Compromised by the Prince's Touch

by Bronwyn Scott

  She led Nikolay around the corner of the house. ‘We’re safe here,’ she murmured.

  He was hungry for her, too. His lips found hers unerringly in the dark, his kiss confident. She tried to answer in kind. He was not afraid of discovery. He was not afraid of the Duke. But he should be. If he knew what she knew...but he couldn’t know. If he did, he’d wind up dead. Nikolay pressed her against the wall, his body blocking the bonfire from view and she welcomed the strength and warmth of him. She had not expected it would be so hard to let him go when the time came. But there was so much she hadn’t anticipated when she’d begun this gambit. It had morphed from being a mere task for her father, to being an adventure for herself, to something far more than that, something she was afraid to give words to. She had fallen in love with him, this brash Cossack Prince, who had shown her a slice of his world, who had treated her as an equal, taken her on adventures, shown her what true passion was capable of. In return, she’d protect him with her life.

  His lips skimmed the column of her neck, lingering at the base of her throat where her pulse beat fast and strong. ‘Do you feel what you do to me?’ she whispered.

  He took her hand and drew it against himself. ‘Feel what you do to me, lyubov. Feel how hard I am for you.’ His voice was a sexy rasp, hoarse with longing. Heat curled low and damp in her stomach as she stroked him, her hand outlining the length of him beneath his trousers. This was her man, this potent, virile warrior. His hand pulled loose the low bodice of her gown, baring her breasts for his mouth. Who knew a mouth could wreak so much havoc on a body without any words?

  Desire was rising swift and hot between them, devouring them, sweeping aside practised seduction and replacing it with a riot of kisses and caresses driven more by need than art. They were mad for each other up against the wall while the guests partied below. She fumbled with his trousers as his hands slid up her legs, pushing aside her skirts, baring her to the night air, to him. ‘Now, Nikolay, now,’ she begged, the moment she had him free. She was hot with want, too hot to wait, too hot to play. Release would be explosive and quick like the fireworks detonating in the sky above Nikolay’s shoulder in celebration of the effigy.

  ‘Hurry!’ she urged, barely recognising the husk of her own voice. It was a voice that belonged to a wanton, a woman used to making love out of doors with party guests a stone’s throw away.

  Nikolay lifted her, gathering her legs around him, his hands cupping the rounds of her bottom as he positioned himself. The first thrust took her deep and hard.

  He surged into her again, his own language reduced to groans, part desperation to reach the release that would calm them, part desire to be overwhelmed by the pleasure between them. There was no time for thought, no time to consider that this was the last time. There was only time to become part of him, to hold him inside as she buried her hands in his hair and her cries in his shoulder.

  Klara arched her neck, lifting her gaze to the night sky, watching the last of the fireworks fade in the sky. She felt entirely complete. She shut her eyes, wanting to commit the moment and the man to memory, something to hold fast inside her against the darkness that would come.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ Nikolay murmured against her collarbone, his head on her shoulder.

  ‘That this is the last night of the world.’

  ‘Of a certain world, but not ours.’ He kissed her softly and she wanted to weep. He didn’t know how wrong he was.

  Chapter Twenty

  ‘Shall I come to you tonight when the house is quiet?’ Nikolay asked softly as they joined the crowd of guests filing back into the house. He was already planning an enticing evening of lovemaking. The wall had been a potent appetiser, the thrill of sex out of doors, intoxicating, even if there had been a certain urgency to Klara’s lovemaking. Perhaps she wasn’t comfortable with the risk of discovery just yet. He’d have to show her how to appreciate the risk, how to let it work in her favour.

  ‘No, you must not,’ Klara said quickly, too quickly. He halted her with his hand, pulling her aside. Something was wrong. Perhaps the urgency had not been about her inexperience.

  ‘Why not?’

  Her gaze darted through the crowd as if she was looking for someone. Her words were rushed. ‘Amesbury knows I went to your room last night. He will be watching. He cannot find us together.’ Even now she was afraid of Amesbury. It was him she was looking for in the crowd.

  ‘I’m not afraid of him. Let him find us. It will give me an excuse for a duel.’ He was heartily sick of the Duke. Then he softened. Those had been warrior’s words, a warrior’s reaction. Klara was a woman. Those words would alarm her. She would want the words of gentleman, too. ‘I will protect you, Klara. I will not allow him to slander you.’

  ‘It isn’t about me. He frightens me, it’s true. But he would not publicly shame me, not when he covets my father’s friendship.’ She had her hands fisted in the lapels of his coat, words coming fast. ‘Nikolay, listen to me. Put your decision off about the revolution as long as you can, until the very end of the party. As long as they have hope you’ll join them, you’re safe. Then, tell my father no. This is no place for you. Go and get your riding stable and never look back, no matter what happens. Promise me?’

  He took her hands in his—they were cold. ‘Klara, what is going on?’ Something had happened. Her edicts were driven by more than Amesbury.

  ‘I can’t tell you. You just have to believe me. Please?’ She took a step away from him before he could reach for her and melted into the guests. The party still had a day and a half to go, yet he knew what she’d done. She’d said goodbye. That was the urgency, only it wasn’t urgency at all. It had been desperation. It had been farewell. She’d known the whole time there would be nothing more. Betrayal niggled at him. Klara had left him, after she’d begged for his trust, after she’d given him her body, she’d left him with a warning.

  He could not let that lie. Klara would not give him up without reason. He would wager his fortune she was protecting him. From Amesbury most likely. She needed to believe him when he said he could handle the Duke and tonight he would. He wouldn’t let Klara out his sight until she’d locked her door.

  * * *

  Nikolay watched her enter her room from a distance, close enough to be of use, far enough not to be noticed. He watched the door close and he stayed in place, his body tense and ready just in case Amesbury had decided to surprise her with another nocturnal visit and was already inside. He stayed at his post another hour just in case Amesbury decided to creep up the hallway, because Klara was still his to protect, would always be his to protect. She could decide to leave him, but he hadn’t decided to leave her. When it came to women, Cossack honour ran deep and true.

  He loved her in spite of his efforts not to, in spite of the impossibility of their situation. The realisation was heady and surprisingly new. He had never loved a woman. He’d not known his mother. The women he knew were a certain type—more interested in the physicality of being with him than the emotional aspects of a relationship and that had been fine. He knew how to be an entertaining escort for them, something dazzling on their arms, the warrior Prince who could dance the hopak like an acrobat, who could amaze on the parade field from the back of a horse and then bed them senseless at the end of the night. He knew how to be good fun, as did they. Whatever he gave those women, he got in return. But that had never been love. It had been easy to be with them. They’d never asked for anything beyond what he was willing to give, never challenged his rule that he would seek nothing permanent.

  Now there was Klara Grigorieva, who had challenged his marital promise. It had been done most stealthily. She’d started as many of his women had—bold and outrageous. But she’d got beneath his skin and stayed there with her stubborn streak and her determination. It wasn’t just that he loved her; she loved him. Which made tonight even more of a mystery. Who gave up the person they lo
ved?

  Footsteps sounded in the hall and Nikolay came alert. His lingering watch had paid off. The bastard had come. Amesbury knocked on her door. ‘Klara, open up,’ he whispered harshly when the door didn’t open immediately. He whispered again. Nikolay put his hand on the hilt of his dagger.

  Klara had been afraid tonight and now he saw the reason for it up close. Amesbury meant to force his way into her room, perhaps even on to her person. Amesbury would not hesitate to terrorise her in order to get what he wanted. Klara needed a champion. Nikolay stepped out of the shadows. ‘The lady is likely asleep and can’t hear you.’

  Amesbury turned from the door, a sneer on his face. ‘Are you an expert on Miss Grigorieva’s sleep patterns now?’ His lip curled. ‘Or are you hoping to send me away in order to take a try at the door yourself?’

  ‘If you are insinuating that I would make an unwanted visit to a lady’s boudoir and attempt to force my way in, then, no. That is not why I am here.’

  He would not dignify the Duke’s implications with a direct response. His fingers flexed around the dagger hilt. ‘I suggest you go back to your room and stay there. She was clearly not expecting you.’

  The Duke gave a cold smile as he stepped away from the door. ‘I don’t need a weapon to bring you down, Baklanov. Remember that the next time you try to play the knight-errant. I know what you are—a murderer of the Tsar’s cousin, a member of the Southern Union of Salvation, a man wanted for treason in his own country. I could have you sent back to Kuban in chains with a single word.’

  So Amesbury knew. How much had it cost him? That kind of information wasn’t cheap. Nikolay played with his dagger point. ‘I’d slit your throat before I allowed you to drag me anywhere.’ This was how they meant to blackmail him into the joining the revolt. No wonder Klara had warned him. Oh, God, no.

  A horrible thought came to him. Perhaps Amesbury hadn’t paid anyone at all for the information. Perhaps Klara had told him. Klara knew. He’d told her himself! Had she warned him out of guilt tonight? Was this why she’d said goodbye? Because she had no more use for him? She’d got what she wanted—what her father wanted—leverage. No wonder she’d told him to wait until the last minute to announce his decision. Had she warned him? Or had she betrayed him? And to think a few moments ago he’d been ready to admit that he loved her. His stomach churned as he faced down Amesbury, his mind replaying the evening through a different filter now.

  Amesbury gave him a nod. ‘I see my news holds some fascination for you. I’ll say goodnight and leave you to ponder it.’ Nikolay’s eyes tracked him down the corridor and out of view. He waited another half an hour to make sure the Duke didn’t return. Klara was safe for now. Surely, he had the wrong of it. Surely, Klara had not given his deepest secret over to Amesbury whom she despised. He would ask her first thing in the morning. He’d been so careful in withholding his trust. Now that she had it, how could he have been so wrong about her? He wasn’t. He couldn’t be. His heart depended on it.

  * * *

  Something was wrong. What had begun as a seed of worry last night was blossoming into full-blown concern. There was no chance to get near Klara in the morning. At first, Nikolay told himself it would have been this way regardless. There was dancing tonight, a mini-ball for the guests and neighbours, all done in a traditional Russian folk theme. She was busy coordinating it all as her father’s hostess. But as morning turned to afternoon and there was still no chance to sneak her away, Nikolay began to assume the worst. She had indeed ‘left’ him. His assumptions about last night’s final intimate moments affirmed what he had originally viewed as urgency had been desperation, a farewell. It was the desperation he focused on now as he dressed for the ball. Why had she broken with him? Why had she acted today as if he didn’t exist? In his gut, he felt there had to be something driving her decision other than just her fear of Amesbury’s threats. But what? If he couldn’t get near her, he couldn’t ask her.

  Nikolay pulled on a silk tunic, a red one this time, with elaborate embroidery on the chest placket. He belted it over his loose black Cossack trousers and stuck his ceremonial dagger in the sash. Everyone would be dressed in folk costume tonight and the dancing would be the dancing of the homeland. If he wasn’t so worried about Klara, he’d be looking forward to this. What if he had lost her? He’d not allowed himself to think such things today. It had been too soon for that conclusion. But now, with the day behind him, those thoughts crept back. She was his. He had made love to her, had confessed his soul to her and he was not ready to let her go or to believe the worst.

  The valet came to help with his toilette, but Nikolay sent him away. He would wear his hair loose tonight, over his shoulders. He was well aware that he looked the complete Cossack Prince like this: loose hair, native garb. It was done quite purposefully. Let Grigoriev see, let Amesbury see, let Klara see what he was in truth—a dangerous man who would fight for those he loved. At the last, he reached into the small leather box in the bureau and took out a sapphire ring set in a thick burnished gold band and slipped it on his third finger. Sapphire—the stone of truth and the apocalypse, the stone of protection.

  He always wore it into battle. It seemed fitting that he wore it tonight. Amesbury would laugh at such superstition. All the more reason to wear it. There were plenty of battles to fight tonight aside from Klara. He had not forgotten that by tomorrow an answer would be expected of him regarding the revolt. He had not forgotten either that declining the offer to join would not be met with acceptance. He could not be allowed to leave with their secrets. He would deal with that later. First, there was Klara. He would dance with her and in the privacy of the dance floor he would ask his questions and have his answers.

  Downstairs in the ballroom, Grigoriev had outdone himself with fiddlers, guitars and balalaika players. The atmosphere was festive from the folk music to the attire. All of the guests were turned out in traditional outfits; the men were in embroidered shirts and trousers like his, cinched in with wide belts, and finished with high boots; the women wore white blouses and colourfully stitched aprons. Some of the women even wore the traditional headdress, while others wore their hair in tight, braided coronets. In the niches lining the ballroom walls, blue Lomonosov vases were filled with red roses and dark blue stems of dendrobium. Out of habit he counted the flowers in each arrangement. All odd numbers of blooms in each vase. Good. No bad luck. Klara had remembered one of their lessons.

  Spirits were high as guests crowded on to the dance floor for khorovods. Nikolay prowled the perimeter, searching for Klara. He found her on the sidelines, dressed in a red skirt and a pretty, embroidered apron, hair pinned up in a sleek coronet. Even better, she was alone for the moment. He set a stealthy trajectory, careful not to be seen. If she was truly avoiding him, she would run before he could reach her.

  He came up behind her, a hand at her back to warn her before he whispered, ‘It’s not the same as the café, is it?’ He let his hand linger. In the press of guests no one would notice the little intimacy, no would notice the brief close of her eyes as if she were savouring this moment.

  ‘No, it’s not.’ Her voice was wistful. ‘This is too...’ she groped for the word ‘...staged?’ She sounded tired.

  ‘Shall we show them how it’s done?’ The musicians were transitioning into a polka, one of his favourite dances; fast and furious, it was for the bold dancer. ‘Are you ready to fly one more time?’ he murmured, already prepared to lead her on to the dance floor.

  ‘Nikolay, I cannot.’

  He’d not anticipated resistance. ‘What is it you’re not telling me, Klara?’

  She wouldn’t look at him. She kept her eyes on the dance floor. ‘Step away from me. Please. If you ever had any feeling for me at all, you will let me be. I warned you last night. Leave me alone.’

  The hell he would. He’d never left a woman in distress and there was distress etched in every cruel word she’d spo
ken. ‘Klara,’ he began. The crowd about them shifted and Amesbury stepped to Klara’s side, taking proprietary claim of her arm.

  ‘Klara, my dear, is there a problem? Is the Prince bothering you? You seem upset.’

  Nikolay fingered the hilt of his dagger. He’d be ‘bothering’ the Duke in a moment if the man didn’t take his hands off Klara.

  ‘We were just having a small disagreement,’ Klara managed.

  The Duke gave him a brief nod. ‘If you’ll excuse us then, Prince Baklanov, this is our dance.’

  Nikolay shot Klara a final look. If her eyes had pleaded for help, pleaded for intervention, he would have offered it even if he’d had to brawl in the ballroom. But her green gaze, which had sparked so often with mischief and life, was empty. She asked for nothing from him. He watched Amesbury lead her out on to the floor and put his hand at her waist. He felt explosively possessive. That should be him! He should be dancing with Klara. The litany that had sustained him all day returned; there was something wrong. But now he had to wonder—what if the only thing wrong was him? What if Klara had made her choice?

  * * *

  She had made her choice. She had known it would be hard, she had not known how it would feel—like a knife twisting in her gut every time she denied Nikolay and the biggest betrayal of them all was yet to come. Klara tried to lose herself in the speed of the dance, but the Duke held them to a more sedate pace. She could not fly, not really. She was a falcon in jesses, tethered to this man’s dictates. So that two other men might live. Surely she could make some peace with that, except when she glanced to the sidelines to see Nikolay staring hard at them, his dark eyes hooded while his mind worked. He was sorting through the puzzle of her. She knew the questions he’d be asking himself; why had she left him? What had happened? She prayed he would not guess. Amesbury would see him dead before Nikolay even saw it coming. Amesbury was stealthy like that, tricky. He would send thugs in the city, make it look like a pickpocket robbery gone bad. She was doing this for Nikolay, so that he might be safe from such treachery, so that he might have his riding school and the life he wanted.