The Prince Who Loved Me Part 8

"Oddly enough, I thought it was Miss Murdoch."

Alexsey halted. "Da?"

"I'm sure I was mistaken. It's far too early for a visitor, and why would she enter the castle through the kitchens? That makes no sense."

I'm not so sure about that. "I think I must see this mysterious lady for myself."

Strath shrugged, though his eyes twinkled. "Off with you, then. I'm to breakfast, for I'm famished. Just don't forget to tell me the outcome of this tryst, whoever the lady is."

"Do not eat all of the bacon." With a wink, Alexsey set off across the lawn. He quickly reached the gate, unlatching it and pa.s.sing through.

The kitchen garden rested against the back of Tulloch Castle, enclosed by three tall stone walls. Neat rows stretched before him, left fallow for the fall, although a few straggly greens near the castle door proved the stubbornness of the cook.

It was a pretty garden even without the benefits of full bloom, with neat paths of white rock and a wooden bench set under a tree. And there, walking quickly to a door leading into the castle, was the woman Strath had seen. She was cloaked head to foot in a familiar cape, and she held a large basket. He caught up to her just as she reached the door. "Roza."

Bronwyn, her fingers already on the iron door handle, jumped, her heart thundering. Surely not. She'd done nothing but think about him since their dance last night, but she'd never expected to run into him this morning.

Strong hands closed over her basket and lifted it from her grasp. "I will carry this."

As usual, he didn't ask. He rarely does. That must be fixed. There were many things about this man that needed fixing, now that she thought about it.

"You are not going to wish me a good morning? I think that is the required courtesy, nyet?"

She straightened her shoulders and pushed off her hood as she faced him.

The second she did so, she realized she'd made a grave error. It wasn't that she was underdressed-for though she wore her oldest gown, her hair carelessly knotted in a bun at the nape of her neck, he was equally attired. Once again, he wore the loose-fitting, far-from-fashionable clothing she'd first met him in, his brown jacket slightly worn at the elbows, his neckcloth tied with just a simple knot at the base of his throat.

No, her error was in thinking for an entire night that if she tried hard enough, she could stop responding to the breathtaking handsomeness of this man. That, apparently, was an impossibility, and it would be in her best interests to stop pretending she had control over a purely human reaction-to appreciate beauty in whatever form one happened to find it. I'm sure I'd be just as breathless if I were facing a gorgeous statue, or a- Her eyes met his. Heat raced through her, a jolt so strong that she wondered if it could be seen like a flash of lightning. She'd never react this way to a statue.

His grin was as wolfish as the gleam in his eyes. "Happy to see me?"

"I thought you'd be sleeping," she blurted.

"I was. I dreamed of you."

She opened her mouth, then closed it. Oh, the things she longed to ask! But did she really wish to know? If he'd had a good dream, that wouldn't help quell her body's reaction every time he was near. And if he'd had a ridiculous dream, where she'd fallen down stairs and turned into a sea monster, or something equally as silly, she'd feel a disappointment she didn't want to have to explain to herself.

"Come. We will sit on the bench." He turned toward the bench, but she grabbed the basket with both hands.

"I need to take these eggs and jams to Mrs. Durnoch." When he didn't look enlightened, she stifled a sigh. "She's the housekeeper here at Tulloch."

"Why would the housekeeper here ask you for supplies?"

"She sent word to Mrs. Pitcairn, who serves as our cook and housekeeper at Ackinnoull, that the castle larder was woefully short of various items. Sir Henry didn't give poor Mrs. Durnoch enough notice that he was coming, and with such a large party, she's been scrambling to keep the tables filled."

"There doesn't seem to be a lack of food. It's been quite abundant."

"Lamb is available locally, and Selvach and his huntsmen had quite a bit of meat already dried and salted. They've been bringing in fresh catch every day, too. They were out this morning hunting duck, for I saw them heading toward the loch."

"I will have to say my thanks to both Mrs. Durnoch and Selvach."

"I'm sure they would appreciate it. We have over twenty hens at Ackinnoull, and Mrs. Pitcairn's jams are famous locally, so we keep them supplied. In return, whenever Selvach has extra game, he sends it to Ackinnoull."

"That is very kind of him. I have seen this Mrs. Durnoch, I think. She wears a ring of keys at her waist the way men at war wear armor."

"She is at war. A war against disorganization and dirt."

"She is winning; the castle is very well run. Even my grandmother has been pleased, and it is not often she is so." He turned toward the kitchen door. "Come. We will deliver your basket."

"You can't go into the kitchens!"

But it was too late. He was already stepping through the door.

Bronwyn hurried to catch up to him, arriving just in time to see the shocked expression on the cook's face when she realized who was carrying the expected basket.

"Gor, 'tis the prince!"

Instantly every maid, cook, undercook, and kitchen boy stopped what they were doing and stared, the noise dying from a clamor to silence in one second.

Cook began bobbing curtsies as if she were made of them, while one of the kitchen maids toppled to the floor in a swoon, drawing another maid to her side, who fanned the woozy girl with an ap.r.o.n. A kitchen boy who'd been turning a roast on a spit fell into a fit of the giggles, while another maid turned so red, Bronwyn feared the girl would die of an apoplexy.

She couldn't blame them. A prince like Alexsey, so handsome and dashing, his black hair falling over his brow, his green eyes agleam in a ballroom, was potent. A prince like Alexsey, standing six feet two in a smoky, crowded kitchen looking totally devastasting, was the stuff of fairy tales.

"Welcome, Yer Highness!" Cook stopped curtsying long enough to wipe her hands on a cloth and take the heavy basket from the prince. "I . . . we . . . that is, I . . ." She cast a desperate glance at Bronwyn.

"His Highness saw me struggling with the basket in the garden, and he kindly offered to carry it inside."

Cook placed the basket on a nearby table and dipped another curtsy, this one much longer and far more dramatic. "Thank ye kindly fer bringin' the basket, Yer Highness."

Alexsey inclined his head. "It is Miss Murdoch who deserves your thanks. She carried the basket from her home. I merely brought it inside from the garden."

"Aye, but ye carried it inside wit' yer own hands. Tha' is no' somethin' to ignore!"

As Alexsey started to disagree, Bronwyn grabbed him by the elbow and propelled him to the door. "Thank you, Cook! Please tell Mrs. Durnoch we should be able to send even more eggs tomorrow."

As soon as the door shut, Bronwyn released his arm. "Next time, just say 'thank you.' "

"But I did nothing."

"You visited the kitchen. That was enough. They were honored you graced them with your presence."

He snorted.

"If it helps, I wasn't impressed with your efforts at all." She walked past him toward the gate. "I must bid you good-bye; I've many things to do today."

He lengthened his stride and stayed at her side. It was annoying how easily he kept up.

When she reached for the gate handle he caught her hand, lifting it to his warm lips for a kiss. "Surely you have ten minutes to spare."

She did, she supposed. But talking to him, as innocent as it was, felt illicit, as if she were doing something she shouldn't be. After all, there was no one here to act as chaperone. But what could be wrong with talking?

Not a single, blasted thing, she told herself. "I suppose I can spare a few minutes."

Before she knew it, she was being led to the small bench, his hand warm over hers.

The hovering fog still hung low and thick inside the garden walls, and since it was the morning after a ball, the lords and ladies of Sir Henry's house party would be abed until well after noon. And while there were servants about, most of them were busy with their morning ch.o.r.es-lighting fires in bedchambers, buffing boots, preparing food for the midday breakfast trays, ironing gowns, polishing silver, and completing any of the dozens of things that had to be finished before the lords and ladies of the house awoke. So she and Alexsey wouldn't be seen here in the garden. No harm can come of a calm, polite chat.

They reached the small bench and Alexsey pulled out a kerchief to brush the dead leaves from the seat. "After you."

Bronwyn sat, neatly tucking her cloak about her.

The prince joined her, his knee brushing hers and sending a quiver of awareness through her. His shoulders were broad and they couldn't both sit comfortably without him turning slightly to one side, his arm resting along the back of the bench.

Already breathless, and achingly aware of his arm resting so close to her shoulders, Bronwyn glanced at the gate. The garden wall was high, with green vines clinging to the rough cut stone. But the gate was only as tall as her waist and anyone could see over it. She wondered if they'd believe their eyes, seeing the prince sitting in the garden with her. But perhaps it wasn't such an odd match, after all.

Somehow when she was with Alexsey, she felt finer-taller, even. She wasn't sure if it was his admiring gaze, or the fact that she just felt so alive when he was nearby, but she couldn't help but feel . . . well, prettier. She rather liked that. It's good for me to spend time with him. And good for me to remember our kiss. No matter what happens, I'll have memories of our dance, of sitting in this garden, and of our kiss. Especially our kiss- "I know what you are thinking about," he announced, as if no one in the world might question him.

She lifted her brows. "I doubt it."

He merely smiled. "You are thinking about our kiss, nyet?"

"Why would you think that?" She tried to keep the belligerent tone from her voice, but wasn't certain she succeeded. How does he know? "I don't often think about it," she lied.

"Yet I think of nothing else." His eyes gleamed with warmth. "I will kiss you again, little one, but I won't tell you when."

"What? That is ridiculous. Why would you threaten to kiss me, and then not tell me when you plan on doing it?"

"Because it will add an element of surprise."

"I don't like surprises."

"You'll like this one." He smiled in a way that made her want to slip into his lap and loop her arms about his neck. "You should be prepared."

"I'm prepared to refuse you. You don't get to decide when I am to be kissed."

"Nyet, we will decide together." He captured her hand and brushed his lips over her fingers, sending her a look from under his lashes. "Perhaps soon. If the mood strikes, of course."

The touch of his lips on her bare skin instantly sent her heart pounding, and Bronwyn found herself in the mood for a kiss much more quickly than she expected. Irritated with herself for reacting so quickly to him, she pulled her hand free and tucked it beneath her cloak. "What brought you into the garden this morning?"

"You. I was with Viscount Strathmoor and he noticed you entering the gate. Naturally, I had to see why you were indeed sneaking into the castle through the kitchens."

"I wasn't sneaking."

"It looked like it to me. And knowing your questionable nature-"

"What?"

"I thought you might be bent upon some nefarious caper, but instead, I find you saving us all from hunger with a delivery of eggs and jams."

Her lips quirked. "I'm glad you appreciate my efforts, although you really should thank Mrs. Pitcairn instead. She is quite talented at coaxing our chickens to produce eggs, or we'd have none to share."

"I shall make it my duty to do so." He traced his fingers along the line of her cloak where it covered her leg. "Tell me about Ackinnoull. It is your home, nyet?"

"I was born there, and my father before me, and his father before him, and-oh, it goes on and on. It has been in our family for a very long time. But to me, it is just home."

"That is a good feeling, to be home."

She thought about this, trying to ignore the tantalizing sensations his wandering finger on her knee was causing. "Sometimes I feel more at home at my reading place."

"Where I first met you in the woods?"

She nodded. The morning breeze puffed through the tree overhead and rained browned leaves upon their heads. She brushed some from her cloak.

"I like the woods, too." He plucked a leaf from her hair and tossed it over his shoulder, turning toward her even more. "Did you meet my grandmother at the ball last night?"

"The Grand d.u.c.h.ess Nikolaevna? No. I saw her from across the room, though. Mama pointed her out."

"She is Romany. A Gypsy."

Ah! That explained the prince's dark hair and exotic looks. "Mama had heard that rumor, but didn't believe it."

"It's true. My father was riding along the river in the fall, and he came upon my mother near the Romany camp. As soon as he saw her, he knew she was for him. So he married her."

"Our royalty have far stricter rules about whom they can marry."

"So did my country-but my father overcame every barrier so that my mother remained by his side. When I grew to be six or seven, I would stay with my grandmother and grandfather every winter, sharing their caravan at the Romany camp. My grandfather, Dyet Nikki, was the voivode, their king. Those were days filled with adventures. I would follow Dyet as he went about his duties, visiting the families, checking on the weak and the young, settling disputes, presiding over weddings, overseeing trades with local farmers. . . . When I was a child, I thought he was the wisest man in all the world."

"Your father is a king. Doesn't he do the same things?"

"Some. But the kingdom is much larger, so he must administer through his council. He cannot meet all of his subjects face-to-face. He does not know their names. Does not know their troubles. Dyet Nikki knew the name of everyone in our k.u.mpania, whom they were related to, what troubles they'd faced in the past-everything."

"What's a k.u.mpania?"

"Our Gypsy band. There are many bands but only one law, the Romano Zakono. It is not written down, but is pa.s.sed from generation to generation. Dyet Nikki knew the law and he taught it to me."

"Because he wished you to a.s.sume leadership of the Romany?"

"It was his wish, I think so-but it was not his decision to make. There is a council and they select the voivode for life."

"Surely you can go to them, tell them how much you'd like to a.s.sume your grandfather's position?"

"Now that my grandfather is no longer alive, and no new voivode has been named, the council listens to one person and one person only: the phuri dai. Every k.u.mpania has one. She is an old woman, usually the oldest in the band. In this case, it is my Tata Natasha."

"Your grandmother?" When he nodded, she noted a line of tightness about his mouth. "I take it she doesn't wish you to become the viovode?"

"She withholds it from me, hoping to bend me to her will. Sadly for her, I am not made of soft lead, but steel. I do not bend."

The sparkle of rebellion in his green eyes made Bronwyn feel braver, too. "How can you become the leader of the Romany if you're a prince of Oxenburg?"