The Princess Wore Plaid

by Karen Hawkins

  “I suggest the book by Freyer on Egypt. It seems well researched and has some excellently rendered illustrations.” The book did contain both of those, but the truth was actually much simpler; the book by Freyer was the shortest.

  She picked up the book and began paging through it. As she smoothed her finger down a page, he imagined her smoothing that same finger down other, more sensitive objects . . .

  He shifted uncomfortably, glad now for the ache in his leg. It would keep his mind off such nonsense. “Any word yet from your cousin?”

  Tatiana closed the book, a shadow crossing her face. “Nyet. Perhaps I should write to my other cousin, Nik. He rented a town house in Mayfair in London, but I don’t have his address, so I’m not sure how—”

  The door opened and Mrs. Hay appeared. Short and stout, she carried a heavy tray, which she placed on the small table before the fireplace.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Hay,” Buchan said.

  “Och, ’tis naught, my lord. I hope you and Miss Romanovin enjoy the scones. Cook tried a new recipe. They’re a mite hard, but tasty for all tha’.”

  “I’m sure we will,” Tatiana replied.

  The housekeeper dipped a curtsy and then cast a look at her employer before leaning close to Tatiana to say in a low voice, “Lord Buchan wished us to have something special on hand for tea in case you visited today.”

  “Mrs. Hay!” Buchan snapped.

  “That was very kind of him.” Tatiana slipped a glance at Buchan, who remained by the window, faintly flushed.

  Mrs. Hay nodded vigorously, her mobcap flapping. “He is a guid mon, is Lord Buchan. As generous and kind as the day is long, and such a saint as to—”

  “Mrs. Hay!” Buchan thundered.

  She blinked at him. “Aye?”

  “Do you nae see me standing right here in front of you?”

  She looked him up and then down. “Aye.”

  “Then do you think perhaps it’s best that you do nae speak of me as if I were nae here?”

  “I suppose tha’ is a bit awkward,” she admitted fairly. “But I thought you wouldna mind, as there’s no other way for me to speak to Miss Romanovin, seein’ as you’re always here, with her.”

  Tatiana fought the urge to chuckle at Buchan’s frustrated look.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Hay,” he said in a firm tone. “You may go.”

  “Aye, my lord.” The housekeeper dipped a curtsy his way before she turned back to Tatiana. “I’m sorry, but his lordship wishes us to talk aboot him when he’s nae here.”

  Tatiana had to press a hand over her lips to keep from laughing. After a moment, she managed to say, “Indeed, that sounds as if it would be best. Perhaps you’d come by the Red Lion tomorrow for tea?”

  “Bloody hell,” Buchan muttered.

  Mrs. Hay looked struck by the brilliance of Tatiana’s suggestion. “Tha’ would be lovely. I’ve a wish to see how Mrs. Drummond makes her scones, and I can do both if I come to visit.”

  “Perhaps at three? Unless your duties here preclude you from—”

  “Och, nay. I usually nap most of the afternoon, as ’tis. I’ll see you tomorrow at three then, Miss.”

  Buchan made a strangled sound.

  Mrs. Hay dipped a final curtsy. “Ring if ye need aught.” With a happy smile, the housekeeper left the room.

  Tatiana grinned at Buchan. “Should we sit, my lord? I fear I will get a . . .” She touched her neck. “What is it called, when it hurts from looking up?“

  “A crick. And you are nae to speak to Mrs. Hay, even if she does come to the Red Lion.”

  Tatiana laughed. “I’ll speak to whomever I want, including Mrs. Hay.”

  “Is this how you’ll thank me for allowing you to use my library?”

  “Is this how you’ll treat a guest, one who’s done naught but share pleasant conversation with her visits?” she retorted, not the least cowed. “What are you afraid I’ll discover about you?”

  “I dinnae fear anything. I am just nae comfortable with my servants gossiping about me. I’m surprised you find it acceptable.”

  She didn’t, of course, and she had no intention of speaking to Mrs. Hay about anything personal. But when the opportunity to tease stiff and stern Lord Buchan arose, she simply couldn’t say no. He needs teasing. It’ll lighten his spirits a bit.

  She smiled at him. “I haven’t thanked you enough for sharing your library. When I come here, things feel right for a while. Normal.”

  “It is my pleasure.” He looked about the room, satisfaction warming his face. “I’m glad to share it with someone.”

  He decided to share it with me.

  She treasured that more than she could say. She didn’t know if it was because she was grateful for his kindness, or if perhaps she felt freer in some way because of her circumstances, or perhaps because of her love of the library itself—but for whatever reason, just saying thank you didn’t seem enough, so she closed the space between them, lifted up on her toes, and pressed her lips to his cheek.

  It was a chaste kiss, but as her lips brushed his warm cheek, her eyes met his. They were deep and dark, warm with passion and longing. And somehow she knew, without question, what he thought. What he felt.

  Time held its breath—and in that moment, looking into Buchan’s warm, tormented gaze, Tatiana’s heart awoke.

  Chapter 7

  All her life, Tatiana’s passions had been buried under her title and her duties. Now, stripped of them both, she was free to become the one thing she’d never been allowed to be—a woman weighted only by her conscience and desires. And that heady freedom allowed her to do the unthinkable.

  She ignored the fact that the man before her wasn’t an approved suitor, ignored the years of training that had taught her to restrain her wild impulses and always do what was demure and proper and right, and ignored the voices that whispered she was heading for pain and regret. Silencing them all, she lifted up on her tiptoes, twined her arms about Lord Buchan’s neck, and pressed her lips to his hard mouth.

  His cane dropped to the rug, and with a hoarse moan, he swept her against him, kissing her wildly, passionately, his mouth promising and teasing, as if her kiss had broken the dam that had held back his passion.

  Tatiana had never been so devoured. Her body ached, her hands trembled as she tugged him closer and pressed her hips against him, rocking unconsciously.

  He moaned, and then murmured against her mouth, “The settee, love.”

  Somehow, between hot kisses, he managed to maneuver them to the settee, lowering her onto it and joining her there, his legs pushing her knees apart as he covered her body with his, dominating and wild.

  His kisses consumed and ravaged her, bewildered and thrilled her from head to toe. Her suitors had always been tentative around her, conscious of her position. But Buchan’s passion was as bold as he was, his hands molding her to him, roaming over her hips, her waist, cupping her breasts until she gasped against his mouth, her body afire.

  Then he slipped his tongue between her lips and thrust it wantonly inside her mouth over and over, echoing the enticing move of his hips against hers. She clutched him closer, reveling in the feel of him, and the fact that she’d made him moan for her, whisper her name over and over, beg her without words for more. To kiss him more. To touch him more.

  She kissed him and then kissed him again, pulling him closer, stroking his arms and chest, restlessly seeking. She’d been so controlled her whole life that allowing her passions and feelings to flow unbound drowned out any common sense or hesitation she might have had. Thus she welcomed Buchan, pulled him onward, touched him demandingly and insistently.

  He broke a kiss and lifted onto one elbow. “This is madne—”

  She kissed him, sliding her hand from his chest to where his erection pressed against her thigh.

  He gasped. “Tatiana
, are you certain—”

  “You talk too much.” She pulled his mouth back to hers and pressed her hips to his.

  Groaning, he bunched her skirts in one hand and pushed them up past her knee. The cool air contrasted with the heat of his body as he slid his hand up over her stockings, under the bottom of her chemise, and all the way up to—

  His fingers stroked her, and she gasped, arching frantically, grasping his lapels, tugging him closer as she pressed against him.

  Buchan reveled in her beauty, in the way she freely abandoned herself to the passion between them, the trust she gave him without question. Her head was thrown back, her hair streaming over the pillows and brushing the floor. Her lips, swollen from his kisses, parted with her breathing, her hands wrapped about his wrist, urging him to touch her again, and then again.

  God, he wanted nothing more than to undo his britches and bury himself in the dampness between her thighs, but he forced himself to hold back. This moment was hers. He bent to catch her gasps with his kisses, increasing his efforts, alternating between feathery strokes, and longer, firm ones that drove her mad with lust.

  She pressed against him, her legs parting wider, aflame with need. “Please, Buchan,” she whispered desperately, writhing against him.

  Watching her, tasting her, Buchan clenched his teeth against the heated pressure of his desire. She was so beautiful, so passionate, so alive. Just touching her, breathing the air about her, watching her, made him realize how he’d stopped living—stopped being—after his accident. He’d been dead until he’d met her.

  He slid her gown from her shoulder and freed her breast from her chemise. Full and soft, it was just the right fit for his palm. Without ceasing the long strokes against her womanhood, he kneaded her breast, the nipple hardening instantly.

  She cried out his name, clutching frantically at him, her hips moving against him, pressing her breast into his hand. The desire to take her was almost unbearable, and his body ached with the tension. God, he wanted her to the point of madness! Desperate to maintain his control, he gritted his teeth, fixing his gaze on her flushed face as he trailed his fingers through her slick and ready folds. Again and again he moved his hand, urging her on, watching as her passion took her closer and closer to fulfillment.

  It was both agony and sweet triumph to see her so lost in the moment. He curled his fingers and slipped them inside her, her warmth grasping and tight.

  “Buchan!” she cried as she arched against him, finally breaking free. Bucking wildly, she clenched her thighs over his hand as wave after wave of passion wracked her body.

  Finally she collapsed against him, still clutching him tightly as she burrowed her face into his neck, her sweet breath warming his skin. He kissed her temple and held her there, her head tucked beneath his chin. He soaked in the softness of her hair, the smoothness of her skin, the silken scent of her arousal. All of it lifted him, tormented him, teased him.

  He fought his raging desire, closing his eyes against a surge of lust that made his hands shake. I cannae.

  Enclosed in Buchan’s arms and unaware of his turmoil, Tatiana luxuriated in the aftermath. She tingled and trembled, tiny shocks still racing through her body. Never had she felt such wildness, such wanton passion, such love.

  She caught her breath. Love? Where did that come from? And is it true? Did she love Buchan? She didn’t know, and she was too bemused now to comprehend such a thing. All she wanted was to feel the warmth of his skin against hers, the peace within the circle of his strong arms.

  But somewhere inside, her heart whispered, I will be leaving soon, and returning home, and this will no longer be. To her surprise, tears stung her eyes.

  As if he knew her thoughts, Buchan lifted himself to his elbow, his eyes dark and sad. She tried to turn her face from his so that he wouldn’t see the tears gathering in her eyes, but he cupped her chin and refused to allow it.

  She slowly lifted her anguished gaze to his and he winced, his thumb brushing her cheek to catch the tear that now rolled down freely. “Did I hurt you?”

  “Not yet.” A sob twisted the last word.

  His expression darkened and he lowered his forehead until it rested against hers. “Och, lassie,” he whispered, his warm breath brushing her cheeks. “Dinnae cry. Nae for us.”

  “I will have to leave.” Her lip trembled and he brushed a kiss over it.

  “I know.” His voice, deep and pained, touched her.

  “What will we do?”

  “We will accept our fate. It’s what we must do.”

  “But—”

  He kissed her, stopping the words, firm and quick, as if he were bracing himself. “There’s naught to be said.”

  “Why not?” Her words sounded desperate. “I—I could stay here, and be with you—”

  “Nae, you cannae.” He sighed deeper this time, heavier. “We are nae meant to be.”

  “But . . . Why can’t we just—”

  “Because you’re a bloody princess!”

  The future suddenly seemed huge, insurmountable. He must have seen the hurt in her eyes, for he gently brushed a strand of hair from her temple. “Your people will come for you. In the meantime, this must end.”

  The hopelessness in his eyes made her ache. “But—”

  “Nae, lass.” He pushed himself upright. “You’ve a larger purpose than to be with a mon who cannae even ride in a carriage for a mile withoot his leg twisting into knots. Though I wish it otherwise, I will never be the one for you.” He ran the back of his hand over her cheek and then, with a sigh, stood, leaving her alone and cold.

  She pushed her skirts down and sat up, watching from under her lashes as Buchan limped over to retrieve his cane from the rug. As he picked it up and looked at it, she saw disgust and hatred on his face.

  Unable to answer his emotions, she found her lost hairpins and searched for something to say that would ease the darkness in both of their hearts. “At least for now, we’ll have this. I—I can come every day until then, and we can still talk and spend time together and—”

  “Nae.” His expression was grim. “You cannae come here again.”

  “But . . . why not? We don’t know how long it will take my cousin to come for me. It could take weeks, perhaps months.” Especially if I don’t send him another letter. She didn’t know where her earlier ones had ended up, but she desperately wished them to Hades.

  “Och, lassie . . .” Buchan’s broad shoulders sank. “We are playing with fire, and I’ll nae have you hurt. As for the letters, they dinnae matter. I—” His gaze grew bleaker. “’Tis done. We’re done.”

  “But—”

  “I’ll have Tavish call the carriage to take you back to the inn.”

  She stood. “Buchan, don’t—”

  His gaze, so black and tormented, silenced her. He crossed to the door and then stopped to looked back at her with such deep, real longing that her breath caught in her throat. “Good-bye, Tatiana. You . . . you made me live again. I will never stop thinking of you.”

  And with that, he was gone.

  Chapter 8

  Two weeks later, Tatiana looked at the letters spread on the table of the private parlor. One letter for each week she’d been falling in love with Buchan.

  Letters she’d never given to Mr. Drummond to be mailed.

  The rain beat a heavy tattoo on the roof, muffling the laughter coming from the main taproom. In the darkened room, Tatiana crossed to the window, rubbing her arms against the cold that seeped through the panes as she watched the rain run down the glass in thick rivulets. It was Friday night, Buchan’s usual night for his weekly dinner. Yet for the last two weeks, they’d seen neither hide nor hair of the man. Not a visit, not even a note.

  Not since that day in his library.

  Her chest ached with emptiness. The first Friday, Mr. Drummond hadn’t seemed concern
ed at Buchan’s absence, for the roads had been icy and his lordship tended not to travel in such weather. But he had never missed two weeks in row, nor had he ever let mere rain keep him home.

  Tonight Mr. Drummond had become agitated about Buchan’s absence, fretting aloud that he’d lost his best customer, and then—throwing caution to the wind—had suggested it was Mrs. Drummond’s fault for not making his lordship’s favorite steak-and-ale pie often enough to tempt him into returning.

  Naturally, an argument had ensued, which had increased in fervor until Mrs. Drummond had slammed out of the house, declaring she was leaving the Red Lion until somebody apologized and recognized her worth. From the safety of the private parlor, Tatiana had watched the creaky old coach pull away from the inn as, somewhere in the distance, Mr. Drummond muttered angrily to himself.

  Unwilling to listen to Mr. Drummond’s complaints, Tatiana remained where she was in the partially darkened parlor. She felt safe here. She remembered the first time she’d seen Buchan in this very room, how unhappy he’d seemed, how impossibly stern. Now she’d give a fortune for one scowl from those dear, sensual lips. Lips that made her own ache for their touch.

  She dropped her forehead against the cold window, her breath making a circle. Outside, a coach swung into the courtyard, the lantern swinging wildly.

  Tatiana squinted through the rain, thinking that perhaps Mrs. Drummond had returned, but instead the light fell upon the crest on the coach door. Buchan! Finally!

  Smiling, she left the parlor and hurried to the hallway.

  The front door opened but it wasn’t Buchan who appeared; rather, it was Tavish who entered, his face contorted with worry.

  Tatiana froze in place, her heart catching in her throat. “What’s happened?”

  “I’ve been sent to fetch Mrs. Drummond.”

  “She’s not here. She left not long ago and—”

  “Tavish!” Mr. Drummond hurried down the corridor. “Where’s his lordship?”