"Brandy does not count if it is part of a tradition. Besides, I do not especially like brandy. It is such a serious drink, dreadfully heavy and intense. However, one must make sacrifices for the sake of tradition, do you not think so?"

"It depends, I should say, on the tradition."

If she was an enigma to him when they'd first met, she was a puzzle of an even more difficult nature now. Knowing now who and what she was did not serve to answer his questions but only deepened the mystery around her.

"Tradition is extremely important." She trailed her finger idly around the rim of her wine glass. In truth caressed it. His stomach tightened and he downed his wine in one swallow. "In some ways, it is the impetus that drives me."

"Oh?" He quickly refilled his glass.

She nodded thoughtfully. "It is important for a country, for a people, to have something to believe in. That is the true purpose of tradition, custom, even symbols. It is comforting to know, no matter how the world changes, some things remain the same and always will. A baby will be christened in the same manner, the same church and probably the same gown as his father and his father before him."

"I never suspected brandy played such a crucial role in the world as we know it." A teasing note sounded in his voice.

"Brandy is most important when it is one of the national products of your country." Her tone was serious, but the candlelight reflected the gleam of laughter in her eyes. "Surely you have sampled Avalonian brandy?"

"Avalonian brandy?" He chuckled. "I admit I have never so much as heard of it and I've always considered myself fairly well versed in the alcoholic offerings of the continent."

"I am not surprised. It is rather hard to find the farther one gets from Avalonia. The very best is Royal Amber, and it is extremely rare. The Royal Amber brandy served this year has been aged for nearly a century. There is only enough made each season by the monks who live in the monastery midway up Avalonia's highest mountain to meet the needs of the royal family."

"Just the royal family? The ordinary folk have to drink ordinary brandy?"

She nodded. "Ordinary Avalonian brandy is still quite good, or so I have been told. And even for the royal family, Royal Amber is only used on occasions of great celebration and ceremony. The Feast of St. Stanislaus, Christmas and welcoming the new year, Easter, of course, baptisms, weddings, coronations.

That sort of thing." She raised her wine glass to him. "It is tradition."

"I see." He returned the toast, then sipped casually. "I assume, then, it was drunk at your wedding."

She hesitated, and there was a flash of something in her eyes. Regret? Anger? No, more than likely pain. She had buried her first husband, after all, not left him, and she had probably cared for him.

"I shouldn't have asked," he said slowly.

"Nonsense." She smiled lightly and her chin raised a fraction of an inch. "You were at my second wedding. It is only fair you know about the first. The occasion most certainly required the benediction of Royal Amber brandy. It was as much a joining of two countries as two people."

"You never told me about your husband. There's no need-"

"Perhaps not. Perhaps there is every need." She leaned back in her chair and studied him for a long, silent moment. "Do you know anything of my country, Matthew?"

"Not really. I have managed to locate it on a map, but beyond that"-he smiled to lighten the mood-"I know only of its people's traditions regarding brandy while traveling."

She laughed. "There is little more to know. We are strategically located, in that part of the world shared by Russia, Prussia and Austria. While my family has ruled for centuries, they are also prone to fighting amongst themselves. This past year my father was quite ill and my cousin tried to wrest power for her own branch of the House of Pruzinsky. Thankfully, she failed. She isn't at all nice and I cannot imagine what dire consequences would result from her rule."

She took a drink and considered him over the rim of her glass. "But you were asking about my first husband."

"I wasn't really asking." It seemed somewhat petty to abruptly delve into her past. Still, if he had no other claim as her second husband, perhaps he at least had the right to know something of her first. "But I do admit to some curiosity."

"Phillipe Andre Augustus de Bernadotte was the son of the monarch of a small principality allied with Avalonia. My father and his decreed we should wed when I was but four years of age. Even though Phillipe's country was... well, absorbed is the polite, civilized term... by Austria before he came of age, it was decided it would still be of political benefit for the marriage to take place. So I did my duty, fulfilled my responsibilities and I married him."

"I see." He did, but only to a certain extent. Tatiana had given no clue as to how she had felt about this Phillipe. If she had cared for him. Mourned him. Loved him. Not that it was the least bit important. He was curious, nothing more.

"You might well have liked Phillipe. He was the kind of man other men tend to admire. An expert in everything he turned his hand to-riding and shooting, gaming and drinking and all those odd things men seem to enjoy. He was exceedingly charming and quite handsome. Other gentlemen liked him, but women"-she sipped at her wine-"women adored him. And he adored them."

"I see." This time he did indeed understand. "Did you?"

She stared into her glass and long moments passed by. He wasn't sure why he wanted to hear her answer, but he did even as he told himself, here and now, it scarcely mattered.

"I can't imagine in your entire life you have ever done anything so completely foolish that it haunts you forever." Her voice was low but firm.

His heart twisted. "Yes, well, once or twice, perhaps."

Her gaze flicked up to meet his. "I grew up knowing I would one day be Phillipe's wife. It was not my decision, neither was it my choice.

"Even as a boy, he had a charm and a passion for living that was irresistible. Whether I would have felt the same meeting him for the first time as an adult, I do not know. But yes, for much of my life I too adored him. I fell under his spell as a child and did not emerge from his enchantment until it was too late."

"Like a princess in a fairy story."

"Not at all." She wrinkled her nose and held out her empty glass. Matt grabbed the bottle, leaned over the table and refilled her wineglass. "In such stories, the princess, upon coming out of her enchantment and discovering the truth, would then have been rescued by her true love, or at the very least would have found a way to escape. No one rescued me, Matthew, nor did I save myself.

"I did exactly what was expected of me. What I had been trained to do." She shook her head in disgust. "It was really quite revolting, when I look back on it. I was a perfect wife, and a perfect princess. I did not chastise him, publicly or privately. I pretended I knew nothing of his activities. I ignored the whispers and looks of pity."

Matt scoffed. "I cannot believe that. Granted, you seem rather more forceful now than when we first met, but even then you did not strike me as the type of woman who would tolerate such behavior in a husband."

"That is perhaps the nicest compliment I have ever had." She favored him with an odd smile, sad and sweet at the same time. "The woman you met in Paris had taken the opportunity provided by her husband's fortuitous death to examine her own life. Not as a princess but as, well, an ordinary person, I suppose. She discovered her entire life had been spent meeting the expectations of others and in many ways that was how it should be. That was her position in life. Her fate.

"But after Phillipe's death, it seemed she, or rather I, had fulfilled my purpose and lived up to the responsibilities of my position. If my husband had not died, I am certain my life would have continued without change or question. But his death freed me, not merely from a farce of a marriage but from a state of mind. I followed the requirements of mourning and then I left my country to experience a world I had only dreamed of."

She rested her elbows on the table, laced her fingers together and propped her chin on her hands. Her eyes gleamed with intensity. "And my travels took me to Paris."

"And to me." His statement was level, unemotional, an observation, nothing more. He wasn't sure what to say and wasn't entirely certain how he felt about what she'd just said.

"And to you." She studied him carefully. "I only left you because I knew I was not, at the time, truly free of my responsibilities."

"And now?" The question surprised him. Especially since he didn't care. Refused to care. "Are you free now?"

"I will be, once I have accomplished what I came here to do."

"And what exactly is that?" He kept his voice nonchalant. Now, late in the night, with a long day behind them and a certain amount of truth already revealed, would she tell him the rest? What she was really looking for? And why had she wanted him with her?

"You know perfectly well what that is." She heaved a long-suffering sigh. "The story of the travels of the Princess Sophia, of course."

"Of course," he muttered.

She raised a brow. "What did you want me to say?"

"The truth."

"That's right. You do not believe me. It is becoming most annoying."

"Nonsense." He snorted. "I've barely given you a second thought."

"Not a second thought?" She circled the table. "Not in fifteen months, three weeks and however many days?"

His gaze locked with hers and he got to his feet. "Not one."

"You said you missed me." She stopped in front of him and trailed her fingers lightly down his arm.

"One misses all manner of things when they are gone." He kept his voice light, as if her touch on the fabric of his jacket were not the least bit disturbing.

"I confess"-her tone was low and sultry-"I missed you."

"Did you?"

"You sound surprised."

"I am." Only a scant inch or two lay between them. He could smell her scent, subtle and erotic, feel the heat from her body, sense the rise and fall of her chest with each breath. "You stayed away rather a long time for someone who claims to have missed me."

"I had responsibilities to fulfill. Portions of my life remained... unfinished. There were doors I needed to close." She hesitated. "In addition, my father fell ill and it was my place to stay with him. I had no choice, but in truth I would not have left his side."

"Am I a portion unfinished, then?" He stared down at her, resisting the urge to yank her body close to his, to press his lips to hers. "A door that needs to be closed?"

"I would say matters between us are as yet unresolved. Can you not feel it in the very air between us?"

"Is that what it is between us?" He forced a light note to his voice. "I thought it was something else entirely. Distrust. Disdain. Deceit."

"Desire?" She rested her hands on his chest and he resisted the urge to flinch. She cast himthe look and he knew he was lost. And didn't care.

"Definitely desire." He pulled her hard into his arms, cupped the back of her head in his hand and crushed his lips to hers.

She greeted him without pause, without hesitation. She threw her arms around his neck and twined her fingers in his hair. Her mouth opened beneath his and her tongue met his. He wanted to invade her, conquer her, control her. Make her his for now. Forever.

She met his desire with her own, as if she wanted to devour him as he wanted to devour her. As if she needed to mark him as hers, as he needed to mark her. As if she too had dreamed of nothing but how they were once and how they could be again.

He slid his hands down her back and cupped her buttocks, pulling her closer against the hard ridge of his erection. She ground her hips against his and he shuddered with need.

He pulled his lips from hers to taste the corner of her mouth, the line of her jaw, the tender flesh of her neck. He could not breathe and did not care.

"I have not changed my mind, you know." His voice was harsh with unrelenting desire. "This means nothing to me."

"Nor to me." She gasped and dug her fingers into his shoulders.

With one hand and without thought, he shoved the dishes on the table aside. He lifted her onto the table and she grabbed the fabric of his coat and pulled him after her. His hands cupped her breasts and her nipples hardened against his fingers beneath the fabric of her frock. Impatiently, he pulled down her bodice to reveal her breasts, full and firm and heaving with every gasping breath. He took one nipple in his mouth with a care that required every ounce of his control. She cried out softly and her back arched upward.

He ran his hand up her leg, over her stocking and garter and found the sweet, moist promise between her legs. She was wet and wanting and gasped when he touched her. He moved his thumb to and fro in the way he remembered drove her mad. And indeed, she writhed on the table and clutched at him.

"Matthew." His name was little more than a moan. "It has been so long and I have missed you so."

It might have been the sound of her voice or something she didn't say but he heard nonetheless or perhaps simply wanted to hear, but abruptly his senses cleared and he hesitated. He wanted her, dear God, he wanted her, and thought he could well die if he didn't have her. Right here, right now.

But something-some odd, horrible hand of principle or honor or conscience-refused to let him.

"Matthew?"

No! He brushed aside whatever scruples had reared their ugly head. Bloody hell. She'd been his wife once and there was no doubt she wanted him now. Time enough later to deal with principle or honor or conscience. "Nothing." He worked at his trousers and she shifted on the table to accommodate him, knocking a platter to the floor. The crash reverberated through the room.

He scarcely noticed.

She reached for him. He braced a knee between her legs.

A knock sounded at the door. And they froze.

"Is everything all right in there?" The voice of the innkeeper's wife sounded on the other side of the

door.

"Everything is quite fine." Tatiana's voice had an odd, strangled sound about it. She stared up at him.

"Yes, thank you." Matt stared down at her.

"I heard a crash, I did." There was a pause, heavy with suspicion. "It's my good platter in there, it is."

"A bit of a mishap," Matt called. "Nothing of any significance."

"I want to see." The demand was accompanied by what was obviously the jingling of keys. "Now."

"Bloody hell," Matt said under his voice, stumbling toward the door. He threw his shoulder against it and

tried to readjust his clothing at the same time. Tatiana slid off the table and frantically rearranged her dress into some semblance of propriety.

For a bawdy house, perhaps.

She patted her hair, not that it helped, caught his gaze and nodded. He drew a deep breath and stepped away from the door.

The door flew open, banged against the wall, and the short, round form that was Mrs. Wicklund burst into the room, a diminutive avenging angel with the fire of righteous indignation blazing in her eyes. Matt could have sworn a whiff of smoke curled up from her nostrils.

"Your lordship." Mrs. Wicklund's gaze slid from Matt to Tatiana. "My lady."

"My husband and I were just finishing supper," Tatiana said as if she didn't look like she'd been doing

exactly what she'd been doing.

"That'd be my story." Mrs. Wicklund stared at the overturned platter on the floor.