The Prince and I

by Karen Hawkins

  “Yes, you should have.” His mouth was white, his expression stern. “I knew you were on that ridge and might come down it at any moment—” He snapped his mouth closed, as if the words were bitter.

  She toyed with one of the wide cuffs on her robe. “Your singing is atrocious. It probably frightened the earl’s men to death.”

  His brows lowered. “This is not a matter for levity.”

  “I know. But it’s all I have right now.”

  Their gazes met. She could see he longed to say more, that the danger of their plan was heavy on his shoulders, but she was too overwhelmed to deal with it this evening. She shook her head, saying in a tired voice, “I canna handle more tonight.”

  He nodded, his expression softening. “You need something to drink and some rest. You will feel better then.” A faint grin tilted one corner of his mouth. “Hopefully, with some sleep, you will realize my singing was not so bad after all.”

  She had to laugh, which soothed her in some way. “There is not enough sleep for that to happen.”

  He sighed as if put upon. “And here I thought I did rather well, given the circumstances.” He unbuttoned his coat, pausing for a moment. “Do you mind? It is wet, and while the fire warms me, it is still cold.”

  As steam was softly rising from his broad shoulders, she didn’t doubt it. “Of course.” She tried not to look as he pulled off his coat and then his waistcoat, his white shirt as soaked as the rest of him. It clung lovingly to his shoulders, his narrow waist, his flat stomach—

  She realized he was watching her, smiling smugly, and she hurried to turn elsewhere. “Would you like some tea?”

  “Nyet. Not now.” He was quiet a moment. “This adventure will end soon, one way or another.”

  “I know.” She crossed her arms, rubbing them to bring some warmth.

  “But not tonight.”

  Not tonight. The simple words lifted her heart, which had been so downtrodden this evening. She found herself smiling. “No. Not tonight.”

  “Let us pretend, for form’s sake, that tonight I’m merely visiting. That there is no Rowallen, and no people who rely upon us. There is only you, and me, and this visit.”

  “No one visits in the rain, which is why I’m not dressed for company.”

  His gaze flickered over her again, his mouth curving into a faint smile. “In that robe, you look like a—” He struggled to find the word, then pressed his hands together and placed them beside his cheek. “That thing you sleep on. Under your head. It is made of feathers and—”

  “A pillow?” She looked down. The robe had been Robert’s and was huge on her. It puffed both above and below the belt; she supposed she did look rather like a pillow.

  Damn it, I look like a plump pillow while he looks like that. She eyed his stomach once more, noting that each ripple was perfectly spaced. Life was not fair. She tugged at her sash. “It’s my favorite robe.”

  “It seems very comfortable and modest. You are more covered in that robe than in any two of your gowns.”

  Before he’d told her she looked like a poofy pillow, she’d felt exposed. Now she just felt irritated and was glad there was no mirror nearby. For surely in addition to being enveloped in a thick, fat robe, her nose must be red and her hair beginning to crackle into seaweed, which it did if she didn’t comb it enough while it dried.

  Max, watching her emotions play across her face, hid a grin. “A pillow,” he amended, “but a much treasured pillow.”

  Even though she was exhausted, the humor still warmed her. “A treasured pillow, then. That’s better. Somewhat.”

  He laughed softly and took a step toward her. His wet breeches pulled and he grimaced, losing his smile. “I should remove these.” He waited to see if she’d argue.

  Instead, her gaze flickered down, over his hips and legs. “Those must be uncomfortable.” Her voice, always husky and enticing, had deepened.

  His body reacted so instantly, he paused in reaching for his buttons.

  She saw it and, realization dawning, grinned. “Dinna tell me you’ve suddenly become shy.”

  He loved her lilting, honey-soaked voice, the way some words ended with an up note, as if they begged for a quick kiss to smooth them on their way.

  He found the Scottish accent intriguing, the cadence reminding him of his grandmother’s people. They sang when they talked, and it reminded him of sleepy summers under a starlit sky.

  “Hold a moment.” She went to the bed and pulled off one of the blankets and brought it to him. “In case your shyness returns and catches you in a blush.”

  He couldn’t stop watching her mouth. She wasn’t a conventional beauty, this red-haired, fiercely independent temptress. She was a real-life, flesh-and-bone woman, with hair that rarely stayed within its pins, and skin that flushed when she grew angry. While he could see that she’d shed a few tears over tonight, she’d neither had histrionics nor downplayed the dangers, but had accepted them without a flinch. Her pragmatic nature was every bit as appealing as the full lips that made him think of carnal pleasures every time she spoke.

  She intrigued him as no other. She carried herself with assuredness, as if she knew her value better than any one else. But it was more than just confidence. Without any of the artifices most women employed—rustling silks and exotic perfumes, batting eyelashes and senseless giggles—she was one of the most feminine women he’d ever met. He couldn’t see her without his hands itching to touch her, his tongue wishing to tangle with hers, his body wanting to take her, over and over.

  His mind latched upon her every expression, every movement, and he understood them, understood her. It was as if his body was already attuned with hers, his thoughts already entwined with hers.

  And yet it still wasn’t enough. He wanted more. More kisses. More touches. More laughter. More everything. There was no such thing as “enough”—not with Murian.

  He threw the blanket onto the settee and strode to her side. Without a word, he lifted her into his arms, her robe parting to reveal slender, shapely legs. She slipped her arms about his neck, resting her head against his shoulder.

  With a smile, he paused to blow out the candle, and then he carried her to the huge bed.

  Chapter 18

  Max lowered her onto the bed, consuming her with his gaze. The firelight glistened in her red hair, tracing her curls, even as it caressed the pure line of her cheek and full lips. He bent to kiss her, tugging her sash free. He opened her robe, gazing at her hungrily. Her legs were long and pale, with perfectly formed calves just made for a man’s palm. He admired the strength in her thighs, and, above them, the small, crisp curls that covered her womanhood, hiding and teasing.

  He slid his hands up her calves, to her thighs, and hovered over her nether curls.

  She gasped, her gaze never leaving him, a question in her eyes.

  “I must have you,” he whispered as he moved on to her hips, cupping them and curling his fingers into her flesh, his body aching with desire.

  “Nay, ’tis I who must have you.” She pulled her arms free from the robe and slid into the center of the bed, nude and boldly ready for him. “I need this tonight.”

  She hadn’t said she needed him, and for some reason that bothered him. But not enough to stop. He couldn’t undress fast enough, peeling off his breeches and tugging his shirt over his head while she held out her arms.

  And then he was there, skin to skin, nothing between them but heat and passion, desire and want. He ran his hands over her body, from calf to hip, hip to waist, waist to breast, pausing to touch and stroke and tease her. She moaned his name, her breath short and hot, her hands seeking, stroking, too.

  God, but he loved to touch her. His fingertips couldn’t rest, but must move. And where his fingers went, so did his mouth. He traced a line from her neck to her breast, pausing to torment her nipples into hardness, moving back and forth until she arched against him, restless with desire.

  Then he went lower, kissing his way down
her gently rounded stomach, her fingers in his hair as he brushed his chin over her mound—once, and then twice.

  She gasped and lifted to him, balling the sheets into her fists.

  He teased her again, blowing on her damp curls, sending shudders through her.

  “More,” she gasped and, to his surprise, entwined her hands in his hand and pressed him where she wished him to be, opening her legs and lifting her womanhood to him.

  More aroused than he’d ever been, he slipped his hands beneath her bottom and lifted her to his lips, delicately parting her slick folds with his tongue. She tasted of sweetness and rainwater, his cock hardening with each movement she made against his mouth. He slipped his tongue up, over the hard nub of her pleasure, and then back to her wetness. Over and over, he traced the path.

  She tugged him closer. Urged on, he slipped his tongue into her and then out, thrusting now, mimicking the movement of his hips. Over and over, he thrust, soaking in her gasps of excitement. Her hands tightened in his hair as he took her with his mouth. Suddenly, she planted her feet on the bed and arched against him, crying out his name. As she shook with pleasure, he slipped his fingers into her, stroking deeply until she clutched the sheets again and begged him to stop.

  Laughing, he moved up her body, raining kisses over her creamy skin while she fought lingering shudders beneath him, her breaths ragged and short.

  Finally, he lay atop her, his face even with hers, one of her legs over his hip. “That,” he whispered against her neck, “was for you.”

  Murian slipped her arms about him, her breathing finally slowing. “Then this, my love, will be for you.” She’d never been so well pleasured. She couldn’t stop trembling, her body aching with fulfillment and desire.

  Every trail of his fingertips, roughened from his life, made her quiver and her heart thunder in her ears. It was as if her body, so long asleep, had been awakened by his kisses, his touch, his warmth. She could no more think than breathe.

  She ran her hands over his powerful arms, his broad shoulders, his muscular chest, seeking and exploring, wondering how she’d gone for so long without touching and being touched. She’d been achingly lonely, a fact she only now allowed herself to admit.

  And this, here and now, felt right. She was safe within Max’s arms, safe to forget who she was and where she was, when she was within his embrace. Safe to be as wanton or deliciously sinful as the moment allowed. Her body still ached from his tongue, still yearned for more. But now was his turn.

  She opened her legs and lifted to meet him. She gasped as his hard cock filled her, sending new shivers through her. She wrapped one of her legs about him and then raised up on one arm, turning him over so that she was now atop him, his cock buried deeply. It was heavenly, and she watched as he closed his eyes, biting his lip as he tried to maintain control.

  She pulled her knees up alongside of his hips, flattened her hands on his chest, lifted herself up the length of his cock, and then slowly, ever so slowly, sank back down.

  His eyes flew open in surprise. She immediately lifted again, only to slide back onto him. Beneath her, Max gasped in pleasured agony. She went up and slowly down again, feeling his cock growing even harder, pushing more deeply inside.

  And then she was rocking upon him faster and faster. His hands closed about her waist as he thrust up, meeting her.

  Max gritted his teeth, his cock begging for release. He wanted nothing more than to flip her over and take her with all of the pent-up passion she’d raised. Yet he couldn’t look away from the picture she made as she rocked on him, her breasts bouncing, her hair clinging to her bare shoulders, her skin glistening with exertion.

  He tightened his hold on her waist, meeting her stroke for stroke. Her breath came rapidly, and then her back arched. He felt the wave of her joy before she did, slipping his hands to her ass so he could hold her firmly to him as, with a surprised cry, she bucked wildly on his cock, unleashed and crazed with desire. No longer able to control himself, he thrust into her and released himself deep inside as she collapsed upon him.

  Much later, when the fire had burned down low, and they’d enjoyed each other until they could no longer move, Max lifted Murian’s hand and pressed a kiss into her palm. He traced his lips up her finger, bit softly on her fingertip, then pressed kisses back to the palm and lower, finding her pulse on her wrist, and capturing it with his lips.

  She smiled sleepily, her silver eyes barely visible between her thick lashes. “I canna . . . I just canna.”

  He chuckled. “I don’t think I can, either.”

  She settled her head in the crook of his shoulder, her lips curled in a smile replete with lovemaking.

  God, how he loved those lips, dusky in color and perfectly formed. They were as intriguing as she was. He bent to taste them with one soft kiss. She kissed him back, and then she curled around him, her arm over his chest, her leg over his, her head neatly tucked under his chin, and fell almost instantly asleep.

  Though tired, Max found sleep more elusive. He brushed her curls from where they tickled his chin, and smoothed his hand down her shoulder and arm. She sighed in her sleep but didn’t wake, and he knew she felt safe. Protected. And he took pride in that. He’d never wanted anything more than to hold her when she needed it, to kiss the sadness from her eyes and watch her lips curl into a smile. With that, I am happy.

  And in that moment, lying awake in the dark, Murian wrapped about him, Max realized he’d made a mistake he could never undo. At some point, he’d fallen in love with this woman. A woman he would soon have to leave.

  A pain like he’d never known filled his heart. He wrapped his arms about her and buried his face in her hair, closing his eyes to time and circumstances, and everything else that damned them.

  Chapter 19

  Max blinked awake, wondering for a moment where he was. Memories of the night before slowly filtered to him, and he turned to find early-morning sunlight limning the very feminine arm that was draped over his chest.

  Lifting his head, he followed the line of that arm to a graceful shoulder and on to an elegant neck, and a firm chin barely visible in a wave of red curls. Through the tangle of red silken hair, her breath stirred the strands with each soft puff.

  After years of battle Max had become a rise-with-the-sun sort of man, but this morning, he was reluctant to stir. The bed was warm, the sheets scented with the vanilla and lavender he’d come to associate with Murian, and she fitted so perfectly against him.

  He rested his cheek against her forehead, listening to her steady breath, his loins stirring. It was a testament to Murian that his cock could rise so quickly after such a night, and rise it did.

  But perhaps that wasn’t the best idea. Perhaps the best idea was to get up, leave, and never again see her alone. He knew what his duty was; knew what he needed to do, why, and when. The same could be said for Murian; she was as tied here as he was tied to Oxenburg, neither of them free to follow their hearts.

  But was he truly in her heart? As much as he wished to know, he knew he couldn’t ask. She was fond of him, and she’d welcomed him to her bed, too. But then again, she was an independent woman, so why shouldn’t she? Her desire bespoke nothing more than a healthy regard for her own sensuality.

  Under normal circumstances, he’d simply ask what her feelings might be. But in asking, there was the promise of fulfillment. Unless he was willing to answer her feelings with his own, he had no right to even bring up the subject.

  There was nothing to be said. As soon as his mission was done, he’d leave while she remained to continue her fight for Rowallen. There was nothing left for either of them.

  The realization made him ache as if someone had hit his breastplate with a two-handed sword. He rubbed his chest, wondering that it felt so real.

  A loud knock rang through the quiet. Max lifted his head.

  Murian stirred at his side.

  Outside, Ian called, “Lassie? Are ye oop?”

  Murian blinked awak
e and sat up, her gaze finding Max. She shoved her hair from her face and called out, “Aye. Is something wrong?”

  “We’ve much to talk aboot, ye and I.” There was a silence. “I owe ye an apology.”

  Max caught the downturn of Murian’s mouth and he raised his brows.

  She shook her head before she raised her voice to Ian. “Go on to breakfast. I’ll meet you once I’m dressed.”

  “Are ye sure, lassie?” They heard a sound, like a boot scuffing the ground. “I dinna mean to bother ye, but I am sorry. I had time to think things through, and I was wrong. I was just angry aboot how the raid went and . . . I’m angry wi’ tha’ dammed prince.”

  A sparkle of humor warmed Murian’s eyes. “Oh? And why are you mad at the prince?”

  “Because he put ye in danger.” Ian adopted an odd German accent. “ ‘Oh, there’s nothin’ to be worried aboot, me and my perfect soldiers will clear oot the guards.’ ”

  Max opened his mouth to retaliate, but Murian pressed her finger to his lips.

  Ian continued, “If tha’ was clearing the guards, then I’m an elephant.”

  “He’s as big as one,” Max muttered.

  Murian grinned, but told Ian, “Go eat; I’ll speak with you soon. And dinna worry, Ian, I’m not mad. Not at all.”

  “Verrah weel.”

  They listened as he left.

  Max stretched. “I suppose I must go, so you can embark upon my character assassination over your breakfast.”

  Murian’s smile faded. “Last night Ian had a lot of bad things to say aboot everyone. He’s a bit of a naysayer at times. We Scots are a dour lot.”

  Max rolled over to kiss her nose. “Never say it.”

  Her smile returned, though a shadow remained in her eyes.

  He felt the same way, but there was nothing more to be said. Unwillingly, he arose, though it felt as if he were leaving a piece of his heart in the bed with her. He grimaced at his own thoughts.

  He washed in the cold water on the small dresser by the fire, then dressed, trying not to watch her as she did the same and failing miserably. He loved the line of her long legs, her high waist, and her breasts, which just filled the palm of his hands.