The Prince Who Loved Me Part 33

"He was a Romany." She shrugged. "No one knows. It is too big for the bride's finger. She will wear it about her neck as I did, and no one will see it."

Sir Henry had to laugh, turning his gaze back to the couple, who were even now saying their good-byes to the Murdoch family. "Will the Romany accept an outsider?"

"They will do what their phuri dai tells them, or I will turn them all into goats."

He chuckled. "I pity the council."

"They need a strong hand; Alexsey will be quite busy, I think. As for his princess, it may be time for someone to take charge of the Great Library."

"I dinna know Oxenburg had a great library."

"It is frivolous. My son-in-law purchases thousands of books. He re-created the great library lost at Alexandria, but once the building was finished, he could find no one able to organize the collection." Natasha took a sip of the scotch, letting it warm her. She couldn't hold back a smile of satisfaction. "There are many benefits to be had with the woman my grandson has selected. She is very good at organizing. We need that in Oxenburg."

Sir Henry grinned over his gla.s.s. "My dear, you are brilliant."

"I have many talents. Many, many talents." She held out her gla.s.s to Sir Henry with a smile. "I shall have more of your fine scotch. I've much planning to do. I've two more grandsons, you know."

"Och, and no doubt both are as stubborn as you." Sir Henry grinned. "At least, they think they are."

She smiled, but said nothing. There was much left to do before she was ready to step aside and let her family rule itself. Much. But for now, she could enjoy a few peaceful, happy moments.

With a satisfied sigh, she accepted the gla.s.s of scotch from Sir Henry and watched the rose-bedecked coach that carried her grandson and his new bride disappear down the road.

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From the Diary of the d.u.c.h.ess of Roxburghe Huntley arrived early and I spoke to him at length, delicately suggesting that it was time for him to wed again. He nodded thoughtfully, and I believe he has already come to this conclusion himself. I'm sure that all it will take is one look, and the deal will be done. All I have to do is find Lily.

We seem to have somehow misplaced her.

Lily slowly awoke, her mind creeping back to consciousness. She shifted and then moaned as every bone in her body groaned in protest.

A warm hand cupped her face. "Easy," came a deep, heavily accented voice.

Lily opened her eyes to find herself staring into the deep green eyes of the most handsome man she'd ever seen.

The man was huge, with broad shoulders that blocked the light and hands so large that the one cupping her face practically covered one side of it. His face was perfectly formed, his cheekbones high above a scruff of a beard that her fingers itched to touch.

"The brush broke your fall, but you will still be bruised."

He looked almost too perfect to be real. She placed her hand on his where it rested on her cheek, his warmth stealing into her cold fingers. He's not a dream.

She gulped a bit and tried to sit up, but was instantly pressed back to the ground.

"Nyet," the giant said, his voice rumbling over her like waves over a rocky beach. "You will not rise."

She blinked. "Nyet?"

He grimaced. "I should not say 'nyet' but 'no.' "

"I understood you perfectly. I am just astonished that you are telling me what to do." His expression darkened and she had the distinct impression that he wasn't used to being told no. "Who are you?"

"It matters not. What matters is that you are injured and wish to stand. That is foolish."

She pushed herself up on one elbow. As she did so, her hat, which had been pinned upon her neatly braided hair, came loose and fell to the ground.

The man's gaze locked on her hair, his eyes widening as he muttered something under his breath in a foreign tongue.

"What's wrong?"

"Your hair. It is red and gold."

"My hair's not red. It's blond and when the sun-" She frowned. "Why am I even talking to you about this? I don't even know your name."

"You haven't told me yours, either," he said in a reasonable tone.

She hadn't, and for some reason she was loath to do so. She reached for her hat, wincing as she moved.

Instantly he pressed her back to the ground. "Do not move. I shall call for my men and-"

"No, I don't need any help."

"You should have had a groom with you," he said, disapproval in his rich voice. "Beautiful women should not wander the woods alone."

Beautiful? Me? She flushed. It was odd, but the thought pleased her far more than it should have. Perhaps because she thought he was beautiful, as well.

"In my country you would not be riding about the woods without protection."

"A groom wouldn't have kept my horse from becoming startled."

"No, but it would have kept you from being importuned by a stranger."

She had to smile at the irony of his words. "A stranger like you?"

The stranger's brows rose. "Ah. You think I am being-what is the word? Forward?"

"Yes."

"But you are injured-"

"No, I'm not."

"You were thrown from a horse and are upon the ground. I call that 'injured.' " His brows locked together. "Am I using the word 'injured' correctly?"

"Yes, but-"

"Then do not argue. You are injured and I will help you."

Do not argue? Goodness, he was high-handed. She sat upright, even though it brought her closer to this huge boulder of a man. "I don't suppose you have a name?"

"I am Piotr Romanovin of Oxenburg. It is a small country beside Prussia."

The country's name seemed familiar. "There was a mention of Oxenburg in The Morning Post just a few days ago."

"My cousin Nikki, he is in London. Perhaps he is in the papers." The stranger rubbed a hand over his bearded chin, the golden light filtering from the trees dancing over his black hair. "You can sit up, but not stand. Not until we know you are not broken."

"I'm not broken," she said sharply. "I'm just embarra.s.sed that I fell off my horse."

A glimmer of humor shone in the green eyes. "You fell asleep, eh?"

She fought the urge to return the smile. "No, I did not fall asleep. A fox frightened my horse, which caused it to rear. And then it ran off."

His gaze flickered to her boots and he frowned. "No wonder you fell. Those are not good riding boots."

"These? They're perfectly good boots."

"Not if a horse bolts. Then you need some like these." He slapped the side of his own boots, which had a thicker and taller heel.

"I've never seen boots like those."

"That is because you English do not really ride, you with your small boots. You just perch on top of the horse like a sack of grain and-"

"I'm not English; I'm a Scot," she said sharply. "Can't you tell from my accent?"

"English or Scot." He shrugged. "Is there so much difference?"

"Oh! Of course there's a difference! I-"

He threw up a hand. "I don't know if it's because you are a woman or because you are a Scot, but thus far, you've argued with everything I've said. This, I do not like."

She frowned. "As a Scot, I dislike being ordered about, and as a woman, I can't imagine that you know more about my state of well-being than I do."

His eyes lit with humor. "Fair enough. You cannot be much injured, to argue with such vigor." He stood and held out his hand. "Come. Let us see if you can stand."

She placed her hand in his. As her rescuer pulled her to her feet, one of her curls came free from her braid and fell to her shoulder.

She started to tuck it away, but his hand closed over the curl first. Slowly, he threaded her hair through his fingers, his gaze locking with hers. "Your hair is like the sunrise."

And his eyes were like the green found at the heart of the forest, among the tallest trees.

He brushed her curl behind her ear, his fingers grazing her cheek. Her heart thudded as if she'd just run up a flight of stairs.

Cheeks hot, she repinned her hair with hands that seemed oddly unwieldy. "That's- You shouldn't touch my hair."

"Why not?"

He looked so astounded that she explained. "I don't know the rules of your country, but here men do not touch a woman's hair merely because they can."

"It is not permitted?"

"No."

He sighed regretfully. "It should be."

She didn't know what to say. A part of her-obviously still shaken from her fall-wanted to tell him that he could touch her hair if he wished. Her hair, her cheek, or any other part of her that he wished to. Good G.o.d, what's come over me?

"Come. I will take you to your home."

She brushed the leaves from her skirts and then stepped forward. "Ow!" She jerked her foot up from the ground.

He grasped her elbow and steadied her. "Your ankle?"

"Yes." She gingerly wiggled it, grimacing a little. "I must have sprained it, though it's only a slight sprain, for I can move it fairly well."

"I shall carry you."

"What? Oh no, no, no. I'm sure walking will relieve the stiffness-"

He bent, slipped her arm about his neck, and scooped her up as if she were a blade of gra.s.s.

"Mr. Roma-Romi- Oh, whatever your name is, please don't-"

He turned and strode down the path.

"Put me down!"

"Nyet." He continued on his way, his long legs eating up the distance.

Lily had little choice but to hang on, uncomfortably aware of the deliciously spicy cologne that tickled her nose and made her wonder what it would be like to burrow her face against him. It was the oddest thing, to wish to be set free and-at the same time-enjoy the strength of his arms. To her surprise, she liked how he held her so securely, which was ridiculous. She didn't even know this man. "You can't just carry me off like this."

"But I have." His voice held no rancor, no sense of correcting her. Instead his tone was that of someone patiently trying to explain something. "I have carried you off, and carried off you will be."

She scowled up at him. "Look here, Mr. Romanoffski-"

"Call me Wulf. It is what I am called." He said the word with a faint "v" instead of a "w."

"Wulf is hardly a rea.s.suring name."