Princess in Disguise

by Karen Hawkins

  Kintore turned to find a huge man standing behind him. Built like a bear, the giant’s broad face was covered with a coarse beard, his thick black brows drawn low, his dark eyes gleaming with fury. And his hand now squeezed Kintore’s shoulder in an agonizing grip.

  As Kintore leapt to his feet, the giant’s huge arm arced back with lightning speed and hit the earl dead on his chin.

  Still drunk and dizzy from the lass’s kisses, Kintore went down like a bag of grain, his head hitting the wooden arm of the settee. Yet, as he fell into the blackness, it wasn’t the blinding pain of the hit that went with him, but the wild, heated gaze of a velvet-voiced lady with amazing pale blue eyes.

  Chapter 2

  “Doya, you fool!” Alexandra cried as she jumped up and knelt by the fallen man.

  As the huge guard took a step toward the stranger, she threw out a hand. “Nyet! You will not touch him again.”

  The guard scowled but lowered his fist. “He deserves to be beaten.”

  “That is for me to decide, not you.”

  Doya crossed his massive arms. “Nay, Princess. For this, I must use my judgment. I promised your uncle, the king, that I would protect you.”

  “I need no protecting.”

  Doya’s face grew grim. “Yes, you do.”

  “Pah, I do not. Besides, the king’s not my uncle, but my uncle-in-law, which means even less now that I’m widowed.”

  “It means more. Now that you’ve no husband and your father is no longer with us, your uncle’s words, in-law or no, should be heeded.”

  “I’m not a child, Doya, and both of you must recognize that.” Alexandra examined the fallen man, her fingers grazing the side of his chin, where a lump was already growing. A rapidly coloring bruise on his temple marked where he’d hit the arm of the settee. “You marred him.”

  Which was very sad, for he was a beautiful man, all dark hair and, oh, such beautiful gray eyes. They made her think of the skies of Oxenburg right before a snowstorm.

  She sent the guard a black look. “You did not need to interfere; I was handling the situation on my own.”

  “How?” Doya said, almost growling. “By kissing him again? You did nothing to stop him. I know, for I saw.”

  She dropped her gaze to the unconscious man. It was true; she’d done nothing to stop the stranger from kissing her. She wasn’t sure whether it was because he’d looked so much like the Scotsmen of her imagination, or because his kiss had somehow echoed her own dreams so that it had seemed natural . . . or if, perhaps, it was because it had been so long since she’d been kissed.

  Whatever the reason, she didn’t have a single regret.

  It was a pity that it had been such a long time since she’d tasted passion, and Dmitri would be the first one to say it. He believed in such things—it was one of the reasons she’d grown to love him after they’d wed. Dmitri never belittled emotions, but rather accepted and nurtured them.

  That is how life should be lived—with love and passion. On his deathbed, Dmitri had made her promise that she’d remarry. She’d agreed, mostly to get him to quiet down and take the medicines the doctors had brought, but it spoke to his love for her that even while ill, he thought of her happiness.

  I had love and passion once, and I want it again. Yet after the prescribed mourning period had passed, she had found no one who sparked her interest, even among the dozens who’d passed her uncle’s stern eye; not a single man.

  Over time she’d grown to doubt her ability to love again, or even to feel a simpler emotion like passion. Until now.

  Now, just looking at the man made her heart flutter. She brushed a finger over her bottom lip, remembering the kisses they’d shared. Her body quivered as if still being touched, her skin prickled with wanton desire.

  Doya blew out a sigh. “This is what comes of visiting this foreign land. Countess Baryatinski is right; this barbaric land is not for us. We should have stayed in Oxenburg, where we belong. Where you belong.”

  Alexandra pinned the guard with a steely gaze. “Are you questioning my wishes?”

  Doya’s shoulders sank. The guard had known her since she was born, and although he sometimes forgot that she had reached her majority, he was in no position to refuse her anything she truly wished.

  She was, after all, still his princess.

  He said in a deep, petulant voice, “You should have gone to your bedchamber for your nap like the countess, and not slept here, in the common room.”

  “I didn’t expect anyone to come, and neither did you. Besides, I couldn’t have slept in my bedchamber. The walls are like paper and the countess snores louder than thunder.”

  Doya sighed. “I did not mean to disturb you, though ’tis good that I did. I came to tell you that the snow is thickening. We will not be able to leave in the morning, as we’d wished.” He eyed the unconscious man. “But I shall demand that this—this—doystolski be removed immediately.”

  She had to chuckle. “Doya, such language!”

  The guard turned fiery red. “I’m sorry, Princess. I forget myself. But I think it understandable, under the circumstances.”

  She nodded, her attention already back with the stranger. The light from the fire showed the beginning signs of dissipation in his face. And yet even with the faint lines down the sides of his mouth, and a faint gray pallor under his skin, he was still so handsome that just looking at him was a pleasure. His jaw and chin were strong, his nose perfection, and his mouth—oh, how she longed to kiss that sensual mouth again. Of all the kisses she’d shared, his had been the most—

  “Your Highness.” Doya’s deep voice broke her thoughts. “Perhaps I was hasty in my assumptions . . . Did you ask this man—this stranger—to kiss you?”

  “I was asleep when he entered. I awoke during the kiss.”

  “That—!”

  “Enough, Doya.” She brushed an errant curl from the stranger’s brow. “I don’t know him yet. But I will.” She slid a hand over his broad shoulder, noting the fine cloth. He is no commoner, this one.

  “Know him yet? That is not wise.” Doya’s hands were fisted and he looked as if he’d still like to beat their visitor to a bloody pulp.

  “Truthfully,” she mused, running a finger over the side of the man’s face, “now that I see him and how handsome he is, I wish I could kiss him a hundred times more.”

  Doya groaned. “Princess, please!” His voice was almost pained. “No good will come of kissing strange men. Surely you know this.”

  “Why shouldn’t I kiss whomever I wish? I’m a widow, not some virgin whose virtue must be protected like a crystal vase.”

  Doya’s face looked like was on fire. “He could have taken your innocent enthusiasm as a welcome for far more than mere kisses.”

  “Nyet. If I’d wished him to, he would have stopped.”

  “You do not know this.”

  “Oddly, I do. And if I’d thought differently, I’d have sent him on his way.” She flipped up the hem of her skirt to reveal the carved hilt of her knife protruding from the top of her boot. “If he’d been out of line, I’d have carved him back into it.”

  Doya nodded, approval softening his expression. “I did not know you were armed. You are good with your knife, too.”

  “I should be; you taught me.”

  “But you must not encourage this one. He is not for you.”

  “He can be for me while the snow flies. I’ve nothing else to do.” She saw the firm set of Doya’s face, so she rose and stood before him, tilting her head back so that she could see his expression more clearly. “Doya, you must stop being so protective.”

  “You are a princess,” he said stubbornly. “Princesses don’t—”

  “Yes, they do! They are no different from anyone else. They get sleepy and they get bored and they like kisses from handsome strangers, too.”

  “Naughty princesses, perhaps.”

  “I suppose you think I should only kiss princes, then?” She took Doya’s large han
d and patted it as she said softly, “You’ve seen the princes who’ve come calling. Should I kiss them?”

  The guard looked away.

  “What did you call them?” she coaxed.

  He grimaced, his black gaze sliding back to her. “Frogs.”

  She chuckled. “Aye. Men with no chins and weak eyes. The Prince of Luxembourg even drooled like a mad dog.”

  Doya sighed and shook his head. “Inbred.”

  “Exactly. And the Duke of Hapsburg was so fat that he couldn’t get out of his coach without the help of three footmen. He barely fit through the door of his bedchamber, so we had to move him to one with double doors, for fear he might get stuck.”

  Doya looked grim. “He made no secret of the fact that he wished to avail himself of your coffers.”

  “And other parts of me, too, for he leered most disgracefully.”

  Doya jerked his head toward the stranger. “And this man? He was leering, too, nyet?”

  “No, he was kissing me, and quite well. Even you must admit that he is very fit and youthful compared to the men who’ve come calling.”

  The guard leaned over and sniffed. “He reeks of spirits.”

  “He’s not perfect. But to be honest”—she took a deep breath—“this is why I came to Scotland.”

  “To be importuned by drunks?”

  “No—to find a husband who is not like the soft-skinned fops who languish in the courts of Europe. Men who ride and hunt and fight—real men.”

  “Like your cousins.”

  “Yes, just like them: strong-willed and capable. The history of the Scots shows them to be just such men. So here I am, looking for a new husband.”

  “And your uncle knows of this?”

  Good God, nyet. But if she told the guard the truth, then he would feel duty-bound to stop her. Instead of burdening him, she said, “Doya, would we be here if the king hadn’t given his approval?”

  The guard grunted. “You vow on your father’s grave that the king approves?”

  “You can ask him yourself when we return to court.”

  “I will do just that, Princess.”

  “Then you will help me.”

  Doya sighed and, with a display of reluctance, nudged the fallen man with the toe of his boot. “At least this one isn’t as puny as many men who’ve come courting you. But he still went down with one punch.”

  “You caught him unawares. Plus, as you pointed out, he’s far from sober.”

  Doya grunted, obviously unimpressed. “You think this man is a proper mate for a princess, then?”

  “The king will not give his approval to a wedding if the man is not. But I think our friend here is far more civilized than you believe. He smells like Scotch, yes, but his clothes are worth more than any gown I own.” She pointed to the emerald that flashed in his cravat. “That is a fine stone, too.”

  Doya bent to look at it. “It is well enough.”

  “He is expensively dressed, very handsome, and acts as if he owns the world. If that doesn’t sound like nobility, I don’t know what does.”

  “I would need to see his papers.”

  “Yes,” she said musingly. “So would I. But first we need to get him off the floor.” She gestured toward the settee. “Put him there. I shall tend his jaw, for it’s beginning to swell.”

  Doya reluctantly did as she bid him, lifting their guest to the settee and setting him down with something far less than gentleness.

  “Thank you.” Alexandra placed a pillow under the man’s head. “You may go now.”

  Doya crossed his arms. “I will not leave you with this man.”

  “Oh?” She arched a brow at him. “Who is your princess?”

  He set his jaw. “You are, Your Highness.”

  “And who have you sworn to obey? In front of no less a person than the king?” She flicked her hand toward the door. “Ask the landlady to bring some of the Scotch she was bragging about when we arrived. It will revive him. When you return, bring some packed snow, too, for his jaw.”

  “Very well. I will return soon.” With a lingering scowl at their unconscious guest, the guard left.

  Alexandra gathered her skirts with one hand and carefully perched on the edge of the settee, her hip by the stranger’s.

  Sitting here so close to him, she could understand exactly how the kiss came to happen. First, a person would see the other asleep, and then she might notice how his golden-brown hair swept from his forehead, and how his skin felt so deliciously warm. Then, being a curious sort, she might even run her fingers over the crest of his cheek to his hair, which sprang from his forehead with such an entrancing little lift.

  Unable to resist that curiously decadent spot, her fingers caressed the silken hair beneath her fingertips. It’s so soft. And his skin . . . She slid her fingers over his cheek. His skin was warm, too. Ah, so his pallor is because of his drinking. Then he will make healthy children.

  Her gaze flickered over his broad chest and she glanced at his still-closed eyes. Is he as muscular as he appears? He has on far too many clothes . . . She slipped her hands under his coat and undid his waistcoat, then slid her hands down his chest over his shirt.

  She sighed in delight as her fingers slid over his broad chest and ridged stomach. “You are built like a Cossack, all muscle and steel.”

  His lashes seemed to flutter and she held her breath . . . but he didn’t move again and she relaxed, her gaze moving over the refined lines of his face. Though he had the chest and taut stomach of one, this was no wild, restless Cossack. But what—and who—was he?

  She ran her hands over his chest one last time and then regretfully buttoned his waistcoat. As she did so, a heavy watch slipped from his waistcoat pocket and fell to the floor with a thunk, a long chain rattling after it.

  She picked it up, the metal warm in her palm. It was a magnificent piece, of burnished gold with a fluted knob and a masculine chain. He has excellent taste, this one, and an appreciation for quality. She had noted that in his clothing, too.

  Near the base was a small gold locket, oval in shape, and etched in an intricate pattern. As she looked at it, she thought she detected the outline of a name.

  Frowning, she held it up and tilted it to the light. There, hidden among the swirls, was the name “Jane.”

  Her gaze flashed back to the unconscious man. Is he married?

  Instantly, a surprising rush of jealousy burned through her. I found him, damn it. He is mine.

  She opened the locket. Inside, a small, delicate portrait had been painted on the enameled interior of the cover. The young woman had golden-brown hair. A thick curl hung to each side of a sweet, guileless face. Her eyes were large and dark over a straight nose and a mouth that curved with mischief and—

  The door opened and the innkeeper’s wife entered carrying a tray with the requested bottle of Scotch and two small glasses. She placed the tray on the table. “Yer man said ye wished fer some Scotch, so Mr. MacDuffie fetched a bottle of his guid stock fro’ the cellar. I thought ye might wish to—Och!” Her startled gaze had locked on the man on the settee. “Where did he come fro’ and—” The landlady’s eyebrows knit and she leaned forward. “Why, ’tis Lord Kintore!”

  “Kintore? You know him?”

  “O’ course I know him. His family seat, Keith Manor, is no’ more than a half hour’s ride fro’ here.”

  “Who is he?”

  “He’s an earl, miss. The fifth earl, in fact, and his family have been in this area fer centuries.”

  I knew he was noble born.

  Mrs. MacDuffie came closer and sniffed. “As I thought; he’s bosky.”

  “Bosky?” The word wobbled on her tongue.

  “Probably ’twas Scotch ’as laid him low, fer he’s always had taste fer it. ’Tis sad, but the earl has been given to drink ever since his—” Mrs. MacDuffie’s gaze met Alexandra’s and, lifting her chin a notch, the landlady clamped her lips over the rest of her sentence. “No’ tha’ ’tis any business o’
ours.”

  These Scots are a prickly people, suspicious of anyone not theirs. Much like those from my country.

  “How did he get here?” Mrs. MacDuffie asked.

  “He came in from the storm. My servant mistook him for an intruder.” As she spoke, Alexandra waved her hand and the watch chain slipped from between her fingers. She frowned and wound the chain about the watch.

  The landlady’s eyes couldn’t be wider. “Tha’ is his lordship’s watch!”

  “Aye. It was in his pocket and—”

  “And ye took it!” Mrs. MacDuffie gasped in outrage and backed away. “Why, ye little thief!”

  “No, no. It fell out onto the rug. I just picked it up and—”

  “I knew ye was naught but a Gypsy, and so I tol’ Mr. MacDuffie when ye and tha’ strange band o’ yers bespoke the rooms and this chamber. A Russian lady—ha!”

  Alexandra’s jaw tightened. “That’s enough. I will not tolerate baseless accusations.”

  “We’ll see wha’ ye tolerate when I call the constable on ye. He’ll put ye into gaol fer thievin’, he will. An’ ye bein’ a foreigner, ’twill be years afore ye see the light o’ day.”

  Alexandra sighed with impatience. “Mrs. MacDuffie, I wasn’t stealing anything. It’s not what you think—”

  “Humph. It’s not thinkin’, but seein’ wit’ me own two eyes. Ye were stealin’ his lordship’s watch, or I’m a horned owl.”

  No one spoke to her in such a way! “Fine. Then you’re a horned owl,” she snapped.

  Mrs. MacDuffie gasped. “Why, ye—”

  “ ’Ere now, wha’ is all of the squawkin’?” Mr. MacDuffie, as round of form and face as his wife, stood on the threshold.

  Mrs. MacDuffie pointed at Alexandra. “Tha’ person stole a watch fro’ Lord Kintore!”

  “Lord Kintore? Here? But how— Ah!” Mr. MacDuffie hurried forward and then blanched on seeing the earl so still. “Is he—”

  “He’s fine,” Alexandra said briskly.

  Eyes wide, Mr. MacDuffie caught sight of the lump on Lord Kintore’s jaw. “Wha’ happened here?”

  “This Gypsy had her giant thief-assistant thump the earl, she did! She admitted as much afore ye came in.”