§ § § - December 22, 2001
Roarke came back alone for lunch, making Christian's uneasiness grow all the more; he found himself picking at his own food, annoying Mariki. "Oh, no, not another one," she groaned. "You must have picked up that habit from Miss Leslie. What is it with people these days, that they're so afraid of getting fat that they don't eat properly? Or maybe it's just my cooking, eh? At the very least, Prince Christian, you could clear up what's on that plate in front of you—"
"Mariki, that will be enough," said Roarke, his voice quiet but filled with such stern warning that Mariki promptly backed down and left them alone. "I apologize, Christian."
Christian shrugged listlessly. "Oh, she doesn't know," he murmured. "I think it's best that way. Wasn't Leslie planning to return here?"
"It doesn't seem so," Roarke said, not without sympathy. "This is a dire situation, and in such instances she can find herself in emotional turmoil for prolonged periods. I'm afraid you will merely have to wait it out…and just continue to love her."
"I have no control over that," Christian said softly, his eyes filling again. "I could no more stop loving Leslie than I could stop breathing. I only wish for the chance to explain myself to her, to make it up to her somehow."
Roarke smiled slightly. "We will do all we can to see that you have it," he said gently. "Try to finish eating, Christian. I know you're restless and frightened, but you can't let that govern all your actions. I will be here for some time this afternoon; I need to try to track down an attorney before I make some rounds."
"I could do that for you, if you like," said Christian, seizing on the opportunity to do something besides sitting around. "If I'm under house arrest anyway, I may as well, so that you can get on with other things."
Roarke regarded him in surprise. "That's a generous offer, Christian, and I appreciate it. Although you may retract it when you find out—" He stopped when Mariki returned, this time pushing her cart in front of her. "A problem?"
"Since Prince Christian isn't eating, I may as well clear his plate," Mariki said tartly, already removing items that Roarke and Christian were finished with.
Christian eyed her. "Maybe," he said, a thread of subtle warning in his own voice now, "you should wait until I've told you I'm ready for you to do that." Roarke recognized the imperial quality to the suggestion, a sign of the royal persona that Christian could never shake no matter what he did. It had been ingrained in him from birth, and Roarke had no doubt that he wasn't even aware he was employing it now.
It worked, too: Mariki froze, stared at him, then cleared her throat and actually gave him a slight bow. "As you will," she said and retreated without another word. Christian turned back to his plate and regarded it in glum silence.
Roarke took out his gold watch and checked the time, then replaced it; the small snap as he closed it made Christian look up. "I am afraid I must leave," Roarke said, pushing back his chair. "What with this being the Christmas season, there are far more vacationers here at the moment than fantasizers, and there are actually more problems under these circumstances than normally. I appreciate your offer, Christian, and thank you once again. Please excuse me." Christian nodded silently and watched him cross the veranda; once Roarke was gone, he lost himself in gloom, staring unseeingly into space, wondering with little hope whether, if he sat here long enough, Leslie might find him here and he could talk to her. She had to come back sometime, didn't she?
"Excuse me, Prince Christian, are you ready yet?" asked Mariki's unusually tentative voice from behind him, and he gave a sharp start and sat up straight. When he saw who it was, he relaxed fractionally and offered a wan smile.
"I'm sorry, Mariki…please, go ahead," he said softly and arose from the table. Slowly he crossed the veranda and let himself into the study, looking around with some caution before locating a telephone directory and settling at the desk to try to chase down an attorney for Roarke. Other than Grady Harding, there were only three listed, all on Coral Island. Not wanting to interrupt his friend's afternoon off with Maureen and Brianna, Christian tried the first of the others and received only an answering service, with which he declined to leave a message. About to call the second, he paused when the door opened and someone clad in a business suit topped by a long navy-blue cape entered the foyer. "Roarke?" the newcomer called.
Something about the voice made Christian tense up, and he said warily, "I'm sorry, Mr. Roarke isn't here…" The figure turned to stare—and the moment their eyes met, Christian bolted out of the chair while the visitor shot to attention.
"You!" Christian spat.
"So there you are," Count LiSciola said, stepping into the study and approaching the desk. The two men glared at each other, mutual hatred burning in their eyes. "And how do you find the married life lately, young prince? I hope you're enjoying it, because I'm about to put an end to you." He smirked with self-satisfaction.
"Is that so?" Christian demanded. "And exactly how do you propose to do that?"
The count shrugged. "Very simple. I contacted an old friend of mine and offered him a bargain. I'm going to have you brought to justice for breach of contract, and then your soul will belong to Mephistopheles for eternity."
Christian stared at him, his rage rising to something dangerous; puzzle pieces clicked into place in his mind, and he found a great many of his questions answered. So this was the reason the devil had an interest in him. He should have known Count LiSciola was behind this somehow. Even if Arnulf and he hadn't made their peace, it wouldn't be possible for the king to do anything, being dead; and Christian knew of no one else who hated him enough to go to such lengths. Despite his equally intense loathing of the count, he still found it a little unnerving to know that anyone despised him that much. He wondered, for just a black second or two, if perhaps Leslie shared that emotion, then pushed the thought aside and flattened his palms on the desktop, leaning forward to pin the count with a glare that carried all the weight of his seething fury, resentment and detestation of the man. "And just where do you think you get the right to sell off my soul, you aging fool?"
"In here, young prince," LiSciola said, patting his suit jacket. "I have the original contract that I drew up with your father and brother all those years ago. You broke it, and you're going to pay for that."
"You're insane," snapped Christian. "I wasn't the one who broke the contract; it was my brother. I was only the unfortunate pawn in your amakarna game. How could it be my doing to breach the thing if I didn't have the power?"
The count snarled, "What does it matter? Where else will I go for my revenge? Your brother and father are both dead, so that leaves you. And before you think breach is the sole reason I want you punished, I should also tell you that the biggest reason for my hatred of you is the fact that you refused to love my little girl. How could anyone not love my Marina? She's the sweetest girl in the universe…and yet you scorned her."
"You idiot," Christian growled. "You forget that Marina didn't love me either, and we were both in love with other people atop that. Forcing two people into marriage doesn't always give rise to love. And you might be astounded to find that even your sugary-sweet little girl isn't automatically loved, or lovable, by everyone around her, just because you believe she should be. What am I going to have in common with a child seventeen years younger than I? What would she want with me? She was long in love with her Giancarlo even before you and my father threw us together. It doesn't seem to occur to you that she was no happier in the marriage than I was."
"She was secure," LiSciola shot back, "and she had a high position in society."
"Oh, that," Christian spat mockingly. "The all-important class status. If you're looking for some way to try to hook me up with your daughter again, then maybe you should know that I'm no longer a prince. The same day Arnulf annulled the union between me and Marina, I filed paperwork for relinquishment of the title. It went into effect this past summer—so even if you could somehow dissolve Marina's marriage to Giancarlo and mine to Leslie, it wouldn't restore her to the lofty social circles you seem to cherish so."
The count shrugged. "Little matter, that. You might not be officially a prince, but you are still one of the royal family, and you can never change that. Does your status as uncle to Queen Gabriella end along with your princedom? I think not. In any case, that's not what I'm after, young prince. Even I am aware that I can't arbitrarily end my daughter's marriage to her stripling, or yours to Roarke's daughter. But all the same, I intend to make you pay. Tell me all you like that it wasn't you who committed the breach—as I told you, you're the only one left alive for me to exact revenge on, and I will get it…I guarantee you that. This contract is my ticket to some peace of mind."
"Let me see it," Christian commanded, unconsciously issuing a royal edict.
The count heard the imperial tone in his voice and eyed him tauntingly. "Why should I? You're no prince now, to order me so."
Christian glared at him, the full force of his rage and loathing blazing out of his eyes. "Are you so afraid of losing your fight that you dare not show it to me?" he jeered.
The count scowled, telling Christian he'd hit a mark, before LiSciola drew himself up and informed Christian loftily, "You have no need to see it now; that will happen tomorrow evening, when we all meet with Mephistopheles to prove to him that you broke a valid contract, and he'll take possession of your soul. That's quite soon enough for you. But it does remind me…has Roarke found a lawyer to examine it?"
Christian's mouth dropped open with the realization that this was why Roarke had mentioned calling attorneys. "No, and he doesn't have time," he said frigidly. "I had offered to do it for him—but now that I know why he wanted to contact one, I won't bother." He suddenly smiled, a supremely icy smile that disturbed the count enough for it to show in his expression. "I see no reason for an attorney to look at the thing anyway. Mephistopheles and Mr. Roarke will undoubtedly pick it apart just as thoroughly as any lawyer ever could, if not more. And you may well find then that your quest for revenge will end very differently from what you expect. I have a few revelations up my sleeve."
"Oh, do you indeed?" the count inquired silkily. "I look forward to hearing them. I've been told that both Roarke and your wife will be there on your behalf. Good thing—you'll need all the help you can get." He smirked at Christian and made a contemptuous little bow. "Buon Natale…Christian." From his lips, the name was an epithet that made him snicker loudly. "I have no doubt Mephistopheles will insist you change your name after he takes you." With that, he sauntered out of the house.
Seething with fury and having no outlet for it, Christian stood there shaking for a long moment. He drew in a deep, unsteady breath and took slow, deliberate steps to the French shutters, where he paused just long enough to clench his fists; then he spotted a small rock lying at the back of the flagstone patio, went over to pick it up, and hurled it into the jungle with all his strength. His wife was furious with him, the devil was after him, and that damned count was the cause of it all. Could fate never leave him alone to enjoy his own life? Christian crouched there on the terrace, breathing hard, and began to quietly recite every curse he knew in every language he'd ever learned curses from.
‡ ‡ ‡
"Leslie, you can't let this go on," Roarke scolded his daughter gently when she came up the porch steps with an overnight bag in her hand. "How are you going to present a united front with us to Mephistopheles when the time comes to confront him?"
She stopped at the top of the steps, her face carefully blank but her eyes filled with a volatile emotional mix. "He didn't believe me, Father," she said without inflection. "I warned him and he didn't believe me. Don't you realize how much that hurts?"
"He's frightened and confused, child," Roarke said, coming to her and grasping her upper arms. "You seem to have developed the habit of expecting any and all to simply accept the way of things on this island, without question or reaction. You've lived here for half your life, and you've had all that time to adjust to it. Christian hasn't. You must allow him that leeway, Leslie, and be patient with him. Try to remember how many years it took you to fully accept all that happens here—in fact, there are yet some things you evince amazement at. Don't you remember your own reaction just last year to Athena's visit?"
"It barely took me a few minutes to accept it when you assured me it really was her," Leslie said, and he could hear the old familiar stubbornness in her voice. "But that was just Athena. This is Mephistopheles—a real threat. Christian should have taken me seriously when I gave him that warning, and he didn't!" Her voice rose, and for just a moment Roarke thought she was going to detonate; then she clamped her mouth shut and visibly reined in her emotions once more.
Roarke shook his head. "You disappoint me, Leslie," he said softly. "You refuse to make allowances for Christian, and now you're holding your feelings in again."
"That's my problem," Leslie said. "Right now, if I see Christian, I don't know what I might do. I thought he trusted in me, of all people, and I can see he didn't." She closed her eyes briefly, drew in a steadying breath and carefully composed herself before focusing on Roarke again. Lifting the overnight bag, she said, "Would you give this to Christian, please? I'm going over to supervise the luau. Don't expect me back till it's ended."
Roarke accepted the bag, regarding her with a look that he could see was getting to her. But it wasn't enough to change her sense of purpose; as soon as he took the bag, she turned away and walked briskly down the steps and along the lane towards the path that would take her to the luau. Once more he shook his head and carried the bag into the house; an idea occurred to him in the study and he continued up the stairs, deliberately leaving the overnight case in Leslie's room. Then he went to the TV room in search of Christian.
The younger man looked up when Roarke paused in the doorway. "Yes?"
"Why don't you come and have something to eat, Christian," Roarke suggested kindly and stepped back, as if to make room for Christian to pass. "I hear from Mariki that she's managed to find another dessert recipe from Lilla Jordsö and decided to try it out at this evening's meal. She would appreciate your assessment."
Christian thought that over for a moment, shrugged and got up. "Well enough, I guess. Thank you, Mr. Roarke." Roarke let him slip by, sighed quietly and followed his son-in-law downstairs and onto the porch. Once Christian realized that Leslie would be absent from this meal as well, he sank into a bleak silence and ate without seeming to notice what was on the plate in front of him.
Then Mariki came out with her dessert and presented Christian with a small plate on which rested something that resembled a puff pastry, drizzled in chocolate glaze and dusted liberally with powdered sugar. For the first time Christian's expression came alive with honest amazement. "Dehär är en jordsklocka!" he exclaimed without thinking.
"What?" Mariki said, startled.
"Excuse me?" Roarke asked, almost apologetically.
Christian blinked and looked up at Mariki, then at Roarke, and smiled sheepishly. "Forgive me," he said. "This is a pastry known as jordsklocka—the name means 'earth bell' in English, and it's a specialty of my country. There's a legend behind this, too. Where did you get this recipe, Mariki? There's a bakery in Dalslund, the second-largest city in Lilla Jordsö, that is the sole producer of these pastries, and I can't believe they've made their recipe public after so many years. I suppose that's the influence of the Internet."
Mariki grinned. "I thought you could use some cheering up, Prince Christian, and it looks to me like it worked. So what's the legend?"
"Oh, that." Christian chuckled softly and picked up the little pastry, examining it as he spoke. "The story goes that when King Johan V wanted to found a university in our country, he set about making it as unique as he could. The school still stands nowadays; it's our first institution of higher learning, actually, and I myself studied most of my computer courses there. Anyhow, among other things, he made the grounds quite open, filled them with both flower and vegetable gardens, and insisted that a great deal of glass be used in the buildings to make the most use of natural light. And in the main building, which now houses the administrative offices, he had a belfry built, with an enormous cast-iron bell that could be heard for many kilometers—so they say.
"Then we had one of our notorious winter storms, the sort we get off the North Sea on such a regular basis that we're always amazed when visitors are taken aback by them. This one turned out to be particularly vicious and left behind an incredible amount of damage. Among other things, it somehow knocked that bell out of its belfry, and when the storm had passed, the staff and faculty found it lying on its side on the grounds, cracked beyond repair. It had to be melted down and used for other purposes, but it left the school without a bell. And there was no recasting it, since the original mold had been broken. It took months to find a company that was willing to accept the challenge of constructing a bell worthy enough of the school to satisfy the king. In the meantime, no one could bear the thought of there being no bell in the school belfry—so someone came up with the decidedly unique solution of sculpting a bell from clay, firing it, and hanging it in the belfry until the replacement was ready."
"A ceramic bell?" Mariki said and laughed. "Wouldn't get much sound from that."
"No, you wouldn't," Christian agreed with a faint grin. "There are some clay deposits along our southwestern coast, and some folks from a small town there, coincidentally called Enstad, collected enough clay from the soil and did the work of sculpting and even hanging the temporary bell. It remained in the belfry for somewhat more than two years, until it was finally replaced by the bell that still hangs there to this day. The students made a joke of it, but when it was replaced, the ceramic bell was ceremoniously placed under glass in the administrative building and can be seen there today. These pastries are a tribute to that bell. Clay, of course, is a form of earth…thus, 'earth bell', or jordsklocka in my native tongue."
"Quite the story," Mariki said with interest.
"A town that was 'coincidentally' called Enstad?" Roarke said, leaning forward to give Christian a quizzical look that was punctuated by a twinkle. "How coincidentally?"
Christian chuckled and admitted, "You caught me, Mr. Roarke! King Johan V is famous for other things than his university and its bell. He had only one child, a daughter whose name was Kristina. One day, King Paolono III of Arcolos visited our country, met Princess Kristina, and was very taken with her. He proposed marriage, but she turned him down: and it turned out that he had to live with her refusal, because Princess Kristina was needed for the succession and we would have been forced to find someone to take over the throne had she married Paolono and moved to Arcolos. Fortunately, Arcolos has a strange law that forbids a monarch from marrying the only child of another country's monarch…"
Roarke grinned. "Don't think it too strange, Christian. That very law prevented the current king from spiriting Leslie off for the same purpose."
Christian raised an eyebrow; some of the humorous light drained from his eyes, but he smiled nonetheless. "Ah…I see I had better appreciate it all the more, then! That's a story I hope to hear one day." Roarke smiled, and Christian went on, "In any case, that law prevented Magnus Ormssvärd's dynasty from coming to an ignominious end. The king was sent packing back to Arcolos, and shortly thereafter Kristina met a young man by the name of Peter Enstad. It so happened that his father had emigrated from Norway and founded the farmstead that became the village that bore their name. They were married, and that's where our surname came from. A name like that was unusual in those days. Scandinavian surnames traditionally worked as they still do in Iceland, where one's surname is the father's first name with -sson or -dóttir attached to it. The idea of using the same surname through generations didn't originate in Lilla Jordsö, but it took hold there a little sooner than in the other countries. Peter and Kristina were the first royals to use it..." He caught himself, realizing he had been talking too much. "I apologize...I'm rambling." Roarke only smiled; he had allowed Christian to do precisely that, just to distract him for a while. "Well, let's see how this turned out." Christian cast Mariki a quick smile, then bit into the pastry.
Mariki watched him intently, and Roarke looked on with amusement; Christian sat and chewed, his gaze turned inward, and finally swallowed. Then he looked at Mariki and gave her a slow smile of appreciation. "An excellent job, Mariki," he said quietly. "It's nearly enough to make me homesick."
Mariki beamed in delight. "Then it came out like it was supposed to. I have a whole tray of them in the kitchen, Prince Christian. Feel free to help yourself anytime."
Christian chuckled and remarked, "One at a time is always enough for me; they're quite rich. I think it's best if you give some away to your friends and family, and perhaps the rest of the kitchen staff." He hesitated, then said gently, "But please save one for Leslie."
Mariki nodded. "That I will, Prince Christian. Enjoy. Mr. Roarke, would you like one?" Roarke declined, so she arose and cleared the supper dishes while Christian silently savored another bite of the pastry. Roarke waited a moment; but Christian's distraction had ended, and his expression showed that he was growing pensive again.
"When you are ready, Christian, you may do as you will," he said, "as long as you don't leave the property, of course. I have a few small things to take care of, and then I will be back for the evening. Leslie is at the luau and told me she doesn't plan to return until it has ended, so I don't think you should wait up for her." Christian glanced at him, gave a listless, one-shouldered shrug and took another bite, all his attention on the jordsklocka as if he were trying to hide his emotions behind it. Roarke arose, briefly laid a hand on that same shoulder, and departed quietly.