Page 39 of Innocent in the Prince's Bed

‘I can see that.’ She laughed, relaxing in the festive atmosphere.

‘Whenever Nikolay and Klara undertake something it’s like a military operation—enormous but well organised.’ Illarion kept her hand in his as he led her about the encampment. ‘We’ll have games.’ He gestured towards the archery butts and shooting targets. ‘Klara’s outrageously good with a pistol. Do you do any weaponry?’ He cocked a curious brow her way.

Of course the perfect Klara with the perfect husband did guns. One might be intimidated by that. Dove merely laughed. She was in too good of a mood to care. ‘What do you think? No, I don’t “do” any weaponry.’

Illarion smiled back. ‘Then I’ll teach you.’ Something in those words warmed her and set butterflies fluttering in her stomach, as if he meant to teach her more than archery or shooting. He continued the tour. ‘We’ll eat. Afterwards I can write and you can draw.’

Just as he’d promised. An artists’ picnic. There was only one problem. ‘I didn’t bring anything.’

His eyes danced. ‘I did. But you’ll have to wait until after lunch for your surprise,’ he teased. ‘Then we’ll walk. Perhaps we’ll find early strawberries. Now, let me introduce you to everyone.’ They’d come full circle and ‘everyone’ turned out to be two men: ‘Stepan and Ruslan, two of my best friends.’ Stepan was tall, with short dark hair, sharp eyes and a stern demeanour. Ruslan was slender, not quite as tall as the others. He sported a thick gold wave of hair and kind, intelligent eyes with a hint of sadness where Stepan’s had been sharp.

It was clear the four men were devoted to each other, like brothers, Dove imagined, watching them ready their pistols and good-naturedly bantering with each other. If her brothers had lived, they would have been of an age with these men. She shoved the image of four little crosses, four little boys who had come before her, aside. This afternoon was not made for sadness.

The princes let Klara shoot first. Dove was impressed. She’d never seen a woman use firearms before and Klara was indeed skilled, hitting the centre of the target. Illarion shot last. He offered his pistol to Dove. ‘Would you like to try?’

Dove shook her head. ‘Too loud. I’ll save myself for archery. It’s quieter.’ Illarion nodded and stepped up to the line. She couldn’t help but notice the manly grace of him. Shooting was far more of an art than she’d thought. She noted the steady strength of Illarion’s arm as he extended it, the unimpeachable stillness of his body as he sighted the target. He breathed in, exhaled and fired. His shot was perfect, piercing Klara’s with deadly accuracy.

Nikolay whistled. ‘That’s why you’re the best.’ He slapped Illarion on the back.

‘You’re still better shooting off horseback.’ Illarion was modest in his victory, but Dove didn’t miss the warning glance he shot at Nikolay as if he feared Nikolay would say too much. He held out a hand to Dove. ‘Let’s try your luck with a bow.’ He selected a weapon from the table and led her to the butts, standing behind her as he arranged the bow in her hands, offering instructions.

‘Relax,’ Illarion spoke softly in her ear. Did he have any idea how impossible it was to do that with him so close? With his body pressed to hers, his hands over hers as they nocked the arrow? This wasn’t archery, it was seduction. ‘Easy now.’ Together, they drew back the arrow. ‘And, let fly.’ The arrow released, flew and hit the outer ring of the target. Respectable for a first shot. Dove found she liked archery, even when Illarion stepped away and let her shoot on her own. There was a freedom in letting the arrow loose and watching it soar.

Knives were next. She and Klara stood on the sidelines, watching the men throw and argue, neither of them having a taste for blades, although Illarion had offered to teach her to throw. ‘They’re like boys.’ Klara laughed as Nikolay and Stepan debated a throw. ‘I like to see them like this, happy and playing.’ There was a yelp from the group and Stepan went down, Nikolay tackling him, followed by a cry from Nikolay. ‘Illarion, grab his legs!’

---