of grass.
“MacDonald. Of course.” His gaze raked her face once more.
He was so close, his foot brushing hers, and so large, filling up the space about them until she felt encompassed, warm . . . and breathlessly excited. Such feelings meant nothing, of course. The mere thought of a possible flirtation was heady stuff after so many months alone with her small group of widows in the woods. She wished she could act upon that longing, if only for a few moments. Of course, dressed as she was, she doubted he felt the same—and she had to smile,thinking of how he might react if plain, dowdy Miss MacDonald pulled him into a corner for a passionate kiss.
A quick glance around the room told her she wasn’t the only one thinking such a thing. Every gaze in the room seemed to find the prince, dart away, and then return to linger. And why wouldn’t they stare? He looked masculine, deadly, and . . . something else. Something that made every woman in the room watch him with longing, and every man send concerned looks his way. It’s as if he entices the women, and the men — seeing his effect — are threatened, but dare not confront him.
She didn’t blame them. A raw, restless power sat on his broad shoulders, shimmered in his green eyes, and rippled through his muscled arms.
He smiled faintly, and she realized she hadn’t said a word in response to his question. “I’m sorry, but I was distracted by your uniform. Are you a guard?” Perhaps that would get him to admit to his birthright.
“I am a soldier, Miss MacDonald.” He spoke simply, with a quiet, firm pride.
“What kind of soldier are you?”
“A busy one.” He gave her an impatient look. “I have answered your questions, so now you will answer mine.”
She stiffened at his preemptory tone. He might not admit to being a prince, but she was beginning to suspect he never stopped acting like one.
He glanced past her to the refreshment table. “What other sweets would your mother like?”
“Oh. I’m sure I have enough.” She patted her heavy pockets.
“But you were admiring these pastries when I arrived, so I’m determined you shall have them.” He pulled a kerchief from his pocket and placed several almond pastries in it. Then he wrapped them up and handed them to her, a smile in his green eyes. “Now they will not stain your pocket.”
She looked at him with surprise, unable to frame a coherent thought. “That is verrah kind of you.”
“It is nothing—but you should tuck them away before someone sees.” He bent closer, his voice low and intimate, tracing over her like warm hands. “Not everyone is as understanding of thievery as I am.”
She blinked up at him, and in that instant, she realized he knew exactly who she was. “ Oh! You’ve been teasing me this entire time!”
“ Da . But do not worry, dorogaya moya . You are safe. I will tell no one you are not this Miss MacDonald.”
Her relief was quickly followed by a flash of irritation. “How did you know?”
“Who else would sneak into the earl’s household and steal food rather than priceless treasures? Only you.” He captured her hand, turned it palm up in his, and dusted the remaining sugar from her fingertips.
She tried to still her heart and snuck a glance at the large ornate clock against one wall. Almost ten. “Thank you for your kindness, but I must go.”
“Not yet.” He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “Wherever you need to go, I will go with you.”
She looked down where her fingers rested on hiscoat sleeve. The brushed wool was soft and fine, yet it did little to disguise the powerful arm under it. Never had she touched a more muscular, rock-hard arm. Even more surprising was the heat that radiated through the cloth. His warmth made her yearn to move closer, within the circle of his arms, her body pressed to his. She shivered at the thought.
He gave her a questioning look. “You are cold.”
“Nay, a goose walked over my grave,” she
“MacDonald. Of course.” His gaze raked her face once more.
He was so close, his foot brushing hers, and so large, filling up the space about them until she felt encompassed, warm . . . and breathlessly excited. Such feelings meant nothing, of course. The mere thought of a possible flirtation was heady stuff after so many months alone with her small group of widows in the woods. She wished she could act upon that longing, if only for a few moments. Of course, dressed as she was, she doubted he felt the same—and she had to smile,thinking of how he might react if plain, dowdy Miss MacDonald pulled him into a corner for a passionate kiss.
A quick glance around the room told her she wasn’t the only one thinking such a thing. Every gaze in the room seemed to find the prince, dart away, and then return to linger. And why wouldn’t they stare? He looked masculine, deadly, and . . . something else. Something that made every woman in the room watch him with longing, and every man send concerned looks his way. It’s as if he entices the women, and the men — seeing his effect — are threatened, but dare not confront him.
She didn’t blame them. A raw, restless power sat on his broad shoulders, shimmered in his green eyes, and rippled through his muscled arms.
He smiled faintly, and she realized she hadn’t said a word in response to his question. “I’m sorry, but I was distracted by your uniform. Are you a guard?” Perhaps that would get him to admit to his birthright.
“I am a soldier, Miss MacDonald.” He spoke simply, with a quiet, firm pride.
“What kind of soldier are you?”
“A busy one.” He gave her an impatient look. “I have answered your questions, so now you will answer mine.”
She stiffened at his preemptory tone. He might not admit to being a prince, but she was beginning to suspect he never stopped acting like one.
He glanced past her to the refreshment table. “What other sweets would your mother like?”
“Oh. I’m sure I have enough.” She patted her heavy pockets.
“But you were admiring these pastries when I arrived, so I’m determined you shall have them.” He pulled a kerchief from his pocket and placed several almond pastries in it. Then he wrapped them up and handed them to her, a smile in his green eyes. “Now they will not stain your pocket.”
She looked at him with surprise, unable to frame a coherent thought. “That is verrah kind of you.”
“It is nothing—but you should tuck them away before someone sees.” He bent closer, his voice low and intimate, tracing over her like warm hands. “Not everyone is as understanding of thievery as I am.”
She blinked up at him, and in that instant, she realized he knew exactly who she was. “ Oh! You’ve been teasing me this entire time!”
“ Da . But do not worry, dorogaya moya . You are safe. I will tell no one you are not this Miss MacDonald.”
Her relief was quickly followed by a flash of irritation. “How did you know?”
“Who else would sneak into the earl’s household and steal food rather than priceless treasures? Only you.” He captured her hand, turned it palm up in his, and dusted the remaining sugar from her fingertips.
She tried to still her heart and snuck a glance at the large ornate clock against one wall. Almost ten. “Thank you for your kindness, but I must go.”
“Not yet.” He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “Wherever you need to go, I will go with you.”
She looked down where her fingers rested on hiscoat sleeve. The brushed wool was soft and fine, yet it did little to disguise the powerful arm under it. Never had she touched a more muscular, rock-hard arm. Even more surprising was the heat that radiated through the cloth. His warmth made her yearn to move closer, within the circle of his arms, her body pressed to his. She shivered at the thought.
He gave her a questioning look. “You are cold.”
“Nay, a goose walked over my grave,” she
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