“I don’t know. I don’t care, either. I knew what word I wished to enact.”
Tata started to say something, but Lady Malvinea arrived at that moment to say her good-byes.
Alexsey bowed over Bronwyn’s hand. “I have waited for this all evening,” he murmured.
Her smile froze, her gaze flickering to her stepmother and his grandmother.
“Stop looking like a hare before the chase. You will only draw more attention. Tell me, Roza, have you been avoiding me?”
She plastered a faint smile on her face, but her eyes shot cautiously toward her mother before she said, “You left your glove at my house. My stepmother suspects something.”
“Ah. That explains it, then. I thought you were angry with me.”
She looked surprised. “No, no. I just—” Her hand tightened over his. “We must be more cautious.”
Relief flooded him. Had they been alone, he would have swept her into his arms and covered her with kisses. As it was, he merely covered her hand with his. “I will. But I must see you again. Alone.”
For a moment he thought she’d refuse, but something flickered in her eyes and she said in a husky voice, “I would like that, too. Very much.”
Bozhy moj, she had such sensual eyes. They looked right through him and made him yearn for her anew.
She lowered her voice. “Tomorrow, come to—”
“Bronwyn.” Lady Malvinea linked her arm with her stepdaughter’s, a bright smile on her face. “Poor Sorcha has a headache. We really must go.”
“Yes, of course.” But as she was hustled off by Lady Malvinea, Bronwyn sent him a quick, regretful glance, leaving Alexsey certain he’d see her again soon.
Roland ran the smooth stone along the edge of his sword. With each steady stroke, a fine glittering of metal dust floated through the air, leaving the blade sharpened in its wake. It took the strike of a hard stone to sharpen a blade. And a strong blade to withstand a stone’s strike.
—The Black Duke by Miss Mary Edgeworth
The Black Duke in one hand, her cloak thrown over her arm, Bronwyn ran down the stairs to the kitchen. Scott and Walter trotted behind her, hard on her heels. “Good morning!” she called to Mrs. Pitcairn.
“Good morning, miss.” As the older woman set a lid on a fragrant pot, she saw the dogs. “Och, dinna bring them in here!” She lunged for a leg of mutton that was resting on the table just before Walter reached it. “This is no’ fer the likes o’ ye, ye wild beastie!”
Walter managed to look both hopeful and apologetic, but Mrs. Pitcairn was having none of it. “Oot wit’ ye, ye mangy mutt, and take that sneak-thief brither of yers wit’ ye!”
She wrapped the leg of mutton in waxed paper and placed it on a high shelf, while Bronwyn opened the kitchen door and watched the dogs race into the early-morning sunshine. It was a beautiful day, unusually warm for this time of year, the sun spilling golden rays across the brown and green hills.
If not for the dogs waking her, she’d still have been in bed. She’d fallen asleep very late, unable to stop thinking about Alexsey.
She was sure he would visit today, and she needed to be ready—more ready than she had been at their last encounter, when she’d been seduced in the midst of her own seduction. She couldn’t succumb to him every time he was near or she’d never gain the upper hand, which she was more than ever determined to do.
She’d underestimated her opponent. He knew far more about the ways of seduction than she did. From now on, she had to think in a more complex fashion, tempt him in more sophisticated ways, give him just enough hope—but not too much—to make him mad with lust. And then, just when he thought he’d won her over, she’d laugh and inform him how mistaken he was.
What a glorious day that would be! But first she had to find a way to maintain control over her reactions to his overtures. While that sounded simple right now, when Alexsey was nowhere to be seen, it was much harder to remember when he was kissing her senseless.
But today she would turn the tables and show Alexsey Romanovin that he wasn’t the only one capable of overwhelming another person’s wits and calm sensibilities.
Sadly, all she had left in her arsenal of seduction techniques gleaned from her novels was the power of scent. She had to find a scent that would make him think of her every time he smelled it, one that would torment him with memories after she’d gone. One that would make him regret being so callous as to plan to seduce a woman for no better reason than he’d been told not to. Of all the valid reasons there were to seduce someone—love, admiration, passion—stubbornness of character was the least attractive.
Such an insult must be answered and all she needed was a perfume so seductive that he would grow passionate just upon smelling it. But there was one problem. Yesterday, while Mama and Sorcha had been out visiting the vicar and his wife, Bronwyn had gone to Mama’s bedchamber to sample perfumes, but she found they were all too cloying or heavy. She wanted to drive Alexsey mad with lust, not make him think of funeral flowers. So next, Bronwyn had sampled Sorcha’s perfume, which was much lighter and nicer. Bronwyn had almost borrowed it, when a thought occurred: if she wanted the scent to remind Alexsey of her whenever he smelled it, then the last thing she should do was borrow another woman’s perfume.
Frustrated, Bronwyn had reluctantly put the idea behind her. She didn’t have the time to find a scent for Alexsey to identify with her. Besides, if she did find one, in order to drive the prince mad with desire (if it even worked), she’d have to pay a servant to spritz some about Tulloch Castle, which would never do.
She sighed, wondering how she could seduce someone who was so good at seduction. As she did so, she caught the delicious aromas rising in the fragrant kitchen—cinnamon, nutmeg, basil, dill—was that thyme? Perhaps she’d been thinking about scents in too narrow of a fashion. What if she instead smelled like something he came into contact with every day, something that would make him remember their time together, their kisses, their embraces?
Mrs. Pitcairn dried her hands on her apron. “Off to read, are ye?”
“Yes, but I’ve only an hour. Mairi and I are to polish the silver this morning.”
“Ye work hard; ye deserve some time to play.” Cook lifted the damp cloth covering a large bowl and removed a ball of risen bread dough. “Yer sisters willna’ be here forever, miss. Once’t they’re married, ’twill jus’ be ye and yer ma’ and yer da’. Wha’ will ye do then?”
“I’m not really sure.” Bronwyn hesitated. “At one time, I thought Ackinnoull was my future. It was all I wanted. But now . . .” She leaned against the table. “I’m not certain what the future holds. Perhaps once Sorcha and Mairi are settled, I’ll travel.”
“Where would ye go?” Mrs. Pitcairn pulled out a stone pestle and mortar, placed some rosemary in the bowl, and began to grind it.
The clean, fresh scent tickled Bronwyn’s nose. Hmm—rosemary. Sir Henry’s cook serves herbed bread frequently, and almost always uses rosemary. That has potential.
She caught Mrs. Pitcairn’s questioning gaze. “I’m sorry—where would I travel. I would love to visit Greece and Italy, but that would be much too expensive. Perhaps instead, I’ll take a trip to the Hebrides and the northern lochs.”
“The lochs are breathtakingly lovely, miss. Me brother lives in the north, so I’ve seen them. And they’re no’ so far away.” Mrs. Pitcairn finished grinding the rosemary and set it aside, then turned to fetch some butter melting in a small pot by the stone.
Bronwyn leaned over the table and took a pinch of rosemary. With a quick look at Mrs. Pitcairn’s turned back, she rubbed some of it on her neck.
Goodness, it was quite potent when freshly ground—almost eye-watering, up close. She looked about for a cloth to rub it off, but Mrs. Pitcairn returned before Bronwyn could do anything.
The cook brushed the dough with the melted butter, then sprinkled it with the rosemary. “If ye travel, ye’ll need a companion. Women canno’ travel alone.”
“Of course they can,” Bronwyn said. Surely the smell will fade before the hour is out. “We don’t live in medieval times; women travel alone to many places.” Older women, to be sure, many of them forced by their circumstances to do so, but it was accepted.
Still, the thought of traveling alone wasn’t as appealing as that of traveling with someone with the same sense of humor. Someone who would enjoy a line or two from a poem by Walter Scott while admiring a beautiful loch. Someone who disliked formality and could kiss away the storm clouds—
Stop that! She shook her head, hoping to dislodge her plaguey thoughts.
Mrs. Pitcairn chuckled. “Ha’ ye a bug in yer ear, miss?”
“No, just a troublesome thought.”
Mrs. Pitcairn placed the bread loaf onto a large wooden paddle and slipped it into the oven. “Ye’ll ha’ to shake harder than tha’ to lose a thought.”
“I’ll just go read. You can’t read and worry—it’s not possible.”
“I worry aboot ye, all alone outside. Someat’ could happen to ye and no one could hear yer screams.”
“The dogs are with me; they are protection enough.”
Mrs. Pitcairn wiped her hands on her apron. “Hmph. Ye think more o’ th’ beasties than I do, but there’s no turnin’ ye. Go on wit’ ye. There’re apples in tha’ cask; take one in case ye get hungry.”
“Thank you.” Bronwyn tucked the shiny apple into her pocket, then put her cloak on. As she closed the door behind her, she whistled for the dogs. They came running from a nearby field and fell in behind her as she set off down the trail, her book a pleasant weight in her pocket.
The sky was bright blue and the sun warm as her boots crunched along the path; she didn’t really need her cloak until she reached the shade of the woods. The dogs roamed here and there, sniffing the grass and rocks, an occasional leaf floating down to land before them. The growing sound of the stream announced their arrival at their favorite clearing.
Scott and Walter each picked a place in the sun to stretch out, and soon their eyes closed.
The ground was too damp sit on, so she untied her cloak and threw it over her shoulder, tucked her skirts into her waistband, and then climbed to a thick, low branch of her reading tree. There, she settled into the crook, resting her back against the trunk as she stretched her legs along the wide branch. Satisfied she was in no danger of falling off, she threw the cloak over her legs, making sure it didn’t brush the damp grass.
With a happy sigh, she pulled the apple and her book from her pocket. The quiet was lovely and calming, a respite from the tensions that now filled Ackinnoull. Mama hadn’t been the same since she’d discovered Alexsey’s glove in the foyer, although she had been oddly reluctant to mention it. Bronwyn thought to reopen the subject, but feared it would only add to Mama’s already sharp suspicions, and so they’d settled into an uneasy silence. The rest of the family was in just as much turmoil: Papa’s head was buried deeper in his workshop than usual, and they rarely saw him; Mairi was constantly bubbling with excitement over events at the castle; while Sorcha had been quiet of late from the strain of their new social life.
Bronwyn herself had been on edge, her mind never at peace. No matter where she was—at home, at the milliner’s, at church—the moment she heard a door open, her heart lurched in anticipation of it being Alexsey. When it was him, she was thrown into a state of physical arousal and emotional turmoil, neither of which was given any relief. And when it wasn’t him, she was bitten by deep disappointment that lingered for hours.
She supposed the disappointment was only natural; she was eager to teach Alexsey a very needed lesson and her time was running short. All too soon, Sir Henry and his guests would leave Tulloch Castle, and life would return to its previous boredom.
She frowned. I wasn’t bored at Ackinnoull before Alexsey arrived, and I won’t be bored after he leaves. And yet . . . she had to admit things would be less lively.
She stifled a sigh and took a vigorous bite of her apple, appreciating the sweetness as the skin gave way to the flesh. When she finished, she threw the core into the clearing, where Walter and Scott leapt upon it, playing with it before they settled down and ate what was left. She wiped her fingers on the bottom of her cloak and then picked up her book, taking a deep breath of the chilled forest, the musty scent of dropped leaves and damp ground tickling her senses. She opened her book and within a few paragraphs was lost in the words.
She wasn’t certain how long she’d been reading when Walter and Scott woofed and stared into the woods. Startled, she lowered her book.
As if he’d risen from the pages, there was Alexsey, dressed much as he’d been that first day.
Bronwyn’s breath caught. How could a man look so good in such common clothes? She tapped a finger on her book. Miss Edgeworth had obviously never seen a fine male figure adorned in the clothing of a working man, or she’d have shown Roland in just such clothing, still looking as handsome and noble as if he were in formal dress.
With a bark, Papillon burst into sight, her feet muddied and her tail wagging so fast it was a blur. Walter and Scott ran to greet the small dog.
Alexsey walked toward Bronwyn, his gaze hot and possessive. “You look like a wood nymph, perched in your tree.”
“I sat here because the grass is damp.”
“Ah. That, I can fix.” He took off his coat and spread it over the grass at the bottom of the huge trunk. He looked more approachable now, wearing a loose white shirt that clung to his broad shoulders and then fell in graceful folds about his waist.
“I didn’t expect to see you here so early.”
His lips twitched. “You think I’m a slug-a-bed who doesn’t arise until late, complaining about having to meet the day? I am not so paltry a man.”
“Paltry” was not a word she’d have used to describe anything about this man.
“And do not worry that I will interfere with your reading time.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small book. “I have a book, too.”
How many men would join her in reading? None she’d ever met before. She really wished she could stop finding things she liked about him; it made it more difficult to maintain her distance, which she desperately needed to.
But . . . maybe this was just a ploy to win her favor, to advance his attempts at seduction. “How did you know I’d be here?”
“I stopped at Ackinnoull and spoke to Mrs. Pitcairn who was on her way to fetch eggs. She told me you’d be in your special glen, so I knew you’d be reading.”
“And you just happened to have a book in your pocket?” She couldn’t keep the dubious tone from her voice.
He waved a hand. “It is a gift for you, mayah daragahya. Since you are already reading, I will read with you. Afterward, it is yours.”
To her chagrin, more of the knots she’d tied around her heart eased. Not only was he willing to sit and read with her, but he’d brought her the one gift she loved over all others—a book. Blast it, must he be so kind? She realized he was looking at her, a question in his eyes, and she managed to say without seeming ungrateful, “Thank you. You know me almost too well.”
His smile glinted with heat. “What I know about you, my little Roza, I like very much. And I know I will like the rest, too.”
The purr in his words made her body warm in reaction.
He lifted a brow. “May I join you?”
Of course, her heart whispered. More touching, more kisses, more embraces. I want them all.
That’s not wise, her brain whispered back.
Be quiet, Bronwyn told them both as she swung her feet over the edge of the limb and dropped to the ground.
“What were you just thinking?” Somberness darkened his eyes. “Doubts have found you, nyet?”
“Doubts? No. Nothing like that.”
“You were thinking about us. About our kisses. What to do. Is it too much? Is it too little? I see your face, Roza, and I know.”
Good God, he can read my mind.
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“You think too much.” He reached out to capture the edges of her cloak, pulling her toward him. “I see it in your eyes all of the time—doubt this, doubt that, question this, question that.”
Did she do that? Should she stop? Was it bad that she didn’t wish to live an unexamined life? Perhaps—
He laughed softly. “See? You are doing it now.”
“I suppose I do worry about things. Don’t you?”
“At times. But never with you.” He looked surprised he’d admitted such a thing, but he quickly recovered. “Under normal circumstances, I would let time settle the questions in your mind, but we do not have time, we two.”
Bronwyn found it hard to swallow. “You . . . you will be leaving soon.”
“A week maybe, but not much longer. Too soon, Roza. So when I see that frown in your eyes, I know I must say something.”
“You don’t need to say a thing; this was never meant to last. It’s merely a flirtation.” That’s all it is, a very potent, very heady flirtation. One I will miss dearly. The realization caught her by surprise, and her heart ached with it.
“Do not look so, Roza.” He tugged her closer. “You must fight those voices.”
“Which voices?”
“The little ones that whisper in the night that you should not trust me, should not be with me—do not let them claim you. We will vanquish them with kisses and laughter, living in the moment like the Romany. No one is happier than they.”
She shook her head. “But we Scots are the opposite. While your Romany can pack up and move on if things are not as they like, the Scots dig into rocky hillsides and build stone castles so they may stay for centuries. Living in the moment feels wrong. It is against my blood.”
His lashes obscured his expression as he ran his finger down her cheek. “You Scots do love your castles.”
She shivered at his touch. “We plan for winters, because we must. And since meeting you, I’ve realized that I must plan for mine.”
He slipped his arms around her as he smiled into her eyes. “You are far from your winter years, Roza. Today, we have sunshine, soft grass to cushion us, books to read, and . . . other pleasurable things.”