Innocent In The Prince's Bed. Bronwyn Scott
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Название: Innocent In The Prince's Bed
Автор: Bronwyn Scott
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Сказки
Серия: Mills & Boon Historical
isbn: 9781474073400
isbn:
He was writing furiously now, the allegory pouring from him. He wrote of Snegurochka trapped in spring, a season not of her making, of winter’s princess far from home, surrounded by Primavera’s blushing roses, her paleness a marked contrast. His mind was a blur of thought and image.
When he finished, his glass of samogan was untouched, the lanterns were lit. A tray of cold meats sat at his elbow, waiting for him. The servants must have brought it. He had not noticed. He’d been too caught up in all that had been revealed today. He had not thought to see so much. In truth, he’d gone today for selfish reasons, to see if she could inspire him again as she’d inspired him last night on the dance floor, to see if he could capture what had slipped away from him last night. He’d got more than he’d bargained for; he’d glimpsed a woman who was figuring out the game, figuring out that she was trapped or nearly so and something in him had started to wake. His own winter, ending. Proof of that awakening was scrawled across pages.
Footsteps clipped on the flagstones, a pair of them, not boots but shoes. Ruslan and Stepan were dressed for going out, for dancing and ballrooms and Primavera’s roses. ‘You’re not drunk yet, I’ll take that as a good sign.’ Stepan noted the glass of samogan with a subtle lift of his brow, his gaze drifting disapprovingly to the hastily crafted topknot.
‘The Huns wore their hair like this,’ Illarion answered the silent reproach. There were others, too: the Samurai, the Mongols.
‘Oh, to be a Hun. My greatest wish.’ Stepan’s tone was dry with sarcasm.
‘At least you’re still dressed,’ Ruslan interjected, always the diplomat, always positive. Illarion had long felt that he, Stepan and Nikolay might have killed each other years ago if it hadn’t been for Ruslan’s cool diplomacy keeping them in check. Ruslan slapped him on the back. ‘I see today’s visit was profitable.’ He snatched up a paper before Illarion could protect it. ‘“Snegurochka?” I like it.’ To his credit, Ruslan read silently, dark eyes darting over the lines. ‘It’s lovely, Illarion. It could be one of your best. It has that Russian sense of fatalism, that one cannot escape destiny, and the nature allegory is sublime.’ Ruslan set the paper down. ‘Is it about us, Illarion? I think it is. I think Snegurochka represents the four of us, the four princes exiled from home.’
Illarion smiled, appreciative of his friend’s praise, but the praise was tempered by Stepan’s hard gaze, studying, assessing. ‘It’s not about us, Ruslan,’ Stepan growled. ‘Don’t be a dimwit. It’s about a woman.’
Ruslan gave Stepan a considering glance, taking the recommendation seriously and prepared his rebuttal. ‘No, Stepan, look at this line here, I am pretty sure it’s about us.’
Stepan was surlier than usual. ‘No, it’s about a woman,’ he said with finality. ‘Who is she, Illarion?’
‘My secret muse and that’s all I’m going to say,’ Illarion answered staunchly. Whatever was needling Stepan was doing a good job of it. He was quite the bear this evening. Illarion grinned, much to Stepan’s obvious consternation. ‘A gentleman never tells.’ But a gentleman did say thank you and Illarion knew just how to do it. Lady Dove had brought him to life today at the expense of exposing herself: her beliefs, her hopes, her disappointments, many of which she was just starting to recognise. It had left her confused, uncertain and sad. He knew first-hand how hard it was to let dreams go, even when they proved no longer viable or useful. He’d left a life behind, a country behind.
He would bring his Sneguruchka’s dream to life for just a day. He would show her that if fairy tales weren’t possible in whole, they were at least possible in part. He chuckled as Stepan and Ruslan stepped out for the night. He was already imagining the look on her face when she opened the note he hadn’t written yet. She would think it was an apology. But he knew better. He wasn’t sorry for today in the least, he was thankful for it. He had a new poem, worthy of Pushkin himself once he tidied it up, and who knew what tomorrow might bring? For the first time in over a year, the possibilities were endless.
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