anya took a wide step back, to look at them as a whole. Finely dressed gentlemen, probably educated at West Point or some other officer training school, which would account for the military precision of their movements and bearing. Young bloods, though these were a bit old for that label, all of them more in the area of thirty years. But she knew their type. Rich, privileged, and no doubt bored—which made them great practical jokers.

She should have known none of this was real. They obviously thought it would be hilariously funny to dupe a poor, ignorant town girl into believing in fairy tales. Cruel was what it was, because most girls wouldn’t see that it was only an elaborate joke, not until they were hurt by it. Now that Tanya did, she could explain it all away so easily.

Dobbs, of course, had given them the information they needed about her mother, probably for a few coins. Even the birthmark on her backside, if there really was one, could have been glimpsed through her window, for just last night she’d been in such a hurry to change out of her costume, she hadn’t closed her curtains. But it mortified her to think of one of these men up in that old tree outside her window, watching her in the altogether and noticing something on her body that even she didn’t know was there.

Hopefully, they hadn’t gone to that much trouble and there really was nothing there. In fact, there being no such mark was probably the end of the joke. But until she actually looked, they were having a high time, weren’t they? Anticipating that they were making her deliriously happy by what they were revealing, and how disappointed she was going to be when it finally dawned on her that she wouldn’t get her fairy‑tale king.

But they’d picked the one girl who wouldn’t get down and kiss the feet of the so‑called king who’d deign to marry her, because she was never getting married, not to any man, not even to a king if a real one ever asked. If they hadn’t tried to carry it so far—a king, for God’s sake—­it would have worked. But that was probably the whole idea, to get her to believe something that was so fantastically unbelievable.

In fact, the joke had worked up to this point. She’d believed they actually knew who she was, that she would learn about her real family, her history, everything she’d always wanted to know. That was what was important to her, not some happy‑ever‑after marriage. But they didn’t know that. She’d been ridiculously gullible. But they weren’t going to know that either, not if she could help it.

“A king?” she said now, forcing her eyes wide with amazement. “My oh my, will wonders never cease.” That tepid bit of excitement was the best she could do, so she changed her tone to skeptical, laced with scorn, wanting to see just how far they’d go to convince her. “Who?” she asked Stefan. “You? No, you’re not arrogant enough. It must be him.”

She was looking at Vasili. The others were looking at Stefan for his reaction to what could be considered another rebuff.

“Indeed,” Stefan said stiffly. “King Vasili of Car­dinia. That should delight you, mistress.”

“Should it?” she replied, but her eyes were still on Vasili, whom she asked, “So you’re a real live king?”

Vasili came away from his slump against the wall with a look of utter disgust which he bestowed first on Stefan, then on Tanya. “So it would seem, mis­tress.”

“And why would you want to marry the likes of me?”

“I assure you I don’t.”

“You were betrothed at birth,” Stefan quickly told her. “Whether the king wishes to marry you or not, his duty demands that he do so—if you bear the mark. It is time to establish—”

“I don’t think so,” Tanya cut in. “What it’s time for is the end of this joke, and for you to leave. You’ve wasted enough of my—”

“You don’t believe you stand before royalty?” This interruption came from Vasili, who showed some amusement at last in the slight tilting of his lips.

Tanya snorted. “I don’t know what gave you the idea I was stupid, but I assure you I’m not.”

“That is most definitely debatable, mistress,” Vasili shot back. To Stefan he added, “Why don’t you just lift her damn skirts and be done with it?”

Tanya’s fingers curled immediately around the hilt of her knife. “The hand that touches me gets cut off,” she promised. “Now I want you out of here!”

Stefan sighed, wondering how a simple matter had become so difficult. “We cannot leave here in doubt, mistress. If you would but try to understand our po­sition—”

“But I do understand, perfectly. I’m just not be­lieving it.”

“For what reason would we fabricate what has been revealed here?”

“I can think of several reasons, none of them very nice. You could even be actors for all I know, re­hearsing some stupid play that deals with royalty. In that case, you definitely need more practice—on everything but the arrogance and condescension. You’ve got those attitudes mastered very well in­deed.”

“The mark—”

“I don’t care about the damned mark!”

“We do!”

Now Tanya sighed. “Then let me put it another way, since you insist on keeping up the pretense. I wouldn’t marry your king if you paid me. So whether I have the mark or not no longer matters.”

“If you have it, mistress, you will marry the King of Cardinia. Your wishes in the matter do not count, since it was your father who betrothed you.”

“A father you say is dead, so it makes no difference to me what he did or didn’t do. And you better believe my wishes count. I can’t be forced to marry anyone.”

“You can be ordered to, mistress.”

“Like hell!” she snapped. “I don’t take orders from anyone anymore, not even from Dobbs.”

“You are a Cardinian—”

“I’m an American!”

“Where you were raised doesn’t matter in the least,” Stefan told her. “You were born in Cardinia, and that makes you subject to your king’s will.”

If what he was saying was really true, Tanya would be just about petrified by now. Subject to that despicable Adonis? Forced to marry him, when he couldn’t stand her and didn’t care if she knew it? No, she didn’t believe it, couldn’t believe it. But then why weren’t they ending this joke, now that she’d told them she didn’t want their pretty‑faced king? It made no sense to go on with it.

She wasn’t going to. “I’ve had enough of this nonsense,” she said, and turned toward the back door.

“The mark, mistress!” she was reminded once more, this time furiously. “At the risk of repeating myself, we must know if you possess it, and again, either you describe it to us or you will force us to look for ourselves.”

She stared hard at Lazar, who was blocking her way just as he’d done earlier. God, did they all have to look and sound so serious? They must have played this joke countless times to make it seem so convincing.

“All right,” she gritted out, swinging around and heading for the stairs instead. “We’ll play this out your way. But when I return and tell you there isn’t any mark to be found, you’d damn well better leave the premises and... not... come... back!”

Serge barely got out of her way in time, before she marched past him and up the stairs. Stefan watched the sway of her skirt as she went, and imagined her lifting it in a moment to examine an area he would have become familiar with last night if things had worked out differently. He wished to hell they had.

The scars on his jaw turned white, he clenched it so tightly before turning away—and catching Vasili’s look. “Don’t say it,” Stefan warned. “I assumed her attitude would change if she thought... Hell, she’s not normal, that girl.”

“I’ll agree to that,” Vasili sneered.

Lazar chuckled. “You’re just annoyed that she didn’t swoon with happiness at the prospect of winning your esteemed self. And maybe she would have if she had believed what she was told. But in case you didn’t notice, my friends, she didn’t believe any of it.”

“Then she’ll change her tune once she sees the mark,” Serge predicted.

“We don’t know what she’ll do,” Lazar said. “Who would have thought she’d scorn a king? And you heard her. She doesn’t want him either way.”

“As Stefan said, she’s not normal,” Vasili remarked.

“Yes, but even if she finds the mark, I’ll wager she will return and say it isn’t there. Are we to believe that?”

“You know as well as I that she is Tatiana Janacek,” Stefan said.

“But she’s so set against us, Stefan, I wouldn’t be surprised if she cuts the mark out just to thwart us. Then we could never be entirely sure.”

“And consider this, Stefan,” Vasili added. “That could work either way. Her attitude could be pretense.”

“How so?”

“If she is not Tatiana Janacek, and knows she doesn’t possess the mark, how better to make us think she is than by adopting her present attitude? She could gouge out an area on her backside and insist the mark wasn’t there. She’d be telling the truth knowing we would doubt it, and get everything we offer when it isn’t hers by right.”

Stefan didn’t want to believe there was any likelihood in what they were saying, but in fact, it wasn’t at all inconceivable that in order to become a queen, a woman would mutilate herself in an obscure place on her body that no one would ever see but a husband. A woman of little prospects might do so even in a highly visible spot for such a reward. And in the same respect, a woman dead set against marriage, even to a king, and a woman as stubborn and hot-tempered as this one apparently was, would think nothing of scraping a mark off her lovely backside to keep herself unwed. And they had sent her upstairs with a knife on her person.

With a foul expletive, Stefan pinned Lazar with his fiery gold gaze, snapping out, “I will need one other witness.” And he headed for the stairs.