Читать книгу My Royal Sin / Playing Dirty - Lauren Hawkeye - Страница 16

CHAPTER SEVEN

Benedict

THERE IS A loud thump as my bedroom door slams shut. I whirl around to find Ruby crumpled against it, hands pressed to her face, her cheeks drained of all color.

“What is it?” I demand. My heart is in my throat. She seemed fine a moment ago, composed even.

“The portrait...” She keels forward as if to swoon. “You own one of Vernazza’s Guardian Angels paintings?”

I blink slowly, unable to comprehend the depth of emotion in her voice. “You’re a fan of Giuseppe Vernazza’s work?” Vernazza was regarded as the great artist of our age until his unfortunate death a decade ago, losing control of his car and wrapping it around a tree along the Nightgardin border. A waste to lose such a gifted prodigy before his time.

Her laugh is without humor and goes on and on, the hysterical edge slashing my peace of mind. “You could say that,” she gasps. “Vernazza was my father. Look closer at the painting. Tell me, does it remind you of anyone?”

I transfer my gaze from her beautiful face to that of the angel, the one that has so often served as both my temptation and my salvation—and my heart gives a dull thud. What a fool I have been not to see what was right under my nose. Ruby’s face...the angel’s face, good God, they are one and the same. No wonder she appeared so familiar the moment she removed the wig. My insides churn.

“He painted my features as he imagined they would one day look. His imagination came close to the truth, right?”

It’s as if my world has flipped its axis and down is up and up is down. “I didn’t know.”

How could I have been so blind?

“Of course not.” She winds her arms around her legs, hugs her knees to her chest. “Who would imagine the daughter of Europe’s most famous painter since Pablo Picasso would make a living by selling her body?”

“Why do you work for The Jewel Box?”

Her eyes darken. “My father died.”

“Rest his soul.” I make the sign of the cross. “A terrible accident. I shall pray for him.”

“Accident?” She pushes herself to standing, her features fierce, shining with hidden fire. “My father drove that same route between Nightgardin and Rosegate at least once a week to deal with patrons. He took expert care of that car. No. That wasn’t a mere accident that claimed his life. The weather was calm. The sun shining. He was murdered. Someone tampered with his brakes!”

My shoulder blades slam together. “You have proof?”

A sob escapes her. “Only the truth in my heart. There is no proof. No motive. Mother died not long after my birth, and all I had after Father was my brother. J-J-J-Jasper.” As the name leaves her tongue, her weeping grows.

“Jasper Vernazza.” I frown. “This name, it’s familiar to me.”

“His fate wasn’t as dramatic as Father’s. He still lives, if you can call being locked in a cage like an animal a life. He was a minor news story this past year until we lost his case and they locked him up. He was an art historian caught stealing a painting from my father’s collection in the Musée des Beaux-Arts. They say he wanted to sell it to a black market dealer in Hong Kong, but my brother reveres museums and Father’s legacy. It doesn’t make sense.” She wipes her eyes. “The portrait he was accused of stealing was another angel, actually. My father painted a whole series of them.”

“And each one is superb. I’ve studied his works.” I’ve seen most of them over the years. They are all of Ruby’s dreamy, heavenly face contrasted with a different hyperrealistic dystopian cityscape.

“My brother was set up, I just don’t know why.” With one shuddering inhalation she composes herself. “Anyway, this is not your concern. I remember your library. Art is not the only thing you study. You are fascinated by tales of pleasure, as well. I swear on my life you know more about the erotic arts than Madam herself.”

I nod. “I seek to understand beauty, for to know beauty is to know the face of God.” Strange. Until this moment I’ve never articulated this idea, either in thoughts or words.

She ducks her chin, a little shy, and stares up between her curtain of golden hair. “And to you, pleasure is beautiful?”

“I believe there is a sacred union of the body and soul when it comes to sex.” I begin to pace, assuming the tone of the professor, not a stretch considering I hold a PhD in Sacred Theology from the University of Edenvale. “Sexuality has the power to be as explosive as dynamite, and when used properly, it can be a tool that moves mountains. And if used improperly, it can grow volatile and wreak untold destruction.”

Her brows knit. “Yet you deny yourself.”

“I have what you could call an arranged marriage,” I say wryly. “My intended bride is to be the church.”

She lets out a frustrated huff, opening the door and disappearing for a moment. There is a rustling from the bathroom, and she emerges clutching a small vial. “I found arnica.” She uncorks the lid and takes a tentative sniff. “It appears to be mixed with lavender oil.”

“A medicinal ointment.” I nod my head. “Useful to treat all manner of aches and pains.”

“Let me do this.” She clutches the bottle, eyes wide. “Heal you.”

I take a step backward and find myself in a corner. “Why do you want to?”

“Because I think you are a good man. And the marks on your back make me want to cry. They also make me angry at God because why would He demand you to punish yourself for feelings that you admit are natural?”

“Sacrifice is holy,” I tell her, repeating the lessons I’ve been taught my whole life.

“If lust is an impulse that must be literally beaten from your flesh, then you are giving God something that is unclean, unholy. Why would He want such an offering?”

I bite the inside of my cheek, impressed at the depth of her impassioned response. “You’d make quite the scholar, Miss Vernazza.”

“Don’t call me that,” she snaps. “Not anymore. Now I am simply Ruby.” She strides forward, pouring ointment into her open palm. “And you are trying to distract me from my task like a naughty patient. Sit.” Her tone brokers no dissent.

I move to a wooden chair and sink to the seat.

“Let’s see how extensive the damage is.” She peruses my back, her long hair tickling my bare skin. Her silence stretches for the length of a minute. “Benedict,” she says, my name a sigh from her lips. “So much pain.” Her fingertips press on my throbbing skin, the welts from the whip. The lavender scent of the ointment floods my senses, but is nothing compared to the intense vibrations sent out across my flesh from her soft, circular massage.

“Let’s see if we can make you feel better,” she whispers in my ear.

Ruby

His skin is like fire under my touch, the raised welts tearing at my heart as my fingers travel over each one.

“Benedict,” I say, but I don’t know what comes next. His name falls so easily from my lips, yet I know the skin I touch blazes not only with the heat of desire but that of intense, overwhelming guilt. It is the skin not just of a man but of royalty; a world in which I do not belong, save for my likeness hanging on his wall.

His head droops.

“Have I hurt you?” I ask, afraid I am doing more harm than good.

He gives his head a soft shake. “The way you say my name,” he says.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt. “I meant Your Highness.”

“No,” he assures me. “It is not that.” I listen and continue to massage the salve over his wounds. “The way you say Benedict, it makes me feel...known.”

“Oh,” I say, my hands pausing but never leaving his skin. “I’m not sure what to do with that,” I admit.

“Nothing.” He lets out a bitter laugh. “Only God can truly know me,” he says. “That is my chosen path.”

I step around the chair to face him, and he lifts his head.

“Did you really choose that path, Benedict? Or was it chosen for you?”

His green eyes are a storm of emotion, yet his words are the picture of calm.

“How I got here is of no matter,” he says. “This is my path, and I shall not stray.”

I kneel and place my hands on his thighs. He takes a ragged breath, and I expect him to push me away. But he doesn’t. So I decide to push. Not because of what the Madam assigned me to do and not to push Benedict toward failure if, in fact, this is not what he wants. The entire realm envies the royal family, yet I wonder what anyone in a position such as Benedict—or any member of his family for that matter—gets to choose.

“If you had a choice right now,” I ask, “if you could have something you wanted that you thought you didn’t deserve, what would it be?”

He leans against the chair and winces. He is in more pain than he’s letting on.

“Is this more truth or dare?” he asks, forcing himself to smile through the pain, but his feigned attempt at levity does not work on me.

“No games,” I say. “We already did that, so I’m technically off the clock. I want you to choose something for you.”

He places his hands atop mine, his fingers circling my wrists.

“To voice such a thing would be selfish.”

I laugh even as tears prick at my eyes. How many times have I wanted something just for myself only to give it up for someone else? To have the luxury of acting on one selfish wish? I would take it in an instant.

“Then be selfish, Benedict. You are not a priest, not yet. And from what I know of your religion, until you take your final vows, you may do as you please. This is a new millennium. You’re young, fairly easy on the eyes.” I grin. “You could have any woman you want, and yet you deny yourself. Why?”

He grips me tighter, lifting my palms from his legs.

“To save myself for God,” he says through gritted teeth.

“No.” I shake my head. “I don’t believe that. After what you had me do tonight, I know you want. I know you are tempted. Why not act on those temptations while you can?”

Now he does throw my hands from him, and he springs from the chair, pacing the length of the room. He runs a hand through his hair, tearing at it as he does.

“Benedict,” I say, standing and heading toward the wall. “Benedict, you’re scaring me.”

He stops before me, chest heaving and his emerald eyes wide.

I squeeze my eyes shut and try to burrow into the wall to escape whatever is coming. I have forgotten myself tonight—forgotten who I am and what it is that I do. I have forgotten that this man, this prince, is nothing more than my client, and a displeased client takes his frustrations out on the whore. I have heard the stories. I have seen the aftermath. It’s more than a surprising slap across the face from the Madam.

I just didn’t think it would happen to me so soon.

“Ruby,” he says, his voice as gentle as a whisper, and I open my eyes. My hands are still balled into fists, and I realize I’m holding my breath. “Heavens, Ruby, no. Did you think—I could never—”

A tear escapes the corner of my eye, my fear finally getting the best of me, and he swipes it away with a thumb. Only then do I exhale.

“Madam leaves punishment up to the client. If he is not satisfied...”

But I also factor in her own dissatisfaction—what she will do if I don’t let her know about the painting now that I know where it is.

He brushes my hair from my face, each stroke of his hand telling me that he is different. That I am safe.

“I am not a client,” he says. “Not for the rest of this evening.”

I exhale. “But you were so angry. And it happened so quickly, I thought... I mean, I was getting myself ready for the worst.”

He raises his head to the ceiling—or, most likely, the heavens—and whispers Latin words I do not understand. Then his eyes find mine again. The storm is gone. He is once again the picture of calm.

“There are two reasons why I deny myself the pleasures of the flesh though I’ve not yet taken my vows. I would like to tell them to you.”

He is so close, his woodsy, earthy scent intoxicating me. If he is not a client right now, then what is he? Why is it that in his presence, I long for him to know me, as well?

I nod.

“First,” he says, and his hand skims the silk sleeve of my robe until he finds my clenched fist. I relax and let him take my hand in his. “To maintain my virtue until my vows—it is the ultimate test of strength and will. I want to be strong enough for this. I want to give myself to the Lord wholly and completely, which means I will not give myself to another.”

“Okay,” I say softly, accepting that this is a choice he gets to make, and if anyone can understand that, I can.

“The second reason,” he says, his head dipping toward mine, “is that I am terrified to know what I am missing.”

“Oh,” I say, eyes wide.

“I will not give you my virtue,” he says.

“I know.”

“But for just a moment, I do want to be selfish.”

“What do you want, Benedict?” His nearness is almost too much to bear.

“A kiss,” he says.

I know without asking that I will be his first, and I know the slippery slope down which this could lead.

But I want to be selfish, too, just for a moment.

“Take what you want,” I tell him.

“First tell me your name. Your real name.”

And because I want to be known, too, if only for tonight, I say it.

“Evangeline.”

“A beautiful name.” He grins. “My angel, Evangeline.” And with that, his fingers circle my wrists again, sliding my arms up the wall so he holds my hands over my head. I am captive to my prince, and yet I’ve never felt more free.

My nipples harden beneath my silk dressing gown, and I cannot ignore the throb between my legs.

His head dips farther until I can feel his warm breath against my skin, and when his lips brush hesitantly against mine, I thank whatever God there is that Benedict is holding me in place, because my knees give out. I whimper, and my prince takes what he needs.