The Princess Wore Plaid

by Karen Hawkins

  Sick with disappointment at himself, he waved her on. “Go to Mrs. Drummond. There’s nae reason to stay.”

  “If you don’t need her, I will stay where I am. I just thought she would know of something to ease your pain.”

  “If you want to ease my pain, then bring me some whiskey. A lot of it.” He reached the fireplace and leaned against the mantel, miserable and aching and almost nauseous. “I must be twenty times over a fool to have come here today. I just thought I could—” He shut off the last of his words and turned toward the fire.

  Tatiana caught the deep darkness in his voice and it banished her irritation as swiftly as it had arisen. She should have been incensed at the man, for he’d not only grabbed her arm in the rudest way, but he’d then ordered her to bring him whiskey as if she were indeed just a kitchen maid. And after he’d promised to believe my claims, at least until they were proven untrue.

  But if there was one thing Tatiana understood, it was pride. Her family had far more of it than was seemly, so she recognized Buchan’s reaction—fury and embarrassment at his inability to help himself, his pride inflamed by his own physical limitations, his anger fed by the knowledge his struggle had been witnessed.

  She uncurled one of her hands and looked at her palm where the blisters were finally healing, calluses taking their place. It was frightening how quickly the illusion of control could disappear. In the last few weeks, she’d come to realize how fragile that illusion was, and how painful it was when it was ripped away and one was left bewildered and alone, out of control of a life one had never truly had control over to begin with. She rather thought Buchan felt the same way—betrayed and lost.

  She shot him a glance from under her lashes. He stood with one arm resting along the mantel, his mouth white with pain. He’d leaned his cane against the rock fireplace and was pressing his fist against his thigh, his breathing ragged. He bent his head, his dark hair falling against his cheeks and neck, giving him a wild, untamed look. He reminded her of the dark, handsome, and wantonly passionate Romany men who populated the camps by the river in her country.

  His handsomeness was appealing, but the expression in his eyes kept her from marching out of the room. He looked so . . . hopeless. As if the pain he suffered imprisoned him, alone and in agony.

  She cleared her throat. “I’ll fetch some whiskey.” Without waiting for an answer, she crossed to the sideboard, her gaze dropping to her arm, which still tingled where his large hand had closed around it. Perhaps she’d overreacted. She felt vulnerable because of her position as a maid, but—more than that—she’d spent the last week and a half regretting their kiss. If she didn’t wish people to treat her like a maid, then she shouldn’t act like one, and no princess would allow a strange man to kiss her. She’d been raised to know better.

  Yet deep down, she couldn’t be truly sorry for that kiss—she had welcomed it. Perhaps it was because she was so alone, herself, and that part of her soul had recognized the same loneliness in his. Whatever it was, it couldn’t—shouldn’t—happen again.

  She picked up the decanter. “I’m having some whiskey, too. It’s been a difficult day for me, as well.”

  He watched as she poured the whiskey into two glasses, a question in his eyes. Finally, as if unable to hold it in, he asked in a gruff voice, “Why was your day difficult?”

  Even in pain, he is concerned about me. Some of her uncertainty melted away. “Squire MacPhearson and his son visited us earlier. I think you know them, for the squire mentioned your name.”

  “His property abuts mine. What were they doing here?”

  She carried the two glasses to Buchan. “They were on their way to Inverness. A race, I think it was.” She held out one of the glasses.

  Buchan took it carefully, avoiding her fingers. “Thank you.” His dark gaze locked on her as he took a drink. Then another. The tension in his face ease slightly.

  “Better?”

  “Some.” He grimaced and then sighed. “I should nae have grabbed your arm like that. I dinnae think.”

  “I reacted too strongly. I’m not used to being handled thusly and, as I said, it has been a difficult week.” She took a bracing sip. Smooth tones of vanilla and smoke curled over her tongue and she decided she liked Scottish whiskey almost as much as the vodka served in her own country. “I suppose I should accept that such things will happen, now that I’m a maid, but I cannot.”

  Buchan had the glass halfway to his mouth, but at her words, he lowered it, his brows knit. “Accept what things?”

  She shrugged. “My first week here, a man patted my—” She gestured behind her. “I put an end to it with a pitcher of ale over his head.”

  Buchan’s expression darkened. “He deserved worse.”

  She shrugged. “After that, the Drummonds only allowed me to serve the guests here, in the private parlor. Mr. Drummond said the guests are of a higher caliber than the ones in the common room.”

  Buchan’s stern expression eased a bit. “Guid for Mr. Drummond. I hope that put an end to the rudeness.”

  “It did until . . .” She laughed, unable to keep a bitter note from her voice. “It doesn’t matter. But I’m afraid that when you said you wished to see me alone, and then you caught my arm—” She spread one hand. “I misunderstood you.”

  “I cannae blame you. I was graceless.” He shook his head, regret deep in his eyes. “I’m sorry, lass. I dinnae mean to be disrespectful.”

  She shrugged. “It was an innocent enough touch.”

  “This time.” He gave a wry smile that made him seem younger. “I should nae have kissed you. I’ve nae wish to be included in your list of men who’ve been inappropriate.”

  Her cheeks heated. Despite her misgivings, that kiss had been different. In many ways. She took a sip of the whiskey, hoping it would clear her thoughts.

  “It was inexcusable.” He raked a hand through his hair. “It’s been a long time since I was in a lady’s presence. I’m sorry if I seem mannerless.”

  It was a genuine apology, heartfelt and generous. Tatiana had grown up with men saying pretty things to her—giving her extravagant compliments, writing poems about the color of her eyes, and much worse. But Buchan’s words were simply honest. “Thank you.”

  “You dinnae thank a mon for apologizing for nae being a mon.” His dark brown eyes sparkled with reluctant humor. “Although I suppose you’re allowed to show a guid deal of surprise if ’tis warranted.”

  She chuckled. “At least you don’t smell of onions, like the squire’s son.”

  “How would you know the squire’s son— Bloody hell!” Buchan snapped the glass onto the mantel so quickly that some whiskey sloshed onto the wood. “That damned, monkey-panted fop tried to touch you, did nae he? When I next see him, I shall teach him to respect women if it takes a beating!”

  She smirked. “You will not have to. I taught him well enough.” She reached down to her boot, well hidden by her skirts, and brought up her blade. “I showed him this.”

  Buchan’s eyes widened. “You have a knife!”

  “Of course.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “The kitchen. To my surprise, I am very, very good with it.”

  His eyes gleamed with appreciation. “I have nae doubt. I’m glad you dinnae use it on me.”

  She grinned. “I was too busy kissing you back to even remember it.”

  He chuckled, the sound deep and warm. He reclaimed his whiskey, a new gleam of appreciation in his gaze. “A princess who carries a knife. We should have such princesses here.”

  She returned the knife to her boot. “I’ve four cousins, all men, and raised partly by our Romany grandmother. They taught me well. So when the squire’s son would not listen to my request to be released, I marked his hand.”

  Buchan had just taken a swallow of his whiskey, and he choked. “Wait, you sta
bbed him? I thought you had only to show it to him!”

  “Pah. A tiny scratch, like a cat might give. But it was enough. He will not touch me again.”

  Laughter burst from Buchan, long and lusty. As he laughed, he relaxed and he looked so much more approachable than she’d originally thought him. And much handsomer, too.

  Tatiana hid her smile behind her glass. In the moments after she’d faced the squire’s son, she’d felt anything but joy, but now, hearing Buchan’s laughter, she realized that perhaps she should have relished how well she’d dealt with the situation.

  His laughter settled into a chuckle. “What I’d give to have seen that. Lass, you are a rich one, you are, and I’m glad I met you.”

  Her cheeks warmed, and she felt as if she’d been given a gift.

  “I can only imagine that fool’s expression.” Buchan wiped a hand over his eyes. “But it still should nae have happened. I will tell Drummond he is nae to allow you to serve anyone alone, even here in the private parlor.”

  She thought about pointing out that at this very moment she was alone with him, but then decided against it. Things were complicated enough.

  She finished her whiskey and put the glass on a nearby table. “So why are you here? You don’t seem interested in lunch.”

  “Ah yes. I came to speak to you. After I left here the last time we spoke, I thought aboot what you said of the day of your accident.”

  “Da?”

  “It took you two days to reach here, and you went through a forest, mainly traveling downhill. I and my footman retraced your steps and, with some good luck, we found where the accident took place.”

  She blinked. “You . . . but how—”

  “It was simple. There are only two major roads that go through this part of the country, and only one is fit for a coach. I considered what you said about the amount of walking you did, and how far you went, and then I made a guess. From what we could tell at the site of the accident, the axel on your carriage broke and a wheel fell off. There was a deep gash, as if one end of an axle had landed on the road. It rains here a guid bit, so the ground would have been soft, and the axle would have dug into the road—which could overturn a carriage.”

  “Especially one overburdened with luggage, as mine was.”

  “Aye.” He picked up his whiskey again. “I also found signs of a small camp, as if some of your people had stayed there in the hopes you would return.”

  “But no one is there now?”

  He shook his head. “There were footprints leading into the forest, as if they’d searched for you, but nothing more. I daresay that once the coach had been repaired, they gave oop and left.”

  “But if they waited for me there, then ’tis possible they didn’t alert Alexsey of the accident right away.”

  Buchan nodded, watching her face. The signs he and his men had found of the accident supported her story. Well, they supported the fact there had been an accident, which they already knew from her wounds. His gaze flickered to where her hair hid the healing gash, and he wondered how long she’d been unconscious. She must have been terrified when she awoke and did not know herself.

  “Thank you for going to such trouble for me.” A wry, sad smile touched her lips. “It helps, knowing I didn’t imagine the accident, at least.”

  “I wish I could tell you more, but there were nae other clues to be had.”

  “I wish I knew how long my servants waited before going to my cousin’s. It could have been a week or even longer, which means—” Her eyes grew dark. “It could be weeks before my cousin arrives.”

  “I dinnae think they waited long,” he heard himself saying gruffly.

  Her gaze found his. “Why do you think that?”

  “If they’d been in the area for long, there would have been more tracks. I dinnae think they waited more than a day. Perhaps two.” It was a lie; most of the tracks had been obliterated by the weather. But he’d be dammed if he’d make her time here even more difficult than it already was.

  He turned to put his empty glass on the mantel. As he did so, a crackle sounded from his pocket. “Och! I almost forgot.” He reached into his inner coat pocket, and pulled out a large folded sheet of vellum. “This is for you.” He handed it to her.

  She unfolded it carefully, and gasped as a colorful map appeared. “It’s a map of Europe!” She looked up at him, her eyes shimmering with happiness. “Oxenburg is here.” She tapped a colorful area with a slender finger. She couldn’t have looked more pleased. “Where did you get this?”

  “I have many books, and among them are portfolios of maps—collecting them was a hobby of my father’s. It took me a while to find one, for Oxenburg is a rather new country.”

  She nodded. “We are only a hundred years old if you go by the country’s name. But as a culture, we’ve existed for many, many centuries.”

  “Aye, Oxenburg won her independence in a battle from the Duchy of Prussia. I read about it.” He leaned closer to the map, his shoulder brushing hers as he traced a finger along one border. “It is a mountainous country.”

  “Da, it looks much like your highlands—mountains covered with old forests cut here and there by large streams. Each spring those streams flood, filled with snowmelt. Look here . . .” She bent over the map and began to explain each and every aspect of her country.

  As she did so, Buchan matched her words against the facts he’d discovered in one of the books he’d found. She knew the country well. Yet more proof she is who she says.

  A sense of relief flooded him as he watched her, her face soft with excitement as she talked about her home. Her thick hair was pinned only halfway, and several chestnut strands now brushed the graceful curve of her cheek. He leaned closer, pretending to look at something on the map she’d just pointed to, breathing in her scent of cinnamon and sunshine, of hope and smiles.

  He longed to slip an arm about her waist and pull her to him, to sink into her supple curves and forget misery, and pain, and everything that had filled his life these last few years. Indeed, his arms ached to hold her. Bloody hell, am I like the squire’s son, lusting after her beauty? But no. The squire’s son had no feelings for Tatiana, no wish to protect her, no deep desire to be something to her. I do.

  The realization surprised him and he almost took a step back. He was not a man who easily cared. Not anymore. But perhaps he felt so strongly about protecting Tatiana because they’d both been stripped bare by life, robbed of all societal protections, and left raw and vulnerable. More than anyone, he knew how exposed and confused she must feel, and how deeply alone.

  But however much they had in common, and no matter how strongly she tugged at his interest, he knew he should take measures not to become too closely involved in her dilemma. At best, Tatiana was an injured woman who believed herself a princess. At worst, she really was a princess, destined to be rescued and to go on with her life as if he’d never existed.

  He stepped away, his body aching at even that small separation.

  Unaware of his turmoil, she straightened and sighed, her gaze still on the map. “I miss Oxenburg.”

  “You’ll return to it soon enough.”

  She sent him a quick look, her brows knitting. She started to say something, but then seemed to think better of it. She tapped the map. “May I keep this for now? So I can show the Drummonds?”

  “Of course. I’ve nae need of it. I thought it might give you something to do to pass your time, although it seems you found something already—a book.”

  “I love to read.” She refolded the map and carefully placed it on the mantel, then removed the book from her pocket. Her hand slid over the cover, her fingers lingering in a way that made his breath shorten. “It’s not a topic I’d normally enjoy, but it’s better than nothing.”

  “I read quite a bit, too,” he admitted, moving yet another step away. “Where did you
get the book? I dinnae imagine the Drummonds have many.”

  “After I pricked the squire’s son’s hand, there was a bit of a—how do you say this, when there is much yelling and noise?”

  “A ruckus?”

  “Ruckus,” she tested the word. “Da, one of those. After the ruckus and the squire and his son had left, I found the book beside the chair. I believe it was the squire’s.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “It’s called Horses of the Ages, a Guide to Buying and Selling. I would like a novel better, but there are none to be had. The Drummonds do not own any books.” A wistful smile curved her mouth. “I have a great library at my home. Shelves and shelves of books, and I’ve read most of them.”

  “What sort of books do you like to read other than novels?”

  “I also like books on history, philosophy, even plays.” She lifted the book and smelled it. “Ah. I never knew how delicious a book could smell until I had none.”

  He watched her with a hooded gaze. Her face was so expressive, her thoughts flickering quickly and with a sureness that he found fascinating. He wanted to talk to her for hours, to hold her close and soak in her scent, to kiss her breathless and discover her every thought and feeling—

  Bloody hell, I’m becoming besotted over a woman I barely know. This was a mistake. I should have stayed away. Any man with common sense and a modicum of control would have made an excuse and left.

  Instead, as if he were powerless to stop himself, he heard himself say, “There is a library at Auchmacoy. You are welcome to borrow any book you wish.”

  Happiness brightened her gaze. “May I?”

  “Aye.” He should have stopped there, but he added, “You may come any time and choose as many books as you’d like.”

  “Thank you! That is very kind of you.”

  And foolish. He managed a smile that he didn’t quite feel. If he had any sense, which he was beginning to question, he’d at least make himself scarce when she was visiting his home. “I’m glad the library will be used. I’ll tell my butler, MacInnes, to expect a guest. He will allow you access to the library whenever you wish.”