Lennox, Mary - Heart of Fire.txt Read online

  want mine, either,” she said, and began to pull the girth loose.”

  “You might hurt yourself.”

  “It won’t be the first time,” said Katherine grimly. The little

  mare began to sidle away from the princess.

  “Oh, bother!” said Katherine.

  Sera grabbed at the reins and tugged once, hard. The mare

  stood while Katherine fumbled with the girth buckles, disposed

  of the saddle, and climbed a fallen tree trunk she could use as a

  mounting block.

  By the time Katherine, after several tries, had swung herself

  up on the mare’s back, she was flushed with effort and sitting

  very tall. “Lead on, MacDuff,” she told Sera, grinning.

  Sera looked at her in puzzlement. “That is from the play by

  the Englishman—Shakespeare? But what does mounting a horse

  have to do with those Scots?”

  “‘Tis a jest,” said Katherine.

  “A jest?”

  “Yes, a humorous, silly play on words to make one smile.

  A joke, and on myself, actually. After all, those Scots were strong

  and brave and certainly knew a horse’s head from his

  hindquarters, and here I am finally doing something perhaps a

  little brave for the first time in my—don’t you know what a jest

  is?”

  Sera shook her head.

  “You have no humor in the hills?” Katherine’s eyes were

  wide with surprise.

  “There is much happiness,” said Sera, “but I have never

  heard of this hu-mor.”

  “I shall find you examples much better than my poor

  attempt, I promise. Now, show me how I am to ride this horse.”

  ***

  Later that night, Sera tugged at the hold the young

  guardsman had on her arm, but he refused to let her go. She had

  to run to keep up with him as he dragged her through the palace.

  “I apologize for the inconvenience, Miss, but orders is

  orders, and I’m not to let you go until I deliver you to the king.

  Again.”

  In this, her third attempt to escape and her third capture,

  she was beginning to recognize the statues on the way to

  Nicholas Rostov’s study. The guard marched her past the Apollo

  Belvedere on the right pedestal and the small, blind Laocooin

  covered in writhing serpents on the left Chippendale table.

  Tentatively, he rapped at the door of the study. A deep voice

  called “Enter”, and Sera found herself standing once again in

  the daunting glare of Nicholas Rostov’s disapproval.

  “Where did you find her this time?” He moved around his

  desk, put down his papers, and sniffed once. With a frown, he

  pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve and held it to his nose.

  “Don’t tell me, Edwards. Let me guess. She used the

  sewers.”

  “I’m afraid so, Sire. She was on her way to the woods behind

  Musgrove’s stables, where, as I reported last night, she’d put

  the horse. We tried to rinse her off at Musgrove’s, but the night

  was cool, and we thought it best to return her lest she take a

  chill.”

  “Well done, Edwards. Notify the kitchens that she will need

  a warm bath immediately.”

  The guard bowed. “If that is all, Your Majesty, I’ll wait for

  her and return her to the stables. My tour isn’t through for another

  hour.”

  “Whose is the midnight watch?” Nicholas Rostov asked.

  “Bellows has it, Sire.”

  “When she smells presentable, return her to my study,” said

  Nicholas Rostov with a slight curl of disdain to his mouth.

  “Bellows will accompany her back to the stables afterwards.

  You may take a well-deserved drink and tidy yourself as well.”

  The guard looked positively overwhelmed with gratitude.

  Sera rolled her eyes.

  The clock chimed half past eleven o’clock when the young

  guard brought Sera back into Nicholas Rostov’s study. She was

  wearing one of the head cook’s long white nightgowns, belted

  with a worn stock tie to keep her from tripping over the

  voluminous hem, and a worn but clean blue cloak. Her hair

  was braided loosely and hung down her back.

  “What took you so long?” Nicholas asked in a clipped voice.

  He’d begun by thinking of reasonable openings for this latest

  standoff between Sera and himself and ended, as the clock

  chimed the next hour, in getting angry all over again.

  “Sire, I apologize. Cook, you see, is young Ned’s mother,

  you know, the stable lad, and Miss Sera here, she helped Ned

  learn all sorts of things Master Raymond doesn’t have time to

  tell him. When Cook learns she’s in the kitchen, nothing would

  do but she must come down to see to the bathing. And then

  Cook wants to feed her, because Miss Sera missed her dinner,

  what with running away and all. Then Cook says Miss Sera’s

  got to dry her hair before the fire or she’ll catch her death. And

  that’s why,” the guard finished, breathless.

  “Thank you, Edwards. You may go.”

  So. The stable boy and the cook fussed over Sera. And

  Katherine ran about the palace with a smile on her face. The

  guards, of course, treated her as though she were a princess,

  when all the while, she gave them extra duty following and

  capturing her. It seemed that Nicholas was the only one in the

  palace who found Sera a constant source of frustration.

  Perhaps Andre was right. If he could take her to his bed, he

  might look at her as just another woman and not a siren so soft

  and warm that all he could think of was his overpowering need

  to get closer to her.

  Sera braced herself, wondering when Nicholas would finally

  pronounce her fate. As the small ormolu clock on the mantle

  ticked the minutes away and he still refused to look at her, Sera’s

  anxiety and resentment grew. She knew he must do this on

  purpose, just to set her on edge. He was perusing something of

  seeming major interest out the window, his hands clasped behind

  his back. Soon, he would turn, and she would suffer one of his

  lectures yet again. She was sick of them.

  “If you ordered the guards who watch my every move to

  accompany me home, I would be safe in my Hills, and you

  would be rid of my inconvenient presence.”

  His back stiffened. “No.”

  “Just …no?” Suddenly, she felt she couldn’t go on without

  crying, and she hated him for making her feel that way. She

  never cried. Did he think she enjoyed this contest—that she

  liked going down into the rank-smelling sewers populated by

  rats and snakes, and Zeus knew what other horrors? How could

  he do this—imprison her for no reason at all except her supposed

  safety? What game was he playing with her?

  “I cannot spare the men.” Still, he did not turn to look at

  her.

  “You already spare the men to watch me. Dear Heaven,

  why won’t you let me go?”

  It always caught her off guard, his ability to wheel so

  quickly, so gracefully, like a large, sleek panther. He loomed

  over his desk, hands planted on each side of the papers, his

  eyes burn
ing into her with an intensity that seared her to the

  very core.

  “Tell me who you are. Tell me who your people are. What

  were you up to when the Nantal found you? Tell me why you

  know eight languages, and why your horse is of the finest blood

  stock I have ever encountered, and why you treat a king as an

  equal, or perhaps a not quite equal. Tell me all that, and I shall

  think about letting you go.”

  “It is nothing to you,” she said, backing up and flinging a

  look over her shoulder toward the door, her means of escape

  from his infernal questions. Her movement made the long braid

  fly. It fell across her breast, and the small thread of hair that

  held it broke. Dry now, it began to separate into strands, catching

  the lamp light. Nicholas Rostov’s face underwent a subtle

  change. The intensity was still there, but his gaze was fixed on

  that slow fanning out of her hair. His cheeks seemed to hollow,

  the planes and angles of his face seemed sharper. A slow flush

  deepened on his face.

  Her breast rose and fell unevenly with her breath as he

  walked from behind the desk like a great cat stalking his victim.

  He loomed over her, large and inscrutable, radiating a force of

  will so dangerous and so seductive she feared he could bend

  her to his every wish if he gave it half a try. She couldn’t seem

  to move, to breathe. He reached out a hand, lifting the length of

  her hair, seeming to weigh it in his hands.

  “Nothing, you say. I wish it were that simple. There is

  something about you, Sera with no last name, no history, no

  family madly searching for you.”

  “Your hair,” he said softly, his fingers slowly stroking the

  strands into a fall of gold that gave back the light of the lamp.

  “It almost pulses with life. Warm.” He lifted the fall of hair to

  his face and breathed it in like perfume.

  “Fresh and sweet, with no remaining trace of the sewers.”

  He leaned close, holding her just by his light touch on her hair.

  Sera felt the warmth of his cheek, his breath a slow exhalation

  against the side of her neck, and she shivered. His lips moved,

  touching, and not quite touching, the hollow there, like the wings

  of a butterfly.

  “Sweet,” he whispered against her sensitive skin. She stood

  helpless, in thrall to that deep timbre of pleasure, the warmth

  enveloping her. “Soft mystery. Lady in peasant’s garb.”

  She made a sound, helpless and wanting at the same time.

  He drew back a little. Slowly, the boundless depths of his eyes

  regained their usual focused intensity, and an expression, sudden

  and startled, crossed his face. He backed away, reddening.

  “I…my apologies.” He turned his back to her, shuffling

  papers on his desk. “Bellows,” he called out in a rough voice.

  The door opened. Nicholas Rostov turned. He was scowling

  again. “Take her back to the stables. If there is further trouble,

  notify Minister Lironsky.”

  Sergeant Bellows bowed smartly. “Very good, Sire,” he said

  and led Sera from the study.

  ***

  Nicholas sank into the chair behind the desk and put his

  head in his hands, groaning. She was killing him, very slowly

  and very painfully. The sensual dreams were bad enough, but

  midnight meetings with Sera close enough to catch that elusive,

  flowery scent were madness.

  She’d had enough time to contact another agent. She hadn’t.

  He was beginning to believe she was what she appeared to be—

  a victim of circumstance. He had enough proof of her incessant

  longing to return to those blasted savages in the Hills. Why the

  hell didn’t he just send her back? She’d be happy. He’d be free

  of her.

  But there was something about her. He had felt it from the

  start, when that damned prickle at the back of his neck warned

  him to take her and to watch her carefully. Something Laurentia

  needed from her, and needed at this particular time. He couldn’t

  dump her back into the mountains whence she came. And he

  couldn’t sit here, night after night, lusting after a Hill slave who

  acted like a queen, at least not until he knew the how and what

  and why of her.

  Nicholas reached for the brandy decanter sitting on his desk

  and poured himself a bountiful glass. Downing the contents in

  three gulps, he called for a footman. “My carriage,” he said

  shortly. Twenty minutes later, he alighted before the door of a

  large, well-appointed townhouse in the King’s Crescent. The

  door opened and a maid curtseyed very low, the ribbons of her

  cap bobbing.

  “My lady is above stairs,” the maid said, taking his cloak,

  gloves and hat.

  Nicholas bounded up the elegantly curved stairway to a

  sumptuously decorated boudoir. A tall, statuesque woman, a

  dramatic auburn beauty, rose from her dressing table and

  gracefully glided toward him, extending her hand.

  “You honor me, Sire. Let me make you comfortable,” she

  said in the dulcet tones that Nicholas occasionally found

  soothing. Tonight, so far, they were doing nothing to calm him.

  “Good to see you, Elise,” Nicholas said, turning away from

  her as she lifted his coat from his shoulders. He allowed her to

  loosen his cravat in that playful manner she assumed with him.

  But it suddenly felt so practiced, so artificial.

  “Some refreshment, Majesty?” Elise swept to the table

  beside the bed and bent over a wine bottle. The candles on the

  table outlined her soft, luxuriant body beneath the lace peignoir.

  She crossed the room to him, offering the glass. The scent of

  musk and roses filled his nostrils. He took the glass, seated

  himself and crossed his legs, looking at her over the rim as she

  returned to the bed and lay upon it, languid and inviting.

  She looked perfect, he thought. She looked too tall, too

  dark, too knowledgeable, too damned aware of every affect she

  made. He was sick of this loveless lovemaking. He wanted—

  damnation!

  Nicholas put his wineglass on the table beside his chair and

  stood, straightening his waistcoat.

  “Shall I call for food? Those cakes that you love, filled with

  poppy seed—I had some delivered today.”

  “No. Thank you. I just dropped by for a moment to…” What

  the hell could he say he’d come for? He took up his coat and his

  cravat, shrugging into the former and wrapping the latter

  haphazardly about his throat.

  “Inquire about your welfare, Elise,” he said. “It has been a

  long time since I paid you a visit. Unfortunate that I don’t have

  time to stay tonight.” He was out the door five minutes later,

  leaving not the first woman in a string of mistresses who

  probably found him more trouble than he was worth.

  Back in his study, Nicholas stood at the bookcase, thoughts

  churning. What a fool he was, lusting like a stable boy after the

  milkmaid, incapable of taking his pleasure elsewhere. He had

  never thought of his future wedding to the
sickly and perhaps

  weak-brained Beaurevian princess with pleasure, but now he

  pondered it with something close to dread. Kings cannot hope

  for happiness, he told himself impatiently, lifting his eyes to

  the bookcase.

  His gaze fixed upon his collection of journals by intrepid

  travelers who had explored the wastelands and mountains of

  the known world. From boyhood on, they had excited his

  imagination. If he could have any freedom, it would be this—

  to travel, to see strange and wonderful sights no other man had

  seen. Idly, he picked up A Road Well Taken by Countess

  Elizabetta Volkonsky, a Russian eccentric who claimed to know

  more about the mysterious Hill People than anyone on earth.

  He sat behind his desk and flipped through the pages,

  stopping at a chapter titled “Myths and Rumors”. The countess,

  it appeared, set little stock in these stories, but the people who

  lived in the foothills of the Arkadian mountains told the tales

  faithfully to their children in each generation.

  He skimmed through much of it—the powers of the

  mysterious Mage to heal the sick with just his touch, to bring

  the rain or the sunshine for needy farmers, to appear magically

  when his name was invoked in times of great peril. He skimmed

  another paragraph, his eyes beginning to water from a long day

  of reading dispatches and tense meetings. Suddenly, he started

  awake, rubbed his eyes, and re-read the paragraph.

  The Mage, wrote the countess, is said to teach his power to

  his people, so together they have the ability to disarm their

  enemies. It is said that, from time immemorial, strange things

  have happened to armies that attempt to conquer Arkadia.

  Ghengis Khan’s men found their arrows breaking and falling

  from their suddenly unstrung bows. Their horses fell into heaps,

  and the riders could not get them up again until the Khan

  commanded his trumpeter to sound retreat.

  “Humbug,” said Nicholas. But the prickle at the back of

  his neck was there again. The prickle told him to pay attention

  to a fairy tale.

  He rubbed his eyes and put the book back on the shelf,

  shaking his head in self-disgust. How could he trust his instincts

  when every muscle and bone in his body screamed for that

  incorrigible little chit in the stable? Of course he would believe