Tears welled and she angrily dashed them away, unwilling to let her thoughts overcome her. She would help Ian break some rock. Swinging a heavy hammer would be good for her angst-ridden soul. She hurried to find her cape and had just wrapped her muffler about her neck when she heard a shout, followed by another.
Frowning, she threw her cape about her shoulder and opened the door. Coming down the forest path astride the largest bay she had ever seen, and dressed head to toe in unrelenting black, rode Max’s tiny Gypsy grandmother. Riding in front of her was Golovin, looking embarrassed and terrified.
Ian, standing beside a large stone he’d fetched from the stream, watched, surprised. On seeing Murian in her doorway, he came to stand beside her as their guests entered the village.
“Tha’ is a big horse fer sich a wee woman.” Ian’s voice held a note of admiration as the grand duchess rode closer.
“I was just thinking ’twas a wee horse for such a large woman.”
Seeing Golovin’s expression, Ian said thoughtfully, “Ye may ha’ the right of it, lassie.”
“She certainly rides well.” The duchess didn’t seem to direct the animal at all, yet even though it was obviously a high-strung animal, it walked sedately down the path between the cottages without the least hesitation.
The villagers were alerted now, and stood in doorways and hung out windows, watching the tiny woman ride down their street. Suddenly the door to Widow Brodie’s cottage flung open. Her five small boys ran out, followed by their mother, who stalked right up to the path, where she whipped out a crucifix and held it before her.
Her Grace pulled her horse to and eyed Widow Brodie with an icy stare.
Murian hurried up the street, Ian hard on her heels.
He murmured to Murian, “She’s only sayin’ wha’ the rest of us are thinkin’, lassie.”
Murian reached the widow. “Widow Brodie! What are you doing? Her Grace has just come for a visit!”
“Tha’ is no’ duchess, Lady Murian. She’s a witch. Ye’ve heard the whispers.”
Widow Reeves stuck her head out of the window of her cottage. “She threatened to turn us all into frogs when we held oop her coach. Remember?”
“Or was it goats?” Ian asked, pursing his lips.
Golovin sent a cautious look at the duchess, and then leaned down to whisper loudly, “It was goats. They are her favorite thing.”
The grand duchess fixed her gaze on Murian. “Lady Murian, I take it.” The black eyes swept up and down Murian and, judging from the curl of the old woman’s lip, apparently found her wanting.
Murian stiffened, her chin lifting. “Aye, Your Grace.”
“I thought so. I have come to speak to you.”
“Oh? About what?”
“If you’ll invite me to tea, I may tell you. You do have tea, don’t you?”
“Of course.”
“Then I will visit you.” She looked over her shoulder. “Golovin, I am done riding.”
The huge soldier hurried to dismount, throwing his reins over a gate and then coming to the duchess’s horse. He lifted her carefully to the ground as if she were made of china, unstrapped a gold-handled cane from her saddle, and handed it to her.
“Walk the horse. I will not be long.” She hobbled to Murian. “Well? Which of these hovels is yours?”
Murian bit her tongue. “This way, Your Grace.” Hovel, indeed! She led the way to her cottage, fighting the urge to reply in kind.
Reaching her cottage, she opened the door. “If you’ll take a seat, I’ll make your tea.”
The duchess walked in, her brows rising as she noted the fine furnishings. “Well. This is a surprise.”
“Not to me.”
She flashed Murian an appreciative look, walked to the closest chair and ran her hand over the mahogany arm. “I take it you stole this from the castle.”
“You canna steal what you already own.”
“True.” Her Grace felt the cushions on each chair, finally selecting a seat close to the fire. She sat, arranging her shawl and skirts about her. “Hurry up with that tea. I am thirsty from my ride.”
“Of course.” Murian hid her grimace and set about heating water for the tea. While she waited she pulled out cups and small plates, opening a packet of sweet biscuits Widow Reeves’s sister had brought on her last visit. As she moved, she was aware the duchess’s gaze followed her every move. What on earth can she want?
She supposed she’d find out soon enough. Murian placed the biscuits on the plates and filled the teapot with the boiling water so it could brew.
The duchess peered at the biscuits and poked about, finally selecting one.
Murian did the same.
“I suppose you wonder why I have come,” the duchess said.
“I was wondering, aye.” Murian tasted the biscuit. It was crumbly and sweetly almond flavored, and she savored the bite.
Her Grace sniffed at her biscuit and then tried it. “Mm. Not bad.” The duchess took another bite. After a moment, she said, “I came to ask you why you chase my grandson so.”
Murian almost choked on her biscuit. “I beg your pardon?”
“I have seen this before. Many women chase my grandsons, and I will tell you what I tell all of them: you waste your time. I have come to help you understand that.”
“Your Grace, I’m not doing any such thing.”
The duchess puffed out her lips. “That, I do not believe.”
“In order for me to chase a man, I’d have to wish to catch him. I have no interest in Max—”
The duchess raised her brows.
Murian’s face heated. “—His Highness. Not at all.”
The dark eyes locked on Murian’s face. “He is very wealthy.”
Murian poured tea into the two cups and handed one to Her Grace. “How fortunate for him.”
“He is a powerful man, the general of a vast army.”
“I’m sure he is an excellent commander.”
“He is also very handsome. All of my grandsons are.”
He was all of that—handsome, powerful, wealthy—but it didn’t touch his true qualities. He was funny, with a dry wit that made her chuckle. He was intelligent, too, and he never bored her. They’d talked for hours while working on various projects in the village, and she’d been surprised and pleased with the breadth of his knowledge.
But more than that, under his blunt and rough warrior exterior, he’d proven himself to be kind. Her heart ached anew.
“I have no doubt he’ll be a wonderful husband to some lucky princess one day. But not for me.” Murian took a sip of tea to loosen her throat. “There are many handsome men in this world, Your Grace. One day, I shall find one willing to stay here and share what I hold so dear.”
She meant the words to sound calm and confident, but she couldn’t help the waver in her voice at the end of her sentence. What she held dear were her people, Rowallen, and now a tall, handsome, scarred warrior prince with a propensity for barking orders. She found herself looking into her tea, and it felt as if her heart were at the bottom.
The duchess muttered something under her breath, reaching out to place her hand over Murian’s. “It hurts, da? Love can tear the heart as easily as it warms it.”
The unexpected sympathy was too much. Murian barely managed a smile before she snatched up her napkin and dabbed at her eyes. “It doesna matter. We are not meant to be. We—” She closed her lips over a sob.
Her Grace sighed. “That grandson of mine. Sometimes I think I should hit him over the head with my cane and knock some sense into his thick skull. It would be easier for us all.”
“He doesn’t lack for sense. He’s quite right; he and I met at the wrong time.”
“Humph. Tell me about your village, the people here.”
Glad to be talking about something other than Max, Murian obliged, at first only mentioning the important items, such as how they fared despite Loudan’s attempts to force them to leave, and the ways they’d kept his m
en from finding their sanctuary. She told of the day she’d returned to Rowallen to find Robert dead and the household in shambles from Loudan’s threats, and how she’d brought them all here for safety.
The duchess cackled when Murian told of taking all the furniture, but grew more serious when discussing how Loudan had increased the guards after catching Will in the castle, and how now they feared there was a traitor in their midst.
Murian also described Max’s arrival in their village and all the work he and his men had done, how kind he’d been to her and the others, and how he had provided the much-needed wood from Loudan’s own barn—which earned another laugh from the duchess—and how Murian didn’t know what they’d have done without them. Somehow, in the midst of that, she found herself also telling the duchess about Widow MacDonald’s temper, and Widow Brodie’s struggles with five rambunctious sons, how Will was recently becoming the man she’d always thought he would be, and how Widow MacCrae and Pahlen were showing distinct signs of falling in love.
“Do you think she will go with him to Oxenburg?”
“Or he might stay with her here,” Murian countered. “I dinna know. They have the freedom to choose.”
The duchess took a pensive sip of her tea, eyeing Murian. “You are not what I expected. I thought I’d find a frivolous girl, one given to foolishness.”
“Foolishness?”
“Da, you are involved in some wild scheme to retrieve your castle and lands.”
“I dinna scheme, Your Grace. I plan.”
The old woman’s eyes twinkled. “By holding up carriages. Thus ‘foolishness’ is an appropriate term.”
Murian had to smile. “Perhaps there is a wee bit of foolishness in my blood.”
“Good. Do not lose it. It will save you from growing bored when you grow old. Ah, you have had adventures! How I envy you that.” Her Grace selected yet another biscuit. “I have had these excellent biscuits before; I know I have.”
“Have you eaten at Lady MacLure’s? Her cook is the Widow Reeves’s sister, so she visits us often and brings us her latest efforts.”
“Nyet. I’ve never been off Rowallen lands until now, so I must have had them there— Ah! That was it. A week or so ago, they were served at tea. I commented on them then, too. Lady MacLure must have supplied them to the castle’s kitchen.”
“Why would Lady MacLure have her cook supply Rowallen?”
“She’s been serving as Loudan’s hostess. Did you not know?” At the shake of Murian’s head, the duchess added, “She has, and she’s been quite elegant about it, too, which is fortunate, for Loudan’s housekeeper was dismal. I assume the menus now fall under Lady MacLure’s purview, for they’re much improved.”
About to dunk her biscuit in her tea, Murian stopped. “Wait. When did this happen?”
“Over the last week, sometime. She and her husband seem miserable, so Loudan must have blackmailed them into it in some way. They give his affairs some legitimacy, and bring in the local gentry. You cannot lord it over people if they will not accept your invitations, so he is reduced to bribing them with food, drink, entertainment, and a respectable hostess.”
Murian put down her cup, her mind racing. “Widow Reeves is very close to her sister.”
The duchess didn’t look impressed. “So?”
“So it wouldna be unusual for her to tell her sister about our plans here, in the village. And Widow Reeves has mentioned before how closely her sister works with Lady MacLure on the menus and such. So during these meetings, ’tis possible Widow Reeves’s sister revealed a bit more than she should have.”
The duchess put down her teacup, too, her eyes bright. “And then Lady MacLure repeated what she heard, which is how Loudan found out. So . . . your traitor is not a traitor after all, but a gossip.”
“That must be it!” Murian sat back, so relieved she laughed. “I’m so glad you came today! That sort of traitor is easily dealt with.”
The duchess tugged her shawl about her shoulders, looking pleased as well. “We would scheme well together, you and I. Perhaps . . .” She tilted her head to one side, looking like a wee black crow. “Perhaps we should do so right now.”
“To what purpose?”
“To bring Loudan to his knees. He still has my tiara.” She muttered something that Murian was fairly certain was a curse. After a moment, the duchess picked up a biscuit and waved it. “If only we could poison him.”
“I’m not proud of it, but I’ve thought so many times. But I want justice, and that would not provide it.”
The shrewd black eyes locked on Murian. “If we find this journal of your husband’s, it is still possible your claim will be proven false.”
“It is possible, but I must at least try. My people love Rowallen; it was their home. Some of them were born there.”
“Then we must find this journal and my tiara, you and I. We must get to Loudan’s bedchamber and search it.” The duchess and Murian were silent a moment, each lost in her own thoughts.
Suddenly the duchess stiffened. “Bozhy moj, why not?”
Murian leaned closer. “You have an idea?”
“Of course I have an idea,” she said testily. “I’m a Romany. It will require my help, but we should be able to get you to the earl’s bedchamber.”
“You will help us?”
“Why not? I’ve nothing better to do. But we may need a diversion, something to draw out the guards.”
“I can help provide, although it would still leave the servants.”
The duchess smirked. “The regular servants would never question a grand duchess. You will leave them to me.”
Murian had to smile. “You are right; they wouldn’t. Your Grace, I canna thank you enough.”
“Thank me when we’ve found the tiara and journal.”
“I will. We must plan this carefully. There will be a dark moon in two days, which would give us some protection.”
“Moon? I do not stay up so late. Nyet, we go now, in the daylight. They will never suspect it, so surprise will be on our side. Can you make this diversion happen today? Now?”
“I—I suppose so, but . . . Your Grace, if we go in the daylight, we will be seen.”
The duchess smiled, a twinkle in her black eyes. “Da, I plan to make certain we are. Come. Call in your assistants. We will need all the help we can get.”
Chapter 22
At Max’s call, Orlov entered the bedchamber. “The letters are on their way, and I requested two horses be saddled and brought around.”
“Good.” Max finished tugging on his riding boots.
“I’m glad you decided to see Lady Murian today, after all.”
“If we leave now, we should be back in time for dinner.” It would be a short visit, but at least he would see her. It had been almost two days since the last time he’d laid eyes upon her, and now he had a reason to seek her out, to ask her about the information Pahlen had shared.
But that was an excuse, and he knew it. The truth was, he missed her. Missed her with a deep ache that made him restless and lonely, even when talking with his own men.
He caught Orlov’s amused gaze and forced himself to ignore it. “It’s important we find out what Lady Murian has planned as soon as possible.”
Orlov pursed his lips as if considering this, a politely disbelieving expression on his face. “Very important. We should not wait a day.”
“If we go straight there and back, we will be able to return in time for dinner.”
Orlov sent a doubting glance at the clock. “Of course, General.”
“I won’t speak with Lady Murian long. A few minutes, fifteen at most.”
Orlov inclined his head, though his eyebrows rose.
Max stood and picked up his coat. “You don’t think we’ll be back in time.”
“I ordered lanterns, just in case.”
“I see. I suppose you also don’t think she’ll tell us what she’s planning.”
Orlov lifted his hands.
&n
bsp; Normally so much naysaying would be tiresome, but Max merely slapped Orlov on the back. “I will prove you wrong—if not on all three counts, then at least on one.”
They left the castle and were soon on their way. Max set his horse to an easy trot down the drive, Orlov to his right. The sun had indeed come out. The unpredictability of Scottish weather fascinated Max. It was possible to experience as many as three seasons in one day.
When they reached the trail they slowed the horses to a walk. Though the late-afternoon sun was slowly sinking, there was still plenty of light for the ride. At least for the ride there. Orlov had been smart to order the lanterns tied to the side of their mounts; it would grow dark in the forest before the sun set.
Max wondered if Orlov had been as right about Murian. Would she share her new plan? And would he blame her if she didn’t?
He’d made a mull of this entire business, and she deserved better. He’d been trying to do the noble thing, to give her what he imagined was the freedom to live a better life. But Orlov’s words had made Max question that. He had no desire to abandon Murian, to leave her alone for no reason. Bloody hell—he wanted to protect her for the rest of his life, to keep her by his side and challenge anyone who dared harm her.
But she was not some pet to be caged, simply because it gave him peace of mind. She was her own person, this Murian of the forest, a fey and beautiful woman who was stronger than any man he knew. And he had no wish to leave her now, or ever.
Which was what he should have told her when he’d so baldly and unemotionally announced he must leave soon. That he’d said it right after a wildly passionate night made his error all the worse. He was just beginning to realize that there were many similarities between love and war, and timing was everything. He’d taken a special moment and turned it into far less than it should have been. He’d hurt her.
He couldn’t take those words back, but he could apologize. And then, if she’d listen, he’d explain himself. Whether Murian shared her plans with him or not, he would at least try to repair some of the damage he had caused. This time he would tell her more—that he hated leaving her. That he’d never wanted a woman as badly as he wanted her. That he thought about her constantly but could find no way to solve the gaps in their destinies. That he loved her but could not promise her the “forever” she deserved.
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