The Prince and I (16 page)

She said sullenly, “I suppose you will have to know sooner or later.”

“Now. I would know it this minute.”

She tapped her fingers on the arm of her chair. “If I tell, will you promise you will not yell at me?”

“I will not yell.”

“Nor lecture me about gambling, for you can’t say anything I haven’t already told myself.”

“I will not comment at all, except to say I will begin looking for this object immediately.”

She tied the ends of her shawl into a knot, then untied them. Finally, she said, “Fine. I will tell you, but first, you should know how it happened. I met Lord Loudan at Lady MacDaniel’s town house in Edinburgh, the day I arrived in this country three months ago. You were not available, so I did not see you until a few days later.”

“And?”

She scowled blackly. “I was tired when I arrived, exhausted by the trip. I should never have agreed to go to Lady MacDaniel’s rout, but . . .” She shrugged. “I was bored, so I went.”

“And?”

“There was much food, and much to drink. And there was gaming. Loudan joined my table and he kept losing ridiculous hands. I thought he was a bad player.”

“Instead of a very, very good one.”

“
Da
. I got carried away. In order to match a wager, I began to throw various items onto the card table.”

“What items?”

“Some rings, a bracelet, things like that.” She bit her lip. After a moment, she said in a voice so quiet, he barely heard her. “I do not care if I get those back;
they can be replaced. But there is one thing that must be returned.”

“
Da?
”

“A tiara.”

“And?”

“That is all.”

His brow cleared. “Just one tiara, then?” At her nod, he said, “That is not so bad. I’m sure it was expensive, but it can be—”

“
Nyet!
You do not yet understand. It wasn’t just any tiara, it was a
specific
tiara.” She took a long breath before she said in a calmer voice, “You cannot replace it, so we must get it back. I should never have brought it with me, but your mother wore it to Alexsey’s wedding, and then—”

“
Izvini!
Did you say Mother wore it to Alexsey’s wedding?”

Tata nodded cautiously.

“
Bozhy moj
, you’re talking about the queen’s crown!”

She winced. “You said you would not yell!”

“You lost the royal crown! What else could I do?” He rubbed his forehead, where a dull ache grew.

“I didn’t mean to. I was certain I would win.”

“I cannot believe this. You lost the queen’s crown in a game of chance. The first queen of Oxenburg wore that crown over four hundred years ago and—” He scowled. “You knew this, and yet you still wagered it. How in the hell did you end up with Mother’s crown, anyway?”

“She wore it to your brother’s wedding and, as we were traveling together, she stored it with my jewelry. I forgot to return it to her.”

“That was a year ago.”

“Something like that,
da.
” She shrugged. “I didn’t wear it often.”

“Often? You’re not supposed to wear it at all!
Ever.
”

“Why not? I have some earrings that are lovely with it. As if they were a set.”

His jaw tightened so much, his head began to ache. “That bloody crown was not yours to wear, and it definitely wasn’t yours to wager. It belongs to the people of Oxenburg.”

Tata Natasha looked slightly shamefaced. “I wasn’t thinking clearly that night.”

He leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms. “Drinking, were you?”

Her parchment cheeks took on a dull red sheen. “Vile stuff, whiskey. But that’s all they drink in this forsaken country—whiskey, whiskey, whiskey. Pah!”

Max sighed. “So, you lost the crown, Loudan will not sell it back to you, and you decided to involve me.”

“I thought Loudan might agree to return it, if he feared you might get tired of his time-wasting and decide to just take it. But you do not stay in the castle long enough for him to even know you are here! You have ruined my plan.”

“It’s a crown, Tata. One made to rest upon a queen’s brow. One that a Gypsy with no talent for cards and less head for drink should have left alone.”

“I’m very good at cards,” she said, clearly offended. “Usually. The drinking, not so much.”

“That tiara should have been returned to the palace months ago.”

“I like wearing it,” she said defensively.

“But you
cannot
. It’s not for—” He threw up his hands. “
Bozhy moj
, you know and you do not care. You are a stubborn woman.”

Her gaze narrowed. “You said you would not berate me.”

He took a deep breath and, for the first time, noticed her eyes were glistening as if with tears. Instantly, his irritation disappeared. She was a troublesome woman, his grandmother, but she was a good woman, her intentions always pure even when her actions were not. “I’m sorry, Tata Natasha. I will stop.”

Silence rested upon them for a moment, both of them thinking about their predicament. Finally, she blurted out, “Will you tell your father?”

He should, he knew. His grandmother had a contentious relationship with her son-in-law, and for good reason. But Max shook his head. “If we can get it back, then there will be no need. We will find our way out of this.”

“We must.” She scowled. “I will turn Loudan into a newt! Or I will once I have the crown back. If I do it sooner, he cannot tell us where it is.”

“Fine, you can turn him into a newt then. I shall have to think this through. Figure out the best way to set about looking for it.”

“You’re going to steal it back?”

“It’s either that or fight him for it, and that is not acceptable.”

“Why not?” she asked indignantly.

“Because I cannot fight the earl unless he challenges me first.”

“Which will never happen, unless you stop gallivanting about the countryside!” She scowled. “I’d have been better off bringing along a mastiff to frighten the earl.”

Max raised his brows. “So I was to intimidate Loudan like a dog?”

“Intimidate is such an ugly word. I merely wished him to know he couldn’t treat the royal house of Oxenburg so. He’s never threatened me, not aloud, but—” She frowned, looking pale and ancient.

Max found himself gripping the arm of his chair much tighter than necessary. “He is very careful not to confront anyone in public. This I know of him.”

“He is very sly,” she agreed. “But you do not have to be sly.”

“I’ve told you I cannot—”

“—fight him, I know. I know. But you can glare at him, and scowl. Make him think you are the strongest, most ill-tempered man in all of Oxenburg. I want him to think that if you get angry enough, you will rip him apart, limb by limb, and eat the meat from his bones while spitting his liver at the full moon and—”

“Tata!” He laughed softly, holding up a hand. “I will never spit his liver, or anyone else’s, anywhere.” He leaned back in his chair. “You should have told me about the crown before we arrived.”

“I know. But I kept thinking I could get that arse to sell it back to me.”

“Why should he? He has complete control over you. I’m sure he finds having a grand duchess dance to his tune far more satisfying than some gold in his purse.” Max crossed his arms, his gaze moving to the fire.
Perhaps it’s more than mere satisfaction. Perhaps Loudan sees more profit in holding Tata Natasha captive than in selling her back the crown. Hmm.

He realized his grandmother was watching him and forced a smile.

Her black gaze narrowed. “Why are you here?”

“In Scotland? Because you said you feared outlaws and needed an escort.”

“
Nyet.
Now that I think on it, you agreed to accompany me rather quickly. Too quickly, if you ask me.”

“So now I’m to be derided because I agreed to escort you and didn’t make you beg? Tata, there is no pleasing you.” He rose with a smile. “I must go; I ordered a bath before dinner. It will be waiting.”

She pursed her lips, her dark eyes shrewd. “You are here for your own purposes, aren’t you?” She must have seen something in his face, for she slapped her knee. “Ha! I should have known. What are you up to?”

“Nothing you need concern yourself with, so don’t waste your time with conjecture. We are both here, we both have things to accomplish, and we both have the best interests of Oxenburg at heart.” He took her hand and bowed over it. “That said, I promise to spend more time here, speaking with Loudan.”

She appeared mollified. “Will you scowl at him? Make him fear you?”

“I rather think he already does. He is not stupid—
which is a pity for the rest of us.” He kissed her fingers. “Until dinner.”

She clasped his hand between hers. “Thank you, Max.”

“You are most welcome, Tata.” He kissed her forehead and left.
This complicates things yet more.
As he approached the door, Orlov appeared with a packet in his hand.

“Ah! Finally.”

The sergeant handed the packet to Max, then glanced at the ever-present footmen before saying in his native tongue, “Several of the men have missives for the return. They are composing them now.”

“Good. Tell the messenger he will be able to leave in the morning.”

Orlov nodded and left, and Max entered his bedchamber. After a day of hammering and sawing, and then dealing with his grandmother, his bedchamber was gloriously quiet and warm, the fire crackling in the fireplace, a small tray with a decanter of whiskey waiting near his drawn bath.

He poured himself a glass and sat in a chair near the flames, then opened the packet. Inside were four letters. Three from his family: his father, his mother, and his brother Nikolai. Max was fairly sure he knew what was in each of them: his father would remind him of the duty before him and require an immediate return to Oxenburg; his mother would worry whether he was eating well and how he was dealing with his cantankerous grandmother; and Nik’s letter would be filled with seemingly senseless gossip, but a few sentences
would be subtly phrased to pass on information that couldn’t be safely committed to paper.

It had been years since Max’s oldest brother, the future king, had said what he really thought about anything without carefully weighing every word. Max supposed that was a good thing, as an effective king must know the art of subtlety, but he missed the carefree ways of the brother he’d grown up with. The years had changed Nik. Had changed all of them.

For some reason Max thought of Murian, alone in the woods with no family of her own, and his throat inexplicably tightened. Of course, she had Ian, Will, and her band of widows, but they were not family, and Max thought that while she took care of them, none of them had the standing to take care of her. No matter what, she was still “Lady Murian.” It was sad and yet she wasn’t the least bit maudlin about it.

She’d made the best of a dire situation and had made her retainers her family, so that she was now surrounded by love and respect.
It is why they mean so much to her; why she means so much to them.

That, he decided, was bravery. Adaptation without bitterness.

The last letter rested in his hand. Stamped as a military dispatch, it came from the war front. He broke the seal, raising his brows in surprise when a small slip of paper fluttered to his lap. He picked it up and read the scrawl, which he’d seen only twice before, both times during particularly hot battles.

Max frowned as he read the note; then he opened the letter and perused it carefully from top to bottom.
When he was done, he committed the address to memory and fed the letter and the slip of paper to the flames.

The fire curled about the paper, turning the edges toasty brown before, with a flare, it began to rapidly travel over the paper, turning the scrawl to black ash. Now, in addition to finding Lord Robert’s journal, they also needed to find the Oxenburg crown, and a lost piece of information. Nik believed that information was here at Rowallen, and Max was beginning to agree. The Earl of Loudan was up to something—but what?

He sat back and watched the last of the missive burn, the ashes breaking free and floating up the chimney, out of sight.

 Chapter 12 

The next morning, Orlov swung down from his horse, glancing at the sky. “The snow won’t hold off much longer.”

“
Da
,” Max agreed. “We are fortunate it’s held off as long as it has.” Though he would have found a way to the village this morning if there’d been twenty feet of snow.

Demidor came to take the reins of Max’s horse, leading the horses to the barn. Max tugged his collar higher and looked around the village. It was bitterly cold today, everyone huddled deep in their winter coats and cloaks. Widows Reeves and Atchison waved to Golovin, who was heading toward them. Widow MacCrae was standing by the well, Pahlen already hurrying to take the heavy bucket from her hand. Widow Brodie and her sons were walking into the village carrying as much firewood as they could, while Will brought a bucket of steaming milk from the barn.

There was no sight of Murian. Max walked to the well, where Widow MacCrae stood with Pahlen. “Good
morning,” Max said. “Where is Lady Murian this morning? I wish to speak to her about needed supplies.”

“She’s in Widow Atchison’s house, helpin’ wi’ the plaster.”

Ignoring Pahlen’s interested look, Max made his way to Widow Atchison’s small cottage. As he walked, he could hear voices mixed between the ringing of hammers. The villagers were busy working indoors today, using the new supplies to weatherproof as well as they could.
Like ants preparing for winter.

The night before, he’d sat through an interminably boring dinner between two women who obviously thought themselves cultured and witty. As he listened to them expound on their travels, complain about minutiae, mock others sitting within hearing distance, and improperly quote authors they’d never read and discuss art they didn’t understand, he’d found himself wondering how they would have reacted if their loved ones had been cruelly murdered, their positions in society lost, their fortunes gone—in a word, if they’d found themselves in Murian’s situation. Would they have dried their tears, clenched their jaws against fate, pinned up their hair, and taken full responsibility for their household servants?

It had taken all of his self-control not to throw his napkin to the table and leave his empty-headed dinner companions to their empty conversation. Had his grandmother not been present he might have done just that, for he cared not one whit what such people thought.

It wasn’t the first time he’d found social drivel unbearable. Before the war, as the crown princes of Oxenburg, he and his brothers had attended countless state dinners and dress balls, and had spent hours and hours engaged in inane, pointless conversations. Given his position, it had been expected, and while he’d never found them all that amusing, he hadn’t minded doing his duty.

But war had changed him, just as it changed all men who engaged upon the battlefield. It made him more appreciative of small things—clean sheets, a smile, the smell of a woman’s freshly washed hair, the deep beauty of the quiet. But it also made him find everyday tasks almost unbearably unimportant.

How could a man go from fighting tooth and nail for the freedom of one’s country, facing mud, blood, pain, and the loss of friends and companions day after day, to sitting beside a fireplace discussing whether to ask the cook to serve roast or a duck for dinner? Max had seen many soldiers lose their way when they tried to rejoin the life they’d had before the war. War changed a man, and he had to accept those changes, and find a deeper purpose to his life than he’d had before.

Knowing Murian had made Max aware that war wasn’t the only traumatic experience that could do this. She had experienced a huge upheaval, and had dealt with loses and a sudden, drastic change in circumstances that must have changed her, too. If Spencer returned and could set things to rights, would it be hard for her to return to her previous life? Would it be enough? He wasn’t sure.

Behind him, he could hear Orlov ordering the men to their stations for the day, yelling for Golovin to bring more wood for the final repair of Widow Brodie’s roof.

Reaching Widow Atchison’s house, Max heard the murmur of female voices as he knocked on the door.

“Come in!”

He pushed the door open and stepped inside, where he found Murian and Widows Atchison and MacThune using large spoons as trowels for smoothing plaster over a newly repaired wall, the fire crackling cozily nearby.

Widow Atchison’s eyes widened on seeing him. Small, brown-haired, and wren-like, she was one of the quietest of the widows. Max didn’t think he’d heard her speak yet. She elbowed Widow MacThune and said with a gasp, “Och, ’tis the prince!”

Murian, who was engrossed in plastering, turned around. A pleased look flashed through her eyes, and he found himself smiling in return.

“Good morning.” Murian was dressed in her usual colorless gown, sturdy boots upon her feet. Even without a single bit of finery other than her glorious red-gold hair and silver eyes, she shone like a rare jewel.

“Good morning.” He pulled off his gloves and tucked them in his pocket, noting that one strand of her hair was tipped with white plaster.

The two widows dipped curtsies, as Murian pointed to a wooden bowl filled with plaster. “We’re glad you came, as now you can help.”

“It looks as if you’re doing a very good job on your
own.” He crossed the room to her side. He clasped his hands behind his back and bent to examine the plasterwork. “
Da
. Very good.”

She sniffed. “Of course it’s good.”

“Except you missed a spot here.” He pointed. “And here. And h—”

She tapped his finger with her makeshift trowel, leaving a cold dab of plaster on it. “Now you can fix those spots.”

The other two tried not to laugh and failed.

“I am not afraid of a little plaster.” Max fixed the spot. “There. Now, it is perfect.”

“You’re verrah talented at plasterwork.”

“I am very talented at many things, Lady Murian. Plasterwork is only one of them.”

Widow Atchison bit her lip as if to stop a grin, and busied herself stirring the plaster in the bowl, while Widow MacThune stared, waiting for Murian’s response.

Murian pressed her trowel into his hand. “As you’re so talented, perhaps you can fix the rest of the spots we missed? I warn you, ’tis not so easy as you might think.”

“We shall see.” He placed the trowel on the edge of the bowl and tugged off his coat and muffler, hanging them over a chair. The heavy mahogany chair was covered in red velvet and decorated with an unseemly amount of gold embroidery. Two matching chairs flanked the fireplace. Apparently Murian’s cottage hadn’t been the only one to benefit from Rowallen’s loss.

He picked up the trowel and turned to the wall, touching up the few uneven spots here and there, while Murian stood at his side, her eyes dancing with humor.

“Och, now ’tis you who’s missed a spot.” She didn’t try to disguise the satisfaction in her voice as she pointed at the wall with her trowel.

He gave her a stern look. “I haven’t gotten to that portion yet.”

Her lips quirked, and he couldn’t look away from her mouth. No other woman had ever possessed a more kissable or bewitching mouth. Pink and plump and temptingly saucy, it deserved to be—

“Och, I almost fergot!” Widow MacThune put down her trowel and wiped her hands. “We’re to help Ailsa with her bairn while she plasters Ian’s cottage.”

Widow Atchison looked up from loading her trowel. “We are?”

Murian looked over her shoulder, surprise clear on her face. “Why would Widow Grier need help? She told us at breakfast that her bairn’ll sleep until ’tis time for him to eat. We canna help with that.”

“Yes, but we promised, dinna we?” Widow MacThune looked at Widow Atchison.

Widow Atchison blushed, but managed to say, “Aye.”

“There! So I told ye.” She tossed her makeshift trowel into the bucket, wiped her hands on a rag, and picked up her cloak.

Murian shook her head. “Could some of the older children watch Widow Grier’s bairn and—”

“Och, nay.” Widow MacThune shook her head firmly. “We must go.”

Murian plopped her hands on her hips. “You canna stop plastering while we have an entire bowl of—”

The door closed.

Murian couldn’t believe it. They’d left her alone . . . with Max.

She shot him a glance and found him still calmly smoothing the plaster with his trowel.

“It seems your friends have left.” He stepped back and eyed the wall before turning to place the spoon across the bowl lip.

“They have things to do.” Murian wondered if Widow Reeves had spoken to the others and suggested they leave her alone with the prince.
More than likely.

Murian didn’t know whether she was glad of this new freedom or not. It was certainly intoxicating to think of being in Max’s presence without worrying about being interrupted. She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him after their last encounter, when he’d made her writhe with such need—even now, shivers traveled through her at the memory.

He came up behind her, slipped his arms about her, and gently pulled her to him. His cheek rested against her head, his breath stirring the hair at her temple. She leaned against him, soaking in his warmth, his strength.

He rubbed his cheek against her hair. “You have plaster in your hair,
milaya moya
.”

“I know. My hair willna stay in its pins. ’Tis one of the trials I must bear.”

He chuckled, the sound rumbling in his chest. “I like the plaster; it shows me how you’ll look when you’re older and your hair is no longer red.”

She winced. “I dinna want to think aboot that.”

“
Nyet.
” He turned her in his arms so that she faced him. “You will be just as beautiful as you are now.”

She slipped her arms about his waist. “I dinna believe a word you say, but it’s still lovely to hear.”

He brushed her cheek with the back of his fingers, his green eyes intent. “I meant every word.”

She smiled and, savoring the heat slowly building between them, rested her cheek on his shoulder. She liked this—being held and kissed by a man she respected and admired. Passion raced through her every time their eyes met, too.

And that was enough. It would have to be. She’d come to realize over the last few weeks that she needed to preserve every bit of herself for her people. Perhaps when Spencer returned and things were back to normal . . .

She closed her eyes. There was no more normal. Robert was gone. Her old way of life was gone. And while Max had reawakened her passions, he would soon be gone, too.

Still, there was nothing wrong with this—with touching and being touched. The memories could give her strength when things again grew difficult, as they were bound to.
So
w
hat harm could it do?

But she knew what harm. She was not a woman who gave lightly. When she cared, she cared deeply. When she loved, it was with all her body and soul. Losing
Robert had been brutal, and it had taken every ounce of strength she possessed to meet the obstacles she and her people had faced.

And they weren’t done—not even close. Even if by some miracle she managed to find Robert’s journal, and it proved all she thought and hoped and prayed it would, Max would still leave. And she’d be here, starting a new, and perhaps just as difficult, stage of her own life. She fought a sigh and lost.

Max tightened his hold as he heard that deep sigh. Over the last few weeks, he’d glimpsed that expression in her eyes and had recognized it for what it was—a flicker of tension, of worry. She was responsible for so many others, and he knew she felt as if she were walking atop a fence, wobbling from step to step, terrified of letting down those she loved.

But he could see she was resilient, and he knew she’d find a way to address the troubles life handed her.

She pulled back and looked up at him. “I wish we’d met some other place and time.”

He didn’t pretend not to understand her. “It would be easier,
nyet
? But we have what we have. It must be enough.” He slipped a hand into her hair and tilted her face to his, trailing a kiss from her temple to the corner of her lips.

She closed her eyes, some of the tension leaving her face.