The Prince Who Loved Me (The Oxenburg Princes)

  She fought the lure of his words. He’s supposed to desire me unto madness—not the other way around. I cannot forget that.

  Yet when he bent to kiss her, she instantly lifted on her toes to meet him, her eyes closed as his mouth descended on her and—

  He pulled back.

  She opened her eyes.

  He sniffed.

  Ah! The rosemary! Holding her breath, she waited.

  He sniffed again. “Is it an herb, nyet?”

  She nodded, smiling shyly. “Rosemary.”

  “The cook at Tulloch puts it in turtle soup.”

  Her smile faltered. She smelled like a turtle? Not a fragrant loaf of bread, but a turtle? “Surely you’ve smelled it in some other dishes, too. Bread, perhaps?”

  He shook his head.

  “In a delicious stew, then? Something savory and warm?”

  He released her cloak. “In my country, we throw rosemary onto graves.”

  She just looked at him, appalled.

  “That seems odd to you, nyet? Rosemary keeps fresh the . . . How do you say—?” He tapped his forehead. “Thoughts about times no longer here.”

  “Memories?”

  “Da! Rosemary keeps fresh the memories of the dead.”

  Lovely. She smelled like a turtle and the grave.

  “Why do you smell of rosemary?” he asked.

  “Oh. I was helping Mrs. Pitcairn in the kitchen. She was grinding rosemary to brush on a loaf of bread and, ah, I must have spilled some on my gown.” She stepped away from him, hoping he couldn’t see her heated cheeks. “Perhaps we should read for a while.” Bronwyn gathered her cloak and sat, scooting to one side to make room for him.

  He joined her, sitting too close, his thigh pressed against hers, which felt far too good. “Alexsey, the rosemary . . . it won’t bother you?”

  “I like the rosemary. You smell like the forest.”

  She brightened. That was much better. Now, whenever he walked in the woods, he would think of her. Of course, he’d also think about her whenever he ate turtle soup or attended a funeral, which wasn’t ideal, but it was better than nothing. Not bad for a pinch of herb.

  He shifted, his broad shoulder against her arm.

  “I’m sorry. Do you need more room?”

  A wicked light warmed his gaze. “With you, I always want more—especially kisses.”

  She found herself looking at his mouth, wishing—No. Not yet. She shifted away. “Perhaps after we’ve read a bit.”

  “When you decide you wish for a kiss, just tell me. I will wait.” He leaned against the tree and looked around. The leaves played in the breeze as the stream bubbled by. The three dogs slept in the sun, leaves tumbling by. “I like this. I cannot read at Tulloch. It has grown much too noisy.”

  “I’m surprised you couldn’t find an empty room somewhere. The castle is huge.”

  “Empty, I could find. Quiet, nyet. Someone suggested a talent show for those who do not hunt. Many of the guests must secretly believe they are professional quality singers, and they have been practicing all week. Loudly.”

  She couldn’t help laughing. “I take it none of them are good.”

  “Their caterwauling has given me a headache.”

  Her smile slipped. “I thought you liked singing.”

  “Good singing, da, but this—” He slid her a look before shrugging. “This is such a peaceful place, we should sit quietly and let nature sing for us.”

  “That sounds lovely.” She decided not to read too much into his comment, and settled back against the tree to read.

  A breeze stirred through the clearing and she caught the faint scent of his cologne. She instantly remembered their first kiss here—and then later, the way he’d touched her so very intimately, leaving her panting and yearning for more.

  Her body tingled with awareness. Just being near him made her feel off balance and faintly dizzy. Which is not what I wish at all. This is how he is to feel. Not me.

  “What do you read, Roza?” He leaned over to see her book, his cologne teasing her even more. She watched as his gaze traveled over the page. He hadn’t shaved this morning, and the shadow of a beard framed his mouth, making her yearn to trace her lips along his jaw.

  His lashes were lowered, so he was almost done reading the page. Such thick, long lashes. She wondered what he must have looked like as a child. What would a child of ours look like? The thought was so unexpected that her cheeks heated.

  At that exact moment, he straightened, his gaze meeting hers.

  For one breathless moment, she thought he could read her thoughts as he’d done before, but he merely nodded thoughtfully. “Miss Edgeworth’s pen is sharper when she’s not writing about kisses.”

  “Yes. She quite missed the mark with those.”

  Alexsey glinted her a smile and then returned to his own book.

  She dragged her gaze away from him, pushed her spectacles back into place, and stared at her book. How could one read when a handsome man sat literally right beside one? A real man. One who smelled so good, too.

  She caught herself leaning a little his way as she tried to catch his cologne once more. It was masculine and spicy, and very faint. She peeked at him from under her lashes and was relieved that he seemed to be immersed in his book.

  He turned a page, seemingly oblivious to her, his eyes moving over the words without pause. There was something about him—perhaps it was his size and his lazy smile—that made him appear sleepy, like a lion sunning itself. One knew the lion could outrun anything it wished to; the question was only how long its prey could withstand it.

  She realized she hadn’t turned a page in a while, so she quickly did so, dragging her gaze away from him. It was difficult, though. A man who loved to read. A man who could make her laugh. A man who was everything he should be, except— She remembered him at the foot of the stairs, casually informing Strath of the way he would pass a few weeks at her expense.

  How could such an arrogant man also be so intriguing? In a week or so, Sir Henry’s house party would be over, and the guests would disperse back to their usual lives. In her case, days filled with nothing more exciting than the occasional new book. At one time that would have seemed more than enough. Now, she wasn’t so sure.

  She stifled a sigh and wondered how he could stay so focused on his book when she couldn’t read a single word of hers. What book had he brought her, anyway? A novel? A book of poems?

  Under the pretext of tucking a loose curl behind her ear, she turned her head to look. A description of an Egyptian tomb met her interested gaze and she scanned the page, leaning closer to examine a delicately drawn picture of a particularly beautiful sarcophagus.

  “Do you wish to read this book instead of your own?”

  Startled, she looked up to find his amused gaze on her.

  She flushed. “I’m sorry. I caught a glimpse of the picture and forgot it was your book.”

  “I’ll trade you if you’d like.”

  “No, no. This is fine.” She returned to her book and was grateful when he did the same. She didn’t dare look at his face or book again—he was far too quick to notice. But his legs were another thing. If she lowered her book just a bit she could see the long, muscular length of his legs, stretched before him and crossed at the ankles.

  There was nothing more dashing than a man with strong thighs in breeches and riding boots. As she stared at his thighs he recrossed his legs, his muscles flexing in the most distracting way. Oh my. I wonder what they feel like, bare skin to bare sk—

  “You are not reading.”

  No, she wasn’t. Not a single word. She snapped her book closed. “I’m sorry, but I can’t read with you here.”

  He closed his book. “To be honest, I have not been reading, either. I have been looking at your boots.”

  She looked at them. “My muddy walking boots?”

  “I can’t look at them without wanting to unlace them.”

  There was a purr to his voice that
stirred her. “Unlace them,” she repeated breathlessly, instantly caught in the image.

  “I want to make you want what you shouldn’t, make you do what you said you wouldn’t. Do you remember when I touched you, Roza?”

  Good God, how did one forget such a thing? It took her a moment to regain control of her voice. “I . . . vaguely remember.” She tried to sound airy but must have failed, for he laughed softly.

  “My little Bronwyn, always denying yourself.”

  She wasn’t denying herself anything; she was merely attempting to maintain her control. If she wished to tease him the way his mere presence was teasing her, then she had to be the one who led the dance.

  She lifted her chin and met his gaze, and said in a suggestive tone, “So what are we going to do, since reading is apparently out of the question?”

  His gaze darkened. “If you want more kisses, you’ve but to ask. . . .”

  Just ask, she told herself. But no—that wasn’t what she really wanted. She smiled teasingly. “No. You ask.”

  Something flashed in his eyes; his jaw tightened. “You don’t wish for kisses? Then you won’t have them.”

  My prideful prince needs such a setdown! His stubborness bolstered her resolve not to be just another kiss under a tree, but to be the one kiss he’d remember on his deathbed. The kiss that no other kiss ever measured up to. That was what she wanted. And if it meant denying the heat that was simmering in her blood now, then she’d find the strength to do it. “Fine, we’ll just talk, then.”

  Disappointment darkened his gaze and he tossed his book to one side with a bit more force than necessary. “What do you wish to speak about?”

  “Books, politics, art, religion—”

  “You.” He caught one of her curls where it lay against her shoulder and twined it about his finger. “Your hair is so soft, like spun silk.”

  She had to swallow before she could answer. “Touching is not talking.”

  “Hmm,” he said in an abstracted tone, his gaze on her curl.

  She moved her head, tugging her hair free. “Tell me about Oxenburg and your brothers. Are you close to them?”

  He stifled a sigh, but answered her. “We do not argue, if that is what you mean, but we have lives of our own. My brothers Nikki and Wulf are in court more than I. Nikki is to be the king, so he must stay there.”

  “He enjoys it?”

  “I think so, da, although he dislikes the—how you say—foot kissing?”

  “And your other brother?”

  “Wulf has a head for keeping our coffers filled. Right now, he and his wife are developing our lace industry, which was already thriving. But with their help, we’ve begun making enough to double our exports to various cities, and for a higher price. It is much in demand.”

  “I would like to see this lace.”

  “It is beautiful. My third brother, Grisha, the soldier of the family, is rarely home. He prefers to stay with the army and run drills when they are not assisting our neighboring countries to fulfill treaty obligations.”

  “And you, when you are not living with your grandmother’s people?”

  “Until recently, I was the ambassador.”

  She looked at his clothing, and he laughed. “I am not one to like ceremony, so there is some irony, nyet? But when I must dress, I do. I mainly attend parties, pretend to remember people I do not, and carry messages from other kings and parliaments.”

  “It sounds rather boring.”

  “I do not enjoy it.” He leaned forward. “What I do enjoy are pert Scottish misses who dance as if they have three left feet, sing with great enthusiasm, smell like the forest, and would rather bury their heads in a book than wear silks.”

  She’d never seen anyone with such deep eyes, the color endless. “Some of the women you’ve met must have been beautiful.”

  He shrugged, his shoulder warm against hers. “You are beautiful, but that is not enough. Beautiful is only for looking. You cannot hold it.” He gave her a lopsided smile. “I will have a favor from you.”

  Finally, he’ll ask for that kiss! She nodded, her breath increasing.

  He lifted her spectacles from her nose and folded them. “I wish to see your eyes.” Setting them aside, he cupped her face with his large, warm hand. “Your eyes make me think of the fields near my summer home in Oxenburg.

  “Every year, the soil is turned, and it is rich and dark and brown like your eyes. Those fields grow the most golden wheat the world has ever seen. Gold like the flecks in your eyes, like the lights in your hair.” He brushed a curl from her face, his fingers trailing over her cheek to her bottom lip. “I drown in your eyes.”

  Her mouth suddenly dry, she wetted her lips. His gaze followed the delicate swipe of her tongue.

  He drew in his breath. “Damn it, Roza, ask me to kiss you.”

  He wanted to kiss her! And she wanted him to. Wanted it so badly that her heart stuttered, her skin tingled in anticipation.

  She turned her face into his palm and kissed his warm skin. “You must ask me,” she whispered, begged.

  His mouth tightened, and she saw the war he was fighting—he wanted the kiss as badly as she, but his pride demanded her capitulation.

  “Ask,” she whispered, grasping his wrist and trailing her lips over his fingers. “One word, Alexsey.”

  He caught his breath when she nipped at his fingertips, her gaze now locked with his. “Ask,” she whispered again.

  A flicker of naked desire flashed across his face, and he winced as if in pain. “Nyet. You must be the one.”

  Bronwyn thought she’d burst into a fireball if he did not touch her soon. Her entire body craved his touch with a longing that left her squirming with need.

  What could one kiss hurt? her passionate side asked.

  But the future—her Scottish side urgently whispered.

  Forget the future. I want this right now.

  “To hell with asking.” She pulled his head down and kissed him.

  Lucinda melted into his arms, and Roland’s heart warmed.

  —The Black Duke by Miss Mary Edgeworth

  With a pained moan Alexsey scooped her into his lap, his mouth possessing hers. She twined her arms more tightly about his neck and opened to his seeking tongue, answering him kiss for kiss. She fought to both breathe and devour, writhing to get closer, to taste him more. He broke the kiss to nip passionately at her bottom lip and she gasped with need, her body aflame with a yearning that was almost painful.

  Alexsey’s breath shortened at the sound of Bronwyn’s small gasp. She clutched at his shirt and strained against him as he slid his hands over her ripe curves, deepening the kiss as he did so. God, she was a delicious conundrum, prickly and soft, defying him with one sentence and then the next, kissing him as if she never wished him to stop.

  He ran his hands over her body, exploring her generous curves, loving that she felt like a woman and not a sack of bones. He could hold her without being afraid of breaking her. Her full breasts and hips were made for holding and tasting.

  One hand traveled down the swell of her hip to her thigh, while his other smoothed up her back. Her heart beat wildly, sending a prideful thrill through him. Ah, Bronwyn, this is what happens when you stop thinking. You feel.

  He teased her lips and stroked her tongue with his own. Panting and flushed, she returned his embraces, mimicking everything he did with even more passion.

  She was a creative lover, and every time he got her alone, she surprised him. On the outside, she was a neat brown paper package primly tied with a string, but inside was an explosion of the richest spices, the most expensive wines, the most delicious morsels. The desire to unwrap her and lay open her secrets was irresistible.

  He untied her cape and pushed it off. Then he found the tie to her gown and tugged it free, pushing her gown open and sliding his hands over her thin chemise to her full, round breasts with a groan. They filled his hands and more, making his cock ache with need. God, he loved her fullness,
her wholeness. He gently cupped her breasts, watching as her lashes fluttered at his touch, her sharp gasp urging him on.

  He pushed her gown down so he could see the generous circles of her rosy areolas through her thin chemise, his eyes feasting on the sight. Then he bent to take her nipple in his mouth through the material, rolling his tongue over and over the hardened nub, encouraged by her heated gasps. From one breast to the other, he ministered slavishly, denying himself as he urged her passion higher and higher.

  She clutched at him with greedy hands, her legs opening to his searching fingers, her hips moving restlessly. His body ached with the need to bury himself in her, but he fought for control. She was too delicious, too precious to gulp. This was a woman made to be savored, over and over, long and leisurely.

  Slowly, he slid his hand up her leg to her warm thigh, her soft skin sliding under his fingertips. He paused just short of her womanhood, trailing kisses from her breasts to her neck. He slowly, ever so gently, slid his fingertips over her, barely grazing the wet, swollen folds.

  She jerked in his arms. He held her tight and continued to stroke her, speeding his movements.

  Wet and wanting, she clutched his shoulders in her need, her legs parting yet more. He stroked her more firmly now, enjoying the expressions that crossed her face. She was so wild, so wanton, sprawled in his lap, as he stroked her once, twice— She convulsed, her cries soft and desperate as passion rolled through her.

  The sound left him with a deep ache that made him grit his teeth. He rested his forehead on hers, their breathing loud. “You are so beautiful,” he managed to gasp.

  Seconds passed and then she moved against him, her voice husky and low. “Alexsey.” Her gaze locked with his. “I want more.”

  “But—”

  Her fingers curled about his shirt and she jerked him close. “You said I had but to ask. I am not asking, but telling.”

  He laughed and kissed her swollen lips. “I cannot say no to you. I have never been able to say no to you.” He hadn’t had that power since the moment he’d met her, and the realization was staggering. Before he could wonder about it, she slipped her hand into his lap and cupped him.