The Prince and I

by Karen Hawkins

  PRAISE FOR THE OXENBURG PRINCES SERIES

  THE PRINCE WHO LOVED ME

  A Publishers Weekly Book to Watch for 2014!

  “Hawkins puts her unique stamp on Cinderella in a tale that shines with humor, sparkling dialogue, and plenty of sexual tension.”

  —RT Book Reviews (4½ stars, Top Pick)

  “This is the funniest and most satisfying Hawkins book yet! A clever retelling of Cinderella complete with a handsome prince, two social-climbing stepsisters, an ambitious and ruthless stepmother, and (instead of a fairy godmother) a curse-throwing gypsy grandmother!”

  —Romance and More

  “You’ll fall in love with the hero prince, want to be best friends with the bookworm heroine, and wish that the rest of the cast (including three adorable dogs) could be a part of your family. A truly warm and funny romance.”

  —Cherry Picks Reviews

  PRAISE FOR THE DUCHESS DIARIES SERIES

  HOW TO CAPTURE A COUNTESS

  “A delightful, sprightly romp is what Hawkins does best, and when she sets her witty tale in Scotland and adds a charming castle and an engaging cast of characters, readers have the beginning of an appealing new series.”

  —RT Book Reviews (4 stars)

  “A beautifully written romance filled with passion, zest, and humor.”

  —Addicted to Romance

  “Spiced by a chemistry that practically leaps off the pages. Readers will be thrilled at every witty repartee between these reluctant lovers.”

  —Coffee Time Romance & More

  HOW TO PURSUE A PRINCESS

  “Sparking, witty repartee and heart-tugging emotions. With a wonderful romantic story, this book is pure, unadulterated Hawkins.”

  —RT Book Reviews (4½ stars, Top Pick)

  “Incredibly witty and sweet with the kind of fairy-tale charm that cannot help but remind us of our own childhood dreams of handsome princes and happily ever after.”

  —Novels Alive.TV

  HOW TO ENTICE AN ENCHANTRESS

  “This fairy tale gone awry is just different enough, just quirky enough, and just wonderful enough to have readers sighing with pleasure.”

  —RT Book Reviews (4½ stars)

  “Doesn’t disappoint on any level. There’s heat, humor, misunderstandings, and finally, love.”

  —Tampa Bay Books Examiner (5 stars)

  “A quick, funny, and light read.”

  —Literati Literature Lovers

  PRINCESS IN DISGUISE

  “Karen Hawkins delivers warmth, humor, romance, and a touch of heartache. . . . A great story to curl up with on a cold winter’s eve.”

  —Joyfully Reviewed

  “Karen Hawkins has . . . appealing characters, an eye for detail, a talent for bringing historical events from the past to life, and wickedly entertaining plots.”

  —Romance Junkies

  PRAISE FOR THE HURST AMULET SERIES

  “Delightfully humorous, poignant, and satisfying. . . . Memorable characters, witty and humorous dialogue, and sizzling sensuality.”

  —RT Book Reviews (4½ stars, Top Pick)

  “An entertaining romantic battle of wits.”

  —Chicago Tribune

  “A lively romp.”

  —Booklist

  “Charming and witty.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Fast-paced adventure, genuine emotion . . . plenty of humor, and some of the best banter between a hero and heroine that I’ve read in a while.”

  —The Romance Dish

  “Filled with laughter, passion, and emotion . . . mystery, threats, and plenty of sexual tension.”

  —Single Titles

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  To the best author’s husband in the world, aka HOT COP.

  Thank you for picking up dinner/doing laundry and dishes/walking the dogs/doing all the vacuuming those few hundred times while I was suffering from Deadline Dementia.

  You make the difficult times easy.

  I love you with all my heart.

  Thou and I.

  Acknowledgments

  A special thanks to my fabulous proofreaders, Rachelle Wadsworth, Cail Rodgers, and Suzanne Verikios, who helped so much with their thoughtful comments, spot-on questions, and sharp eyes for detail.

  From the bottom of my ink-stained heart, thank you!

  Chapter 1

  “. . . the roads are wretched, this carriage is sprung like a log, and I am freezing. Bozhy moj, have the people of this frigid country never heard of a foot warmer?” In the dim glow of the lantern that swung on a hook in the creaking coach, Grand Duchess Natasha Nikolaevna waited for a response. She’d catalogued no fewer than fourteen complaints, yet her companion didn’t look impressed. In fact, he seemed to be asleep.

  Deeply asleep.

  But she knew better. Her grandson might be a prince, but he was also a lifelong soldier who’d made a name for himself in many hard-won battles. A famed general and the leader of the Grand Army of Oxenburg, Prince Gregori Maksim Alexsandr Romanovin didn’t sleep deeply. Ever.

  His brothers and parents called him “Grisha,” a nickname for Gregori, but Natasha had refused. From the day he was born, she’d called him “Max” as befitted a conqueror. The name had fit him, and to his parents’ irritation—and Natasha’s delight—he grew to prefer Max and eventually refused to answer to anything else.

  But warrior prince or not, there was no excuse for ignoring his grandmother. She thumped her cane on the carriage floor.

  His lashes shifted and she knew he’d slipped a glance her way. Though it wasn’t much, it proved her point: she was being deliberately ignored.

  Her hand tightened on the gold cane top and she imagined his face if she rapped the cane across his knee. That would make him take heed. Sadly, it would also infuriate him, and she needed to be in his good graces. At least until she found a way out of her not-so-little predicament.

  She forced her tightly curled fingers to relax. There would be time to sort that out later. For now, she should focus on her grandson. To be honest, he worried her.

  Like his three brothers, he was tall and broad shouldered, his hair thick and black, his eyes a deep green. Unlike his brothers, he bore a scar on his forehead, caused by the graze of a bullet during some battle. Other scars marked his chin and jaw, and doubtless other parts of his body. The scars she could see did not concern her, though.

  Lately she’d come to think that her grandson bore much deeper wounds. If what his companions reported was true, the death of Max’s childhood friend and one of his top aides, Dimitri Fedorovich, had strongly affected him.

  Not that Max would admit such a thing, no matter how many opportunities she gave him. He hadn’t become the best general and the most brilliant tactician in all of Europe by admitting weakness, and he wasn’t about to start now.

  Damn it. She scowled as she regarded his handsome profile. Even scarred, with an oft-broken nose, he still looked princely. As befits a prince of the blood of stately Oxe—

  The coach jerked to one side, tilting crazily as if lifting onto two wheels. Natasha grabbed the edge of her seat but was tossed forward. With the grace of a lion, Max caught her midair and set her back into her seat, just as the coach slammed back onto all four wheels and continued on at a much faster pace.

  Huffing, Natasha collected her shawl, tugging it back over her shoulders in the light of t
he wildly swinging lantern. “That was nearly a dangerous accident—no surprise, considering the way this coachman has driven, hitting every bump and hole in the road.”

  No longer pretending to be asleep, Max flicked back the curtain and looked outside, his brow lowered.

  Shouts mingled with the wild neighing of horses and the coach suddenly lurched to a dramatic halt, sliding to one side of the road. There was a thud and then a drop, as one wheel seemed to slip into a ditch. Once again Natasha flew forward, a rag doll tossed by the wild ride. She would have hit the edge of the opposite seat had Max not once again caught her.

  He deposited her on the coach floor and blew out the lantern, casting them into darkness.

  She scrambled to return to her seat, but he placed a hand on her shoulder. “Stay.”

  “I will not sit on the floor—”

  “Shh! I must listen.” Max peered through a small crack in the curtain, a sliver of light from the lantern outside making a white slash across his face. “The luggage coaches have stopped as well.”

  Discordant voices rose in the dark; yelling, followed by anxious shouts.

  Natasha noticed the suddenly firm line of his mouth, the intentness of his expression.

  A voice bellowed through the night, harsh and astonishingly loud, asking the coachmen to step down.

  Natasha gripped her cane tighter. “Highwaymen?” She’d heard there were none, but she’d told Max that they preyed constantly on this isolated road in order to convince him to escort her. “I told you there would be—”

  “Silence,” he hissed. Another bellow rang out, this time an oddly polite but firm request to the two outriders to dismount. At the sound of a scuffle, Max’s face grew harsher as he closed the leather curtain, leaving them in blackness. She heard a rustling movement, and then a blanket was tossed over her. “Stay here.”

  “Nyet!” She yanked the blanket from her head, smoothing her mussed hair. “I will not hide.”

  “You will do as I tell you.” The soft words brooked no argument, and she realized she was hearing the general, not her grandson.

  “Whatever happens,” he said calmly, “do not let them know you are here. If they open the door, make yourself as small as possible and do not move. If we are lucky, they will not see you in the dark.”

  “You don’t need to tell me what to do; I am not a fool.”

  “What you are is a stubborn old woman far too used to getting your way.”

  “Pah!”

  He lifted one corner of the curtain to provide a faint ray of light as he adjusted his sword, and then quickly examined his pistol. Satisfied, he returned it to its hiding place in the back of his belt, and closed the curtain. In the dark, she heard the click of the door handle.

  She lunged for his arm, grabbing it with both hands. “You cannot go out there!”

  There was a chilled silence, and she could imagine the hardness of his expression. With a wince, she released him. “You cannot protect me outside. That is your job: to protect me and no one else. If someone opens the door you may shoot them, but you will not place yourself in danger—”

  “Stay down.” With that he threw open the door, the dim light outlining his broad figure. The last thing she saw before he was enveloped by darkness was his black fur-lined cape swinging from his broad shoulders, his boots agleam in the lantern light.

  Shutting the door behind him, Max gave quick thanks for the low mist that allowed him to make his way unseen behind a trunk that had fallen off one of the other coaches. It laid on its side, broken open, several of Tata Natasha’s expensive fur-lined cloaks spilled across the mud.

  Crouching behind the trunk, he surveyed the scene before him. Two men wearing kerchiefs over their lower faces had collected the coachmen into a small knot. Two more masked highwaymen guarded the other coaches’ doors to prevent the inhabitants from exiting. As Max peered over the trunk, a third masked highwayman was sent to watch Tata Natasha’s coach. Max had been fortunate to get out when he had.

  Where are my men? He leaned to the side of the trunk, keeping low. Piotr Orlov, his large, gruff sergeant at arms, the youngest son of a minor noble from Oxenburg, and Max’s most trusted man, leaned against a tree at the side of the road, holding his arm against his chest, a smear of blood on his forehead. A few paces back, Ivan Golovin, a tough four-campaign veteran, was unconscious on the ground, his nose bloodied. The rest of his men were nowhere to be seen, probably sent ahead by Orlov to scout for just such an ambush. Which I suggested he do, dammit. The thieves were fortunate in choosing their time of attack. Or have they been watching us as we travel?

  Max bit back a growl. The security of the entire trip had been marred by Tata Natasha’s demands that they stop at every inn they passed, a practice he’d allowed to continue for far too long. The delays had forced them to travel at night, which was much more dangerous, but he’d been swayed in his decision by her age and obvious exhaustion. Despite her hard words and harder glares, Tata Natasha was old and frail. And as unpleasant as soured wine. That old woman will be the death of me.

  A movement in the bushes drew Max’s gaze. Ah. More of you hide among the trees. He counted four shadowy figures flitting in the mist. It was impossible to tell if the men were armed, but it would be foolish to assume they weren’t.

  As if this number of ruffians weren’t enough, sitting astride a steed at the head of the whole was a lone man. The mist swirled about the legs of his steed while a lantern shone behind him, casting light on those before him and highlighting the barrel of a long rifle. A sharpshooter, and in the same position I’d have placed him, too.

  Which was it, a rifle or a blunderbuss? The uncertain light glinted on the barrel but hid the rest of the weapon. Rifles were harder to load than blunderbusses, and had to be cleaned between shots as the barrels were easily fouled by black powder residue. But they were extremely accurate; one shot could be deadly. Whoever planned this little encounter has done a damn fine job.

  As Max watched, a slender figure appeared at the edge of the road. The newcomer held back, away from the action, yet all of the thieves instantly focused on the slight man. So, the leader has shown himself.

  The man spoke quietly to the largest of the thieves watching over the coachmen, a veritable giant who turned toward where Max was hidden behind the fallen trunk.

  The large man’s hand moved to the curved butt of what appeared to be a pistol stuck into his thick leather belt as he bellowed, “Pray come oot, Yer Highness. We know ye’re hidin’ there. We can see ye, we can.”

  So they know my title. Interesting. There was little profit in continuing to hide if the thieves knew where he was, and much profit to be had in facing them, so Max rose and stepped forward.

  “Hold!” the giant barked. “Dinna come any closer.”

  Max eyed his opponent narrowly. The brute was larger than any man he’d ever seen, his face broad, a red beard showing beneath the kerchief on his lower face. The man possessed an impossibly thick neck and had arms the size of most men’s thighs.

  “I will speak with your leader.” Icy puffs of breath punctuated every word.

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “Ye’ve an odd accent.”

  “Do not pretend that surprises you. You know who I am, so you must also know I’m from Oxenburg.”

  “I know many things, bu’ I’ve ne’er heard of this Oxenburg.”

  “That’s quite all right. I only recently learned of Scotland, and I’m beginning to dislike it.”

  The man’s brows snapped together. “If ye dinna like it, then ye can go home where ye belong.”

  Another man snorted, this one a slim youth with flowing brown hair, his mocking blue eyes bold over the top of his mask. A jaunty but worn hat adorned his head, a scarlet cape swinging from his narrow shoulders. “A prince, eh? Lord Loudan is gettin’ fancy.”

  They also know whose guests we are. How did they get such complete information?

  As if aware of the slip, the large highwayman cut a wa
rning glare at the second man, who shrugged, not the least remorseful.

  Loud of mouth and brash of person are weaknesses, my young friend. The giant has the right of it. Max addressed the bolder highwayman. “You know I’m a guest of the earl’s.”

  “Tha’ is the reason we’re here.” The highwayman’s voice dripped with barely contained fury. “We only bother the low scum as come to visit his lordship, the Earl of Louse.”

  The giant hissed a warning, but the lad was roused and continued, “The earl has done naught bu’ thieve his whole life, and we’re here to see to it tha’ he stops.”

  “If what you say is true—which I doubt . . .” Max paused to let that sink in, watching the lad stiffen in outrage. “. . . then look at you. You are no better than he: a low-life thief.”

  The youth’s blue eyes blazed, but before the fool could open his mouth and blurt out more information, the giant snapped, “Whist, now! Dinna say nobut wha’ needs to be known—which isna much.” The giant returned his attention to Max, his breath puffing white like that of a huge dragon getting ready to spit fire. “Throw yer pistol on the ground.”

  Max wished he could draw and engage; except for the lone highwayman positioned at the head, not a single man had his weapon drawn. While not having their guns ready was a good strategy to keep rowdy troops from unnecessarily firing and perhaps raising an alarm, it left them open to surprises.

  It was sorely tempting to answer this lack of foresight, but the realization that his grandmother was in the coach behind him and thus directly in the line of fire, kept Max from pursuing the risky course.

  Instead, he shrugged. “As you wish.” He withdrew his sword and dropped it at his feet, yet close enough to reach should the opportunity arise.

  “And yer pistol.” The giant’s eyes narrowed. “Dinna say there’s none, fer we know ye’ve one, and mayhap two.”

  Max resignedly removed his pistol and dropped it to the frozen ground beside his sword.

  The giant nodded at the youth, who loped forward to pick up the weapons. Ignoring the sword, he fell upon the pistol, examining it in an expert way. “Silver engravin’. Italian?”