The Prince and I (15 page)

Murian couldn’t have agreed more. “So it seems.”

“ ’Tis been a breath of fresh air to ha’ the prince and his men wi’ us, hasna it?”

“They’ve been most helpful.”

“And kind.” Widow Reeves glanced sideways at her. “I wouldna mind a flirtation wi’ a mon like the prince.”

“A—” Murian blinked. She’d been thinking the same thing. Perhaps it was a normal thing to wonder, then. “Would you, then?”

“Would I wha’, me lady?”

“Would you flirt with one of the prince’s men? I mean, if the opportunity arose.”

“Oh, indeed I would.” Widow Reeves sent a sly look at Murian. “Especially if I were younger. And perhaps a lady. And I knew a handsome prince.”

Murian quirked a brow at Widow Reeves. “Are you suggesting
I
have a flirtation with
the prince
?”

“I’m sure no one would wonder at it if ye did. In fact, some of us might say ye’re due some fun.”

Murian’s gaze found the prince and she watched him for a moment, some rather startling thoughts trickling through her mind. “I’m not sure a flirtation would be the best thing.”

“And why no’?”

“I dinna need the complication.”

“Wha’ is so complicated aboot a flirtation? Especially when one of ye will be traipsin’ away soon. Tha’ makes it all the more perfect—ye already know how ’twill end, so there’s no fuss and no one gets hurt.” She shrugged. “I’ve been thinkin’ of flirtin’ wi’ Mister Golovin, meself. He’s no’ much to look at, all beard and bristly brows, bu’ I think he—”

“There ye are!” Widow Brodie waddled over. A round scowl of a woman, she was known for her cantankerous ways, though everyone knew her heart was gold.

“Lady Murian and I were just sayin’ ’tis a fine crew ye’ve workin’ on yer cottage,” Widow Reeves said.

Widow Brodie sniffed. “Aye, if’n ye dinna need any peace and quiet. I ne’er heard such thumpin’ and bangin’. ’Tis enou’ to wake the dead!”

“They make oop fer it wi’ the view,” Widow Reeves returned. “Lovely men, all of them.”

Widow Brodie didn’t disagree, but still added, “They hammered on me roof until the mud began to fall fra’ the chinks around me door.”

“That can be fixed,” Murian said. “I’ll stop by later and we’ll see to it.”

“Humph,” was all the widow would say.

“Iona,” Widow Reeves said in an exasperated tone, “at least say ye noticed how they’ve been speakin’ English, rather than their language? The prince told them ’twould be rude.”

“Did he? Tha’ is guid, I suppose. He also told them to remember there were ladies aboot, and no’ to curse.” Widow Brodie rubbed her snub nose, a twinkle in her eyes, though she didn’t smile. “The prince must no’ ha’ met Widow MacDonald yet, or he’d ha’ said there are
some
ladies present.”

Widow Reeves laughed. “She’s a— Och!” Her gaze locked on the street. “Who might tha’ be?”

Murian followed Widow Reeves’s gaze to see a rider approaching. For one horrible moment she thought perhaps they’d been discovered, but then Orlov stepped into the street and waved the man over. “It must be one of the prince’s men,” she said, relieved.

The man dismounted and tied his horse to the side of a cart, then made his way to the prince, who was just now climbing down from the roof.

The new arrival spoke to Max, who nodded and then spoke rapidly, as if giving orders. As soon as he
finished, the new arrival saluted, leapt back into his saddle, and left.

Max handed his hammer to Orlov and pointed to the ladder, and then began to walk in Murian’s direction.

A flush raced through her and she tugged her cloak closer about her. Her wind-tangled hair must look like a birds’ nest, but there was little she could do about it now.

“It looks as if the prince wants a word wi’ ye, me lady. Come, Iona.” Widow Reeves linked arms with Widow Brodie. “I could use an opinion on the venison stew I’m makin.’ It might need a bit more pepper.”

Unable to resist the lure of venison stew, Widow Brodie allowed herself to be led away.

Determined not to appear too interested in the prince’s approach, Murian resumed gathering more broken shutters for the growing pile.

Max watched Murian work. She was a beauty, this red-haired siren stacking broken shutters in a muddy street. He liked that she was not the hothouse variety of beauty, with pale skin and delicate hands, too fragile to enjoy life. Her hands were gracefully made but had strength. She knew hard work, this one, and she threw herself into any task before her with a dedication and passion he admired.

She tossed an armful of broken wood onto the pile, her hood lifted by the wind. Her hair, wild and stubborn, danced about her face, caressing her pink cheeks, her full lips, and tangling with her thick lashes.

She shoved her hair away, tucking it behind one ear
in a gesture so practiced that she probably didn’t even realize she was doing it. In this village of black mud, worn cottages, and rotten wood, she was a fiery beacon of beauty. Just seeing her lips curve into a simple smile made Max yearn for her.

And smiled she had. When he’d first arrived in the village, he’d sought her out and she’d lit up like a flame touched to a candlewick, and he’d yearned to warm his hands on her. But after the barest second her expression had shuttered and she’d returned to her chore, buttoned tight behind hastily built walls.

He stopped at the fence that surrounded the yard where she worked, and leaned against it. “Good morning!”

She straightened and offered a polite smile. “Good morning. I see the earl dinna keep you overlong today.”

“
Nyet
, he is hunting this morning with a few of his friends, none of whom I’d trust near me with a loaded rifle.”

“I’m surprised the earl doesn’t question where you go each day.”

“I told him I was hunting.” Max opened the gate and strode across the uneven ground toward her. “However, I said it in such a way that he decided I meant a woman. That, he understands.”

“So he thinks you’re oot chasing women six, seven hours a day.” Humor warmed her eyes. “You have amazing stamina, Your Highness.”

Her husky, lilting voice made him want to kiss it from her lips. “So I must.” He captured her hand and tugged off her glove, turning her hand over so he could
kiss her palm. “You look lovely today.” She was all red-gold and pink beauty, as fresh and true as a newly minted coin.

She flushed, tugging her hand free and pulling her glove back on. “You look well, too, for someone who’s chasing women all day.”

“I’m only chasing one woman.”

“Hmm.” She eyed him for a moment, and he could see she was weighing her thoughts. Finally, she said, “Every time we try to . . . meet, we are interrupted.”

“
Da
, we are challenged—but not beaten.” He leaned closer. “I will never give up,
dorogaya moya
. Never.”

Her lips quirked as she tried unsuccessfully to hide her smile. “Still, we’ve a lot of work to do here.”

“We do. I am lagging a bit today, too. Last night, Loudan suggested cards after dinner, and I could not leave my grandmother alone. I did not wish to wake up and discover she’d wagered away my favorite horse, or the shoes from my feet.”

Murian chuckled. “Did you ever find out what she lost to the earl?”

“
Nyet.
I will make her tell me, but I’ve been a bit preoccupied with all of this.” He looked down the street, satisfied with the activity he saw. “We’ve made good progress.”

“Aye, but there’s so much more to be done. It seems endless, dinna it?”

“
Nyet.
” He turned back to her. “It seems it will be done in far, far too short a time.”

Her expression softened and, as if nervous, she wet her lips.

Bozhy moj
, he burned to kiss the dewy dampness from her lips. But they were in the middle of the village, within view of every eye.
As always, dammit. Every day I come here, and I see her and I want her, and every day, we are surrounded by—

“Guid morning, Lady Murian! Yer Highness!” A small, brown-haired woman stood at the edge of the street, a smudge of white plaster on her cheek.

Max managed a smile and a nod. “Widow Atchison.”

She smiled politely, though her attention was on Murian. “Widow MacThune and I’ve been plasterin’ Widow Reeves’s cottage walls. I think the plaster is thick enou’, and adding more would make it likely to crack. But Widow MacThune believes we should add another coat, mayhap two, against the cold. Can ye come and see wha’ ye think?”

“Of course,” Murian said instantly. “I’ll be there in a moment.”

“Thank ye.” The widow curtsied and hurried off.

A strong hand encircled Murian’s wrist. Surprised, she turned to find Max beside her, surveying the village.

“No one is looking,” he said.

She frowned. “So?”

“We go.” He turned and pulled her after him, walking between the cottages, then behind the one she’d been working on. “Is there anyone in this one?”

“Nay. They’re all plastering, or helping your men—”

He kissed her, sweeping her to him with an abruptness that made her gasp with pleasure.

Murian melted against him, her arms slipping about his neck as she returned the kiss. He smelled of fresh
winter air tinged with leather and wood, and behind that, the faintest hint of his spicy, exotic cologne.

His hands moved over her, insistent, demanding. He molded her to him, his hands cupping her bottom, pressing his hips to her.

She could feel his excitement as she pressed against him, tugging him closer. She was enveloped by him, by his scent, by his touch, by his kiss. And as overwhelming as it was, it wasn’t enough. She wanted more. She was aflame, panting with longing and desire, her body aching with want.

His hands slipped from her bottom to her waist as he pressed his back to the cottage and slid to the ground, taking her with him. One moment they were standing, and the next, he was sitting with her in his lap.

Murian moaned as Max pushed open her cape and ran his hands over her gown, up her waist to her breasts. His touch was heavenly, and she writhed against him as he kneaded her breast, his thumb finding her nipple and gently flicking it. The man knew exactly what he was doing and she was glad for it, her body already aching for more.

He deepened the kiss and moved his hand from her breast to her waist, and then lower. He impatiently moved her skirts aside so he could cup her calf, and then slowly, oh so slowly, he slid his hand up her leg to her knee.

His hand was cooler than her skin, yet it burned with each inch he gained. It had been so long,
too
long, and she parted her knees. Grasping his hand, she guiding it to her thigh, desperately aware of her own aching wetness.

“
Dorogaya moya,
” he whispered against her lips. “
Ti takaya krasivaya.
”

The huskiness of his voice stroked her passion further. She arched against him, gasping against his lips when his fingers brushed feather-light over her center.

She threw back her head and he kissed her neck, then moved to her ear, making her writhe as he gently stroked her, watching her, fighting to keep control over his desires. Never had he seen a more beautiful sight than Murian’s face lost in passion. He increased his movements, but just as she pressed herself to his hand, someone called for Murian.

Her eyes flew open and she froze.

The call came again, this time closer, a woman’s voice.

With a muffled curse, Murian shoved her skirts down and scrambled out of his lap.

His body aching, Max dropped his head back against the cottage wall and watched as she frantically adjusted her clothing and hair, managing only to muss them all the more.

She caught his gaze and flushed. “Someone calls.”

“Someone always calls.” He sighed. “Go. They will not rest until you arrive.”

She managed a smile, her gaze meeting his. “Max, I’m sorry. But I canna ignore them when they need me.”

“I know.” He rose to his feet and dusted off his breeches.

She watched him, her brow creased. “But I want to share this with you. There’s . . .” She took a breath and then said in a rush, “There’s no harm in a mere flirtation.”

He didn’t know why, but the “mere” irritated him. He’d had many flirtations, and none of them had held so much promise, so much excitement, as this.

“Murian!” The voice now came from the cottage.

He managed a smile. “Go. You are needed.”

She took two steps, but then stopped and looked back at him. “We will continue this later?”

There was so much hope in her eyes that his irritation disappeared. “
Da
, we will continue this later. Though it may take years, from the feel of it.”

She grinned, a wide cheeky grin that made his heart tighten in an odd way. “Then it’s a good thing you have stamina.”

“The way this is going, I’ll need all a man could possibly have.”

She chuckled, a merry sound deep in her throat. And then she disappeared around the side of the cottage, leaving him alone.

 Chapter 11 

Later than afternoon, Max and his men returned to Rowallen. Orlov and Pushkin rode with him down the main road to the castle, while the others took the empty wagon around the back of the estate where no one would see it.

Max dismounted in front of the castle, his men doing the same.

Orlov pulled off his gloves. “How much longer are we at Rowallen? We’ll need another month, at least, if we’re to finish the work in the village.”

“I don’t know exactly how long we will stay. If we’re lucky, perhaps another two weeks.” Saying it aloud made him realize how soon that was.
Two
weeks is nothing.
The thought made him faintly melancholy, which surprised him.

“We will get as much done as we can.” Orlov rubbed his lower back. “If we do not die before then.”

Pushkin looked at his thumb, which was bruised and swollen. “
Da
, the hammers we took from the barn were poorly constructed. The head turns just as one strikes.”

Orlov snorted. “They did no such turning for me.”

“They worked well for me, too,” Max said. “Admit it —’twas not the hammer, but the hammerer.”

Pushkin flushed. “
Nyet
, ’twas the wretched hammer. It’s not balanced right, and the head—”

“
Da, da.
It turns just as one strikes.” Orlov laughed. “You will never convince us, brother. Best you accept the truth, that you have the coordination of a drunk, blind duck.”

Pushkin sputtered.

“Or perhaps,” Orlov mused, “it was the lack of attention you were giving the hammer, and were instead bestowing upon Widow Grier?”

While Pushkin muttered under his breath, Max glanced up at the gray sky, which matched the castle’s ancient stone. “It may snow soon, perhaps before the night is out.”

“If it is deep, we may not be able to return to the village tomorrow,” Orlov said.

Max’s jaw tightened. “We will still go. Our horses are used to such travel.”

“Aye, but we could not take the wagon for the wood.”

Max couldn’t argue with that, but he wouldn’t stay away from Murian come a hundred snows.
Not when there’s so little time left.

“Meanwhile, we’ve some scouting to do. I wish to know the habits of the footmen and guards Loudan employs. I want numbers, patterns, paths marched, evening versus day, schedules—all of it.”

Orlov and Pushkin exchanged glances. “So,” Pushkin said, “we go to war.”

“It is more reconnaissance than war. But if all goes well, Loudan will never know he was . . . beaten . . . until we are gone.”

“We plan a sneak attack?” Pushkin asked.

Max nodded. “We must regain my grandmother’s lost article, whatever it is.”

Orlov’s brows rose. “You still do not know?”

“I will find out today. I’ve been much too soft on her.”

“It will be good to see the earl brought low.” Orlov scowled. “I do not like our host. He watches us as if he thinks we will take his silver.”

“Aye,” Pushkin added. “I am tempted to slip a fork into my pocket, just to see his expression.”

“He deserves to be made a fool of,” Orlov agreed.

“So he does,” Max agreed.
More than you know.
“I must go make an appearance so our host does not get suspicious. He thinks my absence is due to my wooing a local farm girl. For now, we will let him think that.”

“Good. It will make his fall all the more surprising to him.” The sergeant cocked a brow at Max. “Agreed, General?”

“Agreed. He will fall hard and we will right his wrongs.” Which would satisfy Max’s growing need to make the lout pay for what he’d inflicted on Murian and her people.

As a prince, he should not allow her circumstances to impact his duty here in Scotland, but as a man, he couldn’t ignore the deep anger that burned through him every time he thought of the earl’s perfidy in getting control of Rowallen and her lands.

“Orlov, I am to receive some messages this afternoon. Be on the lookout for them. I will reply in the morning, by the same courier. If the men wish to include letters home, they may do so.”

“Very good, General.”

“
Spasiba.
” Max bade his men good-bye and strode up the walk to the castle.

The gray skies reminded him of Murian’s eyes, which were so changeable. Silver when she was excited, darker and stormy when she was angry, light and shimmering when she was happy, gleaming and fey when she was in the throes of passion—as variable as her moods.

He looked at the stone castle and could easily imagine her here, walking up the cobblestone drive to the wide stone steps, wearing a gown befitting her station, her red hair dressed and gleaming in the sunlight. His jaw tightened when he compared that to how she’d looked when he’d left her an hour ago. She’d worn a dull brown gown with mud upon the hem, old boots on her feet, her braid loose from working outside in the wind, her hands red and chapped from the cold—the contrast between what should be and what was burned into his soul. She did not deserve the life Loudan had consigned her to.

As Max reached the steps, two liveried footmen sprang to attention and, with obviously rehearsed effort, swung the huge oak doors wide.

Max walked into the foyer and allowed two more footmen to take his hat, coat, and gloves, which they did with obsequious bows and murmurs. Max tried not to grimace, since he knew such rehearsed grandeur
said a lot about what Loudan thought was owed to himself and his position.

Power was a fickle mistress. She enticed men to think of themselves as being of more value than others, when the reality was far different. Max had seen too many brave men on the battlefield who owned nothing more than the swords strapped to their ragged belts, and too many weak men bedecked in a prince’s armor, to believe in such nonsense. Nobility was a joke man played on his brethren, one that set Max’s teeth on edge.

Of course, some of his beliefs might have come from his mother, who’d been a commoner and a Gypsy before Max’s father, the King of Oxenburg, had seen her and been instantly smitten. He’d rewritten the laws of Oxenburg to make the marriage legal, and had proudly proclaimed her his queen. As Max grew old enough to see her as more than his mother, he realized that although she hadn’t been raised to it, she was an excellent queen. She worked tirelessly to help those with less, and she wasn’t afraid to take on some of their country’s ruling nobility in the process. And the people loved her for it.

Max admired her more than anyone else, and he’d come to agree with her view of the uselessness of some of those born into the noble class. Not all of them, of course, for some recognized the responsibility that came with their power. But some thought that merely being born into the velvet gave them rights far beyond what was intended by man or God.

Fools. He’d seen the cost of allowing individuals to ignore compassion and honor in their quest for power,
and the result was bloody. And Loudan was just such a fool.

Max walked to the stairway that led to his bedchamber, pausing to examine a particularly old set of armor. Dented and scratched, it had known many fights, and he couldn’t help but wonder where the owner was now. He traced the scar on his chin, thinking he, too, looked battered and worn. Yet he didn’t feel so. His confidence had grown with each battle, and his determination to do what was necessary grew firmer as well.
Murian has the right of it; no matter how long it takes, one can never give in. Never stop striving. Have stamina.

He laughed softly.

“Your Highness?”

He turned to find Loudan’s butler, a short, stout man named MacGregor, standing behind him. “
Da?
”

The butler bowed. “His lordship has been looking for you. Shall I tell him you’ve returned?”

“I have been riding all morning and must bathe before I see him. Let him know I will join him as soon as possible.”

“Yes, Your Highness. Shall I have a bath sent to your room?”

“Please.”

The butler sent a sharp look at one of the footmen, who hurried off. “A bath will be drawn immediately.”

“Thank you.” Max started for the stairs, but then stopped. “My grandmother, the Grand Duchess Nikolaevna, do you know where she might be?”

“She may be in the west salon.”

“Where is that?”

“Down the hall, Your Highness, and then to the left. It is the last set of doors on the right.” The butler cast a swift glance around and then said in a low tone, “There’s a fire in the west salon, and the room is quite small, so it is warmer. The older ladies sometimes gather there in the afternoons.”

“And what do they do there?”

An indulgent smile flickered over MacGregor’s plump face. “They sleep, Your Highness.”

“Ah.” That sounded very much like Tata Natasha. “I shall let her know I have returned, and will then retire to my bedchamber.”

“Very good, Your Highness. The bath will be ready when you arrive.”

Max made his way to the west salon. A footman was stationed at the door, which he silently opened. As soon as Max walked through, the footman closed it.

The west salon was indeed smallish, and decorated in shades of deep plum and cerulean blue. In one wall were set long, thin windows, over which hung deep-red curtains that blocked out a good bit of light. Here and there were small groupings of chairs covered in plum velvet with embroidered pillows.

Right now only one elderly lady inhabited the salon and, as MacGregor had warned, she was fast asleep in a chair by the fire, snoring loudly. Grinning, Max crossed to where Tata Natasha slept and pulled up a chair next to hers, then placed his hand on hers.

She snored away.

He patted her hand. “Tata Natasha?”

She stirred, her head dropping to one side. Almost immediately, she began to snore again.

He leaned closer. “
Tata Natasha!
”

Her eyes flew open and she sat bolt upright, staring around the room as if she’d never seen it before.

“Tata?”

Her watery gaze flickered to him. “Oh. It’s you.” She stifled a yawn. “I was—ah, I was just wondering about dinner.”

“Were you, now?”

She cut him a hard glance. “I did not see you come in.”

He hid a grin. “You were sleeping. I did not wish to awaken you, but I must speak with you.”

“Sleeping? I was not sleeping.”

“You were snoring.”

“Pah! I never snore.”

“How would you know?”

She fixed a gimlet gaze on him. “Because if I did, then one of the many men I have slept with would have mentioned it.”

He sighed. “Ah, Tata. You always try to shock me.”

“The truth has that effect on some people.” She collected her shawl. “So, what do you want?”

“You already know.”

She managed to look both furtive and put upon, and she surprised him by saying, “I am glad you are here. I have something to discuss with you, as well.” She poked a finger into the hand that rested on hers. “Where have you been? Every morning after breakfast, you leave. No one sees you until dinner, and then there
are so many people about that private speech is impossible.”

“It is no secret where I have been. I’ve been hunting.”

“Pah. I know better. And I am not the only one to think that an untruth. Loudan keeps asking where you are, and I do not know what to tell him.”

Max raised his brows. The earl had pretended to accept Max’s excuses. Was it a ploy? “What did our host say?”

“Something about never knowing a man to hunt so much.”

Max considered this. “The next time he says something, you are to tell him I find the women of Scotland fascinating.”

Tata Natasha’s eyes narrowed. “You are not here to flirt with some nameless chit from some village. You are here to help me.”

He regarded her through half-closed eyes. “I am not the sort of man to flirt with a nameless woman from any type of domicile. But that is neither here nor there. Now, we will speak of the thing you lost to Loudan. What was it?”

“You do not need to know—”

“If you want me to find it, then I do.”

She fiddled with the corner of her shawl.

“Come, Tata. We know Loudan cheats at cards. Whatever you lost, it is not your fault. I have a plan to search for this thing, but I have to know what I am looking for,
nyet
?”