking around like this, they might shoot first and ask questions later. We should probably be talking loudly,” she whispered.
There was no need to hide their midnight tryst. If anything, it made their relationship more believable.
“Somehow it’s sexier this way. And I want to keep my painting of you private. For my eyes only.” His eyes roved over her, sparking heat under her skin.
At last they reached the bedroom, and she was almost giggling with excitement and anticipation.
Until they opened the door.