A Prince of Norway: Nicolas & Sydney: Book 2 (The Hansen Series - Nicolas & Sydney)

by Kris Tualla

  He uncorked the bottle and poured into the glasses Sydney held in front of him. “What’s on your mind this evening, min presang?”

  “I believe it’s time for you to tell me about the royal family.”

  “Ah!” Nicolas took a sip of his wine. He lifted the glass into the moonlight. “This is quite good.”

  “Yes. Delicious. Now tell me about Christian the seventh and why he was insane.”

  Nicolas considered her over the rim of the glass. “Christian had some peculiar habits. He used to prowl the streets with a medieval spiked club and use it on strangers he passed by.”

  “That’s horrible!” Sydney exclaimed.

  “He was a short man, and fairly slender. That may be why he developed such an obsession with being tough.” Nicolas leaned closer. “It was said that he masturbated so obsessively, his doctors feared for his health!”

  Sydney snorted. “I will not comment on that particular habit in your presence.”

  Nicolas laughed and refilled his wineglass. “He was crowned King at sixteen. But even afterward he still stormed through the streets, smashing up shops and brothels.”

  “That’s lovely. Not exactly a benevolent ruler.”

  “Ha! No. Within a year he married Caroline Mathilda, King George’s sister. But he misliked her and continued to ‘engage’ with whores. And with other young men, apparently.”

  Nicolas shook his head. “Caroline died at twenty-four years of age. And by the time I met him, Christian was in a very bad state. His valet would find him sitting in the corner of his room, staring and distressed. Sometimes, he beat his own head against the wall until he was bloody.”

  Sydney shuddered. “But, even so, Caroline birthed an heir?”

  “Frederick the sixth, who became king when Christian died in 1808. He was already forty, but he had assumed responsibilities for his incapacitated father years before that.”

  She frowned. “Do your cousins have titles? Like in England?”

  “My cousins all use the royal prerogative and are called Dukes and Duchesses of various land holdings. I also have a title,” he added, looking at her from the edge of his eye. “As do you.”

  Sydney smacked her palm loudly against her chest. “I have a title? What is it?”

  “I’m Lord Hansen, Greve of Rollag. As my wife, you are the Lady Hansen, Grevinne of Rollag. It’s because of the land I own.”

  “Greve and Grevinne?” Sydney asked.

  “Count and Countess. Rollag is where my land is.”

  Sydney emptied the last of the bottled wine into her glass. “Do you have any more surprises I should be aware of?” she asked sharply.

  “Most likely,” Nicolas confessed. “But they’ve not come to mind at the moment.”

  Sydney gulped the burgundy liquid. “Which of your cousins will be in Christiania?”

  “I don’t know. Anders Fredericksen and his half-brother Erling sent the letter. They’re my mother’s first cousins.”

  He slipped his arm around Sydney and she gradually softened, leaning into his shoulder. Illuminated by the moon, the sails glowed overhead and the North Sea glittered around them.

  “I have mixed feelings about arriving tomorrow,” Sydney admitted. “On the one hand, I’m tired of traveling and look forward to sleeping in a regular bed, and selecting my dress from a wardrobe, not a trunk!”

  Nicolas chuckled. “And the other hand?”

  “I can’t help but feel that we’re walking into a very tenuous situation.”

  Without comment, Nicolas lifted his wine and drained the glass.

  A Prince of Norway

  The Patriarchs:

  Anders and Erling

  The Candidates:

  Karl, Espen and Nicolas

  The Pawns:

  Sigrid, Dagmar and Sydney

  Chapter Eight

  June 12, 1806

  Christiania, Norway

  Nineteen year-old Nicolas Hansen squared his shoulders, jutted a jaw already lengthened by his thick journey’s beard, and marched down the gangplank with completely fabricated confidence. His eyes darted from mouth to mouth as the crowd at the Christiania pier shouted in rapid, slang-filled Norse. Though able to understand most of their words, his mind struggled to string them into coherent thoughts.

  “Vil De liker leie en vogn?”

  The voice at his elbow startled Nicolas and he stared down at its source. A pudgy man in a knit cap repeated his question, “Vil De liker leie en vogn?” Would you like to hire a carriage?

  “Yes. Er… ja,” Nicolas nodded. “Behager.” Please.

  Nicolas followed the man to an open carriage hitched to a large, shaggy beast. The horse swung his huge head toward the sound of their boots on the cobblestones.

  “W’ere you go?” the man spoke in broken English having correctly assessed Nicolas’s native tongue.

  “Akershus Slott.” Akershus Castle. The man lifted an eyebrow and his eyes passed over Nicolas’s tall frame and well-tailored clothing. He nodded and climbed into the driver’s seat. Nicolas scrambled into the back and the carriage jerked forward.

  Akershus Castle and fortress were built on a hill overlooking the harbor. Towering more than six stories, the castle’s plain sides were surrounded by stone walls that belied the opulence within. When Nicolas introduced himself to the soldier at the gate, he was escorted to the castle’s main entrance and handed off to a uniformed butler, who in turn led him up a grand staircase and instructed him to wait.

  Nicolas stood straight, feet planted and body swaying out of habit with the rise and fall of the ocean. Soon the butler returned and ushered him through another doorway into a richly appointed drawing room. A tall man in expensive clothing strode towards him.

  “Lord Nicolas Christiansen! Søskenbarn!” Cousin!

  Frederick VI looked younger than his thirty-eight years, his blond hair and blue eyes a reflection of Nicolas’s. He grasped Nicolas’s hand in his and pulled him into an embrace. The men pounded each other’s backs in filial affection.

  “Or maybe I use English, eh?” Frederick grinned at Nicolas.

  Nicolas shook his head and answered in Norse. “My mother would be ashamed if her diligent tutoring came to naught. I must use Norse and grow comfortable with it.”

  “Wonderful!” Frederick laughed and continued in that language. “Come, sit and tell me of your journey. Are you hungry?” Without waiting for a reply, he waved a hand at the butler who disappeared and returned shortly with trays of delicacies.

  Thus began Nicolas Hansen’s year of education in the ways of Norway, and his deceptively calm introduction to her turbulent royal family.

  August 13, 1820

  Christiania, Norway

  Those memories pushed against Nicolas with all the strength of the insistent North Sea wind. He stood on the bow of the ship, one foot propped on the railing, as the ship slid into the Christiania harbor. His pale gold hair—a color common on the bare heads bustling around the port and a reminder that he himself was of this race—flew around his head and cast the prescient shadow of an airy crown. He squinted up at Akershus Festning; the fortress towered over the docks.

  “Is that the castle?” Sydney stood beside him with Kirstie on her hip. Maribeth followed Stefan all over the deck, trying to keep him from getting in the crew’s way.

  “The walls you see are the fortress. The castle is the large building inside. And over there, see that pitched roof? That’s the Great Hall.” Nicolas leaned toward Sydney and pointed. “Are you able to see the church spires on the other side? The royal mausoleum is in there.”

  “When was this castle built?” Sydney shaded her eyes and looked up.

  “1299. But it was rebuilt in the mid-1600’s to make it more Renaissance in style.”

  Sydney dropped her hand. “Does it appear anything has changed since you were last here?”

  Nicolas chuckled. “Eight-hundred-year-old cities don’t usually change much.”

  ***

&nbs
p; “Pappa? Is this castle yours?” Stefan held his father’s hand for balance, his head tilted so far back he could barely walk.

  “It’s where my family lives.” Nicolas clarified. He introduced himself to the gate guards and their arrival was an echo of his first visit. A tall white-haired man entered the room and walked purposefully toward the Hansens.

  “Og her han er! Mottakelse, Lord Nicolas, Greve of Rollag! Og mottakelse til din vakker familie!” And here he is! Welcome, Lord Nicolas, Count of Rollag! And welcome to your beautiful family!

  Nicolas answered in Norse. “Thank you, Your Grace. I trust you’re well?”

  “Indeed! I’m in good health for a man of sixty-four. Is this your wife?”

  Sydney appeared to follow the pleasantries and she smiled at his cousin.

  “Prince Anders Fredericksen, I present my wife, the Lady Siobhan Sydney Bell Hansen, Grevinne of Rollag.”

  “It’s a pleasure,” Anders said in English.

  She answered: “Det er min fornøyelse også.” It is my pleasure as well.

  Anders laughed, surprised. “Du taler Norse?”

  “Bare litt.” A little.

  Anders ginned broadly, his blue eyes sparkling. “How delightful!”

  Nicolas introduced Stefan, Kirstie and Maribeth.

  Anders continued in Norse, “Have you other staff with you?”

  “No, I’m afraid my estate in Missouri required their continued presence,” Nicolas demurred.

  “That’s not a problem. I shall assign you a valet, and Lady Hansen a maid, for the duration of your stay here.” Anders waved his hands and whispered to the butler.

  Nicolas bowed at the waist. “Thank you. That’s very considerate of you.”

  “Peder will show you to your rooms. Please take your time to settle in. Dinner is at eight.” Anders lifted Sydney’s hand. “I look forward to seeing you then, Lady Hansen.”

  “Takk du,” she replied.

  ***

  Sigrid remembered well the first time she saw Nicolas; tall, bearded and terrified. His lean body rested against the wall of the Great Hall as his eyes darted around the room. At nineteen, Nicolas did not yet have his man-weight, that thickening of bone and muscle that heralds physical maturity. But he was more than adequate, nonetheless. And so heartbreakingly beautiful. Sigrid’s heart ached at the memory of his navy blue eyes and easy, sensual smile.

  Sigrid closed her eyes and slowly pressed her hands along her body. It had been a simple task to get him into bed. She giggled at the memory.

  He stood still as she undressed him, his jaw set, and his eyes huge and dark. She rubbed scented oil on him, and then unrolled the sheep’s intestine over his exigent member.

  “This is to ensure we don’t make a baby,” she explained. Then she lay back on his bed and lifted her skirts. She held her hands out in invitation and he stepped to the bed. He kneeled between her thighs and she pulled him in.

  Nicolas shook off his virginity the way a dog shakes off water. What he lacked in experience, he made up for in enthusiasm. And as time passed, Sigrid was able to teach him the intricacies of pleasing a woman. He was an eager student and he learned well. Very well.

  But when the time neared for him to leave Christiania, Nicolas stopped following her from the Great Hall. She pressed him for an explanation.

  “I’m sorry Sigrid. I’ll be leaving soon and I’ve a bride waiting for me in Missouri. I can’t continue our play. But I have enjoyed it immensely and will remember you always. Thank you.” He kissed her hand and walked away.

  Sigrid was devastated. She spent the next several days—was it a week?—in her room steeped in an alcohol haze. But she always sobered and felt the loss afresh.

  After all this time she could hardly believe that the widower Nicolas was back in the castle right now. That he would be at dinner tonight. She drew a deep, steadying breath. What would he think of her, thirteen years later? Was there any chance he would be willing to rekindle that spark? Sigrid looked in her mirror and convinced herself that she was every bit as beautiful at forty-one as she had been at twenty-eight.

  She wondered how Nicolas looked. Older, surely. More mature. More manly, no doubt. Was it possible he might be even more beautiful? His life in America as he described it was very physical. He worked hard with his body. Her fingers stroked down an imaginary muscled chest and tangled delightfully in the nest of hair far below.

  She poured herself a third glass of akevitt and dug through her wardrobe for the perfect dress.

  ***

  “Has he arrived?” Erling asked his half-brother.

  “Yes,” Anders sank into a chair.

  “How does he look?”

  “He looks magnificent.”

  “Excellent. How long is he staying?” Erling handed Anders a glass of akevitt.

  “We didn’t get that far in the conversation.” Anders downed the liquor and winced. “I sent them to their rooms to settle in. As we anticipated, he didn’t bring a full staff. Peder will assign Haldis as Mrs. Hansen’s maid and Tomas as Nicolas’s valet.”

  “Perfect choices!” Erling nodded his satisfaction.

  ***

  Sydney noticed her first. The woman descending the stairs had a tight grip on the railing and an intent stare fixed on Nicolas. Her hair was faded blond, her eyes faded blue. She wore a tight gown with a precariously low décolletage. Her step was just a bit unsteady.

  “Nicolas?”

  He turned toward the voice. “Duchess! How are you?”

  “Dearest cousin! It has been forever! You look wonderful.” Sigrid kissed him hard on the mouth and slipped her arm in his. “Why did you never write to me? I so missed your friendship.”

  “Did I never? I don’t recall.” Nicolas unwound Sigrid’s arm. “May I present my wife? The Lady Siobhan Sydney Bell Hansen, Grevinne of Rollag.”

  “What?” the woman blurted. Her brows drew together. “No! You’re wife died!”

  “I remarried, Duchess.” He took Sydney’s elbow, turned, and spoke slowly to his wife. “This is Her Grace, Sigrid Andersen Haugen, Duchess of Harstad, my second cousin and daughter of Anders Fredericksen, Duke of Stavanger, whom you met earlier.”

  Sydney—who had followed all but a word or two of the exchange—curtsied without taking her eyes from Sigrid’s. She responded in Norse, “It’s my pleasure, Your Grace.”

  “You speak Norse?” Sigrid looked straight through her. She appeared to be more than a little stunned by the introduction.

  “A little, yes.” Sydney slipped her hand into Nicolas’s and squeezed. He squeezed back.

  “We have a daughter who is six months old,” he added.

  “Seven months.” Sydney smiled extra sweetly.

  “Nicolas, your letter didn’t indicate that you had family accompanying you.” Sigrid fanned herself frantically. Urgent spots of red blurred over her cheeks. Her eyes darkened and her brow wavered.

  “The first letter didn’t, no. When I decided to bring them, I sent a second letter.”

  “Father?” Sigrid’s arm shot out and grasped Anders. “Did you receive a second letter from Nicolas?”

  “Why, yes, I believe so. You look lovely this evening, Lady Hansen.” Anders smiled. “I trust your rooms are tilfredsstillende?”

  “Tilfredsstillende?” Sydney looked to Nicolas.

  “Satisfactory.”

  “Ah! Yes, thank you.” Sydney returned Anders’ smile.

  “And here is my half-brother, Erling Fredericksen, Duke of Trondheim.” Anders waved Erling over.

  “It’s good to see you again, Lord Hansen! You look quite well!” Erling offered Nicolas his hand.

  “As do you, Your Grace.”

  “And this must be your beautiful wife?” Erling swept Sydney with an appreciative gaze.

  “May I present the Lady Siobhan Sydney Bell Hansen, Grevinne of Rollag.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Your Grace.” Sydney curtsied.

  “I assure you, Lady, the pleasure is en
tirely mine.” He kissed her hand.

  “Siobhan? Is that not an Irish name?” Sigrid’s injected query was an undisguised slur.

  “Yes, it is, Your Grace.”

  “And Bell?”

  “Scots.” Sydney spoke confidently and wondered what Sigrid’s point might be.

  Sigrid turned to her father, smiling tightly. “I believe our Vikings invaded both countries, did they not, Father? And on innumerable occasions?”

  “Sigrid!” Anders chided, looking distraught.

  “Sydney, at the least, is a Norman name. Have you Norman blood after all?” Sigrid lifted one eyebrow.

  Sydney looked to Nicolas; she did not understand the question in Norse. He answered for her.

  “It’s only a name, Duchess; given because it suited her.”

  Sigrid lifted Sydney’s left hand. “Is this your wedding ring? A simple garnet?” She blinked slowly at Nicolas. “Could you not have done better?”

  “I chose it because of the color. It goes well with her eyes.”

  Sigrid’s gaze flicked to Sydney’s eyes and back to the ring.

  “How very—colonial.” She dropped Sydney’s hand and walked stiffly away.

  Even though Sydney did not understand every word, she understood what was being discussed. Her jaw clenched as she ran through a satisfying list of completely inappropriate responses in two languages.

  Nicolas took her arm and leaned down to whisper in her ear, “Would you like me to purchase you a more suitable ring?”

  “Don’t trouble yourself.” Sydney stared straight ahead. “I wouldn’t wear it.”

  The doors to the Hall opened and the dinner crowd wandered into the room. Sydney didn’t wish to appear unsophisticated, but her jaw dropped at the size of the space. A raised table in the front held eight chairs. Two long tables, with two dozen seats on either side, extended from the raised table in an enormous U. Overhead, carved wooden struts, darkened by centuries of smoke, towered three stories above them. She held tight to Nicolas’s arm. He led her toward the front and took a seat to the right of the head table. It was a seat of honor, and he took it with confidence.