in any nonsense that would make Sera appear invaluable to
Laurentia and, therefore, permit him to keep her.
Realistic politics, not fairy tales, would save Laurentia.
Nicholas took up the brandy and a glass on the way out of his
study. When he reached his bedchamber, Simmons, his valet,
snapped to attention, and then stared, open-mouthed at him.
“Sire,” Simmons muttered in a choked voice. “Your cravat!”
Nicholas glanced down at the trailing ends of the tie and
waved him off for the first time in years. “Go to bed, Simmons.
It’s late,” he said. The valet gave him a wounded look and left
the room.
Nicholas pulled off his half boots, drew off his waistcoat
and cravat and opened his shirt. Not even bothering to pull down
the counterpane, he climbed into the great bed of state with a
full glass of brandy and lay among the pillows. His groin ached,
and his brain ferreted about, reshuffling information into
possibilities and patterns.
Damn the little minx! Within three weeks, she had invaded
his life, refused to stay where she was put, and literally created
a stink. She seemed to be the one thing in his kingdom he
couldn’t control. Now, to his humiliation, he lay half-dressed
in bed, drinking brandy and, no doubt, preparing to dream of a
small, lush woman who could heal the sick, command the
weather, and break an arrow with the force of her mind.
Four
After a sleepless night, Sera wished Nicholas Rostov in
Hades. A more mystifying, infuriating, arrogant man had never
lived before the king of Laurentia. The more he pushed, the
more she wanted to push back. Until he came too close. Until
his lips moved not a whisper away from her skin. Then she
stood as though chained to the spot, in thrall to the very hint of
his touch.
She churned with such extremity of emotion that she felt
completely Outlander. How Grandfather would sigh at her
helpless attraction to Nicholas Rostov. How Jacob would
lecture!
With all this foolishness, she was no closer to either finding
the thief or returning, shamed but safe, to Arkadia. She tried to
concentrate on grooming the gentle bay gelding Master
Raymond needed in half an hour, but her thoughts returned to
the need to escape.
“Ho, my pretty, and where were you so late last evenin’?”
Dawson’s voice cut into her thoughts. A brawny hand landed
on her shoulder. Sera shrugged hard, trying to dislodge it. The
groom was getting to be a real nuisance.
Tall and muscular, handsome in a crude sort of way, Dawson
thought the world of himself and very little of others. Too bluff,
too hearty, and hiding a streak of maliciousness beneath a good-
fellow bonhomie, he passed for a one-of-the-boys prankster
among the others, but Sera saw what he was, and he knew it.
Lately, he’d developed a new sort of torture for her—his
unrelenting sexual pursuit.
The hand rubbed itself down her back. Sera gritted her teeth.
“Get off with you, Dawson. You’ve enough to do today without
bothering me.”
“Prickly little piece, ain’t you? I saw you returnin’ with
Sergeant Bellows in the middle of the night. It might int’rest
you to know he’s a wife and two kiddies at home. You might
play closer to your fellows and forget your ambitions up at the
palace.”
“Leave me alone, Dawson, or I’ll shout for Master
Raymond, and you’ll be out of a good paying job.”
Dawson’s hands clamped hard on her shoulders. “Try it,
you little tart, and I’ll tell him you threw yourself on me and
begged me for it. Who’s he going to believe—you, a slave and
a Hill woman, or me, a man from his own city?”
Dawson bent close. She could smell rank sweat and the
onions he’d eaten with his breakfast. She sighed, loathe to use
any power that might brand her more of a threat than she already
was.
“Let go, Dawson,” she said one more time, but he clung,
hurting her arms.
She concentrated, knowing where both his hands were,
knowing where both his legs were. And turned in one fluid
motion, using the force, letting it flow from her belly to her
elbows, arms, and fists. In one lightening movement, she broke
his hold, kicked solidly into his gut, and sent him sprawling in
the dirt.
“Touch me again, and you’ll get worse,” she said and turned
back to the horse she was grooming. As he gasped for air and
crawled to his knees, she added, “Nobody saw this. I shall tell
no one. I have no interest in humiliating you, Dawson. I simply
wish you to leave me in peace.”
She heard nothing behind her but the heavy tread of his
feet as he shuffled away.
***
Nicholas rode the Russian border throughout the next days,
securing it as well as he could against the French. Everywhere,
he found homesteaders willing to take a stand and fight. He
saw nobility in these simple men, and a certain skill with a pistol
and muzzle-loader. It gave Nicholas an idea, which, on this crisp
autumn afternoon, he was about to discuss with his generals.
He awaited their arrival in the private dining chamber of a border
tavern.
The generals trooped in, bowing and seating themselves
where Nicholas indicated. His ensign, Carlsohnn ushered in a
group of serving maids with blonde braids coiled about their
heads. Their colorfully embroidered skirts and apron ties flew
behind them as they hurried to the long table, carrying groaning
trays. Within moments, the generals had emptied a large turreen
of Russian borscht, plates of heavy, rich black bread, bowls of
creamy yellow butter and gleaming black caviar. The maids
refilled glasses of tea and Russian vodka as quickly as they
emptied.
Nicholas smiled and leaned back in his chair, quietly
surveying the men at table as the vodka and warm borscht
relaxed them. Oblomov, grizzled and clever, was the key to the
rest of them. An aristocrat and a brilliant tactician, Oblomov
had begun his career before Nicholas was crowned. The other
generals were stubbornly loyal to the old ways, but they would
follow if Oblomov led.
Nicholas waited until they were well along into their fifth
glass of vodka and watched Oblomov carefully. When his stocky
shoulders slumped in relaxation, Nicholas knew the general’s
mind was both still lucid and at its greatest stage of openness to
new ideas.
Nicholas drew himself erect in his chair. “I wish to enlist
all the able bodied men on the borders into a citizen army. I’ll
need several of your finest trainers to drill them in the basic use
of their weapons. Each of you must give me a list of your best
infantry leaders. Yes, General Oblomov?” Nicholas recognized
the general, bracing for reservations.
“You can’t expect untrained men to form a unit in a matter
of months. It t
akes time to make a good military man.”
“Time is one thing we have not got,” Nicholas said.
“But to learn the maneuvers, the basic commands, to work
together, standing in line, facing the enemy…”
“I don’t wish them to stand in line. These men have defended
their homes and stock against the bears and wolves of the forests.
They know how to use a weapon and reload it.”
“Sire,” General Milensky, a tall, upright old campaigner of
seventy said. “This is no bear we face. We need every seasoned
veteran we have to fight the greatest armed force history has
ever seen.”
“As did the American colonists not so many years ago. Our
borderers are the closest thing we have to the American colonists.
I want them to stand behind trees, behind houses, on rooftops,
just as the colonists did. Each French soldier they take out is
one less for our troops to fight. And, as the British showed us in
the Carolinas, facing a shadow army in the midst of heavy forest
is frightening and demoralizing. We’ll do as I command in this
instance, gentlemen. Spare your men now to save them later.”
The generals’ mutterings died down as each man stared into
the clear liquid in the glasses before them and thought.
Oblomov suddenly pounded his fist on the table. “By God,
I like it. Simple, workable, and the Corsican will never see it
coming. My compliments, to you, Sire.” Oblomov stood and
raised his glass. Milensky rose to stand beside him. One by one
the others got to their feet and raised their glasses.
“Nicholas Alexander Andreyevitch Rostov,” said Oblomov.
“King Nicholas,” replied the others, tossing back the vodka,
and throwing their glasses against the fireplace mantle. At the
sound of crashing glass, the serving maids returned with new
tumblers.
Nicholas stood and raised his glass. The generals hastily
refilled their replacements. “Laurentia!” said Nicholas with a
broad smile, throwing back his head and swallowing the pure,
stinging liquid.
“Laurentia!’ shouted the generals and glass crashed against
the fireplace again.
Nicholas gave a great, inward sigh of relief. He might never
be the king his father could respect, but if he compensated for
his physical flaw with his brain, perhaps he could make his
people believe in him enough to save Laurentia.
Nicholas was so pleased by the meeting that he decided to
return to Montanyard earlier than he’d anticipated. Laurentia
needed strong allies as well as a citizen army. He should meet
with Anatole Galerien of Beaureve soon. And he needed to check
on any number of matters at home.
Sera, for instance, he thought as he arrived home. Distance
had not lessened his strange obsession with the Hill woman.
He had thought of her every day, worrying that she would escape
in spite of his command to double the number of soldiers who
guarded her. Katherine would know if she’d gotten into any
trouble.
“Send for the princess, would you? I’ll meet her in the
blue drawing room,” he told a welcoming footman who took
his cloak and gloves. Two flights of stairs and a long corridor
brought him to the comfortable, elegant room with light blue
silk wall hangings and the Gainsborough portrait of his mother
sitting on a chair, her arm about his shoulders as he leaned into
her skirts. He must have been three when Gainsborough had
come to court. Somehow, the artist had captured his mother’s
fresh beauty and the softness of her expression as she gazed
down at her son. Three years later, all that love had died with
his mother.
“Nikki!” Katherine burst into the room, her face alight.
“Oh, I am so glad you’re finally home!” she cried, throwing
herself into his arms. “How was your journey? Did you find
the borders secure? Please, tell me everything.”
“The journey was tedious, as it always is on the rutted
October roads. And yes, the troops are diligent and alert at the
borders—where they can be guarded. There are so many rough
streams and so much forest cover, but we would know if an
army attempted to cross.”
Nicholas refrained from revealing his deeper fear—that in
spite of the citizen militia, a small, well-armed cadre of terrorists
could cross in the darkness at three or four points along the
northern and eastern borders.
Nicholas turned again to his sister. “I plan to send Andre to
Beaureve within the week in order to begin discussions with
the regent.”
“But Nikki! Andre has just returned. Surely, you will not
send him away again until he has a chance to rest and…”
“Katherine,” he said in a gentle voice. “You know that Andre
must do his duty, as you must also do yours.” He hated to see
the pain in her eyes before she averted them.
But when she raised her face to him again, her eyes were
clear and steady with purpose. “I know,” she said in a quiet
voice.
Nicholas took her hand and led her to a divan covered in
blue and ivory brocade. Drawing her down to sit beside him, he
put one arm about her thin shoulders and said, “Now, tell me
everything that has happened during my absence.”
“Well…” She was smiling now, all sunshine. “I’m learning
to ride, Nikki, really ride. Sera teaches me every day. And my
mare is much more willing.”
“Sera—she’s well?”
At least now he knew she was still in Montanyard.
“Oh, I think she’s in fine health. Although I wish she would
have taken the bedchamber next to mine when I offered it.”
“She’s still sleeping in the west wing of the stable? I thought
you were going to convince her to move into the chamber we
discussed.”
“You needn’t thunder, Nikki. She refused to move into the
palace, even after I begged her to.”
“By God! We can’t have that.” Nicholas rose and began to
pace. “Why, a lady who looks like—ahem, she can’t sleep in
such close proximity to the other grooms. I’ll speak with her
about this as soon as possible.”
“But I may still ride with her, may I not?” Katherine’s lips
were trembling, Nicholas noticed. Damnation. If he didn’t watch
out, he’d reduce his sister to tears.
“Of course,” he said to her. “I’d like to come with you.
Then I’ll have a chance to reason with her and convince her to
return with us to the palace.”
Katherine jumped from the couch. “You wouldn’t wish to
join us before the week is out, would you?” A look of alarm
crossed her face.
Obviously, she and Sera had been up to no good in his
absence. Nicholas carefully hid a grin. Never had Katherine
acted so—like a girl. Nicholas had been looking forward to more
dispatches and legal work before dining, but suddenly, all he
wanted to do was to forget he was a king. It seemed that, for
just an hour, he could si
mply be a brother to Katherine and a—
a friend to Sera. It would be interesting to discover what possible
mischief the two of them could have gotten into.
“I believe now would be an excellent time for a ride,” he
said evenly.
“Yes, of course. I-I’ll go ahead and warn… let her know.”
Nicholas whistled as he traveled the long corridor to his
chamber. He had known that a friendship with Sera would be
good for his sister.
******
“Sera! We’re in for it, now!”
Sera tied the bandage she had just placed over the leg of a
bay gelding and straightened slowly, forcing her weak muscles
to hold her weight. The foolish horse had cut himself badly in
pasture, and the healing had drained some of her strength.
Katherine must have run all the way from the palace, for
she was panting and red-faced. “Nikki’s home, and he’s insisting
upon riding with us. Now.” She pulled Sera along through the
barn and toward her room.
Nicholas Rostov—returned. As she followed Katherine into
her chamber, Sera felt an odd tingle in the pit of her stomach, as
though she had whirled in circles one too many times.
“Quick! Think of a reason why he can’t ride with us today.
Or for the next month. Hurry!”
“I don’t understand. Why don’t you want him to see how
well you’re doing?”
“Because I only ride well astride. He’ll be horrified. No
lady rides astride. You know that.”
Sera shrugged. “If he is the man you keep telling me he is,
then your brother will be impressed with your improvement,
and not waste his time insisting you follow that foolhardy
Outlander custom.”
Katherine’s mouth dropped open. “You’re not the least bit
afraid of my brother, are you?”
“What would he do to you? Beat you? Cut off your head?”
Sera said.
“You don’t know my brother. It could go far worse for me
than capital punishment. Nikki can be quite impossible when
he chooses to be. You just haven’t seen it yet.”
Sera’s lips quirked. “I sincerely hope I have.”
Katherine was searching the little room frantically. “You’ll
have to tell him you’re not well. A sudden case of the grippe, or
something.”
Sera shook her head. “Katherine, I cannot lie.”
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