“You, there! Stop!”
Startled, Kenna whirled to see who’d called out.
The Grand Duchess Nikolaevna sat in a decorative side chair beside a large suit of armor outside the main sitting room. The old woman was dressed head to toe in black, a gold-knobbed cane clutched in her veined hands as she looked Kenna up and down. “Come, girl. I would speak with you.”
When Kenna didn’t move, the old lady scowled and tapped the cane on the marble floor. “Ti smatri! Did you not hear me? I said I would speak with you.”
Kenna hid a grimace and walked to the duchess, bobbing a quick curtsy. “I would be delighted for a tête-à-tête. Perhaps when I return, we can—”
“Nyet. I would talk now.” The old woman’s gaze narrowed on Kenna’s habit. “I do not recommend riding in this weather. It will snow.”
Kenna forced herself not to glance longingly at the door, and instead offered a tight smile. “Thank you for the warning, but the weather should hold off for another hour, which is all I require. I beg your pardon, but I’m surprised to find you—or anyone—up so early.”
“Old women never sleep. Besides—” The duchess’s black eyes traveled over Kenna. “—I have much curiosity about you.”
“About me? May I ask why?”
“Lord Rothesay is my grandson’s closest friend. I would not have him injured; it would upset my grandson greatly.”
Kenna stiffened. “I would never knowingly injure anyone, least of all Lord Rothesay.”
The old woman’s expression grew shrewd. “Ah. There is that word, nyet? ‘Knowingly.’ That’s what happened last night, isn’t it? You did not mean to, but you pinched Rothesay’s pride.”
Kenna’s face heated and she hurriedly dipped a curtsy. “Pardon me, your grace, but I must go.” She turned back toward the door.
She’d just reached it when the duchess called out, “Rothesay is waiting for you outside.”
Kenna looked down where her gloved hand rested on the large brass knob. He cannot be waiting; no one knew of my plans this morning. But it was obvious the duchess knew, so . . .
Kenna stifled a sigh and peered out the tall windows beside the huge oaken door, moving the thick curtain to one side. Outside, wearing a heavy wool coat and cloak to ward off the cold, Rothesay stood talking to the prince. Her gaze flickered over the prince, his classical handsomeness complemented by the military cut of his black coat, tight breeches, and shiny boots. He was the embodiment of male beauty.
Most women would never look past him, but her gaze was irrevocably drawn back to the duke, and there it lingered. Tall, dark, broad-shouldered, his hair ruffled by the wind, Rothesay managed to appear to advantage even beside the prince. The duke’s face was deeply lined, less refined, his nose bolder, his brow wider, but he exuded confidence and power.
“See?” the duchess asked. “He is waiting to escort you to your father’s.”
Kenna released the curtain. “How did you know I’d decided to visit my father? I didn’t tell a soul, except for my maid this morning.”
“Last night, I came downstairs and requested a glass of warm milk.” The duchess made a face. “That shilly-shally they call a maid was to bring me one after the ball, but she left it too early and when I reached my room, the milk was cold and disgusting. I brought it down and made one of the footmen bring me a warm glass. While I was waiting in the sitting room, I heard you come downstairs and order your horse to be waiting at seven.”
“And you mentioned it to Rothesay.”
“Perhaps. He came with my grandson to escort me back to my chamber. I may have mentioned it . . . I cannot remember.”
Kenna vaguely remembered that the door to the small sitting room had been open, but it had been so late, she’d assumed it was empty. “I see.”
The duchess sniffed. “People don’t think I notice things, being older than most mountains, but I’m not dead yet.”
“I never thought you to be dead, your grace. Far from it.” Sighing, she turned from the window and took a few steps into the center of the huge foyer. Perhaps she could leave through the kitchens and make her way to the stables and have another horse saddled to—
“Bidnyahshaka. You didn’t expect to see him this morning, did you?” The shrewd black eyes locked on Kenna’s face. “When he discovered you’d asked for a horse to be saddled, he thought you were going to visit your father.”
“So I am,” Kenna answered honestly. “But I must go alone. Father . . . he is not an easy man.”
“Rothesay said much the same. It is why he was determined to go with you.”
Irritation simmered through Kenna. Rothesay had said very little to her last night, merely helping her to her feet after their fall and then giving her a curt bow before striding in the opposite direction.
She supposed he thought he was being noble. Had he stayed by her side, the wags would have wagged harder. But still . . . He’d just walked away. Left her as if it were easy. Left me as if he couldn’t wait to be free from my presence.
The memory stung, salt in a very real wound.
She tugged her cloak about her shoulders and fastened it under her chin. It was better to face the duke; avoiding him would only mean another meeting later. “Rothesay will not be escorting me.”
The old woman cackled. “Send him back inside, then. I’ve a mind to speak to him myself.”
“I’m sure he’d have more to say to you than to me, your grace. If you will excuse me, I must go.”
The black eyes narrowed. “You must, eh? Humph. I wonder if Rothesay would like to know that embrace was not a mistake? That you planned to be mistaken for Lady Perth all along?”
Kenna froze, her heart pounding in her ears. After a long moment, she said calmly, “I’m sure you are mistaken. Good morning, your grace.”
With that, she turned on her heel and went outside.
♦ ♦ ♦
Nik rubbed his arms and settled his chin deeper into his muffler. “Even by hell-iced-over standards, it’s cold. Scotland makes snowy Oxenburg seem warm.”
A stiff wind swirled into the courtyard and Marcus held his hat in place and hunched against the gust, his breath puffing white in the cold air. He glanced sourly at the sky. “It’s going to snow. I can taste it. This whole thing is a bloody mess. Why, oh why, dinna I wait for her to speak before I kissed her?”
Nik shrugged. “It was an understandable mistake. Both Lady Montrose and Lady Perth were wearing similar costumes—it could have happened to anyone.”
“It could have, but it dinna,” Marcus returned glumly. “It happened to me.”
“Da. But bozhy moj, the room was so dark! It’s a wonder you didn’t kiss old Lady Durham as well, for she was dressed as a swan, too.”
Truthfully, what irked Marcus the most was his reaction. The second his lips had touched Kenna’s, he’d known who she was. He should have never kissed her that second—or third—time, but he hadn’t been able to stop himself. Why? Why hadn’t he turned on his heel and left her standing where he’d found her? Instead, he’d yanked her to him like a drowning man would clutch a rope.
“What has the lovely Lady Montrose to say about the incident?” Nik asked.
“Nothing.” Which worried him. Of course, they’d scarcely had a moment to speak, as they’d been surrounded by people every second since the incident. It was one reason he’d decided to ride with her to her father’s, even though he was certain she was on a fool’s errand. The Earl of Galloway was a coldhearted stickler and would rather burn at the stake than unbend himself to help another person, even his only daughter. But perhaps Marcus wasn’t giving the old man his due; perhaps the earl cared more about Kenna than he showed.
Nik shook his head and sighed, his breath puffing white. “All of this over a simple kiss. I find the rules of your country archaic.”
“So do I, but there is nae changing them. Lady Montrose and I were caught in a compromising position, which could lead to talk. Once such talk begins, if
it is nae silenced quickly it could cause her ruin, or at least much embarrassment.”
“And you?”
Marcus shrugged. “I would be looked at with a disapproving eye for a while, and some mothers might hide their daughters, but nae for long. I’ve a title and some wealth. Society is lenient on well off, unmarried men and unrelenting on similarly placed females.”
“So this effort is for her sake.” Nik shook his head. “In Oxenburg, if this were to happen, you would pay a bride price to Lady Montrose and her honor would be restored, your penance accepted, and the event quickly forgotten.”
“I hope Scotland becomes so enlightened. But until then, I must do what I can to alleviate this wretched error.”
“I hope Lady Montrose’s father will help.”
“So does she,” Marcus said. Galloway had never approved of him, which still rankled after all these years. Now that Marcus had some distance from the painful events that had led up to his and Kenna’s broken engagement, he placed some of the blame squarely on the earl’s narrow shoulders.
The door opened and Kenna appeared. Her formfitting habit accentuated her curvaceous figure, a long cape fluttering from her shoulders as she marched down the steps as if ready for battle. Her cheeks were rapidly pinkening from the cold, her dark brown hair pinned to no avail against the wind, as already several curls had escaped and now caressed her neck and forehead.
Marcus found himself fighting a twinge of regret. For what, he didn’t know. Even after all these years, she looks as young and innocent as the day I met her.
“So, so lovely,” Nik breathed.
Marcus forced himself not to glare at Nik. “She’s well enough.”
Nik laughed and sent him a side-glance. “Every time you look at her, you appear irritated.”
“Because I am,” he replied sourly. “Just look at this situation I’m in now, because of her.” And my own damned reactions. He had to shoulder some of the blame, if not most of it.
“Hmm. I wonder if there is another cause for your irritation. Something you don’t wish to face. Say, for example, the loss of a betrothed that has caused deep, grievous wounds to your heart and—”
“Och, dinna romanticize a long-dead relationship. Kenna and I said our good-byes years ago. Neither of us wishes to return to that path.”
Though, to be fair, he supposed that there was some truth to what Nik said: no one could leave an engagement without feeling something. It was only normal to carry a scar. After all, they’d been at an impressionable and romantic age when they’d parted. But his angst had been due to his youth and impressionability rather than real love. Real love doesn’t stop existing when faced with a hurdle, so it was never true love.
When he saw Kenna now he felt something, of course, but it was no longer agony. Now he felt only a faint, persistent . . . pinch. And love is not just a “pinch.”
As Kenna drew near, Marcus could tell from the set of her mouth and her exasperated look that she was displeased to find them there.
Unaware of the telltale signs, Nik stepped into Kenna’s path and bowed. “Lady Montrose, it is a pleasure to finally meet you.”
Kenna looked anything but pleased as she slid to a halt but, after a brief pause, she dipped an abrupt curtsy. “Thank you, your highness. I already know of you from the gossips. I believe you are a friend of his grace’s.” Her gaze flickered to Marcus and then away.
“I do not listen to the gossips.” Nik’s bold gaze swept her from head to toe. “Lady Montrose, may I say you look lovely today?”
Marcus fought an absurd desire to tell Nik to stop making a fool of himself. Nik will flirt; it is his way. But he never means anything by it. Or hasn’t so far.
Kenna had flushed at Nik’s obvious admiration, a feat indeed, as the cold had already brightened her cheeks to a cheery pink. “Thank you, your highness. It was kind of you both to come to see me off, although”—her voice was stiff, challenging—“it was most unnecessary.”
“I dinna come to see you off,” Marcus said bluntly. “My horse is saddled and standing beside yours. I’m coming with you.”
“You will do no such thing.” Kenna’s feet were now planted a bit apart, one hand resting on her hip, as if she stood in a strong wind. “I’m perfectly able to ride by myself a bare half hour.”
Och, I know what that pugnacious stance means. I know all too well. He crossed his arms and rocked back on his heels. “Withoot a groom, I noticed.”
Her lips thinned. “Neither you nor a groom are needed. I’m going to see my father. ’Tis better I do so alone.”
“Fine. Go visit your father, but I am traveling with you. ’Tis nae a safe trail.”
She stiffened. “You don’t know which trail I was planning on taking.”
“The one by the mill, which is shorter. ’Twould be safer if you took the main road.”
Her brows snapped low with irritation. “And longer! Almost twice the length of time.”
“But safer,” he repeated stubbornly.
After a frustrated silence, she shrugged. “Fine. I agree: the main road is the safest route.”
The wind buffeted them anew, sending skirts and cloaks and coattails alike flapping wildly in the cold. Kenna shivered and burrowed her chin, tugging her cloak more tightly about her.
Marcus noted the firm set of her chin and he swallowed a sigh. “Fine, fine. Will you promise to use caution and avoid dangers?”
“Of course,” she snapped, irritation clear in her stiff form. “I’m a cautious person.”
“If it were warmer, I’d debate that with you, but ’tis cold through and through, so off with you.”
She eyed him suspiciously. “And what will you do while I’m gone?”
“Have breakfast. Play billiards with the prince, perhaps. We might even sample Stormont’s whiskey. And we will await your return.”
“Very good.” She inclined her head, as unthinkingly dismissive as a queen, and then turned toward her horse.
Nik stepped forward, his hands raised to help her onto the horse. Yet somehow, without even realizing he was going to do it, Marcus reached her first. His hands sank through her thick cloak and tightened about her waist as, with an effortless lift, he set her into the saddle.
Kenna’s eyes widened in surprise as she gripped his shoulders for balance until the pommel was close enough to grab. The second she was seated, he withdrew his hands and stepped away.
Although Kenna was covered in layers and layers of clothing and his hands were covered in thick, fur-lined gloves, that touch hummed through him, warming him despite the frosty air. Bloody hell, what is it about her?
She turned the horse toward the drive. “Good day, then. I will see you both when I return.” With that, she touched her heels to her horse’s sides and rode down the long drive, her cape fluttering about her, the long skirts of her riding habit flowing.
Nik came to stand beside Marcus. “It’s a long ride.”
“Aye.”
They were quiet another moment before Nik asked, “Does it truly take twice as long if she takes the main road?”
“ ’Tis ten miles and then some. The mill path follows the river and is only two miles.” A snowflake landed on his sleeve. “She willna take the road.”
Nik turned a surprised glanced to Marcus. “But she promised.”
“This is Lady Montrose. She only said ’twould be the wiser route; she never agreed to take it.”
The prince blinked. “She didn’t, did she? And yet you didn’t challenge her about it.”
Marcus shrugged. “I dinna wish to stand here in the icy cold and argue for naught. She will do what she will do.”
Nik watched Kenna for a long moment. “I like this woman more for her spirit.”
Marcus sent his friend a hard look. “ ’Tis dangerous to take an auld trail one hasn’t ridden upon in years, especially alone, and in the face of possible snow. She is foolish to even—Ah! There she goes.”
He and Nik watched as Ken
na turned off the drive well before the main road and set her horse into a trot. Soon she was loping out of sight, lost among the trees.
Nik broke the silence. “I don’t think she can see you now.”
Marcus nodded to a groomsman. “My horse, please.” A moment later, he was in the saddle. “I shall return in a few hours.”
“I hope your journey is successful and that you meet your destiny. Or rather, that she meets you.”
“ ’Tis nae destiny I’m chasing, but a woman too stubborn for her own good. One you go toward, the other you run from.”
“And when they are the same?”
“In this instance, they are nae. Rest assured, I will see you by lunch.” Marcus turned his horse and galloped away.
Nik watched as he disappeared into the woods where Lady Montrose had last been seen. “Da, my friend, but whether you wish to admit it or not, she may be your destiny yet.”
Chapter Three
Snow began falling before Kenna was even five minutes down the trail. The small flakes melted as soon as they hit her cheeks and chin, dripping down her face and dampening the neck of her heavy wool cloak. She wiped her face with the end of her muffler but it didn’t help, for the wool was already icy and wet. Shivering, she wished she dared go faster, but it would be madness to do so. Marcus had been right about the trail, blast it all. It was in sad shape indeed. Here and there large branches blocked the way, while thick shrubberies hid the less rocky portions until the path was almost impossible to follow. She had to pick along, careful that her horse, a restive and prancy animal, didn’t step into a hidden hole and send them both tumbling.
She hated it when she was wrong. But she really, really hated it when Marcus was right.