In the center of this organized madness stood Max. Like the others, he’d discarded his coat, his shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal powerful forearms. His black hair was mussed by the wind, there was a smudge of dirt on his cheek, and his collar was torn as if it had caught on something carried on his shoulder.
He crossed his arms and rocked back on his heels, his gaze everywhere as he watched his men work. He said a few words to a man by his side, who instantly repeated them to someone else in a booming voice. Whatever Max wished corrected must have been fixed, for after a moment, he gave a satisfied nod, and sent the man to assist someone in removing a broken shutter. Then he went to the wagon and started unloading buckets of nails.
Widow Grier saw Murian and hurried up, her small son wrapped in blankets and resting on her hip. “Och, ’tis a miracle, me lady!” The deep boom of a man’s laughter rose over the hammering, and she sighed. “I’ve missed the sound of a mon’s laugh—the sort he makes when he’s hard at work, makin’ life a bit easier fer e’erone . . . I dinna think there’s any finer sound.”
“Indeed. Where’s Ian? I assume he’s helping with all of this.”
“Nay, yer ladyship. He left wi’ Will to hunt hours ago. They’ve no’ come back yet.”
“Then who did the prince talk to, before he began this work?”
“Why . . . I dinna think he spoke to anyone. He and his men arrived here no’ five minutes ago and went straight to work.”
Murian’s jaw tightened. She was deeply thankful for the help, but this was their village, damn it. For the prince to take over without so much as a by-your-leave . . . She swallowed the curse on her lips. “That was certainly bold of them.”
Widows MacThune and MacDonald walked past, carrying large iron pots. The wind tugged their skirts, over which they wore heavy aprons.
“We’re making stew fer a luncheon,” Widow MacDonald informed Murian. The plump widow’s face was red from carrying the heavy pot, though her brown eyes twinkled with excitement.
Widow MacThune grinned, her two boys carrying baskets overflowing with potatoes and turnips behind her. “Look wha’ the prince and his men brought us! All this and fresh venison!”
“And a brace of rabbits,” the other woman added over her shoulder as they moved on. “We’re to ha’ meat again, me lady!”
Eyes sparkling, Widow Grier turned to Murian. “I’ll fetch some water in case anyone gets thirsty.”
“That’s an excellent idea,” Murian agreed, the sight of the food deflating her growing irritation.
With a wave, Widow Grier hurried to fill a pail with water and carry it from work site to work site.
Murian returned to her cottage and fetched her cloak. When she returned, Widow Reeves was hurrying up the middle of the street, a basket of wet laundry on her hip. She scowled at the men who were climbing on her roof, tearing off broken slate pieces, and tossing them to the ground.
Murian joined the widow. “ ’Tis surprising, is it not?”
“I’m deeply appreciative that ye picked me cottage fer a repair, lassie, but they’ll crack the plaster and the whole house will be filled wi’ it. Had I known they were comin’, I could ha’ put sheets o’er the furnishings.”
“I didn’t give them permission. They just showed up and did it.”
“I’ll ask them to stop until I can get the house ready.” The widow hurried up the street. Once she arrived, she yelled to the men on the roof and then ducked into her house. A moment later, she came out, holding the pieces of a teacup in her hand.
Murian saw the tremble of Widow Reeves’s mouth as she looked at the broken teacup and took a step toward her, but Widow Grier was closer. In a moment, they were arm in arm, looking at the damage.
That did it. Murian whirled on her heels and found Max on the other side of the street, talking to some of his men.
She marched up. “Max!”
He turned and his expression warmed as he excused himself from his men.
“Well,” he said with a smile as he joined her. “Did I not surprise you?”
“Och, I was surprised all right. Too surprised for words.”
His smile faded a tiny bit. “That does not sound like a good surprise.”
“It’s not.”
Max followed Murian’s gaze to where Widow Reeves stood clutching what appeared to be broken pottery. The widow wiped a tear from her cheek.
“What’s happened?” Max asked.
“Someone barged into the village and began working on her roof without letting her know. These are old cottages, Max. When you stomp aboot on the roof, it cracks the plaster and showers the place with debris.”
“Oh.” He hadn’t thought of that.
“Apparently, one of Widow Reeves’s teacups were knocked over and one was broken.”
“I will buy her a new one,” he said immediately.
“The set is from her mother. You canna buy her a new one.”
Max watched as she pressed her lips into a straight line, struggling to find the words.
“This is our village, Max. And while I truly appreciate your help, you should have asked first.”
“You do not want your—”
“Widow Reeves’s precious tea set, the only thing she has from her mother, was ruined by a few moments of needless haste.” She caught his expression and said less heatedly, “Your heart is in the right place, but we should have talked aboot this, and let everyone prepare. They have so few precious things, the loss of even one is difficult. And this place, ragged as it may seem to you, has been our home for the last year and a half. We deserve a say in what happens here.”
Max looked past her to the village where his men worked, and suddenly he saw it through her eyes. Who was he to ride into her village like some arrogant knight on a white horse and, without consulting her or anyone else, “fix” everything in sight? Damn it, I am as high-handed as Tata Natasha. “I should have asked. I’m sorry.”
Surprise crossed her face, followed by a quick smile. “Thank you. And I’m sorry if I dinna appear grateful, but you should have talked to me first. I was sound asleep and awakened to find my village invaded by Cossacks.”
“Cossacks? Nyet! Our uniforms are much handsomer than theirs.”
Murian hid a grin at his outraged look. The Oxenburg uniforms were quite striking, with their red coats and gold braid. But she liked what he wore now even better, a simple white shirt tucked into black pants and boots. She rather liked how the pants clung to his thighs and—
He muttered something under his breath, grasping her elbow and leading her toward the stables.
“Where are we going?”
“I would ask you a question one for your ears and no one else’s.”
They reached the stables and stepped into its dimness, the morning sun blocked by the large door. Max released her then, his expression serious.
“Aye?” Murian asked, aware they were now very much alone. They’d been alone yesterday and, except for a few awkward moments, she hadn’t minded. But now, things seemed . . . different.
Max placed his hand under her chin and gently tilted her face to his. “You have very expressive eyes. They tell me everything. They tell me when you are upset. They tell me when you are worried. And”—his gaze dropped to her mouth—“they tell me when you want a kiss.”
She gaped up at him. “When I— Nay, I dinna want a kiss.” But the second the words left her lips, she knew she lied.
She did want a kiss.
And facing him here, his broad chest so close to hers, his warm hand still cupped under her chin, she wanted it badly.
“Already this day, I have been in trouble for not asking permission. To keep from being in trouble yet again, I will not kiss you unless you say I may. So, I ask. May I kiss you?”
“What if I say no?” Her voice sounded husky.
He slipped an arm around her waist, pulling her to him. The instant her body melted against his, her skin prickled to life, every bit of her alive in a
n unmistakable wave of desire.
She couldn’t look away from his green eyes, framed so seductively by his thick black lashes, and she wanted to kiss him not once, but over and over. She wanted to taste his mouth, to capture his breath, to feel his hands over her body— She bit back a moan. It had been so long since she’d felt such desire, so long since she’d wanted someone so much.
His lips hovered a mere breath from hers. “Say it,” he whispered. “Say you wish for me to kiss you.”
“Yes,” she breathed. “Please—”
Max captured her mouth with his, lifting her to him. This was a woman worth tasting, worth fighting for, worth fixing roofs for, worth risking his life for. And God help him, she kissed with the same fiery passion that she fought with, her tongue pressing past his lips, teasing him, promising more delights, her hands clutching, tugging, stroking— He felt as if he would explode from the sensations she caused.
A kiss wasn’t enough for either of them, and for a wild second he feared that with her, it would never be enough. Unable to stop, he clutched her firm ass and lifted her, still kissing her as he carried her to a stall filled with fresh hay. There he pushed her against the door, holding her tight. Her arms entwined about his neck, she lifted her legs and clamped them about his waist, drawing him closer. Through the layers of clothing he pressed his desire to her, his body afire for her. Kiss by kiss, fire to fire, they writhed against one another, held apart only by their clothing.
Just as he thought he could bear no more, she broke the kiss, throwing back her head, panting wildly. He couldn’t resist the graceful line of her neck, so he trailed kisses up and down it, pressing his engorged cock against her.
“Max,” she moaned, her hands sinking into his hair. “We canna . . . not here. They will— Someone will see us.”
She’d barely whispered the words, lament in each one. But he heard her, and knew she was right. It took every ounce of self-possession he had, but he stopped kissing her and slowly, ever so slowly, allowed her feet to slip to the floor.
For a long moment they stood there, his forehead against hers, their breaths still mingling, their heartbeats racing in time.
Finally he took a deep, long breath and pulled her to him once more, burying his face in the wild silk of her hair. Much of her braid had come loose and the curls clung to him, as if to hold him there.
His groin ached now, but he forced himself to ignore it. When he could speak, he lifted his head. “Dorogaya moya, that kiss . . .” He could find no words.
She chuckled, the sound husky and surprising. “That was more than a kiss. I . . . I’m sorry if I shocked you. It’s been a long time since—” Her cheeks were as red as her hair.
He cupped her warm cheeks and kissed her nose. “For me, too. You did not shock me. You excited me very, very much.”
“Well . . . good, then.” She wet her lips, which stirred him again. “I’m glad you were so enthusiastic, too.”
“I am still enthusiastic.”
She glanced down. “So I see.”
He chuckled. “I shall have to stay here for a while before I return to work.” His smile slid. “If you wish me to go back to work. Murian, I did not intend to run roughshod over you and your villagers. I saw a need, and I thought to please you by addressing it. I suppose I was being too much a general.”
“Hmm. I hear they can be very abrupt.”
His lips quirked. “You heard right. But I should have spoken to you and the others first.”
She brushed her hand over his chin, smiling when he caught her hand and kissed her fingers. “You’re very kind, and I canna thank you enough for wanting to help.”
“So we should continue with Widow Reeves’s cottage?”
“Of course. But you should help her move her things somewhere safe. I would suggest you next address Widow Brodie’s cottage. Whenever it rains, buckets of water leak down the chimney.”
“That is good to know. Anything else?”
She told him the condition of the various cottages, and what repairs needed to be done on which. He offered suggestions as to which should be done first, and how to best make each cottage snug for the winter.
“You know a lot about repairs,” Murian observed.
“An army travels from town to town, village to village, and you must make the best of whatever housing you are given. Sometimes you are given a home, sometimes a barn, and sometimes a tent in a field. If you do not know how to make basic repairs, you might awaken to water dripping on your forehead.”
“Ah. I hadn’t thought of that.” She leaned against him, toying with one of the buttons on his shirt, soaking in his warmth. “I’ve been wondering about something.”
“Aye?” He brushed a curl from her cheek, his fingers warm on her skin.
“Where did you get the lumber? The wagon is filled with it, but there’s no mill for miles except Loudan’s.” A sinking feeling hit her stomach. “You dinna get it from there, did you? If you did, he’ll be told, and it willna take him long to realize—”
“It is from Loudan, da, but not his mill. Now you can have better roofs, better doors, and—” He frowned. “What do you call them? On the windows?”
“Shutters.”
“Shutters,” he repeated. “Many were broken and would not close.”
“But the lumber,” she repeated. “How can it be from Loudan if it’s not from his mill?”
“You will not rest until I say, eh?”
She raised her brows.
“Stubborn, like a Romany. Fine, I will tell you. It is from the earl’s barn.”
A confused look crossed her face. “Why did Loudan have so much lumber in his barn?”
“No, no. It was not inside the barn. This wood, it was from the barn.”
She gaped, and then gasped on a laugh. “You took the earl’s barn apart? All of it?”
“Nyet. Just a portion of the back. But as we need more boards, we will take more.”
“He willna notice?”
“Loudan has many barns and will never miss the back wall of this one, which is set far from the castle. It is very old and used for storage of forgotten things.”
She could only shake her head.
“One groom noticed us, and it was when we took tools, for those are stored in the main barns and sheds. He started to say something, but Orlov growled at him.”
“Growled? Like a dog?”
Max frowned. “Nyet! Orlov has a good growl. Like a bear.”
She laughed, soft and merry, and it was all Max could do not to sweep her into his arms for another kiss.
“Oh, Max. Thank you. Thank you for coming today, for helping repair the cottages.”
He couldn’t have been more pleased than if he’d won an entire war. “It will take more than one day, of course, but we have more time, and we are glad to do it. This work is good for my men. They are used to a more physical existence than the castle offers.”
“You dinna like to ride to the hunt?”
“In Oxenburg, we do not hunt foxes. We hunt wolves. They are much more cunning, and stronger and far more dangerous. My men are used to being challenged, and I fear they grow fat and lazy at Rowallen Castle.” He eyed her with a considering gaze. “We are happy now, nyet?”
“Da,” she replied, teasing.
He reached over and captured a strand of her hair, tugging it gently. “You remind me of my grandmother.”
“Is that a good thing?”
“Oh yes. She is a strong woman. She never gives up, and she never hesitates to tell a man when he is wrong.”
Murian’s face heated, and she turned her face toward his hand, where his warm fingers brushed her cheek. What was it about this man that made her feel so— She didn’t know what this feeling was. It was desire, curiosity . . . and something more.
Max tilted her face until her eyes met his. “So? You accept this gift from the earl?”
“If it will irk Loudan, of course I will accept. But if he ever finds out, he will
be so angry.”
“He deserves that and more. I consider it a payment for having to put up with his intolerable person. Every night at the dinner table, I must listen to that arse congratulate himself for his false accomplishments.” Max swept a hot glance over her before taking a reluctant step back. “I suppose I should get back to work—unless you wish for another kiss.”
She wet her lips, fighting a wild impulse to demand more—several more. But they had to remember where they were. “Not now.”
Her voice was huskier than she’d intended, and his gaze instantly darkened. He took a step toward her, but she quickly moved away, stepping out of the barn and back into the sun. “There are too many people aboot.” That, and she wasn’t certain she’d be able to stop next time. She thought of them in the stall, of how she’d wrapped her legs about him, and how she’d felt his hardness through her chemise. She’d been wanton, yet she couldn’t be sorry for a second of it; she’d enjoyed it all very much.
Max came to stand beside her in the sunshine. “You are right, there are too many people about.” He lowered his voice, “But know this: I will kiss you again.”
She fought a shiver, her throat so tight she couldn’t swallow. “I hope so.”
The words had been so easy to say, but now they hung between them, strong with meaning.
Max bent forward, his expression intent. “Dorogaya moya, you and I—”
“General!” One of the prince’s men hurried up.
Max closed his eyes, taking a deep breath before he turned to his man. “Da, Orlov?”
Seemingly unaware he’d interrupted anything, the man bowed to Murian and then rattled off several sentences to the prince.
Max answered shortly. As soon as the man left, Max turned to Murian. “I’m sorry for the interruption. Orlov found some slate by the stream that will make good stepping-stones around the well. It is wet there, and very muddy.”
“That’s a good idea. We should rejoin the others. We’ve a busy day ahead of us.”
The Prince and I Page 13