Free Royal Renegade by Alicia Rasley Page B

reason to lie to me. My Uncle Dmitry, my cousin Alexander, they brush off the stories. But Cumberland is meant to be my husband, and I have the right to know the truth—is he truly a murderer?"
    Something in her plea must have reached him, for he turned to study her, leaning an elbow against the rail. His cloak fell back, revealing his hand gripping the other wrist, a white lace cuff stark against his bronze skin. "I don't know the truth. No one does, except Cumberland, I suppose, and the valet—and he can't tell us anything." His gaze was upon her, but his eyes were focused inward as if in memory. "I've been on the Peninsula for three years, you see, so I don't know the details. But I gather Cumberland's valet went mad and attacked him one night, laid open his skull. The valet was found later, his throat slit, in a—another room." In fact, it had been the privy, as the scandal sheet Tatiana read had been delighted to tell. Lord Devlyn was more discreet. "The inquest said it was suicide."
    Tatiana's sulky mouth drew down as she considered this possibility once again. But the explanation, even in the viscount's cool, reasonable voice, still made no sense. "If I were to commit suicide, I don't think I would slit my own throat. It's rather an awkward motion, don't you think?" She demonstrated, drawing her index finger along her neck from one ear to the other, grimacing horribly.
    Lord Devlyn, she realized an instant later, was enigmatic. Now when she was trying so hard to be serious, to enlist him as a sympathizer, he decided to be amused. Now his hard mouth was curving at her bloodcurdling demonstration. But his unwilling smile faded as quickly as it appeared, and his face returned to its usual grave lines. "Awkward and painful, I imagine. But Cumberland had been gravely injured, and averred that he was physically incapable of such derring-do."
    "But do you think him morally capable of it?"
    At her apprehensive question, he turned back to face the sea, his broad shoulder a barrier to her. She longed to touch that hard mouth, so cynically twisted now. He wasn't a cynical man, she thought, or hard either, but he had retreated again, and she didn't know why. "I've been years at war, Your Highness. I think men capable of all sorts of things. But he is of royal breeding and—"
    "In my experience, that only makes it the more likely," Tatiana broke in. Lord Devlyn flinched, his hand opening in a warning gesture, whether against her unexpected anger or her treasonous sentiments she didn't know. But she refused to curb her tongue, even if she offended him. For such a nonsensical idea that royal breeding conferred some special moral awareness could not go unchallenged.
    So, huddling into her cloak, chilled more by the memories than the wind, she declared, "I think they breed us royals especially for violent tendencies. In Russia, we've always been a bloodthirsty lot. Ivan the Terrible killed thousands, they say, many by his own hand."
    "Generations ago." Lord Devlyn was regarding her warily now, his eyes shadowed by dark lashes. But now she was the one to turn away, to gaze out at the fathomless sea.
    "My great-great-grandfather, Peter the Great—they say he killed his own son because he didn't want him to inherit. And Catherine the Great—she was not a Romanov by birth, of course, but of the same German stock as your royal family—she had her husband killed. Don't look at me like that," she added indignantly.
    "Like what?" His voice was reasonable again, as if he were addressing a truculent child.
    "As if I am insane. I know what I'm talking about. We don't have public inquests in Russia, you see, when tsars are murdered. But we all know that the official stories are lies. Do you know how Catherine stole my grandfather's kingdom?" she asked suddenly.
    "Pardon my ignorance, Your Highness, but I don't even know your grandfather had a kingdom."
    "He was the King of Saraya Kalin. His mother was Peter's daughter—illegitimate, but