The Rebel King

Chapter 4

Word of honor. My honor.

Nikolas lay awake, listening to those words whisper in his mind like ghost voices in an empty castle. The words had meant something, once. So had the words of the man who raised him, the man who had been like a father to him. The man who had taught him all he knew about honor. About duty. About love of country.

And hatred of tyrants. Hatred of kings in particular, and of one king. Henry Weston of Silvershire, specifically.

Silas Donovan. The man's face flashed before his mind's eye like a slide show on fast forward, in all the ways he'd come to know it in his thirty years. True, it was a hard face in many ways, austere and forbidding, with a mouth that seldom smiled and eyes that often glittered with the light of fanaticism. The man Nik had called simply Uncle had never been warm or affectionate, or even particularly kind. And yet, in his way, he'd been good to Nikolas. Among many other things. Silas had taught him strength, discipline and a willingness to sacrifice and dedicate his life to a cause greater than himself. He had taught him so well, in fact, that Nikolas couldn't remember a time in his life when he'd ever been free of the burden of responsibility Silas had placed on his shoulders. A time when he'd been allowed to be just a lad: young, carefree, with a whole world of bright possibilities to explore.

Word of honor. My honor.

But what value could there be in either his word or his honor when the basis for both was a lie?

It was hard for Nikolas to explain, even to himself, why he wasn't yet ready to return to Silvershire to deal with the catastrophic changes in his life. There was a part of him that still clung desperately to the hope that it was all an awful mistake, that at the very least there was some kind of explanation for how his DNA and Henry Weston's could be a close match- distant relatives, perhaps"? But in his heart, he knew there was no mistake; as Rhia had pointed out, DNA doesn't lie. The only thing left for him to do now was accept this new reality, and try to think how it affected his future, both immediate and long range.

No small task.

For one thing, there were the questions looping through his mind, flitting in and out among the images of Silas Donovan's face, most of which he couldn't even pin down, much less find answers to.

He needed time. Just a bit more time.

Nikolas turned his head toward the small pile of clothing that had been left carelessly draped over the back of the couch, only a shadowy wrinkle in the darkness, but he caught a whiff of that faint feminine aura that seemed so familiar to him. After a moment he reached out a hand and idly stroked the butter-soft leather jacket with a finger, and smiled grimly to himself in the darkness. Sorry, luv. I hope you'll understand…one day.

Rhia had never considered herself a particularly sensual person, and certainly not indolent. Yet. when she came slowly awake in a feather-soft bed to the smell of coffee and the sweet and gentle warmth of a hand caressing her forehead, she wanted only to snuggle down and wallow in the pleasure of it. like a cat in a puddle of sunshine.

He's here. He kept his word. She told herself she'd never doubted he would.

Two things happened then. Memories of the events of the night before hit in an all-out sensory barrage, and at almost the same moment, she felt firm, velvety lips brush hers. Her breath hitched and her lips parted, almost without her knowing, and then she was sinking…helplessly drowning in a deep, intoxicating whirlpool of desire.

She couldn't help herself…her body wasn't hers to govern. Of its own volition it arched and curled and lifted…outposts like fingers and toes tingled as blood abandoned them to rush to more exciting, throbbing places. Her hands ventured from their blanket-cocoon…reached…found his…and her fingers spread wide to allow the erotic slide of his fingers between hers-even those ordinary places now suddenly so sensitized his touch there made her moan.

He lifted his head, and hers lifted, too. following his mouth, not wanting to let it go. His chuckle stopped her-and the fact that his hands were holding her captive, pressed into the pillow above her head. She collapsed back into the pillow, panting slightly, trying to focus her eyes, and finally mumbled. "What in the hell was that?"

His lips pressed a smile to hers. "What, haven't you ever been kissed awake before?"

"Not by a prince." She smiled lazily at him through the curtain of her lashes…knowing she shouldn't. Knowing full well she was flirting with a smiling tiger.

She became aware, all at once, of the strength in the hands that imprisoned hers. She squirmed in a testing way and murmured. "Do I smell coffee?"

His eyes rested on her, dark and benign…and so close she could see the twin images of her own tiny self reflected in them. "You do. I've brought you a tray-breakfast, actually."

She watched him narrowly, while her heartbeat rocked her breasts against his chest, against the crisp white shirt he wore. "You didn't have to do that. I need to get up anyway."

"Well, luv, that's not quite true. You see-" he lowered his mouth to hers, and she responded to him as she had before, opened to him even as her mind's sleeping sentinels were finally waking up and sounding the first confused alarms "-you aren't going to be going anywhere for a while, I'm afraid."

She uttered a muffled howl of outrage and began to squirm and writhe in earnest, but the alarms had come too late. Helpless against his greater strength, she felt cold steel around her wrist, and heard a sound she knew all too well-the click of handcuffs locking. She gave her imprisoned arm one furious yank, an entirely futile move, since the other end of the handcuffs was securely fastened to the iron framework of the bed. She lay still, then, seething and glaring up at Nikolas, who was sitting beside her now, placidly smiling-though still holding her uncuffed wrist as a precaution, she surmised, in case she tried to claw his eyes out.

"Please tell me," she said through tightly clenched teeth, "those aren't my handcuffs?"

He shrugged, grinned-had the nerve to try to look endearing. And almost pulled it off. having that unmistakable just-showered and -shaved look she normally found irresistible. And dammit, he did smell so good…

"Well, they were there, you see-that's quite an interesting belt you have, by the way-most enlightening, really- and since it didn't seem likely you'd be using them in the near future…well, how could I resist?"

"Fine," she said, glowering at him as she twisted her un-cuffed wrist experimentally in his grasp, "you've had your fun, now get this thing off me."

His smile would have been devastatingly attractive if ithadn't been so damn-there was no other word for it-smug. He made scolding noises with his tongue. "Now, now, clever girl that you are. I'm quite certain you know that isn't going to happen. Not right away, at any rate. I did try to tell you I needed a bit more time before I'd be ready to go back to Silvershire. I know you have your job to do as well. This seemed the best way to solve the problem-from my perspective, at least."

"You can't seriously be thinking of just leaving me here. Like this. You wouldn't." Sheer disbelief kept any traces of fear out of her voice. The implications, the possibilities didn't bear thinking about.

Nikolas looked genuinely shocked. "No, of course I wouldn't. Well-not indefinitely. Not even for very long, actually. Just until the cleaning lady shows up." He shot the shirtsleeve cuff on his free arm and glanced at his watch. "Should be here in about…two hours. I imagine. When she arrives, tell her the key to the handcuffs is on the kitchen table. That should give me enough of a headstart, I think. Well, sorry, luv, but I must be off."

He started to get up-then, almost as an afterthought, leaned down and kissed her instead. Not a quick farewell smack, either, but a long…leisurely…lingering…completely devastating reminder of how lovely his lips felt, how talented his tongue was, how completely powerless she was to prevent her body from responding to their touch. She tingled and tickled and burned in all her most vulnerable places. She wanted to sob with frustration, to scream with fury. But when he released her from that terrible torture and rose at last, she was so shaken that for a moment she couldn't utter a sound.

"Au revoir-enjoy your breakfast." he said softly, and left.

She sucked in air and found her voice. "Nikolas-damn you!" She held her breath and listened so hard her head hummed, but all she heard was his retreating footsteps. "Okay, I'm not allowed to kill you." she screamed after him. "but I promise you I will find a hundred ways to make your life a bloody living hell!"

The only reply she heard was the soft closing of the door.

Nikolas dropped a heavy bunch of dusty red grapes into his bucket and straightened up, removing the wide-brimmed hat he was wearing and wiping away sweat with a forearm. "What?" he asked in response to the voice from the next row over that was now swearing softly in French.

"Here comes another bloody tourist," his friend Phillipe replied in English. "Wanting to help with the vendange, I expect, like it's an entertainment we put on for them. More trouble than they're worth, most of them, but good for business in the long run, I suppose. The winery benefits a little, anyway."

Nikolas turned his head to follow the progress of the tall figure striding briskly up the dusty lane between vineyards already beginning to shimmer with the heat of the rapidly climbing sun. A woman, he saw now, wearing a backpack and carrying a black oblong case of some kind. As she walked, he could see her head moving from side to side, and he wondered if her eyes, shielded by the dark glasses she wore, were searching among the heads bobbing up and down between the rows-all that was visible of the army of hardworking pickers-searching for one head in particular.

He couldn't help himself, a wry smile tugged at his lips and he chuckled. "That's no tourist, I'm afraid."

There was a rustling sound and Phillipe's dark, interested eyes peered at him through the bronze-tipped leaves of the grapevine separating them. "It is her, then, the woman who chased you out of my apartment in Paris? The one who wants to take you back to Silvershire to become a king? And she has found you so quickly? Mon dieu, my friend, you must be losing your touch."

"So it would appear," Nikolas said absently. He was trying to decide whether the odd sensation quivering up through his belly and into his chest was indicative of dismay or delight.

"Would you like to hide under here? She'll never find you among all these vines." Phillipe's teeth gleamed white among the grape leaves. "How is this? I will go and tell her you've gone away to…I don't know where. I'll make up something- something far away. Brazil, maybe?"

"Very funny. You don't know this woman. She wouldn't be fooled for a second. And besides-it would be much too undignified to be discovered crouching under a bush. Here- take my bucket, will you? I suppose I'd better go and face the music-sooner rather than later."

"I'm coming, too-it is, after all, my vineyard. I think I should give a personal welcome to the woman who brought Nik Donovan to his knees, don't you think?" Grinning unforgivably, Phillipe stuck his hand in the air and shouted "La hutte!"

A moment later a large cone-shaped basket came bobbing down the row, borne on the back of a wizened fellow with a face like ancient parchment and a grin that displayed several missing teeth. Phillipe bantered jovially with the man in French as he emptied his bucket into the basket, then took the bucket Nik passed over to him and emptied it as well. After waving la hutte and its carrier on their way, the two men set off down their respective rows on a course to rendezvous with the visitor coming up the road.

"I am curious," Phillipe said, quickening his pace to match Nik's, "what is this 'music' you face? I know most of your English expressions and quite a few American ones as well, but this one…? Am I correct in assuming this particular music will not be pleasing to the ears?"

"You could assume that, yes," said Nikolas drily. "The last time I saw the lady she threatened me with a hundred fates worse than death."

Phillipe made scolding noises. "You really must work on your people skills, my friend. Especially if you are to be a king one day. You know-" He broke off with a chuckle as Nikolas threw a fat ripe grape at him and missed.

To Nikolas's bemusement, he felt his heartbeat accelerate as he stepped from the rows of grapevines onto the dusty road. A few dozen yards away, Rhia had come to a halt. Her expression was impossible to read from that distance, particularly with her eyes hidden from view, but he felt safe in assuming it wouldn't be pleasant. The odd thing, though, was the warm little nugget of pleasure he felt forming way down in his belly at the sight of her.

Not that anyone would fault him for that; she was, after all, a sight to warm any man's loins. She wore jeans that sat low-on her hips, and a tank top that brought to mind vivid memories of the chemise she'd been wearing the last time he'd seen her…not to mention the circumstances in which he'd left her. Then, her thick, wavy dark hair had been in a sultry tangle tumbling onto her bare shoulders. Now it was caught back by a bandana handkerchief folded into a triangle and tied at the nape of her neck, and the tawny skin of her arms and chest and throat wore a golden slick of sweat.

Without saying a word, she lowered the oblong case to the ground between her feet and took a water bottle from its holder on her belt.

"Mother of God, what do you suppose is in that case? Please tell me she's not come armed."

Nikolas barely heard and didn't acknowledge Phillipe's remark, made in a droll undertone out of one side of his mouth. Rhia had removed her sunglasses, and those cool green eyes had found his, found them and snared them with an intent and unreadable gaze, and his world, his awareness had narrowed until it only had room for her, Phillipe, the vineyards, the army of pickers, the barrel-laden wagons and the tractors pulling them, all faded into background noise, like the busy hum of bees on a summer's clay.

She drank long and deeply from the water bottle and returned it to her belt. Watching her, he felt his own throat go dry. Her eyes never left his as he closed the distance between them, though oddly, they seemed to him more puzzled than angry.

He paused a double arm's length away from her and nudged his hat to the back of his head. "That was fast," he said, offering her a smile as a hopeful peace offering. "What did you do, hide a tracking device in my shoes?"

She snorted and said. "I wish I had." But he could tell her heart wasn't in it. She seemed distracted, he thought, as if her mind was on something else entirely. "No, I told you-I just have a knack for finding people."

"Huh. A 'knack,' you say. So…you just knew where I'd be? So you are psychic."

She shifted her shoulders in an impatient way-again, as though the discussion was interrupting something far more important. "No, I…you'd mentioned your friend, the one whose apartment you were staying in in Paris. You said he had family in Provence. A winery. It seemed like a good bet." She put on her sunglasses, then lifted one shoulder in a dismissive way. "It was where I'd go."

"Ah." said Nikolas. "Empathy."

She'd bent over to pick up the oblong case at her feet. Her shielded eyes came back to him as she straightened. "Empathy?"

"Your 'knack'-that's what it is, you know. Empathy. The ability to put yourself in another person's shoes. To think like he does. Feel what he feels. I can see where that would come in handy in your line of work. Here-let me take that for you."

He reached for the case and she surrendered it to him without an argument, which he thought was a pretty good clue that it wasn't, as Phillipe had suggested, a weapon. He hefted the case. "What's in here? And by the way, whatever possessed you to have the cabby drop you at the bottom of the hill when you had all this to carry? You could have had him take you straight up to the house, you know."

She cut her eyes at him, and her smile was wry. "I thought I'd sneak up on you-in case you took a notion to run again. But I have to tell you. I never expected you'd be out in the vineyards picking grapes." Above the dark lenses of her glasses her forehead crinkled in a frown.

And I sure didn't expect my heart to go nuts at the sight of you, damn you.

Rhia studied her assignment moodily from the shelter of her sunglasses. Today he was wearing a pair of blue dungarees and a white shirt made of some kind of loosely woven material, with long sleeves rolled to the elbows. No collar. His neck was deeply tanned and gleaming with sweat, and looked sleek and powerful as that of some dominant male animal- a stag, perhaps, or a stallion. Or a king?

Why did you have to be so damned attractive? Why didn't I stick to finding lost children? They weren t nearly so complicated.

His lips took on a sardonic tilt. "Not quite the occupation one expects of a prince? No-I suppose not. Though I've picked many a grape in my life-make of that what you will. Come." He took her elbow, and Rhia felt a small electric shock where his fingers touched her bare skin. The dryness of the air. she told herself. Static electricity. And somehow she found herself walking beside him up the dusty road, and they were walking together in casual intimacy, like lovers out for a stroll.

"Let me introduce you to Phillipe. This is his vineyard- or his family's, as I'm sure you already know. Phillipe-come and meet the woman who has promised me the punishments of a hundred hells. Rhia, this is Phillipe, one of my oldest and most tolerant friends. Phillipe-say hello to Rhia de Hayes, bounty hunter."

Nikolas's companion, who'd been waiting for them at a discreet distance, flicked away the cigarette he'd been smoking, removed his hat with a sweeping gesture and placed it over his heart. His hair was a mass of sweat-damp curls, lighter than Nik's, a rich warm brown that matched his eyes. He had extraordinarily nice eyes. He was. in fact, every bit as attractive as Nikolas Donovan, and his smile was just as charming.

Then why was it. she wondered, that when he murmured. "Enchante, ma belle," and lifted her hand to his lips, she felt no little shock of awareness, no tingling warmth where his lips touched, no hollow flip-flopping sensation in her stomach, no humming sensation in her chest?

"I am in complete sympathy with you, mademoiselle-it is high time someone gave this man the treatment he deserves." Phillipe said solemnly, still holding her hand. "I can only hope I may be allowed to watch."

Rhia burst out laughing-he was so outrageous she couldn't help it. Phillipe grinned irrepressibly and kissed her hand once more before releasing it.

"Nik, my friend. Take this lovely lady up to the house and make her welcome. We'll be stopping for lunch soon-we're about finished for the day anyway. Tell Elana to make up Maman's room for our guest-she won't be back from Monte Carlo until the vendange is finished, I'm sure. That is-unless you would like her to sleep in your room, Nik?"

Rhia didn't have to look at him to know Nikolas was grinning. "Please don't bother." she said smoothly. "I won't be staying long. As it happens, Nikolas and I have an important engagement in Silvershire." She turned her head, then, and gave him a long, deliberate stare. He gazed back at her with cool gray eyes, arms casually crossed on his chest.

Phillipe made a gesture that was extravagantly-almost comically-French. "Oh, but you must stay! At least until the vendange is finished. I cannot possibly spare this man at the moment. And for you, mademoiselle, it will be an enjoyment. Vendange in Provence is like one big party-like your Mardi Gras. A moveable feast. A few more days, eh? What can it matter?"

She shot Nikolas a dark look. He held out his hands in one of those half-French, half-British gestures of his. "I swear, I did not put him up to it."

She gave in with a put-upon sigh, and didn't tell him she'd planned to give him several days, anyway. A few more days of freedom…

"Don't think you've won this battle," she said as she and Nikolas resumed their leisurely stroll up the gravelly dirt road toward the oasis of dark green trees that shaded the stone-and-stucco house-not touching, now, and she refused to admit to herself she was sorry. "I just don't want to leave your friend short-handed for his damned vendange-what is that, by the way?"

"Vendange? That's the grape harvest. Happens every year around this time."

Other than shooting him a quelling glance, she ignored the facetious remark. "I can't believe the vineyard owner is out here picking grapes like a field hand. Is that part of the tradition?"

"It is, actually. Among the small growers, anyway. Most of the pickers you see here are neighbors and other small farm owners from around the area. They all come together to help each other with the harvest, moving from farm to farm, vineyard to vineyard until the job's done."

"A 'moveable feast'?"

Nik smiled. "Partly. You'll see soon enough. You heard him say they'll be breaking for 'lunch' soon? I'm afraid the word lunch doesn't come close to describing it. All the farmers sort of compete with each other to see who can put on the biggest and best noonday spread. The wine and local hooch- which is called marc, by the way. and unless you've a cast-iron stomach. I don't recommend you try it-will be flowing freely as well."

"In the middle of the day? How does anyone work afterward?"

"They don't. You heard him say they were about done for the day. He meant that."

"Nice short workday." Rhia remarked.

"Like hell it is. When it's hot like this we start at three in the morning."

She threw him a look of horror. "Why?"

"Because the grapes don't like it when you take them out of the nice warm sunshine and toss them into a cooler. It sends them into shock, or some such thing." His easy smile made something inside her chest wallow. As if her heart really had turned over.

Because the implications of that didn't bear thinking about, she said crossly. "You talk about grapes as if they're…I don't know-alive."

His eyebrow went up. and she repressed a shudder. "Really? I suppose I do. You hang around vintners very long and it rubs off on you."

"You spend a lot of time here, then?"

His smile went crooked. "Spent, not spend. When I was at university, mostly. Spent most of my holidays here, when my…when Silas was off somewhere."

"Doing…?"

"Whatever it is he does, I suppose. Fomenting rebellion, rousing the rabble." He shrugged and looked off across the vineyards for a moment. "I didn't mind, actually. Phillipe and his family were…like family. His maman was pretty much the only mum I ever had." He threw her his lopsided smile, and she felt the most astonishing sensation-an aching pressure at the base of her throat. "I probably have her to thank for civilizing me, at any rate."

Rhia cleared gravel from her throat. "You were happy here."

"I was, yes. At one time I actually considered making a career of it-grape-growing…wine-making. There's a region in my country I've always thought- Have you been to Silvershire?"

"Only to the capital-Silverton."

"Ah-yes, well it's southwest of there. Carrington's ancestral lands. The climate is quite similar to this-perfect for growing wine grapes."

"Why didn't you? Make a career of it?"

The crooked smile flickered again. "It wasn't quite what Silas had in mind for me. Or fate either, as it turns out."

Nik's stomach went hollow suddenly. Hefting the case he was carrying, he said. "What the devil's in this, by the way? Not, as Phil suggested, some sort of weapon, I hope?"

Her lips didn't smile, and he wondered what her eyes would tell him if it weren't for the damned sunglasses. "Nope," she said, "just a saxophone."

He gave a bark of surprised laughter. "A…what?"

"You know…jazz, the blues…it's a horn…you blow it."

He hadn't thought anything she could do would surprise him. but obviously he'd underestimated her. Again. Serendipity… A strange little shiver ran down his spine. How could she have known he'd always had a particular fondness for American jazz? "Don't tell me you know how to play it."

"No, of course not." she replied in a frosty tone. "I just have a really eccentric taste in accessories."

"A bit cranky, are we?" he remarked evenly, hiding all traces of his inner delight.

"That's how people get when they're left handcuffed to a bed," she replied, and he could almost hear her teeth grinding. "Particularly without access to a bathroom."

"Ah. That." He stopped in the middle of the road to look at her. Realizing his eyebrows were doing that thing that annoyed her so. he made a conscious effort to stop them- also to contain his grin-before he walked on. "I really had hoped you'd gotten over that."

"Not a chance, Donovan." He could feel her eyes on him. dark as a threat.

He glanced at her and made scolding noises with his tongue. "Oh, come now, you aren't the type to carry a grudge, surely?"

There was something hypnotic about her eyes… "My mother always claimed one of her grandmothers was Creole-a voodoo priestess" she said, and hissed the last word like a curse. "It's in my blood."

He wanted to laugh, but the tingle of excitement rushing beneath his skin didn't feel like amusement. He could feel heat and heartbeat intensifying in places they shouldn't have been, not at high noon in the middle of a French vineyard. Not in response to a woman whose avowed mission was to take him into custody and return him to a place he had no desire to go. But…really-Creole? Voodoo?

He was mulling over this interesting new tidbit of information about his adversary's background when the convoy of tractors pulling trailers laden with barrels and people began to stream past them. Phillipe shouted and waved from the midst of the crowd on the last one, and it halted in the road beside them. Nikolas looked at Rhia and made an offering gesture. She threw him a challenging look, then took the helping hands reaching out to her from the crowd on the wagon and allowed herself to be hoisted aboard. Nikolas passed the oblong case containing her saxophone up to her as she settled into the midst of the boisterous crowd, then levered himself onto the back of the flatbed. Someone gave a shout and the tractor began to move forward again. Someone began to sing, and most of the passengers on the trailer joined in. And Nikolas, for no reason he could think of, found himself smiling.