The Prince and I

  “Come in!”

  He pushed the door open and stepped inside, where he found Murian and Widows Atchison and MacThune using large spoons as trowels for smoothing plaster over a newly repaired wall, the fire crackling cozily nearby.

  Widow Atchison’s eyes widened on seeing him. Small, brown-haired, and wren-like, she was one of the quietest of the widows. Max didn’t think he’d heard her speak yet. She elbowed Widow MacThune and said with a gasp, “Och, ’tis the prince!”

  Murian, who was engrossed in plastering, turned around. A pleased look flashed through her eyes, and he found himself smiling in return.

  “Good morning.” Murian was dressed in her usual colorless gown, sturdy boots upon her feet. Even without a single bit of finery other than her glorious red-gold hair and silver eyes, she shone like a rare jewel.

  “Good morning.” He pulled off his gloves and tucked them in his pocket, noting that one strand of her hair was tipped with white plaster.

  The two widows dipped curtsies, as Murian pointed to a wooden bowl filled with plaster. “We’re glad you came, as now you can help.”

  “It looks as if you’re doing a very good job on your own.” He crossed the room to her side. He clasped his hands behind his back and bent to examine the plasterwork. “Da. Very good.”

  She sniffed. “Of course it’s good.”

  “Except you missed a spot here.” He pointed. “And here. And h—”

  She tapped his finger with her makeshift trowel, leaving a cold dab of plaster on it. “Now you can fix those spots.”

  The other two tried not to laugh and failed.

  “I am not afraid of a little plaster.” Max fixed the spot. “There. Now, it is perfect.”

  “You’re verrah talented at plasterwork.”

  “I am very talented at many things, Lady Murian. Plasterwork is only one of them.”

  Widow Atchison bit her lip as if to stop a grin, and busied herself stirring the plaster in the bowl, while Widow MacThune stared, waiting for Murian’s response.

  Murian pressed her trowel into his hand. “As you’re so talented, perhaps you can fix the rest of the spots we missed? I warn you, ’tis not so easy as you might think.”

  “We shall see.” He placed the trowel on the edge of the bowl and tugged off his coat and muffler, hanging them over a chair. The heavy mahogany chair was covered in red velvet and decorated with an unseemly amount of gold embroidery. Two matching chairs flanked the fireplace. Apparently Murian’s cottage hadn’t been the only one to benefit from Rowallen’s loss.

  He picked up the trowel and turned to the wall, touching up the few uneven spots here and there, while Murian stood at his side, her eyes dancing with humor.

  “Och, now ’tis you who’s missed a spot.” She didn’t try to disguise the satisfaction in her voice as she pointed at the wall with her trowel.

  He gave her a stern look. “I haven’t gotten to that portion yet.”

  Her lips quirked, and he couldn’t look away from her mouth. No other woman had ever possessed a more kissable or bewitching mouth. Pink and plump and temptingly saucy, it deserved to be—

  “Och, I almost fergot!” Widow MacThune put down her trowel and wiped her hands. “We’re to help Ailsa with her bairn while she plasters Ian’s cottage.”

  Widow Atchison looked up from loading her trowel. “We are?”

  Murian looked over her shoulder, surprise clear on her face. “Why would Widow Grier need help? She told us at breakfast that her bairn’ll sleep until ’tis time for him to eat. We canna help with that.”

  “Yes, but we promised, dinna we?” Widow MacThune looked at Widow Atchison.

  Widow Atchison blushed, but managed to say, “Aye.”

  “There! So I told ye.” She tossed her makeshift trowel into the bucket, wiped her hands on a rag, and picked up her cloak.

  Murian shook her head. “Could some of the older children watch Widow Grier’s bairn and—”

  “Och, nay.” Widow MacThune shook her head firmly. “We must go.”

  Murian plopped her hands on her hips. “You canna stop plastering while we have an entire bowl of—”

  The door closed.

  Murian couldn’t believe it. They’d left her alone . . . with Max.

  She shot him a glance and found him still calmly smoothing the plaster with his trowel.

  “It seems your friends have left.” He stepped back and eyed the wall before turning to place the spoon across the bowl lip.

  “They have things to do.” Murian wondered if Widow Reeves had spoken to the others and suggested they leave her alone with the prince. More than likely.

  Murian didn’t know whether she was glad of this new freedom or not. It was certainly intoxicating to think of being in Max’s presence without worrying about being interrupted. She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him after their last encounter, when he’d made her writhe with such need—even now, shivers traveled through her at the memory.

  He came up behind her, slipped his arms about her, and gently pulled her to him. His cheek rested against her head, his breath stirring the hair at her temple. She leaned against him, soaking in his warmth, his strength.

  He rubbed his cheek against her hair. “You have plaster in your hair, milaya moya.”

  “I know. My hair willna stay in its pins. ’Tis one of the trials I must bear.”

  He chuckled, the sound rumbling in his chest. “I like the plaster; it shows me how you’ll look when you’re older and your hair is no longer red.”

  She winced. “I dinna want to think aboot that.”

  “Nyet.” He turned her in his arms so that she faced him. “You will be just as beautiful as you are now.”

  She slipped her arms about his waist. “I dinna believe a word you say, but it’s still lovely to hear.”

  He brushed her cheek with the back of his fingers, his green eyes intent. “I meant every word.”

  She smiled and, savoring the heat slowly building between them, rested her cheek on his shoulder. She liked this—being held and kissed by a man she respected and admired. Passion raced through her every time their eyes met, too.

  And that was enough. It would have to be. She’d come to realize over the last few weeks that she needed to preserve every bit of herself for her people. Perhaps when Spencer returned and things were back to normal . . .

  She closed her eyes. There was no more normal. Robert was gone. Her old way of life was gone. And while Max had reawakened her passions, he would soon be gone, too.

  Still, there was nothing wrong with this—with touching and being touched. The memories could give her strength when things again grew difficult, as they were bound to. So what harm could it do?

  But she knew what harm. She was not a woman who gave lightly. When she cared, she cared deeply. When she loved, it was with all her body and soul. Losing Robert had been brutal, and it had taken every ounce of strength she possessed to meet the obstacles she and her people had faced.

  And they weren’t done—not even close. Even if by some miracle she managed to find Robert’s journal, and it proved all she thought and hoped and prayed it would, Max would still leave. And she’d be here, starting a new, and perhaps just as difficult, stage of her own life. She fought a sigh and lost.

  Max tightened his hold as he heard that deep sigh. Over the last few weeks, he’d glimpsed that expression in her eyes and had recognized it for what it was—a flicker of tension, of worry. She was responsible for so many others, and he knew she felt as if she were walking atop a fence, wobbling from step to step, terrified of letting down those she loved.

  But he could see she was resilient, and he knew she’d find a way to address the troubles life handed her.

  She pulled back and looked up at him. “I wish we’d met some other place and time.”

  He didn’t pretend not to understand her. “It would be easier, nyet? But we have what we have. It must be enough.” He slipped a hand into her hair and tilted her face t
o his, trailing a kiss from her temple to the corner of her lips.

  She closed her eyes, some of the tension leaving her face.

  Perhaps this will help remove the rest. He captured her lips, gently but insistently, teasing them until she opened to him like a flower before a summer rain.

  She tasted of sunshine and innocence, and his body ached for her touch. He swept her against him, lifting her from her feet, all gentleness gone as he devoured her sweetness, kissing her until she gasped against his lips. “Max, please—”

  A noise arose outside. Voices raised, the jangle of a horse’s bridle.

  Max ignored it, trailing kisses down her cheek, to her neck—but Murian went still.

  She placed a hand on his chest. “We’ve a visitor. Did all of your men come with you?”

  He sighed and straightened, covering her hand with his own. “Nyet. I left Demidor and Raeff at Rowallen to await a courier who is to arrive today.”

  Her gaze went to the window. “Do you think that’s one of them?”

  “Perhaps. But do not worry. If they need us, they will come and get us. You may not have noticed, but no one seems shy about interrupting us.”

  She stepped away, pulling her hand free. “I’m not teasing, Max. We are hidden in the woods for a reason. You saw what Loudan did to the villages that assisted us. He would burn our houses, cut loose our stock, dump our food stores into the stream, and leave us to starve and freeze.”

  “If Loudan or any of his men had arrived, you’d have heard pistol shots. All of my men are armed, and they’ve been told to be on the ready. But nothing will soothe your fears until you see for yourself. Come. Get your cloak.” He tugged on his gloves and retrieved his coat and muffler, while she hurried to fetch her cloak.

  She swung it around her shoulders and reached the door before him.

  He caught her hand as she reached for the door. “When you know who has come, and are no longer concerned, may we return here? I am not finished talking to you.”

  “Talking, eh?” Her lips quirked, and she said with a wry smile, “Good, for I am not done talking to you, either.”

  He moved his hand from hers and opened the door. “After you, my lady.”

  She went outside, Max following. He closed the door behind him and looked down the road. “Ah, it is Demidor. The courier must have come early.” Max turned to Murian. “See? We could still be talking.”

  Her lips quirked, but she didn’t yield. “Go see what he wants.”

  He sighed as if much put-upon. “Fine. Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

  Murian watched Max stride up the street. As soon as Demidor saw him, the younger man hurried forward, and the two exchanged words. At one point, Max glanced at Murian before answering a comment from his guard.

  The look sparked hope. He’s had news that will help us. I’m sure of it.

  The younger man withdrew a packet from his coat and handed it to Max.

  A prick of snow touched Murian’s cheek. Surprised, she glanced up but could see no more. The sky, though, was solid gray. It would start within the next day or two. She could taste it.

  When she looked back at Max, Demidor was leading his horse to the stable while Max was tucking the missive into his coat as he returned to her.

  “What’s happened?” she asked as soon as he was near enough to hear.

  Max shook his head against the worry in her eyes. “Nyet. It is good news. Demidor overheard the earl tell some of the other guests that the singer he has been trying to bribe into visiting Rowallen has confirmed.”

  Her eyes flashed with instant excitement and a twinge of jealousy hit Max, an uneasy truth settling over him. He’d never thought of himself as spoiled. Though being a prince brought many benefits, he’d always kept his way of life plain, leaving behind the trappings of wealth and privilege when he could. When he camped with his men, it wasn’t in a luxurious tent with gold-trimmed furnishings, which he’d seen done many times by other noblemen, including his father and brothers. Nor did Max trade on his position and name to gain favors in court, or for the attention of women.

  He made his own way, based solely on his efforts on and off the battlefield. Or so he’d thought until he’d met Murian. For the last few weeks, he’d done nothing but think about kissing her again, tasting her again, touching her again. Now, after finally winning some ground from her villagers, who had a maddening tendency to protect their mistress as if she were a national treasure and they an elite troop of guards, it nipped at him that she could so quickly move her attention from him to her desire to win Rowallen.

  It was maddening—and as his patience evaporated, so did his reluctance to use his title to his benefit. After days of frustration, he would have gladly issued a royal decree in order to spend some time alone with Murian.

  The entire situation made him realize how rarely he had to fight for such things. When he saw a woman he thought he might enjoy, he wooed her and he won. Always. Yet this woman, her mind consumed by righting an injustice, surrounded by a small village of people who loved and needed her, seemed impervious to him.

  Wooing her presented a unique challenge. If he wanted her complete attention, he would have to help her find that damned journal. Perhaps once she’d realized that objective, she would be free to enjoy what time they had left.

  She brushed a curl away, leaving a plaster smudge across her cheek. “When does the singer arrive?”

  “Soon.” He removed his glove. “Hold still.” He brushed her cheek with his fingertips.

  Her eyes flew to his, surprise on her face. Puffs of icy breath rolled from her plump lips, moist and warm, her eyes shimmering with surprise and . . . excitement? God, he wished they were still in Widow Atchison’s cottage, so he could capture those lips with his.

  As if she could read his thoughts, her lashes dropped and she retreated behind the fortifications she was all too quick to throw up.

  “Hold,” he ordered.

  Her gaze narrowed, but she held still. Max brushed her cheek again, this time for the mere pleasure of the touch. “You had plaster on your face. It is gone.”

  “Thank you.” The wind whipped anew and she tugged her hood, shivering as her cloak danced about her. “We should talk aboot the singer.”

  “Yes, we should. Shall we retire to Widow Atchison’s cottage?”

  “Nay. Mine would be best.”

  He thought of the huge bed gracing one corner of her cottage. “Fine.” He captured her elbow and walked with her toward her cottage. “We have much to plan—”

  “Och, there’s Ian.” She stood on her tiptoes. “Ian!”

  The giant was pushing a wheelbarrow filled with stone down the street, but at her shout, he turned their way. He came to a stop in front of Murian, red-faced and puffing. “Aye?”

  “The prince has word about the singer coming to Rowallen. We must discuss how to make the best use of this opportunity.”

  “Here now, lassie, ye dinna need to be sneakin’ back into the castle. ’Twas a disaster last time, and ’tis bound to be the same this—”

  “Ian, I am cold. The wind is blowing. I’m going to discuss this in my cottage, so either come there, or do not be heard.” She turned on her heel and marched up the street, leaving both Max and Ian behind.

  Ian puffed out his cheeks. “She seems a bit oot of sorts.”

  “She’s determined to find that journal. Perhaps more than is good for her.”

  “Aye. So I’ve thought fer some time. Weel, I suppose we’d best go and talk wi’ her. If we dinna, she’ll go on some wild ploy wi’oot tellin’ us a blasted thing.”

  “You’re right.” Max sighed. “It might take the two of us to keep her out of trouble.” He led the way, wistfully eyeing Widow Atchison’s empty cottage as he went.

  Chapter 13

  Max opened the door for Ian, then followed the older man inside.

  “I’ll close it.” Will Scarlae followed them inside, and then shut the door with a decided bang.

/>   “Wha’ are ye doin’ here?” Ian hung his coat on a peg by the door. “Ye’re supposed to be pickin’ oop the broken boards and wha’ no’.”

  “Widow Reeves said ’twould be best to do it at the end of the day. So I thought I’d join ye here and help.” Will narrowed his gaze. “Ye are plannin’ somethin’, are ye no’?”

  “Aye, we are.” Murian tucked her mittens into her cloak pocket before she hung it on the screen at the far end of the room. “Ian, he can stay. It canna be a bad thing to have another brain thinking through our plans.”

  Will looked pleased as punch as he hung his coat over the back of a chair, then sat stiffly, as if ready to be presented with a daunting task.

  Ian sat across from the youth, his chair creaking in protest. “We shouldna’ be talkin’ in front of the lad.”

  “Nonsense,” Murian said. “Will wants the castle back as much as we do; ’twas his home.”

  “Humph.” Ian didn’t look convinced. “Will, mayhap ye should tell the prince how ye were captured by the earl’s men no’ a month ago.”

  A dull red colored the youth’s face. “So I was,” he said boldly. “But I know the castle weel and wi’ the help of a chambermaid, I escaped.”

  “Ian, let the lad be.” Murian sent them both a hard look as she crossed to stand before the fire. “ ’Tis time we expected more of him.”

  Ian didn’t look as if he agreed the least bit, but Will sent her a grateful look. “Thank ye, me lady. I’ll do ye proud, I will.”

  “I’m sure you will. So listen well; the prince has brought us news.”

  Will nodded and Max, looking at him closely, realized he wasn’t as young as he’d thought. Judging from Will’s slight build and sullen air, Max had thought him sixteen or seventeen. On closer inspection, Will looked to be in his mid-twenties. Max had men under his command who’d successfully led troops at Will’s age, though he couldn’t begin to imagine that of this weak-chinned lad.

  “Will knows the castle top to bottom.” Murian put another log on the fire and then took a seat nearby, holding her booted feet toward the warmth. “He grew up at Rowallen and could be of great help.”