The Prince and I

by Karen Hawkins

  Max raised his hand as he turned his horse into the small village, and the line of men behind him immediately came to a halt. For the last few days, he and his men had systematically searched for the highwaymen who’d held them up, but to no avail.

  Yet.

  Orlov pulled up his horse beside Max. “It looks as if there has been a mishap to this village, much like the other three villages we’ve visited over the last few days.”

  “I wonder if they’ll have the same story to tell?”

  “That nothing happened? That one of the few buildings they use for commerce has been razed, but for no reason anyone knows?” Concern darkened Orlov’s face. “They lie. While our search for this thief has not been successful, it has brought us another mystery.”

  “A big one. Someone has gone through this forest and systematically reduced the local villages to ashes, and at Loudan’s orders, or so it seems to me. His guards ride out each day, and each day there is a new fire.”

  “As we are Loudan’s guests, no one will tell us anything. They fear retribution.” Orlov looked disgusted. “Why would he do this to his own people?”

  “I don’t know—yet. There is a large man by the inn. You, Demidor, and I will speak with him. Have Pahlen and Golovin catch up to that cart that just pulled away and see what those people might know. Have the rest of the men knock on doors and try to find out what happened. Offer coins, and leave a few even if the villagers offer no help. Everyone we’ve seen thus far appears to be in need. It is the least we can do.”

  “Da, General.”

  Max urged his mount down the path into the village. As he reached the smoldering inn, the woman in the cart seat turned and looked over her shoulder toward the woods. She only looked for a second, her face creased as if in worry, and then just as quickly, she turned back around, hunkering down. Max’s gaze moved from her to the man at her side. Such a large man, too, like a giant—

  His gaze narrowed. He turned in the direction the woman had looked. For a moment, he saw nothing but large trees, half-withered shrubbery, and a swath of brown leaves. Nothing of interest.

  But as he started to turn back, a flicker of movement caught his attention. He stood up in his stirrups and just caught sight of a figure disappearing into the woods, a greenish cloak blending with the late-fall foliage.

  “What is it?” Orlov asked, dismounting beside Max.

  “I don’t yet know.” Max climbed down and handed Orlov his reins. “Talk to the innkeeper, and do not let those two in the cart get away. I’ll be back.”

  Orlov nodded and called out orders to the other soldiers.

  Max headed toward the woods, catching sight of a faint path that wasn’t evident from the main road. As he entered the trees he slowed his gait, walking softly and avoiding crisp leaves and noisy branches that might alert his prey.

  It took him only a moment to catch up to her, for she’d not had much of a head start. She hurried down the path, apparently confident she’d made good her escape, as each step crunched on dead leaves and fallen sticks. As the path bent around a large oak, the sunshine lit the hood and shoulders of her cloak and he caught sight of a thick red curl that clung to her shoulder. Red hair, tall, slender, strides as if every step had a purpose—Finally, I have found you.

  Chapter 4

  Murian shivered as a chilly breeze ruffled her hood and tugged at her skirts, her mind on the prince. He intrigued her—it was rare that she’d been bested in a sword fight, but then, not many men still adhered to what was now considered an antiquated way of fighting. Spencer had often lamented that improvements in the accuracy of pistols and rifles had turned many men from the older and, to him, more honorable ways of warfare. She had to agree that a person’s true mettle showed during a fight by blade. And judging from the prince’s performance, he was a foe to be respected.

  She glanced back over her shoulder, wondering if Ian and Widow Reeves had made it out of town before the prince and his men arrived. Hearing nothing but the rustle of the trees and her own footfalls, and hurried on.

  She had much more to think about than a visiting prince. Besides the worrying issue of supplies, the crofter’s cottages were far from ready for bad weather. Her people had the skills to make repairs—Widow Brodie was good with a hammer and saw and had made chests for each of her five boys, while Widow MacCrae, who wove the loveliest of lace, had also replaced the crumbling chinking on one wall of her cottage using a recipe she’d gotten from a groom at Rowallen. And while helping Ian build a stone fence for their animals when they’d first moved to the village, Murian had learned enough to help repair some of the chimneys.

  A low branch hung over the path, and she ducked to avoid it. As she straightened, her hood was yanked from her head. She turned to untangle it from the branch—and found herself facing a wall of red wool.

  And not just any wool, but fine red wool adorned with large gold buttons.

  Oh no. She gulped, her heart thudding hard as she slowly, ever so slowly, looked up. Her gaze traveled over a broad chest, to a firm chin, and then to eyes the deepest of green.

  The prince had the cold, clipped beauty of a hawk, his jawline sharp, his nose aquiline, his gaze piercing—every line masculine and commanding, including his scars.

  The moonlight had softened them, but in the brightness of the late afternoon sun, they were plainly visible. An angry red scar cut one eyebrow in half, skipping his lid only to catch the bold cheek beneath it. Another scar, older and white, marked his upper lip, and there were two more on his chin and jaw. But his scars didn’t alter the masculine line of his mouth, nor did they soften the firmness of his jaw, nor detract from the long lashes that framed his green eyes.

  He was extraordinarily beautiful.

  A shiver traveled over her, an instant, heated reaction that weakened her knees and tripped her heart. It’s fear, she told herself. Fear that he will reveal me to Loudan.

  Besides, she wasn’t even certain he recognized her. She could tell little from his expression, which was politely inquisitive, and little else.

  “You seem to be in a hurry.” His voice was like dark, creamy honey.

  Surely if he’d recognized me, he’d have said something. She forced herself to smile politely. “I am walking home, and it is growing late.”

  He glanced at the sinking sun. “I hope your home is close. Sadly, I am lost and do not know my way. Do you think you might help me?”

  She examined his expression more closely and saw no spark of recognition. It was dark that night, and there was only one lantern. She relaxed a bit. “Where are you staying, that you are lost?”

  “Rowallen Castle. My men and I were hunting. We stopped at a village, and I saw a hare. I followed him into the woods and now—” He shook his head and laughed a little. “That is what I get for not paying attention.”

  That seemed possible. She rapidly reviewed her options. She supposed she could run off and leave him here. Though he might be faster, she knew these woods well, and with some planning and a dash of luck, she could get away. But what would that achieve?

  A better plan would be to allow him to accompany her at least a small way, and—if she were subtle—find out what he knew. Perhaps I will discover what is happening at Rowallen.

  She nodded at the path ahead. “This runs into a trail. If you find it and go north, it will take you to the main road that leads to Rowallen. It will be much quicker than the road you were upon.”

  “Ah. Problem solved.”

  “Yes, but the trail isna well marked. Perhaps I should walk with you a bit, and show you the way. Once you see where it joins the main trail, you can return and show your men.”

  “Very good. Show me this trail.”

  She turned and walked on, the prince falling into step beside her. For a few moments, they walked in silence. He held back branches that barred their path, and placed a hand on her elbow when they had to scramble over some rocks.

  All in all, it was rather pleasant having a com
panion near her own age. She snuck a glance at his profile. He was far too handsome for his own good. And for hers.

  “I hope your home is close,” he said. “It is not safe after dark. There are brigands in the woods.”

  She fought a grin. “Och, yes. Everyone is talking aboot them.”

  “They are evil creatures. Dirty, malodorous—you would not wish to meet them in the middle of the night.”

  Her smile disappeared. “I’m sorry . . . did you say they were malodorous?”

  He curled his nose. “I had an encounter with them a few days ago and cannot get the stench from my nostrils.”

  What a ridiculous accusation! But she couldn’t say anything without admitting she was one of them. She said through tight lips, “I doubt the brigands will pay any attention to me. They willna expect me to have anything worth taking, so I’ll be safe.”

  “That, I cannot believe.” His gaze flickered over her. “You’re an attractive woman, and these men were the lowest forms of thieves I’ve ever met—brutal, barbaric, and vicious.”

  She ducked under a low branch, fighting to keep the outrage from her voice. “They canna be too vicious. They’ve harmed no one.”

  “They are animals. Despite my grandmother’s pleading, they demanded her basket of food.” He scowled, his expression stern. “What sort of person takes food from a hungry, frail old woman?”

  When he put it that way, it did sound rather horrible. She felt guilty for having enjoyed the roasted chicken quite so much. “Perhaps they were hungry themselves. It is coming onto winter, and a longer, colder fall we’ve never had.”

  “I doubt it. They were all very fat.”

  She came to a complete halt. “Fat?”

  “Da. With huge bellies and dirty hands.” He bent to remove a burr from the side of his boot. “They were incompetent, too. Obviously very new at their profession. Amateurs, really.”

  Amateurs? Murian’s back could get no stiffer.

  The prince straightened, dropping the burr to the ground. “But that’s no surprise, considering the leader of this band. He was—how you say . . . ?” He patted his arm. “No strength. Like a sick kitten.”

  Bloody hell, I’ll show him how strong I am! She wished she had her rapier with her now. “I heard a verrah different story aboot this thief. I heard he was quite the fighter and handled his rapier like a master.” Because she had, damn it.

  “Hardly. I beat him well and good.” He smirked, making her want to box his ears. “I barely nicked him, and he squealed like a stuck pig.”

  I didn’t squeal! Not once! She fisted her hands in a futile effort to keep her temper.

  The prince continued, “It was over quickly, of course. Battles with such lackwits usually are. After flashing his tiny sword, he begged for mercy.”

  “Begged?” Her voice cracked on the word.

  “Da. He almost wept in happiness when I allowed him to leave unscathed. Well, except for his ear. I cut it off, you know.”

  “You dinna,” she said firmly.

  “Da, I did. One cut and . . .” He waved his hand, slicing through the air. “Gone.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t keep this ear and make a purse of it,” she said furiously, failing to keep the sarcasm from her voice.

  The prince looked surprised. “Who would want a purse made from the ear of a malodorous coward?”

  She didn’t trust herself to speak.

  The prince seemed unaware of her fury, pursing his lips for a moment before saying, “But perhaps you are right, and it is safe for you to travel at night. Such a thief is not to be feared.”

  She couldn’t believe she was listening to such—drivel! Damn it, I planned that raid and it went very well! Well . . . it did until he complicated things. She sniffed. “I dare say you’ve experience in those things—holding up coaches and such, so that your opinion has merit.”

  “Experience? As a common thief? Nyet. Of course not.”

  “Well, there you have it. You canna judge them, then.” She turned on her heel and marched down the path.

  He was beside her in a second. “I may have never planned a paltry holdup, but I have planned many battles and faced many adversaries—and all successfully, too.”

  “Those are not the same.”

  “They are more similar than you might think.” His gaze narrowed and he added in an arrogantly certain voice, “But as you’ve had experience in neither, you would not know.”

  Words burned behind her lips, and she walked faster to channel her anger away from her tongue. Her feet hitting the earth harder with each step, she said in a polite, frosty tone, “And yet even an inexperienced person such as myself canna help but notice that these—what did you call them?—inexperienced and amateur thieves won the day. They say you handed over a fortune in gold.”

  “They did not win the day. I took pity on them and gave them a few paltry baubles, and sent them on their way.”

  Braggart! Liar! Arrogant pig prince! She had to count to ten before she could speak. “The tales being passed about the villages are quite different. They say the thieves gained a significant amount of coins, as well as Her Grace’s rings.”

  “And my grandmother’s supper,” he added. “My Tata Natasha missed the food more than her rings, for she was very hungry, and it was hours before we reached Rowallen.”

  “Hours?”

  “Da. We had to calm the horses, find the lost lanterns—such things as that. And waiting for supper is not easy for an old woman.”

  Muriel’s heart sank, her anger dissipating. They’d never meant anyone to suffer. Perhaps they shouldn’t have taken the basket of food, but she’d been thinking how welcome it would be to the children, who were tired of stew and turnips—

  The prince captured her elbow and pulled her to a stop.

  Surprised, she looked up at him.

  He brushed her cheek with his fingertips, and in his eyes she saw understanding. This man knew responsibility. How decisions could have repercussions one couldn’t expect. How the weight of one’s decisions could press down, making it difficult to breathe.

  “Ah, dorogaya moya, do not look like that. If you’d known my grandmother was hungry, you would have left the basket. I know it.”

  The sympathy in his voice soothed the ache of uncertainty in her heart. “Truly, I dinna know, or I’d have—”

  His eyes glinted.

  She clamped her lips together and yanked her hand free. “You knew! You knew all along!”

  “Da. The other night, I saw your face quite clearly.” He brushed a finger across her cheek, sending waves of shivers up her back, his eyes darkening. “I would never forget it.”

  She found it hard to swallow. “And now, you will tell Loudan.”

  The prince’s hand dropped back to his side. “Never. I only said he was a friend of mine to irritate you.”

  Aha! When he’d spoken so highly of the earl during the fight, she’d thought then that the prince had been shamming; it was gratifying to be proven right. “The earl dinna have friends. Only sycophants.”

  “So I’ve noticed. I’d never met him before I reached Rowallen.” The prince’s gaze brushed over her face. “By the bye, you and your band light up like firepots whenever the earl is mentioned. It is a weakness.”

  She inclined her head. “We will work on that. So, Prince, if you’re not a friend of the earl’s, then why are you here?”

  The prince’s eyes warmed and though he didn’t move, he seemed closer. “You wish for information, do you?”

  “Why not? You dinna seem to have anything better to do.”

  His lips twitched. “All in good time. First, you owe me an apology for slicing up my best coat.” Before she could do more than flash him a disbelieving look, he added, “But do not worry; I will accept a simple gesture—a kiss—as a token of your remorse.”

  A kiss. The mere thought made her fight a shiver. But she could not capitulate quite so easily. She had the distinct impression the prince
didn’t normally suffer from a lack of kisses, and she had no desire to be just one of many. She lifted one shoulder in a bored shrug. “I dinna give away kisses.”

  “You owe me something for my ruined coat,” he pointed out. “In addition, I won our little skirmish.”

  “Only because I slipped.”

  He looked amused. “I will say this: you have talent with that sword. I was caught unaware.”

  Well. It was surprising he would admit that. She rather enjoyed hearing it.

  He glanced at her ear, which was hidden beneath her hair. “How is your wound? Is it healing?”

  “It hurts, but not much.”

  “I didn’t mean to cut you. You moved as I moved, and the result . . .” He spread his hands. “I am sorry.”

  “As am I. I dinna wish anyone harmed, nor did I wish to inconvenience your grandmother.” She hesitated. “You will want your possessions returned.”

  “Nay. You may keep them.”

  Surprised, she tilted her head to one side. “Are you certain?”

  “I did not allow anything to be taken that I cared about.”

  “Ah. Thank you, then.” She shared a small smile. “It would have been difficult to reclaim the chickens from Ian.”

  The prince grinned in return, his eyes crinkling. “I would never come between that giant and his food.”

  “You’re a smart man.”

  He chuckled and captured her hand. “I should spank you for your arrogance, my little thief, but I have too much admiration for your skills.” He lifted her hand and brushed his lips over her knuckles, lingering on her bare skin.

  Her fingers trembled, a flurry of wild sparks cascading through her. She should yank her hand free or distract him with a swift kick to his shin—something other than stare at him, wondering what he might do if she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his and— No! What am I thinking?

  As if unaware of her turmoil, the prince ran his thumb over her palm, his gaze dropping to her hand as he traced the calluses there. A faint crease appeared between his eyes. “Life has not been easy for you.”

  Her face burned and she tugged her hand free, wishing she’d thought to rub in the peppermint liniment Widow Brodie made for such. “We do our own farming, and there is wood to cut, and stones to move.” There was no shame in that; she was proud of her people, of their progress. She lifted her chin and met his gaze dead-on. “We dinna live in luxury, but we live well enough.”