The Prince and I

  “And a hair trigger,” Max said in a dry tone. “Don’t point it in a direction you don’t wish to shoot.”

  The young highwayman’s jaw tightened. “I know pistols, I do. I’ve no need fer yer advice.” He emptied the chamber, pocketed the bullets, and dropped the pistol back onto the road beside the sword.

  Why didn’t he take the—

  “Dinna get any wild ideas, Prince,” the giant warned.

  “The only idea I have is to find a warm fire and some ale, and there’s none to be had here.”

  The giant grunted agreement. “ ’Tis possible a small donation might see ye sooner on yer way to a wee dram and a warm fire.”

  “A donation?”

  “Aye. A thanks, ye could call it, fer safe passage.” The giant’s eyes gleamed with humor. “The woods are filled wi’ bandits.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Max returned drily. He’d never met such polite highwaymen, and in his wide travels he’d met quite a few. What is this? There must be a reason. Perhaps I should test them. He rocked back on his heels. “I’m in no mood to pay a donation. If you wish for handouts, go see your parish church.”

  The giant didn’t move, but his brows lowered.

  Max added, “In fact, I am tired of standing in the cold and believe I shall go.” He bent and retrieved his sword.

  “Stop there!” The huge man moved toward Max, his beefy hand rising to the pistol stuck in his belt. “Drop yer sword!”

  “Nyet,” Max said softly. He slid the sword back into its scabbard, using the side of his foot to surreptitiously nudge away his pistol so it wouldn’t be underfoot if he had to use the blade. “If you want it, then come and get it.” He readied himself, but the leader, who still held himself from the group, murmured a word that made the giant’s brow blacken yet more, though his hand moved away from the pistol in his belt.

  Obviously every bit as disappointed as Max, the huge man growled, “I suppose ye can keep it. If ye’ll find yer way to makin’ a small donation to our cause, oot of sheer happiness of havin’ a safe way ahead of ye.”

  “How do I know it’s safe from here on out?”

  “Because we made it so, dinna we, men?”

  “Aye!” replied the men, several of them oddly gruff in tone.

  The giant nodded his shaggy head. “There ye go; a guarantee. If ye like, ye can toss yer gold where ye threw yer pistol.”

  If Tata Natasha weren’t here, the outcome of this would be vastly different. Even as he had the thought, Max caught a movement where Orlov stood. In Oxenburgian, Max said quietly to his sergeant, “We cannot. The duchess is with us.”

  Orlov, whose hand had been slowly moving toward his hidden pistol, grimaced and then gave a regretful nod. “Aye, General.”

  “Here now,” the giant called gruffly. “Dinna be talkin’ tha’ gibberish. If ye’ve somethin’ to say, then say it in proper language.”

  “I was telling my sergeant we should cooperate so that we might soon be enjoying a beverage near a warm fire.”

  “If he’d really like to help quicken yer departure, he can donate to the cause, too.” The giant looked at Orlov. “Would ye like to gi’ a bit to the effort, lad?”

  Orlov scowled, but with a regretful glance at the duchess’s coach, pulled some coins from his pocket and tossed them where Max’s pistol lay.

  Max cast a hard glance at the slender man still standing in the shadows. No doubt he was silently laughing at their helplessness. Ehta prosta nivazmozhna. I will enjoy bringing you to justice, my fine friend. But for now, there was no more to be done. “Here.” Max withdrew a few coins from his pocket and tossed them to the icy mud.

  The giant’s smile slipped. “Surely tha’ isna all ye ha’.”

  “It’s all you’ll get.”

  The giant’s thick red brows knit over his nose, but he gestured to the caped highwayman, who hurried forward to collect the gold.

  Max tried to get a look at the handle of the pistol sticking out from the youth’s waistband, but the knotted belt rope prevented a clear view. Still, the belt told its own story. A flamboyant cape but only a frayed rope for a belt. The cape is fine indeed, but the belt indicates the true state of affairs.

  Max flicked a glance over each of the men within the faint light cast by the lanterns on the sides of the coaches. Though he could see none of their faces, their barely adequate coats, boots with holes in the toes, and the rest of their worn attire were plainly visible.

  He noted then the thinness of the caped lad’s hands, the deep lines around his eyes. They look as if they’re hungry.

  Max’s jaw tightened and he sent a look at Orlov to see if he’d noticed the same thing, receiving a faint nod in return.

  Max turned his attention back to the young man, who was now tucking the coins into a worn leather bag. As he did so, he bit each one. “Ian, they’re all real!”

  The giant stiffened, while the leader shifted in the shadows.

  “Sorry,” the lad mumbled as he pulled out a small bag and secreted the coins away and then hurried out of sight.

  Max eyed the giant with a grin. “Ian, is it?”

  Ian’s thick brows couldn’t have been knit tighter. “Ferget ye heard tha’. Now open the door to yer coach an’ ask the grand duchess if she wishes to donate to our cause, too. I daresay she has a brooch or two she’s tired of, and would like to see used fer worthier reasons.”

  “Nyet. There’s nothing of value in that coach other than a cranky old woman. Well . . . except a basket of food I’m willing to ‘donate,’ as you call it.”

  “Food?”

  “Da. Some spit-roasted chickens, fresh bread, jams, boiled eggs, cheeses. You may have it only if you will leave the grand duchess in peace and let us leave quickly.”

  The giant’s eyes glistened and he placed a hand on his stomach as if already tasting the contents of the basket. His gaze flickered to their leader.

  A faint nod answered him.

  “Fine!” Ian rocked back on his heels, looking well pleased. “We accept yer donation. A chicken or two would no’ be amiss.”

  Max returned to the coach and opened the door, his body blocking the view of the interior. A slat of light fell across Tata Natasha’s furious face.

  “What are you doing?” she hissed.

  He picked up the basket, whispering sternly, “I told you to stay hidden.”

  “Nyet!” Her gnarled hands grabbed the basket handle. “I won’t give good chickens to a group of dirty thieves!”

  Max lowered his voice. “They are hungry, Tata Natasha.”

  She stopped tugging on the basket, her gaze locked on his face. “How do you know?”

  “I can see it in their eyes.”

  “Oh.” She released the basket, adding in a sullen tone, “I suppose they can have it, then. We can stop at the next inn—”

  “Nyet. We go straight to Rowallen Castle. We will be safer there than in these woods.”

  She scowled. “I will starve by the time we—”

  He threw the blanket back over her head, took the basket, and slammed the door behind him.

  Ian had moved closer, the light from the lone remaining lantern now slanting across his face, and Max could see the man’s blue eyes were now crinkled with good humor. “The grand duchess sounds like a woman of spirit.”

  “That’s one word for it. I call it stubbornness.” Max placed the basket on the ground and pushed it forward with his foot.

  The giant jerked his head, and the scarlet-cloaked youth came to take the basket. He peered inside, his eyes wide. “Och, Ian, there’s a ham hock the size o’ yer heed! An’ bread, an’ pots of jam, an’— Bloody ’ell, there’s one, two, three . . . four chickens!” He tilted the basket so his comrades could see.

  The men stirred, some of them closer now and several steps away from their original posts, their gazes locked on the food.

  The leader called out, his husky voice hushed but commanding.

  The men returned to their post
s, reluctantly tearing their gazes from the basket.

  Hopefully a group of thieves so obviously happy to have procured a basket of food would now be in a hurry to send them on their way. But Max still had to tread carefully, for there were weapons all around him and— He frowned. Were they even loaded? Men who couldn’t afford food could not afford powder. If Tata Natasha weren’t here, I’d test that theory.

  The scarlet-clad thief carried the heavy basket into the mist-thickened woods. One of the shadowy figures came out from behind a tree to take it from him, lantern light catching the thief’s hands—far too delicate and slender for a man’s.

  A woman? Max’s frown deepened. Perhaps the shadowy figures are all women, trying to create the imager of a larger force—

  “The basket and the coins are a guid start,” the giant said, obviously emboldened by his success. “But I noticed ye’ve a pretty bauble upon yer hand. One last donation, Prince, and we’ll leave ye to a smooth, safe journey.”

  Max looked down at his gold ring, a gift from his mother when he’d turned sixteen. He curled his hand closed. “While you are more than welcome to the gold and the basket, the ring is personal property. You’ll get no more.”

  Ian’s brow lowered as he rested his hand on the butt of his pistol. “Ye’re a greedy one. I’ve a mind to—”

  The leader coughed softly, and Ian removed his hand from his pistol.

  You have them under tight control, my friend. Max couldn’t help but grudgingly admit some respect for the brigand leader.

  But only a little. “Our business is done, and—”

  The leather curtain on the coach lifted and Tata Natasha’s hand appeared, no longer be-ringed as she tossed some rings upon the ground, a few gold coins rolling with them.

  Damn it, you were told to stay hidden! Will you never listen?

  Ian blinked in astonishment at the unexpected bounty, and his eyes crinkled with delight. “Och, Her Grace is generous, unlike her grandson.” He raised his voice, “Thank ye, Yer Grace!” He squinted at the reply, which wasn’t in English. “Wha’ did she say?”

  “It had to do with goats and your parentage.”

  The giant chuckled. “Full of vinegar, is she?”

  “You have no idea. But be that as it may, I am done with this, so I will leave you.” Max turned and walked toward the coach.

  “Hold!” the giant bellowed. “Wha’ of tha’ ring?”

  Max turned, resting his hand on one hip. It was a showy pose, but it put his hand in easy reach of his sword. “If you wish to attack me, you with your entire retinue of fools and thieves, all so brave behind your pistols and muskets, then do so now. I grow tired of this game.”

  Ian puffed out his cheeks, his face red. “I’ll show ye brave—”

  “Stand doon, Ian. I ha’ this.” The leader stepped forward, walking into the edge of the light that pooled from the lantern. Tallish and slender, he was dressed far more dapperly than the others in a green coat with silver buttons.

  Max hid his pleasure at this new development. Finally, you join in the fun. Perhaps this little encounter will be enjoyable after all.

  Chapter 2

  Almost as one, the thieves moved back for their leader. Not that the man needed much room. Judging from the thief’s lanky movements and his narrow build, he was more child than man.

  It was a pity Max couldn’t see the youth’s face to confirm his age, for a kerchief covered most of it, leaving naught but bright eyes shining in the shadow of his hat brim.

  And that hat! It was splendid, if old, in fashion a half century ago. As green as the youth’s coat, it was decorated with a bold white feather. It was just the sort of hat a youth might think made one look dashing. A rather vain youth.

  “Wha’ seems to be the problem?” The lantern touched the leader’s velvet coat with a shimmering light as he swaggered forward, one hand resting on the elaborate hilt of his sword.

  Ian grunted. “ ’Tis the prince, sir. He dinna wish to donate more to our cause.”

  “A pity, fer ’tis such a just one.”

  Max flicked a curious glance over the leader’s weapons, which were boldly on display. A bow and arrows hung in a quiver over one shoulder, while a thin sword hung from the wide leather belt that tightened the lad’s too-large coat around his waist.

  The sword held Max’s attention. It was a rapier, one of exceptional quality, if the style and ornate work on the hilt were any indication. In the wilds of Scotland? Wherever you stole that, you’re out if you think to use it. Commoners do not know how to fence, my finely feathered friend.

  The leader eyed him now, a boldness to his stance. “I’m pleased to make yer acquaintance, Yer Highness.”

  “You have the advantage of me; I don’t know your name.” Max raised his brows. “Unless you’re afraid to share it?”

  “Tryin’ to tease me into revealin’ more than I wish, are ye?”

  Max bowed. “Why not?”

  “Why no’, indeed.” Humor clear in his light-colored eyes, the leader said in a husky voice, “If ye must ha’ a name, then ye may call me ‘Robin.’ Robin of the Hood.”

  Max wished he could see the expression in the lad’s eyes better under that damnable hat. They were astonishingly pale, though, making the lashes that framed them seem thick and dark.

  “I know the story of Robin Hood.” Max moved a bit, hoping to make the lad turn more toward the lantern. “We have a similar story in my own country, of a thief who steals from the rich and gives to the poor. Of course, in our story, he is caught and hanged, as is only proper for a thief.”

  Though the lad shrugged, Max had the impression that ‘Robin’ had lost his smile, though the kerchief covered the evidence. “Och, time will tell, will it no’, my fine foreign prince? Meanwhile, if ye wish to speak wi’ me, ye may call me Robin. Master Robin.”

  Once Max had subdued this pack of mangy thieves, he’d take great pleasure in schooling some manners into this youth. “So, boy . . .” Max waited for a protest to the term “boy,” but none came. Odd. I don’t know many young men who wouldn’t chafe at that. “As I told your giant, I’ve given all I’ll give.”

  Ian grumbled, “There’s more our prince here can give. Fer one, he has a ring on his hand.”

  The thief tilted his head, regarding Max for a long moment. Whatever he saw, the thief shook his head. “Nay, Ian. I think His Highness ha’ already donated weel and guid. He may ha’ more, but there’s no reason fer greed.” He waved a hand at Max. “Off wi’ ye. And thank ye fer yer donation toward keepin’ yer travels safe in our fair forest.”

  The youth’s insolent tone boiled Max’s blood. “Your fair forest? You have it wrong: this forest belongs to the Earl of Loudan. I owe him for my safe passage, not you.”

  Something flashed in the pale eyes, something icy and quick. “You know the earl well, do you?” The lad’s voice crackled with fire.

  “I know Loudan quite well,” Max lied. An angry opponent makes mistakes. And this seems to make you quite angry. “In fact,” he added ruthlessly, “the earl is one of my closest friends. I admire and like him.” Max met the lad’s gaze. “I think Loudan the finest human being I’ve ever known.”

  The youth’s eyes burned, his entire body rigid. “If that is true, then you dinna know many people.”

  Such passion. I once had that. Passion that saw me through the hardest of times. He’d had that until the last war had dashed it from his soul. Though to be honest, it wasn’t the war itself that sat on his shoulders late at night and weighed down the brightness of the morning, but the aftermath of that war.

  Over the years he’d had to deliver last words to too many tragic-eyed widows, had been forced to look into the hopeless gazes of too many freshly orphaned children grieving for fathers who would never return. It had never been easy, and the taste of those encounters had been bitter upon his soul.

  But in the last war, Max had lost one of his own. Dimitri Fedorovich had been as close to Max as his own broth
ers, perhaps closer. Fedorovich had died from a sniper’s bullet during a heated battle with the French, and had been standing so close to Max that the bullet’s zing rang in his ears for days after. Max had felt the death keenly, but worse was to come—on his return home he’d had to tell Fedorovich’s young wife of her loss. Henrietta had screamed hysterically and could not be comforted, and then, sobbing wildly, had thrown herself from the window of her home. She’d survived but had been horribly injured.

  The entire incident had left Max with a burning hole where his soul had once been. Hot coals of fury at the loss still remained, and the slightest breath of air fanned them into life.

  And right now those flames had been stirred by an insolent youth with a flair for the dramatic. Max’s good humor was no more.

  “I’ve had enough of this, and enough of you,” he snapped. “You are a fool, and a thief, and a paltry want-to-be outlaw.”

  Robin stiffened, his cocksureness turning into outrage. “How dare you!”

  “How dare I? How dare you, a thief who hides behind a kerchief? You are a coward and nothing more.”

  “You have gone too far, Prince,” Robin snarled through clenched teeth. “But I am not surprised; all of Loudan’s so-called friends are as despicable as he.”

  Max showed his teeth in a smile he didn’t feel. “Oddly, your dislike of the earl has chased away much of your accent.” The lad’s accent had gone from rustic to refined; his speech was quite similar to what Max had heard at the Edinburgh court not three days ago. This thief had once been fed with a silver spoon. “You, sir, are a lie.”

  The lad grasped the hilt of the rapier.

  “Easy, there,” Ian rumbled. “Dinna lose tha’ temper of yers.”

  So young Robin can be intemperate. I can use that. Max reached into his pocket.

  Instantly, the air about him charged, every eye upon him.

  “Halt!” Robin said. “Take your hand from your pocket.”

  Max lifted his hand free, turning it to reveal a small gold box in his palm. “My snuff box.”

  “So you wish to donate more bounty to our worthy cause.” Robin gestured to the mud. “Throw it at your feet.”