And I Darken
Page 134
She stiffened. Radu saw her fingers curl into fists, ready for a fight. “I can. I have already started. He will never forgive me for admitting my betrayal.”
Radu was reminded of her beating the boyar sons in the forest outside Tirgoviste. Those same fists had always defied everything expected of her. Now he had made her love of Mehmed a challenge to be overcome. His heart sank as he realized that by taunting her that she could not leave, he had virtually guaranteed she would do exactly that.
Maybe he had known that all along.
“Come with me,” she commanded. “I will not go home without you.” She waited, then shocked Radu with her desperate, soft tone. “You chose me.”
He had. And Lada had not asked him for something like this in so long. She was his sister, and she was begging him to choose her again. But maybe, if Lada left, Mehmed would finally choose him.
“I am home, Lada.” Radu lay back and turned on his side, away from her.
THOUGH LADA DID NOT know what would happen, she was certain of two things:
It would hurt, and she would need to be strong.
She dressed in chain mail and the Janissary uniform, except for the cap. She left her hair down, a tangled mass of curls in defiance of both Janissary custom and feminine styles. At her hip was her sword, and on her wrists were her knives.
Her spine was steel. Her heart was armor. Her eyes were fire.
At her side were Bogdan and Nicolae. Bogdan, to remind her of what she had left behind and could find again. Nicolae, to remind her that she could lead and men would follow.
Mehmed looked up in surprise when Lada entered the reception room. He sat behind a table, robed in purple, perfectly in place in his gilded chair. His official stool holder crouched nearby, waiting. Behind Mehmed, Radu avoided Lada’s eyes.
Unable to account for her appearance, Mehmed’s eyebrows rose in a question. “Leave us,” he said, and the attendants scattered and disappeared.
Lada planted her feet, rooting herself. “Make Radu prince of Wallachia.”
Radu shook his head, turning toward the window, away from her.
Mehmed’s expression fell, then turned deliberately neutral. How long had he known about her father and kept the information from her? And why? But she would not ask those questions. They made her look weak. She was here to demand, not question.
“Why would I do that?” Mehmed asked.
“Because you need as much stability as you can get before you go after Constantinople. You have had enough problems with Wallachia allying with Hungary, Transylvania, and Moldavia. Make Radu the prince, and you will guarantee no treaty with Wallachia will be broken.”
Mehmed leaned back and stretched, long and feline. “He does not want to take the position of vaivode. There is another way to strengthen the alliance with Wallachia.”
No! Lada had been hoping Mehmed was not in contact with the Danesti family. If they had already agreed to work with him, her position would be irreparably weakened. “You cannot trust the Danesti boyars.”
“The Danesti line? No, I am going to ally myself with the Draculesti family.”
Lada bit back a growl of frustration. “With Mircea dead, that leaves only Radu to take the throne.”
“He is not the only Draculesti.” Mehmed’s mouth curled around a smile fighting to break free. “And thrones are not the only way to secure alliances.”
“What—” Understanding slammed into her, stealing her breath. “No.”
Mehmed stood, walking around the table to stand in front of her. He cupped her chin, lifting her face to his. “Marry me, Lada. It is the perfect solution.”
Lada laughed.
Mehmed’s smile grew, until he realized her laugh was not a sweet breeze of delight, but a brutal desert wind carrying stinging sand in its wake.
“I will never marry.”
“Why? Stand at my side! Rule my empire with me!”
“I want no part of the Ottoman Empire.”
Anger flashing in his black eyes, Mehmed let go of her chin. “Why do you hate my country so? Have you not been happy here?”
“Do you know me at all? I have never been happy anywhere except Wallachia.”
His face darkened, and he jabbed a finger at her. “You have been happy with me.”
She realized, finally, that she had been less selfless than she thought when taking the full blame and sparing Radu. On some unconscious level, she had hoped that Mehmed would be unable to forgive her. That she would not have to make the choice to leave him, but that the choice would be made for her.
Love was a weakness, a trap. She had learned that from her father her first day in Edirne, but somehow she had failed to keep herself free. Mehmed and Radu stood before her, snaring her, keeping her here. And even knowing it, she recoiled at the thought of losing them.
Radu was reminded of her beating the boyar sons in the forest outside Tirgoviste. Those same fists had always defied everything expected of her. Now he had made her love of Mehmed a challenge to be overcome. His heart sank as he realized that by taunting her that she could not leave, he had virtually guaranteed she would do exactly that.
Maybe he had known that all along.
“Come with me,” she commanded. “I will not go home without you.” She waited, then shocked Radu with her desperate, soft tone. “You chose me.”
He had. And Lada had not asked him for something like this in so long. She was his sister, and she was begging him to choose her again. But maybe, if Lada left, Mehmed would finally choose him.
“I am home, Lada.” Radu lay back and turned on his side, away from her.
THOUGH LADA DID NOT know what would happen, she was certain of two things:
It would hurt, and she would need to be strong.
She dressed in chain mail and the Janissary uniform, except for the cap. She left her hair down, a tangled mass of curls in defiance of both Janissary custom and feminine styles. At her hip was her sword, and on her wrists were her knives.
Her spine was steel. Her heart was armor. Her eyes were fire.
At her side were Bogdan and Nicolae. Bogdan, to remind her of what she had left behind and could find again. Nicolae, to remind her that she could lead and men would follow.
Mehmed looked up in surprise when Lada entered the reception room. He sat behind a table, robed in purple, perfectly in place in his gilded chair. His official stool holder crouched nearby, waiting. Behind Mehmed, Radu avoided Lada’s eyes.
Unable to account for her appearance, Mehmed’s eyebrows rose in a question. “Leave us,” he said, and the attendants scattered and disappeared.
Lada planted her feet, rooting herself. “Make Radu prince of Wallachia.”
Radu shook his head, turning toward the window, away from her.
Mehmed’s expression fell, then turned deliberately neutral. How long had he known about her father and kept the information from her? And why? But she would not ask those questions. They made her look weak. She was here to demand, not question.
“Why would I do that?” Mehmed asked.
“Because you need as much stability as you can get before you go after Constantinople. You have had enough problems with Wallachia allying with Hungary, Transylvania, and Moldavia. Make Radu the prince, and you will guarantee no treaty with Wallachia will be broken.”
Mehmed leaned back and stretched, long and feline. “He does not want to take the position of vaivode. There is another way to strengthen the alliance with Wallachia.”
No! Lada had been hoping Mehmed was not in contact with the Danesti family. If they had already agreed to work with him, her position would be irreparably weakened. “You cannot trust the Danesti boyars.”
“The Danesti line? No, I am going to ally myself with the Draculesti family.”
Lada bit back a growl of frustration. “With Mircea dead, that leaves only Radu to take the throne.”
“He is not the only Draculesti.” Mehmed’s mouth curled around a smile fighting to break free. “And thrones are not the only way to secure alliances.”
“What—” Understanding slammed into her, stealing her breath. “No.”
Mehmed stood, walking around the table to stand in front of her. He cupped her chin, lifting her face to his. “Marry me, Lada. It is the perfect solution.”
Lada laughed.
Mehmed’s smile grew, until he realized her laugh was not a sweet breeze of delight, but a brutal desert wind carrying stinging sand in its wake.
“I will never marry.”
“Why? Stand at my side! Rule my empire with me!”
“I want no part of the Ottoman Empire.”
Anger flashing in his black eyes, Mehmed let go of her chin. “Why do you hate my country so? Have you not been happy here?”
“Do you know me at all? I have never been happy anywhere except Wallachia.”
His face darkened, and he jabbed a finger at her. “You have been happy with me.”
She realized, finally, that she had been less selfless than she thought when taking the full blame and sparing Radu. On some unconscious level, she had hoped that Mehmed would be unable to forgive her. That she would not have to make the choice to leave him, but that the choice would be made for her.
Love was a weakness, a trap. She had learned that from her father her first day in Edirne, but somehow she had failed to keep herself free. Mehmed and Radu stood before her, snaring her, keeping her here. And even knowing it, she recoiled at the thought of losing them.
