“But not as comfortable as the manor house?”
Arsov shrugged. “There is a bed for me there and none for me here.”
“You would find it too small.”
“Most likely.” He took the chair opposite Wulf’s and slapped his stomach. “I’ve grown fat and lazy in your service, my prince.”
“So it seems.” Wulf lifted a brow at Arsov. “The chimneys in the manor house, do they smoke as much as Tata complains they do?”
“Far less than the ones in her grace’s house in the old country. It does not truly bother her, if that is your worry.”
“She’s an old woman. I need to remember that.”
“Old and stubborn.” At Wulf’s surprised glance, Arsov added, “She has been very kind to me, though.”
“That’s a lie.”
Arsov’s lips twitched. The grand duchess barely countenanced Arsov, thinking he’d been offered a position he hadn’t deserved. “Your grandmother says your cottage is not fit for a prince.”
“It’s fit for this prince.” Wulf glanced around with satisfaction. “It’s warm, snug, and well built. The chimney doesn’t smoke, the thatched roof is now repaired, and the doors and shutters have been fixed—I am happy here, Arsov. Happier than I would be in that cold stone block of a manor house.”
“Which is exactly why your grandmother hates it.”
“Her feelings are many and fervent.”
Arsov’s brown eyes twinkled with amusement. “As you say, Your Highness. It would be difficult to find happiness if one attempted to live by the duchess’s definition.”
“Yes. Her idea of happiness revolves around the number of invitations one receives and how many compliments are paid to one’s jewels.”
“Such is the way of those who weren’t born with many jewels, Your Highness. From a distance, one can come to believe that the sparkle means happiness.”
Wulf looked at his Arsov thoughtfully. “You’ve been reading Plato again.”
Arsov inclined his head. “You should read him sometime.”
“I prefer Hume.”
“He has much to say, too.” Arsov’s dark gaze rested on Wulf’s face. “Pardon me, my prince, but I am confused.”
“Yes?”
“You wish this woman to value you and not your money. And yet that money could remove her family’s hardships.”
“You have been listening to Tata Natasha.”
“Nyet, or I would have used the terms ‘mad’ and ‘ridiculous.’ ”
Wulf chuckled. “True.”
“If this woman would choose you over her family obligations, doesn’t that prove that she is not the sort of woman one should marry?”
Wulf placed the knife on the table and untied the strop from the chair. “If she comes to me as I am, without money, even though she has need of it, it will mean that she trusts that, together, we can find a way out of her difficulties.”
Arsov nodded. “Then I hope that she may come to her senses.” After a moment he rose and stretched. “I should return. Your Tata Natasha should be tired from her ranting and will be asleep by now.”
“You can hope.” Wulf tucked his knife into the sheath inside his boot. “If not, feel free to return and sleep before the fire.”
“I may do that. Do you need me for anything else, my prince? I washed your shirts and placed them in your wardrobe.”
“Thank you, Arsov. That will be all.”
“Good evening, then.” With a bow, the servant left.
When Wulf had first hired Arsov, the man hadn’t known how to tie a cravat or shine boots, but Wulf hadn’t cared. The man was resourceful, organized, and intelligent. And Arsov hadn’t disappointed Wulf; he’d learned his duties quickly and efficiently. It had helped that Wulf was no fop and cared little for the starch of his cravats and whether his leather boots shone like mirrors. He mocked men who thought such trivialities were important.
Real men did not care about their boots, except whether they had enough heel to hook into a stirrup. Wulf rose, careful not to hit his head on the low ceiling as he went to the small desk he’d had brought from the manor house. While much of the other furniture was rustic, some of it rejected pieces from the servants’ chambers, he’d needed a desk and there were no spares to be had. He’d finally selected one from among the manor’s many sitting rooms, as it was small enough to fit in the limited space.
He ran his hand over the surface. It was too fine a piece for the cottage, but functional, with an assortment of drawers for storing his correspondence. He looked at an overflowing drawer and grimaced, for the morning’s missives were still waiting. There was no such thing as an idle prince; travel or no, Wulf’s duties followed him.
He picked up the packet and broke the seal, then picked up his pen to answer the missives within. He’d just dipped the pen into the inkwell when the faint clop-clop of a horse’s hooves coming down the path made him lift his head. He replaced the pen and went to the window. Through the woods, he could see the flicker of a red cape that he knew very well. His heart lurched in his chest. He grinned and hurried out of the cottage, but it wasn’t Lily who sat astride the large, plodding horse, but a pale-haired servant girl who looked as nervous as a fawn.
He swallowed his disappointment. “Yes?” he asked courteously.
“Och, ye really do live in a cottage. I thought—” She blushed. “I’m sorry, Yer Highness. I was jus’ surprised, is all. I was tol’ t’ bring ye this.” She fumbled in her cloak and then held out a missive sealed with a round button of blue wax.
Wulf took the letter, his gaze drawn to the flowing writing that sailed across the crisp foolscap. Lily. Perhaps you have come to me after all. He opened it and held it to one side so that the light from the cottage fell across the page.
Wulf,
I must speak with you. Meet me in the meadow by the river tomorrow at three and I’ll explain all.
L
His smile widened. Finally, she calls for me. “Tell your mistress that I’ll be there, come rain or wind or the devil himself.”
The girl’s expression softened and she said in a pleased tone, “ ’Deed I will, Yer Highness.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a coin and handed it to the servant.
She looked astonished at the bright coin. “ ’Tis gold!”
“So it is.”
“Indeed!” She carefully slipped it into her pocket. “Thank ’ee, Yer Highness.”
“You’re welcome. Be careful returning. Stay on the main path.” He turned the horse for her and saw her off, watching until she was well out of sight. Then he patted the letter that he’d placed in his pocket over his heart and grinned. It was a beginning.
Feeling better than he had all week, he went back into the cottage.
Thirteen
From the Diary of the Duchess of Roxburghe Poets always compare love to roses. They both grow, both have thorns, both are beautiful . . . and they both require a good, thorough mulching at least twice a year, preferably by a master gardener. Even nature needs help now and then.
Lily turned her horse down the path, following the other guests in their small party. There were ten in all, and two grooms, too. The presence of the grooms had surprised her; she’d have to find a way to deal with them somehow.
Beside her, Lord MacKeane chatted on and on about an Italian manuscript he’d once purchased for a huge amount at an estate outside of Lyons. Lily could only suppose that his story explained why he was in such financial straits today.
She was rather glad MacKeane was more interested in reliving what was apparently a fond memory rather than having an actual conversation, for she had no desire to talk to him. In fact, she’d spent much of the last half hour trying to figure out a way to be rid of him and the entire riding party.
Last night Lily had realized that she could no longer hope to simply chance upon a private conversation with Wulf, even though it was becoming increasingly important that she warn him of Emma’s probable
purpose in paying him such close attention. After the scene between Lily, the duchess, and Wulf’s grandmother, people would be watching them all, hoping for additional drama. And so Lily had done something she’d never thought to do—she’d arranged an unchaperoned assignation with a single man, a meeting that, if discovered, could ruin her reputation.
It was a large risk, but it had to be done. Though for different reasons, both she and Huntley were distracted with worry over the prince and Emma’s relationship, and it was impeding their ability to think about anything else. It hadn’t helped that since the day of the picnic, the duchess had tossed the two together at every juncture. Something must be done, and soon.
Lily looked up along the line of riders to where Emma rode beside Huntley, who’d apparently issued the warning he’d been dying to since the day of the picnic. The talk was not going well; Emma’s color was high, and the hard, incredulous looks she was shooting his way were far from her usual calm, smiling gaze. Huntley, too, was flushed, his mouth thinned, his brows drawn. It was proof that Lily was right: Emma’s refusal to give up Wulf proved beyond a doubt that the older woman had designs on the prince.
The path turned, and to the right of them lay a small hill that hid the meadow where Lily had asked Wulf to meet her. Lily peeked at the small watch pinned to the lapel of her riding habit and was relieved to see that she had twenty minutes still, plenty of time to follow the group farther down the trail, slip away unnoticed, and make her way back to the field. It would take only a few moments to express her concerns to the prince, then before anyone had time to launch a search party, she’d be back on her way to rejoin the group, claiming a lost kerchief or some such nonsense.
It was a perfect plan.
Except for the grooms.
And Lord MacKeane, who’d attached himself to her side.
Fine, maybe it isn’t such a perfect plan, but I must make this work.
She cast a glance over her shoulder and met the gaze of the groom who followed the group. He touched the brim of his hat and inclined his head. She smiled and turned back as Lord MacKeane droned on and on, now describing a Dutch painting he’d once purchased for an incredible amount of money.
Lily glanced at the hill, which was covered with beautiful yellow flowers. It was a gorgeous spring day, the sun shining, the wind teasing her skirts and tugging at the scarf that tied her hat. Hmmm. The wind . . .
She reached in her pocket and pulled out her kerchief. While no one was looking, she let it slip into the breeze. It tumbled over the horse’s haunches and was then whipped into a clearing on the opposite side of the trail. She turned to give the groom a beseeching stare.
He touched his hat and left the trail in an effort to catch the kerchief.
The second he was gone, Lily pulled up her horse, undid her small watch, and tucked it into her pocket.
It took Lord MacKeane a second to realize she was no longer by his side, and when he did so, he had to ride a little ways back down the trail to her, just as she’d hoped.
“Och, my dear Miss Balfour, what’s amiss?”
“My watch is missing. It was pinned on my lapel and I just checked it, but now it’s gone.”
“Stay right there. I’ll look for it.” With that, he dismounted. “What does it look like?”
“It’s very small and gold, about the size of a shilling.” She frowned. “But it was probably more like a couple of minutes ago that I looked at it.”
“Ah, then it will be a bit farther down the path. I will find it.” He turned and led his horse away from her.
It was the perfect moment. The groom had followed her kerchief off to parts unknown, MacKeane was too far off in one direction, and the rest of the group in the other, to hear her leave. She turned her horse and headed for the hill, clearing it and riding down a gentle slope, finally safe as she rode out of sight of the rest of the group.
Smiling, Lily allowed the horse to have his head, the meadow luring her with its beauty. Her horse whickered softly in approval of the thick, green grass beneath his hooves, decorated with small bunches of bright yellow flowers. The soft sigh of the breeze and the faint rush of water as it danced down the riverbed were the only sounds, so she felt fairly certain that she hadn’t yet been missed.
She undid the scarf she’d tied about her hat and let the breeze cool her ears and forehead. When she reached the middle of the field, she pulled the horse to a halt near a small, broken, ancient stone wall and decided to wait for Wulf there. But a sudden gust snatched the hat from her head, and it bounced off the horse’s haunch before tumbling away. At the slap of the hat brim, the horse jumped and then set off in a wild canter.
Lily grabbed the reins and, with more determination than talent, brought the animal under control and turned it back toward the meadow. She was not leaving her hat in the middle of field. Her sister Rose had sent her that hat from Italy, and it was highly unlikely that Lily would ever get another of such quality.
Seeing her hat nestled among a clump of wild-flowers, she pulled the horse up and looked down at it. Once she climbed off her horse, she would have no way to get back on. There was no groom to help, and the horse was too tall. Perhaps she could use the ancient wall? It looked sturdy enough.
Yes, that should do it. She guided the horse to the wall, gathered her skirts, and slid off, smiling as her booted feet touched the stone. The horse, happy to be relieved of duty, whickered softly and then dipped its head and began to graze.
Well, that was easier than she’d expected. She threw her long riding skirts over her arm and then jumped off the wall. But as she landed, her boot slipped on the moss-covered ground and she fell backward, landing on her shoulder against the ragged stone. Pain splintered through her.
The sunshine flickered as the outline of an angel appeared. At least she thought it was an angel, for his black hair made a blue aura where he blocked out the sun. She was still trying to grasp her circumstances when the angel spoke, his deep voice rich with an accent she knew all too well. “Easy, Moya.”
She took a shuddering breath and then clutched her shoulder. “I fell.”
“I saw. I wish I had been close enough to catch you. Don’t move. What hurts?”
“Only my shoulder.” She rolled to her side to rise, but the pain made her gasp.
Wulf’s face, now illuminated by the sun, was stern. “I told you not to move.”
She gritted her teeth against the burn, managing to gasp out, “I’m fine. Just give me a moment.”
“Let me see.” He reached for her arm.
Instinctively, she jerked back, then cried aloud as a pain shot through her shoulder.
He cursed, long and low, a symphony of words she didn’t know, but understood all too well. “Let me see your shoulder,” he demanded. “I must see if you’ve broken something.”
Still clutching her arm, she leveled a hard stare at him.
“I know what I am doing,” he insisted. “My men and I frequently play polo, and such injuries are not unusual.”
“Polo?”
“A game with sticks and a ball that is played from the backs of horses. It’s very difficult and there are many injuries.”
She sighed. “I’m not going to disrobe here, in the middle of a field.”
“But—”
“No. If someone saw us . . . I cannot.”
“Ah, these rules of yours will kill me!” He glowered, but after a moment said in a gentle voice, “Come. I will help you up. You should not be on the damp ground. Just be cautious and hold your arm to your side.”
She did as he asked, tucking her elbow close and holding it in place. He bent, and with an arm about her waist and her good shoulder pressed to his chest, he gently lifted her into his arms.
There was something to be said for a man who could carry one without the slightest bit of discomfort. She could see that coming in handy in a variety of situations.
And not only could he carry her with ease, but while she was snuggled against his broa
d chest, his cologne tickled her nose in the pleasantest way. Spicy and sensual, it made her want to turn her face and burrow against him. I’ve missed this. I’ve missed him.
He carefully placed her on a flat stretch of the wall, then stooped to place a finger under her chin and tilted her face to his, his expression somber. “There. This is better. Not so damp.”
It was better. Much. She tentatively moved her arm. The pain had lessened some, though she had no doubt that she’d have a large bruise. “I don’t think it’s broken.”
“Poor Moya. I hope not.”
For some reason, that made her laugh. “I’m not poor Moya. And I do wish you’d stop calling me that. My name is Lily.”
“I like Moya.” He ran his thumb over her chin, touching the bottom of her lip. “When I saw you fall—” His gaze darkened and he cupped her neck with his warm hand. “Don’t scare me like that again. You are my light.”
“You shouldn’t say things like that.” Yet she was glad he was saying it to her, and not to Emma.
The thought of Emma made her frown.
“Ah, now you are upset.”
“I’m not upset.”
“Yes, you are. Beautiful, and upset.” His eyes twinkled. “Don’t tell me you dislike hearing me say how beautiful you are; I would not believe it.”
She pushed a strand of hair from her eyes, realizing how many of her pins had been lost in her fall. “I am far too mussed to be beautiful.”
He chuckled and tipped her face to his. “You, Moya, are beautiful. I love how your eyes turn to silver when you are angry, the red-gold of your hair under the sun, your determined little chin, and . . .” His gaze flickered down her neck, lingering on her breasts. “All of you. Every last bit.”
His gaze was like the lick of a flame, tracing a shiver across her skin. She couldn’t look away, even if she wanted to—which she didn’t. She wanted to lean forward and capture his lips with her own and run her hands over his broad shoulders and—
Stop it. She dropped her gaze. Why, oh why, does he fascinate me so? Something had changed since Wulf had kissed her in the library, and she was beginning to think that it was her. “I should return to the castle. I can ride if you’d help me onto my horse.”