by Sue London
After a few turns on the carpet she realized that the room was quite spacious indeed, and that one thing was assured to take her mind off her troubles. She retrieved her shawl from her valise.
* * *
Hans had raised two tankards with the men in the tavern room. It had been useful, as he now had recommendations for ships and captains to contact come morning. Or rather, Erich would be contacting them, which meant that Hans could have a leisurely breakfast with Frau Rokiczana before they set out on the last leg of their journey. He stopped at the top of the steps and counted doors. His was the fourth to the left. And, as they had carefully pointed out to him, his wife's was the third. Should he check on her? She was most likely asleep. But perhaps she wasn't. Was she cold again, as she had been last evening?
He stood in front of her door, indecisive. Hans was never indecisive. He should go to his own bed, avoid any chance that the spark of attraction between them became something more. It was dangerous for it to be something more. He was not a man to take advantage, or to mislead. When he married it would require a good deal more thought than finding a woman who attracted him. Delighted him, really. She was a good deal feistier than at first she seemed. He would, perhaps, consider her to be on the list of potential wives, but that was a far cry from throwing caution aside and leading her to believe there was some chance of a future for them. She deserved nothing but respect. He shouldn’t bother her.
He knocked.
She answered quickly. "Yes?"
He leaned against the door, trying to visualize her. "It's Hans. I wanted to see if you needed anything before I took my rest."
The door opened a bit. "No, I'm fine."
She was smiling at him, but also breathing heavily, and sweaty, with a shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Something primal and dark and not altogether healthy streaked through him.
He pushed the door open. "Who is in here?" he demanded.
She stumbled back a step as he moved past her, eyes scanning the room.
"No one is in here other than me."
"What were you doing?" he barked. He recognized his tone as the one used to correct wayward recruits, but he would be damned if Frau Rokiczana would be entertaining gentlemen while also masquerading as his wife. He would credit, however, that she stood up to his questions a great deal better than a fresh recruit. She didn't even stiffen into the imperious posture he had seen her affect before, merely stared at him for a moment as though she thought he was addled before answering.
"I was dancing."
He looked at her again, from her hair falling loose of its pins, to her heaving bosom, to her bare feet. "Dancing?" He didn't think he'd had quite enough drink for the floor to shift under him like this.
"Yes. Not that fancy, stiff dance you are used to practicing in the ballroom. Real dancing. Traditional dancing." She grinned at him. "Would you like for me to teach you?"
She held the shawl out, her arms in graceful arcs, and pointed one bare foot out toward him as she bowed, a clear invitation to the dance.
He backed away from her as though she were made of living flame. "No, I should rest. You should rest. We leave early and it could be a very long day." He moved toward the door. "I hope rough seas don't bother you; I hear the Channel crossing can be quite rough. We should have a good breakfast unless you think the sea will bother you, then perhaps just something light. Although it will only be a few hours to cross." He had the door in hand and stopped there for a moment. "You'll tell me if you need anything? The room seems satisfactory. And warm. I hope you sleep well." He closed the door before his overactive mouth could dribble out more useless information. "Don't forget to lock your door. And I'm in the next room if you need anything."
"In what direction?" Her voice was clear, as though she were standing as close to her side of the door as he was to his.
"To the left."
"Very well. Goodnight, Hans."
"Goodnight, Krystyna."
What had come over him? Seeing her flushed and breathless he had immediately become jealous and possessive, as though he had some right to her. He had never known himself to have such a response in regard to a woman. Was it merely an affront to his pride while she was masquerading as his wife? Or was it something else, something deeper?
He walked to his own room and closed the door. He realized that his breathing was shallow and his skin felt a size too small. It was the first time in his life he had ever run in fear. Fear of betraying a friend, fear of his own lust overshadowing his honor. And underneath it all, fear that this woman could come to mean something much more than she should.
It had been some time since he had engaged in the practice, but alone in his room he went down on his knees and prayed.
Chapter Seven
Krystyna was curious how Hans would act in the morning after his surprisingly awkward withdrawal from her room the evening before. His certainty that there had been an interloper to dispatch, followed by his confusion, had been, well, endearing. The longer she knew him the more he reminded her of her old Tatra sheepdog. Loyal, fiercely protective, but at times confused by the ways of humans. Relatively difficult to rile, as well, something Hans demonstrated yet again when he arrived to escort her to breakfast. He had returned to his calm, reticent demeanor as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened the previous evening. It was tempting to tease him and see if she could crack that impassive facade, but she wasn't one to tease in general. That had been the province of her glib little brother.
"Are you all right?"
His voice broke into her thoughts as she was buttering a piece of toast. "Yes, don't I seem all right?"
"You seem to be thinking very diligently about something."
She picked at the crust of her toast, considering what to say. Certainly not that she had been thinking about him. "Sometimes when I'm worried I do figures in my head."
"Figures in your head?"
"Yes, you know. It is approximately so many hundred miles to London and the average speed of a carriage is so many miles per hour. Considering daylight hours and the number of stops, we should expect to arrive before noon tomorrow. Unless, of course, there is difficult weather, which this cold snap seems to make a bit more likely."
"I should introduce you to battle maps, they could keep you entertained for hours."
It was on the tip of her tongue to say that she had been planning attacks for years, but her composure kept her from the admission. In that pause, however, she saw that he had a slight smile and she had the sudden, horrible realization that she was developing a tendre for him. That was beyond unwise, it was impossible. Absolutely, positively, completely impossible. "When will we be leaving?"
His expression became impassive again. "Erich is securing our passage and we should be able to leave within the hour, if you will be ready?"
She stood, her breakfast only half-eaten. He also came to his feet, as was appropriate for a gentleman, but she held up a hand, as though warding him off. "I will be ready. No need to escort me upstairs."
If his retreat from her room last night had been too loquacious, hers this morning was far too abrupt. But if it was three hours across the channel and eighty miles from Dover to London at an average speed of seven miles per hour, then she need only fend off their attraction for another fourteen hours or so. Perhaps a few more, if the weather was unpleasant. But surely within a day and a half she would be at her brother's house and her relationship with Hans Von Rosen would be at an end. A tiny bit of her heart twinged at that thought, but she ruthlessly refused to let it take purchase. It was eighty miles from Dover to London. How much could happen in eighty miles?
* * *
Hans wasn't sure why a mention of battle maps upset Krystyna, but perhaps she was more affected by the war than he realized. Did she have other brothers, other relatives who had fought and died? If nothing else, he would be kind enough not to mention the war to her again, no matter how obliquely. She still seemed tense as they boarded the ferry for
the Channel crossing.
Looking over her shoulder behind them she asked, "Is Erich not coming?"
"No, I am having him return the carriage to the house. We will hire for the journey to London once we reach Dover."
"I see." Her tone sounded disapproving.
"Did you have other ideas?"
"No, not at all." She moved away from him to the railing, looking out at the choppy gray waters.
He had, of course, admired the icy queen Frau Rokiczana from the start, but he found he was much more attached to Krystyna Rokiczana, the girl who did figures in her head and danced barefoot in her room. Krystyna seemed nowhere in sight. It was difficult not to try to cajole her from her mood, but among his challenges would be his own inadequacy at cajoling. He excelled at facing danger and giving orders. Neither talent seemed particularly useful in this situation.
He stood near her and stared out at the choppy waters as well.
* * *
Crossing the water, it was easy to see the clouds in the wide-open sky. They had gathered and darkened most of the morning, and now that the ferry was docking Krystyna could feel that the weather on this side of the channel was bitterly cold.
"It smells like snow," she said.
"Yes," Hans agreed simply. "I will hire our coach."
She waited on the dock with their bags and Hans returned shortly with a larger and more luxurious carriage than the one in which Erich had driven them to Calais. Hans ushered her up the steps and kept their small valises with them in the cabin rather than stored on top. Inside, he fussed over her with a lap blanket and a warming brick for her feet. When he asked for the third time if she was warm enough she knew that she had to put a stop to it. “I'm fine, Hans," she said sharply.
He finally subsided and took his seat... on the bench opposite hers in the carriage. The first day of their journey she would have been overjoyed with such spacious accommodations because she hadn't wanted to be pressed up against a man she hardly knew. Now she found that she missed his warm presence beside her. It wasn't as though sitting side by side would reveal her budding affection for him, and they would only have these few short hours of each other’s company, perhaps forever.
She spoke before she could stop herself. "I thought you would be sitting over here."
"I didn't want to crowd you."
"But now I'm chilly."
He immediately crossed to her and put his arm around her shoulders. "I thought you might be."
She buried her nose against his coat. "I was once made of hardier stock. I think you've spoiled me."
They had at least nine more hours together. Nine hours of his heat, and the faint scent of pine and leather that clung to his clothes. Nine hours would never be enough, but for now it would be her forever.
Chapter Eight
Frau Rokiczana had burrowed against him and not looked up for at least two hours. Her lovely, dark hair was just beneath his chin and her body was pressed against his side as though he were her port in a storm.
"Are you asleep?" he whispered.
"No," was her soft response. He wasn't really surprised, because she had never relaxed as one who slept always did.
"Then are you figuring?" Even he could hear the laughter lingering in his tone.
She took a moment to respond. "Yes," she said softly.
"About what?"
"Seven more hours."
"To London?"
She nodded against his chest.
"Perhaps a bit more."
"More?"
"Look outside. It's snowing."
She sat up at that. Her face was flushed and he watched her expression change from curiosity to delight. "Why, yes it is."
She was so beautiful that it almost hurt to look upon her. The term heartbreak had never made sense to him before, but now he could imagine it. Could foresee it on the day he turned her over to her brother and had no claim over her. The need to pull her into his lap, kiss her, possess her, was nearly overwhelming. But if he cared about her, as it was now clear to him that he did, then he could not dishonor her. He would bring her to her brother untouched. Unsullied. And then beg Casimir for permission to marry her. His own father would be furious that he hadn't let the Von Rosens review her, make sure that she suited the family's very stringent standards. But he didn't care.
Unable to save himself from everything that was unwise, he brought up her hand to kiss. She gave a tiny gasp of surprise and he shrugged. "It looked cold."
* * *
Krystyna settled against Hans again, this time in a pose where she could stare out the window. The snow increased significantly and she could now hear it squeaking and crunching under the carriage wheels. It blanketed everything in white, as though England were a place of simple shapes rather than distinct trees and hills and houses. She couldn't help but wish that the snow became so impossible that she and Hans were stranded forever in their luxurious carriage. The richness of the carriage, however, reminded her of something. She sat up again.
"I will, of course, make sure that you are reimbursed for this trip," she said.
"That's not necessary. It's been my pleasure." The tension she had sensed in him earlier was gone, and he now relaxed against the cushions with long-limbed grace.
"Don't be silly, I can't have you pay for everything."
He brought her hand to his lips again, this time pressing a kiss into the palm. Inside, she melted. But she also panicked.
"You can't do that."
"They told me I couldn't charge into four cannons, but I did that, too."
"Hans," she admonished.
"Yes, Krystyna?"
He was so calm and steady, looking at her as though they had all the time in the world together. As though they had already been stranded as she wished. Hearing her name on his lips in a sweet, warm cadence, it took her beyond her endurance. She felt her heart rip right down the middle. One half, she knew, now belonged to him. The other half she desperately clung to because it was all she would have to get her through this life.
She snuggled up against him. "Tell me about those cannons."
"I thought the war bothered you."
"War bothers everyone. I want to know about your cannons."
* * *
Hans worried that his stories would bore her, but whenever he trailed off she pressed him with questions and he continued. They traveled another two hours and the snowstorm only worsened. The carriage rolled to a stop under an awning and the driver tapped on their door.
"Come," Hans said in English.
The door opened and the wizened old coachman leaned in. "Far as we're gonna go today, guv'na. Nice place, this. Warm food, soft beds. Good enough for you and your lady, I'll guarantee."
Hans nodded. "Thank you for that, then."
The driver took himself away again and Krystyna looked to Hans to interpret.
"We have to stay here. The weather has worsened and we can't go any further."
Her expression changed from pleased to chagrined to something he couldn't quite name. "Very well," she said, and picked up her valise.
Hans opened the door and handed her down into the snow before reaching in for his own luggage. He was worried that she would be mired in the knee-deep drifts, but when he turned to escort her saw that she had already made her way to the horses and was petting the right lead.
He caught up to her. "Are you ready to go inside?"
"I'm just checking on them. Snow travel can be very difficult on horses."
"A horsewoman, are you?"
"Very much so." She handed him her valise, then leaned against the horse's side and tapped its knee. It obediently raised a hoof for her inspection. After a moment she set the hoof back down and stroked the horse's neck again. "It doesn't look to have balled up too badly, so the driver knows what he's about."
"I'm suitably impressed."
"Because I know what a hoof looks like?"
Rather than try to define exactly what he meant, he simply herded her tow
ard the front door of the rambling building that would serve as their home until the storm died down and they could travel again. The innkeeper met them at the door, a bit aflutter.
"Right this way, m'lord. We weren't expecting no quality and it'll take a moment to have the room made up."
"My wife and I require two rooms."
The innkeeper seemed stranded between his natural inclination to agree with his esteemed guest and the reality of the situation. "I'm not sure. That is to say."
Krystyna was looking at him questioningly, so he interpreted the predicament to her. She shrugged. "We've shared a room before."
Said, he would note, with the blithe indifference of a woman who hadn't slept, or rather not slept, on the floor while grappling with an unholy struggle between honor and desire. He turned back to the innkeeper. "One room is fine. We will need extra blankets. My wife tends to chill easily."
The innkeeper agreed and bowed and promised to make all haste with the preparations. In less than a quarter of an hour they were shown to their room. It was, by all appearances, a quiet but serviceable inn and their room made that even clearer. Undoubtedly among the best on offer, it was a bit awkwardly shaped with a dormer window, narrower bed than he might have hoped, and mismatched furniture. If they had already been to London, if he had convinced Casimir and Krystyna to agree to marriage and this was a stop during their return to present her to the Von Rosens as his wife, he was sure that he would have found this place charming. Rustic, but charming. As it stood, it was only a challenge to his willpower and patience.
He suddenly realized that Krystyna had been quiet since they were shown into the room. "Is everything all right?"
"Yes, you just seem upset."
Upset? Yes, he was upset. He had the woman he loved tucked away in a cozy country inn with a snowstorm raging outside that might keep them trapped for days. If they were married he would be ecstatic. Hell, if he were a dishonorable rogue he would be ecstatic. But he was neither her husband nor a rake, so he was as far from pleased as it was possible to be. "I'm fine. Are you hungry?"
