Princess in Disguise

by Karen Hawkins

  “No, I didn’t. My guard thought the earl was an intruder. I was asleep when Lord Kintore came into the room, and my guard thought . . .” She couldn’t really explain what had happened without raising even more questions and accusations. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Humph!” Mrs. MacDuffie said. “So after yer man hit him, then ye decided to steal his lordship’s watch.”

  “I didn’t steal it,” Alexandra said icily. “I merely picked it up after it fell out of his pocket.”

  “Ha! We dinna like thieves in this country,” Mrs. MacDuffie said. “The constable will come and take ye off to gaol, and I’ll see to it tha’ they—”

  “No, you won’t,” came a deep, masculine voice from the settee. “Not while I have breath in my body.”

  Alexandra’s heart did the oddest leap, as if in that slow and sensually deep voice, she recognized something forbidden. Something sensual. Something . . . all mine. The thought made her shiver, and with an exquisite sense of anticipation, she slowly turned to face the man who’d dared kiss a sleeping princess.

  Chapter 3

  She couldn’t tell if the earl read anything in her eyes, for all he did was flick a careless smile her way as he swung his booted feet to the ground. He plucked his watch from her fingers while he pressed his other hand against his forehead as if to hold it in place.

  “I’m sorry for your injury.”

  He turned toward her and their gazes locked, stealing her breath.

  His eyes blazed, a smile curling his lips as he ran a finger along his jaw, wincing when he found the lump. “Ah, yes. Your large friend did this, did he not?”

  “He’s my guard.”

  “So she says, me lor’,” Mrs. MacDuffie said. “The big lout clubbed ye and then this one stole yer—”

  “Enough!” The earl said quietly, “As my watch is right here, then apparently Miss—” He lifted his brows.

  Alexandra flushed, her tongue seemingly frozen. I’ve never been so nervous. She wet her dry lips and curtsied. “Forgive me for not mentioning my name earlier. I am Alexandra Petrovna.”

  “Miss Petrovna. How lovely to meet you.” He bowed far more deeply than politeness dictated for a mere miss, his smile warm and tempting, before turning back to the landlady. “Since I have my watch now, then Miss Petrovna is either an incredibly ineffective thief, or she wasn’t stealing it to begin with. Either way, the constable would not be pleased to be called out for such a weak charge. It’s far too dangerous to travel in this snow, and I’m sure he has better things to do than arrest someone for a watch that has already been returned.”

  “Me lor’, her man said she is a Russian lady,” Mrs. MacDuffie said, “but she looks like a Gypsy to me, and ye know how they can be.”

  The earl turned to Alexandra. “Ah, so you play the violin? Every Gypsy I’ve ever met did so.”

  She had to smile. “No, I don’t.”

  “Then you must not be a Gypsy. But you are Russian?”

  “We are from Oxenburg.”

  “I’ve never heard of it.”

  “Few people have. For that reason, sometimes my guard will tell people we are from Russia, for more people know of it.”

  Mrs. MacDuffie huffed. “I knew ye was tellin’ faraddidles!”

  “Now, Mary, tha’ is enou’.” Mr. MacDuffie looked uneasily from the earl to Alexandra and then back.

  “She’s lyin’ aboot tha’ and she’s lyin’ aboot the watch.” Mrs. MacDuffie leaned toward the earl and said earnestly, “I tol’ MacDuffie tha’ there was something odd aboot these Gypsies, me lord, an’ tha’ I had me suspicions tha’—”

  “Pardon me, Mrs. MacDuffie.” Kintore hadn’t raised his voice, but his deep, silken-soft tone still turned all attention his way. “But we have discussed Miss Petrovna’s country of origin enough.”

  “Och, but she—”

  “I grow bored, Mrs. MacDuffie. If I grow too bored, I will be forced to leave this establishment. And where I go, goes my gold.”

  She gawked. “In this weather?” She pointed to the window, where the snow was now falling in such thickness that all one could see was a blanket of white. “Ye wouldn’t make it a mile!”

  “Och, Mary . . .” The innkeeper looked anguished.

  “It will be an unwelcome trial,” the earl continued, though a dangerously tight look had entered his eyes. “But I cannot stay where I am bored.”

  “Surely ye wouldn’t leave jus’ because—”

  Mr. MacDuffie grabbed his wife’s elbow. “Me lor’, consider the matter dropped.”

  The earl smiled. “Thank you, MacDuffie. I can see that you’re a man of great wisdom.” He looked past the innkeeper to the tray his wife had brought in earlier. “Ah, some of your fabulous Scotch. Might I trouble you to pour a glass before you go?”

  “O’ course!” MacDuffie eyed his wife narrowly and released her arm.

  She glared at him but went to pour the drink.

  “MacDuffie, if the Scotch is as good as I remember, perhaps I can relieve you of a few bottles. I will pay whatever you think fair.”

  The innkeeper beamed. “Tha’ ye may, me lor’. I received a new shipment just last week.”

  “Excellent. And from the looks of things”—he didn’t glance at the snow-filled window, but at Alexandra—“I will also need a room. I believe I will stay a day or so. Perhaps longer. I will pay in silver, of course.”

  “O’ course, me lor’. It can all be arranged.” Gleeful at the prospect of such largesse, the beaming innkeeper bustled his wife out the door as soon as a generous glass of Scotch was pressed into Kintore’s waiting hands. The innkeeper paused just long enough to promise a nice tea and some cakes within the hour, and then left.

  The second their footsteps disappeared down the hallway, the earl turned his gaze back to Miss Petrovna. Such eyes. Like ice, and yet they hold such heat. “Well, here we are. Alone at last . . . again.”

  She flushed, though the smile she sent him was anything but shy, her eyes shimmering with the unmistakable light of smoldering passion.

  So you enjoyed our kiss as much as I did.

  “Yes, here we are.” She tilted her head to one side. “Alone.”

  God, but he loved her accent. The faintest hint of a “v” instead of a “w.” The very slight trill before the “r.” It was damned attractive, as was she.

  He usually went for the tall, willowy blond sort. But this woman—he wasn’t certain what it was about her, but he was completely entranced. And all from a kiss.

  He realized that she didn’t have a drink. “Oh, no. That must be remedied.”

  “What?”

  He crossed to the tray and poured her a glass. “This. You cannot come to the Cask and Larder without a sip of the water of life.”

  “Water?”

  “That’s what we call it.”

  “Ah. Thank you. I would like that very much.”

  He brought her the glass. “Here, Miss Petrovna. I only poured you a little. A very little.”

  As he’d done no such thing, a smile quivered over her lips, and then finally sprang to life, her amazing ice-blue eyes sparkling. She took the glass and sank onto the settee, patting the cushion beside her in invitation. She is a bold one. I like that.

  He sat beside her, letting his knee graze hers.

  She made no move to distance herself. Indeed, she eyed him as if measuring him for a coat, her gaze never still. “Lord Kintore, though I don’t know you well, I begin to think you are something of a troublemaker.”

  He grinned over his glass. “What gave you that idea? That I would kiss a beautiful maiden sleeping peacefully by a warm fire? Or that I would offer a lady such strong spirits within a short time of meeting her?”

  “Both of those.” She lifted her glass. “And your smile. It promises much . . . what is the word? Ah yes, mischief.”

  He waited as she took a sip, watching her over the edge of his own glass. To his surprise, she didn’t sputter or cough as he’d seen o
ther women do when they tried strong spirits. So it is not your first time, eh?

  “Mmm.” She took another sip and nodded thoughtfully. “Very nice. Smooth. An excellent finish, too.”

  “Ah, an aficionado.”

  “I’ve never had Scotch before. But vodka, yes.” She held her glass to the light and eyed the color. “In my country, the women drink with the men after dinner. There is none of this separation of the sexes, as you do here.”

  “You disapprove of that?”

  “Very much. Do you like it so?”

  “To be honest, I’ve never thought of it. But now that you mention it, it does seem rather silly. All the men do is retire to the study, sip whiskey or port, and wait until it’s time to join the women. I daresay the women do the same: watch the clock and welcome the rest of the party when the time comes.”

  She smiled her approval. “So it seems to me.”

  “Now that you’ve brought this astounding wrong to my attention, at the very next dinner party I attend, I promise to break with tradition.”

  She chuckled, the sound so rich and lush that it pulled him forward. “Lord Kintore, we will get along well, you and I. Especially if I continue to benefit from your taste in Scotch.”

  “I shall see to it that you never go without. This inn is known for its good meals, clean linens, impeccable Scotch, and a certain large brass tub.”

  She brightened. “They have a tub?”

  “Oh ho, and what a tub. If one must get stuck in the snow, this inn has much to recommend it.”

  “Then we were both fortunate that it snowed when it did. I shall buy some of this Scotch for my uncle, the k—” Her gaze dropped and she took a quick drink.

  “Your uncle, the . . . ?” he quizzed.

  “It is of no consequence.” She tapped her glass with a slender finger. “My lord, I must warn you that I may be bidding against you for the bottles you requested from Mr. MacDuffie.”

  “Bid away. I like a good contest.” While she took another sip, he allowed his gaze to roam over her. She was a tiny thing, this lady of Oxenburg; she barely reached his shoulder, and yet she kissed with amazing passion, and her breasts were deliciously full. What more could he ask for? Well . . . it would be good to see her in something other than unrelenting black. Say, a thin lawn night rail.

  His gaze moved to her left hand, where a pale circle of skin on her ring finger indicated that a wedding ring had been removed recently. Ah, that explains the black weeds; she’s a widow. That also explains why she didn’t shy away when I kissed her. “So tell me, Miss—er, Mrs. Petrovna, why were you going through my pockets?”

  “I did no such thing. When my guard placed you on the settee, your watch fell from your pocket. I was merely admiring it.” She shot him a sideways look. “The locket, too.”

  She saw Jane’s portrait. His merry thoughts scattered like dead leaves before a wind and his jaw tightened. “The locket is a family heirloom.”

  She raised her brows, obviously waiting.

  He stood and crossed to the tray and poured more Scotch into his glass.

  Mrs. Petrovna watched him, her long lashes obscuring her expression. “Where were you headed in this storm?”

  Glad that her question had nothing to do with the portrait of Jane, he answered, “I was on my way to visit some friends for a small house party. And you?”

  “We are to visit the Duchess of Roxburghe’s house party at Floors Castle.”

  “We?”

  “I and my chaperone . . . Anya.”

  He noted her hesitation. She is hiding something, but what? And why? “And where is this chaperone? Not that I wish her to make an appearance.”

  That drew a grin. “My chaperone is ill, so she will not be downstairs for some time.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  She peeped up at him through her lashes, and he had to fight the urge not to lean over and envelop her in a heated kiss. “I’m not sorry,” she confided. “I am too old for a chaperone.”

  “Old? You cannot be more than nineteen.”

  “I’m almost twenty-two.” She tilted her head to one side. “How old are you, if you do not mind my asking?”

  “I’m twenty-eight.”

  “Hmm. I thought you—”

  The front door to the inn thumped open, and heavy footsteps tromped down the hallway. Mrs. Petrovna cast a wary eye on the doorway just as a huge, lumbering form filled it. “Ah,” she said. “It is Doya.”

  The guard was both the size and color of a large bear. With a fierce beard covering a stern face, his thick brows overshadowing black eyes, Mrs. Petrovna’s “Doya” would raise fear in almost any man.

  Except Kintore. All the earl saw was the reason why his jaw was so painful, and he burned to return the favor.

  The giant scowled back.

  Mrs. Petrovna placed her glass upon a side table. “Ah, Doya. Did you bring the snow as I asked?”

  The guard, still glaring at Kintore, held up a ball of snow and rumbled something in a language the earl had never heard. Mrs. Petrovna answered, her voice lilting over the syllables.

  Kintore caught a glance from her and decided to go stir the fire. Whatever they had to say to each other had nothing to do with him, but perhaps he could figure out a word or two of their conversation.

  Alexandra watched as the earl went to add wood to the fire. Relieved that he no longer seemed to be listening, she took the snowball from Doya. “It’s packed like a rock.”

  Doya’s teeth flashed in his beard. “Shall I break it over the fool’s head?”

  “He’s not a fool.” She placed the ice ball on the tray beside the Scotch. “What he is, is an earl.”

  Doya’s smile faded. “Are you certain?”

  “The innkeepers recognized him. His family home is near here.”

  Doya’s lip curled. “He doesn’t look like much of an earl.”

  She turned to watch Kintore lift a large armful of firewood from the rack beside the fireplace, his strong arm muscles visible under his coat. Ah, my Cossack. I wish to see those without your sleeves covering them. Added to his delicious form were his dark hair and gray-green eyes, and she couldn’t forget his wicked smile, either. Oh, he’s very much an earl. All of him. I would wager gold florins that he—

  “Princess?” Doya’s impatient tone told her that she’d missed his last comment.

  “I’m sorry. I was thinking of something else. What is it?”

  He glared at the earl. “I suggested that we call the countess from her bed to do her duty. You should not be here alone with the stranger.”

  “The Earl of Kintore is no longer a stranger. Besides, the door is open and Mr. and Mrs. MacDuffie will be coming in and out. They promised us tea.”

  Doya must have seen the determination in her gaze, for he scowled. “You will not listen to me, will you?”

  “No.”

  His chin jutted forward, but after a brief silence, he bowed. “As you wish, Princess. But I will be close.” With a final glare at the earl, the guard left.

  Alexandra turned to find the earl’s gaze on her, his expression thoughtful. “So your guard—that’s what you called him, isn’t it?” At her nod, he continued, “Your guard brought you a snowball. Is this a custom from your country?”

  “I asked him to bring it so that you might put some snow on your chin. Sadly, it is more ice than snow.”

  “That’s quite all right. I don’t need—”

  “Nyet. You will try it.” She went to the tray where she’d set the ice ball. Lifting the brass candlesnuffer from the table, she whacked the ice ball sharply to break it into large pieces. “Do you have a handkerchief?”

  He reached into his waistcoat pocket and removed a neatly folded and starched handkerchief.

  “Thank you.” She wrapped it about the larger pieces of ice, her fingers cold from the contact. “Now come and sit. I will hold the ice to your injury.”

  His gaze narrowed. “My jaw is fine and there’s no n
eed for ice.”

  However she might feel about his pigheadedness, she loved his soft Scottish burr. It brushed every word with a flavor that made her think of his kisses.

  She gathered her thoughts. “Come, Kintore. I know much about bruises and lumps. My cousins were forever falling off their horses and wrestling one another, and I’ve tended many such injuries.” She patted his arm and then pointed to the settee. “So sit.”

  “I don’t need—”

  “Lord Kintore, enough!” Her tone was as cold as the ice in her hand as she drew herself up and pointed. She looked as disdainful as a queen.

  It was tempting to argue, but the truth was that his jaw did ache. “Fine.” He did as he was bid. “But the ice won’t help anything.”

  “Pah.” She sank onto the settee beside him, tucking her leg under her so that she could face him. “Now lean back and I will hold it to the bruise.”

  “I can do that myself if you’ll just—”

  “Nyet.” She pushed him back, his head tilted against the cushions as she pressed the ice to his jaw.

  “Ouch!”

  She removed the ice. “It will hurt worse later if we do not ice it now.” She looked at him, her brows lowered. “This is all my fault, and the only way I can make things better is to reduce the swelling a little.”

  He hesitated, touched by her earnest expression.

  “Please?”

  Caught by her accent, which was more intriguing by the moment, and the faint pout of her full bottom lip, he found himself nodding. “Oh, damn it, very well.”

  “Thank you.” She carefully replaced the handkerchief.

  It hurt, but after a few moments, the ice cooled the hot swell of his jaw and the dull ache began to disappear.

  Kintore found himself staring at her bottom lip again. No longer pouting, it was still as red as a cherry. And just as tasty. The memory of their earlier kiss warmed him, and he wondered if he should kiss her now or wait until the pain had completely subsided.

  “Better?” she asked, trying to read his expressions.

  “Much. I must admit that I am surprised.”

  Alexandra smiled happily. “You shouldn’t be surprised; ice cures many ills.” She sat back a bit, her head tilted to one side. “I’m sorry if I made you angry before, but Doya’s actions are my responsibility, as much as mine are his.”