Lennox, Mary - Heart of Fire.txt Read online

  in any nonsense that would make Sera appear invaluable to

  Laurentia and, therefore, permit him to keep her.

  Realistic politics, not fairy tales, would save Laurentia.

  Nicholas took up the brandy and a glass on the way out of his

  study. When he reached his bedchamber, Simmons, his valet,

  snapped to attention, and then stared, open-mouthed at him.

  “Sire,” Simmons muttered in a choked voice. “Your cravat!”

  Nicholas glanced down at the trailing ends of the tie and

  waved him off for the first time in years. “Go to bed, Simmons.

  It’s late,” he said. The valet gave him a wounded look and left

  the room.

  Nicholas pulled off his half boots, drew off his waistcoat

  and cravat and opened his shirt. Not even bothering to pull down

  the counterpane, he climbed into the great bed of state with a

  full glass of brandy and lay among the pillows. His groin ached,

  and his brain ferreted about, reshuffling information into

  possibilities and patterns.

  Damn the little minx! Within three weeks, she had invaded

  his life, refused to stay where she was put, and literally created

  a stink. She seemed to be the one thing in his kingdom he

  couldn’t control. Now, to his humiliation, he lay half-dressed

  in bed, drinking brandy and, no doubt, preparing to dream of a

  small, lush woman who could heal the sick, command the

  weather, and break an arrow with the force of her mind.

  Four

  After a sleepless night, Sera wished Nicholas Rostov in

  Hades. A more mystifying, infuriating, arrogant man had never

  lived before the king of Laurentia. The more he pushed, the

  more she wanted to push back. Until he came too close. Until

  his lips moved not a whisper away from her skin. Then she

  stood as though chained to the spot, in thrall to the very hint of

  his touch.

  She churned with such extremity of emotion that she felt

  completely Outlander. How Grandfather would sigh at her

  helpless attraction to Nicholas Rostov. How Jacob would

  lecture!

  With all this foolishness, she was no closer to either finding

  the thief or returning, shamed but safe, to Arkadia. She tried to

  concentrate on grooming the gentle bay gelding Master

  Raymond needed in half an hour, but her thoughts returned to

  the need to escape.

  “Ho, my pretty, and where were you so late last evenin’?”

  Dawson’s voice cut into her thoughts. A brawny hand landed

  on her shoulder. Sera shrugged hard, trying to dislodge it. The

  groom was getting to be a real nuisance.

  Tall and muscular, handsome in a crude sort of way, Dawson

  thought the world of himself and very little of others. Too bluff,

  too hearty, and hiding a streak of maliciousness beneath a good-

  fellow bonhomie, he passed for a one-of-the-boys prankster

  among the others, but Sera saw what he was, and he knew it.

  Lately, he’d developed a new sort of torture for her—his

  unrelenting sexual pursuit.

  The hand rubbed itself down her back. Sera gritted her teeth.

  “Get off with you, Dawson. You’ve enough to do today without

  bothering me.”

  “Prickly little piece, ain’t you? I saw you returnin’ with

  Sergeant Bellows in the middle of the night. It might int’rest

  you to know he’s a wife and two kiddies at home. You might

  play closer to your fellows and forget your ambitions up at the

  palace.”

  “Leave me alone, Dawson, or I’ll shout for Master

  Raymond, and you’ll be out of a good paying job.”

  Dawson’s hands clamped hard on her shoulders. “Try it,

  you little tart, and I’ll tell him you threw yourself on me and

  begged me for it. Who’s he going to believe—you, a slave and

  a Hill woman, or me, a man from his own city?”

  Dawson bent close. She could smell rank sweat and the

  onions he’d eaten with his breakfast. She sighed, loathe to use

  any power that might brand her more of a threat than she already

  was.

  “Let go, Dawson,” she said one more time, but he clung,

  hurting her arms.

  She concentrated, knowing where both his hands were,

  knowing where both his legs were. And turned in one fluid

  motion, using the force, letting it flow from her belly to her

  elbows, arms, and fists. In one lightening movement, she broke

  his hold, kicked solidly into his gut, and sent him sprawling in

  the dirt.

  “Touch me again, and you’ll get worse,” she said and turned

  back to the horse she was grooming. As he gasped for air and

  crawled to his knees, she added, “Nobody saw this. I shall tell

  no one. I have no interest in humiliating you, Dawson. I simply

  wish you to leave me in peace.”

  She heard nothing behind her but the heavy tread of his

  feet as he shuffled away.

  ***

  Nicholas rode the Russian border throughout the next days,

  securing it as well as he could against the French. Everywhere,

  he found homesteaders willing to take a stand and fight. He

  saw nobility in these simple men, and a certain skill with a pistol

  and muzzle-loader. It gave Nicholas an idea, which, on this crisp

  autumn afternoon, he was about to discuss with his generals.

  He awaited their arrival in the private dining chamber of a border

  tavern.

  The generals trooped in, bowing and seating themselves

  where Nicholas indicated. His ensign, Carlsohnn ushered in a

  group of serving maids with blonde braids coiled about their

  heads. Their colorfully embroidered skirts and apron ties flew

  behind them as they hurried to the long table, carrying groaning

  trays. Within moments, the generals had emptied a large turreen

  of Russian borscht, plates of heavy, rich black bread, bowls of

  creamy yellow butter and gleaming black caviar. The maids

  refilled glasses of tea and Russian vodka as quickly as they

  emptied.

  Nicholas smiled and leaned back in his chair, quietly

  surveying the men at table as the vodka and warm borscht

  relaxed them. Oblomov, grizzled and clever, was the key to the

  rest of them. An aristocrat and a brilliant tactician, Oblomov

  had begun his career before Nicholas was crowned. The other

  generals were stubbornly loyal to the old ways, but they would

  follow if Oblomov led.

  Nicholas waited until they were well along into their fifth

  glass of vodka and watched Oblomov carefully. When his stocky

  shoulders slumped in relaxation, Nicholas knew the general’s

  mind was both still lucid and at its greatest stage of openness to

  new ideas.

  Nicholas drew himself erect in his chair. “I wish to enlist

  all the able bodied men on the borders into a citizen army. I’ll

  need several of your finest trainers to drill them in the basic use

  of their weapons. Each of you must give me a list of your best

  infantry leaders. Yes, General Oblomov?” Nicholas recognized

  the general, bracing for reservations.

  “You can’t expect untrained men to form a unit in a matter

  of months. It t
akes time to make a good military man.”

  “Time is one thing we have not got,” Nicholas said.

  “But to learn the maneuvers, the basic commands, to work

  together, standing in line, facing the enemy…”

  “I don’t wish them to stand in line. These men have defended

  their homes and stock against the bears and wolves of the forests.

  They know how to use a weapon and reload it.”

  “Sire,” General Milensky, a tall, upright old campaigner of

  seventy said. “This is no bear we face. We need every seasoned

  veteran we have to fight the greatest armed force history has

  ever seen.”

  “As did the American colonists not so many years ago. Our

  borderers are the closest thing we have to the American colonists.

  I want them to stand behind trees, behind houses, on rooftops,

  just as the colonists did. Each French soldier they take out is

  one less for our troops to fight. And, as the British showed us in

  the Carolinas, facing a shadow army in the midst of heavy forest

  is frightening and demoralizing. We’ll do as I command in this

  instance, gentlemen. Spare your men now to save them later.”

  The generals’ mutterings died down as each man stared into

  the clear liquid in the glasses before them and thought.

  Oblomov suddenly pounded his fist on the table. “By God,

  I like it. Simple, workable, and the Corsican will never see it

  coming. My compliments, to you, Sire.” Oblomov stood and

  raised his glass. Milensky rose to stand beside him. One by one

  the others got to their feet and raised their glasses.

  “Nicholas Alexander Andreyevitch Rostov,” said Oblomov.

  “King Nicholas,” replied the others, tossing back the vodka,

  and throwing their glasses against the fireplace mantle. At the

  sound of crashing glass, the serving maids returned with new

  tumblers.

  Nicholas stood and raised his glass. The generals hastily

  refilled their replacements. “Laurentia!” said Nicholas with a

  broad smile, throwing back his head and swallowing the pure,

  stinging liquid.

  “Laurentia!’ shouted the generals and glass crashed against

  the fireplace again.

  Nicholas gave a great, inward sigh of relief. He might never

  be the king his father could respect, but if he compensated for

  his physical flaw with his brain, perhaps he could make his

  people believe in him enough to save Laurentia.

  Nicholas was so pleased by the meeting that he decided to

  return to Montanyard earlier than he’d anticipated. Laurentia

  needed strong allies as well as a citizen army. He should meet

  with Anatole Galerien of Beaureve soon. And he needed to check

  on any number of matters at home.

  Sera, for instance, he thought as he arrived home. Distance

  had not lessened his strange obsession with the Hill woman.

  He had thought of her every day, worrying that she would escape

  in spite of his command to double the number of soldiers who

  guarded her. Katherine would know if she’d gotten into any

  trouble.

  “Send for the princess, would you? I’ll meet her in the

  blue drawing room,” he told a welcoming footman who took

  his cloak and gloves. Two flights of stairs and a long corridor

  brought him to the comfortable, elegant room with light blue

  silk wall hangings and the Gainsborough portrait of his mother

  sitting on a chair, her arm about his shoulders as he leaned into

  her skirts. He must have been three when Gainsborough had

  come to court. Somehow, the artist had captured his mother’s

  fresh beauty and the softness of her expression as she gazed

  down at her son. Three years later, all that love had died with

  his mother.

  “Nikki!” Katherine burst into the room, her face alight.

  “Oh, I am so glad you’re finally home!” she cried, throwing

  herself into his arms. “How was your journey? Did you find

  the borders secure? Please, tell me everything.”

  “The journey was tedious, as it always is on the rutted

  October roads. And yes, the troops are diligent and alert at the

  borders—where they can be guarded. There are so many rough

  streams and so much forest cover, but we would know if an

  army attempted to cross.”

  Nicholas refrained from revealing his deeper fear—that in

  spite of the citizen militia, a small, well-armed cadre of terrorists

  could cross in the darkness at three or four points along the

  northern and eastern borders.

  Nicholas turned again to his sister. “I plan to send Andre to

  Beaureve within the week in order to begin discussions with

  the regent.”

  “But Nikki! Andre has just returned. Surely, you will not

  send him away again until he has a chance to rest and…”

  “Katherine,” he said in a gentle voice. “You know that Andre

  must do his duty, as you must also do yours.” He hated to see

  the pain in her eyes before she averted them.

  But when she raised her face to him again, her eyes were

  clear and steady with purpose. “I know,” she said in a quiet

  voice.

  Nicholas took her hand and led her to a divan covered in

  blue and ivory brocade. Drawing her down to sit beside him, he

  put one arm about her thin shoulders and said, “Now, tell me

  everything that has happened during my absence.”

  “Well…” She was smiling now, all sunshine. “I’m learning

  to ride, Nikki, really ride. Sera teaches me every day. And my

  mare is much more willing.”

  “Sera—she’s well?”

  At least now he knew she was still in Montanyard.

  “Oh, I think she’s in fine health. Although I wish she would

  have taken the bedchamber next to mine when I offered it.”

  “She’s still sleeping in the west wing of the stable? I thought

  you were going to convince her to move into the chamber we

  discussed.”

  “You needn’t thunder, Nikki. She refused to move into the

  palace, even after I begged her to.”

  “By God! We can’t have that.” Nicholas rose and began to

  pace. “Why, a lady who looks like—ahem, she can’t sleep in

  such close proximity to the other grooms. I’ll speak with her

  about this as soon as possible.”

  “But I may still ride with her, may I not?” Katherine’s lips

  were trembling, Nicholas noticed. Damnation. If he didn’t watch

  out, he’d reduce his sister to tears.

  “Of course,” he said to her. “I’d like to come with you.

  Then I’ll have a chance to reason with her and convince her to

  return with us to the palace.”

  Katherine jumped from the couch. “You wouldn’t wish to

  join us before the week is out, would you?” A look of alarm

  crossed her face.

  Obviously, she and Sera had been up to no good in his

  absence. Nicholas carefully hid a grin. Never had Katherine

  acted so—like a girl. Nicholas had been looking forward to more

  dispatches and legal work before dining, but suddenly, all he

  wanted to do was to forget he was a king. It seemed that, for

  just an hour, he could si
mply be a brother to Katherine and a—

  a friend to Sera. It would be interesting to discover what possible

  mischief the two of them could have gotten into.

  “I believe now would be an excellent time for a ride,” he

  said evenly.

  “Yes, of course. I-I’ll go ahead and warn… let her know.”

  Nicholas whistled as he traveled the long corridor to his

  chamber. He had known that a friendship with Sera would be

  good for his sister.

  ******

  “Sera! We’re in for it, now!”

  Sera tied the bandage she had just placed over the leg of a

  bay gelding and straightened slowly, forcing her weak muscles

  to hold her weight. The foolish horse had cut himself badly in

  pasture, and the healing had drained some of her strength.

  Katherine must have run all the way from the palace, for

  she was panting and red-faced. “Nikki’s home, and he’s insisting

  upon riding with us. Now.” She pulled Sera along through the

  barn and toward her room.

  Nicholas Rostov—returned. As she followed Katherine into

  her chamber, Sera felt an odd tingle in the pit of her stomach, as

  though she had whirled in circles one too many times.

  “Quick! Think of a reason why he can’t ride with us today.

  Or for the next month. Hurry!”

  “I don’t understand. Why don’t you want him to see how

  well you’re doing?”

  “Because I only ride well astride. He’ll be horrified. No

  lady rides astride. You know that.”

  Sera shrugged. “If he is the man you keep telling me he is,

  then your brother will be impressed with your improvement,

  and not waste his time insisting you follow that foolhardy

  Outlander custom.”

  Katherine’s mouth dropped open. “You’re not the least bit

  afraid of my brother, are you?”

  “What would he do to you? Beat you? Cut off your head?”

  Sera said.

  “You don’t know my brother. It could go far worse for me

  than capital punishment. Nikki can be quite impossible when

  he chooses to be. You just haven’t seen it yet.”

  Sera’s lips quirked. “I sincerely hope I have.”

  Katherine was searching the little room frantically. “You’ll

  have to tell him you’re not well. A sudden case of the grippe, or

  something.”

  Sera shook her head. “Katherine, I cannot lie.”