Her heart, already beating irregularly, gave a sick thud. “Does the earl know?”
“Nyet. The earl and I, we do not—how do you say?—chat.”
Murian liked the way he said “chat,” as if he thought the word might bite him back. “Why did you climb through the window?”
“If I had walked down the street and politely knocked upon your door, your giant might have come off his leash.”
Her lips quirked despite herself.
His gaze flickered over her, his eyes darkening. “I did not expect to find you so . . . exposed, dorogaya moya.”
Bloody hell, I’m naked! She’d been so shocked by his arrival, it hadn’t registered. Thankfully, all he could see were her bare shoulders and arms due to the tub’s high lip. “Turn around!”
“Of course.” There was a distinct note of regret in his smoky voice, but he turned his back, his feet planted firmly as if to prove he wouldn’t whip about and peer at her.
She rinsed the last bit of soap from her arms and, with a glance to make certain he was still facing away, she climbed from the tub. She snatched up her towel and dried quickly, then reached for her robe. She struggled to put on the thin lawn garment, which clung to her damp skin in a most revealing way. “Dinna turn around. My clothes are beside the screen near the bed, so I must go there to dress.”
“I will not move from this spot.” He turned his head slightly so that she saw the barest glimpse of his profile. “I vow it on my honor.”
He spoke simply, with quiet strength.
She believed him, which surprised her. “Thank you.” She wrung her dripping hair over the tub, twisting the water from the heavy strands.
Behind her, Max fought the urge to turn and watch her.
Into the quiet, she said, “You said you have questions?”
“Many. The most pressing one is why you run from me every time we meet.”
“I dinna run from you last night at the castle. It was just time to leave.”
“You did not say good-bye.”
“I had things to do.”
“Like what?”
“Perhaps I wished for a quiet corner where I could eat all the pastry I’d stolen.”
He sighed. “You are not making this easy.”
“I dinna believe I’m supposed to,” she pointed out. “You have other questions?”
“Last night, did you use Miss MacLeod as a diversion, to send the guards from the castle?”
“I don’t know a Miss MacLeod.”
He let his silence tell her of his disbelief.
She sighed. “Fine. I may know Miss MacLeod.”
“You do know her. You disguised yourself and snuck into the castle, and had Miss MacLeod appear at exactly ten and claim she’d been held up. The earl sent some of his men after the thieves, who had been described by Miss MacLeod to sound exactly like you and your men.”
“Aye, he sent some men,” she replied, her voice sharp with irritation. “But not enough. The halls were still heavily guarded.”
“So you were looking for something. I suspected as much. But what?”
“Something of my late husband’s. Something hidden.”
“Even from you?”
“Aye.” Her voice was muffled through the towel as she dried her hair.
He let his gaze wander over the part of the room within his line of vision, noting the furnishings for the first time. Bozhy moj, such luxury for a cottage. Damask- and velvet-clad chairs and a matching settee sat near the fireplace, while thick Turkish rugs covered the dirt floor. Here and there were mahogany side tables, one holding a heavy silver tea set. Even the huge tub was fitting for a palace, for the beaten copper gleamed with polish, the handles on each side exquisitely wrought.
But still more surprising was the woman herself. He would recognize her anywhere, but in the bright morning light, he saw things he’d missed before—how long her red hair was, how her eyes sparkled when she was irritated, how delicate her features were when her hair was slicked back from her face. And this is the thief who almost bested me with a sword.
He remembered her bared shoulders and arms; she was far more feminine than he’d expected. When she’d first peered over the edge of the tub, her wet hair clinging to her, her shoulders glistening with water, he’d been hit with a shockingly strong urge to stride across the room and hold her, naked and wet. It hadn’t been mere passion, though he’d felt that as well; it was more a desire to save her from the dirt floor peering between the rugs, the leaky water stains that flanked the fireplace, and even the rapier standing against the wall.
He knew one thing for certain: Murian Muir was not meant for this sort of life. She was a conundrum, this woman warrior. The line of her chin and jaw showed strength, while her beauty had an untrammeled wildness that called to him—a lack of discipline in the way her thick lashes spiked about her wide, silver eyes that boldly examined him, a refusal by her dark red hair to yield as it curled even when dripping wet.
Behind him he heard a faint rustle, and he caught Murian’s reflection in the silver teapot by the fireplace. The angle of the teapot gave him a full view behind the screen where she dressed.
He watched her bent reflection as she removed her robe, a towel wrapped about her head. The robe slid off her, revealing her spectacular shoulders, tall, trim form, and gracefully long legs. She threw her robe over the edge of the screen, her arms smooth and lightly muscled. Her breasts, high and small, perfect for a man’s hands, were adorned with pink nipples that made his mouth water in anticipation. She was angelic, this woman, a veritable—
Her gaze met his in the reflection.
With a frantic movement, she yanked her robe from where she’d hung it and held it in front of her. “You said you wouldna look!”
“I said I wouldn’t move, and I haven’t.” Cursing his inability to look away once the reflection had presented itself, he turned so that he could no longer see her. “There. Now dress. I haven’t all day.”
“Och, if you wish to twist words into lies, then return to Rowallen and the earl. He excels at such games.”
Max was struck by her bitter tone. “Put on some clothes,” he ordered, his voice unexpectedly harsh. “I am no eunuch.”
A stiff silence met this. A second later, she said in a firm voice, “Stir the fire while you’re waiting. I’ll need the heat to dry my hair.”
He found himself faintly amused that this slender girl should order him about without the least hesitation. People never ordered princes to bank fires, but as it was growing cold in the cottage, he was more than willing to do the task.
He undid his cloak and hung it on a peg on the wall by the door, pausing to inspect the rapier that sat nearby. It was a superior blade, Italian made, with a hilt set with intricate carving. He wondered where she’d found it, and how she’d been trained to such mastery. I have so many questions for you, little one.
He replaced the blade and then crossed to the fireplace. After adding some wood from a nearby stack, he found the fire iron and stirred the flames to life.
As the flames leapt in response, Murian walked across the cottage floor to join him. She was dressed simply, her gray gown nondescript and plain. Sturdy boots peeped out from her skirts, while a heavy wool shawl had been pinned about her shoulders. She carried an ivory comb, her damp hair curling wildly about her shoulders.
Max put down the fire iron as she sat close to the fire in a decadently stuffed chair covered in the finest damask.
She gestured to the settee opposite and, pulling her wet hair over one shoulder, began to comb it. “Pray have a seat, Your Highness.”
“Thank you.” He sat down, leaning back and admiring the reds and golds of her hair as the fire played across it.
She fastened her direct gaze on him. “Perhaps you should begin by telling me why you are here.”
“To be honest, at first I was determined to seek you out so that we could finish our swordplay.”
She grinned. “Och, I wo
uld have enjoyed that.”
Her grin was so instant and spontaneous that he found himself returning it. “Da, I would have, too. But since then, I’ve come to learn several things about you and your little band here, and now I’m not sure why I was so determined to find you. Perhaps it is because I, too, have no love for the earl.”
“So we are together in our dislike of Loudan.”
“Dislike, distrust—he concerns me.” Max wondered how much he should tell her. Not much—some secrets weren’t his to tell. But it would not hurt to share Tata Natasha’s predicament. “Loudan won something from my grandmother in a game of chance and will not return it.”
Her brows lowered. “So . . . history repeats itself.”
“What history?”
At his question, her lashes lowered to conceal her expression. “It is a long story. Too long.”
Max found himself wishing she’d trust him. To ease the moment, he traced a hand over the cushion of his chair. “I must say, you have excellent taste in décor. Did you take all of this from Loudan?”
“No. And yes.” Her lips quirked. “I dinna steal them, if that is what you mean; they were mine to take. I was lady of Rowallen Castle until my husband’s death.” She ran the comb through her hair yet again, the wild curls fighting the ivory teeth. “There is no harm in telling you why we are hiding in the woods. Robert Muir was my husband. Rowallen was—is—his. It has been in the Muir family for centuries.”
“How did the earl end up with the castle?” he asked, though he already knew. For some reason he wished to hear the tale from her lips.
“My guardian, the Duke of Spencer, arranged my marriage to Lord Robert Muir.”
He raised his brows. “I know the duke. He is a brave soldier.”
“He would be honored you think so. After I married Robert, Spencer left for the war. A year and a half ago, while I was visiting my parents’ graves in Edinburgh, Robert had some unexpected visitors at the castle—Loudan and two of his so-called friends.”
“So you husband did not invite him?”
“I dinna think so. As far as I know, they’d never met. Besides, had he expected guests, Robert would have asked me to stay. I know he would have.” The comb lay still in her hand, a faraway expression on her face. “The housekeeper was present when Loudan and his men arrived unexpectedly. She said Robert was most unhappy to see them, for he’d planned on spending the next few days with his man of business. But he was a gracious host and invited them to spend the night. He had the housekeeper ready three rooms, and ordered a grand dinner. That night there was much whiskey served, and someone suggested a card game.”
“The servants saw all of that?”
“Yes, but very little else. Something happened during that card game. The earl claims Robert got caught up in the excitement and wagered Rowallen and her lands.”
“You don’t believe he would do that.”
“Nay. He would never have done such a thing. After the game Loudan offered to allow Robert to play one more hand in an attempt to win back all he’d lost. According to the earl, Robert cheated and was caught. Harsh words were exchanged and a challenge was issued.” She looked at the ivory comb in her hand. “The servants heard raised voices, so there was definitely an argument of some sort. But Robert told them nothing. He stormed off to bed and refused to speak to anyone. The next morning, as the servants were riding, they heard gunshots in the garden. Loudan was standing over Robert’s body. There were two guns, one in the earl’s hand, and one on the ground near Robert.”
“A duel.”
“So Loudan would have everyone believe. He told the servants the castle was now his, his friends corroborated his story, and off he went to Edinburgh to file his claim.”
“You fought him on this, I assume.”
“Every way I could. As soon as I returned home and found out all that had happened, I visited the local justice of the peace. He went to Edinburgh but could do nothing. Loudan is too well connected, his story confirmed by his handpicked witnesses. . . .” She shrugged. “There was nothing I could do.”
“So he took the castle.” He watched her face. “And the people with you here are all from Rowallen?”
She nodded. “Loudan ordered everyone to leave. Some had families they could go to, or other employment opportunities. I wrote dozens of letters of reference. But some had nowhere to go—like me. Ian knew of these cottages. They’re forgotten; I don’t think even Robert knew of them, and he kept meticulous records.” She sighed and lifted the comb to her hair once more. “And so we are here.”
“When did this happen?”
“A little over a year ago.”
Only a year. And yet she has managed to pull herself together enough to become a nuisance to the earl. “So that is what you mean by history repeating itself—my grandmother lost something in a card game, and so did your husband.”
“Aye.” Her gaze was thoughtful. “Loudan has a pattern. After Robert’s death I made inquiries; our relatives are not the only ones to lose prized possessions to the earl. In Edinburgh last year, he played the Earl of Argyll and won the man’s best stallion. Later, the cards were found to have been marked. Loudan accused the earl of perfidy.”
“But Argyll lost the game.”
“Exactly. And I know Argyll; he’s an honorable man and would never cheat. I think Loudan accused Argyll as a way to keep attention off himself. There are other instances, too, where Loudan won prestigious items in card games. What’s odd is that he rarely plays. But when he does . . .” She lifted her brows.
“So the earl cheated my grandmother.”
“I’d wager my last piece of silver. He never plays unless there is something valuable to be won. And he never loses when he plays.”
Just listening to Murian’s story infuriated him. Damn that man. Who could be so heartless?
“And he has done more than take possession of the castle,” Murian continued. “The Muirs had been in possession of Rowallen since the thirteenth century. Now, Loudan refuses to allow anyone to say the family name, even the servants. He removed the family crest from the castle wall, a crest that had been there since the fifteenth century. He was going to destroy the castle ledgers, but the vicar took them and stored with the parish records.” She scowled darkly. “The blackguard is trying to purge the family’s ties with the castle entirely.”
“Is it working?”
A satisfied smile curved her lips and made him think of a cat with a bowl of cream. “Nay, ’tis not so easy as he wishes. The people know Rowallen; they remember and love Robert and his family. The locals willna’ forget he was cheated of his birthright and shot like a dog in his own garden.” Her voice quavered and she snapped her lips closed.
He could feel her pain, see it in the flash of her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
She managed a tight, quick shrug. “It is what it is.” She pulled the comb through her hair, her movements jerky with fury.
Max found himself fascinated with the stubbornness of her curls. With each stroke, the curls would straighten, but the second the comb was free, her hair sprang back into a wild morass of gold and red. He wondered what it would feel like to sink his hands into such glorious thickness and—
Silver eyes locked on him. “I have answered your questions, but you havena explained why you are here.”
Her lilting voice made him yearn to hear more. “I came to get my chickens back.”
She laughed, low and husky, her sadness dissipating like the mist before the sun. “You’ll have to talk to Ian aboot that.” Her smile faded a bit. “ ’Tis sometimes a challenge, feeding so many people.”
“How many are you?”
“Twenty-two. We were doing well enough, trading with the local villages for what we canna produce. Then the earl began threatening everyone who did so.”
He’d seen evidence of that himself. Damn Loudan’s black heart. “The earl has much to answer for.”
“Aye. When Spencer returns from the war, Loudan
will be dethroned. All we have to do is survive until then.”
“You’ll make it. You’re plenty strong enough to win over a weak-kneed weasel like Loudan.”
Their eyes met, and the air about them swirled with the flickering heat from the fire, scented with her lavender soap, and lay between them, heavy with questions and curiosity.
He was here, and now he knew her full story. He’d accomplished what he’d wanted—but he found himself loath to leave. She intrigued him, so bold and unbowed despite having lost a husband and her way of life, banished from a sumptuous castle to a lowly crofter’s hut in the thick of the woods. Any one of those blows would be devastating to many, yet she sat with her head up, so vibrant he felt he could warm his hands on the heat of her soul. “It seems we have a common enemy, we two. We should help one another.”
Her gaze narrowed. “How so?”
“You know the castle well.”
“Aye. Many of us here do.”
“If I cannot make the earl see reason about the item my grandmother lost to him, I may need to find it myself.”
“I see.” Her gaze flickered to his mouth.
It was like a touch, that glance, and sent his searching gaze to her mouth, so plump and ripe, ready for a kiss. His body hummed in response and he had to fight back the desire to drag her into his lap.
“What did your grandmother lose?”
He dragged his mind back to the present. “I do not know. I think she is too embarrassed to tell me. My grandmother is much older and frailer than she’d have the world believe. But whatever she lost, the earl is holding it for ransom. I believe what he really wants is not money, but an elderly grand duchess forced to dance to his tune.”
Murian scowled. “Blackguard! To torment an old lady so.”
“Indeed. It weighs upon her.”
“I’m surprised you dinna just challenge him.”
He hesitated. “I will if I must, but there must be less violent ways to retrieve this object.”
She wondered at his hesitation. But so far, she thought he’d been telling her the truth. He was chivalrous, and he obviously cared deeply for his grandmother. Behind the handsome charm, behind the scars and the lines etched by life, she saw purpose, determination, and character.
The Prince and I Page 11