“ ’Tis true,” Widow Reeves said. “And Widow MacDonald sews better than the dressmaker in the village.”
“And yer cookin’ is no’ to be ignored, either,” Ian added. “ ’Tis magic wha’ ye can do wi’ the most paltry of items.”
“I do wha’ I can. Thank the heavens fer Widow Atchison’s cheeses. Those ha’ helped mightily.”
“The inns clamor for more,” Murian said, “and will pay, too. A shop in Inverness has asked Widows MacThune and MacCrae for more of the lace they’ve been making, if they’ll come after dark so Loudan’s men dinna get wind of it.”
“Lady MacLure asked my sister to fetch more of the baskets Widow Grier makes, too,” Widow Reeves said, looking pleased.
“I’m lucky you all threw your fortunes in with mine.” Murian was proud of her merry band of widows and two braw men. Had Loudan left them alone, they would have done quite well. But he’d vowed to bring them to ruin. He wanted to run her off, away from Rowallen. And the only reason he could possibly have for keeping me away from the castle is because he knows there might be proof of his perfidy. If he’d already found Robert’s journal, then the earl wouldn’t care if I’m nearby, for he’d have already destroyed it. It was the only hope she had.
The wind rustled mightily, puffing wind down the chimney and sending a poof of black soot into the room. Widow Reeves shivered. “Och, I must be goin’. Master Beagin, why dinna ye come, too? The lass looks tired, and we could use yer help gettin’ Widow Brodie’s wild lads to bed.”
“Aye. I’ll walk wi’ ye.”
“Thank ye.” She stood. “Lud, five lads. ’Tis too much fer any mither.” She tugged her mittens back in place and walked to the door.
Ian followed, taking his cloak from a peg. As he tied it about his neck, he told Murian, “Lass, get to bed and forget aboot visitin’ the castle whilst Loudan’s still on alert. The time will come to make another move, bu’ we’d be fools to rush things.”
Widow Reeves blew out her breath in exasperation. “Lor’ love ye, Ian, leave the lass be. She looks whipped nigh to death. Ye can berate her in the mornin’, when she’s no’ so tired.”
Ian looked chagrined as he pulled up his hood. “I’m sorry, lass. I’ll wish ye guid night.”
“You too, Ian. Sleep well, both of you.”
Widow Reeves opened the door, and the icy wind swirled into the room. She hurried out, Ian following. “Lock the door,” he ordered over his shoulder, then closed the door behind him.
Murian rose and dropped the wooden bar across the door. She cast a final look over the list she’d been making before Ian’s visit and then tucked it away. Finally, more tired than she thought possible, she dressed for bed, put out the lamps, took off her slippers, and crawled between the cold sheets. She hugged the thick blankets as she waited for her body to warm the bed, her mind wandering to the prince, as it had every night since they’d met. She thought of their kiss, regretting that she’d had to use it to set him off balance so she could escape. She wished she’d been able to stay long enough to kiss him in earnest. What would that have been like?
He was probably angry with her, and who would blame him? She bit back a sigh and rolled to her side, hugging a pillow, shivering as her legs slid over the chilly sheets. The big bed felt lonelier and colder than usual.
Ah, to have a bed warmer. Before Loudan’s perfidy, Murian had never gone to sleep between cold sheets. She doubted the prince had ever done so, either. In fact, she’d wager that his sheets were silk rather than linen. She wondered what it felt like to have so much wealth that one could toss gold coins onto the ground as if they were pence? She couldn’t fathom it.
The prince was probably being entertained by Loudan right now. Or perhaps not. It was late and Max had said he didn’t care for his host’s company. More than likely he was already in his bed, pampered and placated, stroked and complimented, his every need attended to. Yet Murian wouldn’t have traded places with him for the world. She was here where she belonged, with her people. For some reason, she had the impression the prince wasn’t so fortunate. There’d been something in his eyes when they’d been talking in the woods, something lost. What happened to you that you look so? Was it when you got those scars? Or was it something else?
She sighed and snuggled deeper into her pillow. Whatever tragedy the prince had withstood, she had her own worries. Soon—finally—she’d be in Rowallen, and this time she’d find Robert’s journal.
She had to. Her people counted on her.
She closed her eyes and slipped into a dream-filled sleep where she once again lived in Rowallen with Robert, their people all healthy and smiling.
The Grand Duchess Natasha paused inside the wide doors of the ballroom. The room glittered and glowed, the orchestra playing to the swoosh of silk gowns as the dancers swirled by, augmented by the constant murmur of gossiping voices. Bedecked with boughs of greenery, softened by the flicker of hundreds of candles, and decorated with the neighboring lords and ladies in their finest silks and satins, Rowallen Castle was adorned for a ball.
Natasha sniffed. “Preening peacocks.”
Max, on whose arm she was leaning, sent her a faintly irritated glance. “It’s a ball, Tata. They must dress accordingly.”
“That’s no reason to expose one’s bosom to all of society. And these breeches the men are wearing are so tight, they show everything. It’s scandalous! The fashions in Oxenburg are much more seemly.” She eyed his uniform. The coat was blood-red with gold epaulets and braiding. Tailored, it clung to his broad shoulders before tapering down to fasten with brass buttons at his waist. His black breeches were comfortably loose, tucking into his black Hessians, as was proper for a man, she thought with pride.
Some of his men stood behind him, well out of earshot, and similarly attired. With their uniforms and beards, they looked larger and far more manly than the other men in the room, though her grandson outshone them all, as was only proper. Even beardless, he was taller, bigger, and more powerful.
Max glanced over her head. “Are you hungry, Tata Natasha?”
“Nyet. We just had dinner.”
“It looks as if the earl fears we did not partake enough.” He nodded to a row of tables.
A blinding array of serving dishes sat between numerous heavy silver candelabras. Gold and brass platters flanked crystal-tiered cake holders, where French rolls, bonbons, sugared walnuts, wafers, almonds, rum-soaked cakes, trifles, and other delicacies beckoned. Other tables held sherry, punches, and wines, as well as lemonade and tea. To the other side, a huge ornate buffet held an assortment of ices.
“The earl is trying to impress us.” She sniffed disdainfully. “As he should. We are royalty, while he is a bastard son, given a title in an attempt to pull him up in the world. Not that it’s helped.” She couldn’t keep a sour note from her voice.
It had been more than a week since they’d arrived—ten days, in fact, and every day she’d requested to speak to the earl about their little matter. And every time he’d refused, citing a number of reasons—he was busy, it was too close to supper, he had to dress to ride with his guests.
Her jaw ached with fury at his insolence. Did he not know who she was?
But of course he did, the mool. In public, he paid her every attention, but it was a show and nothing else.
She muttered under her breath. She would teach that fool a lesson if it were the last thing she did. I will cast a spell on him that makes hair grow in his ears. Long, coarse black hair, like a goat’s. That’ll teach him not to—
“Tata, you will break your teeth if you keep grinding them so.”
She forced her jaw to relax. “I am cold.”
Max’s brows knit. “Shall I have a shawl brought from your rooms?”
“I’m fine. Just old. Too old to stay in such a damp castle.”
“Loudan’s castle is not so bad. It is far more pleasant than our host.”
She had to agree. To be honest, Rowallen was the best part of
her trip thus far. The castle was large, had more amenities than most castles she’d visited, and was surprisingly well appointed. The woodwork was ancient but superbly preserved, the windows new, the floors fairly even, and every bedchamber had a water closet.
Everything was more pleasant than she’d hoped for . . . except their host. She glanced about the room and found the earl standing near the doors. Ian Prinnas, the Earl of Loudan, was a tall man with brown hair and well-set shoulders. He might have been considered handsome if one did not notice how close set his eyes were, and the almost feral way he habitually glanced about him every few seconds, as if fearful a mongoose might leap from behind a chair and attack him. He had a weak chin, too. So many signs, yet I ignored them all. She released an angry sigh.
“For the love of— Tata, why so much sighing and teeth grinding? What has happened?”
“Nothing. I was thinking, that is all.”
“You were glaring at Loudan as if you wished him to the devil.” Max eyed their host. “Not that I blame you, for I can barely stand the man.” Max turned his cool, hard gaze her way. “I must ask you yet again—why did you drag me to the wilds of Scotland to visit a low-bred dunahk?”
Hearing Max call the earl a fool dissipated some of her anger, and yet she did not answer. She couldn’t quite give up the hope that she might find a way out of her difficulties without directly involving her grandson.
Max watched as his grandmother’s expression shuttered once again. “Just tell me! If what I hear is true, Loudan’s a heartless overlord, a thief, and worse. He’s wronged many people.”
Tata merely sniffed.
Stifling the urge to throw the entire matter to the winds, Max turned to watch the earl as he greeted the guests. It had been a long week. After collecting his pride when Murian had bested him (again, though he didn’t like to think of it that way), he’d returned to Rowallen and ordered his men to find out what they could about the previous owner of Rowallen and his death. It hadn’t taken long before Demidor, ever the flirt, had found a chambermaid willing to tell between breathless kisses everything she knew. According to the maid, Lord Robert had lost the castle and lands to Loudan after a bloody duel over a questionable game of chance. Rumors throughout the countryside hinted that it had been murder and not a duel, but as only Lord Loudan and his friends were present, no one could naysay his version of the events.
The maid, who been hired after Loudan arrived, had gotten most of her information from the butcher in the nearby village. Having fought many wars, Max knew there were truths to be found in the gossip of the common people, and he was inclined to believe all the maid had to say.
No wonder Lady Murian was bitter. She’d lost her husband within a remarkably short time of her marriage too.
Max watched Loudan as he greeted a late guest, an elderly woman who appeared uneasy just standing close to the man. “These people do not like him.”
“I don’t care how these people feel about the earl. What I care about is what he’s done to m—” Tata Natasha clamped her lips closed, sending him a harassed look. “He is beneath us.”
“Then why don’t we leave?”
She clamped her lips together tighter.
Max eyed her closely. “Tata, what has he done that you traveled all the way here to face him? You must tell me.”
Her gaze flickered to him and for a moment, he thought she’d finally tell him, but then her expression hardened. “There is nothing to tell. I thought it would do me good to come to the countryside for fresh air.”
“Fine. Do not tell me. I will address Loudan directly. I’ll ask him why you are here, how you two came to meet, why—”
“Nyet! I forbid you to ask him anything that has to do with me!” She sniffed in outrage. “Perhaps if you did not disappear for the better part of every day, you could help me deal with the earl.”
“Help? How? I don’t even know what’s happened!”
“You can help by being here, and showing that foolish earl that I am not alone and unsupported.”
“He already knows that. Besides, there are things I must do, too.” Like search for the home base of a cheeky wench who had twice now left him feeling like a fool.
Max supposed he should be angry with Murian, but other thoughts kept creeping in, pushing aside his outrage. At the oddest times he remembered how her soft lips had felt against his, or how she’d stared at his mouth when he’d talked, as if hungry for far more than food, or—more tantalizing still—how her voice had trembled slightly when he’d pressed his lips to her fingers.
She wanted him. He knew it, and that saved his pride.
Tata Natasha’s snort interrupted his thoughts. “You have things to do, eh? Like what? Search the woods for a thief who bettered you at swordplay?”
“Swordplay is what actors do upon the stage. There is nothing playful when one fights.”
She cocked her eyebrow. “I do not understand; you and your men have looked for these thieves every day, yet you cannot find them. Why?”
“The woods go for miles and miles and are very dense. There are few roads, or even pathways. We’ve searched near every village, but it seems the bandits have not set up their camp near one, as we expected. We will keep looking; I know we will find them.”
Tata Natasha snorted. “You have become obsessed with these bandits.”
“I do not obsess, Tata Natasha,” he corrected her gently. “I inquire. I search.”
“For thieves.”
“For interesting thieves.” Far more interesting than the earl’s sycophants, who shared his dinner table night after night.
“You should be here at the castle, keeping me company,” Tata repeated in a stubborn tone.
“What am I to do, hold your knitting? If you truly needed me here, you’d explain yourself.”
She made a disgusted sound. “Why do my grandsons refuse to do as they are told? None of you listen to a thing I or your parents say. You do not behave as princes should.”
“And how should princes behave?”
“They should do as they are asked, and marry and settle down.”
“Wulf and Alexsey have married. That’s half of us.”
“You have not married.”
“Nor will I. Soldiers should not marry.”
“Pah. That is nonsense.”
He didn’t answer.
She looked up at him, and for a moment she stopped being an imperious grand duchess and became his grandmother, her face softening slightly. “Oh, my Maksim, what have these wars done to you?”
“They have made me grow up. Soldiers are married to their causes. They should not forget that.” He never would. He was a soldier, as were his closest companions, Orlov and poor Fedorovich.
The sons of nobility, they were distant cousins of Max’s. The two had been present at almost every court function where—enticing Max away—they’d slip out of the castle for games of hide-and-seek, running wild through the sedate gardens and cultured park land. Later, as headstrong youths, the three had attended the same military school. Then, as young adults, they’d joined the Oxenburg military as adjutants to famous General Zhukov where, when not performing their duties, they’d hunted wolves and women. Max had thought of them as brothers.
But over time, things changed—General Zhukov’s health failed and Max was named as the new general; Orlov inherited his father’s lands and title; and after a long and tumultuous courtship, Fedorovich married Orlov’s youngest sister.
Lively and pretty, Henrietta had become a welcome part of their little group. When she’d had a son, both Orlov and Max had been deemed “uncles” to the baby. And over the years, Fedorovich and Henrietta’s house became the center of their visits. To the amusement of all, Max and Orlov fell into a growing competition to see who could buy the boy the more extravagant gift. Thus Max had bought the boy his first rocking horse, his first play sword, and his first pony.
And it had been Max who, after a terrible battle won only through dogged
perseverance and the blood of many, many men, had ridden to the house that held so much laughter and wonderful memories, to tell Henrietta that her beloved Fedorovich wasn’t coming home.
He’d told her the news in private, but her cries had brought her son running. Only eight, he’d burst into tears upon realizing what had caused his mother such distress, and the two of them had fallen into each other’s arms, inconsolable and lost. Max, suddenly an outsider, could do nothing to stem the tears; all he could do was watch.
That moment had seared his soul. And matters had turned even worse when, a week later, an inconsolable Henrietta attempted to take her own life, throwing herself from the top window of the house. She’d lived but the damage had been severe, and she was confined to her bed, never to rise again. Orlov, newly married, had moved her into his home and was now raising Artur as his own son.
The events had devastated Max. He’d been well aware of the tragic costs of a soldier’s death, but he’d never felt one so deeply, and it had taught him well. “Soldiers should never wed. It isn’t fair to their families.”
“Pah!” Tata said. “Soldiers may wed if they wish. Your father was once the leader of the armies of Oxenburg, and he wed.”
“If my father knew what I know, he would never have done so.”
She scowled. “You are stubborn, and will not listen to reas—” Her gaze locked on something behind Max.
Max followed her gaze to the refreshment table, where a woman stood, her hand hovering over a silver tray filled with delicacies. As he watched, she picked up a tart, looked around, and then slipped it into her pocket.
“That’s the third one,” Tata said. “She also took some pears and wrapped her kerchief about some sweet biscuits and stuffed them away, as well.”
Max watched as the woman casually wandered to a tray of pastries, glancing about the room as she did so. She was round, her body stuffed into a puce-colored gown until she looked like a sausage. She was older, with frown lines at the sides of her mouth. Her dyed brown hair hung in fat, heavy ringlets at each side of her face, an old-fashioned style he’d only seen in portraits.
The Prince and I Page 7