My heart leaps into my throat. At the top of the stairs is Alexander. He’s still wearing his formal suit, his dark hair slightly disheveled as always. For a heartbeat, I’m too stunned to speak. It’s as if my deepest desires have been formed to flesh. If not for the rush of blood to my face, I might think I was dreaming.
When I finally regain my wits, I have to look away, swallowing heavily before I speak.
“Alexander, I did not expect to see you this evening.”
I hear his heavy boots bound down the steps.
“I understand. You must have thought my note was from Peter. I apologize for disappointing you.”
He crosses the room, standing close enough for me to feel the air around me stir with his presence.
“I admit I did think they were Peter’s words.” Though hoped is more accurate. I don’t tell him that it isn’t disappointment coursing through my veins, but joy. Sheer, terrible, frightening joy. I clear my throat, knowing I can never say such things to him. “I never suspected you would be so rude as to proposition me in such an inappropriate manner.”
Without looking at him, I turn, ready to run back to my room but also steeling myself against his absence. When had my own feelings become so muddled and complicated? Before I take a single step, he catches my arm, turning me to him.
“I apologize for the misunderstanding, but please know it was never my intention to proposition you in any way. I needed to speak to you privately. This seemed the best way.”
Without meaning to, I look up and catch his eye. His expression is solemn and sincere.
“Please,” he adds gently.
I nod my head just a fraction of an inch. I doubt I could deny him anything when he’s looking at me like that. I pull away, afraid he might hear my heart gain speed, racing at his simple touch.
Stepping forward, he slides a book from the shelf and hands it to me. I glance at the cover. It’s a book of poetry by Sir Walter Raleigh. I hand it back, determined to hide the emotions raging inside me.
“I prefer something less rigid, if you please.”
He smiles lopsidedly, a dimple appearing in the side of his cheek. It is all I have to remain stone-faced, to not grin myself.
“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?”
“My patience grows thin, Alexander. I’m sure you didn’t come here to spout poetry to me.”
He slides the book back onto the shelf.
“Do you remember how Peter reacted that first night you were here?”
I fold my arms across my bust. “You mean how he ignored me completely? Flirted with Elizavetta?”
He turns back to me, one eyebrow arched. “Did this evening remind you of anything?”
I open my mouth to say no, to say that he had been perfectly kind and attentive all evening. But then I stop.
He ignored Charlotte. He flirted and fawned over me, but ignored her almost completely.
My expression must give me away because Alexander sighs.
“I’m so sorry, but I wanted you to see that this evening was not the victory you hoped it was.”
I lick my lips slowly because my mouth has gone dry. “Peter’s playing games again.”
Alexander nods solemnly. A ball of silent fury builds inside me. How could I have been so stupid? Of course he wasn’t genuinely interested in me. How could I have been so easily fooled? I replay every moment in my mind, our ride, the picnic he made for us. Had it all been a ruse? I square my shoulders and lift my chin. I’ll have to redouble my efforts to catch his attention. Perhaps I gave in too quickly, or perhaps I needed to remain more aloof? Then another, much darker thought occurs to me.
My head snaps up. “Why are you telling me this?”
Alexander takes a step back, looking affronted.
“Peter is your friend; I am just a stranger from another country. So why do you tell me these things? Or are you more part of this game than you would like to admit?”
I swear I see him blush before he looks away.
“It lies not in our power to love or hate, for will in us is overruled by fate. When two are stripped, long ere the course begin, we wish that one should love, the other win.” His voice trembles on the last line, and it does not escape my notice.
I know the poem. Marlowe is one of my favorites. His verses of love and longing are deep and still, something I often allow myself to indulge in. This poem, in particular, resonates with me. I complete the last line.
“Where both deliberate, the love is slight. Who ever loved, that loved not at first sight?”
He turns back to me.
“If any were to remain here, as empress, I wish it to be you. Should Peter’s heart fall to a beautiful face, he need look no further than what is right in front of him.”
My heart skips in my chest painfully. I stare at him for a long moment, unsure what to say. He is a dark beauty. His gaze is fervent and almost excruciating to behold. Unlike the others at court, all golden hair and fair skin, he feels wild.
Dangerous, a soft voice whispers in the back of my mind.
“If he marries you, then you can remain here, at court.” He rakes a hand through his hair in a boyish gesture. “And I would have you stay, for purely selfish reasons. So that I might—from a distance—be allowed to behold you.”
His words slice through me like a sword, sharp and quick. I know I cannot indulge this feeling I have—a feeling we seem to share. But there is something else, a deep longing that threatens to overwhelm me. I open my mouth to speak but the room spins, my stomach churning. I stumble back as my knees go weak. I feel myself fall, and his arms catch me as I collapse.
“Princess?” his voice calls out to me as if from a great distance. “Sophie?”
He sets me gently into a chair. I place my hand on his chest and open my eyes. The room has become unbearably hot, and I feel weak as a newborn kitten. Under my fingers, I feel his heart pound, strong and steady. I focus on the sensation, clutching it like a drowning man might clutch a rope. In that moment, he is my lifeline, the only thing tethering me to the earth.
“I need to get back to my room,” I whisper hoarsely.
Without a word, he scoops me up, cradling me in his arms. I rest my head in the curve of his neck. His skin is cool compared to mine so I nuzzle against him, touching him everywhere I can find exposed flesh. I know I shouldn’t touch him so, but the rational part of my mind is being burned away in a haze of fever.
I don’t see the guard throw my door open, but I hear it. Alexander orders him to fetch the physician, lays me across the settee, and wipes my hair back from my face.
“Go,” I order softly. “They can’t find you here.”
I hear him curse lightly under his breath and I feel a quick, nearly imperceptible kiss graze my forehead before he releases me and backs away. As soon as I’m sure he’s gone, I call out to my mother, who rushes into the room. Seeing me, she screams for help. I roll off the lounge and spill onto the cool floor. A pain in my chest rises up and I cough, suddenly unable to catch my breath. When I look down, I see sprinkles of blood pooled on the floor under me. Then a thick, white fog fills the room. I try to swat it away with my hand, but it’s no use. It consumes everything, and I feel my arms give out under me. The last thing I remember is wishing, that if I were about to die, that I could do it back in Alexander’s arms.