Promised to the Swedish Prince - Sasha Cottman Page 0,15

you hurt? I didn’t think I set you down that heavily,” he said.

“It’s just my knee. Some days it is fine—others, a pain,” she replied.

The look of joy disappeared from his face and he frowned. “Not your injury from the sleigh accident? Oh no, please don’t tell me it never healed.”

Erika waved his concerns away. “Braces and liniments did little once the swelling had gone down. I can walk on it without the aid of a cane, so it is fine. But enough about me. What on earth are you doing in England?”

Those bright blue eyes with flecks of grey met her gaze, and for a moment they stood simply staring at one another. She was beyond being in her wildest dreams.

“Well, I couldn’t write, so I decided to get on board a ship and come to see you,” he said.

“What do you mean you couldn’t write? What happened?” she replied.

“My father intercepted the first letter I intended to send. Took it out of the diplomatic bag and tore it in two. Then he burned it for good measure. I haven’t been able to get near the pouch since.”

She had wondered why he hadn’t written. The complicated situation with Gustav had meant she herself was unable to send letters to Christian. Writing only to the one brother her father didn’t plan to marry her off to would have been impossible.

“And so, you decided to come all the way to England to visit?”

“It’s more than a visit.” Christian bowed low. “I have been sent to be an understudy for Baron von Rehausen and your father. I hope to eventually become an official diplomat for His Majesty King Charles. Obviously, I have a lot to learn, and London seems the best place to do that.”

Christian. Prince Christian Lind was actually standing before her in England. Erika was tempted to pinch herself. She had never dared to hope this miracle would happen. This was worth more than a thousand vases of Swedish wildflowers.

She glanced past him, back to the ship. For a horrid moment she feared Prince Gustav might suddenly appear behind his brother. “Are you alone?” she asked.

“If you were worried that I brought Gustav with me, no I didn’t. But I did bring someone.”

He stepped aside as a sailor from the ship guided a black and white dog down the gangplank. When he set foot on the stone walkway, the man handed the dog’s lead to Christian and gave a deep bow before heading back the way he had come.

Christian bent and patted the dog. “This is Freya, and she is my gift to you.”

The medium-sized ball of furry happiness wagged her tail in greeting, and Erika’s heart immediately melted. She dropped to her knees and petted it. The dog’s fur was soft, and as she leaned in close, Erika caught the scent of sea air. “She looks to be a purebred Lapphund. Oh, Christian, she is beautiful.”

“I got her from one of King Charles’s private estates near Örebro Castle. I saw her and immediately thought she would make you happy,” he replied.

Erika raised an eyebrow. It was unusual for the King to part with an animal, let alone a purebred female. King Charles had a particular affinity with dogs.

“You must be in the King’s favor for him to have let you take her.” She rose, attempting to stand. Christian slipped an arm around her shoulders and helped Erika to her feet.

“I have worked hard on changing my wild ways to become a better man. The King has seen fit to encourage my career, for which I am grateful. But enough of that. Let’s away while they bring the rest of my luggage from the ship.”

While they waited, Erika let her gaze linger on Christian. During their time apart, she had kept the memory of him alive in her heart. But seeing him now, as the London sun shone on his blond hair, she was enthralled.

I still can’t get past the fact that he is really here. What a fabulous surprise.

She was certain that at any moment, he would disappear in a puff of smoke and she would wake from her daydream. Him being a figment of her imagination was the only rational explanation.

He met her gaze and a questioning look appeared on his face. “Are you alright, Erika?”

She nodded. “Yes, it’s just that I . . . I can’t believe you are here. The English have a saying that goes ‘you might have beat me down with a feather,’ which