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

by Kris Tualla

  “Now that you have family of your own, you understand the importance of those connections?” Sydney suggested.

  “Yes!” He smiled at her. “That must be what it is.”

  “And campaigning along the way, enlisting their aid in your quest; these are merely side endeavors?” Sydney’s amused expression belied her true thoughts. Nicolas laughed.

  “Min presang! What wonderful ideas you have!” He pulled her close and kissed her well, inhaling the warm rosy scent of her. His hands traveled, mapping her body with no conscious thought.

  Sydney’s eyes drifted open, though not completely. “Who will go with you?” she whispered.

  “I shall go alone, and take Tomas to valet for me. Though I wish for Stefan to see, he is too young for this particular journey. Besides,” he smoothed Sydney’s brow with his lips, “I can travel faster if I travel lighter.”

  “When will you leave?”

  “Soon. It’s already October and the winds are colder by the day!”

  Sydney’s arms tightened around his waist. The clock chimed the hour, softly intruding on their momentary silence. Nicolas lifted Sydney’s chin with his knuckle and waited for her dark lashes to lift and reveal the deep green of her eyes.

  “Are you ready?” he asked.

  “Yes.” Her voice surprised him with its warmth. “But I suppose we must attend the Ball first.”

  It took him a moment to grip her meaning; then it took the weight of every one of his responsibilities to lead her away from their bedroom.

  ***

  Sigrid waited at the foot of the stairs. Her golden dress complemented her fading blond hair and pale skin. Multiple strands of pearls circled her throat. Vegard stood next to her, with a cane and a scowl. Silver buttons strained to close his waistcoat across his ample stomach, and folds of his throat rolled over a lace collar.

  “I’m going to sit down,” he grumbled as Nicolas and Sydney descended. “I shall meet you inside.” He limped away, wincing and relying on the cane.

  “Good evening, Sigrid,” Sydney spoke in Norse. “That is a beautiful dress.”

  “This?” Sigrid looked down and waved her hand. “I found it in the back of my wardrobe. I had not worn it in years. I believe the last time might have been when you were here, Nicolas.”

  “Oh, really?” Nicolas glanced around the crowd, not at her. “On what occasion?”

  “If memory serves, it was the state dinner with King Christian and King William of Prussia.” Sigrid grinned and rested her hand on Nicolas’s chest, pulling his attention to her. “Do you remember that aristocrat from Moscow?”

  Nicolas slapped his forehead. “I had forgotten about him!”

  “He kept pouring beer in his cup and never figured out—”

  “—that it had a leak! By the time he got up to leave, his lap was soaked!” Nicolas laughed. “He appeared to have pissed himself!”

  Sydney was barely able to follow the conversation. “He was not aware?”

  “No!” Nicolas wagged his finger at Sigrid. “And you played him along!”

  Sigrid giggled behind a guilty hand. “He was so drunk, he had no idea he was the joke of dinner!”

  “You made him believe you wanted him.”

  “He flirted with me all through dinner!”

  “And he responded, did he not?” Nicolas sniggered.

  “He did! He was hard. And proud. And tiny!” Sigrid waved her hand, smiling seductively. “So different from—oh.”

  Nicolas frowned and grabbed Sydney’s arm, his face heated. “I believe my presence is required. Will you excuse us, Duchess?” He pulled her into the Great Hall.

  “At least you had the decency to blush,” Sydney muttered, her deep irritation obvious.

  Fifty prominent citizens of Christiania were invited to Akershus Castle, for the purpose of becoming familiar with the three men on whom their future might rely. Nicolas, Karl and Espen stood in a line and greeted each one of them. Following an elaborate dinner, the tables were pushed against the walls and musicians, who played quietly through dinner, now provided dance music.

  Sydney knew Nicolas would not be able to stay by her side. He was on display and must be available to all the guests. Even so, it seemed Sigrid was taking more than her share of turns as his partner. When Nicolas came to Sydney, and gratefully accepted a glass of beer from her, she expected to dance with him. But Sigrid sidled up to him, whispered in his ear and tugged at his sleeve.

  “I am sorry, min presang, duty calls,” Nicolas handed Sydney the drained glass. He disappeared into the press of revelers with Sigrid on his arm. Sydney sighed and turned away. With a start, she noticed Vegard watching her. He sat against the wall, hands on his cane, his rheumy eyes fixed on her.

  Almost imperceptibly, his expression changed. Under his sad gaze, an understanding smile lifted one corner of his mouth. His chin dipped in a small nod, then he shrugged. Shaken, Sydney looked away.

  She searched the room for Nicolas, and found him in Sigrid’s arms, whirling and laughing. Navy eyes matching navy frock coat, blond hair combed back and tied at the nape, taller than anyone else in the room, he was so beautiful that it made Sydney’s heart hurt. She looked back at Vegard, but his head was propped against the wall and his eyes were closed.

  “Lady Hansen?”

  Haldis’ voice invaded Sydney’s thoughts. She turned toward it. “Yes?”

  “Agnes has come.”

  Sydney nodded, relieved at the interruption. “I will tell Lord Hansen. I will come.”

  Haldis nodded. “Yes, Madam.”

  Sydney pushed through the room until she caught Nicolas’s eye. She waved him to her.

  “Yes?” he asked, breathless.

  Sydney raised her voice to be heard. “A baby. I am going out.”

  “Good! Fine! I shall see you later, then!” He kissed her hard on the mouth, then was swept away, only the pale gold of his hair visible above the crowd.

  Sydney walked quickly to their rooms, chanting under her breath, “He loves me. He loves me. I know that he loves me.”

  Haldis scurried to keep up with her. “Jeg tigger din benådning, Dame?” I beg your pardon, Lady?

  “Det ikke er noe.” Sydney muttered. It is nothing.

  Sydney opened the door to the children’s room. Maribeth sat close to the fire, and Tomas was with her. Their heads turned in tandem toward the door. Tomas jumped up, knocking over his chair. He fumbled to set it aright.

  “Good evening, Lady Hansen.”

  “Good evening, Tomas.” Sydney looked for her children. Stefan and Kirstie were asleep in their beds. “I have been called out to a birth and I wanted to check on the children first.”

  “They ate dinner and went to bed without a problem,” Maribeth spoke in Norse. “I believe Leif keeps Stefan busy enough that it wears him out.”

  “Your Norse is getting better. Practice helps!” Sydney commented.

  Maribeth blushed at Sydney’s words and glanced at Tomas. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And Lord Hansen?” Tomas asked.

  “He will be late.”

  “I shall be available for him when he returns.” Tomas bowed.

  “Thank you, Tomas.”

  Haldis helped Sydney change from her ball gown into a plain woolen dress, then retrieved the fur-lined cloak from the wardrobe. Sydney shouldered her leather bag and followed Agnes into the cold October night.

  October 2, 1820

  “Take a walk with me, husband?”

  Nicolas moved carefully. He set his coffee cup on the breakfast tray before Haldis carried it out, and squinted through the leaded window at the colorless day. “Is it necessary?”

  “I simply desire your presence. And your undivided attention.” Sydney faced him with a determined smile. “Will you escort me, my love?”

  Nicolas swung his gaze back to hers. Her choice of words was unusual; she must have something to discuss with him. I hope it’s not last night.

  “It would be my pleasu
re.” He smiled and waved at Tomas. “As soon as I have my shave.”

  Wrapped in cloaks against the sporadic wind, Nicolas and Sydney pressed against each other on the garden bench. The sky was a soft gray, the sea’s horizon indistinct. Fifty feet of dead flowers in all directions protected their conversation. He waited for her to start, absently watching her spin her wedding ring around her pinkening finger.

  “I love you.”

  Surprised, Nicolas responded, “I love you, too. What is amiss?”

  Sydney took his hands in hers and pinned him with eyes as gray as the day. “We need to decide on what flirtations are acceptable.”

  “Ah.” Nicolas shifted his weight and cleared his throat.

  “You are in a very public position, husband. And I understand that well. And I am willing to let go of some conventions, so that you may achieve your goal here. But we must decide, together, which conventions those are.” Sydney did not blink.

  Nicolas nodded and scrubbed one hand over his chin. “That is sensible.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Have you already considered what—conventions—you can bide?”

  “Yes, some.” Sydney adjusted her position so she faced him squarely. “You will have to dance. You will dance with ingénues and dowagers. You will smile at them, and make them believe that you are nothing without their support. You will kiss their hands, their cheeks, and you will lead them on your arm. They will not be able to keep themselves from adoring you.”

  Nicolas lifted one brow. “Adoring me?”

  “Last night, you were the most handsome and intelligent man in the Hall—”

  “Sydney! You exaggerate!” he interrupted.

  Sydney faced her lap, biting back her smile. “I do not.”

  “Well, then, you must admit to some bias?” Nicolas lifted her chin with a wind-reddened knuckle. “You do love me, or so you said.”

  “I do,” she assured him. “But that does not negate what I’m saying. You are uncommonly handsome and exceptionally intelligent. You always will be. It’s your blessing. And your curse.”

  “How is it a curse?” Nicolas was fascinated by her logic.

  “Because, husband, some of those women will want to speak to you in private. They will pull you to a corner of the dance floor, into a room, or even a curtained window casement.” Sydney’s raised eyebrow mimicked his. “And they will touch you. Boldly.”

  Nicolas cleared his throat and felt his face flush. “I believe I can handle that. Should it occur, that is.”

  “Nicolas, it’s not you that I worry about.”

  “No?” Relief warmed him; she wasn’t angry. “Then what?”

  “You need the support of their brothers, their husbands, and their fathers, even more than you need them. If you are too successful at gaining their adoration, you risk the wrath of their men.”

  Nicolas nodded. “You make a very clear point, min presang.”

  “Takk du.”

  Nicolas smiled. “And what, then, is your advice?”

  Sydney’s steel-gray gaze held no glint of amusement. “Always be in sight. Never disappear from the gathering. Whatever you may decently do in public, I can bide. It is the thought of you cloistered with another woman that, that—” her voice broke.

  Nicolas slid his arms under her cloak and wrapped them around her. He felt her ribs jerk spastically, though she didn’t make a sound.

  “Sydney, I want you to remember this: you are ‘my gift’ and always will be. You brought me back to life. You taught me to father Stefan, and gave me a daughter to worry over for the rest of my days.”

  Sydney grunted at the joke.

  “There is not a woman on this earth who can change any of that. Ever. I swear this to you.”

  Sydney nodded, her face pressed against his chest.

  He rested his chin on her head. “Whatever happens, min presang, always remember that.”

  “I can weather this storm,” she whispered, “so long as your heart remains unchanged.”

  October 5, 1820

  Sydney turned around in front of the mirror, inspecting her riding habit. She smiled at the image. Made of burgundy wool and trimmed in black fur, it highlighted her flawless skin and dark hair. The skirt was split and sewn into two wide legs so she could hook one over the pommel of the side-saddle. The knee-length jacket had two slits in back to allow it to drape over her steed’s rump.

  “I’m so excited, Nicolas! I’ve missed riding so much!” She reached for the matching black fur hat perched on the bed.

  “Have you hunted before?” Nicolas shrugged into a doeskin coat. He wore tall black leather riding boots, polished to perfection by the vigilant Tomas.

  “A few times, back in Kentucky.” Sydney returned to the mirror and fiddled with the hat. “I only wish I could ride astride today. I have never been particularly good at side-saddle.”

  Nicolas lifted her heavy braid aside and planted a soft kiss on the nape of her neck. “Your ‘not particularly good’ is someone else’s ‘quite skilled’ I would venture. You’ll do fine.”

  Sydney smiled at Nicolas in the mirror. “Are you ready?”

  The horses were saddled and waiting outside the stable. Leif waved Nicolas over.

  “I picked this one special, Sir. He’s a beauty, isn’t he?” The tall dark stallion eyed Nicolas warily. Nicolas offered his fist and the horse sniffed it, pushing his hairy muzzle against it. He snorted and stamped one hoof. Leif beamed.

  “That means he likes you, Sir!”

  “And I like him. Thank you, Leif.” Nicolas turned to Sydney. “Have you a steed yet?”

  Sydney was about to say no, when a groom tapped her on the shoulder. “Lady? Will you follow me?” Her heart sank when she saw the gelding selected for her. Head down and one rear hoof cocked, he appeared to be asleep.

  “Is there another horse?” Sydney did not know the Norse words to be more specific.

  “He is gentle, ma’am. Have no fear.” The groom held his hands for her foot.

  With a sigh of resignation, Sydney stepped into it, and he lifted her onto the saddle. She hooked her leg around the pommel and arranged her coat. She glanced at Nicolas and saw his sympathetic expression.

  “Next time, I’ll let them know that you’re an expert rider,” he said in English.

  Sydney shrugged. “I dag jeg vil nyte jakten.” Today, I will enjoy the hunt.

  Anders rode out first with his brother Erling. Karl and his wife Ingeborg followed. Eirik and Lady Linnet came up behind Nicolas and Sydney. Sydney wanted to tell Eirik to hold his reins more loosely, but was not sure how he might respond. She decided, instead, to ask, “How is your son?”

  “He is well and healthy, thank you.”

  “Such a bonny boy!” Linnet puffed up. “The wet nurse says she has never seen such a good baby!”

  Several more people joined them; some were guests at Akershus Castle, some lived in Christiania. As they left the castle, another couple cantered to the front of the group. Espen rode a bay gelding, and Dagmar, on a matching mare, rode at his side. She was resplendent in a deep purple riding habit and matching cloak.

  Nicolas shot Sydney a look and nodded. She nodded back.

  Conversation was loud and spirited as the hunting party rode through town. The kingly candidates were introduced to those who did not yet know them. Questions of lineage, education, and heirs were asked so often, that Nicolas joked that they should publish handbills with the answers! When they left the city behind, the dogs were released and the hunt began. They quickly picked up a scent and the chase was on.

  Even though her mount was sluggish, Sydney loved riding. Head high, she breathed in the sap-filled scents of the dying autumn forest. The dry swish of dead grass and the snapping of twigs made for a loud pursuit. The wind chilled her cheeks and nose; she was glad she brought her leather riding gloves on the outing.

  Nicolas was far ahead of her. She could see him standing in his stirrups and sighting his rifle. She saw t
he puff of smoke a full second before the sound reached her. He shook his head, and sat to reload. Several other shots went off, and were followed by a cheer. Sydney caught up and saw the downed buck.

  “Better luck next time.” She smiled at her red-cheeked husband.

  “I’ve spent so much time with the sword, my shooting is off. But I’ll improve!” He grinned at her, his blue eyes alive with energy. “I must prove myself a warrior!”

  Sydney laughed.

  The dogs bayed again, and took off in a jostling pack. The hunters followed, crashing through forest, splashing through streams. This time it was a boar, tusked and angry. Sydney could smell his musk. Nicolas brought him down with one shot.

  “Vindicated!” He winked at Sydney, and wiped his brow in exaggerated worry.

  Her attention was diverted by the stomping of iron-shod hooves on dead leaves. Eirik’s mount was prancing off to one side of the group. Eirik had his reins pulled back so far, the animal’s chin was pressed against its neck and he could not close his mouth. He kept bumping into Lady Linnet’s delicate black mare as he fought Eirik for control.

  “Eirik?” Linnet squealed and held her saddle with both hands.

  “Hold! Hold!” Eirik demanded.

  “Loose him!” Sydney shouted, reflexively in English.

  “La ham løsner!” Nicolas repeated. Eirik seemed not to hear either of them.

  “Hold!”

  He kicked the stallion and pulled the reins to one side. The animal bucked then reared, jaw foaming and hooves beating the air. Eirik tumbled backward from the saddle, thumping Linnet’s mare’s rump on his way to the ground. The mare bolted. Linnet, in a tangle of limbs and leather, held on. Eirik lay in the leaves, the wind knocked out of him.

  Sydney did not stop to think. She jumped from her gelding and walked steadily toward the stallion, talking softly and holding out her hand. Freed from Eirik’s torment, the animal had calmed some, though his eyes rolled. Sydney grabbed the dangling reins, patted the horse, and quickly mounted him astride. She turned him in a circle to establish her control, then aimed him to follow the mare. She tapped his ribs with her toes. He trotted at first, then shifted into a smooth ground-eating canter.