A flicker of regret crossed his face. “I did not mean that as a criticism. Indeed, I applaud your resourcefulness.” He shook his head. “I am—how do you say—pushing over the cart?”
She had to smile a bit. “Upsetting the apple cart.”
“Perhaps we should begin again, you and I. We have not been properly introduced, and I have been told such things are important in this country—so allow me.” He stepped back and swept an elegant bow, looking up at her through his lashes. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I am Maksim Alexsandr Romanovin.” He straightened. “Please call me Max.”
“I should call you Your Highness.”
“I would not answer. In my country, we do not stand on such formality as you do here. I have been informed that you are only informal when in private.” He gestured to the woods around them. “It does not get more private than this. Besides, the next time you wish to cut an initial in my coat, I would like it to be the correct one.”
She had to laugh. Besides, she wanted to taste that name, to let it roll over her lips, and see his reaction as she did so. “Max it is, then. I make a very neat M, by the way, in case I need to mark another coat.”
Max grinned. It was a tiny victory; asking a highwayman to break societal customs wasn’t a very big challenge. But still, this one was prickly with pride. Every concession counted, and he felt as if he’d won something substantial. Something valuable. “So, my thief, I have told you my name. Now you must tell me yours.”
She started to speak, but then her expression closed.
“You still worry I will tell the earl. I promise I will not. I have several very real reasons of my own to distrust the man.”
“Such as?”
He hesitated, but then shrugged. “The earl has some hold over my grandmother, but I do not know what. She is the reason we came, and her behavior has been odd, to say the least. The earl, too, has been very dismissive in the way he speaks to her. She would not normally allow that, but . . .” Max spread his hands.
“She willna tell you what’s happened?”
He grimaced. “My grandmother is of a stubbornness rarely seen upon this earth.”
Murian chuckled, her eyes crinkling.
God, what a delicious laugh. Husky and low, it curled around him and made him want to scoop her up and hold her tight.
He pushed his wandering thoughts aside. “In addition, I just rode from a village where the earl has left his destructive mark, and I have seen far too many like it over the last few days. What little I know of the earl has made me despise him.”
The smile left her, her voice breathless. “He has done the same elsewhere? Burned buildings? Frightened the people?”
Max nodded.
A spasm crossed her face, as if the thought pained her like the brush of fire. “I canna allow that to continue. I . . .” She took a steadying breath.
“You did not set a single building on fire. The earl’s men did.”
“I am still responsible if my presence causes harm. But that is my concern, not yours.” She gave him a tight smile. “I believe I owe you a name, dinna I? That, I’ll give you, but no more.” She curtsied. “I am Lady Murian, wife of the late Lord Robert Muir.”
Bozhy moj, she is too young to be a widow. He looked for tragedy in her gaze and found a flash of sadness she hid deep within, though it only added to her loveliness. Hers was a vibrant beauty, one never forgotten. Her face was a delicate oval, but with a strong jaw, her thickly lashed eyes flashing with passion and intelligence. He could make out a faint sprinkle of freckles across her pale skin, a dimple flickering in one cheek, her pulse visible in the graceful line of her neck.
A pang hit him, and he found himself thinking of Dimitri’s widow, who was a lovely woman too, and who held the same tragedy in her eyes. But Henrietta’s pain had never been hidden. She’d lived in it, expressed it over and over until there was nothing but the sadness. Meanwhile, Murian stood with her back straight, her jaw set. She fights back. That is how she mourns.
A flicker of admiration warmed him. Here was a worthy woman. A strong woman. “I take it Loudan was somehow involved in the death of your husband? You say the earl’s name as if you burned for vengeance. There must be a reason.”
She regarded him with caution, her gaze flickering to his mouth and then back. It was like a touch, that glance, and it sent his searching gaze to her mouth. That was an error, for instantly his thoughts fled and all he could think about was her lips, so plump and ripe, so ready for a kiss.
His body hummed in response and he had to fight the desire to grasp her waist and drag her to him. Her gaze locked with his, and it was as if they shared the same thoughts, the same desires. She wants me, too.
The realization urged him on, and he stepped toward her—just as she rose on her tiptoes and pressed her lips to his.
It was a delicate kiss, almost cautious in the way she did it, leaning forward, her body still separated from his. He fought the urge to pull her to him, wanting her to take that last step into his arms herself. It almost killed him, for her touch set him afire.
Just as he was beginning to give up hope, she stepped forward and placed her hands on his chest. Finally. He rocked back on his heels, lifting his arms to encircle her—
She shoved with all her might. He fell over a log. One moment he was kissing an intriguing, mysterious, fair maiden, and the next he was lying upon the ground, looking up at the tree canopy.
Cursing, he scrambled to his feet . . . but it was too late. She was gone.
Chapter 5
Two nights later, a knock came on Murian’s cottage door. She put down her quill pen, wrapped her shawl about her, and went to answer it. As she opened the door an icy wind roared past Ian, who hurried inside and shoved the door closed.
He pulled off his cap, his face red. “ ’Tis bitter ootside.”
“I know. Every time the wind blows, it snuffs my candle.” She nodded to where she’d made a small barrier about her candle using two books and a cloth.
“It dinna gi’ ye much light like tha’.”
“ ’Tis the best I can do.” She walked back to the desk. “I’m making a list of supplies we need to fix the worst issues with our cottages. We can make wattle for chinking, and there’s plenty of rock by the river to fix the chimneys. What we dinna have is planked wood.”
“There’s wood enou’ in the forest, but we’d dinna ha’ the tools to plane it into boards.”
“I know.” She sighed. “We canna purchase it, not after seeing what Loudan’s men have been doing to the local villages just for trading with us.”
Ian muttered darkly under his breath as he went to hold his hands to the snapping fire. “We’ll find a way, lassie. We must.”
“I hope so.” She sank onto the settee before the fireplace, then held her feet toward the fire and wiggled her toes. They were snug inside her bulky knitted slippers, a gift from Widow MacDonald.
A crackling heat came from the fire, and Ian sighed. “If Loudan keeps harrassin’ the locals, we may ha’ to move where his long arms canna reach.”
“Nay. That would make it more difficult to reach Rowallen and win the castle back. Besides, Loudan isna the sort of man to let a small thing like distance stop him. He would only send his men after us, and we’d be worse off than we are now. At least here, we have friends, though we must protect them when we can.”
If she truly thought moving away would help, she’d do it in a second despite the distance from Rowallen. These were her people, and she was responsible for each and every one of them—Ian, Will, seven widows, and twelve children. Counting herself, there were twenty-two heads to shelter and feed, day in and day out. It was a lot. More than she’d ever thought to carry on her own.
“I suppose ye ha’ the right of it, lassie. The earl is determined to smite us all.” Ian picked up the fire iron and adjusted the logs, the scent of smoky pine rising through the small cottage. The fire stirred to a respectable height; he retur
ned the iron to the stand. “Fer some reason, I keep thinkin’ of the prince.”
So had Murian, although she was certain she and Ian had different reasons. She picked up the blanket from the back of the settee and tugged it about her shoulders, resting her feet upon a small, silk-covered footstool she’d fished from close by. “What have you been thinking aboot the prince?”
“In the village the other day, the prince’s men seemed genuinely shocked by the actions of Loudan’s guards.” Ian stared into the fire, a thoughtful expression on his face. “ ’Tis a known fact the men of an army reflect their leader. If tha’ is true, then the prince may be a guid mon.”
Murian snuggled deeper into the blanket, oddly cheered to hear Ian’s rare approbation. For a moment, she was tempted to tell Ian of her encounter with the prince in the woods. She hadn’t mentioned it because the grizzled groom tended to be overprotective at times.
Besides, keeping it secret meant the memory of that too-brief but oh-so-sweet kiss was hers and hers alone. Though she doubted Max thought of it as a memory worth treasuring, she most certainly did.
She sighed restlessly and wished she’d dared explain to Max how things really were because of Loudan. Perhaps she’d get that chance one day, though she doubted it. Max had admitted he already disliked his host, which meant the prince and his men would leave as soon as they could. She wouldn’t blame him one bit.
It was a pity, really. She’d have liked showing him her village, too. She looked about her with satisfaction. Though the cottage had been built by goat herders and the mud-daubed walls and broken slate roof were as plain as could be, the luxurious furnishings comforted her ragged spirits. All taken from Rowallen, they made the dirt floor and cracked plaster walls palatable.
She had taken more than a few items from Rowallen during their mad flight, too. Beneath the footstool was a heavy Aubusson carpet, while two red tufted chairs flanked the fireplace. The thickly cushioned settee shone with gilded wood and was framed on each side by small marble-topped tables. In one corner of the cottage, near a red Chinese silk screen, stood the magnificent mahogany bed that had once graced the bedchamber she’d shared with Robert. Hung with purple velvet curtains and piled high with pillows and thick down counterpanes, it was a jewel in a very small, plain box.
The Earl of Loudan might have killed her husband and stolen their castle; he might have kicked their retainers from the land and tried to starve them when they fought back—but he hadn’t been able to keep Murian from taking everything not nailed down with her when she’d left her home.
When things were bleak, she imagined Loudan’s fury on returning to Rowallen after filing his claim in Edinburgh and finding the castle nearly empty, devoid of almost everything but a few stray pieces of furniture too large to fit on the carts.
What was even better was that not just her cottage was so decorated, but every crofter’s cottage in their small village. Though the wind might whistle through the cracks in the walls, they had soft rugs under their feet and good mattresses upon which to rest.
In the beginning, when things had gotten desperate, she’d thought to sell some of the items, but had quickly realized the earl was watching for such transactions. So, with nowhere else to put them, she’d stored the rest of the furnishings in the barn, covered in heavy tarps to protect them from the weather. One day she’d see them all returned to Rowallen. One day soon.
She hoped. A deep restlessness flickered through her. Her patience was close to an end. “Ian, I canna—”
A brisk knock sounded at the door before it was thrown open and Widow Reeves stomped in. She turned to close the door, but was unable to hold it against the wind, so Ian hurried to help her.
Murian rose to greet the older woman. “Widow Reeves, what are you doing oot in this weather?”
“I’ve come to share some news. Return to yer seat, me lady. There’s no need to stand. ’Tis no’ as if I dinna know ye as well as me own elbow.”
Murian laughed and sat down while Widow Reeves hurried to the fire, her iron-gray curls puffed about her red cheeks and forehead. The widow tucked her mittens in her pocket before holding her hands to the flames. “Och, tha’ is better. I miss bein’ the cook at Rowallen. I was ne’er cold then.”
“Nay, ye were always complainin’ of the heat,” Ian said.
She shot him a hard look. “Aye, and ye were always complainin’ aboot havin’ so much to do, wha’ with so many horses bein’ kept in Lord Robert’s stables. I suppose neither of us were as grateful as we should ha’ been.”
He grunted an agreement.
“Widow Reeves, what is this news?” Murian waited expectantly. “Shall I put on some tea?”
“Och, I canna. As soon as I’m through here, I’m off to Widow Brodie’s to lend her a hand in puttin’ her lads to bed.”
Ian grimaced. “Five lusty lads, they are.”
“Aye, and Iona’s too soft wi’ them, as I’ve told her fer years.” Widow Reeves rubbed her hands together. “Ah, this is nice. ’Tis warmer here than in me own cottage.”
Murian frowned. “Dinna you have wood for your fire?”
“Aye. ’Tis no’ lack of wood, bu’ the hole in my roof, which lets in the wind and rain.” She caught Murian’s expression. “Och, lassie, dinna look so. Ye canna fix e’ery leak in e’ery roof.”
Murian managed a smile. “I wish I could.”
“Ye do enou’ as ’tis. Master Robert found a gem when he found ye, and we say a blessin’ fer ye e’ery day. All of us.”
At the kind words, Murian’s face heated. “If anyone had a large heart, it was Robert. Long before I came to Rowallen, he took in every widow and orphan he stumbled across.”
“Ye are both angels, which is why I’m pleased to bring ye some guid news.” Widow Reeves came to sit on the settee, an air of barely suppressed excitement lighting her face. “As ye know, me sister Lara is a cook fer Lord and Lady MacLure. Lara brought some of her scones this morning, and while she was here, she mentioned tha’ her lord and lady were invited to a dinner party at Rowallen Castle this coming Friday to welcome the prince.”
Murian leaned forward. “Lord and Lady MacLure are attending?”
“Aye. From wha’ Lara has heard, all the local gentry will be attendin’.”
“Loudan will be beside himself.”
“Aye. Fer the last year, the MacLures and the other gentry ha’ refused e’ery invitation fra’ Lord Loudan—but they canna say no to meetin’ a real prince.”
“I wonder if that is why the earl wanted the prince to visit him in the first place. I suspected as much.”
“Aye. My sister heard Lady MacLure say tha’ Loudan canna convince anyone fra’ Edinburgh to join him at Rowallen, so ’tis the local gentry or no one. So now he must make his amends for all the times he’s slighted them, or there will be no one to entertain in his new castle.”
“I dinna see why this is guid news,” Ian said.
“Ian! How can ye be so daft?” Widow Reeves scoffed. “On Friday night, the castle will be filled wit’ the local gentry. None of whom Loudan knows.”
Murian couldn’t contain her smile. “This may be the chance we’ve been waiting for. The castle will be filled with strangers. We’ll get into the castle and search the master bedchamber before the earl even realizes w—”
“Nay, lass.” Ian shook his head like a shaggy bear. “ ’Twill still be heavily guarded. Besides, Loudan may no’ know the local gentry, bu’ he knows wha’ ye look like. He saw ye when he came to chase us fra’ the castle, wavin’ his papers under yer nose.”
“True.” She pursed her lips. “I’ll need a disguise—”
“Nay, nay, nay!” Ian’s face was dark as thunder. “Ye canna go into tha’ castle, and tha’ is tha’.” He turned to Widow Reeves. “Tell her she canna go. She’ll listen to ye.”
Widow Reeves looked surprised. “I dinna think she will—will ye, lass?”
It was clear Murian might have to do this without Ian’s help,
so she said brightly, “I’m willna think aboot anything tonight. I’m too tired.” But she would think about it, and by all that was holy, she’d get into that castle and find Robert’s journal.
“See, Ian Beagin? She’s no’ e’en thinkin’ on it this evenin’.” Widow Reeves held her hands toward the fire. “But e’en if she were thinkin’ on it, and e’en if she went, she’d be safe. Loudan couldna touch her, no’ in front of a castle filled wit’ local lairds and ladies.”
“Loudan is evil but he isn’t stupid,” Murian added. Which was sad, indeed.
“We willna be takin’ tha’ chance to find oot, will we?” Ian grumbled.
Widow Reeves exchanged a glance with Murian and then said, “No’ to change the topic, but the other widows and I thought we might visit one of the villages tha’ the earl’s men burned and offer our help. ’Tis a tragedy, and we feel partially responsible.”
“That’s an excellent idea,” Murian said. “I’ll join you.”
“Damn the earl’s black soul fer harmin’ the locals fer tradin’ wi’ us,” Ian said. “We’d ha’ starved if they paid him as much heed as he wished.”
“We’re in a difficult position,” Murian admitted. “But look at the talent and skills that thus far have saved us. You and Will keep our woodstoves filled, and often bring deer and rabbits for roasts and stews.”
Ian snorted. “A lad of twelve could do tha’.”
“No lad of twelve tha’ I know.” Widow Reeves eyed him up and down. “Ye’ve brought us more fresh game than any other mon could.”
Ian’s face turned red. “I’m a fair shot, bu’ no more.”
“You can also make metal do your bidding,” Murian said. “You smith like one born to it, while Will has a way with greens that, before the drought, has kept us in carrots, turnips, and cabbage.”
The Prince and I Page 6
