Royal Affair (2 page)

And therein lay her greatest power over him.
Reminding him of what he’d once been and daring him to wonder
if—perhaps, perhaps—he might still be.

A door opened behind him, and soft laughter
floated down the hallway. He darted around a corner and pressed his
back to the wall, flattening himself against it. Ulrich. As he’d
imagined. His son’s footfalls made no more sound than his own, and
so he couldn’t follow Ulrich’s progress toward Dixie’s room. For
all Friedrich knew, she might be down this side corridor and Ulrich
might come right up on him. No lie in the world could explain why
he was hiding from his own son with a flask of brandy and two
glasses in his hands. Two, not one. He did his best to keep his
breathing even and silent and waited for what felt like long
minutes.

Finally, another door opened not far from
where he stood. Ulrich whispered something Friedrich was probably
better off not understanding, Dixie giggled, and the door closed.
Thank heaven.

Now that he could take deep breaths again,
he did, still leaning against the wall for support. No one would
find him now as long as none of the monks decided to wander about
at night. It wouldn’t do to have one of the brothers discover their
sovereign in his dressing gown in a hallway where he didn’t belong.
If one did, Friedrich would have to bluster some explanation,
whatever that might be.

With Ulrich safely stowed away for the
night, Friedrich resumed his journey. He’d reminded himself of the
instructions Marta had slipped him after dinner on where to find
her. The north wing of the monastery, third room from the end on
the right. She’d leave her light on so he’d find it shining under
her door. He rehearsed some mental geography and took a turn onto a
smaller corridor. Here the wall lamps cast less light, and shadows
lurked everywhere. He went, counting doors silently, until he
spotted one with a sliver of a glow peeking out from beneath. Third
from the end, as she’d said.

He stood before it for a moment. Did he
truly dare to do this?

Good Lord, he was nervous. He hadn’t had
reason to be nervous about a woman for almost fifty years, and he’d
forgotten how to do even
that
properly. He’d lived a happy
married life and had three sons, two with their own brides and the
third courting one. He ruled a country well enough by all accounts.
At this stage in his life, everything ought to be settled. He
shouldn’t find himself standing outside a woman’s bedroom, quaking
in his slippers.

He’d promised Marta he’d come, and he didn’t
go back on his word. He’d faced bigger challenges in his years on
Earth. He could face this.

As he raised his hand holding the glasses,
the door opened suddenly, and he found himself face to face with
the woman he’d kissed that afternoon. They both jumped, and he
nearly dropped the brandy. He recovered, though, thank heaven,
without making a sound. For her part, she placed her hand over her
chest and took a step backward, motioning him inside.

She closed the door behind him. “I thought
you might be lurking out there.”

“I’m a prince,” he said. “I don’t lurk.”

“What would you call it?”

“Not lurking.” He could call it girding his
loins, but the less said about his loins, the better. He held out
the flask. “You asked for brandy.”

“I did.” She took the brandy and the glasses
from him. “Have a seat.”

He glanced around. In a monastery, not even
a guest room used for visiting nobility had much in the way of
furniture. Only he had a sitting room, and that because the abbot
had vacated his own space in Friedrich’s favor. Marta hadn’t gone
to the narrow bed, though, but stood at a small table between two
armchairs near the fireplace, pouring brandy into the glasses he’d
brought.

She hadn’t meant for him to sit on the bed,
then. And damn him why did that give him a sense of relief?

Still, he couldn’t take his eyes off Marta
as she finished pouring the brandy and then stoppered the flask.
The graceful arch of her arm, the length of her neck. She’d been
gangly as a teenager…all elbows and knees. Several years younger
than him. Then she’d grown into a woman, and when he’d finally
noticed, he’d had a wife he’d learned to love and a child on the
way. And then, of course, she’d married.

She held a glass toward him, her head cocked
to one side. Puzzlement or amusement at his awkwardness. Perhaps
both.

“Please do sit down,” she said.

He took the drink from her and sat. The
other chair stood close enough that when she joined him, the scent
of her cologne tickled at his nostrils. Complex and very female,
the perfume seemed to waft from the fabric of her negligee. The
gown didn’t reveal anything more than a dress she’d wear at a ball
would, but it hinted, and his imagination happily filled in the
rest. The swell of her breasts, the curve of her hip. He even
pictured long, graceful toes inside her slipper. Ye gods. Thinking
of her toes had him excited. He took a generous swig of his brandy
and let it burn the back of his throat.

She sipped her own brandy and smiled. “Are
you uncomfortable?”

“Yes.” He might as well tell the truth.

“So am I.”

“You don’t look it.”

She stared into her brandy and ran her
finger around the rim of the glass. “Women of my generation weren’t
supposed to do this sort of thing. We were to wait for the man to
act. That doesn’t work very well if the man doesn’t act.”

“I acted.” Perhaps he shouldn’t have. His
life was fine as it was. His duty to his country. His sons.
Grandchildren soon, with any luck.

“You acted and then apologized and
disappeared,” she said.

“I shouldn’t have kissed you. You were a
grieving widow. I took advantage.”

She leaned toward him, placing her hand on
his knee. No one had touched him like that in…how long? He couldn’t
do arithmetic with her so close. So intimate. He could only stare
at her pale fingers against the silk of his robe.

“You didn’t do anything I didn’t want,” she
said. “You have to understand. Alexander was my husband. I loved
him.”

He could prompt her for the “but” that would
follow that statement. Or he could let her work through it on her
own. He’d married out of duty, fully in love with another woman
when he’d done it. Adoring his wife had come later. Maybe Marta had
never managed with her husband.

“You always seemed happy,” he said.

“I was.” She straightened in her chair.
“Alexander was a dear. We travelled. Anywhere I wanted to go. He
gave me everything.”

Except children, but Friedrich would cut his
own tongue out before he’d say that. Suddenly, Alexander Damrov
seemed like the most selfish man on Earth, to take her youth and
give her neither passion nor a child.

“You mustn’t look at me that way,” she
said.

“How is that?”

“As though you ought to feel unhappy for
me,” she said. “I have no intention of making you sad.”

“Believe me, my dear. Sad is the last thing
you make me feel.” A slight ache around his heart for what she
should have had in her marriage. More than a little anger at
whomever talked her into marrying such an older man. But most of
all…that pleasant trepidation at new possibilities. The sort of
does-she-doesn’t-she, will-she-won’t-she that makes youth so
exciting and dangerous. And to be perfectly honest, a sexual thrill
he’d never thought to experience again. No, she didn’t make him
sad.

“Well, then. Now that you’re over your
shyness and I’m almost over mine…” She finished her drink in one
swallow, rose, and crossed the tiny distance between them. After
easing his legs apart, she sat on his knee and placed her arms
around his neck. “Shall we talk about where we go from here?”

With her perched as she was, their faces met
on the same level, and he could easily gaze into her eyes. Even
bluer than he’d remembered. “Go?”

“Figuratively.” She gestured around her. “We
needn’t leave the room.”

“You’d want to…right now? …no preamble,
just…” Curse it, he was sputtering. Sounding like someone mired in
the past. No, not that. Tradition. He’d never made a secret of the
fact he followed the old ways. Jumping into the sack or hooking up
or whatever the young did these days was fine for his sons.
Friedrich VonRamsberg had never had a roll in the hay with anyone,
and he wasn’t about to start now. Even if a certain part of his
anatomy seemed to think sex on the spur of the moment was a
splendid idea.

Oh, yes. His body hadn’t had that reaction
to a woman for…he wasn’t going to bother to figure out how long.
And it was splendid. More than splendid. Heavenly.

“My dearest Friedrich.” She stroked the side
of his face. “You are so old-fashioned.”

“As you ought to be. You’re not that much
younger than I am.”

“I would never rush you.” She bent toward
him and pressed her lips to his. Just for a moment. Just to let him
sample the nectar of her caress. Then she was covering his face
with kisses. His forehead, his eyelids, his jaw, each time
repeating “Never” until she’d whispered a string of them. “Never,
never, never, never.”

So hot and full of promise. It hadn’t been
so long that he’d forgotten the sweet sound of a woman cooing to
him—the greatest aphrodisiac in the world. Some knowledge burned
itself into one’s brain.

Twisting, he stretched her across his lap,
his hand at her hip. Now he could gaze down into her face, at her
expression of excitement and expectation. The same impulse that had
overcome him in the vineyard caught him in its grip again. In a
heartbeat, he was kissing her with everything in him. Pent up
desire, not just for a woman but for this woman. He could finally
admit to himself that he’d wanted her for years. He wanted her
right now, and he could have her.

He took her lips over and over and couldn’t
get enough. When she sighed and parted them, he took full
advantage, molding her mouth to his and probing with his tongue.
When hers touched his, it tripped a circuit in his brain, throwing
him into full-blown need. He shouldn’t feel this way. Things should
happen slowly, cautiously. Instead, he found himself kissing a path
to her jaw and then behind to the tender spot beneath her ear. Her
pulse beat just below the skin, as rapid as his own heartbeat. He
continued nibbling along her throat down to her shoulder. Nudging
aside the fabric of her negligee, he tasted the powdered skin
there, and the scent of flowers and woman filled his nostrils.

He scarcely noticed as her fingers eased
inside his robe and into his pajamas and her palm came to rest over
his heart. The sound of ragged breathing…hers and his…filled his
ears. She wanted this. Wanted him. The knowledge humbled him. It
also stopped him.

He straightened, still holding her where she
was with her head against his shoulder. The smile she gave him
tightened something around his heart. Her lips were parted and, he
had to admit, swollen, and she breathed rapidly between them. And
her expression told him that he could do anything with her and
she’d welcome it.

“Your heart’s racing,” she said. “So’s
mine.”

“A natural reaction.”

“Then, why did you stop?”

“Ah, my lady, you’re worth so much more,” he
said. “I don’t make love casually.”

Her eyebrows went up. “A dashing fellow like
you?”

“I’ve lived my whole life in the public
eye.” Or most of it, anyway. There had been those months in Italy,
although they seemed like a dream now. Or a fairy tale. When he’d
truly been himself, not a son or a student or a monarch. Just a man
in love.

He took her hand in his and kissed the
fingertips. “Any woman associated with me comes under the same
scrutiny.”

“Do you think that would happen with us?”
she said.

“If our relationship were to become common
knowledge, it could cause a scandal. Things are different for the
younger generation, but we old guard are expected to maintain a
traditional decorum.”

“And taking a lover isn’t decorous?” she
said.

“Intimacy isn’t allowed outside of
marriage,” he said. “It’s not just my reputation we’re talking
about but yours. Perhaps more yours. People might think you’re
taking advantage of an old fool.”

She sat straight up. “They wouldn’t.”

“Don’t be so certain of that.”

“The people love you,” she said. “Besides,
I’m not much younger than you.”

“So, not old. Just a fool.”

“If you’re a fool, then so am I.” She tucked
her head under his chin and nestled against him. Automatically, his
arms closed around her, and he held her, breathing in the scent of
her hair. He could pretend that they’d been discussing whether or
not they’d have an affair when, in truth, he’d crossed that
boundary when he’d left his room to come to her this night. They
wouldn’t make love now, as guests in a monastery. He wasn’t his
young and randy son, after all. But now that he had a beautiful
woman in his arms, he wouldn’t refuse the pleasure of her body. The
Almighty only gave you so many blessings in one lifetime, and
surely turning something this precious down amounted to sin.

Not now, but soon. He eased her up and stood
beside her. “I’d best let you get your sleep.”

She gazed up at him from under her lashes.
“I doubt I’ll get much sleep.”

“Your rest, then.” He kissed her hand and
held it between both of his for a moment. “We travel again
tomorrow.”

“Well, what do you know? The first time I’ve
thrown myself at a man, and he’s refused.” She smiled as she said
it. She knew he hadn’t refused her. He couldn’t, as her women’s
wisdom of such things should surely tell her.

“Only delayed, my dear,” he said. “So I can
woo you.”

“I do like the sound of that.”

“Good night, then.” He bent to kiss her.
He’d only meant a brief peck to her lips, but her magic caught him
and held, and in a moment, he’d gathered her against him, and she’d
opened her mouth beneath his again. As intoxicating as the
brandy.