The Prince Who Loved Me (The Oxenburg Princes)

by Karen Hawkins

  Bronwyn’s heart thudded sickly. “How would she know?”

  “She’s spoken to her grandson about you.”

  Bronwyn stiffened. “Whatever feelings do or do not exist between the prince and me are no one else’s business.”

  “My dear, an innocent like you, sheltered and with little experience of men, is easily deceived. I explained that to Her Grace, and assured her you had no intentions regarding her grandson—that you’re not attempting to trap him into marriage or—or anything else.”

  “Of course not! Marriage was never mentioned.” And yet . . . she had to admit that somewhere along the way, she’d been dreaming about something more. Not marriage, perhaps. Not yet. But her heart had been headed in that direction and the realization sent hot and cold shivers through her.

  As if sensing her turmoil, Walter arose and came to stand against Bronwyn’s knee. She patted him automatically and he sank to her feet, leaning against her leg.

  Mama sighed. “Please, don’t look so tragic.”

  “I’m not. There’s nothing between us. We both like to read, and talk.” And kiss. And make love. Her hands were clenched so tightly together, her fingers were white.

  “Yes, but . . . do you love him?” Mama asked gently.

  She had to swallow twice before she could answer. “No.” So far, she only liked him very much. Love included passion and kindness, caring and—

  She closed her eyes as the truth burst before her. Oh dear, I do love him. When did that happen? She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think.

  “Oh, Bronwyn,” Mama said softly. “I’m so sorry.”

  Bronwyn could only nod.

  “However it came to happen, I must agree with Her Grace: falling in love with the prince would be disastrous. She said he has always vowed he will not wed. He’s told her numerous times that he’s never been in love, and plans to never be so.”

  Every word was like an arrow into her heart.

  Mama sighed. “For your sake, for everyone’s sake, you—we—must stop this right now.”

  Bronwyn’s throat was so tight, she couldn’t even swallow. Why would he have said such a thing to his grandmother unless he wished it to be repeated to me? I didn’t teach him a lesson at all—but he certainly taught me one. Love is as painful as it is pleasurable.

  Scott came to join Walter at her knee, both dogs leaning against her. Her heart like a lead weight, Bronwyn wrapped her arms about them both. “Thank you for coming to speak with me. I know it can’t have been easy.”

  “What’s not easy is seeing you hurt. I wish—” Mama sighed.

  Hot tears stung Bronwyn’s eyes, but she held them at bay. “If you don’t mind, I’d like some time to think about this.”

  “Of course.” Mama stood, uncertainty on her face. “I’ll tell your sisters you won’t be attending tomorrow’s dinner at Tulloch. Shall we just say you don’t feel well?”

  Bronwyn didn’t look up. “For now, that will be fine.”

  Mama started to say something more, but on seeing Bronwyn’s bent head, she instead turned and quietly let herself out, leaving Bronwyn alone with her dogs and her thoughts.

  “You won’t find any answers in there, I fear.”

  Alexsey looked up from the golden depths of his scotch to find Strathmoor in the doorway of his bedchamber, clad in a red velvet dressing coat. “You never know. I’ve found answers in stranger places.”

  Strath sauntered in and closed the door behind him. “You left your door open. I will take that as an invitation.”

  He shrugged. “We’re practically alone in this wing.”

  “My uncle’s none-too-subtle way of letting us know he thinks us hellions.” Strath paused to pour himself a glass of scotch before he came to take the seat across from Alexsey. “Let me know if you find answers, questions, or anything other than good smoky scotch in there. For if you do, then the footmen have not been washing the glasses as they ought.” He stretched his legs before the fire and took an appreciative sip.

  Alexsey eyed his friend. “You are up late. Did the brightness of your dressing coat prevent you from sleeping? It is keeping me awake right now.”

  Strath waved his glass. “Mock all you wish. I bought it in France and paid a fortune for it, and have heard nothing but praise for it.”

  “Whoever praised it was merely being polite.”

  Strath grinned. “Probably, but for what I paid, I’ll accept any compliment I receive. I was so foxed when I bought it, I could barely count out the coins.” He ran a hand over the velvet. “At least it’s warm.”

  “That’s a good thing here.”

  “Ah, ’tis a chilly old castle.”

  The two men sat in silence for a while, the crackling fire the only sound in the room. Finally, Strath said, “Look at us, two boisterous, happy chaps. I barely know how to bear our overwhelming cheerfulness.”

  “I’ll admit it; I’m gloomy this evening.”

  “Because of the Murdoch chit?”

  “Aye. I went to visit her today. Twice. Her stepmother received me both times and seemed rather odd. She lied to me and told me Bronwyn wasn’t home either time.”

  “Perhaps Miss Murdoch was reluctant to see you and sent her stepmother to speak with you instead.”

  “I thought of that, but when I last saw Bronwyn—” He frowned into his glass. “No. It’s her stepmother. But I can’t help thinking that perhaps I’m at fault. If perhaps I’ve pushed things too far, too fast with Miss Murdoch, expected too much. . . .” He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  He shouldn’t have been surprised; he’d asked her to act far outside her normal area of comfort.

  “I can’t believe this. You, the man who’s never refused by any girl, downright gloomy over a woman?”

  Hell yes. A very stubborn, uncooperating, infuriating, and totally adorable woman. Realizing Strath’s eyes were upon him, Alexsey shrugged. “I’m being gloomy, yes. It is nothing, probably caused by the gray weather that’s moved in. When it clears tomorrow, I’m sure we’ll all be in better fettle.”

  “Clears?” Strath snorted. “You obviously don’t know Scotland. Our weather is rainy, misty, foggy, hazy, icy, and—for two weeks every year, whether we deserve it or not—sunny.”

  “Yet there is a certain mystical charm to your weather. Much as there is to your women.”

  “ ‘Mystical charm.’ That’s a good way to put it.” Strath nodded and swirled his scotch slowly. “I’ve been thinking about someone myself.”

  “Anyone I know?”

  Strath took a swallow of the scotch. “It doesn’t matter, for she won’t have me.”

  Alexsey looked at his friend in surprise. “You’re in love?”

  “Lud, no. I’m in deep lust. I don’t believe in love.”

  “Oh?” Alexsey lifted a brow.

  “No,” Strath said in much too stubborn a voice. “But this woman . . . she is the devil’s own to decipher. One moment she’s hot, then she’s cold, much like our weather.”

  “Ah. She is reluctant, then?”

  “Very. But then, so am I.”

  Despite his low spirits, Alexsey had to laugh. “Both of you reluctant, so how did the two of you even come to be?”

  “I don’t know. That’s the devil of it. There we were, denying one another one moment, and kissing the next. Now we tear between those two extremes until we’re both dizzy with it.”

  “She likes you, then, or there would be no kisses.”

  “For now. Sadly, women change their minds as frequently as they do their gowns.”

  Alexsey nodded. His spirits would be dragging even lower if he didn’t hold on to the fact that he had not yet spoken to Bronwyn. Until he did, he would not accept this version her stepmother kept putting forth, that she had experienced a change of heart and wanted nothing more to do with him.

  Of course, he wasn’t in love like poor Strath. What Alexsey felt was deep, agonizing lust combined with a strong dose of like. He liked Bronwyn. And so
mehow that made everything more difficult. He couldn’t seem to stop thinking about her. Everything reminded him of some moment they’d shared.

  “You’re staring into your glass again, only now you’re scowling.”

  “I wish your uncle would tell his cook to stop using so much rosemary.”

  Strath blinked. “What’s wrong with rosemary?”

  Every meal now served as a reminder of Bronwyn. “Every bloody dish has rosemary in it. Every one.”

  “I don’t even know what rosemary smells like.”

  “I do. If you knew, it would annoy you, too. And there is too much singing in this house, too.”

  Strath looked even more confused. “Singing. That’s bothering you, as well?”

  “Da. The housemaid who sets my fires in the morning hums. Then, when she is in the hallway, she sings. I don’t wish to hear singing.”

  “I take it her voice is wretched.”

  “It is pleasant enough. It isn’t that which bothers me.”

  Strath shook his head. “Sometimes I don’t understand a word you’re saying.”

  “It is nothing. I am like a bear with a sore paw. Everything bothers me. I’m trying to figure something—and someone—out. That’s all.”

  “Good luck with that.” Strath held up his glass. “Here’s to women who are too smart for their own good.”

  Alexsey lifted his glass.

  “What are you going to do about seeing Miss Murdoch?”

  “I will keep visiting; if she wishes to see me, she will.” And if she didn’t . . . he would think about that when he had to.

  “You would let her decide everything?”

  “I would let her make all of the choices. It must be her decision.”

  “Hm. Doesn’t seem fair to me, but what do I know? I can’t even bag the easy ones.”

  “If you want this changeable woman, you’ll win her over. I have confidence in you. But . . . are you sure it’s mere lust? I’ve never seen you so determined to win a woman before.”

  Strath waved his glass. “Trust me, I know the difference.”

  “Oh?”

  “Aye. You can slake desire, but love is forever hungry. The more you feed it, the more it wants. I intend on slaking this desire at the earliest opportunity and being done with it.” He put down his empty glass, yawned, and stood. “It is late; I should go.”

  “Aye, we should both get some sleep.” Not that Alexsey would, for he’d be thinking about Bronwyn, remembering how it felt to sink into her soft—

  Clink.

  He turned toward the window. That sounded like a pebble on the glass.

  The noise came again. Clink. Clink, clink, CLINK!

  Could it be . . . ? Surely not—

  “What is that?” Strath took a step in that direction.

  Alexsey almost leapt to his feet, blocking Strath’s path. “It’s the wind.”

  “The wind goes ‘clink’?”

  “Yes. It, ah, blows through the cracks in the window and makes the shutter creak. That’s a creak you hear, not a clink.”

  “I know what I heard. It sounded like something hitting the glass.”

  “Nyet,” Alexsey said in a firm tone.

  Strath’s brows rose. “You’re so certain?”

  “The footman checked it last night when I mentioned it. It’s made that noise every night since I arrived.” Alexsey took Strath by the elbow and directed him to the door. “But I’ve grown used to the noise and now find it soothing.”

  “Soothing?” Strath said dubiously.

  “Da. It reminds me of our country house in Oxenburg. The shutters there make the same noise. Clink, clink, clink—all night long.”

  “Bloody hell. Remind me to never accept your invitation to visit.”

  “I shall.” Alexsey opened the door and guided Strath to the hallway. “Good night.” He closed the door and, for good measure, turned the key in the lock.

  After Strath’s reluctant footsteps faded, he strode across the room, flung the curtains aside, and threw open the window.

  The pale moonlight rested upon Bronwyn’s upturned face and glinted off her spectacles.

  Alexsey could have kissed her from head to toe. “Roza!”

  “Shhh!” Her furious whisper barely reached his window. “Do you wish us to be caught?”

  “Nyet, of course not,” he whispered in return, though there was no one on this side of the castle who could hear them. “If you’d sent me a note, I would have come to you.”

  A grim look flickered over her face. “Too many people have been talking already.”

  “Is that so?” He would have to ask what that meant, but now, he just wanted her in his arms. “Wait there. I’ll come down and—”

  “No need.”

  To his astonishment, she tossed her skirts over one arm and began to climb the trellis.

  Fear gripped him. One misstep and— Nyet, I cannot think of it. He fumed, unable to so much as utter a word for fear of startling her.

  She climbed higher, moving slowly, carefully.

  Alexsey muttered a string of curses under his breath. “You little fool!” he whispered.

  She continued to climb, steadily growing closer.

  As much as he hated that she was taking such a chance, he had to give her credit. She might not be able to dance, but she knew how to climb. She did it well and swiftly. Only Bronwyn, he thought with pride.

  Soon she was at his window, and he lifted her into the room. The feel of her softness against him made him ache anew, but he set her on her feet and turned to close the window.

  Bronwyn was breathless, not only with the effort of her climb, but at her own boldness. She couldn’t believe that she was doing this. Yet here she stood, alone with the prince, as deliciously light-headed as if she’d had champagne.

  Alexsey pulled the curtains over the windows and turned to face her, his eyes dark. “You came to me.” His voice vibrated happiness.

  “Yes.” Explain that, Mama. Explain why he’s so obviously happy to see me, if he doesn’t care. After Mama’s visit, Bronwyn had known she had to see Alexsey. She’d taken stock of all she knew about him, and it didn’t fit with what Mama had said.

  “I came to talk to you. I have been thinking a lot lately, about my life, and yours. You were right about one thing.”

  “Only one? I am disappointed.”

  She smiled. “You once said I should live in the moment, and not so much in my books. Over the years, books have become my companions. I could travel without traveling, meet people without leaving Dingwall, become someone else when my life seemed too much. Feel without really feeling.”

  “A waste of a good life.”

  “Yes. I want to live as well as read. So”—she spread her hands—“I am doing just that. But I have a question for you, and you must answer it now, before this continues.”

  “Da?”

  “Am I a passing fancy, to be forgotten the second you leave?”

  “No, Roza.” His voice deepened. “If I were to live a thousand years, I could never, ever forget you.”

  The words soothed her, and his sexy smile told her he desired her as much as ever. It wasn’t love, of course. But he’d never promised her that, and she’d never asked. It was what it was, and that was enough for this moment. Isn’t it? Can it be?

  She turned away from Alexsey’s watchful gaze under the pretense of examining the room. It was twice as big as the sitting room at Ackinnoull Manor. At one end stood a large bed, hung with red velvet curtains and piled high with snow-white pillows and sheets. A deep-blue coverlet was neatly folded at the foot of the bed. Just looking at the bed made her chest feel odd.

  She’d come here to talk to him, to look into his eyes and know for certain that he wasn’t less than the man she’d come to know. But she’d also come for something else: more memories. More of him. Before he leaves.

  Her gaze returned to him, and she realized all he wore was a loose white shirt tucked into black breeches. The shir
t was untied at his neck and revealed his strong throat. His black hair was mussed as if he’d run his hand through it several times, and his eyes were bright with curiosity.

  Funny, but she hadn’t thought past climbing into his room. Now here she was, punch-drunk on her own bravado, and with nothing to say. She knew what she wanted, though.

  The deepening of his gaze told her that he knew, too.

  Lifting her chin, she untied her cloak and tossed it over a nearby chair. “I won’t be needing this.”

  “No you won’t.” He chuckled and walked toward her. Never had he looked more lionlike than now, his muscled thighs rippling as he approached her, his broad shoulders outlined against the fire. She remembered how easily he’d plucked her from the trellis and her skin warmed, as if she were already in his arms.

  He stopped in front of her and ran the back of his hand down her cheek. “I am so glad you came to me.”

  “So am I.”

  “You look cold.” He picked her up as if it were the most natural thing, and carried her to the fire. He hooked his foot about a chair leg and turned the chair closer to the flames, and then sat, cradling her to him.

  He grinned, his teeth white in the dim room. “There. You like, nyet?”

  She rested her head against his shoulder. “I like, yes.”

  “Good.” He paused to slip her spectacles from her face and place them on the small table at their side. “There. More comfortable?”

  “Much more comfortable.”

  It was quite warm wrapped in his arms, toastier than any fireplace. Since they’d sat down, his hands had never been still, one stroking her back, the other her knee.

  She looked at his hand, noting the signet ring with the gleaming emerald. He had such beautiful hands. If she closed her eyes, she could imagine them touching her, stroking her, making her writhe against him. The memory made her squirm.

  Alexsey’s hands stilled, then clasped her to him. “Please do not move like that, Roza.”

  Startled by the husky tension in his voice, she turned to look at him.

  His jaw was tight, his mouth pressed into a white line.

  “I’m sorry. Did I hurt you? I’ll get up—”

  As she moved, his arms tightened. “Just . . . stay still a moment so I can compose myself.”