The Prince and I

  “I know the back hallways better than anyone, e’en Lady Murian.”

  “By all means, then, let him stay.” Max crossed to the fire and leaned against the mantel. He wished for the warmth, but also the proximity of Murian, who sat not two feet from him. The log she’d added to the fire blazed, turning her hair into copper and gold.

  “Wha’ aboot this singer?” Ian asked, his voice rough with impatience.

  Max pulled his gaze from Murian. “The famous opera singer, Madame Dufond, performs at Rowallen on Tuesday.”

  “In four days,” Murian said.

  “Da. There will be a dinner, followed by a performance.”

  Murian leaned forward. “Is he inviting the local gentry?”

  “Invitations were sent this morning; one of my men saw them.”

  Murian was clearly pleased. “So ’tis set then.” Deep in thought, she worried her bottom lip with her teeth.

  A warmth rushed through Max that had nothing to do with the fire. To cover it, he asked, “What do you know of how the guards are posted?”

  “A little.” Murian held her hands toward the flames. “If Loudan is inviting more than a dozen or more people, he’ll double the footmen in the foyer and station more at every doorway. He does that every time he has a party.”

  “Those are no’ footmen,” Will said, rubbing his cheekbone as if remembering a pain.

  “Some of them are,” Murian said. “You can easily tell the difference, though.”

  “Aye,” Ian agreed. “The guards are brutes and make the footmen look like wee willies.”

  “So I’ve noticed,” Max said drily. “What else do you know of the guards?”

  “They’re no’ from around here, so they often get lost once they leave the castle.” Ian stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Whene’er Loudan has guests, he adds a ring of guards ootside the castle.”

  “That’s in addition to the guards riding the grounds,” Murian said. “He’s predictable, in some ways.” She absently tucked an escaped strand of hair behind one ear. “Which is good for us.”

  Max wondered what Murian’s untamed hair portended between the sheets. Would she be extra passionate? More inclined to wildness and—

  Ian cleared his throat, long and loud.

  Max found the giant’s gaze on him, the dark red brows tightly knit. Max merely shrugged.

  Murian, deep in thought, tapped her fingers on the arms of her chair. “Loudan will use the blue salon for the performance, for ’tis the nicest in the castle and holds a good number of guests. I’ll don my disguise, as I did for the dance. Then, while everyone is listening—”

  “Nyet!”

  “Nay!”

  Max and Ian snapped their no’s at the same time, and Ian said, “ ’Tis too dangerous, lass. Ye took a chance last time. This time, let me or someone else take the risk.”

  “I’ll do it,” Will offered.

  Murian shook her head. “I know what the journal looks like, and no one knows the master chamber better than I do.”

  “Ye’ll get caught,” Ian said.

  “I wasna caught last time. Loudan looked straight at me and dinna know me at all.”

  “Your disguise was masterful,” Max agreed. “But Ian is right: this event will be different than the dance, and a simple disguise won’t work.”

  A stubborn line tightened her jaw. “Why not?”

  “At a dance people mill about, moving from room to room, in dim candlelight. It’s easy to disappear under such circumstances. A singer, though, will draw everyone to one room. All of the guests will be seated in one place, with many candelabras lit to brighten the performance. It will be much harder to escape notice.”

  Her chin firmed, and after a tense moment, she said in a tight voice. “Then what do you suggest?”

  Will leaned forward eagerly. “Let me do the searchin’, me lady! I can go in dressed as a footman and no one will know—”

  “Where’s yer haid, boy,” Ian growled. “They know ye already, so one look at ye and we’d be done.”

  “I could wear a disguise like her ladyship did,” Will said hotly. “And don a uniform like the other footmen.”

  “And do ye think the other footmen—who are guards—would no’ notice a new face standin’ there amongst them, lookin’ like the biggest lump on a log?”

  Will flushed, sinking into his chair. “I was just tryin’ to help.”

  “Ye hadna thought of anything, fra’ wha’ I can tell.” Ian sighed heavily. “So. We know there’s to be an event, wi’ a lot of comin’ and goin’ at the castle. Where does tha’ leave us?”

  Murian answered, “Perhaps it wouldna make sense to go in disguised. I’m not sure how else to approach it.”

  Max toyed with the idea of not saying anything, on the faint hope that Murian would decide it too dangerous to go near the castle, but the stubborn line of her jaw told him that such hope was in vain.

  He sighed. “If you must go, my men and I will meet you inside Rowallen, clear the guards, and escort you to the bedchamber.” At least then she’d be protected.

  Her eyes gleamed. “Can you do that?”

  “Of course. We’ll need to study the layout of the grounds around Rowallen and decide which entryway would be the safest.”

  “We already know that,” she said. “There’s a rise on the west side of the castle. It’s easy to hide on that ridge and then slip in under dark. Isna it, Ian?”

  Ian sighed but grunted an agreement.

  Max asked him, “How many times have you slipped into the castle?”

  Ian stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Two dozen times. Mayhap more.”

  Max whistled silently.

  Ian shrugged. “In the beginning, Loudan dinna have so many guards. No’ like now. And it’s gotten e’en worse since the earl realized we’d been in and oot of Rowallen wi’oot his knowing.”

  Max cut a glance at Will, who instantly flushed. “Aye,” the young man agreed. “The earl doubled the guards after I was caught.”

  “How did you get in before there were so many guards?” Max asked.

  Murian grinned. “Easy. We’d hold up the earl’s guests on their way to Rowallen.”

  Ian said, “The earl would get furious and send his guards into the woods to find us, which they ne’er did, as none of them are fra’ this area.”

  “I daresay you led them on a merry chase.”

  “Aye.” Ian looked a bit smug. “We’d let them see us, ride ahead, and then hide whilst they thundered past. After they were weel gone, we’d circle behind them and ride directly to Rowallen. It worked weel, until Will was taken. After tha’, there were too many guards fer us to slip past.”

  Max had to admire their spirit. So far, he hadn’t met a single person in this small hamlet who didn’t have the heart of a lion, especially their leader. He eyed Murian now. “So you must reach Loudan’s bedchamber.”

  She nodded. “It has to be there.”

  He glanced past her to Ian, whose face showed doubt. So you are not as certain as your mistress as to the whereabouts of this journal.

  Max picked up the fire iron and stirred the logs. “I’ll need to walk the castle, have my men draw a layout of the grounds, do a head count of the enemy forces, test the—”

  “I can tell you all you wish to know,” Murian said in an impatient voice. “We dinna need your men to do more than stand guard, and, if we’re discovered, keep the earl’s men at bay until we escape.”

  “Nyet. That will not work.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because neither I nor my men can be involved in a direct engagement with the earl or his men.”

  Three pairs of eyes bored into Max.

  He explained, “Since I am a prince, everything I do is representative of Oxenburg, whether I wish it to be or not. If my men and I were to attack the earl or his men in his own castle, it could be construed as an act of aggression. It could politically embarrass my country—I cannot do it.”

  “I s
ee.”

  He caught the deep disappointment in Murian’s gaze. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t assist you. I’ve no issue with misleading Loudan or his men, or helping you reach the master bedchamber for your search.” He gave her a wolfish grin. “I only have an issue with getting caught.”

  “As do I,” Murian said, looking relieved.

  “Then we’re set. If you do this—”

  “When I do this,” she corrected him.

  “When we do this, my men and I will assist you in every way possible. Loudan is hiding something that belongs to my family, too. I must recover that object, and it would be better if the earl never realized it was gone from his possession until after my men and I escort my grandmother from the castle.”

  “Aye. Of course.” Her gaze was shadowed. “If we find the journal and your grandmother’s lost item, you . . . all of you will leave?”

  “Da. I must escort my grandmother back to Oxenburg, and then I have obligations to fulfill.”

  “Of course.” She managed a smile, but it was every bit as tight as Max’s chest felt. He’d been upset to only have a few weeks left, but now . . . Only days?

  “Wha’ part am I to take?” Will asked eagerly.

  Max pursed his lips. “If Will knows the castle, then perhaps he should be the one to search—”

  “Nay,” Murian said.

  “ ’Twill be easier to explain his presence than yours.”

  Will brightened.

  “He’s never seen the journal,” Murian said in a firm tone. “I have. Therefore I am the only one who can do this.”

  “Nonsense. You can describe it to him.”

  “Nay.” Her voice rose slightly. “ ’Tis mine to find, not his.”

  “ ’Twould be safer if—”

  “Nay.” She leaned forward, her hands tight on the arms of her chair. “ ’Twould only be safer for me. Not for anyone else.”

  He realized that her objection wasn’t that she mistrusted the lad, but that she refused to place him in harm’s way.

  “I see.” Far better than he wanted. He pushed away from the mantel. “Fortunately, we have several days to find the safest way to do this, and the stealthiest.”

  Her silver gaze searched his face. Whatever she saw must have reassured her, for she nodded. “Thank you. And I vow we will find whatever the grand duchess lost to Loudan, too.”

  Ian’s blue gaze cut in Max’s direction. “Wha’ did she lose?”

  “A tiara. A very special tiara.” Max walked to where he’d hung his coat. “I’ll have my men do a survey of the castle and lands, and mark all of the guard posts. I’ve already had my men noting the habits of the footmen and guards. Once we have all of that information, we’ll draw up a battle plan.”

  “How long will that take?” Murian asked.

  “A few days, no more. We will be ready when the time comes. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I should see if my men need assistance. We wish to finish Widow Brodie’s roof before the storm hits.” He took Murian’s hand in his, frowning as he noted how chapped it was. “Dorogaya moya, wool mittens are not enough.”

  She tugged her hand free, her lips pressed into an unhappy line. “They do just fine, thank you.” She glanced under her lashes at Ian and Will before saying to Max, “I suppose I should fetch some help to finish the plastering, then.”

  For a moment he was tempted—so tempted—to offer to be that “help,” but he knew it was a lost cause. She was too taken with their coming raid upon Rowallen, and that same raid worried him. They had much more “talking” to do, but not now.

  “I’ll help with the plasterin’,” Will offered.

  “The lad would be guid at tha’,” Ian approved. He rose from his chair and stretched. “I should finish up me chores, too. I’ve ten more wheelbarrows full of slate to move.” He lumbered to the door. “Come along, Will. I’ll show ye how to mix more plaster, fer ye’ll be needin’ it afore the day is oot.”

  Looking pleased, Will joined Ian, both of them shrugging into their coats.

  Max bowed to Murian. For a moment she thought he might say something, but all he did was murmur a good-bye before he followed Ian and Will out the door.

  Left alone, Murian rubbed her arms. She’d waited and waited for her chance to return to Rowallen, and suddenly things were happening quickly. It would be much easier if she could plan the entire event herself, but she’d be a fool to not use the prince’s help while she had it. He’ll be gone soon enough. Too soon.

  Her heart sank, and she resolutely told herself, That’s fine. I didn’t expect anything else. But a hollow ache grew in her chest at the thought of life after Max left. In some deep, secret part of her, she’d done that most dangerous of things . . . she’d hoped. What she’d hoped for, she refused to examine—because it didn’t really matter. Max would leave after they’d recovered the journal and tiara. He would have to.

  Fate was cruel and capricious; she gave and then she took away. Sighing, she put on her cloak and trudged back out into the cold.

  Chapter 14

  The next day, the village awoke to find itself covered in a deep, heavy snow that sparkled in the sunshine. Murian loved the way the frosted trees looked like something from a fairy tale. Unable to sit still for too long despite the snow, she and Ian made their way to the barn where they worked inside, making shutters. It was good for her to do something with her hands; it would keep her too busy to overthink either the coming escapade at Rowallen or the warm green eyes of a certain black-haired, wicked-smiling man.

  Yet in the lonely dark of night, oh, how she’d overthought them both.

  After finishing the shutters, she and Ian had decided to brave the snow and hang them. That had been an hour ago, and she was now hammering the final hinge into place.

  She squinted at her handiwork. “Well?” she called down to Ian, who held her ladder. “How does it look?”

  “Grand, lassie.” He pursed his lips before saying in an encouraging voice, “Only a wee bit crooked, which is nay bad at all.”

  “Blast it! It should be straight, for I marked it.” She leaned back a bit so she could see the entire thing better. “I marked it twice; I dinna ken how it could be croo—”

  Ian’s guffaw made her give him a mock scowl. “Och, you’re a tease, Ian Beagin.”

  “Jus’ funnin’ ye, lassie. ’Tis straight as can be. Sadly, I canna say the same fer the buildin’, which leans to the right.”

  “I’ve noticed. Sadly, that, we cannot fix.” She hung the hammer on the belt she’d strapped about her waist and climbed down, her boots crunching on the snow Ian had stomped into flatness for the ladder.

  Murian brushed snow from her shoulder, grimacing when a sliver of it slid down her neck.

  Ian guffawed again. He was much more cheerful now that so many of the repairs had been completed. He was almost giddy, knowing more would be done once the weather cleared.

  The knowledge warmed her, too, though not to the extent that it did Ian. She saw their little village as a stop on the road back to Rowallen, but she was beginning to think Ian believed it to be their final destination.

  Never. We will return to Rowallen, all of us. She’d pledged herself to this course, and she wouldn’t veer from it, come what may.

  She glanced down the wide path into the village. Heavy with snow, the forest seemed to swallow it up. The prince and his men might not come for a couple of days, and she felt oddly restless at the thought. She’d been that way since the snow had begun, and she’d caught herself staring out the windows when she was inside, and watching down the lane when she was outside. She missed the bustle Max and his men had brought to their little village. But more than that, she missed Max himself, which worried her.

  Perhaps it was because he didn’t treat her as “Lady Murian,” but simply as a woman. Even though his birth had placed him in a high position, he was quick to abandon society’s rules. Of course, he’d witnessed firsthand that greatest of all levelers—war. She’d heard Spe
ncer say time and again that there were no dukes in war, only good soldiers and bad. Perhaps that explained the prince’s unconventional attitudes.

  Ian removed the ladder and placed it alongside the wall. “I’ll fetch the shutters fer Widow Reeves’s cottage, if ye’re no’ too tired to affix ’em.”

  “I’m never too tired to put up new shutters,” she answered staunchly.

  “Guid,” Ian said. “Fer we’ve at least twenty more to do.” With a firm nod, he headed to the barn.

  Murian lifted her face to the cool breeze that rustled through the trees, admiring how the snow glistened on the branches. Their village was silent except for an occasional murmur of voices from some of the cottages, or the plop of wet snow where it fell from heavily bent tree branches.

  There was no telling how long the snow would remain. But when it did . . . Her gaze went to the path into the village. He will return.

  Her heart leapt. It concerned her—this inexplicable excitement from just thinking about Max, a wild and wanton mixture of . . . She had no idea what it was, and she didn’t want to find out. But she wished it would stop. It’s just passion. Passion and excitement. Soon I’ll have Robert’s journal in my hands, the prince and his men will be gone, and things will return to normal.

  Her excitement faded, a deep ache replacing it. She looked at the road into the village again and, to her horror, felt tears rising.

  Thankfully the barn door opened, and Ian came out with a stack of shutters on his shoulder, a bag of fasteners tucked in his belt.

  She dashed the back of her mitten over her eyes before he could notice, and soon she was helping him stack the shutters by Widow Reeves’s cottage.

  Done with that task, she took the bag of fasteners he handed her, and secured it to her belt. Ian stomped down the snow for the ladder.

  “There. Tha’ will do.” Ian gave the ground a last stomp, then hoisted the ladder to the wall. “Be careful, lass. Yer boots may be slip—” His gaze focused over her shoulder, his heavy eyebrows rising. “Weel, now. I dinna expect to see tha’ today.”

  Could it be? Her heart answered before she even turned. There, riding their horses down the snow-covered lane, were Max and his men. Snow powdered their broad, wool-clad shoulders and clung to their horses’ manes. Dressed in fur-lined hats, their beards covering their thick fur collars, their riding boots shiny and wet from the snow, they seemed like exotic beings from a distant land.