Awakened by the Prince's Passion

by Bronwyn Scott

  Ruslan shifted his position. Kuban was fast becoming a destination he both desired and dreaded. Kuban would hold answers for Dasha, it would hold her future, all that he wanted for her. But in turn for that prize, it would exact a price. If she were to succeed, it would change everything between them. If she failed...well, that outcome did not bear thinking about. If she failed, Ruslan doubted even he could protect her. She would not fail. He would make sure of it. Captain Varvakis, when he arrived, and Alexei Grigoriev and the myriad of supporters that would arrive with him would make sure of it.

  Ruslan pushed the thoughts away. Those scenarios and those decisions were weeks away yet. He had time. They had time. If they were smart, they would find a way to enjoy it and turn these weeks into a rare gift. Ruslan looked down at the sleeping Dasha, beautiful and content. Even knowing what he wanted to do with these weeks, he couldn’t forget the future entirely. It was in his nature to look ahead, to think of strategies and alliances. Who should they go to first? The Rebel leaders or the Loyalists? Who would be their greatest allies? Likely the Loyalists, but the Rebels might take it as a sign that Dasha meant to change nothing, that her politics would be old-fashioned like her father’s. All right. So not the Loyalists. The Rebels? And hope they weren’t shot on sight or imprisoned?

  Ruslan grimaced as he analysed the option. He’d rather not take chances with the Rebels, knowing that Ryabkin was in charge. If they couldn’t go to either the Loyalists or the Rebels without stirring up animosity with the other side, that left the Moderates. It would help immensely if Varvakis were with them. He would know who to see, but they couldn’t wait for the Captain. He would be weeks behind them. Ruslan would have to trust his own gut on this. The Moderates it would be.

  He played out the following steps, assuming Dasha was accepted. He would see Dasha settled on the throne, his family name restored to honour and then he’d, what? Leave her there? Stay and serve her? Live in the shadow of her temptation for the rest of his life? Watch her marry? Watch her bear another man’s children? Have a separate life he knew nothing about? Those were raw thoughts for a man to contemplate after bedding, especially for a man who was possessively protective of the people he loved.

  Ruslan’s hand stopped stroking, struck by the depth of that insight. Was he indeed in love with Dasha? Was the intensity of tonight due to more than a fantasy fulfilled? He knew how Stepan would explain it—the natural outcome of stress and close proximity. Tonight had been a culmination of emotional, dangerous, events. It was a natural physical act, much like a soldier’s need to couple after battle. Such an explanation did not do tonight justice. Ruslan knew how Illarion, the poet, would explain it: beautiful, momentary and fleeting. Perfection existed, but it didn’t last. By its very nature it simply couldn’t.

  Would this too fade? Would the sharp edge he felt every time he was with her dull? Would the excitement of her touch diminish over time? Would her beauty, the intensity of her gaze, knowing that it was fixed on him, become commonplace? Did he dare wish that it wouldn’t?

  Dasha stirred, coming awake. She murmured something sleepy and seductive, her hand sliding down the length of him until she found his core. Her fingers closed around him and he felt himself rouse. Not that he’d had far to go, mind. Having Dasha beside him, skin-to-skin in sleep, had left him in a constant state of ‘readiness’ as it were, a state of semi-arousal where his body was alert should it be needed. Apparently, such alertness was not in vain. He was going to be needed.

  Dasha kissed him on the mouth, levering herself up over him. ‘It’s my turn to be on top, I think.’ She cocked her head to one side in a moment of consideration. ‘It does work this way, too, doesn’t it? I don’t see why it wouldn’t. Not much different than riding a horse, I suspect.’

  ‘Yes,’ Ruslan managed to say, his erection readied now by the image she posed atop him, breasts high and firm, hair falling over one shoulder, a wicked smile playing across her mouth. ‘It works this way, too.’ He positioned his hands at her hips. ‘Just lift a bit.’

  ‘Ah, like a posting trot. One-two, one-two.’ Dasha was teasing him now and he was rock-hard as she allowed him to just touch the slick folds of her entrance.

  ‘You’re going to kill me, Dasha,’ Ruslan groaned.

  Dasha laughed and slid down, sheathing his length. ‘Not yet. You seem pretty healthy to me.’

  What would it be like to feel this way for ever? It was a dangerous thought for an exiled prince of Kuban to entertain as a renegade queen-in-waiting made love to him in the still of the night.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The fantasy survived the night and into the morning. Dasha woke at dawn to warm kisses and gentle lovemaking only to fall asleep and wake to breakfast in bed, tea and toast with jam delivered by Ruslan, her wine-merchant husband. ‘The innkeeper thought toast would be appropriate after all the wine last night.’ Ruslan laughed and perched on the bed beside her. ‘How is your head?’

  ‘Fine. It’s my tongue that’s a bit fuzzy.’ Dasha made a funny face and sat up, giving him a wry, scolding look. He was trying to make excuses and she would not have it. ‘I’m not hungover, if that’s what you’re asking. Which means—’ she gave him a pointed stare ‘—that we can’t blame the wine on anything that happened last night.’ She smiled. ‘Nor do I want to.’ Not at all. If anything, she wanted more of last night. Was more possible? It provoked the question, how long could the fantasy last? Beyond breakfast in bed? Beyond the nights? Beyond the trials that waited for them in Kuban?

  Ruslan squeezed her hand and rose from the bed. ‘Neither do I.’ It was an answer, but not a complete one. What did wanting resolve? What did wanting change? ‘I need to see about getting the coach ready. Take your time.’

  She did not let go of his hand as a little piece of reality slid between them. She met his eyes evenly. ‘Are we in danger? Do you think we’ve been noticed or followed?’

  Ruslan sat back down, careful not to slosh her tea. ‘I don’t know. I don’t sense we’ve been followed. No one followed us on to the steam packet, which means we’d only have been followed if someone was waiting for us in Calais.’ His thumb drew circles on the back of her hand. ‘I don’t know if the Union of Salvation came after you because we made your presence known in London, or because they had orders from Kuban.’ The last seemed unlikely, but it could not be ruled out.

  She saw a moment’s regret in his eyes. He was second-guessing himself; if they hadn’t left so precipitously, if he hadn’t killed the assassin in Hampton’s hall, they might have known. Stepan and Captain Varvakis would find out, of course, but little good it would do them on the road. ‘You made the best choices you could,’ Dasha offered. ‘If we had stayed, there’s no knowing how safe I would have been, no matter what the Union’s motivation. Dead is dead.’

  Ruslan nodded. ‘Still, it doesn’t change the fact that we’re travelling blind. I wish I knew if anyone was behind us. I wish I knew if Kuban knows you survived. Will your arrival be expected? If so, will we be waylaid?’ That was a polite wording for ambushed. He was taking care not to scare her.

  ‘It’s nothing I haven’t thought of.’ She wanted him to know she was no shrinking violet when it came to the realities of her life.

  ‘I think we’ll likely be safe until Marseilles. If anyone was waiting for us in Calais, we’ve given them the slip. At least in Marseilles, I have connections. We’ll have help there.’

  Dasha smiled. ‘Then we have a reprieve.’ She leaned forward and kissed him softly. ‘We should make the most of it.’ She smoothed back the hair from his forehead. ‘I wish I could erase all your cares. You take too much upon yourself. Promise me you’ll try to relax.’

  ‘Is that an order?’ Ruslan grinned.

  ‘Yes. Now let me eat and dress so we can be under way. We don’t want to keep our vineyards waiting.’

  ‘That reminds me, I want to have the innkeeper arrange
to send a few casks of the new red to Stepan.’ Ruslan laughed. ‘For verisimilitude’s sake, of course.’ And proof that they were safe, Dasha thought. The wine would serve in place of a letter and be far less incriminating. A letter could be intercepted. Intercepted wine from Monsieur Archambeault meant nothing.

  Dasha ate quickly and dressed in the blue wool they’d acquired for her last night. She tucked the white fichu into the neckline of her dress, her fingers lingering on the fabric as she checked her appearance in the room’s tiny mirror. She’d tucked her hair into a hasty bun low on her neck in a good facsimile of a merchant’s wife, a few loose curls framing her face. But that was not what drew her eye.

  Her lips were puffy still from last night, her eyes bright. Ruslan had marked her well in places seen and unseen. Beneath her blue-wool skirts she was sore and delightfully so. Just recalling the reasons for her soreness coloured her cheeks. She watched the blush creep up her reflection, her body heating at the memory of Ruslan’s mouth on her, everywhere. He’d marked her in other ways, too, with his gifts. Her skin smelled of the soap, she wore the fichu at her neck, a white hair ribbon held her bun in place. The new cloak waited for her on the chair, ready to be thrown about her shoulders against the morning chill. All of them, reminders of his presence, of his protection. Just as he had in England, he was seeing to her needs again, keeping her comfortable even in times of distress.

  Dasha picked up the cloak and smiled to herself. This time, she would see to his needs, too. He wasn’t the only one who could take care of another. Dasha folded up her dinner gown and carefully put it in the satchel, with her as yet unworn nightgown from the fair.

  She scooped up Maximus from his makeshift bed and took a final look about the room. It looked quite ordinary in the light of day, at odds with the momentous occurrences that had marked the night. It wasn’t every night a girl fell in love with a prince. Because of that, she would make the most of every opportunity remaining to her. Nothing was certain—not who was on the road with them, ahead of them or behind them, or what waited for them in Kuban. She would be grateful for every day between here and Marseilles. And every night.

  * * *

  There were twelve of them. Twelve days spent in the coach studying about Kuban, talking about Kubanian policies past and present. Dasha applied herself diligently to those discussions. What impressed her most, though, was Ruslan’s mind, the way he thought about situations and the people involved in them. He was fair and insightful, neutral and objective as he offered differing perspectives on Kubanian government. Even if he had not been her lover, she would have wanted him as her advisor. ‘Do you think the time for a monarch has passed in Kuban?’ she asked on their last day. They were scheduled to arrive in Marseilles that afternoon. ‘Perhaps this rebellion is not so much about disagreement with policies, but with how those policies are made. They are imposed by one on many.’

  Ruslan gave the thought his attention. ‘It’s possible. I had not thought of that before. I’ve been so close to the situation for so long that I haven’t stepped back and considered underlying motives.’

  Dasha leaned forward in earnest, pieces of various thoughts coming together after weeks of contemplation. ‘Consider the rebellions occurring throughout Europe: the Greek independence movement, Sicily, Naples, Spain, Portugal, Brazil.’ She listed off the countries. ‘Sicily, Naples and Spain are ruled by monarchs. The people there have demanded liberal constitutions, Ruslan. In Brazil, colonists protest the need for representation not unlike the American quarrel with Britain last century. The world is changing. It’s not just about an unfair law, it’s about a way of living and governing.’

  Ruslan chuckled. ‘Those are dangerous thoughts, Dasha. Next, you’ll have Kuban seeking to break away from Mother Russia.’ But he didn’t disagree. He didn’t say they were silly thoughts. He said they were dangerous.

  ‘How dangerous?’ Dasha queried, leaning back against the cushions, arms folded.

  ‘Those ideas would turn a country against the throne,’ Ruslan warned.

  ‘What if the throne was with them? What if the monarch espoused those ideas?’ Dasha pressed.

  ‘A constitutional monarchy? Like England?’ Ruslan’s eyes glinted. He was intrigued. ‘It bears thinking about. It’s what the Moderates want, although it might be a hard sell with the Loyalists.’ Lord, he was sexy when he was thinking, one booted leg crossed over another, his brows V-shaped in concentration.

  ‘Do you know what else bears thinking about?’ Dasha was in the mood for a different sort of politics at the moment, having said her piece.

  Ruslan grinned, very good at reading her mind. ‘How many ways I can pleasure you on the seat of the coach?’

  ‘Hmm.’ She twisted a curl around one finger. ‘That is a fun game. But we played that yesterday. I was thinking today we could try a new game.’ She licked her lips. ‘How many ways can I pleasure you?’ She slid to her knees in front of him with a wicked grin, her hands running up the insides of his thighs. ‘Shall we play?’

  * * *

  His blood started to heat at the sight of his temptress on her knees. ‘Do you need to ask?’ His voice was already tinged with want. Just the prospect of Dasha’s hands on him had him hard in seconds. ‘You had me at “constitutional monarchy”,’ Ruslan growled appreciatively, as her hand shaped him through the fabric of his breeches. She’d probably had him even before that. Talking politics with her, listening to her mind work, was as erotic as watching her fall apart beneath him. They’d done quite a bit of both in the last two weeks, giving layers to the intimacy that surrounded them now, an intimacy that had become physical and emotional as well.

  Ruslan shifted his hips as she worked his breeches loose, her eyes and hands intent on their task. Any argument that his attraction to her was based on circumstance and his need to protect was moot now. There was no mistaking the emotions Dasha raised in him for the emotions a caretaker, a bodyguard, might feel for his charge. These emotions went far beyond that and were summed up in a single word: mine.

  Her hand closed over him, her thumb rubbing the tender tip of him, tempting, experimenting, rousing. She slid her hand along his freed length and his cock pulsed. Had it ever felt so good to be touched? He could not recall. He had done this before, a novelty game with his mistresses, but never with such naked intensity. Perhaps it was poorly done of him to think of such a thing at such a moment, but the comparison only served to heighten his unique need for Dasha. This, what was happening right now, was a passion nonpareil. Never had anyone given themselves to him so thoroughly, so completely.

  Dasha gave him one last coy look from between his legs, her eyes sparking, before she bent her head and took him with her mouth, her tongue, murmuring her enjoyment as she went, tasting the length of him. She worked him with her mouth, squeezing and urging until he was in danger of sliding out of his seat altogether, so far gone was he. In a desperate attempt to stay upright, he reached for the leather balance strap. He should have reached for it a while ago and held on for dear, wonderful life. Life. He was alive. That was exactly the right word. He felt acutely alive with Dasha’s touch on him, each nerve riveted to the sensations she called forth.

  He groaned, his body gathering itself for a final surge, desperate to find relief, desperate to linger in the powerful gathering. But lingering or surging was not his choice, not within his mental control. His body was a wild thing now, with a mind of its own. It would decide for him. He could no more hold himself back than he could hold back the tides. He came hard and fast into Dasha’s hand as the outliers of Marseilles came into view.

  They were solemn as they approached town. Sugar refineries and oil-pressing factories replaced the fields they’d been passing for hours, a reminder that they were entering ‘civilisation’. They were leaving the land of small, inconspicuous villages behind them and all that implied.

  Ruslan passed Dasha a handkerchief, his eyes
taking her in: her smile, her hair loose about her face, her eyes alight with the satisfaction of having brought pleasure to her man. Her man. For twelve days he’d been that and only that. Nothing else had pulled at him, demanding his attentions. ‘I want to remember you just like this.’ He wanted to remember them just like this, too, open and free to pursue their passion without restraint.

  Dasha rose up on to her knees and placed her hands on his shoulders. ‘I want to remember you like this, too,’ she whispered before she took a deep breath and closed her eyes as if she could seal in the memory. The gesture shook Ruslan at his core. Over the past months, the past weeks, he’d seen how Dasha selected her memories, the way a diamond merchant might separate out the rarest of gems from a tray of hundreds; each one selected and set aside because of its significance, its ability to stand out from the rest. For a woman who hadn’t a plethora of memories, the gesture spoke volumes. It wasn’t the quantity of memories that mattered, but the quality of them. Ruslan bent his forehead to hers. He breathed in the scent of her soap, the lavender he’d bought her from the fair. He would never smell lavender again without thinking of her, without thinking of that night in Arras. He closed his eyes and joined her in the silent communion of remembering.

  When Ruslan opened his eyes, they were closer to their destination in the harbour. In his makeshift bed on the seat, Maximus began to stretch; he, too, sensing that arrival was imminent. Buildings were closer together now, the streets narrow but organised as the coach wound its way to the docks. When he’d come through with Stepan and the others, Marseilles had been a godsend. Ruslan had operatives in Marseilles who knew how to hide a man or a woman, who knew how to help one acquire a new life if they wished, or sew a wound if needed. The city did not fill him with that sense of relief now. He would have preferred the small rustic villages of Provence, places where they could lose themselves, where no one would ever find them.