The words had risen to her lips before she could call them back.
What an idiot she was to question this man as though he were a
servant.
Evidently, the king caught the insolence in her remark. His
beautiful lips were tight and his eyes were stern. “If you’re
wondering whether I did as you ordered me yesterday, the
answer is yes.”
“I did not mean to insult you, and I apologize for my words.
Only worry about Tzirah caused them.” The king did not seem
mollified by her apology. No, he had a heat about him, a
shimmering of puzzlement, exasperation, and something else
she could almost see in the air surrounding him, which he held
perfectly under control. The combination did something strange
to her. It made her wish to act badly in his presence.
“And you must also realize that if you had not heeded my
advice, Tzirah would have caused you trouble.”
He did not deign to answer her. Sera pushed herself back
against the carved headboard of the bed and pulled the covers
up to her chin, tense and wary. The Outlander’s gray gaze lit
upon her and took her in—all of her, not just her physical being.
He took his time standing silently in the door, as a predator
would watch his prey, waiting for the right moment to spring.
Sera suppressed a shiver. Part of her felt reckless and excited
by his presence. Part of her felt only fear. The man was not
what she expected, and in this terrible world, nothing unexpected
was good.
“The doctor who treated your wound is waiting to see you.
I expect that he will find you somewhat recovered from your
ordeal.” The king stepped away from the door and leaned back
against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest and looming
in spite of the distance between them.
“Perhaps you will tell him to come in on your way out.”
“I think not.”
“Your behavior, sir, is highly irregular, even for a king.”
The man merely raised a brow. “But that is the nicest thing
about being king in my country. One’s behavior is never
questioned.” Sera felt the Outlander’s gaze fix on the heat of
her blush as it surged upward from her chest to her neck to her
forehead. How dare he remain in her chamber during a medical
examination, as though he had a right to be there, as though he
owned her! Too weak to fight him, she turned her face away
and pretended interest in the vase of flowers on her bedside
table.
A small, round man with a cheerful countenance and hair
the most wonderful shade of white entered the room and smiled
at her. He carried a black bag, and by this, Sera knew he must
be the healer the king had mentioned.
The little man bustled over to the bed, took her hand, and
bent over it in a kind of bow that looked terribly formal and
confused her even more.
“Mademoiselle?” The healer gave her a soothing smile. “I
am Dr. Summers, and I am very pleased to see that you are
awake and in less pain this morning.”
While she tried again to ignore the proprietary concentration
emanating from the king, this Dr. Summers held her wrist
between his thumb and forefinger and consulted his pocket
watch. “Hmm . . . very nice, but still weaker than we would
wish.” He carefully unwrapped the bandage and checked the
wound. Sera glanced down at her arm and noticed that the slash
had been neatly stitched.
“You did that?” she asked.
“I did, last night when I arrived,” said the doctor.
In spite of the fact that this man, like every Outlander, had
little power to heal a wound, she was impressed with the work
he had done. The slash had been long and deep, she knew, and
there was no real swelling or heat at the wound’s site.
“Thank you,” she said. “You are a fine healer.”
“Very kind of you, my dear. However, you must help me
get you well. That means rest and quiet. By tonight, you must
eat meat. As much as you can be persuaded to eat. For the blood,
you see. To make more of it.”
“I understand, Dr. Summers.”
“Good. Until then, rest is the ticket. I am quite satisfied
with your progress, but I’ll remain just to make certain that you
are recovering according to schedule. That, and to take
advantage of the fine fishing His Majesty has offered me.” The
little man grinned over his shoulder at the king, whose fleeting
smile in response lightened the darkness in his expression. Then
it was gone, and this king was the same overwhelming force
against which she must pit her wits.
“If you need me for any reason, please tell the maidservant.
Do try to rest, Mademoiselle.” The plump little doctor gave her
an encouraging smile and left the room.
But the king remained. Although he stood immobile, he
again gave the impression of a large, dark cat, and she was the
cornered mouse.
She cleared her throat. “I am sure you have much to do this
morning. You must not let me take up so much of your valuable
time.”
He gave her a smile tinged with irony, and he did not move
from his place by the wall. “Not at all. Because of you,
Mademoiselle, I am on holiday. I have as much time to waste
as I wish.”
A manservant carrying a tea tray entered the room behind
him. The king gave a low order and the servant set down the
tray on a table beside her bed and bowed, departing.
The king poured out some steaming tea. After he handed
her the cup, he pulled up a large wing back chair and sat down.
He lounged back in the chair, crossing his booted legs at
the ankles and resting his chin on his steepled hands as he studied
her. His intense scrutiny made her feel like a troublesome puzzle.
His long, dark eyelashes fringed his eyes, hiding his thoughts
effectively. The flowered porcelain teacup shook slightly in her
hand. She put it down on the table, never taking her eyes from
the Outlander.
“All night I have been asking myself, who are you? A
woman who speaks three languages elegantly. A woman who
owns a horse more valuable than a king’s treasure. A Hill woman
with golden hair and skin so soft and fine you can see the veins
through it.”
He rose abruptly to his feet and walked to the window. The
sunlight played upon his neat black hair, turning it almost auburn
at the tips. “Maybe you’re a spy, but then, who sent you?
Certainly not Iman Hadar, for to pay you would have been a
waste of his money. I suspect he was in league with the
Brotherhood, and my death, not knowledge of my plans for the
future, was his purpose.” He began to pace, restless, it seemed
to Sera, as though needing to think aloud with his body as well
as his mind.
“And if you were a spy—French, or British—why sacrifice
yourself for me? My country would be weaker without me.”
She realized with a shock of recognition that he was now
spea
king in French. “Je ne suis pas une agente de Napoleon.”
He made no outward movement of surprise and slipped into
English. “Nor of the Prince Regent?”
“That libertine?” she scoffed, answering him in kind.
“Of course, were you indeed a spy, what better way to catch
me off guard than to save my life and admit to speaking—just
how many languages are at your disposal?”
“Eight. I have a small talent for mimicry.”
“Mimicry.” He raised his brows and slanted her a hint of a
smile. “Laurentia is a rich prize, as well as a southern entryway
to Russia. Perhaps it wouldn’t matter ultimately whether I or
some other ruled Laurentia. Napoleon’s forces, flush with victory
in Russia, would be formidable for anyone.”
The king swung around to face her so quickly, she almost
gasped. “Why did you throw yourself at the assassin? Why did
you take the knife meant for me?”
She shook her head. “How can you ask such a question?
All life is precious. I could do no other thing, even though I
wished to.”
He was looking at her now with the most comical
expression—disbelief at war with shock. He gave a bark of
laughter. “You’re either too good to be true, or the cleverest liar
I have yet met. You give me an example of behavior only a
saint would follow and then you tell me you didn’t wish to follow
it, yourself. Why not?”
She could only answer him honestly—there was no other
way she knew. “I wanted to escape that prison, and I could have
while they…But I couldn’t leave you unprotected. Even when
I told myself to go, I couldn’t.” Sera looked down at her hands,
unable to explain her actions even to her own satisfaction.
He studied her with that unflagging concentration that made
her want to run and hide in a corner.
“No, you couldn’t. Spy or unfortunate, I would like to thank
you properly, but I don’t even know your name.”
“Sera,” she said, giving him that much. “I don’t know your
name, either.”
“My name is Nicholas Rostov,” he said. “I don’t know
whether they informed you at the summer palace. I am king of
Laurentia.”
She folded her hands in her lap and looked up at him. “They
told me,” she said bitterly. “When they—they . . ..” The king
stared at her. His nostrils flared slightly, his eyes focused on her
with an intensity that seemed to burn. Then he gave her a brief,
curt nod.
“You need rest. I’ll return later. Perhaps by then you’ll be
ready to tell me just who you are, and what you were doing in
Jehanna that got you captured in the first place.”
As soon as Nicholas Rostov quit the room, Sera slumped
against the pillows, weak with relief. She was in a terrible state.
She had almost lied to this king in Iman Hadar’s palace when
she felt his body’s need for her. She could not lie, but she could
not tell the truth, either. To do so would be to endanger all of
the Hills. How could she hold strong against that man with his
piercing gray stare and his imperial frown? His rare smiles were
worse, tugging at her defenses. She must give him a little, but
not too much. She must reveal only what she had to. Sera shut
her eyes, but her thoughts were whirling too quickly to find
rest. What was she to do? How was she to find the thief? How
was she to get back home without a Hill cloak to mask her?
Why did she ever leave the safety of the Hills in the first place?
***
Nicholas leaned against the pasture fence and watched the
chestnut horse gallop in the near field. As Sera had promised
several days ago, the stallion was calm. He exhibited a rather
distant arrogance with the other mounts grazing near him, and
none of the Laurentian horses approached him. They seemed to
know he was far too fine for them.
With a bribe of apples in his jacket pocket, Nicholas leaped
the fence and approached the stallion. Wind Rider wheeled and
galloped away before he could get within twenty yards of the
horse.
“Wary fellow, aren’t you?” Nicholas left the treats on the
ground within the fence. Only when he left the field did Wind
Rider approach the little offering and eat.
Andre walked to his side, watching the stallion nibble at
the apples.
“Like horse, like rider,” said Nicholas.
“What do you mean?”
“Both are fearful and intensely private. Is she a spy or a
casualty of war, Andre? Where does she come from? Why was
she captured and sold? Who were her parents? I’ve been trying
to figure it out.” Indeed, these questions kept him awake the
first night at the dacha, watching her as she finally fell into a
peaceful sleep. Had it not been for the laudanum and its vivid,
drug-induced dreams, he would never have learned about the
demons haunting her.
He was a fool to take her home, to keep her in the palace
where she might endanger Laurentia.
He shook his head in bewilderment. “Why am I risking the
country’s welfare, eh?”
“Because if she’s a spy, you want to know her contacts and
sources,” Andre said. “And if she’s not, you want to protect
“Yes, I’ve thought of all that,” he said. “Whatever she is, I
owe her my life. I keep asking myself, why didn’t she run when
she had the chance? Certainly it wasn’t because of my amiable
temperament.”
“Come, now, Nikki. Surely you are not going to puzzle over
this little courtesan any longer. Although she is incredibly
beautiful.” Andre looked at him closely. “With all your other
ruminations, you have noticed that, have you not?”
“Naturally. I’m not totally oblivious to feminine charm.”
“Particularly when it’s displayed so generously.” Andre’s
lips curved in what could only be considered a smirk.
“Leave off,” muttered Nicholas.
“Rather protective, aren’t you? And short-tempered, to
boot,” Andre said as Nicholas turned away from him and began
to walk back to the dacha. “There’s only one solution for what
rides you, my friend, and I suggest you take it as soon as the
lady is recovered from her wound.”
“I don’t know that I can solve this puzzle in so short a time,”
Nicholas said. “The men I’m sending to gather information
won’t report back to me for a while.”
“I was speaking of a solution to the more obvious problem,
Nikki.” Andre’s face wore an uncustomary look of complete
seriousness. “Take your foundling to your bed as soon as
possible. Ease your need for her. Then let her go home, wherever
that is.”
“She deserves better,” said Nicholas. “And she’s more than
you think.”
“You really do have a bad case of it, my friend,” said Andre.
“No. Do you remember when we were eight, and we decided
to climb the old oak in the park?”
“Yes,
of course. And you said we couldn’t, that there was
something wrong. When I asked you why, you said you just
felt it. And then that great limb fell from the oak that very
afternoon. It was rotted clear through.” Andre rubbed his fingers
through his hair. “I thought then that to know such a thing before
it happened, you must have the Sight.”
“Indeed. I didn’t see it, Andre. I simply felt a strange prickle
at the back of my neck when I looked at that tree. The same one
I felt just before the messengers arrived at Oxford to tell me my
father was dead.” Nicholas kicked at the ground with the toe of
his boot. “I felt it the other night, when I held her on the long
trip from Jehanna. This time, it’s telling me to keep her. And I
must pay attention to it, until I know who she is, and why she’s
somehow mixed up with Laurentia’s welfare. Until I do, she
stays with me.”
Andre let out a low whistle. “This is very strange, Nikki.
And you’re certain this ‘prickle’ is in your neck and not another
part of your anatomy?”
“Go to hell,” Nicholas said, but he couldn’t keep his lips
from quirking upward.
Later that day in his rustic study, Nicholas nodded to a young
lieutenant who folded a sheet of paper and placed it carefully
inside his dark blue jacket. “I’ll start out at once, Your Majesty.”
“Very good, Carlsohnn. As soon as you receive any
information about Miss Sera, send word to Montanyard by
courier. Interview the families near the Hills, either in Jehanna
or in Beaureve. Young Oblomov has already left for the foothills
of Arkadia. And don’t neglect the nobility.”
Sera’s nature was too ladylike to indicate low station. There
might be a family frantically searching for her. But to own a
horse like that chestnut, to speak eight languages fluently, and
to instruct a king with cool confidence were the trademarks of
something more than just a chit from a noble family. Who the
hell was she?
The lieutenant saluted smartly and quit the room. Nicholas
walked to the oak wall lined with bookshelves. He picked up a
small figurine, a little Minoan earth goddess his father had
brought back to Laurentia after a state visit to Crete. He had
loved it as a boy, had felt the secret thrill of seeing a woman’s