The Prince in Exile

Chapter 4

He stood tall in the fore of her parlor, looking much as he had at the head of his court: in command, in control, the master of his grounds. Belatedly, a voice within her noted that this was his parlor in truth, not hers, but she granted that seditious thought no sway in her bearing.

"Your Highness," she said, letting a touch more rebuke into her tone than suited her station. "The hour is late. A man ought not barge into a lady's room–even a prince."

He gave her a shameless smile. "One thing you must learn, my lady, is that I care not a whit for the norms of the many." A bold step towards her, and there he stopped–not out of propriety, but as if he were caught by the sight of her. His eyes did not roam, did not drift down to her hardly covered body, and yet he drank her full image all the same. "I care only for people," he went on. "A person is real. 'The Many' is a fiction, and its strictures serve but a few."

He turned from her then, walking over to a small side table, where a bottle of wine and two glasses had been set out–had they been there before? Erzsebet could not recall. "The norms say that my brother rules Croatia," he went on, filling a glass with wine that looked amber in the firelight. "But it is I who governs here, my face upon their coins." Now the second glass, without so much as a look towards her. "The norms say that a man should not call upon a lady in the late evening, but I care only what you have to say." Glasses in hand he faced her once more, striding over. "If you ask me to leave," he said as he offered the glass, "I shall do so at once, without complaint–but leave the opinions of the preening masses out of it."

Her eyes dropped to the glass, then rose again to him. So close, she had the full sense of his height–in the hall he had seemed raised, standing atop a social dais, but now she saw that even alone he towered over her. She would not flinch from him, but neither would she abide his looming–at least, not yet. "What of the lady Gertrude?" she asked.

That seemed to unbalance him, the first ripple in his demeanor. "What of her?"

"You care not what the masses think, but do you care for her?" Erzsebet was not something to be lightly won and discarded. No simple pastime, no dalliance; she would train him from the start, that if he wished to have her, he would need to renounce all other pursuits. "Would your betrothed approve of such a visit?"

He smiled, his manner once more smooth and sure. "It pleases me to see you become such fast allies," he said, a twinkle in his eye. "But yes, she would approve of my coming here."

Erzsebet arched a brow. "I find that hard to believe."

"Another thing you must learn, my lady: I will never lie to you."

"How honorable," she muttered, managing to keep herself from rolling her eyes.

The prince shook his head, the waves of his dark hair swaying. "Honesty is not a sign of honor, my lady, but of strength. Only the weak need to lie, that they might steal that which they lack the strength to fairly win."

"Is that so?" she asked. Still he held the glass towards her, so steady that no line marred the wine's face, a mirror of bronze. Still she did not reach for it. "But you have strength enough? You need never deceive?"

"Just so, my lady," he answered. "All I want, I have–or will have, in time." There was something dangerous in that smile, something feral. She thought of a wolf, though she had never seen one–that canine grin which presaged a darker pleasure.

In time, he would have her. In time, he would have the kingdom–thus did his eyes promise. What did hers say?

With a matching smile, she took the glass from his hand. She raised it, as did he, and together they drank. Richly perfumed, austere, with a hint of clove. A finer vintage by far than what Gertrude had offered–the prince had sent it personally, no doubt. They stood in silence, Andras watching her, she watching him, until as one they drank again. Warmth was spreading outward from her core, suffusing her limbs, loosening them, until she felt the blood running through her joints, blooming in her face. She had not drunk so much–perhaps what she'd had at dinner, and the warmth of the bath–