The Prince and I

by Karen Hawkins

  She reached for some sugared walnuts and he noted her face was heavily rouged, her eyebrows darkened to match her falsely colored hair, a trick used by elderly women the world over. While he watched, she slipped a handful of the sugared walnuts into her pocket and then glanced about to see if anyone had witnessed her theft, her eyes plainly in view for the barest of seconds.

  Max stiffened. “We must go.” He tucked Tata Natasha’s hand into the crook of his arm and firmly led her toward the corner where three of his men stood watching the young ladies swirl past in the dance.

  “What are you doing?” Tata Natasha asked, huffing with each step.

  “I must speak to this woman.”

  “Why?”

  “I will tell you if you will share why we are here visiting a man neither of us like.”

  “We are not talking about Loudan; we are talking about that woman stealing food.” Tata’s voice grew hard. “She is a nobody. You can see it just by looking at her.”

  Ah, Tata, if only you knew. Max reached his men, nodding to Orlov, Demidor, and Pahlen, who’d come to share the burden of the night’s activities. He placed Tata Natasha’s hand in Orlov’s. “Take care of Her Grace.”

  Orlov bowed over the grand duchess’s hand. “Your Grace. Allow me to—”

  She jerked her hand free and scowled at Max. “Let Loudan keep watch over his own refreshment table. You are a prince. You cannot—”

  Max was already crossing the floor. As he approached the refreshment table, his quarry paused before a tray of cream pastries.

  He walked behind her and bent close to her ear, the scent of vanilla and lavender tickling his nose. “Not those. They will stain your pockets.”

  The lady stiffened and then turned his way, astonishment on her face. Thickly lashed eyes met his, as silver as the tray near her graceful hand.

  He smiled. Murian had done an excellent job at disguising herself. In addition to the heavy rouge, someone had expertly shaded her nose to make it more prominent. Faint circles had been added under her eyes, and perfectly drawn lines ran between her nose and the corner of her mouth, giving her a permanently displeased look.

  Had he not been looking to see how the differences in her appearance had been wrought, he wouldn’t have noticed them, even close. Such was the magic of dim candlelight and well-applied greasepaint. The question now was—should he tell her he recognized her? It would be practical to do so, but not nearly as much fun.

  Besides, he owed her some uneasy moments. Max inclined his head. “I’m sorry, did I startle you?”

  Murian couldn’t move, couldn’t think. All she could do was soak in the rich sound of that deep voice, her body tightening head to toe, her heart thudding in her throat. Can he see through my disguise?

  The silence was growing awkward, so she cleared the uncertainty from her throat and bobbed the sort of heavy, perfunctory curtsy she imagined a middle-aged spinster might make. “How do you do? I dinna believe we’ve been introduced.” She kept her voice flat and toneless, hoping to keep from stirring his memory.

  His gaze flickered over her. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  “Nay, we havena.” Her mind, usually agile when taxed, froze yet again. There was something about this man, something forbidden, something that tugged at her. Though he’d made no move to touch her, she was intensely aware of everything around her—the linen tablecloth under her fingertips, the weight of the padding tied about her waist to disguise her figure, the fullness of her pockets stuffed with treats for the children.

  What would an awkward spinster say to a handsome prince at a country dance? “Och, ’tis hot in here,” she blurted out, trying to sound as if she’d recited those exact words a thousand times before.

  “So it is.” His eyes glimmered. “I see you are enjoying the refreshments. They are good, nyet?”

  She nodded, unable to look away from him. She was a tall woman, but she still had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze. She realized she should respond to his comment, and she managed to say, “Aye, the refreshments are excellent. I’ve never seen so many.”

  He glanced with unconcern at the table. “Neither have I, but then, I do not attend many dances.”

  Because he was no ordinary prince, but a warrior prince. Her gaze locked on his face. He looks like an angel. A warrior angel.

  He chuckled, the sound rumbling in his broad chest. “A warrior, da. But I am no angel.”

  No! I didn’t mean to say that aloud. She bit back a groan, and could have gladly sunk into the floor if she’d thought it might save her from this moment.

  Her chagrin must have shown on her face, for he moved a bit closer. “Do not run. I will tell your secret to no one.”

  Her heart slammed to a stop. “My . . . secret?”

  His lazy half-smile made her gulp. “That you are carrying ten people’s worth of delicacies in your pockets.”

  “Och, that! ’Tis not for me.” She forced herself to smile. “It would be verrah kind if you dinna mention this to anyone.”

  His green eyes glinted with humor. “It is how we angels are.”

  Her cheeks heated. “I dinna say ‘angel.’ ”

  “I distinctly heard the word ‘angel.’ But perhaps I am wrong. What did you say, then?”

  She desperately cast about for a suitable replacement. Good lord, doesn’t anything rhyme with “angel”? As the seconds ticked on, the silence became more awkward.

  Finally, she said in a tight voice, “It doesna matter, but that’s not what I said.”

  His lips twitched, but otherwise he maintained his grave expression. “I see.” He tilted his head to one side and regarded her with a narrow gaze. “Forgive me, but you weren’t at dinner, were you? I examined every face present, and I am certain I did not see yours.”

  Why did you do that? “I wasna at dinner. My mother grew ill as we were leaving. In getting her back to bed and a doctor to her side, I was late arriving and missed dinner.” She silently thanked Widow Reeves for deciding they should have a story ready in case someone wondered why she hadn’t been at dinner. It would have been too chancy to attend dinner in her disguise, for the lights would have been bright and she’d have been seated close to her fellow guests. But here, at the dance afterward, where the lights were dimmer and everyone was either dancing to Scottish reels or gossiping in small groups, it was much easier to remain unnoticed.

  “If you didn’t come to dinner, then you must be starving. No wonder you are raiding the sweets.”

  “They’re for my mother. I thought they might cheer her oop a wee bit.” She peeped at him through her lashes to see if he believed her. She shouldn’t have taken the chance of drawing attention to herself, but the children so rarely had sweets, and seeing the table groaning with such bounty had been too tempting.

  “I hope your mother will appreciate your efforts.” His gaze flickered over her and he inclined his head. “But introductions are in order, nyet?” Before she knew what he was about, he’d taken her hand in his large, warm one and bowed, his lips brushing the back of her sugar-coated fingers. “I am Max.”

  At the touch of his hand on hers, waves of weakness washed through her, and she had to swallow twice before she could speak. “Verrah nice to meet you.” She dipped an awkward curtsy, the wadding around her waist making her feel off balance. As she rose from the curtsy, she freed her hand from his grasp.

  “And your name?” he asked.

  “Miss MacDonald.” There were as many MacDonalds in Scotland as there were blades of grass.

  “MacDonald. Of course.” His gaze raked her face once more.

  He was so close, his foot brushing hers, and so large, filling up the space about them until she felt encompassed, warm . . . and breathlessly excited. Such feelings meant nothing, of course. The mere thought of a possible flirtation was heady stuff after so many months alone with her small group of widows in the woods. She wished she could act upon that longing, if only for a few moments. Of course, dressed as
she was, she doubted he felt the same—and she had to smile, thinking of how he might react if plain, dowdy Miss MacDonald pulled him into a corner for a passionate kiss.

  A quick glance around the room told her she wasn’t the only one thinking such a thing. Every gaze in the room seemed to find the prince, dart away, and then return to linger. And why wouldn’t they stare? He looked masculine, deadly, and . . . something else. Something that made every woman in the room watch him with longing, and every man send concerned looks his way. It’s as if he entices the women, and the men—seeing his effect—are threatened, but dare not confront him.

  She didn’t blame them. A raw, restless power sat on his broad shoulders, shimmered in his green eyes, and rippled through his muscled arms.

  He smiled faintly, and she realized she hadn’t said a word in response to his question. “I’m sorry, but I was distracted by your uniform. Are you a guard?” Perhaps that would get him to admit to his birthright.

  “I am a soldier, Miss MacDonald.” He spoke simply, with a quiet, firm pride.

  “What kind of soldier are you?”

  “A busy one.” He gave her an impatient look. “I have answered your questions, so now you will answer mine.”

  She stiffened at his preemptory tone. He might not admit to being a prince, but she was beginning to suspect he never stopped acting like one.

  He glanced past her to the refreshment table. “What other sweets would your mother like?”

  “Oh. I’m sure I have enough.” She patted her heavy pockets.

  “But you were admiring these pastries when I arrived, so I’m determined you shall have them.” He pulled a kerchief from his pocket and placed several almond pastries in it. Then he wrapped them up and handed them to her, a smile in his green eyes. “Now they will not stain your pocket.”

  She looked at him with surprise, unable to frame a coherent thought. “That is verrah kind of you.”

  “It is nothing—but you should tuck them away before someone sees.” He bent closer, his voice low and intimate, tracing over her like warm hands. “Not everyone is as understanding of thievery as I am.”

  She blinked up at him, and in that instant, she realized he knew exactly who she was. “Oh! You’ve been teasing me this entire time!”

  “Da. But do not worry, dorogaya moya. You are safe. I will tell no one you are not this Miss MacDonald.”

  Her relief was quickly followed by a flash of irritation. “How did you know?”

  “Who else would sneak into the earl’s household and steal food rather than priceless treasures? Only you.” He captured her hand, turned it palm up in his, and dusted the remaining sugar from her fingertips.

  She tried to still her heart and snuck a glance at the large ornate clock against one wall. Almost ten. “Thank you for your kindness, but I must go.”

  “Not yet.” He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “Wherever you need to go, I will go with you.”

  She looked down where her fingers rested on his coat sleeve. The brushed wool was soft and fine, yet it did little to disguise the powerful arm under it. Never had she touched a more muscular, rock-hard arm. Even more surprising was the heat that radiated through the cloth. His warmth made her yearn to move closer, within the circle of his arms, her body pressed to his. She shivered at the thought.

  He gave her a questioning look. “You are cold.”

  “Nay, a goose walked over my grave,” she lied.

  His brows lowered. “But you are not dead, and so do not have a grave.”

  She laughed. “It is an old saying. Supposedly when you shiver for no reason, it’s because someone has walked over the place you are to be buried.”

  “That sounds most unpleasant. I do not like this saying.” Max looked down at her, reveling in having her close once again and, in a way, under his control. She’d fled from him twice already. He would not permit her to do so again. “Where do we go from here? I will take you.”

  Her lips thinned, and she looked far from pleased. He’d seen her glance at the clock, an impatient set to her chin. Ah, she wishes to be rid of me. She is planning something, this intriguing woman.

  “So many odd sayings you English have. My grandmother is Romany. They have much better sayings than this one of yours about the grave and goose.”

  “Oh?” she answered absently, her gaze on one of the doors leading into the ballroom.

  “Da. May mishto les o thud katar I gurumni kai. It means something like . . . it is easier to milk a cow that does not move.”

  She shot him an amused look, her mouth quirking with humor. “That’s certainly practical.”

  I like seeing that smile. Her mouth, full and lush, teased him and made him think of kissing her. Which I shall do again, dorogaya moya. And soon.

  She looked once again toward the door, so he asked, “Are you expecting someone?”

  She turned a wide, innocent gaze on him. “Och no. I was merely looking at all the beautiful gowns.”

  More beautiful lips had never lied so much. Max traced a lazy circle on the back of her hand where it rested on his arm. “I find I am thirsty. Would you like a beverage, as well? A sherry or some lemonade?”

  A flicker of irritation crossed her face, but she quickly hid it. “I would like some lemonade, please. In fact”—she withdrew her hand from his arm—“I’ll wait here while you fetch it.”

  “There is no need.” He nodded to Orlov, who stood across the room. Orlov said something to Demidor, who glanced to where Tata Natasha sat in a large chair, scowling at everyone, looking like a disgruntled queen trying to decide which of her court deserved to die first. Though Demidor was a rugged soldier, there was unease in his glance as he left Orlov and moved closer to the grand duchess.

  His responsibility reassigned, Orlov made his way through the crowd to Max.

  “One of my men comes. He will fetch refreshments so we can continue our conversation uninterrupted. Ah, here he is now. Orlov, her ladyship will have a lemonade.”

  “Da, General. Would you like something, as well?”

  “Some of Lord Loudan’s whiskey will do. According to him, there is none better in all of Scotland. For some reason he has forgotten to place a decanter on the refreshment table, but I suspect you will find some in his private library.”

  “I shall fetch it.” Orlov grinned, his teeth gleaming in his black beard. “And I daresay Demidor and Pahlen will wish for a glass or two, themselves.”

  “It is a party and the earl wishes to impress us, so we shall let him, da?”

  “Very good, General.” Chuckling, Orlov left.

  “Well done, Your Highness.” Murian was smiling.

  “It is Max to you. Only Max.” He bent closer to her ear. “Murian, why are you here? I can see you are—”

  A noise arose from the door, a woman’s raised voice, another joining it. The voices were shrill, excited, and even frightened.

  Guests turned and merged on the newcomers, so Max couldn’t see what was happening, but like the wind, people nearby began to exclaim, repeating what they’d heard, and soon phrases swept their way.

  It was robbery . . . the thieves stole her jewels . . . the jewels of both . . . a handsome youth with a bow and arrow . . . but polite . . . with a band of men . . . like Robin Hood—

  Max blinked. Like Robin Hood? He turned to Murian, a question on his lips . . . but she was no longer at his side.

  And there was not a trace of her to be seen, not in the emptying room behind him, nor in the press of the crowd hurrying forward.

  Once again, she was gone.

  Chapter 6

  Ian took a seat beside Murian at Widow Grier’s table. Outside, clouds rumbled uneasily, a bitter wind shaking the trees until the trembling leaves crashed overhead like the waves of the ocean.

  Murian rested her chin in her hand, her spirits as dark and restless as the weather. Upon returning home from the dinner party, she’d bathed and scrubbed the paint from her face until her skin burned pi
nk, yet it was nothing to the deep burn of disappointment that stung her soul. “Damn Lord Loudan for posting guards in every hall of the castle.”

  Widow Grier looked up from the pot she’d been stirring. Tall and thin, with light brown hair and fair skin decorated with a spattering of freckles, she was the youngest widow in their small band. She had one child, a round, chubby-cheeked lad who was even now sleeping in a crib by the fire and whose three-toothed grin won the hearts of all who saw him. “There were guards in e’ery hall?”

  “All nine. The four floors in each wing, plus the main hall.” Ian looked as despondent as Murian felt. “E’ery last bloody hall ha’ guards, and there were four stationed ootside his bedchamber. There was no way past them.”

  From where she sat across from Murian, Widow Reeves asked, “Did the guards see ye?”

  Murian nodded. “Aye, but your sister did a fine job with my disguise. No one knew me at all.”

  “She was pleased to help. No’ many know this, but Lara was an actress fer a short time when she was young.”

  “Was she now?” Widow Grier looked impressed. “When I was younger, I wanted to do the same.”

  “Aye, at seventeen, she ran away to Edinburgh determined to become an actress. It near broke our mither’s heart, it did, but Lara was determined and she e’en met wi’ some success, too. She made her living tha’ way fer several years, and was quite guid, but then she met her Daffyd. He was a carpenter as worked upon the sets. Eventually they returned here, and she was hired into the kitchens at the MacLures’ and Daffyd given a job helpin’ aboot the estate.”

  “And now she’s their head cook.” Widow Grier placed the wooden spoon to one side and put a lid on the pot. “Yer sister seems quite close to Lady MacLure.”

  “Her ladyship likes food, especially sweets. She’s always plotting wi’ my sister aboot the newest dishes. They’re closer than most servants and mistresses, I think. ’Tis why my sister stays where she is, even though the MacLures canna pay well.”

  “I owe your sister a debt of gratitude,” Murian said. “She knew exactly what we needed for my disguise.” She managed a smile, though her shoulders sagged. Such an excellent disguise, and yet still no journal. All that work for nothing.