The Prince Who Loved Me (The Oxenburg Princes) (3 page)

Bronwyn glanced up at the sun shining through the leaves. “It was, but I must return home. I’ve chores to do.”

He placed the dog at his feet, where it stood expectantly. “Where do you work, little one? Who is your mistress?”

She supposed she could tell him she wasn’t a servant, but something held her back. A whisper of warning that perhaps it would be better if he didn’t know anything more than necessary. “Where I work is none of your concern.”

“You will tell me.” The stranger gave her a quizzical smile that sent an odd shiver through her. “I will know.”

She lifted her chin. “You don’t need to know anything.”

“Ah, but I do.” He walked toward her, ignoring the growls of her deerhounds.

Papillon followed, prancing along, her ribbon dragging behind. As she came abreast of Walter they sniffed one another, tails suddenly wagging. Scott cautiously approached the stranger and sniffed at one of the huntsman’s boots.

Bronwyn took a step back but found her feet unwilling to move any farther away. He was just so
tempting.

The huntsman stood directly before her, a wolfish sparkle in his eyes. “This is much better. We can talk more easily now.”

Bronwyn craned her neck to look up into his face. An intriguing scar split one eyebrow. Now that she saw him more closely, she realized his eyes were the most beautiful dark green, his lashes long and thick, shadowing his expression in a mysterious, sensual way.

She could easily drown in such eyes.

“What is your name? The least you can do is tell me that.”

She shouldn’t even be talking to this stranger, alone in the woods like this. Her stepmother would screech in distress at the mere thought.

He shrugged. “Then I will tell you mine. Perhaps then you will feel free to share yours.” He bowed. “I am Alexsey Vitaly Grigori Romanovin.”

“Romanovinin?”

He chuckled, the sound deep in his chest. “Just call me Alexsey. I prefer it.”

“It’s not proper to call someone by his given name unless you know him very, very well.”

“Ah, but soon we will know each other very well. Of this I am certain.”

That simple sentence made her beam with an odd happiness and she said in a flustered voice, “You
seem very certain, Mr. Romanovin.”

“
Nyet.
Alexsey.” He spoke gently, but there was no doubt he expected her to do as he said. He stooped and picked up her book. “What have you been rea—?”

“No!” She held out her hand. “Please return that.”

“Soon. Ah,
The Black Duke
by Miss Mary Edgeworth.” His gaze shifted back to her. “I’ve never heard of this author.”

“She’s very popular, but only recently.”

“Hmm.” He opened the book and flipped through the pages.

Her chest grew tight. Mama teased her constantly for reading “nonsense,” but Bronwyn loved her books. They let her soar to places far away, to adventures she could only dream of, and to meet people who’d never find her in her tiny corner of the world.

She reached for the book, her fingers just grazing one corner.

“Tsk, tsk. So determined.” Alexsey held it well over her head, a thoughtful look on his face. “What do you read that you must hide it?”

“I’m not hiding anything. It’s not nice to take someone’s book.”

He gave a lazy chuckle. “Do not look so angry, little Roza. I will give it back after I see what you find so fascinating.” He read a few lines to himself, and then lifted his gaze to hers. “Perhaps I should read a few pages aloud, so that we may share th—”

She lunged for the book, her spectacles bouncing on her nose.

“
Nyet
.” He easily moved the book out of her reach again. He turned a page and then another, finally coming to a stop. “Ah, here. I will read. You will listen.”

He plunged into the story, his deep voice caressing the words.
“Love warmed his eyes from blue to gray. ‘It is you I love,’ Roland declared.

“Lucinda threw up her hands. ‘You are mistaken, sir. You don’t know me as you think, for I love no one.’
”
Alexsey made a face. “I do not like that name, Lucinda.”

“Neither do I.” On that, they were in agreement. “She’s a very weak character,” Bronwyn confided. “She’s forever fainting.”

“Fainting?”

Bronwyn threw a hand over her forehead and tossed back her head, closing her eyes in a pretend swoon.

Alexsey chuckled. “You are a good actress, but I would find this a most annoying trait. Characters of such weak heart make for a poor story.”

Indeed—Lucinda’s weakness had been plaguey since the first page.

“Let us hope this Roland finds another woman to love, one not given to such silliness.” Alexsey returned to the book.
“
‘Ha!’ Roland cried. ‘You cannot mean it. I will prove your feelings, for I can see them in your eyes.’

“Lucinda placed a gentle hand upon his cheek. ‘I don’t deserve your love. I’ve doubted you and more—’

“Stilling her anguish, Roland placed his lips upon fair Lucinda’s and kissed her with a chaste passion—”

“Pah!” Alexsey frowned.

Bronwyn had fallen into the story as his seductive voice rolled over the words, adding a depth that had her leaning forward in breathless hope. “Don’t stop!”

But he snapped the book closed, his huge hand almost engulfing it. “I cannot continue. It is not a real kiss.”

Her fists balled on her hips. “That is a perfectly good kiss.”

“
Nyet.
” He reached down, uncurled one of her fists, and placed the book in it. “There is no such thing as ‘chaste passion.’ If chaste is here.” He held his hand far to one side. “Then passion is here.” He held his other hand to the other side, as far away as he could. “When they come together—” He clapped his hands so loudly, it sounded like a thunderclap.

The three dogs looked up in surprise.

Bronwyn’s fingers tightened on the book. “
I
think it’s a perfectly good kiss.” She’d reread it a dozen times; it
was
perfect, and she knew it.

There was a slight silence. “You’ve never been kissed.”

“I—I—I—” Her face burned so hotly, she wondered her hair didn’t catch afire. “Of course I’ve been kissed! Dozens of times. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must go. Good day, sir.” How
dare
he insult Roland’s most romantic moment?

“You are angry I have ruined your story. I am sorry, but the truth is the truth.” He took a step forward, his warm hand closing gently over her elbow.

A flash of tingling heat raced through her. She could easily have broken free had she wished, but there was something about the warmth of his skin on hers, something delicious and shiver-inducing.

Alexsey smiled, his firm lips drawing her gaze as he said in his whiskey-silk voice, “You need a kiss, a taste of true passion. Just enough so you will know why there is no such thing as chaste passion.”

She blinked at him, unable to form a single thought.

His large, warm hand cupped her chin and tilted her face toward his. “I do this so you will know the difference between ‘chaste’ and ‘passion.’ All women should know that.”

Then he captured her lips with his—and in that second, Bronwyn went from unkissed to kissed.

And with that kiss, her soul was set free. . . .

—
The Black Duke
by Miss Mary Edgeworth

Bronwyn couldn’t move, aware only of the firmness of the huntsman’s lips upon hers and the way her heart thudded as if in welcome.

He slid his hand from her cheek to her neck and then tugged her forward until her chest pressed to his. Her book dropped from her nerveless fingers as she grasped his coat to steady herself.

His mouth moved over hers, nipping softly, teasing, sending wave after wave of heated shivers through her. Her knees quivered and began to fold, but his arm slid around her waist.

Without breaking the kiss, he lifted her to him, his body large and firm against her curves.

No man had ever held her in such an intimate way; it was shocking—and surprisingly exciting. She slipped her arms about his neck, and he slid his tongue over her bottom lip.

Her lips parted in surprise and instantly, his warm tongue slipped between them and stroked the tip of her tongue. A jolt of pure heat rippled through her, her nipples tightening in wanton reaction. She gasped and pulled back.

With a reluctant sigh, he set her back on her feet. “I would like to kiss you more, little Roza, but I do not wish to overwhelm you.” His eyes twinkled devilishly. “Not yet, anyway.”

She stared up at him, her fingers pressed to the corner of her swollen mouth. Her heart seemed unable to stop skipping in pure excitement, while her skin prickled with a deliciously heated yearning—a yearning for more kisses, more caresses, more
everything
. For one splendid moment, she’d lived a page from one of her beloved books, and she wanted more.

He brushed his thumb over her mouth, sending new sensation rippling through her. “You see? ‘Chaste’ and ‘passion’ do not belong in the same sentence. And a woman with such tempting, plump lips must know the difference.”

So true.
A real
kiss was
far
more thrilling than the book’s weak description.

She suddenly realized that she was still gripping Alexsey’s coat with one hand and staring up at him in speechless wonder.
I must look as silly as Lucinda.
Flushing, she forced her clenched fingers to release his coat and, stiffening her weakened knees, she stepped back. “That—that was interesting.” Her voice, quavery and husky, sounded as shaken as she felt.

Alexsey had been celebrating the unexpectedly passionate kiss, but at this, he lost his smile. Naturally he didn’t expect accolades, for it had been brief and gentle, but to call such a wondrous kiss merely “interesting”? “I do not accept that.”

The girl blinked up at him, her spectacles making her brown eyes seem even larger, looking every bit the lush flower he’d named her. “Accept what?”

“ ‘Interesting’ is what you call porridge when you do not wish to insult the maker.”

Her lips quirked, amusement warming her expression, and his outrage softened. There was something fascinating about her, something that had caught him when she’d curtly demanded to know who he was. No one, especially women, spoke to him in such a way, and he found her a welcome diversion after what had begun as a rather boring day.

He liked women. All women. And this one seemed more interesting than usual. She was small and round, like a flower in full bloom, with thick, shiny brown tresses, her skin dusted with dainty freckles, her moods flashing through her eyes and tripping off her tongue.

But her strongest and most sensual feature was her mouth, so plump and ripe for kisses.

Oh, how he’d loved kissing that mouth.

Very little—and very few women—had the power to intrigue him, but somehow, with just one kiss, this bespectacled little maid had managed to do just that.

He took her hand and uncurled her fingers, smoothing his thumb over the ink stains.
Wherever she works, she obviously keeps the accounts. They must trust her.
He smiled. “Ah, Roza, I know one thing and one thing only—that our lips were made for one another.”

Her gaze flickered to his mouth, and then—her color high—she tugged her hand free. “No.”

Alexsey’s smile slipped. “No?”

“It was just a kiss—nothing more.”

Her no-nonsense tone made him want to kiss the sensible thoughts right out of her head. She was so appealing in her grass-stained gown and bare toes. A flower hung from her hair, which was half fallen from its binding and hung about her face. Fresh-faced and stubbornly independent, she was a welcome change from his last mistress, an overly perfumed and powdered Italian opera singer who delighted in expensive presents and unending drama. No tight-laced woman of quality would be caught dead reading a novel on the forest floor, surrounded by dogs the size of horses, either. Despite her respectable air, this maid had returned his kiss with the wild passion of a Romany, clinging to him with both hands, her eagerness stirring his passion more than any skilled seductress.

He traced a finger down her cheek. “Do you often come to this place to read?”

“Sometimes.”

Such caution. You didn’t display any when you were kissing me.
“And to kiss strangers?” he teased, unable to resist.

Her plump lips thinned. “Mr. Romanovin, as you must know by now, I don’t normally kiss strangers, or anyone else. It’s not proper.”

“We are far beyond proper, little Roza. And call me Alexsey.”

Delicious color again flooded her face, but she didn’t relent. “It’s better if I call you Mr. Romanovin.”

Her voice lilted in an intriguing way, lifting his name and softening the ending. Alexsey liked a Scottish accent very well indeed. “You are very formal for someone not wearing any shoes.”

She adjusted her skirt so that her toes were hidden from view. “I didn’t expect to meet anyone here.”

“Nor did I. In fact, I came for some peace and quiet. They are readying Tulloch Castle for the arrival of Sir Henry and his guests, and it is very noisy.”

Her gaze jerked to his. “Sir Henry is returning? With his nephews?”

“Sir Henry and one nephew, aye.”

“And more?”

“I believe he brings twenty to thirty additional guests. Many rooms are being prepared.”

“That’s odd; Mrs. Durnoch didn’t mention it when I spoke to her a week ago.”

“Who?”

“The housekeeper at Tulloch.”

“Perhaps she did not know. This gathering, it is not long in the planning, I think.”

“Ah. That would explain it. I’m—” Her gaze flickered over him, and then away. “It’s getting late; I should return home.”

“Nonsense. It is early still.” He leaned a shoulder against the tree and crossed his arms over his chest. He wasn’t ready to leave this ink-stained charmer of dogs. “Besides, we have much to talk about. Such as whether we should attempt another kiss.”

“That would be a very bad idea. No one has introduced us—I don’t even know you.”

He spread his hands wide. “I am here, ready to become known. All you have to do is stay.”

Bronwyn bit her lip. He made it sound so easy. All she had to do was stay, and this magical moment, in which a handsome man found her too fascinating to maintain a sense of propriety, would last.

But she’d already allowed him to kiss her. What other liberties might she be cajoled into permitting? The thought both thrilled and terrified her.

He pushed away from the tree. “Are you not even a little curious whether a kiss would be as good the second time? Perhaps the first was an aberration, an odd happenstance.”

She fought a smile at his hopeful expression. “Curiosity killed the cat.”

“You are no cat. You are a thinking woman. I can see it in your eyes.” His smile turned devilish. “Now, if you’ll just think about our kiss, and how we should try again . . .”

Och, how she longed to, but her good sense clamored against it. Reluctantly, she stepped away to retrieve her book from the grass. “The kiss was lovely. You were quite . . . skilled.”

His eyes glinted warmly. “So I’ve been told, many times.”

Wait.
Many
times? Did he just walk about looking for women, then ply them with charm until they agreed to kiss him? Was that the sort of man he was?
Of course it was
, her good sense whispered.
That’s reality versus Roland
. Aware of a deep and bitter flicker of disappointment, she shoved the book under her arm, then collected her shoes. “Good day. I have chores to do.”

Alexsey’s smile faded. “Don’t go. You cannot—”

“Come, Scott, Walter.” She stuffed her shoes in her pocket and headed toward a path on the other side of the clearing, walking as fast as she dared. “Good-bye,” she called over her shoulder.

Frowning, Alexsey watched as she disappeared into the woods, her dogs following after.

Papillon whined and looked up at Alexsey. “I am disappointed, too.” He wondered if he should follow her. Women didn’t usually dash away after he’d expressed an interest in their company. In fact, most of them threw themselves at his head in a rather annoying fashion. But not Roza.

Of course, she didn’t know he was a prince, a fact he’d purposely avoided mentioning, since he hadn’t wished to turn her head in his direction using anything other than kisses. But now . . . perhaps he should have mentioned it. Would it have helped his cause?

Somehow, he doubted it.

He stifled an impatient sigh and made his way to where his horse was tied beside the path, wishing he’d spent less time talking and more time kissing that tempting mouth. Such lovely, full hips and breasts—he could still feel them pressed against him. Everything about her was lush and rich and made him think of satisfied, heated nights beside a roaring fire.

She might well be the perfect woman for a few weeks’ tryst—passionate, promising, amusing, and unfettered by the societal rules of a woman of noble breeding. Plus, she wouldn’t tempt his Tata Natasha into a tizzy of hope for matrimony.

For such were Tata’s ways. His grandmother, the Grand Duchess Natasha Nikolaevna, might think he was unaware of her reason for wishing him to accompany her to Scotland to attend Sir Henry Davidson’s out-of-the-way house party, but Alexsey knew all too well. Though she might think otherwise, he wasn’t about to let her dictate his selection of a wife.

This is your fault, Wulf,
Alexsey informed his absent younger brother. Last year, Father had convinced Tata Natasha to escort Prince Wulfinski to Scotland, where, against his grandmother’s wishes, Wulf had met and married the woman of his dreams. Though Tata Natasha had vehemently opposed the match in the beginning, that didn’t stop her from taking credit for it—especially once the entire family fell in love with Wulf’s new bride, Lily.

Sadly for Alexsey and his other two bachelor brothers, that unexpected success had gone to Tata’s head. And now her sights were set on them.

Alexsey mounted the horse and then turned it onto the path leading to the moors, Papillon trotting behind. He would eventually have to marry, of course. Even though his parents had blessed Oxenburg with four healthy princes, they were all expected to secure the family line with legitimate heirs. But he saw no need to rush things, especially when there were so many lovely and eager women to enjoy.

Besides, he had things to accomplish, things that were growing increasingly urgent. His mother’s people, the Romany, needed him. At one time, Tata Natasha’s husband—Dyet Nikki—had been the
savyet lidir
, his position noted by a heavy gold
kaltso
, a large ruby ring he’d worn on his left hand that sparkled whenever he moved his hand. As the
savyet lidir
, he’d overseen the council that ruled the Romany; decided their route for the summer months; served as the spokesman for the people during troubles; officiated over weddings, funerals, and trials; and a dozen other important duties. He’d been king, counselor, priest, and father to his people, and under him the Romany had prospered.

Alexsey had idolized his grandfather and had been closer to the old man than any of his brothers. As Alexsey spent time with his grandparents, sharing their colorful caravan with the Romany, he grew to love the people. Everyone assumed that he would follow in his grandfather’s large footsteps and one day wear the
kaltso
, but when he was only twelve, an unfortunate hunting accident had taken his grandfather away, and the
kaltso
was left in older, more experienced hands
.

Alexsey looked down at his bare hand, impatience curling his fingers into a fist.
When I return to Oxenburg, I will address this, for the time has come. But I can do nothing now.
He uncurled his fingers and stretched them, though his chest remained tight.
I need a distraction. I shall find this maid whose kisses are like fire, and we will enjoy more time together. Someone at the castle will know her and I will find her through them. That should make the weeks pass quickly.

With a satisfied nod, Alexsey lifted his face to the fall sun. All he had to do was avoid Tata Natasha’s scheme to throw every eligible well-born maiden in Scotland into his path. Though he was immune to her efforts, her determination could be annoying. Fortunately, he had much that would keep him from the castle.