Innocent in the Prince's Bed

by Bronwyn Scott

  He let her recover, but not rest. She’d no sooner regained a sense of equilibrium than his hand was between her thighs, coaxing her to arousal again, his mouth at her ear. ‘You’re ready for me now.’ He whispered his intentions, securing her permission. It was a kind gesture, made with those blue eyes boring into hers. ‘Are you sure, Dove? There are other ways to pleasure ourselves. We can still play.’

  She tugged him to her, raising her hips to meet his, a gesture designed to show him this was beyond play. In a world of uncertainty, this was the one thing she was certain of. How dare he give her a choice now when she could barely manage speech, let alone cogent thought. ‘I want this pleasure, with you,’ she whispered fiercely. ‘And I want it now.’

  He kissed her then, his body finding its space between her thighs. She lifted her legs, instinctively wrapping them around them about his waist; they seemed to belong there as much as he seemed to belong here with her. She felt the press of his phallus, the nudge of its head against her entrance. The nudge became a push, his body going taut above her in an effort of restraint. She could feel her own body, wet and tight, responding to his invasion. She gave an involuntary cry.

  He covered her mouth with a kiss, his body stilling, the pushing stopped. ‘Relax, golubushka. We will go slow,’ he murmured, the husk of his voice hinting at the willpower the effort cost him. He eased from her and then returned in a slow slide that claimed her inch by steady inch until he was fully sheathed, her body stretching and flowing around him, an intruder no more but a welcome guest.

  Then it began. Slowly at first, with the most infinitesimal of strokes, easing and teasing, as her body took up the rhythm. Each entrance now becoming a thrust, her body joining him, finding the mutual pleasure so that it was no longer his body pleasuring hers, but their bodies seeking pleasure together. Dove moaned, each stroke, each rocking of their bodies, taking them closer to the edge that waited beyond. But Illarion was not content to simply race towards the ledge and crash over it. He was like the tide, pushing them towards the shore and then drawing them back, only to push them forward once more; each time inching closer to the implosion point so that when he did allow their wave to crest, it was with a shattering clarity that went beyond her previous satisfaction, leaving her breathless, bodiless. She was fragments of sensations, scattered on a beach. She would eventually put all those pieces back together, but, as with anything once shattered and then reassembled, she knew in her heart she would never be quite the same again. She was changed, perhaps for the better.

  Illarion was gentle with her, mindful of his weight. He moved beside her, taking her into the crook of his arm so that her head rested against the hollow of his shoulder, letting her body soak up the heat of him in the aftermath of lovemaking. As intimate as that had been, there was an intimacy to this that went beyond in its own way. To lay quiet and naked was a new luxury.

  ‘I was right. When I first saw you, I thought your hair would be an avalanche if freed from its pins,’ he murmured.

  ‘I am like snow?’ She was drowsy. Lovemaking had depleted her, or perhaps repleted was the better word. Dove felt contentedly full and complete, the way one feels after an exceptionally good meal.

  ‘Not snow, you’re like Snegurochka.’ Illarion ran his hand up and down her arm in a slow motion, raising gentle goose bumps in its wake. ‘In Russian folklore we have tales of a winter maiden. There are different stories about who she is, but I like the one where she’s a snow maiden. She has blue eyes, red lips and fair hair. Some say she’s the daughter of Spring and Frost and she lives in her father’s woods where it’s always winter.’

  She laughed softly. ‘Two out of three isn’t bad. I haven’t the blue eyes.’

  ‘You are my silver-eyed Snegurochka.’ His. She liked the sound of that. In these drowsy, happy moments, it didn’t matter how impossible that was.

  ‘What does Snegurochka do?’

  ‘Well, like many things in fairy tales where people aspire to what they are not, she sees the other girls playing and she wants to be a real girl. She’s lonely. Depending on the tale, she wants to play, or to fall in love. She wants to go out into the world beyond her father’s winter forest. But when she goes out to play with the other girls, it grows dark. The girls light a fire and take turns jumping over it and shouting the names of their true loves. Snegurochka does the same but she is snow.’ Illarion’s words trailed off, letting Dove fill in the ending of the story.

  Dove sat up in disappointment. ‘She dies? That’s a horrible story. What kind of moral is that? Freedom kills?’

  ‘It’s not so bad as all that.’ Illarion chuckled sitting up with her. ‘Snegurochka is immortal. She returns to her father’s forest and never ventures forth again.’ He tapped Dove on the nose with a finger. ‘And the lesson, my cheeky miss, as with so many Russian tales, is that one cannot escape their fate. She was made to be a child of ice and winter. Nothing more, nothing less.’

  She let him draw her back down beside him. She wiggled, finding that perfect place once more against his shoulder. ‘Or perhaps the moral is that joy is not for ever, but for only the moment.’ Dove sighed. ‘I don’t think I like the tale.’ Not at all. The parallels were too obvious. What if...? A stab of fear took her and she voiced it in slow halting words before courage deserted her. ‘Illarion, is this your way of telling me to marry Percivale?’ To forget him, to not seek to be that which she was not intended to be. She was not to toy with fate.

  Illarion shifted to his side to face her full on, body to body, his merry blue gaze solemn in a way she’d never seen it before. ‘Dove, you must believe above all else that I would never compel someone to marry where they did not wish.’

  Dove swallowed hard. ‘Because of your politics? Because of Kuban?’ It wasn’t the answer she was looking for. She was naked with a man, she’d given him all she had to give. After what had transpired between them, she was hoping for something more personal than a political agenda.

  ‘No, Dove. Because of Katya. Because a woman died when I did nothing.’ Katya. The word was a blow to her stomach. A woman, perhaps a lover? Certainly a woman he’d cared about. Dove thought she might be sick. She’d misread this entire situation. She’d thought... Oh, she’d thought a million things, not the least being that Illarion felt about her the way she felt about him. Whatever he felt for her, it wasn’t the same. Dove threw her legs over the side of the bed. She just wanted to get up, get dressed, get home. This had been a terrible mistake and she had only herself to blame. This was what happened when she stepped out of the box she was meant to live in. Snegurochka indeed!

  Her feet hit the floor. Illarion’s hand closed about her arm. ‘Where are you going? His grip was hard. ‘Will you get back in bed and let me explain?’

  ‘Please, you don’t need to. I understand.’ She would not cry. Not yet. She was just another woman in a string of women for him, someone who meant something in the moment but not beyond and she had known that. She’d just conveniently forgotten.

  ‘All right, then I will get out of bed and explain it to you.’ Illarion slid out beside her. He handed her his banyan. ‘Put this on and sit down,’ he ordered. She was already wounded, she might as well stay for the salt, too, especially when Illarion seemed intent on it.

  She sat on the sofa where he’d first had thoughts of her. She remembered him telling her. It was indeed narrow. Dove gathered the folds of the banyan around her, feeling dwarfed inside it, the sleeves hanging well past her wrists, but she sat and waited. Illarion sat across from her, a throw across his lap for modesty’s sake. ‘Katya was my friend and when she needed me, I did not help her. She was not, as you think, my lover, or even my mistress. She was engaged to a powerful general in the military, a man known for his cruelty. She was the Tsar’s cousin and her marriage would bring peace to a situation that was on the brink of a state coup. Katya was a wild spirit, the sort men like the general take pleasure in
breaking.’

  The gruffness faded from his voice, replaced with tenderness as he told her about Katya. ‘She was a woman every man fell in love with at once...’ It was a heartbreaking story, this vibrant girl squashed under the tyrannical hand of her husband. Dove heard the anger overcome the tenderness. Instinctively, despite her own hurt, she reached a hand out to Illarion, hating how it pained him to tell the tale.

  When he finished, she felt silly and shallow. ‘My own situation is not at all bad.’ Dove said quietly. ‘Percivale is not a bad man. He would never hurt me.’ He merely represented all that she feared: a life of bland mediocrity, a life devoid of passion in exchange for following the rules. And yet, there was a price for that, too. Katya had married to save a country. But she’d lost herself in the process. Dove didn’t want to think of the ways Katya had been hurt. Dove had far less at stake. Why couldn’t she like Percivale? Why did she have to be stubborn?

  ‘He would not hurt you intentionally. Don’t you see,’ Illarion pressed softly. ‘Katya’s story is extreme. But marrying Percivale is no less dangerous. You risk the same unhappiness. Anyone who marries away from their own choices does.’ He paused, deciding how to continue. ‘In Kuban, some parents place their daughters in nunneries when they’re eleven and they encounter no men until their weddings have been arranged. If a man visits the convent, the girls are blindfolded until he leaves. There was even one wedding I attended where the bride was blindfolded until the vows were performed.’

  ‘That’s barbaric,’ Dove gasped. ‘Why don’t they run away?’

  ‘The same reason you don’t, Dove,’ Illarion said with a gentle sharpness. She’d known her answer even as she’d asked the question. She didn’t run because she couldn’t. Where would she go? What would become of her? Because she, like those girls, needed a champion in a system that didn’t let them fight for themselves.

  ‘You were there. Why didn’t you try to stop it?’ There was a hint of accusation in the question.

  ‘I did try.’ Illarion answered solemnly. ‘The girl had been young, scared, the blindfold soaked with her tears while all around her there was praise for her parents and the virtuous daughter they’d raised. I saw no virtue in that. I penned my poem “Freedom” that very night. I read it at court the next day. Within two days, Katya was dead and Kuban was on the brink of revolt. The Tsar used her death as a means of putting down the revolt and the poet responsible for it. He did a good job, Dove. I haven’t been able to write since, not like that, not until I met you.’

  Dove sat in silence, absorbing, processing. No wonder he was so careful with her. Illarion Kutejnikov, this bold, audacious man who spoke his mind and tempted her to act on her convictions, was afraid. Afraid of his power, afraid of his feelings. And yet, that fear had not stopped him, not completely. He fought against that fear, he fought for her. ‘Thank you.’ He’d given her an enormous gift tonight in revealing so much of himself, even at the risk of making himself vulnerable. She smiled at him. ‘Your secrets are safe with me.’ She whispered the words he’d once spoken to her.

  He touched her face. ‘And you are safe with me, Dove. Whatever you decide, I will keep you safe.’ Not merely secrets. But herself. Her person, her soul. The words moved her, perhaps too much because she wished they were true. ‘Let’s get you dressed and then we have to get you home.’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘How did you get here, anyway?’

  ‘I walked.’ She saw the belated concern on his face and hastened to assure him, ‘No one saw me.’

  Illarion raised an eyebrow in doubt. ‘Dressed in white? You are a beacon in the dark.’

  ‘No one knows I was coming. I told my parents I had a headache and that I was going home with a friend. They will be at the ball all night. My father has meetings. He and his friends have been closeted behind closed doors the entire evening with some important Parliament business.’ She leaned towards him, concern shadowing her eyes. ‘You’re safe. I promise.’ Was he worried she’d compromise him? It was odd to think of it that way. Usually it was the men who did the compromising.

  Illarion pulled on a pair of trousers. ‘I’m not worried about me, golubushka, I’m worried about you. You can’t go wandering around Mayfair at night alone.’

  ‘Golubushka? What does that mean?’ He’d called her that during lovemaking, too.

  He came to her, his hands working the laces she couldn’t reach. ‘It means “darling”. There, that should do. Are you ready?’

  She was many things in that moment—confused, happy, sad, sleepy—but she was not ready. She didn’t want to leave this room. Coming here might have provided her with clarity, but it had certainly not made her decision any easier. That brought her up short. Had she made her decision, then? Had she truly decided she would accept Percivale’s offer and walk away from Illarion? All because she was too afraid to tell her parents what she wanted? Dove put a hand on his arm. ‘What happens next, Illarion?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He held the door for her and gestured to the backstairs. ‘I suspect it depends on you.’ And it did. She’d wanted her independence and now she had it, if she was brave enough to claim it. She’d never understood until tonight how difficult it would be to do that. Taking responsibility for her decision meant accepting the consequences of it too. She could not blame her future happiness or disappointment on anyone else but herself.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The issue of what to do with Dove, what to do for Dove, had kept Illarion awake the rest of the night. The problem with virgins was that there was always a ‘next’. One could not make love to an innocent and walk away. Had Dove realised that yet? He could not walk away from her, even if he wanted to, which he most certainly did not. Did she understand how hard it had been last night not to give her advice? To keep from telling her to refuse Percivale? To choose him instead? If he had told her to after they’d made love, she would have done it. But that was not what he wanted for Dove. He didn’t want her to feel marriage to a man was her only choice. That cut against the grain of all he stood for and it made him a hypocrite. It also gave him extraordinary pause. He wanted to marry Dove? How had that slipped into his consciousness? He knew how. It was all Nikolay’s fault. Nikolay and Klara with their incessant hand holding and moon eyes showing him a different sort of marriage was possible.

  Illarion headed downstairs to breakfast, hoping food would clear his mind. Nikolay and Klara proved that marriage could be more than alliance. Their happiness proved that he was right. Marriage could be about love with the right person. Lucky for them, they’d found the right person. Dove might be the right person for him, but that begged the question, was he the right person for Dove? Marriage to him might be more of a sacrifice than marriage to Percivale, depending on how one weighed the costs; one more reason why he didn’t want her to feel she had to choose between the two of them.

  Illarion stepped into the breakfast room to find Stepan and Ruslan already there. He offered them a brief smile and turned to fill his plate with fresh blini and berries.

  ‘Sleep well?’ Stepan scowled over his coffee mug.

  ‘Good morning to you, too.’ Illarion helped himself to cold salmon and took his seat. Ruslan’s gaze slid between the two of them in anticipation and Illarion frowned. Oh, hell, Stepan knew.

  ‘I hear your muse was here.’

  Illarion did not care for the implication in Stepan’s tone, that Dove was something less savoury than an inspiration. ‘I will thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head when you speak of Lady Dove.’

  ‘I will thank you to keep a civil cock in your trousers!’ Stepan banged a fist on the table. The china tea cups jumped. Illarion did not. ‘A Cossack may do as he likes, but he must take responsibility for his actions.’

  Illarion met Stepan’s outrage with the blue steel of his gaze. He rose from his chair, hands braced on the table. ‘How dare you quote the Kubanian motto to me. I know it f
ull well. Do I not take responsibility for Katya? Do you think I don’t take responsibility for Dove, never mind that it was she who came here?’ He was, however, going to have words with the footman. Dove deserved her privacy. ‘Do not sit there and act as if I played the rake.’

  Stepan shook with barely contained fury. ‘You made love to a virgin, the daughter of a duke, in this house. Do you know how many rules you broke?’ All of them. He knew precisely how many rules he’d broken. He’d do it again.

  Ruslan intervened. ‘No one knows, Stepan.’

  ‘The footman knows,’ Stepan responded tersely. ‘Do you know how this will look if word gets out? It won’t do our reputations any good. What do you mean to do about this? Are you willing to marry her?’

  ‘If she’ll have me,’ Illarion replied boldly. The words were as much of a surprise to him as they were to Stepan.

  ‘If she’ll have you? She’s already had you.’

  ‘She can’t marry him,’ Ruslan interrupted. ‘He’s not respectable. It’s all over White’s. Heatherly and Percivale have been talking.’ Ruslan shook his head. ‘It’s just rumours this time. But what they’re saying is not exactly untrue.’

  ‘What are they saying?’ Illarion took his seat, but it was hard to sit with so much emotion roiling through him.

  ‘That you’ve got nothing to offer a bride. No family, no property. That your title means nothing, quite possibly you don’t even possess it any more and, even if you did, it’s empty since there’s nothing to go with it.’

  Ruslan was right. It wasn’t untrue. It was just presented in a way that looked very unattractive. But Ruslan wasn’t done. ‘They’re saying you’re a fortune hunter, that your interest in Lady Dove is for her money and land. She can provide everything you lack.’ The very things Dove had decried in the gentlemen who populated her court. He hoped Dove didn’t hear those rumours. If she did, he hoped she didn’t believe them.