The Prince Who Loved Me (The Oxenburg Princes) (22 page)

To her chagrin, more of the knots she’d tied around her heart eased. Not only was he willing to sit and read with her, but he’d brought her the one gift she loved over all others—a book.
Blast it, must he be so kind?
She realized he was looking at her, a question in his eyes, and she managed to say without seeming ungrateful, “Thank you. You know me almost too well.”

His smile glinted with heat. “What I know about you, my little Roza, I like very much. And I know I will like the rest, too.”

The purr in his words made her body warm in reaction.

He lifted a brow. “May I join you?”

Of course,
her heart whispered.
More touching, more kisses, more embraces. I want them all.

That’s not wise,
her brain whispered back.

Be quiet,
Bronwyn told them both as she swung her feet over the edge of the limb and dropped to the ground.

“What were you just thinking?” Somberness darkened his eyes. “Doubts have found you,
nyet
?”

“Doubts? No. Nothing like that.”

“You were thinking about us. About our kisses. What to do. Is it too much? Is it too little? I see your face, Roza, and I know.”

Good God, he can read my mind.

“You think too much.” He reached out to capture the edges of her cloak, pulling her toward him. “I see it in your eyes all of the time—doubt this, doubt that, question this, question that.”

Did she do that? Should she stop? Was it bad that she didn’t wish to live an unexamined life? Perhaps—

He laughed softly. “See? You are doing it now.”

“I suppose I do worry about things. Don’t you?”

“At times. But never with you.” He looked surprised he’d admitted such a thing, but he quickly recovered. “Under normal circumstances, I would let time settle the questions in your mind, but we do not have time, we two.”

Bronwyn found it hard to swallow. “You . . . you will be leaving soon.”

“A week maybe, but not much longer. Too soon, Roza. So when I see that frown in your eyes, I know I must say something.”

“You don’t need to say a thing; this was never meant to last. It’s merely a flirtation.”
That’s all it is, a very potent, very heady flirtation. One I will miss dearly.
The realization caught her by surprise, and her heart ached with it.

“Do not look so, Roza.” He tugged her closer. “You must fight those voices.”

“Which voices?”

“The little ones that whisper in the night that you should not trust me, should not be with me—do not let them claim you. We will vanquish them with kisses and laughter, living in the moment like the Romany. No one is happier than they.”

She shook her head. “But we Scots are the opposite. While your Romany can pack up and move on if things are not as they like, the Scots dig into rocky hillsides and build stone castles so they may stay for centuries. Living in the moment feels wrong. It is against my blood.”

His lashes obscured his expression as he ran his finger down her cheek. “You Scots do love your castles.”

She shivered at his touch. “We plan for winters, because we must. And since meeting you, I’ve realized that I must plan for mine.”

He slipped his arms around her as he smiled into her eyes. “You are far from your winter years, Roza. Today, we have sunshine, soft grass to cushion us, books to read, and . . . other pleasurable things.”

She fought the lure of his words.
He’s supposed to desire
me
unto madness—not the other way around. I cannot forget that.

Yet when he bent to kiss her, she instantly lifted on her toes to meet him, her eyes closed as his mouth descended on her and—

He pulled back.

She opened her eyes.

He sniffed.

Ah! The rosemary!
Holding her breath, she waited.

He sniffed again. “Is it an herb,
nyet
?”

She nodded, smiling shyly. “Rosemary.”

“The cook at Tulloch puts it in turtle soup.”

Her smile faltered. She smelled like a turtle? Not a fragrant loaf of bread, but a turtle? “Surely you’ve smelled it in some other dishes, too. Bread, perhaps?”

He shook his head.

“In a delicious stew, then? Something savory and warm?”

He released her cloak. “In my country, we throw rosemary onto graves.”

She just looked at him, appalled.

“That seems odd to you,
nyet
? Rosemary keeps fresh the . . . How do you say—?” He tapped his forehead. “Thoughts about times no longer here.”

“Memories?”

“
Da!
Rosemary keeps fresh the memories of the dead.”

Lovely. She smelled like a turtle and the grave.

“Why do you smell of rosemary?” he asked.

“Oh. I was helping Mrs. Pitcairn in the kitchen. She was grinding rosemary to brush on a loaf of bread and, ah, I must have spilled some on my gown.” She stepped away from him, hoping he couldn’t see her heated cheeks. “Perhaps we should read for a while.” Bronwyn gathered her cloak and sat, scooting to one side to make room for him.

He joined her, sitting too close, his thigh pressed against hers, which felt far too good. “Alexsey, the rosemary . . . it won’t bother you?”

“I like the rosemary. You smell like the forest.”

She brightened. That was much better. Now, whenever he walked in the woods, he would think of her. Of course, he’d also think about her whenever he ate turtle soup or attended a funeral, which wasn’t ideal, but it was better than nothing. Not bad for a pinch of herb.

He shifted, his broad shoulder against her arm.

“I’m sorry. Do you need more room?”

A wicked light warmed his gaze. “With you, I always want more—especially kisses.”

She found herself looking at his mouth, wishing—
No. Not yet.
She shifted away. “Perhaps after we’ve read a bit.”

“When you decide you wish for a kiss, just tell me. I will wait.” He leaned against the tree and looked around. The leaves played in the breeze as the stream bubbled by. The three dogs slept in the sun, leaves tumbling by. “I like this. I cannot read at Tulloch. It has grown much too noisy.”

“I’m surprised you couldn’t find an empty room somewhere. The castle is huge.”

“Empty, I could find. Quiet,
nyet.
Someone suggested a talent show for those who do not hunt. Many of the guests must secretly believe they are professional quality singers, and they have been practicing all week. Loudly.”

She couldn’t help laughing. “I take it none of them are good.”

“Their caterwauling has given me a headache.”

Her smile slipped. “I thought you liked singing.”

“Good singing,
da
, but this—” He slid her a look before shrugging. “This is such a peaceful place, we should sit quietly and let nature sing for us.”

“That sounds lovely.” She decided not to read too much into his comment, and settled back against the tree to read.

A breeze stirred through the clearing and she caught the faint scent of his cologne. She instantly remembered their first kiss here—and then later, the way he’d touched her so very intimately, leaving her panting and yearning for more.

Her body tingled with awareness. Just being near him made her feel off balance and faintly dizzy.
Which is not what I wish at all. This is how
he
is to feel. Not me.

“What do you read, Roza?” He leaned over to see her book, his cologne teasing her even more. She watched as his gaze traveled over the page. He hadn’t shaved this morning, and the shadow of a beard framed his mouth, making her yearn to trace her lips along his jaw.

His lashes were lowered, so he was almost done reading the page. Such thick, long lashes. She wondered what he must have looked like as a child.
What would a child of ours look like?
The thought was so unexpected that her cheeks heated.

At that exact moment, he straightened, his gaze meeting hers.

For one breathless moment, she thought he could read her thoughts as he’d done before, but he merely nodded thoughtfully. “Miss Edgeworth’s pen is sharper when she’s not writing about kisses.”

“Yes. She quite missed the mark with those.”

Alexsey glinted her a smile and then returned to his own book.

She dragged her gaze away from him, pushed her spectacles back into place, and stared at her book. How could one read when a handsome man sat literally right beside one? A real man. One who smelled so good, too.

She caught herself leaning a little his way as she tried to catch his cologne once more. It was masculine and spicy, and very faint. She peeked at him from under her lashes and was relieved that he seemed to be immersed in his book.

He turned a page, seemingly oblivious to her, his eyes moving over the words without pause. There was something about him—perhaps it was his size and his lazy smile—that made him appear sleepy, like a lion sunning itself. One knew the lion could outrun anything it wished to; the question was only how long its prey could withstand it.

She realized she hadn’t turned a page in a while, so she quickly did so, dragging her gaze away from him. It was difficult, though. A man who loved to read. A man who could make her laugh. A man who was everything he should be, except— She remembered him at the foot of the stairs, casually informing Strath of the way he would pass a few weeks at her expense.

How could such an arrogant man also be so intriguing? In a week or so, Sir Henry’s house party would be over, and the guests would disperse back to their usual lives. In her case, days filled with nothing more exciting than the occasional new book. At one time that would have seemed more than enough. Now, she wasn’t so sure.

She stifled a sigh and wondered how he could stay so focused on his book when she couldn’t read a single word of hers. What book had he brought her, anyway? A novel? A book of poems?

Under the pretext of tucking a loose curl behind her ear, she turned her head to look. A description of an Egyptian tomb met her interested gaze and she scanned the page, leaning closer to examine a delicately drawn picture of a particularly beautiful sarcophagus.

“Do you wish to read this book instead of your own?”

Startled, she looked up to find his amused gaze on her.

She flushed. “I’m sorry. I caught a glimpse of the picture and forgot it was your book.”

“I’ll trade you if you’d like.”

“No, no. This is fine.” She returned to her book and was grateful when he did the same. She didn’t dare look at his face or book again—he was far too quick to notice. But his legs were another thing. If she lowered her book just a bit she could see the long, muscular length of his legs, stretched before him and crossed at the ankles.

There was nothing more dashing than a man with strong thighs in breeches and riding boots. As she stared at his thighs he recrossed his legs, his muscles flexing in the most distracting way.
Oh my. I wonder what they feel like, bare skin to bare sk—

“You are not reading.”

No, she wasn’t. Not a single word. She snapped her book closed. “I’m sorry, but I can’t read with you here.”

He closed his book. “To be honest, I have not been reading, either. I have been looking at your boots.”

She looked at them. “My muddy walking boots?”

“I can’t look at them without wanting to unlace them.”

There was a purr to his voice that stirred her. “Unlace them,” she repeated breathlessly, instantly caught in the image.

“I want to make you want what you shouldn’t, make you do what you said you wouldn’t. Do you remember when I touched you, Roza?”

Good God, how did one forget such a thing? It took her a moment to regain control of her voice. “I . . . vaguely remember.” She tried to sound airy but must have failed, for he laughed softly.

“My little Bronwyn, always denying yourself.”

She wasn’t denying herself anything; she was merely attempting to maintain her control. If she wished to tease him the way his mere presence was teasing her, then she had to be the one who led the dance.

She lifted her chin and met his gaze, and said in a suggestive tone, “So what are we going to do, since reading is apparently out of the question?”

His gaze darkened. “If you want more kisses, you’ve but to ask. . . .”

Just ask,
she told herself. But no—that wasn’t what she really wanted. She smiled teasingly. “No.
You
ask.”

Something flashed in his eyes; his jaw tightened. “You don’t wish for kisses? Then you won’t have them.”

My prideful prince needs such a setdown!
His stubborness bolstered her resolve not to be just another kiss under a tree, but to be the one kiss he’d remember on his deathbed. The kiss that no other kiss ever measured up to.
That
was what she wanted. And if it meant denying the heat that was simmering in her blood now, then she’d find the strength to do it. “Fine, we’ll just talk, then.”

Disappointment darkened his gaze and he tossed his book to one side with a bit more force than necessary. “What do you wish to speak about?”

“Books, politics, art, religion—”

“You.” He caught one of her curls where it lay against her shoulder and twined it about his finger. “Your hair is so soft, like spun silk.”

She had to swallow before she could answer. “Touching is not talking.”

“Hmm,” he said in an abstracted tone, his gaze on her curl.

She moved her head, tugging her hair free. “Tell me about Oxenburg and your brothers. Are you close to them?”

He stifled a sigh, but answered her. “We do not argue, if that is what you mean, but we have lives of our own. My brothers Nikki and Wulf are in court more than I. Nikki is to be the king, so he must stay there.”

“He enjoys it?”

“I think so,
da
, although he dislikes the—how you say—foot kissing?”

“And your other brother?”

“Wulf has a head for keeping our coffers filled. Right now, he and his wife are developing our lace industry, which was already thriving. But with their help, we’ve begun making enough to double our exports to various cities, and for a higher price. It is much in demand.”