The Princess and the Rogue

by Kate Bateman

  She adjusted the reins as he mounted his stallion with a fluid movement that spoke of endless familiarity, and they urged the horses out into the mews yard. Wolff watched her for a moment to see how she handled her mount then led on, apparently satisfied.

  “Stay behind me. You’re dressed as a groom. You must act as one. If anyone sees you, they’ll assume you’re exercising the grey.”

  Anya nodded meekly, unwilling to do anything to make him change his mind.

  “We’ll go to St. James’s Park, it’s closest.”

  Within minutes, they rode through the gated east entrance of the park and started along one of the tree-lined paths designated for riding. As expected, the place was almost deserted.

  “We can’t stay long. This place is dangerous at night, no matter how genteel it appears in the daytime. It’s a notorious haunt for prostitutes.”

  “I thought the gates were locked at night?”

  “They are. But it’s estimated there are over seven thousand keys in private possession, so it might as well be left open.”

  She brought her mount level with his and glanced up at the sky. “It smells like it’s going to snow.”

  He shot her an amused glance. “You can smell impending snowfall?”

  “Of course! You can sense it in the air.” She shrugged. “Perhaps it’s a Russian thing. We’re clearly experts. Just as no two snowflakes are alike, so no two snowfalls are alike. There’s wet snow. Slushy snow. Dry, powdery snow. Snow that’s perfect for making snowballs. We have at least four different words for a snowstorm. Metel is wind-driven snow. V’yuga is a common literary term. Buran is a regional word, used in Siberia. And Purga is more like a blizzard.”

  He shook his head with a chuckle. “Well, you’re not likely to see a blizzard here in England. The most we usually get is a light dusting. Winters used to be much colder a century ago, so I’m told. The Thames regularly froze over, and each time it did, a Frost Fair would be held on the ice. All kinds of stalls would pop up, with tradesmen selling everything from spiced ale to gingerbread and roast oxen.”

  “It sounds wonderful.”

  “The last one was two years ago. I was off fighting in Portugal, but Dorothea said they led an elephant out by Blackfriars Bridge to prove the thickness of the ice.”

  “I would have loved to see that. We’re so used to frozen rivers in Russia, we never do exciting things like that. I suppose the novelty has worn off. Still, they say it was the harshness of our winter that defeated Napoleon when he invaded with his Grande Armée. He was beaten by General January and General February.”

  Anya’s smile faded as she recalled the grim statistics that had been reported in the news sheets at the time. “I heard he lost hundreds of thousands of men on that campaign.”

  “He did indeed,” Wolff said. “Poor bastards. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone, even the enemy. I’d rather be shot than freeze to death.”

  Anya’s chest tightened at the memory of Dmitri. She supposed she should take some slight comfort from the fact that his death had been relatively quick.

  They rode on in companionable silence as the shadows lengthened. Anya took a deep breath, glad of the fresh air despite the chill, and cast around for a less depressing subject. Wolff probably had hundreds of unpleasant memories from the war. No need to dwell on them.

  “I’m translating a book of Russian fairy tales for the dowager duchess,” she volunteered. Her breath made a dragon’s breath white puff in the cold air.

  “Do you have a favorite?”

  “Of course. The story of the ice maiden Snegurochka, a beautiful girl made out of snow. Sneg is the Russian word for snow. She’s always described as wearing a long silver-blue robe edged with arctic fox fur, and a crown made of snowflakes.”

  “You have a cloak like that.”

  “Yes.” She’d forgotten his unnatural perceptiveness. “It, ah, used to belong to the princess. She gave it to me.”

  “So what did this ice maiden do?”

  “She’s the daughter of Spring the Beauty and Ded Moroz, old Father Frost. She was immortal, but lonely, and she longed for the companionship of humans. She used to spy on every human she could find, and in time, she fell in love with a shepherd boy named Lel.”

  “Of course she did.” His tone was dry. “A girl can’t always find a titled, moneyed prince to fall in love with.”

  Anya glanced sideways at him and felt her heart turn over in her chest, despite his cynicism. In the lengthening shadows, he embodied masculine grace and strength. He was exactly the kind of human a foolish immortal would fall in love with.

  She cleared her throat. “There are several versions of the story. In some tales, the very act of falling in love warms Snegurochka’s heart so much that she melts and disappears in a puff of water vapor.”

  Wolff snorted. “That’s unfortunate. A cautionary tale for avoiding romantic entanglements, then.”

  “But another ending has it that falling in love does not kill the princess,” Anya continued. “Instead, she falls into a deep decline because she knows she can never be with her mortal love. Her mother, Spring, asks whether she would forfeit her immortality to be with Lel, and she answers without hesitation, ‘Of course! I’d rather live a short and happy life with Lel than spend eternity without him.’ Seeing the depth of her daughter’s love, Spring grants Snegurochka her wish. The Snow Maiden becomes mortal and marries her shepherd, and they have a long and happy life together.”

  “She gave up her privileged position for love?” Wolff raised his brows. “No wonder it’s a fairy tale. Which ending do you prefer?”

  Anya wrinkled her nose. “I suppose the first one’s the most realistic. Love certainly has the power to destroy those unlucky enough to encounter it.”

  Apart from Elizaveta, all the people she’d ever loved had left her; her parents of illness, Dmitri from war. Her heart still felt bruised. It made sense to enclose it in a layer of ice so thick, it could never be melted. They’d called her the ice princess back in Russia, because she’d kept most of her suitors at a frigid, polite distance. She hadn’t minded the sobriquet.

  “You seem a little young for such a cynical outlook.”

  Anya shrugged. “I’d like to believe in the second ending. One should always hold out hope, after all.” She risked another glance at Wolff, certain he would be mocking her, but his face was impossible to read.

  They’d reached the edge of a large pond. Several swans and ducks floated serenely on the surface, but Anya squinted at a large, unfamiliar bird with a long yellow beak. “What is that?”

  Wolff’s teeth flashed white as he smiled. “Have you never seen one? It’s a pelican. They’re not native to these shores. In fact, I believe one of your countrymen was responsible for it being here.”

  “How so?”

  “According to legend, some Russian ambassador presented King Charles the second with a pair of pelicans back in the 1600s. Those birds there are the descendants of that original pair. Occasionally one creates havoc by pouncing on a passing pigeon and swallowing it whole.”

  “Oh dear! I suppose that might strain diplomatic relations between our two countries. At least the ambassador didn’t give King Charles a white elephant to bankrupt him.”

  Wolff’s amused gaze flicked over her, and she immediately felt self-conscious. She was sure her nose was pink with cold. He, in contrast, looked as handsome as ever. His lips didn’t look pinched, they looked sinfully tempting. Would they feel cool beneath her own? Or warm?

  He cleared his throat. “We should get back to the Tricorn. I’m going to need a glass of brandy to warm me up.”

  Anya gathered her scrambled thoughts. “Do you find it cold here, after the heat of Portugal and Spain?”

  He tilted his head, considering. “The heat was nice. But I’d still rather be here, without bullets flying at me. Better cold and alive than warm and dead.”

  She nodded. Better an impoverished companion than a princess without options
too.

  “The dowager duchess said you’d lost your hearing during the war,” she said carefully. “But you don’t seem to have any particular difficulty.”

  He shrugged, an elegant lift of his shoulders that reminded her of the physical power banked in his frame. “A canon blast at Waterloo. It only affected my left ear, thankfully. Sometimes I have to angle my head a little when it’s particularly windy or there’s a lot of chatter, but it’s not a great inconvenience. It’s quite useful at parties, actually. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve literally turned a deaf ear to some gossiping harpy or boring politician.”

  He sent her a teasing smile that knotted her stomach. “Remember that when you’re whispering sweet nothings to me, Miss Brown. Right side only, if you please.”

  Anya straightened in the saddle and sent him a haughty look. “There will be no whispering, Lord Mowbray. Sweet or otherwise.” She turned the grey and kicked it to a trot.

  His deep chuckle echoed after her.

  Chapter 19.

  It was dark by the time they got back to the Tricorn. Mickey must have been watching for them, because he came out and took the horses.

  “Delivery came from the wine merchants, sir. I’ve placed it in the study. There’s a nice fire in there too.”

  “Thank you, Mickey.”

  Wolff strode inside. Anya followed him into the burgundy salon and went straight to the fire to warm her icy hands. They tingled painfully with the returning circulation. A wooden crate, stamped in Cyrillic, had been placed on the sideboard.

  “Vodka!” Anya read in delight.

  Wolff lifted the lid to reveal a dozen bottles of clear liquid nestling in the straw-filled interior. “I’ve no idea if it’s any good or not. I have far more experience with brandy.”

  “I know a little.”

  “You?”

  His tone was pure skepticism, and Anya smiled to herself. Her family owned an entire vodka distillery back in St. Petersburg. She knew the manufacturing process from field to crate. Not that she’d admit that to him.

  She shrugged. “In Russia, everyone drinks it. Wine made from grapes is so expensive that only aristocrats can afford it, but vodka’s available everywhere. It’s called ‘bread wine’ because it’s made from wheat, rye, or barley. And sometimes ‘burning wine’ because it makes you feel like your throat and stomach are on fire.”

  She sent him a challenging look. “I’ve tasted the very good and the very bad. I can certainly tell you if it’s good enough to serve to your guests.”

  He pulled forward two cut glass tumblers, opened a bottle, and poured a thimbleful of liquid into each glass. Anya only just refrained from scoffing at his frugality.

  “Any host who doesn’t offer plenty of drink is considered unfriendly,” she scolded. “And not emptying your glass is a sign of disrespect.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. We Russians take our vodka very seriously. There are rules for everything. You should always pour for others before yourself, and you should never pour a single shot just for you.” She took the glass he offered with a smile. “It is never sipped, but downed in one gulp, ice-cold.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind,” he said dryly. “Anything else I should know?”

  She lifted her glass and took a tentative sniff. “It should be flavorless and odorless.”

  He sniffed at his own glass. “So far, so good.”

  “Most importantly, vodka is never, ever drunk without a reason.” She sent him a stern look. “An everyday dinner in Russia is not accompanied by vodka the way an everyday dinner in France or England comes with a glass of wine. Russians only drink when there’s an ‘occasion.’ Conveniently, we find something to celebrate in almost everything.” She gave an impish chuckle as she listed the items on her fingers. “Weddings, funerals, the birth of a child, signing a business contract, religious holidays, a successful harvest. All perfectly appropriate reasons to drink.”

  “Good God,” Wolff said with a choked laugh. “It’s a wonder any of you are ever sober. So, what shall we drink to?”

  Anya tilted her head. “The first toast, traditionally, is ‘to our meeting.’”

  “Very well.”

  They both lifted their glasses and swallowed the contents, and she gasped as the liquid stole her breath. Warmth burned down her throat and made her eyes water. Wolff lifted his brows at her in silent demand for her verdict.

  “That is very good vodka,” she said truthfully. She held her glass forward again. “Our next toast should be to our families.”

  He poured another inch into her glass and refilled his own. “Our families.”

  They both drank.

  Anya quashed a twinge of grief. She didn’t have any close family left. The loss of Dmitri was like a dull ache that resurfaced at the most unexpected of moments. But she must not get maudlin. She still had dear friends in Elizaveta, Charlotte, and the dowager. They were like family too.

  “The next is to our health.” She offered her glass again and Wolff, after a slight hesitation, refilled it. “Za zdarovje,” she said solemnly.

  He matched her drink, and Anya let out a deep sigh. She’d forgotten this taste of her homeland. It was certainly doing its job of warming her up. Her stomach felt as if it were glowing, and her senses were tingling pleasantly.

  “Of course, the more eloquently you can express the occasion, the more it confirms that it’s special. For example, my brother always used to say, ‘May we have as much sorrow as drops of vodka left in our glasses.’” She sent Wolff a contented smile. “That’s nice, don’t you think?”

  “It is.” He carried the bottle over to one of the chairs positioned by the fire. “Come, sit down.”

  He sat, but Anya ignored the other chair. Instead, she sank to the floor, grateful she still wore breeches. They allowed much better freedom of movement than skirts. She raised one knee and leaned back against the front of the chair with a happy sigh.

  Wolff lifted the bottle and sent her a questioning glance. She offered forward her glass.

  “So what’s your favorite toast?”

  She raised her glass and met his eyes. “To tables breaking of abundance and beds breaking of love.” She tipped her head back and drank.

  He downed his own shot. “An excellent sentiment. Might I propose one more?”

  “Go ahead.”

  He leaned forward and his hand was slightly unsteady when he poured. Or perhaps it was her hand that was swaying? Either way, a splash of vodka trickled onto her wrist.

  “Oops!” Anya chased the drop around her hand. She caught it on her tongue and turned laughing eyes to Wolff to share the silly moment, but the naked hunger in his gaze made her levity vanish like woodsmoke. A swirl of excitement replaced it. His expression was ardent, his gaze burning. He looked like he wanted to gobble her up. Heat flashed across her skin.

  “What was your toast?” she managed hoarsely.

  “To friendship.”

  A knot of emotion caught in her throat. “Are we friends, my lord?”

  “We’re certainly not enemies.”

  Anya tossed back the vodka and rested her head against the seat of the chair. The combination of the warm fire and the alcohol was conspiring to make her drowsy and languid. The room was starting to spin. “Maybe you’re trying to get me so drunk I’ll spill all my secrets? In vino veritas, and all that.”

  “Maybe,” he agreed pleasantly. “Is it working?”

  “A little.” Anya smiled. She was, in fact, feeling wonderfully informal. The only person she’d ever been this relaxed with before was Dmitri. A bittersweet pang of memory assailed her as she remembered the way they used to lounge about on the floor like puppies when they were younger, reading in front of the fire. The feelings she was having toward Wolff, however, were decidedly unsisterly.

  “Don’t get too close to the fire, Ice Princess,” he murmured. “You might melt.”

  Her heart missed a beat. He couldn’t possibly know how close tha
t teasing nickname was to the truth.

  “Hic!”

  She clapped her hand over her mouth but couldn’t stop another involuntary squeak escaping. “Hic.”

  Wolff’s chuckle filled the space between them. “You appear to have hiccups, Miss Brown.”

  “So it would seem.”

  “Do you Russians have rules for those too?” he teased.

  Anya glared at him, but her chiding was ruined by another undignified hiccup. “Hic! Yes we do, actually. If you have hiccups, it means someone is thinking of you. The fastest way to—hic!—get rid of them is to start naming people. If they stop at a certain name, that person was the one thinking of you.”

  “You’d best start naming people, then.”

  “Hic!” Anya frowned in exasperation. “Very well. The dowager duchess.”

  They waited.

  “Hic! No, not her. Elizaveta?”

  She held her breath. Three seconds passed. “Hic! Not her either.”

  Anya bit her lip. Wolff’s gaze dropped to her mouth and the hungry, sleepy expression reappeared.

  She pressed her lips together. “Vasili Petrov?”

  His expression darkened. A muscle ticked in the side of his jaw, and something dangerous flared in his eyes. He glared at her as long moments ticked by, almost daring her to make a sound.

  “Hic.”

  Anya let out a relieved breath, even though it was only a silly game. She didn’t want Vasili thinking of her, ever.

  Wolff leaned forward in his chair, and she sucked in an unsteady breath as he continued to stare at her. “Sebastien Wolff,” he prompted softly.

  “Sebastien Wolff,” she echoed.

  The silence stretched. And held.

  Her eyes widened. “It worked! You’re thinking of me! What are you thinking?”

  He set down his glass with quiet deliberation. “I’m thinking about kissing you.”

  Her pulse was rushing in her ears, desire swirling through her bloodstream. This was a test, a battle of wills to see who would capitulate first. Well, it would not be her. She was thinking about kissing him too.