The Prince Who Loved Me (The Oxenburg Princes) (2 page)

What was it about Roland? Lucinda wondered as she watched the gentleman pass by during the dance. What made Roland superior to all other men? Was it his sense of honor, his innate kindness, the strength of his arms, or something as simple as the strong line of his jaw? She didn’t know. All she knew was that in her world, there was Roland . . . or there was nothing.

—
The Black Duke
by Miss Mary Edgeworth

She couldn’t look away. Strange men—especially tall, handsome ones who looked like the heroes of novels—never came to Dingwall.

Never. Ever.

And in her mind’s eye, Roland had been
exactly
such a man as this—tall, dark, foreboding even, with a strong jaw that bespoke a character worth knowing, and intelligence agleam in his eyes. As if to reaffirm her imagination, the sun broke through the trees to limn his broad shoulders with gold.
By Zeus, what did one say to a god walking among mortals?

“What are you doing here?” she asked, wincing inwardly at the abruptness of her tone.

He smiled. “I am looking back at you.”

He was indeed examining her just as thoroughly as she’d been examining him, though his gaze lingered in places hers had never dared.

Face heated, she asked, “Who are you? Why are you here?”

The stranger’s smile widened into a grin, his teeth flashing white. His bold jaw, forged of raw masculinity and shadowed by the lack of a shave, indicated a determined character, confirmed by the nose of a caesar. High cheekbones slanted beneath eyes that held the hint of an exotic flare, and his skin was the golden hue of someone who’d spent many hours outdoors.

And now this paragon was walking toward her, oblivious to the growls from her deerhounds. Her gaze couldn’t help but follow the line of his broad shoulders as they converged with his muscled chest before tapering down to a narrow waist. He moved gracefully, but with a raw power, rather like a boxer she’d once seen at a fair.

Unsure what she should do—run or stay and slake her burning curiosity—Bronwyn held the little white dog closer as the man reached the edge of the clearing and then parted the shrubs and stepped onto the thick grass.

Walter and Scott moved to stand before her, their teeth in white-fanged snarls.

The man eyed the dogs. “Your horses, they growl.” His voice was as silken as thickly napped velvet, and with an accent she didn’t recognize.

“They’re dogs,” she said. “
My
dogs. I’m sorry if they frighten you.”

Amusement warmed his gaze. “They do not frighten me, little one. It is their health I fear for, not mine.”

She stiffened and moved closer to her dogs. “What does
that
mean?”

He merely smiled, a lazy, I-never-hurry sort of smile. There was something of the rebel about this man, something that whispered of forbidden kisses and broken rules. He nodded at the dogs. “Make them sit. I do not wish to fight my way to you.”

“
Fight
—?” She finally noticed the large hunting knife at his belt. “No! Don’t come any closer!”

He looked surprised. “But I must come to you.” His gaze flickered over her, and her body warmed as if he’d used his hands. “You have what belongs to me.”

Her heart gave an odd leap. “What . . . belongs to you?”

“
Da.
” He nodded to her arms, and she followed his gaze to the little white dog cozily resting there. “She is mine. She was chasing the . . . how you say,
krolik
?”

Bronwyn blinked.

“The
krolik
. They run through the fields and live in little holes in the ground.”

“Foxes?”

“
Nyet
. Those, I know. The other animals.” When she didn’t reply, he sighed, frustration on his face. “They have—what you say—hop, hop. And they have the—” He put his hand behind his head and made a “V,” then wiggled his fingers.

“Ah! You mean hares.”

“Hares,
da.
Papillon likes to chase them.” He looked approvingly at the dog. “She may have short legs and look like a mop, but Papillon is very quick.”

Bronwyn had to fight for her breath. The softening of the bold lines of his face as he regarded his dog had the power to melt bones.
Of the hundreds of men I met during my season in London, none of them affected me like this.
“You . . . you have an odd accent.”

His gaze moved back to her. “I am from Oxenburg. It is a country far away from here.”

Her face heated. “I’m sorry. I’m very bad about saying the first thing I think.”

“That is honest, which is good,
nyet
?”

“Not always.” Certainly not in London, during one’s first season, and definitely not when one was dancing—or trying to dance, and wretchedly at that—with an earl’s son who was tipsy and smelled of onion. Bronwyn had been a wee bit too honest with him and he’d left her on the dance floor, abandoned and humiliated. Worse, to Mama’s chagrin and Bronwyn’s irritation, he’d then mocked her every time their paths had crossed afterward, and had spread some entirely untruthful rumors, too.

Mama had been furious with the earl’s son, though she felt Bronwyn was partly to blame for her thoughtless comments. Papa had said it wasn’t her fault, for Ackinnoull Manor was tucked away far from the dances, dinner parties, and such that might have allowed her to develop a level of control over her unruly tongue. In addition, her mother’s death when Bronwyn had been quite young had made their lives even less social than they might have been. Until her father had remarried, Bronwyn had been left alone with her books and dogs while Papa sank into his work, creating his wonderful inventions.

To be honest, she was glad for that earl’s son, whose name she could no longer remember. His ill behavior had solidified her decision to end her season and never return to London. Even her stepmama now agreed that Bronwyn wasn’t made for London society, nor it her.

They were all happier for that decision, too. Besides, Papa needed Bronwyn’s help with his inventions; she was the only one who knew how to file the valuable patents.

“You do not answer, little one.”

Bronwyn realized the stranger had said something while she’d been lost in her thoughts. “I’m sorry. I was thinking.”

“And you cannot listen while you’re thinking.” He nodded thoughtfully. “I cannot listen and read at the same time, which has given my family much cause for complaint.”

“You like to read?”

He looked surprised. “Who doesn’t?”

Perhaps he
is
Roland, after all.
But no, that was a dangerous way to think. Roland only existed between the pages of books, not in Dingwall. The small dog reached up to lick her chin. “Papillon is an unusual name for a dog.”

“
Da.
Her name is French for ‘butterfly.’ She is a good hunting dog.”

“While wearing a pink bow?”

His lips twitched. “The hares did not seem to notice as they scampered away from her.”

It was difficult to imagine that this tiny, bepuffed dog belonged to this huge, broad-chested man who could easily hold the animal in one hand. The contrast made her smile, and feel a bit breathless, too.

Bronwyn sighed.
This is exactly how Roland would look if he dressed like a huntsman.
The beauty of novels was that one never grew tired of the heroes, because as soon as one closed the book and mourned the loss of the characters—for such was the way of good books—one could open another and fall in love all over again. Thus, one was forever being swept off one’s feet. Bronwyn rather liked that.

She wondered what the stranger would look like in a cravat and fitted coat, like Roland wore. This man’s black coat was shapeless and shiny from wear at the elbows. His broad belt was worn, as was the sheath for his hunting knife. Now that he was closer, she could see a quiver of arrows behind his shoulder, the red and black fletching belonging to Selvach, the gamekeeper at Tulloch Castle.
Ah. So my Roland is a huntsman, which explains a lot.

A grand old family, the Davidsons, owned Tulloch Castle but rarely inhabited it, preferring to reside in the city.
Indeed, Sir Henry hadn’t been to visit his Highland holding in over ten years, which had left Selvach and the other servants to run the castle and grounds as they saw fit. Whenever game threatened to overrun castle lands, Selvach hired men from the surrounding boroughs to thin the herds and flocks, which explained why Bronwyn hadn’t recognized this man.

But of all the huntsmen Selvach had employed over the years, she’d never seen one so pleasantly formed. Her gaze drifted over his obviously muscled chest and lower, down to the man’s breeches, which were tucked into scuffed riding boots.
His legs are so muscular. I’ve never seen anyone with such thighs—

“Do I have mud on my breeches, that you stare so?”

Her face heated and she nervously adjusted her spectacles. “Your clothes and the arrows—I see you’re a huntsman.”

Humor glinted anew in his eyes. “I am always on the hunt.”

Bronwyn’s mouth went dry.
He’s
flirting
with me!
Never in all her years had that happened. Usually whomever she was speaking with would have stomped off, irritated at the way she blurted out pronouncements, or simply been bored because she hadn’t spoken at all. Her most interesting thoughts always seemed locked in her mind.

“What are you thinking about now, little one? Me?”

“No.”

The huntsman looked astonished, then broke into a deep laugh as he stepped forward.

The deerhounds stiffened, lowering their heads as they growled.

“Walter, Scott, down,” she commanded.

The man looked curious. “Walter and Scott. For the poet, eh?”

“You know of Sir Walter Scott?”

“I like his poetry very well. Your mistress must allow you use of the library.”

Mistress? He thinks I’m a servant.
She supposed she looked like one, for she’d donned her most worn gown in preparation for helping with the wash later. Plus, in her hurry to dive into her book, she’d merely scrubbed her face and pinned her hair into a hurried bun that was already falling down, if the tendrils that had fallen at the sides of her face were an indication.

The huntsman moved closer, and Walter leapt forward to stand between him and Bronwyn. A flash of annoyance crossed the man’s face. “Tell your horse to stop growling.”

“He is protecting me, as is his job.”

The man looked positively amazed. “I would never harm a woman, little Roza.”

“Roza? Do you mean . . . the flower, a rose?”

The man’s fine mouth curved in a smile. “Yes. You are a
roza
, with your pink cheeks and”—his gaze swept her from head to toe with obvious approval—“and the rest of you.
Bozhy moj
, you are a beauty.”

Never in all of her twenty-four years had anyone called Bronwyn a beauty. Pretty, yes. Attractive, several times. But never, ever “a beauty.” Bronwyn had always thought she’d enjoy hearing it, as she’d often read in the pages of her novels, but enjoyment was the last thing she felt. She didn’t know what to say or where to look. Worse, she had to swallow the impulse to deny the truth of the words.
Which is silly. I look like Mother, and everyone said she was a very pretty woman.

But somehow, among the dancing lessons (which she’d detested) and the French lessons (which she’d avoided by pretending to be ill) and the endless watercolor instructions (useless, when one had no talent for it), no one had ever taught her how to receive a compliment.

Was a mere “thank you” enough, or would it make her sound conceited, as if she expected such praise? “No one has ever called me beautiful,” she blurted out.

“The men of your country are blind, then.”

She didn’t believe it for an instant, but it was tempting to pretend for a moment that it was true. That society was wrong for favoring reed thinness instead of her plumper form. And that blond hair, which was the current fancy, was pallid beside her rich brown hair. That oh-so-desired white-as-cream skin was boring and bland beside her own tanned and freckled face. So, so tempting—

“I have made you tongue-tied.”

“No, I was trying to decide how to answer your compliment. It seems conceited to accept it and silly to refuse it, but I think—” She dipped a short curtsy. “Thank you for the compliment. It was very kind of you.” She bent down and placed Papillon on the ground. “Good-bye, little dog. Sadly, it’s time for you to go.”

The stranger snapped his fingers. “Come, Papillon.”

The dog took a few steps forward, but then stopped and looked back at Bronwyn. Bronwyn shook her head. “I’m not going with you.”

The stranger snapped his fingers again, this time more sharply. “Come.”

The dog looked between Bronwyn and the stranger and then sat down.

The man gave a muffled curse and strode forward to scoop up the dog, who tried to lick his face. “Stop that, mongrel! You have caused enough trouble.”

Papillon’s tail couldn’t have wagged faster. With a reluctant smile, the man rubbed the dog’s head. “Thank you for capturing her. I hope she didn’t disturb you.” The huntsman’s gaze flickered between Bronwyn’s discarded shoes and her book. “She interrupted your reading,
nyet
? It’s a good day for reading.”