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when I can make it with a calm mind

to smile at the world's joy,

despise the false ornaments of fortune

and flee the blind men.

—Charlotta Nordenflycht, “Lugnet,” lines 5–10

Chapter Sixty-Four

Mora, Sweden

May 1968

Ronja

Ronja hooked the clasp of her bra and slipped on her panties. She tiptoed across the rough wooden floorboards of the cabin. There was a slight gap in the pale, yellow curtain of the window overlooking Lake Silja. She brushed it aside and peered out. The lake matched the sky, and a hazy light appeared where the sun would eventually peek over the treetops. Across the glassy water, she spotted the white tower of Rattvik Church.

Warm fingertips grazed her bare shoulder. Sparks coursed through her skin and lurched her heart. She cursed and broke into a laugh. “How did you sneak up on me?”

Fredrik kissed her shoulder. “I learned a thing or two in the Navy.”

Her body reacted at the sight of him naked, the tanned skin along his generous forearms. He walked backward, taking her with him, and sat on the mussed bed sheets, the springs creaking under his weight. She stood between his legs. “We have to leave.” She combed her fingers through his blond hair.

“No, we don’t.” He grinned, slipping her underwear down her hips. “We can stay at least another day.” His blue eyes were impish. He pressed a kiss onto her stomach and whispered, “Ulla.”

“What?” she said with a uneasy chuckle. “Ulla? How many mistresses is a duke allowed?”

The playfulness faded from his eyes. “If we have a girl, I want to name her Ulla.”

Ronja’s pulse sprinted. She bit her lip and looked away. Her cycle had skipped a month and was late again. How did he know?

“We’ll get married first?” His marriage proposals while they made love were nothing new, but lately, they’d been delivered in earnest.

Ronja forced a queasy laugh, gently removed his hands from her hips, and slid her underwear up. A mournful shiver ran through her, and she turned away.

Fredrik rose and went to his clothes strewn across the bed and on the floor. They both silently dressed. She pulled on her trousers and boots along with a wool sweater and cargo jacket. Fredrik wore leisure clothes, designed and tailored to his sculpted frame. He’d turned twenty-six this past month, having completed his training in the Swedish Army and the Royal Swedish Navy, commissioned as an officer in both.

Her mind drifted to when they had first met on Dagen H, September of 1967. The day Sweden switched to driving on the right side of the road. She was scoping the accidents, rescuing motorists—then pilfering their pockets. People in distress were the easiest to steal from.

Fredrik was not in distress, however, when he’d caught her slipping a wad of kronor from the glove box of his chauffeur's black Saab. “You stole something priceless that day,” he told her when they made love for the first time, when he placed her hand on his heart, and said, “I never want it back.”

The crown prince of Sweden. Of all the people she tried to rob.

He wasn’t even angry; he was amused. It shocked Ronja he hadn’t thrown her in jail, and even more shocked when he let her go, but only after demanding her name first. She couldn’t fathom why she had given him her name—her real name—not one of her aliases.

“Ronja. Ronja Buchholz.”

“Buchholz? Is that German?” His roguish grin widened with intrigue.

“I answered your question. Am I free now?”

He tilted his head and his eyes softened, along with his reply, “One of us is.” He turned to go.

“My father was German,” she blurted. “I was sent to live with my aunt and uncle when I was eight, just outside Stuttgart. My uncle built the first Porsches in Zuffenhausen.” Why divulge such intimate details? Maybe she felt she owed him more truth than simply her birth name. It felt wonderful though. She’d long forgotten how fluid and light the truth could be.

Fredrik said nothing, only tipped his head in a small bow. A farewell.