Part 8 (2/2)
Not a single, blasted thing, she told herself. ”I suppose I can spare a few minutes.”
Before she knew it, she was being led to the small bench, his hand warm over hers.
The hovering fog still hung low and thick inside the garden walls, and since it was the morning after a ball, the lords and ladies of Sir Henry's house party would be abed until well after noon. And while there were servants about, most of them were busy with their morning ch.o.r.es-lighting fires in bedchambers, buffing boots, preparing food for the midday breakfast trays, ironing gowns, polis.h.i.+ng silver, and completing any of the dozens of things that had to be finished before the lords and ladies of the house awoke. So she and Alexsey wouldn't be seen here in the garden. No harm can come of a calm, polite chat.
They reached the small bench and Alexsey pulled out a kerchief to brush the dead leaves from the seat. ”After you.”
Bronwyn sat, neatly tucking her cloak about her.
The prince joined her, his knee brus.h.i.+ng hers and sending a quiver of awareness through her. His shoulders were broad and they couldn't both sit comfortably without him turning slightly to one side, his arm resting along the back of the bench.
Already breathless, and achingly aware of his arm resting so close to her shoulders, Bronwyn glanced at the gate. The garden wall was high, with green vines clinging to the rough cut stone. But the gate was only as tall as her waist and anyone could see over it. She wondered if they'd believe their eyes, seeing the prince sitting in the garden with her. But perhaps it wasn't such an odd match, after all.
Somehow when she was with Alexsey, she felt finer-taller, even. She wasn't sure if it was his admiring gaze, or the fact that she just felt so alive when he was nearby, but she couldn't help but feel . . . well, prettier. She rather liked that. It's good for me to spend time with him. And good for me to remember our kiss. No matter what happens, I'll have memories of our dance, of sitting in this garden, and of our kiss. Especially our kiss- ”I know what you are thinking about,” he announced, as if no one in the world might question him.
She lifted her brows. ”I doubt it.”
He merely smiled. ”You are thinking about our kiss, nyet?”
”Why would you think that?” She tried to keep the belligerent tone from her voice, but wasn't certain she succeeded. How does he know? ”I don't often think about it,” she lied.
”Yet I think of nothing else.” His eyes gleamed with warmth. ”I will kiss you again, little one, but I won't tell you when.”
”What? That is ridiculous. Why would you threaten to kiss me, and then not tell me when you plan on doing it?”
”Because it will add an element of surprise.”
”I don't like surprises.”
”You'll like this one.” He smiled in a way that made her want to slip into his lap and loop her arms about his neck. ”You should be prepared.”
”I'm prepared to refuse you. You don't get to decide when I am to be kissed.”
”Nyet, we will decide together.” He captured her hand and brushed his lips over her fingers, sending her a look from under his lashes. ”Perhaps soon. If the mood strikes, of course.”
The touch of his lips on her bare skin instantly sent her heart pounding, and Bronwyn found herself in the mood for a kiss much more quickly than she expected. Irritated with herself for reacting so quickly to him, she pulled her hand free and tucked it beneath her cloak. ”What brought you into the garden this morning?”
”You. I was with Viscount Strathmoor and he noticed you entering the gate. Naturally, I had to see why you were indeed sneaking into the castle through the kitchens.”
”I wasn't sneaking.”
”It looked like it to me. And knowing your questionable nature-”
”What?”
”I thought you might be bent upon some nefarious caper, but instead, I find you saving us all from hunger with a delivery of eggs and jams.”
Her lips quirked. ”I'm glad you appreciate my efforts, although you really should thank Mrs. Pitcairn instead. She is quite talented at coaxing our chickens to produce eggs, or we'd have none to share.”
”I shall make it my duty to do so.” He traced his fingers along the line of her cloak where it covered her leg. ”Tell me about Ackinnoull. It is your home, nyet?”
”I was born there, and my father before me, and his father before him, and-oh, it goes on and on. It has been in our family for a very long time. But to me, it is just home.”
”That is a good feeling, to be home.”
She thought about this, trying to ignore the tantalizing sensations his wandering finger on her knee was causing. ”Sometimes I feel more at home at my reading place.”
”Where I first met you in the woods?”
She nodded. The morning breeze puffed through the tree overhead and rained browned leaves upon their heads. She brushed some from her cloak.
”I like the woods, too.” He plucked a leaf from her hair and tossed it over his shoulder, turning toward her even more. ”Did you meet my grandmother at the ball last night?”
”The Grand d.u.c.h.ess Nikolaevna? No. I saw her from across the room, though. Mama pointed her out.”
”She is Romany. A Gypsy.”
Ah! That explained the prince's dark hair and exotic looks. ”Mama had heard that rumor, but didn't believe it.”
”It's true. My father was riding along the river in the fall, and he came upon my mother near the Romany camp. As soon as he saw her, he knew she was for him. So he married her.”
”Our royalty have far stricter rules about whom they can marry.”
”So did my country-but my father overcame every barrier so that my mother remained by his side. When I grew to be six or seven, I would stay with my grandmother and grandfather every winter, sharing their caravan at the Romany camp. My grandfather, Dyet Nikki, was the voivode, their king. Those were days filled with adventures. I would follow Dyet as he went about his duties, visiting the families, checking on the weak and the young, settling disputes, presiding over weddings, overseeing trades with local farmers. . . . When I was a child, I thought he was the wisest man in all the world.”
”Your father is a king. Doesn't he do the same things?”
”Some. But the kingdom is much larger, so he must administer through his council. He cannot meet all of his subjects face-to-face. He does not know their names. Does not know their troubles. Dyet Nikki knew the name of everyone in our k.u.mpania, whom they were related to, what troubles they'd faced in the past-everything.”
”What's a k.u.mpania?”
”Our Gypsy band. There are many bands but only one law, the Romano Zakono. It is not written down, but is pa.s.sed from generation to generation. Dyet Nikki knew the law and he taught it to me.”
”Because he wished you to a.s.sume leaders.h.i.+p of the Romany?”
”It was his wish, I think so-but it was not his decision to make. There is a council and they select the voivode for life.”
”Surely you can go to them, tell them how much you'd like to a.s.sume your grandfather's position?”
”Now that my grandfather is no longer alive, and no new voivode has been named, the council listens to one person and one person only: the phuri dai. Every k.u.mpania has one. She is an old woman, usually the oldest in the band. In this case, it is my Tata Natasha.”
”Your grandmother?” When he nodded, she noted a line of tightness about his mouth. ”I take it she doesn't wish you to become the viovode?”
”She withholds it from me, hoping to bend me to her will. Sadly for her, I am not made of soft lead, but steel. I do not bend.”
The sparkle of rebellion in his green eyes made Bronwyn feel braver, too. ”How can you become the leader of the Romany if you're a prince of Oxenburg?”
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