one could survive a jump two hundred feet into rocky, shark-infested waters, especially not a boy of thirteen. Just because they had never found his body did not mean the legend of the lost prince was anything more than that—a legend.
Like these tunnels? she wondered.
The rebel walked over to her and lifted the torch roughly out of her hand. “Let’s get on with it, Miss Monteverdi,” he muttered.
He said her name as though he hated it.
Lazar marched along, sulking over the fact that it never even occurred to Allegra who he might be. He did not want her to know yet who he was—he was saving that revelation for her father, but when she failed even to wonder at the possibility, he found himself annoyed.
How the hell did she think he knew about the tunnels? Was it so very hard to believe that he might be the son of King Alphonse? At the same time, his own indignation, or perhaps wounded vanity, left him cynically amused.
Halfway through their march, he heard another little cry of pain behind him and turned back to discover that Miss Monteverdi had contrived to twist her ankle.
Suspiciously he went to where she had plopped herself down on the wet, rocky tunnel floor and was holding her ankle in both hands, rubbing it, tears in her eyes. He was certain she was feigning until he glanced down at the satin dancing slippers on her feet, already reduced to ribbons by the trek. Her white silk stockings also were torn and snagged and stained. Slowly he lowered himself to one knee before her.
“What happened?”
“I tripped,” she cried, as if it were his fault.
He handed her the torch.
“Let me see.” He brushed her fingers away and examined her ankle himself, disregarding her little, fussing noises of protest, running both hands down the graceful curve of her limb. When he pressed gently with his thumb on a spot in front of her ankle bone, she sucked in her breath in pain. She looked up at him, still biting down on her plump lower lip.
He moved back and looked down at her thoughtfully. She had been quiet since they had gotten under way, but now he could see that her endurance was beginning to wear thin.
It had been a rough night for her, he supposed. Near-rape, abduction, being chased by soldiers, dragged into a pond. Now she’d turned an ankle, and there was worse to come. Far worse.
He uncorked his flask and offered her some rum.
She looked at it and him in disdain, then reconsidered and took it. She raised it to her lips and took a wary sip. He chuckled when she burst out coughing and spluttering.
“Terrible!” she choked out, her honey-brown eyes watering. She covered her mouth with her hand and shot him a look of reproach.
“It will dull the pain.” He stood, offering her his hand. “Come on, my little captive. Up you go.”
He carried her piggyback the rest of the way. She held the torch, lighting his path. At first he was annoyed by the way she directed and chided him incessantly, warning him to look out for small pits in the floor of the tunnel or reminding him to avoid the clusters of rock here and there in his path or to bend down where the granite teeth jutted low above them. Eventually he got used to it.
What he couldn’t get used to was the feel of her arms around his neck, her legs around his waist, her slender thighs secured firmly in both his hands. There was something barbaric in carrying a woman off this way that pleased him inordinately. Her dress was still wet, and the damp material clung to her limbs and to him, conducting her body’s heat to his skin with mesmerizing intensity.
Every time her breath tickled his ear, it seemed to him less and less likely that Miss Monteverdi would emerge from the other side of the tunnel still a virgin.
And yet he had to kill her.
With every step, he brooded upon this fact and was beginning to feel strangely split off from himself. Since the earliest planning stages of his vendetta, Allegra Monteverdi had been just a name on paper to him,
Like these tunnels? she wondered.
The rebel walked over to her and lifted the torch roughly out of her hand. “Let’s get on with it, Miss Monteverdi,” he muttered.
He said her name as though he hated it.
Lazar marched along, sulking over the fact that it never even occurred to Allegra who he might be. He did not want her to know yet who he was—he was saving that revelation for her father, but when she failed even to wonder at the possibility, he found himself annoyed.
How the hell did she think he knew about the tunnels? Was it so very hard to believe that he might be the son of King Alphonse? At the same time, his own indignation, or perhaps wounded vanity, left him cynically amused.
Halfway through their march, he heard another little cry of pain behind him and turned back to discover that Miss Monteverdi had contrived to twist her ankle.
Suspiciously he went to where she had plopped herself down on the wet, rocky tunnel floor and was holding her ankle in both hands, rubbing it, tears in her eyes. He was certain she was feigning until he glanced down at the satin dancing slippers on her feet, already reduced to ribbons by the trek. Her white silk stockings also were torn and snagged and stained. Slowly he lowered himself to one knee before her.
“What happened?”
“I tripped,” she cried, as if it were his fault.
He handed her the torch.
“Let me see.” He brushed her fingers away and examined her ankle himself, disregarding her little, fussing noises of protest, running both hands down the graceful curve of her limb. When he pressed gently with his thumb on a spot in front of her ankle bone, she sucked in her breath in pain. She looked up at him, still biting down on her plump lower lip.
He moved back and looked down at her thoughtfully. She had been quiet since they had gotten under way, but now he could see that her endurance was beginning to wear thin.
It had been a rough night for her, he supposed. Near-rape, abduction, being chased by soldiers, dragged into a pond. Now she’d turned an ankle, and there was worse to come. Far worse.
He uncorked his flask and offered her some rum.
She looked at it and him in disdain, then reconsidered and took it. She raised it to her lips and took a wary sip. He chuckled when she burst out coughing and spluttering.
“Terrible!” she choked out, her honey-brown eyes watering. She covered her mouth with her hand and shot him a look of reproach.
“It will dull the pain.” He stood, offering her his hand. “Come on, my little captive. Up you go.”
He carried her piggyback the rest of the way. She held the torch, lighting his path. At first he was annoyed by the way she directed and chided him incessantly, warning him to look out for small pits in the floor of the tunnel or reminding him to avoid the clusters of rock here and there in his path or to bend down where the granite teeth jutted low above them. Eventually he got used to it.
What he couldn’t get used to was the feel of her arms around his neck, her legs around his waist, her slender thighs secured firmly in both his hands. There was something barbaric in carrying a woman off this way that pleased him inordinately. Her dress was still wet, and the damp material clung to her limbs and to him, conducting her body’s heat to his skin with mesmerizing intensity.
Every time her breath tickled his ear, it seemed to him less and less likely that Miss Monteverdi would emerge from the other side of the tunnel still a virgin.
And yet he had to kill her.
With every step, he brooded upon this fact and was beginning to feel strangely split off from himself. Since the earliest planning stages of his vendetta, Allegra Monteverdi had been just a name on paper to him,
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