They reached the small bench and Alexsey pulled out a kerchief to brush the dead leaves from the seat. “After you.”
Bronwyn sat, neatly tucking her cloak about her.
The prince joined her, his knee brushing hers and sending a quiver of awareness through her. His shoulders were broad and they couldn’t both sit comfortably without him turning slightly to one side, his arm resting along the back of the bench.
Already breathless, and achingly aware of his arm resting so close to her shoulders, Bronwyn glanced at the gate. The garden wall was high, with green vines clinging to the rough cut stone. But the gate was only as tall as her waist and anyone could see over it. She wondered if they’d believe their eyes, seeing the prince sitting in the garden with her. But perhaps it wasn’t such an odd match, after all.
Somehow when she was with Alexsey, she felt finer—taller, even. She wasn’t sure if it was his admiring gaze, or the fact that she just felt so alive when he was nearby, but she couldn’t help but feel . . . well, prettier. She rather liked that. It’s good for me to spend time with him. And good for me to remember our kiss. No matter what happens, I’ll have memories of our dance, of sitting in this garden, and of our kiss. Especially our kiss—
“I know what you are thinking about,” he announced, as if no one in the world might question him.
She lifted her brows. “I doubt it.”
He merely smiled. “You are thinking about our kiss, nyet?”
“Why would you think that?” She tried to keep the belligerent tone from her voice, but wasn’t certain she succeeded. How does he know? “I don’t often think about it,” she lied.
“Yet I think of nothing else.” His eyes gleamed with warmth. “I will kiss you again, little one, but I won’t tell you when.”
“What? That is ridiculous. Why would you threaten to kiss me, and then not tell me when you plan on doing it?”
“Because it will add an element of surprise.”
“I don’t like surprises.”
“You’ll like this one.” He smiled in a way that made her want to slip into his lap and loop her arms about his neck. “You should be prepared.”
“I’m prepared to refuse you. You don’t get to decide when I am to be kissed.”
“Nyet, we will decide together.” He captured her hand and brushed his lips over her fingers, sending her a look from under his lashes. “Perhaps soon. If the mood strikes, of course.”
The touch of his lips on her bare skin instantly sent her heart pounding, and Bronwyn found herself in the mood for a kiss much more quickly than she expected. Irritated with herself for reacting so quickly to him, she pulled her hand free and tucked it beneath her cloak. “What brought you into the garden this morning?”
“You. I was with Viscount Strathmoor and he noticed you entering the gate. Naturally, I had to see why you were indeed sneaking into the castle through the kitchens.”
“I wasn’t sneaking.”
“It looked like it to me. And knowing your questionable nature—”
“What?”
“I thought you might be bent upon some nefarious caper, but instead, I find you saving us all from hunger with a delivery of eggs and jams.”
Her lips quirked. “I’m glad you appreciate my efforts, although you really should thank Mrs. Pitcairn instead. She is quite talented at coaxing our chickens to produce eggs, or we’d have none to share.”
“I shall make it my duty to do so.” He traced his fingers along the line of her cloak where it covered her leg. “Tell me about Ackinnoull. It is your home, nyet?”
“I was born there, and my father before me, and his father before him, and—oh, it goes on and on. It has been in our family for a very long time. But to me, it is just home.”
“That is a good feeling, to be home.”
She thought about this, trying to ignore the tantalizing sensations his wandering finger on her knee was causing. “Sometimes I feel more at home at my reading place.”
“Where I first met you in the woods?”
She nodded. The morning breeze puffed through the tree overhead and rained browned leaves upon their heads. She brushed some from her cloak.
“I like the woods, too.” He plucked a leaf from her hair and tossed it over his shoulder, turning toward her even more. “Did you meet my grandmother at the ball last night?”
“The Grand Duchess Nikolaevna? No. I saw her from across the room, though. Mama pointed her out.”
“She is Romany. A Gypsy.”
Ah! That explained the prince’s dark hair and exotic looks. “Mama had heard that rumor, but didn’t believe it.”
“It’s true. My father was riding along the river in the fall, and he came upon my mother near the Romany camp. As soon as he saw her, he knew she was for him. So he married her.”
“Our royalty have far stricter rules about whom they can marry.”
“So did my country—but my father overcame every barrier so that my mother remained by his side. When I grew to be six or seven, I would stay with my grandmother and grandfather every winter, sharing their caravan at the Romany camp. My grandfather, Dyet Nikki, was the voivode, their king. Those were days filled with adventures. I would follow Dyet as he went about his duties, visiting the families, checking on the weak and the young, settling disputes, presiding over weddings, overseeing trades with local farmers. . . . When I was a child, I thought he was the wisest man in all the world.”
“Your father is a king. Doesn’t he do the same things?”
“Some. But the kingdom is much larger, so he must administer through his council. He cannot meet all of his subjects face-to-face. He does not know their names. Does not know their troubles. Dyet Nikki knew the name of everyone in our kumpania, whom they were related to, what troubles they’d faced in the past—everything.”
“What’s a kumpania?”
“Our Gypsy band. There are many bands but only one law, the Romano Zakono. It is not written down, but is passed from generation to generation. Dyet Nikki knew the law and he taught it to me.”
“Because he wished you to assume leadership of the Romany?”
“It was his wish, I think so—but it was not his decision to make. There is a council and they select the voivode for life.”
“Surely you can go to them, tell them how much you’d like to assume your grandfather’s position?”
“Now that my grandfather is no longer alive, and no new voivode has been named, the council listens to one person and one person only: the phuri dai. Every kumpania has one. She is an old woman, usually the oldest in the band. In this case, it is my Tata Natasha.”
“Your grandmother?” When he nodded, she noted a line of tightness about his mouth. “I take it she doesn’t wish you to become the viovode?”
“She withholds it from me, hoping to bend me to her will. Sadly for her, I am not made of soft lead, but steel. I do not bend.”
The sparkle of rebellion in his green eyes made Bronwyn feel braver, too. “How can you become the leader of the Romany if you’re a prince of Oxenburg?”
“I have three brothers. And as Tata Natasha is fond of telling us, there is not room on the throne for four asses. My oldest brother, Nikki, will sit on that throne. My youngest brother, Wulf, is already doing what he does best, bringing wealth to our country. My brother Grisha is a soldier, one of the fiercest fighters in the history of the world. He will lead our armies.”
“And that leaves you free to help the Romany.”
“Not so free, perhaps, but da, it is what I will do when the time comes.” He reached over to brush a leaf from her shoulder, trailing his fingers back to her neck and then up to her cheek. “And you? What do you dream of, Roza? What far shores beckon? What mountains do you wish to climb?”
His voice was seductive and silky, and she had to fight the urge to turn her cheek into his hand. “I’m quite content where I am.”
Puzzlement turned his eyes a darker green. “Content with the place, that I can understand. It i
s lovely here. But surely there are things you wish to accomplish yet.”
“I’d like to see both of my sisters well married and happy.”
Alexsey frowned. “That is a dream for them, not for you. What do you want to do?”
She tilted her head to one side, a thoughtful expression on her face. “I don’t really know. I’ve been so busy helping with Sorcha and Mairi, and helping my father with his patents—he’s an inventor and must file the paperwork or lose any profits. I haven’t really thought of doing anything else.”
“You must have dreams of some sort,” Alexsey insisted. “I already know you possess an adventuresome spirit, one that allowed you to share a most delightful kiss with a huntsman you’d just met in the woods.” He cupped her cheek and brushed his thumb over the fine line of her cheekbone. She had delicate features, deliciously at odds with the errant sprinkle of freckles that dusted her nose.
Her cheeks pinkened, but she didn’t move away. Indeed, he thought she might have leaned into his hand just the slightest bit.
She cleared her throat, her voice still husky. “People are usually adventuresome in some aspects of their lives, while not as much in others.”
“We should rise to all challenges. Fortunately, the things that frighten us can also tempt us.” Alexsey brushed a curl from her cheek, tucking it behind one of her shell-pink ears. He couldn’t seem to stop touching her. Just having her so close, her hip against his on the small bench, made his body ache with yearning. “What frightens you, Roza? What do you both want, but fear?”
Her gaze met his, and he knew his answer. She desired him, yet feared the consequences of that desire. His body leapt in answer, and he found himself leaning forward, his lips brushing hers with the lightest of touches.
It was a teasing kiss, one meant to tempt her into wanting more, but he never had the chance to place the second kiss, nor the third. For the moment his mouth brushed hers, she moaned softly, fisted her hands in his coat and yanked him toward her, pressing her mouth to his and opening beneath him with demanding insistence.
Alexsey was lost in a flood of desire. He pulled her into his lap, never breaking the kiss, running his hands over her, molding her to him. She gasped against his mouth and he deepened the embrace, running a hand along her side to cup her breast. It was as deliciously full as he’d expected. Moaning softly, he found her nipple and flicked it with his thumb.
She arched against him, moaning desperately as he—
The gate creaked, and instantly Alexsey moved her back to his side.
They sat for a long moment, their breathing harsh as the gravel crunched down the pathway. From the swirling mist a maid appeared, carrying a basket of linens. She walked past them, turned toward the kitchen, and disappeared through the door, never seeing them.
As soon as the door closed, Bronwyn leapt to her feet, her hands on her hot cheeks. “That’s not what I expected to . . . I mean, it’s . . . Oh dear. I should really . . . No, don’t get up! I’ll—” She dipped a quick curtsy and then disappeared into the mist. A second later, the gate slammed shut.
Still sitting on the bench, Alexsey wondered if he should walk to the loch for a cold swim, or call for an ice bath. Either way, he feared it would not be enough.
The afternoon sun shining overhead, Sir Henry Davidson stood on the terrace overlooking the south lawn, wishing he could spend more time here. It was a beautiful castle, one that deserved far more attention than he had time to give.
Though solidly built, the castle needed improvements in a dozen ways. If he made Tulloch one of his permanent residences he’d have to update the kitchens, add more water closets, install lighting, fix the roof over the west wing, repair the long drive—all expensive items for a castle he rarely visited. No amount of money could move the castle closer to Edinburgh, and Sir Henry couldn’t imagine living so far away from civilization.
He’d come to Tulloch for one reason alone: because the woman standing at the end of the terrace had asked him. Or perhaps ordered was more correct.
At one time in his life, he would have given his right arm just for a glance from the fine eyes of the slender woman who was glaring across the lawn at his guests. But now he was forty years wiser, and time had changed things.
Given the choice now between the lady’s still fine eyes and, say, a well-basted leg of mutton, he’d take the mutton.
Of course, that might be because it was far past his normal dinnertime, and the lady had called him away from the buffet just as he’d been ready to partake of an especially lovely lemon cake, which hadn’t concerned his guest in the least.
His stomach grumbled in protest.
Not noticing, Tasha waved a dramatic hand at the guests enjoying the unusually warm afternoon. “Just look at him!” she ordered. “He’s impossible!”
Henry joined Natasha, reluctantly tearing his gaze from the wide doors that led to his library, located a few steps away. Inside, a waiting scotch decanter called him. He could also ring a bell and have a footman bring him some tea cakes, and perhaps a roasted—
“Are you listening?” Her eyes narrowed on him. “We are talking about my grandson.”
He swallowed a sigh. “Och, of course.” He searched the pastel gowns and dark coats strolling about the leaf-strewn lawn. It took him but a second to locate the tall young man who stood to one side of the lawn, surrounded by a bevy of young ladies. “Your grandson cuts quite an impressive figure. How many grandsons do you have?”
“Four. One married and the other three stubborn.”
That made him laugh. “Stubborn he may be, but Prince Menshivkov is a fine mon. And he appears to be enjoying the company, too.”
“He likes women well enough,” she said darkly. “Too well.”
“Then surely ’tis only a matter of time before he’s wed.”
Natasha fixed a fiery stare upon him. As she was as tiny as a fairy, her gesture merely brought the top of her head a mite closer to his shoulder. “Not this one. Look at him smiling at them, talking to them, giving them hope. But all he really wishes is to bed them and then leave.”
Which, as plans went, had its own merits. But Sir Henry knew better than to say so aloud.
He nodded as if in full agreement and stared at the prince with what Henry hoped was a look of disapproval. As he watched, Prince Alexsey reached down and scooped up Natasha’s dog—a small white fluff of an animal—and, patting it soothingly, said something that made the women about him laugh. The breeze ruffled the prince’s black hair and flattened his coat across his broad shoulders, which made the women stare hungrily as if he were a giant sweet ice.
Henry rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Tasha, if you dinna mind a man’s thoughts on this . . .” He waited.
She cut him a curious glance. “Da?”
“It’s possible—just possible, mind you—that you’re being a wee bit overconcerned. Give the mon time. He’ll find the right lass and settle. You’ll see.”
“I won’t see, for he has no intentions of doing any such thing. He’s made it very plain to us all—all he wants is a flirtation, flirtation, and nothing but a flirtation.”
“That’s all most men want, until we meet the right one. Your grandson’s educated, sophisticated, intelligent, a fine shot and a better hunter, and he plays a damned good hand at whist. He’s a fine mon and the lasses love him. Added to that, he’s wealthy and a prince, to boot. That is a recipe for marriage if I ever heard one.”
Tasha absently fingered the thick gold chain that hung about her neck. “Despite my complaints, I have hopes he will soon change his ways.”
Encouraged, he added, “At least he made some attempt to meet the local beauties at the ball last night.”
“He danced with two women only. Miss Bronwyn Murdoch, and her sister, Miss Sorcha.”
“Miss Sorcha is very lovely—a blonde with vivid blue eyes and a delicate, graceful nature. Everyone is in raptures over her.”
“She was lovely,” Natasha agreed. “Do y
ou think he was interested in her?”
“Very,” Henry said boldly, though to be honest, he hadn’t paid much heed to the prince’s expression. “She’s from a good family, she is. Her mother is Lady Malvinea, the youngest daughter of Earl Spencer.”
“I don’t remember a Lady Malvinea, but there were many people at your ball.”
“Had you met the Murdochs, you would have remembered them. Lady Malvinea is a woman of forceful character, and her daughter Sorcha is quite beautiful, as I’ve said. There are two daughters other than Sorcha; one is younger, while the other—an older stepdaughter—serves as chaperone. The father, Mr. Murdoch, is a genteel man of a good and ancient name—’tis a charming family.”
“Good. Very good.” A thoughtful expression entered Natasha’s eyes. “You believe this Sorcha would make a good wife to a restless man like Alexsey?”
“Och, o’ course. I wouldna mind having her in my family, had I any sons to share. Lady Malvinea has spared no expense regarding her daughters. They are fluent in several languages, possess refined accents and manners, and are accomplished in musical arts. Whatever you might wish a wife to know, the daughters know. At least the two younger ones.”
“But not the stepdaughter?”
“Nay. The vicar’s wife told me Miss Murdoch was sixteen when Lady Malvinea came to Dingwall, much too old to benefit from her stepmother’s guidance.”
“But this Sorcha, she sounds well suited.” Natasha’s gaze fixed on her grandson. “I wonder . . .”
Sir Henry’s stomach rumbled and he winced, wondering if he dared suggest tea at such an early hour. He was just about to mention it when Natasha said, “Perhaps I should meet Lady Malvinea and Miss Sorcha.”
“That would be easy to arrange. But . . . a word of warning. Though her heart is good, Lady Malvinea can be a bit abrasive.”
Natasha flicked him an unconcerned glance. “I do not fault a woman for having ambition for her children. This Sorcha has potential. Potential is a beginning. And since Alexsey took the time to dance with her, he must be attracted to her.”
“He also danced with the eldest, less attractive daughter,” Sir Henry reminded her, “perhaps for politeness’ sake.”