The Prince and I

by Karen Hawkins

  She didn’t know if Max had shared the whole truth of his purpose here, but her instincts told her that his intentions were pure. “If I can help you with my knowledge of the castle, I will.”

  “Thank you.” He leaned back, his broad shoulders eclipsing most of the settee. “Perhaps I can do the same. What are you searching for that you must sneak inside Rowallen dressed as a plump spinster with a sweet tooth?”

  “My husband’s journal. In it, I believe he wrote the truth about the card game and the duel. If I find it, and present it to the courts in Edinburgh, Rowallen willna longer belong to the earl. I can return her to the people who love her.”

  The prince nodded thoughtfully. “I would like to see Loudan’s face when you reclaim your castle. I take it you looked for this journal during Miss MacLeod’s spectacular diversion?”

  She grimaced. “I couldna; Loudan now has guards in every hall, and several posted outside his bedchamber. But I know that blasted thing must be there. That room is the only one we haven’t searched.”

  “How do you know the earl has not already found this journal and destroyed it?”

  “Because he does everything he can to keep us oot. Why would he bother, unless he fears I’ll find what he canna?”

  The prince nodded thoughtfully. “You have thought this through.”

  “I’ve had a lot of time to do so. You should know that neither of our objectives will be easy. Some of the earl’s guards dress like footmen, some as grooms. It is difficult to know who is truly a servant and who is more dangerous.”

  “They bother me not. You will need another social event in order to slip in and search, nyet?”

  “It would make things much easier.”

  “I will find out what the earl has planned.” Max hesitated, and then said, “He’s mentioned he’s trying to schedule an opera singer, and that he will once again open the doors of the castle to the locals. But I don’t know when.”

  “Once we find out, we will plan our search.” She held out her hand. “We have a deal, then. We are partners.”

  He took her hand in his. The women he normally met had pale, soft, white hands. Colorless hands, he decided, admiring the strength in hers. He ran his thumb over the callus on one of her fingers. “From drawing your bow, I think?”

  She flushed, but nodded.

  “And this one . . .” He traced a finger over her palm, where another callus rested. “A shovel?”

  “An ax.” She curled her hand closed. “I am verrah good at splitting firewood.”

  He’d wager she was. She was also good at heating his blood until all he could think about was how her lips would feel under his. He lifted her hand, uncurled her fingers, and pressed a kiss to each callus.

  She watched him, her eyes smoky and dark, her lips parted. Each press of his lips to her skin made her take in a small, sharp breath. She wet her lips and tugged at her hand. “You shouldna be doing that.”

  “Da. I should be doing this, instead.” He slid his hand under her long silken hair, pulled her closer, and kissed her. He’d wanted to do this ever since the day he’d cut the kerchief off her face and realized she was a beautiful, bold woman.

  The second their lips met, it was as if a fire had exploded into flames. They kissed, consumed, and devoured as they wildly embraced.

  Max plundered her mouth with all of the passion she’d ignited in him time and again. He pulled her into his lap and let his hands roam over her, up her back and shoulders, feeling the firmness of her curves, the sheer femininity of her form. She arched against him, her mouth opening to his seeking tongue, her legs parting as she did so, unconsciously echoing his own thoughts. She was lush and sensual, her hands as active as his own, his passion matched stroke for stroke. He slipped a hand from her waist to—

  Suddenly, dogs started barking.

  She broke the kiss and looked toward the door.

  There was a loud shout, and then another. A bell started clanging insistently.

  Murian pushed herself out of Max’s lap just as he heard Ian bellow a warning.

  A piercing whistle broke through the melee, and Max groaned. “I’m sorry; those are my men.” He stood, his cock tenting his breeches uncomfortably. Damn it! “I forgot to give them the signal.”

  “What signal?”

  “One letting them know I was not strung up for the wild animals to eat by that giant of yours. I was to give a whistle and let them know all was well, but I became . . . distracted.”

  Her lips quirked as she braided her hair with quick, practiced movements. “We must go out there or there will be a fight.”

  “Aye.”

  She pulled a ribbon from her pocket and tied off her braid, then grabbed her cloak and slung it over her shoulders. “Come.”

  Feeling as sulky as a boy whose toy has been stolen, Max removed his cloak from the peg where he’d hung it. At least his arousal was starting to deflate.

  Already striding past him. Murian caught up her rapier and opened the cottage door, the cool air swirling her cloak and blowing his.

  Max unsheathed his sword. “I will—”

  “Follow me,” she ordered over her shoulder, and charged outside.

  Chapter 9

  The next morning, well before the earl or his guests had awakened, Max walked down Rowallen’s grand staircase. He’d had a hell of a night, tossing and turning, his mind unable to stop thinking about the small village in the woods where the lovely red-haired, rapier-wielding thief lived.

  Yesterday had been filled with surprises. When his men had arrived in the village, Murian’s giant had roared through the small street, a blacksmith’s hammer in his meaty fist as he threatened to kill anyone who dared come any closer. The other inhabitants had soon appeared, too, racing out of their cottages and stables and into the street, all holding weapons—axes, planks, thick sticks, and one very old, very unsteady blunderbuss.

  Max had been startled. Not at the weapons, but at who carried them. With the exception of the giant and a sullen youth, all of them had been women and children. Murian had told him as much, but she didn’t do this. Seeing it, the full evil of the earl’s actions had hit him like a hard punch.

  After Murian had calmed Ian and the villagers, and explained that their visitors hadn’t come to murder them or turn them over to Loudan, she’d introduced Max and his men to the members of her band. He remembered each and every face. Seven widows, twelve small children, an angry giant, a sullen lad, all of them with hauntingly suspicious eyes and dressed in worn, ragged clothing. While none were starving, they had the look of people pushed to their utmost to survive.

  But in the midst of them all was red-haired, creamy-skinned, fiery-spirited Murian, a light in a very dark world. These were the people Murian fought to protect. The people she hoped to save Rowallen for.

  So many cares and worries, all resting on such delicate shoulders. He shook his head as he thought of the fear he’d seen in the women’s faces when they’d first seen Max’s men, yet they’d overcome that fear to race into the lane, makeshift weapons raised, ready to protect each other. It took a great leader to inspire a soldier to overcome his innate fear. It would take an even greater one to inspire an entire village.

  Thoughts of Murian and her small band had stirred Max’s thoughts until he could not sleep. He knew he hadn’t been the only one affected; those of his men who’d visited the village had peppered him with questions on the ride home. He’d told them what he could without breaking Murian’s confidence, and he sensed that, like him, they were unwilling to leave things as they were.

  What a remarkable woman. She has her guardian’s spirit, that’s for certain. It is from him Murian gets her bravery. Max didn’t know the Duke of Spencer well, for they represented different countries, but they’d met, talked, and had liked one another. The Golden Lion was a great warrior, bold and disciplined.

  Max reached the bottom of the staircase and threw a critical glance around the foyer. While he liked the exposed timb
er rafters from the Elizabethan era, some fool had later paneled the entire foyer in dark wood and then, to add insult to injury, had hung ancient weaponry on the walls in fancy designs. It was offensive to see valuable pikes and pistols used as decorations.

  As he walked toward the breakfast room, he silently counted the footmen standing in attendance in the foyer. Most households would have one, perhaps two stationed in this section of the house. A much larger establishment might have four. Loudan had twelve. Just enough for a troop. Interesting. And there are so many “footmen” stationed throughout the castle that no one can have a private conversation. Unless they spoke a lesser-known foreign language.

  He supposed it was remotely possible one of them might know Oxenburgian, but he doubted it. It was not a language much in use except in his own country. Someone who knew Russian might be able to pick out a few words that were similar, but that was all.

  He reached the breakfast room just as Orlov and Pahlen stepped out.

  “Do you eat, General?” Pahlen asked. At twenty-two years of age, he was the youngest of Max’s men. Blond and tall, with piercing blue eyes and a faint scar on one cheek, he was the one most likely to be found with a chambermaid. Sometimes two.

  “I ate a full hour ago, you lazy slugabed.”

  “Did they have food ready at that hour? Other than our men, I’ve yet to see anyone rise before noon in this place.”

  “I arrived before the eggs. Someone rousted the chef, and that was soon corrected.”

  “Lazy chef,” Orlov said, clearly amused at the thought of a sleepy chef cooking their breakfast.

  “Indeed.” Max withdrew two missives from his vest pocket, then spoke in Oxenburgian. “These must be placed on the mail coach in Inverness.”

  “You do not trust our host’s frank?” Orlov replied in the same language.

  “Nyet,” Max said baldly. “Whoever takes them must return immediately. I don’t want the earl to know I’ve been circumventing his post.”

  “Very well, General.” Orlov took the missives. “I will send Golovin. His horse is the best at long distances.”

  “Very good. I will visit the village this morning.” Max looked past his man into the breakfast room. “Where are the others?”

  “They wait with the horses,” Orlov replied.

  “They wait? For what?”

  Orlov cleared his throat. “General, those of us who saw the village yesterday noticed they were poorly prepared for winter, and yet it comes.”

  “We would help them,” Pahlen said.

  Pleased, Max said, “You are more than welcome to join me, but I warn you, it will be hard work and there will be many challenges.”

  Orlov shrugged. “We are ready.”

  A mischievous glint lit Pahlen’s eyes. “Already we have obtained a wagon.”

  “Obtained?”

  “That is one word for it,” Pahlen said, grinning.

  Max laughed. “Very good. We will need many items; the wagon will be most useful.”

  Orlov nodded. “I’ve made inquiries, and unfortunately there are no lumber mills nearby other than the private mill the earl uses.”

  “We dare not use his mill; he will know we’re doing something and grow suspicious.”

  “So I thought, too. If we need wood, we’ll have to travel two days each way to fetch it.”

  “That could be a problem.” Max considered this. It was a pity they couldn’t use the earl’s mill; it was only fair that Loudan bear some of the expense himself. “Hmm. I may have a solution for the wood. What else will we need?”

  “Nails, saws, hammers—we have those.”

  “Da,” Pahlen said. “We found many tools in an old, unused barn in the back of the earl’s property. He will never miss them.”

  “Then we are set. Let’s join the others.” They walked toward the wide doors and went back out into the foyer. “We will hunt along the way. We will leave the fresh meat in the village, but bring back the pelts. That way it will appear we are hunting rather than—”

  “Hold!” Tata Natasha’s voice rang out, sharp enough to cut ice.

  Max grimaced.

  She made her way downstairs, one hand firmly grasped about the railing, the other holding up her skirts. “I have been looking for you. Where have you been?”

  Max turned to his men. “Go on without me. I won’t be more than a minute or two.”

  As soon as Orlov and Pahlen were out the door, Max crossed the foyer to his grandmother, who’d just reached the bottom stair. Dressed in her usual black, a gold and emerald comb in her hair, she looked every bit the witch she wished others to think her.

  To Max’s amusement, the liveried footmen looked uneasy whenever her gaze fell their way. So there is a benefit to be had.

  She marched up to Max. “Where are you going?”

  “Out.”

  Her mouth thinned. “That is no answer.”

  “It is the only one you will get. I have things to do, Tata Natasha. Things that will help us both.”

  Her gaze sharpened and she took his arm and said quietly in Oxenburgian, “You have found a way to get Loudan to release what I’ve lost?”

  He merely looked at her.

  She flushed and released his arm. “I cannot tell you.” She waved a hand. “Just go. Do this thing you wish—whatever it is. While you are out hunting, or drinking in a tavern, or whatever it is you do, I will be here, doing what I must to save our country from embarrassment.”

  “Save our country?” A flicker of unease rose through Max. “What could you have lost that could embarrass our entire country?”

  Twin spots of dull red rose in her parchment cheeks. “You know enough of my foolishness. I cannot tell you more. I was such a fool, but the cards—Max, you must know, I thought I could not lose.”

  He noted a faint quiver in her hands as she clutched her shawl closer about her. “That is no surprise. I have heard from a knowledgeable source that our host is an inveterate cheat.”

  “What? Who told you that?”

  “It does not matter. But you stand in a castle he won in a game of cards. He rides a stallion he won in a game of cards. From what I’ve been able to discover, he’s living off the fortune he’s won at cards. He is very careful and only plays when there are large sums to be won. I see a pattern that has very little to do with luck.”

  “Ty shto shoytish!” Her eyes widened and she pressed a hand to her mouth, her fingers heavy with rings that winked in the light. “During the game, I won many hands in a row. That should have made me suspicious. But I started thinking the fates were with me, that I was blessed. So I played more and more recklessly until . . .” Her shoulders slumped. “I was a fool.”

  “Nyet. He is very good at cheating, however he does it. And you are one of the smartest women, and the cleverest Gypsy queen, I know.”

  She flashed an annoyed look at him. “I am the only Gypsy queen you know.”

  “Da. Do not worry so. I am forming a plan. But for now, I must go.”

  He gave her a quick kiss on her cheek and turned to the door. As a footman sprang to open it, she called, “Max?”

  He looked back.

  “Do not let this man get away with this. He must pay.”

  “He shall, Tata Natasha. He shall.”

  Sleep sifted through Murian, soft as silk, deep as down. Somehow she was no longer in her village, but on a horse, riding across a moor dotted with purple thistles. At the far end of the field sat a white tent. She needed to reach that tent. Needed to find out who was there, what they wanted.

  Faster and faster she galloped, the ground passing beneath her horse’s hooves, yet the tent stayed elusively out of reach. She rode harder, urging the horse on, but the moor stretched longer and longer, now crisscrossed with streams and rock ledges that grew wider, deeper, more dangerous. Yet on she rode, jumping this ledge, fording that stream, her gaze locked on the white tent.

  As she grew closer, she could see tent pennants flapping in the wind. O
n them, a deep purple background surrounded a large black bear with ferocious teeth, one eyebrow split by a silver scar. Like the prince.

  As soon as she had the thought, the tent opened and he walked out holding the bridle of a magnificent black steed with a silver and gold mane. The prince swung into the saddle and watched her approach. Though he didn’t speak, she could hear his voice deep in her mind, deeply accented and rich as chocolate, urging her to join him, to stay with him.

  His urgency became hers, and she pushed her mare to leap over wider and wider rivers, the last one a seeming ocean.

  She should have been afraid, but neither she nor the horse paused. With a mighty launch, they flew . . . up and up and up. The wind blew her hair over her face, obscuring her vision. He was closer now. Though she couldn’t see, she could feel his presence, his desire.

  And just as suddenly, her mare had wings, large and white. Exulted, she leaned forward, anxious to—

  BAM!

  Gasping, she sat bolt upright, shoving her hair from her eyes and found herself in her own bed. All looked the same as the night before. “It was just a dream,” she murmured, her heart still pounding. Oddly disappointed, she fell back against her pillows, the morning light streaming between the cracks of the shutters. As her heartbeat returned to a normal pace, she had to laugh at herself. “Such a fool, dreaming of a prince. It’s daft, you are.”

  She should get up; there was much to do today. She and Ian were to—

  Bam! Bam! BAM!

  She sat up again. What was that? It sounded like—

  BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!

  She threw back the covers and arose, aware of a growing number of voices outside her cottage. What is going on? Muttering to herself, she yanked off her night rail and grabbed a chemise and gown from where they hung over the screen. Moments later, her feet shoved stockingless into her boots and still tying her gown into place, she threw open the door to her cottage.

  The little lane bustled with activity. Everywhere she looked, there were men. Big men. Men with broad shoulders, white-toothed smiles flashing from their beards, and deep voices. Some were climbing up on roofs, hammers in hand, while others removed broken shutters and carried them to a wagon filled with lumber and other materials.