‘I wanted to see how badly someone needed to come in.’ That was when she noticed the pistol in his lap. She brought her gaze up to meet his, questions warring with comprehension.
‘You were expecting the Duke? You believe me then, that he means to do you harm?’
‘I think harm is too mild of a word. Kill me is more likely, based on the glares he shot me at dinner.’ Nikolay shrugged. ‘Perhaps I exaggerate the harm to myself.’ She would not be so sanguine if it was her in that position.
‘Do people come to kill you often?’ The fire was comfortingly warm in the wake of Nikolay’s cold reception. She could excuse it, of course. He hadn’t been expecting her. Nikolay’s eyes swept her, taking in her attire, or lack of it. She’d chosen a nightgown of ivory satin that clung to her breasts and curved over her hips. He was still dressed, although not in the clothing he’d worn to dinner. He wore a loose, exotic shirt of blue silk with elaborate embroidery at the neck, and trousers. But his feet were bare.
‘Often enough.’ Nikolay’s answer was oblique. His gaze retreated to the half empty glass in his hand.
Klara offered a smile and tried for levity. ‘Do they wear silk robes?’ She was acutely aware he had not set the pistol aside.
‘Assassins in satin,’ Nikolay mused unkindly. ‘You might be surprised.’ He was not thawing.
He couldn’t possibly believe her father would send her to do such a thing. He was trying to drive her away. The idea that she’d come to do him harm was ludicrous in the extreme, but that didn’t stop it from hurting. He’d done nothing but hurt her since he’d stepped into the drawing room. He’d accused her of scheming to get him here. He was accusing her still. She tried to reason with him. ‘I have no place to hide a weapon, as you can see.’ She held her arms out to the sides. Nikolay didn’t laugh. She’d thought she’d looked rather alluring. Apparently, she just looked deadly.
‘You don’t need to bring a weapon when you could just use something already in the room. It wouldn’t be the first time seduction has proved fatal. Antony and Cleopatra, Romeo and Juliet. Your Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn. History is littered with people who loved unwisely and ended up dead.’
‘Romeo and Juliet are fictitious. They don’t count.’ This was a new level of cynicism, even for Nikolay. Then she understood and her heart sank with the realisation. This had happened before. She leaned forward and placed her hand over his where it lay on the butt of his pistol. ‘Who was she? The woman who hurt you?’ Perhaps more than hurt him. Klara became bold. ‘Is this how she tried to kill you? She came to you at night and offered herself?’
Nikolay tensed, she could feel the muscles in his hand bunch beneath her grasp. ‘Why would you say such a thing, Klara?’
‘Because it’s true. Your type of cynicism doesn’t come out of thin air.’ It made sense. He was a prince, a handsome man with power. He would be sought after for all the right reasons, and the wrong. Klara slipped out of her chair and knelt before him, covering both of his hands with her own, no longer afraid of the gun. ‘You have lived a luxurious but lethal life, Prince Nikolay Baklanov.’ She whispered her request, looking up into his face. ‘Tell me who she was. Tell me what she did. Tonight, your secrets are safe with me.’
How safe was he? She could see the debate behind the screen of his eyes. Could he trust her yet? He was calculating the odds. She’d told him the truth this afternoon, because nothing that had happened up against the stable wall or in the carriage had been a lie. He was deciding if he could live with the consequences if he was wrong.
His eyes held hers, dark and glittering. His words came slowly. ‘She was cousin to the Tsar. She was older than I, a woman in her thirties with a reputation for danger, deceit and desire. She made it easy to overlook the first two. She was beautiful and men constantly vied for her favours. I was flattered when I won her attentions—’
‘She was probably flattered to have won yours,’ Klara interrupted. It was hard to believe any woman would overlook Nikolay.
‘I had something she wanted: my silence. I’d spoken out against her cousin the Tsar’s policies too many times. The Tsar wanted me dead and she owed him a debt. One night she came to me with a knife. When that failed, she went for my cavalry sabre.’ His tone was solemn, each word measured. Klara could see the scene playing out in a dimly lit chamber like this one, a gorgeous, enraged woman in dishabille wrestling Nikolay for mastery of a sharp blade. Nikolay would be at a disadvantage, swamped by disbelief and betrayal, grappling with his sense of honour; how did he fight a woman, knowing that not to fight would surely be the death of him?
‘It was me or her, Klara. She’d made her intentions clear. She would kill me given a half a chance and she’d been given more than that.’ His grip on her hands tightened painfully. ‘A sabre is a slicing blade, not a stabbing one. I sliced her. She died in my arms, right there on the floor of my bedchamber.’
In his arms. The three words held potent meaning for Klara. Once the battle rage had passed, he’d gone to her, forgiven her, made the woman’s death as peaceful as he could. How many men had died that way, in his arms, on the war field, or in a battle hospital? ‘Nikolay, you did all you could.’ Klara wanted to absolve him. The story was horrible and yet there was a poignancy to it.
‘Did I? I was a skilled warrior, she was not. Perhaps I should have found a way to control myself better. It had all been planned. The Tsar’s men were waiting for me, dead or alive. I was taken away fifteen minutes later. Only Stepan’s intervention saved me from a prison cell.’
And then he had fled. He didn’t say it, but Klara could imagine what happened next; facing trial for the murder of the Tsar’s relative, and perhaps even charges of treason for speaking out. Nikolay had chosen exile over execution. Now, he was here, drawn back into the fire once more by her father. No wonder he was sceptical of her father and of her. More than ever, she wanted to convince him she was not part of that world. He could trust her. He could trust what lay between them.
Klara moved her hands to the fastenings of his trousers, a promise on her lips. ‘I am not her. Let me show you.’
* * *
He should show some restraint. He should not allow this until he had figured out where her loyalties lay and fortified his feelings. But the issue was confused beyond redemption the moment her hands reached for his trousers, the moment her hand found him, hard and ready despite the warnings of his mind. Klara kneeling in front of him with her hair down, her hand on him, was too much. She was honest in her passion, if nothing else.
Klara stroked him, his erection straining to her touch. He had questions, too; what had brought her to his room tonight? Was it truly just him or was it something more? He’d not forgotten the desperation underlying their last interlude, but neither had he forgotten how futile it was to resist what lay between them. Those questions would have to wait a while longer. Her other hand cupped him, gently squeezing him towards oblivion. A mad sound escaped him. He welcomed oblivion tonight, was eager for it after the revelations of today. He felt himself slip down in the chair, his body ready to loosen reality’s tether. Klara took advantage, spreading his legs apart fully, her fingernails teasing the tender skin of his inner thigh with a raking stroke that had him groaning. She was no Helena, not in touch or temperament. His body knew it, answered to it.
She stroked him once more and then her mouth was on him, sucking at the tender tip, learning her way as she went, lapping the pearl of his desire at its head, licking the length of him as if he were the most decadent of Gunter’s ices. Only he was so much warmer. Burning, in fact, his body entirely alive, entirely aware that it was being driven towards exquisite release. His hands had become talons, digging into the upholstered arms of the chair, his last grip on sanity as she tasted him, teased him, a mewling gasp of reckless pleasure escaping her. It was small consolation to note her control had slipped, that she too was caught up in the pleasure of it. Aga
in.
This pleasure had happened before. Once might be discounted as a novelty, but twice? Twice suggested that the fire between them was unique, something able to be quenched only by the two of them together and no other. That would be a certain hell on earth. He could not have her for ever. His body clenched and gathered for final release, reminding him he could have her for tonight, that indeed she’d come here looking for more than mouth-play.
‘Klara!’ he rasped in warning, feeling his body change, feeling her mouth give way to her hand once more. She held him as release rushed through him, pulsing against her palm, her eyes alive as if she knew this was not the end. These pleasures of mouth and hand would soon be rendered insignificant compared to what was to come.
Nikolay slipped to his knees on the floor beside her, his hands at the hem of her nightdress, pushing it up and over her head, baring her beautiful, naked breasts to his hands. There was no hurry tonight. Tonight he could linger and feast. Nikolay gave a reverent half-sigh, pressing a kiss to her breast, a man prepared to worship at the altar of his beloved. Beneath his mouth, the goddess quivered and it was more than reward enough.
He slipped his hand low between them where her curls were damp, a reminder that while he’d had some satisfaction she’d had none. How long would she wait for him? He rose from the floor and lifted her, carrying her to his bed, a large baronial affair that would serve him well tonight. He laid her down and turned up the lamp.
‘What did you do that for?’ Her voice was husky from the sheets.
‘The better to see you, my dear.’ Nikolay let his gaze roam the length of her.
Her eyes narrowed in a coy glance. ‘Perhaps the better to see you, as well. Someone is overdressed for my bed.’
It was his bed, technically, but he wasn’t going to quibble over semantics. He was, however, going to oblige the lady.
Chapter Seventeen
His shirt went first, revealing the strength of his torso, all sculpted muscular planes from his shoulders to his waist, a muscled atlas interrupted only by the small disk he wore about his neck on a chain and the occasional thin white line, remnants of a scar. The imperfections only added to the appeal of him. He turned away from her, giving her the smooth expanse of his back as he worked his trousers down past lean hips, gloriously rounded buttocks, horseman’s thighs and long legs. His hands went to his hair and he pulled free the leather thong that held it back. The intake of her breath was sharp as she let her eyes feast on this dorsal showcase of masculinity. And then he turned.
She had him full frontal and nothing else compared, nothing else would ever compare. He was spectacular. It was hard to breathe as she took him in. His hands were on his hips, a thin white scar line on one hip drawing the eye downwards to the crux of him; that splendid phallus straining upwards already although she’d satisfied it just minutes earlier.
He came to the bed like a conquering warrior of old, possessive and primal. He was more pagan god than prince when his body covered her, one hand manacling her wrists above her head as his body found its way between her thighs. She was more than ready for his siege. He entered her, a steady reconnaissance, a slow withdrawal, and a slow return, easing and teasing his way towards her core, until the slide of him was known to her. Her body picked up the rhythm of him; the surge and ebb of pleasure tides against her shore, the waves breaking faster with each foray, pleasure’s tide rising and she let it sweep her away even knowing she would be dashed against the rocks, fracturing into a thousand shards in a tempest. He gave a final thrust and they were at sea, together.
* * *
Pleasure was generous. It washed her up on a quiet, peaceful shore when it was done with her. Nikolay drowsed beside her, his arm thrown across her. She might have slept, too. Her mind was just now starting to clear, to make the return to reality. The little things came back first. She was in Nikolay’s bed. The fire had died down. The lamp had gone out. Ah, so she had slept. How long?
Nikolay stirred beside her, smiling when he saw that she was awake. ‘Have you been up long?’ His voice was husky with sleep.
‘Just long enough to watch you.’ She rolled to her side to face him, to study him. ‘What’s this?’ She played with the disk on the chain at his neck. His eyes were friendly at the moment. She wanted them to stay like that. She knew too well how quickly they became sceptic’s eyes of hard obsidian instead of warm, melted chocolate.
His hand covered hers on the disk. ‘It’s the medal of St John the Divine. He’s the patron saint of loyalty, among other things. He’s a good patron for a soldier, a reminder that patriotism is a type of loyalty, that defending one’s friends and one’s country is the highest loyalty of them all. My father gave it to me when I took command of my own cavalry unit.’ A father, a saint’s medal. Further signs of how rich and full his former life must have been, how much that woman in Kuban had taken from him. Further signs, too, of how much she didn’t know about him, how much she wanted to know and how much she already accepted him without the knowing. But knowing was dangerous. When one knew someone, they became more than pawns on a chessboard. Knowing made one vulnerable. She was certainly that. Falling for Nikolay was pitting her against her father and his game. It was forcing her towards a choice—her father or Nikolay? She didn’t want to give her Prince to her father’s game. She was a selfish woman, she wanted Nikolay to herself in all ways. Mind and body and soul; no politics, no doubts. The depth of that realisation was shocking.
‘You must miss Kuban and yet, except for the night at the bistro, you never talk about it. I thought people talked about the things they loved. Incessantly so.’
He gave a half-smile. ‘Like mothers with children, who go on about their sweet prodigies? I think it’s the other way around. Perhaps some things are too precious to discuss out loud.’ What else did this magnificent man keep bottled up inside him? What other secrets? What other sorrows? She wanted to know them all. Would he trust her with them now?
He sighed, acceding the argument. ‘Perhaps the tendency to hold in reserve those things that are important to us comes from our neighbours. There are Muslim Turks on our borders with whom we do battle and business by turns. They keep their women in seraglios, female-only quarters, so that they are not subjected to the gaze of other men. They are jewels to be treasured, not ogled, not trotted out on the marriage mart the moment they turn eighteen, dressed and designed to draw the eye of an eligible parti with enough money to buy them.’ The cynic was rearing his head again.
Klara pondered the idea for a moment. ‘I would not like being hidden away.’
‘Of course you wouldn’t.’ Nikolay laughed softly. ‘You’re English. It’s not the British way, and yet it is a sign of honour and wealth in that part of the world for a woman to be protected thusly.’ He paused. ‘Not all prisons have four walls, Klara.’ He captured her hand and kissed her palm. ‘Did you find some freedom tonight, Klara? It’s what you were looking for, wasn’t it?’
She tried to draw back her hand, but he held fast, his voice hypnotic. ‘Don’t be ashamed, Klara. You said you did not come for your father. If so, it stands to reason you came for yourself. What did you want, if not freedom? Pleasure?’
If. The most damning two-letter word of all. He still didn’t believe her entirely, but here in the warm cocoon of his arms the words stung a little less. She had his body, after all. She ventured the raw truth of her choice. ‘I did come for myself. But I also came for you, Nikolay. I wanted you to believe me. I couldn’t stand the idea of you thinking our relationship has been contrived for ulterior reasons.’ She licked her lips. ‘Believe me when I say I am my own person, with my own feelings, not a pawn of my father.’
‘I wonder if you believe that? Perhaps you do for the moment. It is easy right now, here in each other’s arms, to believe a great number of things—mainly that the impossible is possible.’ Nikolay levered up on arm and rolled to face her, something
akin to pity in his eyes. ‘What will you choose when you’re held to the flame? Will what you believe in this moment matter when you have to choose between your father and a prince?’
‘A prince to whom I have given my virginity, a prince on whom I have made no claims and expect no claims in return, but whom I have trusted with this gift none the less. Does that mean nothing to you? Coming here is no small thing!’ Klara protested. If this was not a token of the depths of her intentions and affections, what was?
Nikolay shook his head. ‘It’s not that I don’t want to trust you, Klara. It’s that I can’t. How will you decide when put to the test? I don’t think you know either.’ His tone softened, his knuckles skimming the side of jaw in a gentle caress, ‘My dear girl, what do you think can be accomplished in this bed? I can give you pleasure tonight, tomorrow night and the next, but beyond that, there can be nothing else. You were right. They asked me to join the revolution. They want me to take the arms to St Petersburg.’
She didn’t know what to feel. She should feel elation. Her father had what he wanted. But she felt fear, too. Fear because she didn’t want Nikolay caught up in the dangers that would ensue? Fear that he’d say yes, or fear that he’d say no? Most of all, she feared she’d been too late with her offer. Her father had already asked him. Had that already tainted their night together before it had even begun? ‘What did you tell them?’ Klara ventured, wary of the answer. He was right. How could she win?
‘I said nothing. Not yet. They expect me to think about it.’ His gaze darkened, not with desire this time. A chill travelled her spine. She had been too late. Her offer could not be viewed out of the context of what had happened behind closed doors after dinner. Nikolay was too astute to overlook the coincidence. He gave a hard chuckle. ‘See, the choice comes already. Your father or me, and you don’t know how to decide.’ He gave cold smile. ‘We’ve had our pleasure, Klara. We’ve satisfied what it is that might lay between us on a physical plane. Perhaps we might satisfy the truth, now that’s out of the way. Did you know what your father intended to ask me? Is that part of why you came to me tonight? Is your father expecting me to say yes tomorrow morning after a night of your charms?’
Compromised by the Prince's Touch Page 15