reason I thought of this match.” The prince’s voice softened slightly. “So many are dead, but you—you, Benvolio, you, Rosaline—you
live
. You survived. This whirlwind of death that has decimated your families and even taken Paris and Mercutio, mine own cousins—it has passed you by, left you unscathed.”
Benvolio’s dark eyes caught hers again. The depth of pain she saw there made her own throat ache. “Hardly unscathed, my lord,” she said softly.
The prince’s hands tightened over theirs. “No. None of usis. But still, you are here, and they are not. For the others, strife and death; for you two, peace and life. Do you know why that is?”
They said nothing.
“Nor do I,” said the prince. “But whatever fate or chance or wisdom ’twas that saved you, Verona hath need of it now.”
Rosaline broke his pretty words with an inelegant snort. “Peace?” she said. “Peace?” Ripping her hand free, she pointed to the red mark on Benvolio’s face. “Would you like to know how the peaceful Benvolio got that? From mine own peaceful hand.”
The prince’s eyebrows shot up. He turned a questioning look to Benvolio, who nodded. His fingers traced lightly over the welt she’d raised on his cheek. Rosaline had not known she could hit that hard. “Aye,” he said. “Not an hour since.”
Rosaline laid her hand on Benvolio’s cheek, showing how the mark fit the shape of her fingers. He winced and drew away from her touch. “This is what five minutes’ acquaintance with this rascal brought about,” she said. “Imagine what a lifetime of marriage would wreak. We’d bring no peace to Verona, Your Grace.”
Benvolio turned and stood shoulder to shoulder with her, facing down the prince. “She speaks aright, my lord. You would sentence us to a lifetime of misery.”
The prince said nothing, merely stared his young vassal down, arms crossed, eyebrows slightly raised.
A strained smile crossed Benvolio’s face. “But of course,” he said, “my misery is ever at Your Grace’s command.”
Rosaline stared at him. How could he accede to this madness?He hated her far more than she loathed him. The vicious words he’d spat at her in the graveyard had proven that.
Well, if she had lost her only ally, she’d simply have to prevent this madness herself. Stepping forward, she fell to her knees at the prince’s feet, taking his hand in hers. “My prince,” she said. “I beg you. As your loyal subject and”—she swallowed, and made herself look into his eyes—“as one thou may’st once have considered a friend. Escalus, please do not ask this of me.”
Behind her she heard old Montague draw a sharp breath. Her uncle lurched as though to seize her, but checked it. Rosaline sat frozen. Her familiarity was inexcusable, she knew. To call the prince by his name! To call him
thou
, as though he were her equal, her intimate friend! Quite possibly she was the first to address him so since he had taken the throne. But she was sure that if she could only reach him—if he could only break through that cool, absent mask of majesty and
see
her—
He pulled his hand away. She thought she saw a flare of something in his eyes, but he turned away, leaning against her uncle’s desk with his back to them.
“You forget yourself, lady,” he said, turning back around, that mask of regal uncaring ease once more on his face. “And I was not
asking
.”
Rosaline let her hands drift back to her lap. She stared at the faces above her. Her uncle, as red-faced as if he’d drunk a bottle of wine. Montague, drawn and cold. Benvolio, miserable but resigned. Between them, these men had sealed her fate.
Or so they thought.
Smoothing her skirts, Rosaline rose to her feet. “I was not asking either. My lords, I
will not
marry Benvolio.”
Her uncle harrumphed. “Do not be mad, girl. You’ve no choice.”
“Oh? Powerful men you may be, but even you cannot force a lady into marriage vows she will not speak.”
The
live
. You survived. This whirlwind of death that has decimated your families and even taken Paris and Mercutio, mine own cousins—it has passed you by, left you unscathed.”
Benvolio’s dark eyes caught hers again. The depth of pain she saw there made her own throat ache. “Hardly unscathed, my lord,” she said softly.
The prince’s hands tightened over theirs. “No. None of usis. But still, you are here, and they are not. For the others, strife and death; for you two, peace and life. Do you know why that is?”
They said nothing.
“Nor do I,” said the prince. “But whatever fate or chance or wisdom ’twas that saved you, Verona hath need of it now.”
Rosaline broke his pretty words with an inelegant snort. “Peace?” she said. “Peace?” Ripping her hand free, she pointed to the red mark on Benvolio’s face. “Would you like to know how the peaceful Benvolio got that? From mine own peaceful hand.”
The prince’s eyebrows shot up. He turned a questioning look to Benvolio, who nodded. His fingers traced lightly over the welt she’d raised on his cheek. Rosaline had not known she could hit that hard. “Aye,” he said. “Not an hour since.”
Rosaline laid her hand on Benvolio’s cheek, showing how the mark fit the shape of her fingers. He winced and drew away from her touch. “This is what five minutes’ acquaintance with this rascal brought about,” she said. “Imagine what a lifetime of marriage would wreak. We’d bring no peace to Verona, Your Grace.”
Benvolio turned and stood shoulder to shoulder with her, facing down the prince. “She speaks aright, my lord. You would sentence us to a lifetime of misery.”
The prince said nothing, merely stared his young vassal down, arms crossed, eyebrows slightly raised.
A strained smile crossed Benvolio’s face. “But of course,” he said, “my misery is ever at Your Grace’s command.”
Rosaline stared at him. How could he accede to this madness?He hated her far more than she loathed him. The vicious words he’d spat at her in the graveyard had proven that.
Well, if she had lost her only ally, she’d simply have to prevent this madness herself. Stepping forward, she fell to her knees at the prince’s feet, taking his hand in hers. “My prince,” she said. “I beg you. As your loyal subject and”—she swallowed, and made herself look into his eyes—“as one thou may’st once have considered a friend. Escalus, please do not ask this of me.”
Behind her she heard old Montague draw a sharp breath. Her uncle lurched as though to seize her, but checked it. Rosaline sat frozen. Her familiarity was inexcusable, she knew. To call the prince by his name! To call him
thou
, as though he were her equal, her intimate friend! Quite possibly she was the first to address him so since he had taken the throne. But she was sure that if she could only reach him—if he could only break through that cool, absent mask of majesty and
see
her—
He pulled his hand away. She thought she saw a flare of something in his eyes, but he turned away, leaning against her uncle’s desk with his back to them.
“You forget yourself, lady,” he said, turning back around, that mask of regal uncaring ease once more on his face. “And I was not
asking
.”
Rosaline let her hands drift back to her lap. She stared at the faces above her. Her uncle, as red-faced as if he’d drunk a bottle of wine. Montague, drawn and cold. Benvolio, miserable but resigned. Between them, these men had sealed her fate.
Or so they thought.
Smoothing her skirts, Rosaline rose to her feet. “I was not asking either. My lords, I
will not
marry Benvolio.”
Her uncle harrumphed. “Do not be mad, girl. You’ve no choice.”
“Oh? Powerful men you may be, but even you cannot force a lady into marriage vows she will not speak.”
The
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