The stranger’s brows rose. “Ah. You think I am being too—what is the word? Forward?”
“Yes, forward.”
“But you are injured—”
“No, I’m not.”
“You were thrown from a horse and are upon the ground. I call that ‘injured.’ ” His brows locked together over eyes of the deepest green she’d ever seen. “Am I using the word wrong?”
“No, but—”
“Then do not argue.”
“Of all the nerve! I’m bruised, but no more.” To prove her point, she sat upright, even though it brought her closer to this huge boulder of a man. “See? I’m fine.”
“Ny—No. You will stay where you are until one of my men brings the doctor.”
“One of your men?” So he has “men,” does he?
His gaze grew shaded. “They are my companions. Nothing more.”
“Ah. Then you are a groom of some sort?”
“No. I am not a groom. I am Piotr.”
She waited, and when he said nothing more, she sighed. “That’s it? Just Piotr?”
“Piotr of Oxenburg. It is a small country beside Russia.”
She wracked her brains. The country’s name seemed familiar. “There was a mention of Oxenburg in The Morning Post just a few days ago.”
“Hmmm. Whatever you read could not be about me. No one knows I’m here. My cousin Nikki, he is in London. Perhaps he is in the papers.” He rocked back on his haunches, the golden light filtering from the trees dancing over his black hair. “You can sit up, but not stand. Not until we know you are not broken.”
“I’m not broken!” she said sharply. “I’m just embarrassed that I fell off my horse.”
A glimmer of humor shone in the green eyes. “You fell asleep, eh?”
She fought the urge to return the smile. “No, I did not fall asleep. A fox frightened my horse, which caused it to rear. And then it ran off.”
His gaze flickered to her boots, a frown marring his amazingly handsome face. “No wonder you fell. Those are not good riding boots.”
“These? They’re perfectly good boots!”
“Not if a horse bolts. Then you need some like these.” He slapped the side of his own boots, which had a thicker and taller heel.
“I’ve never seen boots like those.”
“That is because you English do not really ride, you with your small boots. You just perch on top of the horse like a sack of grain and—”
“I’m not English; I’m a Scot,” she said sharply. “Can’t you tell from my accent?”
“No.”
She opened her mouth to respond and he threw up a hand. “Do you never just say yes to one single thing? Is that because you are a woman, or because you are a Scot?”
She frowned. “You don’t need to be insulting.”
He grinned and stood and held out his hand. “I apologize, Miss—?”
“Lily Balfour.” As she reached up to place her hand in his, one of her red-gold curls fell to her shoulder.
Her rescuer froze, an odd expression on his face as he reached past her hand to grasp her hair. Slowly, he threaded it through his fingers, his gaze locking with hers.
Her heart leapt as his hand grazed her cheek and she had the oddest sense of breathlessness, as if she’d just run up a flight of stairs.
Cheeks hot, she tugged her curl free from the stranger’s grasp and repinned it with hands that seemed oddly awkward. “That’s— You shouldn’t touch my hair.”
“It is not permitted.”
“No.”
“It should be.” He sighed regretfully. “Come. I will take you to your home.”
Relieved to hear that was his intention, she brushed some leaves from her skirts just as he bent and scooped her up as if she were a blade of grass.
Before she could do more than gasp, he began striding through the woods.
Lily had little choice but to hang on as best as she could, uncomfortably aware of the deliciously spicy cologne that tickled her nose and made her long to burrow her face against him. “What are you doing?”
He looked down at her, surprised. “I’m carrying you.”
“You can’t just carry me off like this!”
“But I have.” There was no rancor in his voice, no sense of correcting her. Instead, his tone was that of someone patiently trying to explain something. “I have carried you off, and carried off you will be.”
She scowled up at him. “Look here, Mr. Piotr—”
“Romanovin.”
She paused, interested in spite of herself. “Mr. Piotr Romanovin, then.”
His grinned, his teeth white in his black beard. “Yes, I am Piotr Aleksander Romanovin of Oxenburg.”
Though she hardly knew him, his relaxed grin was reassuring. He looked like many things—handsome, exotic, overbearing, strong—but he would not harm her. Her instincts and common sense both agreed on that. “Why were you in this forest?”
“Ah, I brought my—how you say, babushka? Ah yes, grandmother. I brought her to see the house I have just purchased.”
She must be safe, then, Lily decided, for no man would invite his own grandmother to a ravishment.
The amazing green eyes now locked with hers. “You will meet my grandmother soon, but not today. I think you will like her.”
It sounded like an order.
She managed a faint smile. “I’m sure we’ll adore each other. But really, I doubt we’ll meet.”
“No? I think you are a guest of the Duchess of Roxburghe, no? These are her woods.”
“How do you know the duchess?”
He shrugged, his huge shoulder moving against her cheek. “Her grace knows my grandmother. They’ve known each other since they were schoolgirls, although I do not think they were fond of each other.”
“Ah. Yet they are fond enough now that the duchess invited your grandmother to visit?”
“Of course. A rivalry is no reason for rudeness. It is the way of the world to have rivals, no?”
“I suppose so. I just— Look, I really should wait here for the duchess’s men. Once the horse returns to the stables, they will come looking for me. And if they don’t find me, they’ll think something horrible has happened.”
“I will send my men to wait for the duchess’s servants, so no one will be left untended.”
“Your men?” She frowned. “You said that before. How many men do you have?”
His gaze slid away. “Enough.”
“Then you’re a military leader.” That explained his boldness and overassuredness.
“Yes.”
“What are you? A corporal? A sergeant?”
“I am in charge.” A faint note of surprise colored his voice, as if he were irritated that she should think anything else.
“You’re in charge of what? A squad? A battalion?”
“Of course not.” He looked a bit insulted. “I am in charge of it all.”
She blinked. “Of the entire military of Oxenburg?”
“I shall tell you, because the duchess will soon say it anyway. I am not a general. I am a prince, which is why the duchess has asked that my grandmother and I attend her events. I had not thought to accept her invitation, but now—” He grinned down at her, his teeth flashing. “Now, I think I will agree.”
“Wait. You’re a prince?”
He shrugged, his broad shoulders making his cape swing. “I am one of six.”
She couldn’t wrap her mind around the thought of a room full of men like the one before her now: huge, broad shouldered, bulging with muscles and lopsided smiles, their dark hair falling over their brows and into their green eyes . . . She couldn’t picture it. She fixed her gaze on his face. “If you’re a prince then you must be fabulously wealthy.”
He looked down at her. “Not every prince has money, Moya.”
“Some do.”
“And some do not. Sadly, I am the poorest of all my brothers.”
Her disappointment must have shown on her fac
e, for he regarded her with a narrowed gaze. “You do not like this, Miss Lily Balfour?”
She sighed. “No, no I don’t.”
He paused and looked down, one brow arching. “Why not?”
“Sadly, some of us must marry for money.”
“I see.” He continued to carry her, his brow lowered. “And this is you, then? You must marry for money?”
“Yes.”
“But what if you fall in love?”
Lily didn’t know if it was the shock of her fall or the fact that she felt so safe in his arms, but she heard herself say with completely honesty, “I have to marry a wealthy man to aid my family’s situation, and you are the first man I thought was . . . interesting. So yes, I’m sorry to hear that you are not wealthy.” She detected the flash of disappointment in his gaze and said quickly, “I wouldn’t be looking for a wealthy husband, except that I must. Our house is entailed and my father hasn’t been very good about— Oh, it’s complicated. But I have no choice. I must marry for money.”
He seemed to consider this. After a moment, he nodded. “You need funds to save your family home. It is noble that you are willing to sacrifice yourself.”
“You think it will be a sacrifice? I was hoping that I might find someone I could care for, too.”
“You wish to fall in love with a rich man. Life is not always so accommodating.”
“Yes, but it’s possible. The duchess is helping me. She’s invited several gentlemen for me to meet—”
“All wealthy.”
“All wealthy gentlemen.” Lily turned her gaze to his and sighed. At one time, a wealthy gentleman had seemed enough. Now, she wished she could also ask for a not-wealthy prince. One like this one, who carried her so gently and whose eyes gleamed with humor beneath the fall of his black hair.
But it was not to be. All she had were these few moments. She sighed again and rested her head against his broad shoulder. This will have to be enough.
© Michael Cairns
KAREN HAWKINS is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of nearly two dozen wickedly funny historical romance novels set in Regency Scotland and England. Her wildly popular MacLean Curse series was followed by the enchanting Hurst Amulet series. In addition, Karen is the author of two sassy contemporary romances set in the little town of Glory, North Carolina. Visit Karen’s website at www.karenhawkins.com or join her at www.facebook.com/AuthorKarenHawkins to see pictures of Karen training for the Krispy Kreme Challenge race; for information on her favorite crush/actor, the incomparable Hugh Jackman; and to enter ridiculously easy contests to win free books and other fabulous prizes!
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Also by Karen Hawkins
The Hurst Amulet Series
One Night in Scotland
Scandal in Scotland
A Most Dangerous Profession
The Taming of a Scottish Princess
The MacLean Curse Series
How to Abduct a Highland Lord
To Scotland, With Love
To Catch a Highlander
Sleepless in Scotland
The Laird Who Loved Me
Contemporary Romance
Talk of the Town
Lois Lane Tells All
Prequel to Hurst Amulet and MacLean Curse Series
Much Ado About Marriage
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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How to Capture a Countess (Duchess Diaries 1) Page 27
