The Princess Wore Plaid

by Karen Hawkins

He slid his hand to her neck, to her shoulder, and then to her waist. He tugged her forward and she came, her form melting to his, and—just as he’d imagined—she fit neatly against him. It had been so long since he’d allowed someone other than a doctor so close to him. He drank in the warmth of her, the softness of her form against his own.

  The air about them thickened, their breathing uncertain and quick. Time seemed to close about them, protecting them from everything else. Slowly, he brushed his lips over her cheek, and then on to the corner of her lush lips.

  The second his mouth touched hers, her trembling uncertainty vanished and she tilted her face to his. Like a flower before the sun, she opened to him and welcomed his kiss with her own.

  Buchan’s passion, held by a tenuous, uncertain thread, flared to life. He dropped his cane and swept her against him, kissing her passionately, his touch demanding and furious, and hers wild and wanton in return.

  Her arms slipped around his neck and she opened her lips beneath his, deepening the kiss, her tongue tempting his, teasing, tormenting. He held her tighter, his body ablaze with passion as he slipped his hands down her waist, to cup her against him—

  “Miss Tatiana?” Mrs. Drummond’s voice came from far down the hallway. “Drummond, she’s nae in the kitchen. Is she in the common room?”

  Tatiana gasped and pulled free. “Mrs. Drummond! She mustn’t see . . . I can’t let her know . . . It would be too—” She stepped out of his arms, her trembling fingers brushing her swollen mouth. “I should never have— Bozhy moj, this will not do!”

  Her husky voice stirred his already heightened senses and he was achingly aware of his hard cock pressing against his britches. To cover his obvious arousal, he retrieved his cane and, both hands on the cane top, centered it before him. For a few glorious moments he hadn’t thought about the pain in his leg at all. All he’d thought about had been the soft curves and intriguing feel of the woman who now stood out of reach. “Tatiana, it was but a kiss. Dinnae look so distraught.”

  She pressed her hands to her pink cheeks. “That should never have happened. I—I have been lonely, confined to the kitchens, and away from anyone other than the Drummonds. I was wrong to kiss you.”

  The distressed note in her voice made him frown. “Lass, it was a moment’s impulse, nothing more.”

  Her gaze flickered to his, dark and mysterious. What is she thinking? Is she disappointed? Or glad?

  Her thick lashes dropped, her expression instantly distant. “It will not happen again.” It wasn’t a suggestion but an announcement, and once again she was the princess—cool, composed, and in control. But this time, somehow she’d left him feeling like a commoner, one with no right to touch, much less kiss, her.

  Disappointment rippled through him, but he swallowed it, channeling his frustration into his grip on the cane. He forced himself to shrug as if he couldn’t have cared less. “However you wish it.”

  Something flashed through her eyes and she turned away, smoothing her hair as she retraced her steps to the door. She reached it and stopped, her hands dropping to her sides. Then she glanced back at him. “Thank you for at least listening to me. It has been a long time since anyone has done so without thinking me mad.”

  Listening to her had been a small thing and had cost him nothing, but the gratitude in her gaze dissipated his irritation and made him wish he’d done more for her. Perhaps she was right about the kiss after all. She is alone here, desperately trying to find her relatives. I would not take advantage of her. “I did nothing. We should discover what we can aboot your accident. Do you mind if I ask you a question or two?”

  Her gaze narrowed. “What would you know?”

  “You said after it happened, you went into the forest?”

  “Da. I wandered through the forest for the better part of the first day and much of the next morning.”

  “When you walked through the forest, were you climbing? Or going downhill?”

  Her brows knit. “Downhill. I found the road the second day.”

  “And then you walked oopon it until you arrived here.” At her nod, he added, “Did you arrive late in the day or early?”

  “It was almost dark. I was so glad to see the inn.”

  “It’s isolated. This road used to be a post road, but the routes changed, and the postal coaches no longer travel this direction. If you’d kept going, it would have been at least another day before you came to the closest town, which is Ellon.”

  “Why do you ask these questions? I—”

  “Tatiana! Where are you?” Mrs. Drummond’s sharp call was closer.

  “Krahti. She comes. Good-bye, Lord Buchan. I—I . . . Thank you.” Tatiana hurried out the door, her skirts swirling with her haste as she disappeared from sight, her quick footsteps fading with each passing second.

  Buchan stared at the empty doorway, his mind not on the mystery of the princess, as it should have been, but on the raw passion of her kiss.

  Bloody hell, how had that kiss happened? Such a kiss, too. I fear it is addicting. Princess or not, he wanted more kisses from those soft lips.

  Many, many more.

  Sighing, he turned and made his way to the table—where his dinner, like his recently denied passion, slowly cooled.

  Chapter 4

  Buchan stepped down from the coach, his gaze already locked upon the door of the Red Lion. The late-afternoon sun shone upon the aged wooden sign that hung over the door and he noted absently that the lion painted upon the panel wasn’t red, as the name of the inn implied, but was instead a muddy brown. In the year and a half he’d been coming to this inn for dinner, he’d never paid attention to the sign. Of course, he usually came in the evening, when it was too dark to examine it with any accuracy. Perhaps he noticed it now because it was the first time he’d seen it in the daylight.

  Or perhaps it’s something else. For the first time in a year, I don’t give a damn about my leg. It was true. In the last week and a half since he’d kissed Tatiana, he’d found himself thinking less and less about his pains, and more and more about a certain green-eyed, exotic waif with warm lips and soft curves that could drive a man mad.

  So mad that, the day after that intriguing kiss, he’d been sorely tempted to visit the Red Lion and see what else he could discover about the bewitching Miss Romanovin. But some careful thought had shown him the flaw in such a plan—if he alerted the protective Drummonds to his interest in their maid, they might close ranks and keep him away. In addition, it might frighten Tatiana, too. Her guarded expression suggested caution.

  So, though it irked him nigh to death, he’d waited until the next Friday evening to return, determined to question the intriguing Tatiana more closely. Sadly, his hopes had been in vain, for he’d found her firmly under Mrs. Drummond’s watchful eye. Though he’d tried, he hadn’t been able to speak so much as one word in private with Tatiana. After several hours of simmering frustration, he’d returned to Auchmacoy, determined to visit when the Drummonds weren’t present.

  At home, he was left with empty hours, and his brain teased him with imagined conversations and additional sensual kisses. At night, alone in the huge bed in the master suite, he’d tossed and turned in the heavy silk sheets, unable to sleep, his leg aching from his restless movements as he tried not to think about her bewitching eyes and soft, soft curves, his hands clenching his sheets with frustration.

  But if his nights were haunted, his days were tormented. Yesterday afternoon, as he’d eaten the nearly tasteless lamb pasties his cook had prepared at lunch, Buchan had caught himself wondering if Tatiana liked lamb, and if she did, would she, too, think this particular pasty bland? Did she like scones like those prepared by Mrs. Drummond? Would Tatiana think the grand dining room at Auchmacoy pleasant or too stately? Did she enjoy talking about current political situations, or was that a topic she would avoid for lighter subjects?

  In
realizing all that he still didn’t know, his desire to discover more grew. He even began to think of things—excuses, really—that might give him a reason to visit her again.

  So now, here he was, standing upon the stoop of the Red Lion in the middle of the afternoon, feeling both hopeful and foolish.

  He suddenly realized his footman was still standing by the open coach door, looking as perplexed by Buchan’s behavior as he was himself.

  Irritated at being observed in the middle of his own confusion, he scowled. “Take the coach to the stables.”

  Tavish closed the door. “Very guid, my lord. Will you be staying long?”

  “Long enough. I’ll send word when I’m ready.”

  The footman bowed. “Verrah weel, my lord.” He scrambled back into his seat on the coach, and soon the heavy equipage was lumbering out of the courtyard.

  Buchan grasped his cane and crossed the threshold into the foyer. The inn looked different in the light of day; though everything was scrubbed clean, he could now see that the wood floor was worn, the rugs faded and threadbare, and the walls dingy from smoke—all things that were gently dimmed when viewed by lamplight.

  He closed the door and listened, but was met by silence. I must be the only guest on the premises. That wasn’t surprising, for while the Drummonds’ inn was renowned for the quality of their fare and whiskey, they weren’t known for comfortable lodgings.

  Buchan walked further into the foyer, wincing when his cane thumped upon the flagstone floor, the noise loud in the quiet. He continued down the hallway, passing the empty common room with a quick glance at the long, empty trestle tables. Not a person in sight. I wonder if Tatiana is even here? Perhaps he was a fool to have come, but still, what else had he to do?

  He was just realizing how empty his life had become. After he’d returned from India, the pursuits left to him seemed empty—­improvements to his estate, which, upon his death, would be left to a distant cousin and most likely sold out of the family line; fighting the pain of his wounds, which he was forced to do by necessity; and then, to kill the long hours that were left, reading every book he could find.

  That was his new life since his return home, and it irked him bitterly. Before his injury, he’d boxed and fenced, attended sporting matches, traveled widely, danced with the local beauties at every rout and ball, and hunted with friends and companions. All of those things were now gone to him, as travel was nigh impossible: the jolting of the carriage for more than ten minutes at a stretch caused him untold agony.

  Which meant he was now consigned to his own home here in the wilds of Scotland, as one by one, his friends had disappeared like smoke on a distant horizon. If they’d even been friends. The way they’d so quickly let their friendships go seemed to indicate they’d been mere acquaintances.

  Buchan was alone, irked, and bored. So who would blame him for succumbing to an impulsive desire to solve the mystery of Tatiana? It would have been obvious to anyone who took the time to speak to her that she was unique, even if one did not believe her ridiculous-sounding story.

  But is it ridiculous? There could be no doubt she was aristocratic, for her manners and features were too fine for her birth to be otherwise. That first meeting, when he’d treated her like the servant she now was, she’d flashed him a look that had been so full of shock and disdain that it would satisfy any princess. But later, while her kiss had been wild and unchecked, he’d detected an underlying innocence. She is a conundrum, one I am determined to unravel.

  Buchan reached the private parlor and was surprised to find the door closed. As he placed a hand on the knob, a faint sound tickled his ear. Was that a feminine cough? He turned the knob softly, swung the door open, and walked inside, the rug muffling his cane.

  He’d expected to find Tatiana polishing silver or some other such duty, but instead she was curled in the chair by the large bay window. The midafternoon sunlight spilled over her shiny hair, which had been pulled back into a smooth bun at the base of her neck; her head was bent over something in her lap. Whatever it was, it held her attention so strongly that she didn’t look up when he stepped off the rug, his cane clicking on the flagstone floor.

  He walked to within a few feet of her and then stopped, catching sight of a book in her hands. So she reads, does she? He waited, the quiet broken only by the sound of the turning of each page, and he found himself in the odd position of being jealous of a book.

  Finally, he could stand it no more. “You are reading.” His voice was sharper than he’d intended, as though he were delivering an accusation rather than an observation.

  Her gaze flew up, her eyes wide with surprise.

  He silently cursed his abrupt ways. Bloody hell, what was wrong with him that he couldn’t hold a simple conversation with a woman anymore? Was it because he’d eschewed society for so long? Or could it be something far more worrisome: the unnerving effect of her beautiful eyes?

  His blurted words must have sounded as asinine to her as to him, for when her surprise faded, a mocking, teasing smile curved her generous lips. “Da, I’m reading. How could you tell?”

  Her humor sparked his and, relieved he hadn’t irked her, he feigned a deep sigh. “You’ve a book in your hands, so you were either reading or looking at the pictures.” He raised his brows and then said with cautious humor, “I dinnae know if you can read, so perhaps it was the pictures that held your attention so.”

  She chuckled. “Of course I can read.” She closed the book and stood in one fluid movement. “I’ve been able to read since I was five.”

  “Your parents must have been proud of you.”

  Her smile wavered. “My governess was proud of me. That was enough.”

  “But nae your parents?” Perhaps he shouldn’t have asked, but he was like a man dying of thirst, and had to drink in every fact about her that he could find.

  “My parents served as ambassadors for my uncle, the king, and were always gone.” She hesitated, running a hand over the book’s smooth cover. “They died several years ago. Though we rarely slept under the same roof, I miss them.”

  “Guid or nae, parents leave holes in our lives when they go.” The sadness he heard in her voice drew him closer, and he noted how the sunlight that streamed through the window caressed her face. She’d been lovely in the lantern light, and he’d expected that she’d be less so in the harsh light of day, but the opposite was true. Her pale skin gleamed against her dark gray gown, her chestnut hair shiny and thick where it was gathered at her nape. He followed the delicate line of her neck to the line of her jaw, and his fingers itched to trace the light flush that warmed her cheeks. “I’m glad to find you alone.” The words flew from his lips, unchecked and inappropriate.

  Her expression closed. “I’m not alone. Mrs. Drummond is in the kitchen now, making bread.” Her gaze flickered over his face and seemed to linger on his lips. Her color high, she said, “I should go; I’m not to meet customers unless either Mrs. or Mr. Drummond is nearby.”

  “The kitchen is close. If you raised your voice even a little, she’d hear you. Mrs. Drummond has ears like a bloody hunting dog. I know, for in the past, if I so much as gave a low mutter aboot needing salt, she appeared with it. ”

  Some of the caution left Tatiana’s face and she chuckled, the throaty sound making him ache to taste her again. He wondered if the innkeeper’s wife had realized he and Tatiana had shared a kiss? Was that why he hadn’t been able to get the maid alone again?

  “You must have come for lunch.” Smiling, Tatiana turned toward the door. “I’ll let Mrs. Drummond know you are here.”

  He started to tell her he’d come just to see her, but her reaction to his admission that he’d hoped to find her alone kept him from doing so. He was left with nothing to say as she walked past him.

  In a second, she would be gone and the Drummonds alerted to his presence, which was the last thing he wishe
d to happen. If he didn’t stop her now, she’d ruin everything. But no words could come, not a one.

  Without thinking, he caught her arm.

  His only intention had been to halt her long enough to explain why fetching the Drummonds was a poor idea, but the second he grasped her arm, she froze, flashing him a look of such astonished outrage that he dropped his hand and stepped away. As he did so, his cane caught the rug and fell from his hand, unbalancing him and sending him reeling backward.

  “Asta rozhti!” Tatiana planted her heels and grabbed his arm, stabilizing him in an instant. But though he didn’t fall, his weight came down on his uncertain leg.

  Like a flash of fire, the pain hit him, agony so hot it sucked the breath from his lungs. He clenched his teeth against his own cry of anguish and, jerking his arm free from her hold, leaned on a nearby table to steady himself. He pressed his fist to the knot now formed above his knee, his harsh breathing loud in the quiet room.

  Tatiana turned toward the door. “I’ll fetch Mrs. Drummond—”

  “Nae!” Buchan snapped, embarrassed beyond measure for revealing himself in such a humiliating fashion. In that moment, he hated his leg, hated his pain, and hated his own weakness as if it were a person. Goddammit, can I not even stand on my own? And to look a fool in front of her, no less. Still holding on to the table, he bent and retrieved his cane. Teeth gritted, he positioned it at his side and limped his way toward the fireplace, his eyes watering in agony with each step.

  “But Mrs. Drummond knows medicines and tonics and—”

  “I dinnae need her help, dammit! Nae hers and nae yours!”

  She stiffened.

  He hadn’t meant to be so harsh, but his pain and embarrassment twisted his soul until only anger flew from his mouth. Yet when he saw the flash of hurt in her eyes, he wished with all his heart that he could take the words back.

  But it was too late. She was pulling away, her expression chilly and removed. Dammit, when did my temper grow so uncertain?