The Prince and I

by Karen Hawkins

  She straightened and offered a polite smile. “Good morning. I see the earl dinna keep you overlong today.”

  “Nyet, he is hunting this morning with a few of his friends, none of whom I’d trust near me with a loaded rifle.”

  “I’m surprised the earl doesn’t question where you go each day.”

  “I told him I was hunting.” Max opened the gate and strode across the uneven ground toward her. “However, I said it in such a way that he decided I meant a woman. That, he understands.”

  “So he thinks you’re oot chasing women six, seven hours a day.” Humor warmed her eyes. “You have amazing stamina, Your Highness.”

  Her husky, lilting voice made him want to kiss it from her lips. “So I must.” He captured her hand and tugged off her glove, turning her hand over so he could kiss her palm. “You look lovely today.” She was all red-gold and pink beauty, as fresh and true as a newly minted coin.

  She flushed, tugging her hand free and pulling her glove back on. “You look well, too, for someone who’s chasing women all day.”

  “I’m only chasing one woman.”

  “Hmm.” She eyed him for a moment, and he could see she was weighing her thoughts. Finally, she said, “Every time we try to . . . meet, we are interrupted.”

  “Da, we are challenged—but not beaten.” He leaned closer. “I will never give up, dorogaya moya. Never.”

  Her lips quirked as she tried unsuccessfully to hide her smile. “Still, we’ve a lot of work to do here.”

  “We do. I am lagging a bit today, too. Last night, Loudan suggested cards after dinner, and I could not leave my grandmother alone. I did not wish to wake up and discover she’d wagered away my favorite horse, or the shoes from my feet.”

  Murian chuckled. “Did you ever find out what she lost to the earl?”

  “Nyet. I will make her tell me, but I’ve been a bit preoccupied with all of this.” He looked down the street, satisfied with the activity he saw. “We’ve made good progress.”

  “Aye, but there’s so much more to be done. It seems endless, dinna it?”

  “Nyet.” He turned back to her. “It seems it will be done in far, far too short a time.”

  Her expression softened and, as if nervous, she wet her lips.

  Bozhy moj, he burned to kiss the dewy dampness from her lips. But they were in the middle of the village, within view of every eye. As always, dammit. Every day I come here, and I see her and I want her, and every day, we are surrounded by—

  “Guid morning, Lady Murian! Yer Highness!” A small, brown-haired woman stood at the edge of the street, a smudge of white plaster on her cheek.

  Max managed a smile and a nod. “Widow Atchison.”

  She smiled politely, though her attention was on Murian. “Widow MacThune and I’ve been plasterin’ Widow Reeves’s cottage walls. I think the plaster is thick enou’, and adding more would make it likely to crack. But Widow MacThune believes we should add another coat, mayhap two, against the cold. Can ye come and see wha’ ye think?”

  “Of course,” Murian said instantly. “I’ll be there in a moment.”

  “Thank ye.” The widow curtsied and hurried off.

  A strong hand encircled Murian’s wrist. Surprised, she turned to find Max beside her, surveying the village.

  “No one is looking,” he said.

  She frowned. “So?”

  “We go.” He turned and pulled her after him, walking between the cottages, then behind the one she’d been working on. “Is there anyone in this one?”

  “Nay. They’re all plastering, or helping your men—”

  He kissed her, sweeping her to him with an abruptness that made her gasp with pleasure.

  Murian melted against him, her arms slipping about his neck as she returned the kiss. He smelled of fresh winter air tinged with leather and wood, and behind that, the faintest hint of his spicy, exotic cologne.

  His hands moved over her, insistent, demanding. He molded her to him, his hands cupping her bottom, pressing his hips to her.

  She could feel his excitement as she pressed against him, tugging him closer. She was enveloped by him, by his scent, by his touch, by his kiss. And as overwhelming as it was, it wasn’t enough. She wanted more. She was aflame, panting with longing and desire, her body aching with want.

  His hands slipped from her bottom to her waist as he pressed his back to the cottage and slid to the ground, taking her with him. One moment they were standing, and the next, he was sitting with her in his lap.

  Murian moaned as Max pushed open her cape and ran his hands over her gown, up her waist to her breasts. His touch was heavenly, and she writhed against him as he kneaded her breast, his thumb finding her nipple and gently flicking it. The man knew exactly what he was doing and she was glad for it, her body already aching for more.

  He deepened the kiss and moved his hand from her breast to her waist, and then lower. He impatiently moved her skirts aside so he could cup her calf, and then slowly, oh so slowly, he slid his hand up her leg to her knee.

  His hand was cooler than her skin, yet it burned with each inch he gained. It had been so long, too long, and she parted her knees. Grasping his hand, she guiding it to her thigh, desperately aware of her own aching wetness.

  “Dorogaya moya,” he whispered against her lips. “Ti takaya krasivaya.”

  The huskiness of his voice stroked her passion further. She arched against him, gasping against his lips when his fingers brushed feather-light over her center.

  She threw back her head and he kissed her neck, then moved to her ear, making her writhe as he gently stroked her, watching her, fighting to keep control over his desires. Never had he seen a more beautiful sight than Murian’s face lost in passion. He increased his movements, but just as she pressed herself to his hand, someone called for Murian.

  Her eyes flew open and she froze.

  The call came again, this time closer, a woman’s voice.

  With a muffled curse, Murian shoved her skirts down and scrambled out of his lap.

  His body aching, Max dropped his head back against the cottage wall and watched as she frantically adjusted her clothing and hair, managing only to muss them all the more.

  She caught his gaze and flushed. “Someone calls.”

  “Someone always calls.” He sighed. “Go. They will not rest until you arrive.”

  She managed a smile, her gaze meeting his. “Max, I’m sorry. But I canna ignore them when they need me.”

  “I know.” He rose to his feet and dusted off his breeches.

  She watched him, her brow creased. “But I want to share this with you. There’s . . .” She took a breath and then said in a rush, “There’s no harm in a mere flirtation.”

  He didn’t know why, but the “mere” irritated him. He’d had many flirtations, and none of them had held so much promise, so much excitement, as this.

  “Murian!” The voice now came from the cottage.

  He managed a smile. “Go. You are needed.”

  She took two steps, but then stopped and looked back at him. “We will continue this later?”

  There was so much hope in her eyes that his irritation disappeared. “Da, we will continue this later. Though it may take years, from the feel of it.”

  She grinned, a wide cheeky grin that made his heart tighten in an odd way. “Then it’s a good thing you have stamina.”

  “The way this is going, I’ll need all a man could possibly have.”

  She chuckled, a merry sound deep in her throat. And then she disappeared around the side of the cottage, leaving him alone.

  Chapter 11

  Later than afternoon, Max and his men returned to Rowallen. Orlov and Pushkin rode with him down the main road to the castle, while the others took the empty wagon around the back of the estate where no one would see it.

  Max dismounted in front of the castle, his men doing the same.

  Orlov pulled off his gloves. “How much longer are we at Rowallen? We’ll
need another month, at least, if we’re to finish the work in the village.”

  “I don’t know exactly how long we will stay. If we’re lucky, perhaps another two weeks.” Saying it aloud made him realize how soon that was. Two weeks is nothing. The thought made him faintly melancholy, which surprised him.

  “We will get as much done as we can.” Orlov rubbed his lower back. “If we do not die before then.”

  Pushkin looked at his thumb, which was bruised and swollen. “Da, the hammers we took from the barn were poorly constructed. The head turns just as one strikes.”

  Orlov snorted. “They did no such turning for me.”

  “They worked well for me, too,” Max said. “Admit it —’twas not the hammer, but the hammerer.”

  Pushkin flushed. “Nyet, ’twas the wretched hammer. It’s not balanced right, and the head—”

  “Da, da. It turns just as one strikes.” Orlov laughed. “You will never convince us, brother. Best you accept the truth, that you have the coordination of a drunk, blind duck.”

  Pushkin sputtered.

  “Or perhaps,” Orlov mused, “it was the lack of attention you were giving the hammer, and were instead bestowing upon Widow Grier?”

  While Pushkin muttered under his breath, Max glanced up at the gray sky, which matched the castle’s ancient stone. “It may snow soon, perhaps before the night is out.”

  “If it is deep, we may not be able to return to the village tomorrow,” Orlov said.

  Max’s jaw tightened. “We will still go. Our horses are used to such travel.”

  “Aye, but we could not take the wagon for the wood.”

  Max couldn’t argue with that, but he wouldn’t stay away from Murian come a hundred snows. Not when there’s so little time left.

  “Meanwhile, we’ve some scouting to do. I wish to know the habits of the footmen and guards Loudan employs. I want numbers, patterns, paths marched, evening versus day, schedules—all of it.”

  Orlov and Pushkin exchanged glances. “So,” Pushkin said, “we go to war.”

  “It is more reconnaissance than war. But if all goes well, Loudan will never know he was . . . beaten . . . until we are gone.”

  “We plan a sneak attack?” Pushkin asked.

  Max nodded. “We must regain my grandmother’s lost article, whatever it is.”

  Orlov’s brows rose. “You still do not know?”

  “I will find out today. I’ve been much too soft on her.”

  “It will be good to see the earl brought low.” Orlov scowled. “I do not like our host. He watches us as if he thinks we will take his silver.”

  “Aye,” Pushkin added. “I am tempted to slip a fork into my pocket, just to see his expression.”

  “He deserves to be made a fool of,” Orlov agreed.

  “So he does,” Max agreed. More than you know. “I must go make an appearance so our host does not get suspicious. He thinks my absence is due to my wooing a local farm girl. For now, we will let him think that.”

  “Good. It will make his fall all the more surprising to him.” The sergeant cocked a brow at Max. “Agreed, General?”

  “Agreed. He will fall hard and we will right his wrongs.” Which would satisfy Max’s growing need to make the lout pay for what he’d inflicted on Murian and her people.

  As a prince, he should not allow her circumstances to impact his duty here in Scotland, but as a man, he couldn’t ignore the deep anger that burned through him every time he thought of the earl’s perfidy in getting control of Rowallen and her lands.

  “Orlov, I am to receive some messages this afternoon. Be on the lookout for them. I will reply in the morning, by the same courier. If the men wish to include letters home, they may do so.”

  “Very good, General.”

  “Spasiba.” Max bade his men good-bye and strode up the walk to the castle.

  The gray skies reminded him of Murian’s eyes, which were so changeable. Silver when she was excited, darker and stormy when she was angry, light and shimmering when she was happy, gleaming and fey when she was in the throes of passion—as variable as her moods.

  He looked at the stone castle and could easily imagine her here, walking up the cobblestone drive to the wide stone steps, wearing a gown befitting her station, her red hair dressed and gleaming in the sunlight. His jaw tightened when he compared that to how she’d looked when he’d left her an hour ago. She’d worn a dull brown gown with mud upon the hem, old boots on her feet, her braid loose from working outside in the wind, her hands red and chapped from the cold—the contrast between what should be and what was burned into his soul. She did not deserve the life Loudan had consigned her to.

  As Max reached the steps, two liveried footmen sprang to attention and, with obviously rehearsed effort, swung the huge oak doors wide.

  Max walked into the foyer and allowed two more footmen to take his hat, coat, and gloves, which they did with obsequious bows and murmurs. Max tried not to grimace, since he knew such rehearsed grandeur said a lot about what Loudan thought was owed to himself and his position.

  Power was a fickle mistress. She enticed men to think of themselves as being of more value than others, when the reality was far different. Max had seen too many brave men on the battlefield who owned nothing more than the swords strapped to their ragged belts, and too many weak men bedecked in a prince’s armor, to believe in such nonsense. Nobility was a joke man played on his brethren, one that set Max’s teeth on edge.

  Of course, some of his beliefs might have come from his mother, who’d been a commoner and a Gypsy before Max’s father, the King of Oxenburg, had seen her and been instantly smitten. He’d rewritten the laws of Oxenburg to make the marriage legal, and had proudly proclaimed her his queen. As Max grew old enough to see her as more than his mother, he realized that although she hadn’t been raised to it, she was an excellent queen. She worked tirelessly to help those with less, and she wasn’t afraid to take on some of their country’s ruling nobility in the process. And the people loved her for it.

  Max admired her more than anyone else, and he’d come to agree with her view of the uselessness of some of those born into the noble class. Not all of them, of course, for some recognized the responsibility that came with their power. But some thought that merely being born into the velvet gave them rights far beyond what was intended by man or God.

  Fools. He’d seen the cost of allowing individuals to ignore compassion and honor in their quest for power, and the result was bloody. And Loudan was just such a fool.

  Max walked to the stairway that led to his bedchamber, pausing to examine a particularly old set of armor. Dented and scratched, it had known many fights, and he couldn’t help but wonder where the owner was now. He traced the scar on his chin, thinking he, too, looked battered and worn. Yet he didn’t feel so. His confidence had grown with each battle, and his determination to do what was necessary grew firmer as well. Murian has the right of it; no matter how long it takes, one can never give in. Never stop striving. Have stamina.

  He laughed softly.

  “Your Highness?”

  He turned to find Loudan’s butler, a short, stout man named MacGregor, standing behind him. “Da?”

  The butler bowed. “His lordship has been looking for you. Shall I tell him you’ve returned?”

  “I have been riding all morning and must bathe before I see him. Let him know I will join him as soon as possible.”

  “Yes, Your Highness. Shall I have a bath sent to your room?”

  “Please.”

  The butler sent a sharp look at one of the footmen, who hurried off. “A bath will be drawn immediately.”

  “Thank you.” Max started for the stairs, but then stopped. “My grandmother, the Grand Duchess Nikolaevna, do you know where she might be?”

  “She may be in the west salon.”

  “Where is that?”

  “Down the hall, Your Highness, and then to the left. It is the last set of doors on the right.” The butler ca
st a swift glance around and then said in a low tone, “There’s a fire in the west salon, and the room is quite small, so it is warmer. The older ladies sometimes gather there in the afternoons.”

  “And what do they do there?”

  An indulgent smile flickered over MacGregor’s plump face. “They sleep, Your Highness.”

  “Ah.” That sounded very much like Tata Natasha. “I shall let her know I have returned, and will then retire to my bedchamber.”

  “Very good, Your Highness. The bath will be ready when you arrive.”

  Max made his way to the west salon. A footman was stationed at the door, which he silently opened. As soon as Max walked through, the footman closed it.

  The west salon was indeed smallish, and decorated in shades of deep plum and cerulean blue. In one wall were set long, thin windows, over which hung deep-red curtains that blocked out a good bit of light. Here and there were small groupings of chairs covered in plum velvet with embroidered pillows.

  Right now only one elderly lady inhabited the salon and, as MacGregor had warned, she was fast asleep in a chair by the fire, snoring loudly. Grinning, Max crossed to where Tata Natasha slept and pulled up a chair next to hers, then placed his hand on hers.

  She snored away.

  He patted her hand. “Tata Natasha?”

  She stirred, her head dropping to one side. Almost immediately, she began to snore again.

  He leaned closer. “Tata Natasha!”

  Her eyes flew open and she sat bolt upright, staring around the room as if she’d never seen it before.

  “Tata?”

  Her watery gaze flickered to him. “Oh. It’s you.” She stifled a yawn. “I was—ah, I was just wondering about dinner.”

  “Were you, now?”

  She cut him a hard glance. “I did not see you come in.”

  He hid a grin. “You were sleeping. I did not wish to awaken you, but I must speak with you.”

  “Sleeping? I was not sleeping.”

  “You were snoring.”

  “Pah! I never snore.”

  “How would you know?”

  She fixed a gimlet gaze on him. “Because if I did, then one of the many men I have slept with would have mentioned it.”