Bertrice Small - Captivated

Turning from the table, the marquis stalked toward the door through which he'd entered only to be stopped midway by the appearance of four guardsmen stepping from behind a large ivory screen shielded by the ubiquitous palms, which were de rigueur in every Edwardian interior.

They stood directly in his path, men as tall as he, armored in crimson leather jacks like some Byzantine praetorian guard, their swords drawn.

"They have orders to only detain you so you needn't fear the sharp blades," the lady remarked. "If you're sensible, you'll rejoin me for dinner. They have instructions to tie you in your chair and feed you if necessary. Not my orders," she calmly added, cutting her fish. "And if it were possible to apologize enough for this distasteful situation, I wouldmost profusely. But I learned long ago not to ignore my husband's commands and I suggest you do the same. There are a dozen more guards in the adjoining room."

Hot-tempered or not, he couldn't take on sixteen men. And, cursing, he turned to retrace his steps.

"For your information," she quietly said as he sat down again, "the estate is well secured, too. Or did Pierce tell you?"

"And how are you guarded?"

She seemed to stiffen slightly, but her smile when she spoke was so genial, he questioned his observation. However, her reply was pitched low, her words barely audible. "I'm guarded always. Please, have something to eat, my lord," she went on in a normal tone. "You'll enjoy the roast beef."

And dinner proceeded as if they were actors on a stage. He ate in a minimal way, drank two bottles, responded to the lady's conversational gambits in a desultory fashion, and, in general, planned revenge on his unknown adversary. The marquis had been born and bred a golden child, gifted with all of nature's bounty: beauty of face and form; wealth beyond measure; the bluest of blood and lineage; intelligence rarely found in those of his class; the enterprise to work as hard as he played. And he intended to find his way out of this snare, no matter how many guards were in place.

But he didn't understand the price of failure when the despotic Prince Marko of Badia was displeased. Men died at his orders, the bastinado his discipline of choicehis principality remote from the civilized world when it suited him.

Both his wife and guards understood they must heed his commands.

So once the marquis had been returned to his suite after dinner, the lady entered his bedchamber a brief time later, elegantly robed in green cut velvet against the cool evening. A fire had been lit in the grate, and the marquis, still dressed, stood at the window, a bottle in his hand, drinking away his discontent. He didn't turn at the sound of her voice nor when she came up behind him and, reaching up, touched his shoulder.

"Go away," he said, lifting the cognac bottle to his mouth.

"I can't. No more than you can."

"If he's not here, you can do anything you damned well please. I'm not fucking you. How many times do I have to say it?" The stars shouldn't be shining so brilliantly tonight, he sullenly thought, when he was so afflictedhis sense of injustice keen, the idea of captivity galling.

"You have to."

He swung around so violently, startled, she jumped back. "No," he whispered, unbridled rage vibrating in his voice. "I don't."

He took a threatening step forward, but she stood her ground. She'd learned long ago to never show fear.

He carefully set the bottle down as if to restrain his more brutish urges and, towering over her, quietly said, "Get out of this room."

She raised her hand the merest distance from her side, a gesture so small it would have gone unnoticed had she not been closely watched.

The dressing-room door opened and his four warders from dinner strode into the room, their faces impassive.

"Tie the marquis to the bed," the Princess Marko softly said.

He didn't succumb passively, and during the struggle, additional guards were called in, several of them bearing damage from the marquis's powerful fists before they were able to subdue him sufficiently to tie his wrists and feet. He was carried to the bed and placed on his back on the crimson brocade coverlet, four guards firmly holding him down while four others untied his feet and, slipping his shoes off, secured his ankles to the bed posts with thick, braided silk cord. Restrained by the weight of four guardsmen, his wrists were then untied and, after forcing his arms above his head, he was bound to the headboard with knots pulled so tight, there was no question of him gaining his freedom.

One of the guardsmen spoke to the princess in an unfamiliar language, his phrases in the nature of a question. She shook her head slightly, replied in a few brief words and waved them out. Without even a glance at the bed, she turned away from the door, walked to a chair by the fire, sat down and, resting her head against the pillowed chair back, gazed into the flickering flame. The heavy Genoa velvet of her gown spread in folds at her feet, the opulent fabric lush, touchable, like her pale skin and silken hair. The delicacy of her features, the tumble of her loosened hair on her shoulders, gave her a look of innocence at odds with the depraved circumstances.

The silence was a balm to her agitated senses, the dancing flame mesmerizing, and she wished for a moment she could sit here forever in this suspended moment of time. But she couldn't, she knew, reality too intense and demanding, the requirements of her hermitage in the country exacting. She was to conceive an heir to Marko's title. Like the marquis, she was a prisoner… worsehis durance vile would end in a month and hers would not.

The lady before the fire evinced such melancholy, even in his vengeful mood, the marquis was struck by her sadness. And her words from dinner reminded him she was no more free than he. "Come and talk to me," he neutrally said, surveying the room, wondering where the peepholes and listening posts were.

She looked up, but neither moved nor replied.

"I'm not asking to be untied. You're safe enough."

"A relative term."

"Come closer," he cajoled, his understanding of women acute after years of sharing their beds. She might be as interested in her freedom as he was in his. "Tell me exactly what's expected of me," he added, wanting to coax her near so they could talk with less fear of being overheard.

"Nothing out of the ordinary for you, if gossip is true."

"I can't hear you," he murmured, arching a brow toward the dressing-room door, where the guards apparently had set up their watch.

She seemed to understand, for she rose and walked toward him.

"Sit down," he suggested when she stood indecisive at the foot of the bed. "Tell me your name."

She sat a circumspect distance away, and when she said, " Sofia " in little more than a whisper, he felt a curious provocation quite distinct from logic. Maybe it was the sultry undertones of her voice or the wafting sweet scent of her hair; maybe it was because he'd loved a Sofie once who'd died when they were both very young and he'd never loved anyone again.

This Sofia 's lashes were sooty dark as if they'd been kohled although they hadn't, and her eyes were like tamped green flame. And her flamboyant auburn-haired beauty wasn't like his Sofie at all, who had been very blond and childlike and much too young to die. But provocation and beauty aside, he had no intention of fathering a child on this unknown woman. "Is there any way you can get us out of here?" he murmured. "I'll protect you from your husband."

Instant fear shown in her eyes.

"Bend down and kiss me," he whispered, "so we can talk."

She hesitated, skittish under the surveillance.

"I could say seduce me if you can," he murmured, challenge in his dark gaze, his mouth quirked in a smile.