The Prince and I

by Karen Hawkins

  The giant grunted in agreement.

  “I am not ‘donating’ anything else.” Max flicked open the lid and helped himself to a small pinch of snuff. He didn’t normally partake of it, but since it irritated Tata Natasha, he’d made an exception this trip.

  Robin’s eyes blazed with irritation, but Ian’s gaze remained locked upon the box.

  “It is fine, nyet?” Max held it so that the gold sparkled in the torchlight. “It was given to me by my cousin Alexandr.”

  Ian’s heavy brows lifted, wonder on his craggy face. “Is tha’ a real diamond in the center?”

  “Da. It is a very large, very expensive diamond.” Max ran his thumb over it. “Worth more than this entire forest.”

  The giant moved closer.

  Max shifted so that his weight was on the heel of one foot. As soon as the fool came within reach, Max would—

  “Ian.” Robin’s voice was quiet, but held a distinct warning. “He’s baiting you, just as he was baiting me. Look at him.”

  The giant paused, looking from the glittering snuff box to Max.

  Max froze, trying not to give anything away by so much as a twich of an eyelash.

  “Look at him,” Robin repeated.

  Ian’s gaze flickered over Max’s face and then, with a grimace, the giant moved back into position.

  Dammit. The thirsty flames in Max’s soul flickered in disappointment.

  He snapped the box closed. “I won’t give a band of lazy thieves anything but the end of my sword.”

  Beneath the wide-brimmed hat, the pale eyes narrowed on Max. “You wish to fight, but not today, auld man.”

  Old man? Max’s simmering blood rose and bubbled—perhaps because since Fedorovich’s death, he had begun to feel . . . yes, old. And perhaps because he was irked at being forced by his grandmother’s presence to stand passively in the icy cold, instead of summarily taking care of this situation in a satisfactory manner. And perhaps because he was furious life had been so bloody unfair lately. Whatever it was, he snapped, “I repeat: you are a coward. A lowborn, dirty coward.”

  Robin’s eyes blazed, Ian muttered a warning, but it was too late.

  The rapier flashed in the lantern light. With a whip-whip-whip, it danced through the cold air.

  Stunned, Max looked down. His coat was ruined, the letter “R” clearly carved into its heavy wool.

  Orlov cursed under his breath.

  Max gritted his teeth. “Why you little . . .” He drew his sword. “Try that again and see what it will earn you, whelp!”

  He expected Robin to realize his mistake. Instead the fool’s eyes blazed and, to everyone’s astonishment, Robin saluted with his blade. “En garde, mon général!”

  The rapier danced once again, but this time Max was ready, his sword neatly catching the thin blade.

  Had Robin taken the hit directly the blow would have broken his blade, but instead he deflected Max’s sword with a twist of his wrist.

  The whelp knows how to fight. Still, Max had the advantage in experience, the weight of his sword, and the power of his arm. He rolled his weight to the ball of his foot and spun, twisting in an attempt to catch the youth’s blade and send it flying, but Robin was too fast, and the fight began in earnest.

  The rapier danced in again and again with barely contained fury, keeping Max on the defensive. He found himself moving back, trying to find good footing on the frozen ground.

  Amid the attack, he realized the lad wasn’t trying to deliver a deathblow—he aimed for exposed skin, not the heart or neck. Nay, the lad was after a quick blooding, administering a lesson to his elder.

  Impudent whelp! I’ll be damned if I let that happen. Blow after blow, Max’s sword deflected the rapier. It slid away before swishing back to meet him like a scorpion’s tail, ready to bite at first chance.

  Max blocked each bite, watching his opponent for an opening. He would break that rapier if it were the last thing he did.

  Steel met steel over and over, and finally Max was able to move the lad back. Though every blow was dodged or deflected, ultimately Max’s strength began to turn the battle.

  The lad was tiring; Max could feel it. The thief’s movements had lost some of their former grace. Though his attacks were just as ferocious, they were less frequent now.

  Max increased his efforts, aware of Ian’s muttered outrage. But the giant knew better than to interfere in the fight; he might easily distract Robin at a crucial moment.

  But then it happened. After an especially adroit parry, Robin slipped on the icy ground and fell backward.

  Ian cried out a warning as Max closed in, his blade true. But instead of piercing the thief’s chest, as was his right, he used his blade to flick the kerchief from the youth’s face.

  The lad jerked back, catching the tip of his ear on Max’s blade. And as the kerchief drifted to the ground, Max saw his opponent’s face for the first time. His face was oval, his lips full, and his eyes silver gray, like coins in the bottom of a still pool. Large and thickly fringed with curled lashes, they were set under flyaway red eyebrows. Those eyes—if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were a—

  “Yer ear is bleedin’!” the giant snapped. “I’ll kill tha’ mon fer—” He took a step toward Max.

  “Nay!” Robin scrambled to his feet, tying the kerchief back in place with hasty hands. “Leave him. ’Tis but a nick.”

  “A nick? I’ll nick tha’ lout—”

  “Ian.”

  The quiet word made the giant pause.

  “Leave him. ’Twas fairly won.”

  Ian said between clenched teeth, “Ye could ha’ bloodied him when ye cut his coat, but ye dinna.” He cast a furious glare at Max. “There was no need to continue thus.”

  “There was.” Robin dusted his breeches and sighed. “I forced that fight, and you know it. ’Twas my own fault.”

  Behind Max, the coach door flew open and Tata Natasha stood on the top step, every eye locked upon her. The wind swirled her black cloak dramatically, the coach lantern cast long shadows over her face, and her hair was wild from where she’d been shoved under the blanket.

  Ian sputtered, “Bloody ’ell, wha’ is tha’?”

  “It’s a w-w-witch!” another brigand said.

  Max couldn’t disagree. “Damn it, Tata Natasha, you were told to stay inside.”

  “Pah!” She drew her cloak closer. “I am tired of these games you play. It is time to go.”

  Max ignored her and addressed the thief. “Your giant has the right of it: while I drew first blood, you could easily have done so earlier when you left your initial.” He tapped his shredded overcoat.

  Unexpectedly, humor shone in Robin’s silver eyes. “I thought aboot it.”

  “I’m glad that’s all you did,” Max said honestly. “I did not give your toothpick blade the credit it deserved.”

  Robin crossed his arms over his chest, his feet planted wide. “You dinna ask that your donations be returned. ‘Tis your right, as you won.”

  Max shrugged. “You may keep what’s already been given. But there will be no more.”

  Robin bowed. “As you wish. And thank you; that is unexpectedly generous.”

  “It is foolish!” Tata Natasha snapped.

  “Tikha!” Max snapped over his shoulder.

  She muttered under her breath, only the words “foolish boy” and “lost chickens” audible.

  Robin chuckled. “We will go and let you tend to your grandmother.”

  “I’d rather you stabbed me with that toothpick of yours,” Max muttered.

  Robin choked back what was surely a laugh, the silver eyes lively. “Och, I’m sure you would. Family can be costly, both in money and pride.” He bowed once again, as graceful as any courtier. “ ’Til we meet again, oh scarred and frowny one.”

  Max returned the bow, a stirring of interest in his soul that he hadn’t felt in a long, long time. “Oh, we will meet again, young and cheeky one. I vow it.”

  Robin
’s eyes twinkled. “So be it.” With that, he turned and walked into the woods, his slender form melting into the shadows.

  The world was instantly drearier without an impudent highwayman waving a rapier like a scorpion tail. Oddly disappointed, Max reached into his pocket, pulled out his kerchief, and tossed it to the giant. “I only nicked Robin’s ear, but you may need to apply some pressure to stop the blood.”

  Looking surprised at the gesture, Ian pocketed the kerchief, though he kept a careful eye on Tata Natasha. “Thank ye, I’ll take care of Robin, but who will take care of tha’?”

  Max turned to see his grandmother making odd gestures in the air. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m putting a curse on these chor.”

  “A curse?” squeaked the long-haired highwayman, peering around Ian’s wide form.

  “What’s a chor?” Ian asked.

  “A thief,” Max answered. “My grandmother is Romany. She oft uses their language.”

  “Bloody ’ell, she’s a Gypsy!” Ian backed up, his eyes wide.

  “She is harmless.” More or less. He turned to the coach. “Tata, stop casting curses; there’s no need. I won the fight and we are unscathed.”

  “But I’m almost done!”

  “We are leaving. Allow me to assist you back into the coach.” He handed her inside, leaving the door open. He watched out of the corner of his eyes as Robin’s men melted one by one into the dark, misty forest. Two of the thieves carried off the lanterns, extinguishing them before they disappeared, until only the lantern hanging from Tata Natasha’s coach remained.

  The sharpshooter stayed at the head of the road, his rifle barrel glinting in the lamplight. Soon only his form and Ian’s broad one were left, outlined in the shadows of a large tree.

  Whist! An arrow whizzed past Max’s head and struck the lone lantern, the sound of breaking glass startling in the night.

  They were plunged into darkness while Tata Natasha released a string of Romany curses.

  “Shush, woman!” Max told her. “Orlov, we need a functioning lantern.”

  “Da, General.” It took a moment, but Orlov found a lantern near a baggage coach that had fallen in the mud at the onset of their encounter and lit it. He held it up, a golden orb of light spilling across the leafy woods. “They are gone.”

  “Pah! You are cowards, all!” Tata shook her fist in the air. “Come back, for I’m not done turning the lot of you into goats!”

  “Leave it, Tata.” Max turned to where Orlov was now helping an obviously dizzy Golovin to his feet, a trickle of blood running down his chin. “Was anyone else injured?” Max asked.

  Orlov slipped his good arm about Golovin to steady him. “One of the coachmen fell scrambling from the coach, but it does not seem serious, and two footmen have banged heads from falling from the backs of the coaches—but that is all.”

  “Fools, the coachmen,” Golovin said in a surly tone. “They didn’t even try to fight.”

  Max grimaced. “We were the fools, to send the rest of our troops ahead to scout for a danger that was here. That was my fault. Golovin, come to my carriage. Her Grace will see to your wounds.”

  Orlov helped Golovin to the coach steps. Golovin sat down on the top one, his hand to his head. With an encouraging pat on the shoulder, Orlov left to see to the coachmen and outriders.

  “Tilt your head back,” Tata ordered. She pulled a kerchief from her pocket and pressed it to Golovin’s bloody nose. “Hold this while I fetch my medicines.”

  Golovin did as requested while Tata Natasha pulled a leather bag from under the seat and set to work, her face tight with irritation. “Pah! What fools, to think they could attack the royal entourage of Oxenburg. And you, Max, giving them your gold and our basket of food!” She used a cup to mix a powder from a small ivory vial with a drop of liquid from a dark brown bottle.

  Golovin watched with growing fear in his eyes.

  Tata Natasha’s shrewd dark gaze locked on Max. “You said they were hungry.”

  He nodded.

  Her frown softened, and after a moment she said in a magnanimous voice, “Then I do not mind giving up a few chickens. This time.” She dipped a small cloth into the mixture and pressed it to Golovin’s nose.

  He gagged at the smell.

  She waited only a moment and then removed the cloth. “There. The blood has stopped.”

  Golovin touched his nose gingerly, looking surprised. “Good!” He stood. “I will help Orlov and—”

  “Nyet. You will come with me.” Tata Natasha pointed to the coach. “No riding; it could start the bleeding again.”

  Golovin cast a wild look at Max. “General, you will want me to—”

  “I’ll want you safe, inside the coach. And do not worry about your horse. I will ride it.”

  “But—”

  Max lifted his brows and Golovin gulped. “Aye, General.” With obvious reluctance, he climbed into the coach, casting an uneasy glance at Tata Natasha as he did. Tata followed, scolding loudly.

  Max shut the door.

  Orlov approached, leading Golovin’s horse. “The coachmen are readying the vehicles now.”

  “Excellent. Did you find my pistol?”

  Orlov pulled it from his pocket.

  “Thank you.” Max checked it and then tucked it away. “We will leave as soon as the coachmen are ready. We are vulnerable here.” Max mounted the horse and waited for Orlov to do the same.

  As Max waited, the wind shifted and a hole opened in the thick mist. To Max’s surprise, the masked sharpshooter was in plain view on his horse, but this time the coach lantern illuminated his rifle barrel . . . only it was no rifle. Instead, he held a long pipe.

  Seeing Max, the man lifted the pipe in a cheerful salute, then kicked his horse and disappeared into the mist. Max let fly a row of colorful curses.

  Orlov turned his horse. “I’ll get him.”

  “Nyet,” Max ordered. “We don’t know the woods, and will harm ourselves and our horses. We must let him go.”

  Orlov cursed long and loud. “I’ve never met more insolent thieves.”

  “Neither have I. I’m far from finished with this incident.” Max looked grimly down at the large “R” carved into his coat. “A Romanovin never forgets a debt.”

  We will meet again, Robin.

  And soon.

  Chapter 3

  “Bloody hell, Ian! Do you have to bounce us so?” Lady Murian MacDonald Muir grabbed onto the side rail of the cart as a hard jolt threatened to unseat her.

  “Whisht, watch yer language, lass.” Ian Beagin wished he could slow down, but they not only had to reach the village and trade their wares, they also had to return home before dark, which would take at least two hours. Such was the price of living deep in the woods, hidden from every easily accessible road. “Yer mither would roll in her grave to hear ye use sich language.”

  “My mother would complain even louder if she were being trundled in a cart with square wheels.”

  Widow Reeves, clinging onto the seat beside Murian, added, “At this rate, I’ll no’ ha’ any teeth left by the time we arrive.” A tall, angular woman with iron-gray hair and a deeply lined face, Widow Reeves was once the cook at Rowallen Castle and had—like Ian—watched Murian’s late husband, Master Robert, grow from a babe into a man. “Who will bargain fer our wares if I canna speak?”

  Ian snorted. “Och, I’d like to see ye hold yer tongue, teeth or no. ’Tis no’ in yer nature.” While Widow Reeves huffed, Ian hied the farm horses to go a little faster.

  Murian grumbled something under her breath. Ian was fairly certain it wasn’t anything a lady should say, so he added, “Bear wi’ me, lass. ’Tis only another ten or fifteen minutes—ye can see the smoke from the chimneys.”

  Lady Murian turned her head to look, the wind teasing her bonnet. It pressed on the wide brim and folded it over her bandaged ear. She grimaced and tugged the brim back into place.

  “Hurts, eh?”

  “Nary a
bit.” She threw him a jaunty, only slightly strained grin. “I forgot it was there.”

  Which was a lie, and he knew it. She was young, this leader of theirs—barely twenty-one, with wild red hair, silver eyes, cream skin dusted with freckles, and entirely feminine from her curls to her toes—yet as plucky as anyone he’d ever met.

  When Lord Robert, at the cocksure age of twenty, had agreed to wed sight unseen the ward of his cousin, the powerful Duke of Spencer, Ian and the other servants at Rowallen Castle had been concerned. They’d loved Lord Robert in spite of his impetuous nature. Fortunately, their concerns had proven unfounded: Lady Murian turned out to be a strong, lively, beautiful young woman, and to the happiness of all, she’d quickly fallen in love with Lord Robert, and he with her.

  Sadly, their happiness had been short-lived. A scant year and a few months later, Lord Robert had been killed and Lady Murian left alone. Ian had found himself Lady Murian’s protector, when she’d let him, which wasn’t often. God love her, but she was a spirited lass.

  Too spirited. Someone needs to tame this one, and soon.

  “I hope we sell all of our wares,” she said now, her pains already dismissed from her mind.

  Widow Reeves patted the large basket of lace, jams, and cheeses. “Aye, fer we’ve shoes to buy from the cobbler. Widow Brodie’s five boys are nigh wi’oot them now. The soles ha’ more holes than leather.”

  A shadow crossed Lady Murian’s face, and Ian knew she was concerned about the coming winter. They all were. The weather had not been kind to their village this season, bringing no rain during the summer months and reducing their plentiful fields to withering vines. When the rains had finally arrived, it was so late in the season that they had brought nothing but icy winds, leaking roofs, and muddy paths. They were already growing short on stores, and there were many long, cold months ahead.

  He fought the urge to sigh. Times were hard; that was all there was to it. Besides himself, young Will Scarlae, and Lady Murian, their small village was home to seven widows and their children, for a total of twenty-one hungry mouths to feed.

  Beside him, Lady Murian impatiently brushed a red curl from her cheek. She was forever having to do that, for her hair was thick and unruly, as untamed as the lass herself.