Max’s gaze was fixed on the map as well, his expression thoughtful. “Nyet, my friend. I would rather be wrong now than wrong the night of the raid.” His even gaze lifted to Murian’s. “We’ve too much to lose.”
Her throat tightened unexpectedly. His voice was as steady as his gaze, and she flushed. To pass the moment without embarrassing herself, she pulled the map closer, almost bumping heads with Will, who’d leaned forward when she did.
After a moment, Will placed his finger on a small room at the corner of the back of the castle.
She looked at it and then nodded. “Aye, that will do.”
“What room is that?” Max asked.
“The music room,” Will answered absently, his gaze locked on the drawing. “No one has used it since Lady Murian left. They say ’tis thick wi’ dust now.”
“Is it?” Murian sighed. “I couldna bring the pianoforte, as much as I’d have liked to. It would have ruined in the damp.”
“Yet another skill you possess,” Max said.
She had to laugh. “I wouldn’t call it ‘skill.’ The more honest word is ‘peck.’ ”
“Whist,” Widow Reeves said. “Ye played like an angel, ye did. We’ve all heard ye.”
“You are too kind. I dinna think I could play now; it’s been too long.” Murian folded the map and handed it to Orlov. “The music room it is. The servants willna be walking past it, as it’s well past the kitchens and the coatroom.”
“Agreed,” Max said.
Orlov started to reach for the rest of the papers, then hesitated. “Did ye wish to see anything else, my lady?”
Murian shook her head. “Nay, I think we’ve covered what we need to.”
“ ’Tis a guid plan,” Ian agreed.
“Very good.” Orlov gathered the papers and replaced them in the pouch.
Max looked at his men. “We’ve not much time today, as the ride back will be slower than usual. But for now, we’ve work to do here.”
“Da.” Demidor rubbed his hands together. “I’m ready.”
Golovin turned to the men. “Since we could not bring wood today, let’s fix the leaks about the windows and doors. That will be a good thing once this snow melts.” He left, the other men following.
“Come, Will,” Widow Reeves said. “Ye can help. I’ve been ripping rags fra’ old skirts all mornin’ to use as packin’ under the doors to keep the chill oot. Ye can fetch bags of the same from Widow Brodie and Widow MacCrae and bring them to my cottage.”
As he started to follow her out, Murian called, “Will?”
He looked back.
“Thank you for your help. You had a good idea, you did.”
He grinned, and for the first time, she was struck with how handsome he could be. When he smiles, he looks a lot like Robert.
“ ’Twas nothin’, me lady.” He followed Widow Reeves to the door.
The widow stuck her head back inside. “Ian Beagin, Widow MacDonald is callin’ fer ye.”
“Wha’ does she want?”
Widow Reeves planted her fist on her hip. “Do I look like a mind reader to ye? All I know is she’s yellin’ and cursin’ oop a storm.”
“Fine, fine,” Ian grumbled. He stomped to the door and marched out.
As soon as he was gone, Widow Reeves shut the door.
Max picked up a rake, carried it to the barn door, and placed it so that the thick handle wedged the door closed. That done, he returned to Murian.
She eyed his handiwork with a smile. “Well done.”
He came and pulled her into his arms. “I have many skills, dorogaya moya.”
She tilted her head to one side. “What does that mean, dorogaya moya? I have wondered many times, but was hesitant to ask.”
“It means ‘my dear.’ ” Max ran the back of his hand down her cheek. “It is not a term I normally use, but for you . . . it fits.”
Murian’s heart thudded, her mouth suddenly dry. “Oh? What do you normally call women you kiss?”
He bent so that his lips were a scant breath from hers. “It is the oddest thing. When you are so close to me, I cannot remember any other women.”
She wet her lips, his gaze darkening as she did so. “None?”
“There is only you.”
Only you. How many women dreamed of a man saying that to them? Murian slipped her arms about his neck. She’d wanted to hear those words, wanted to feel the warmth of his breath on her bare skin, wanted to feel his broad shoulders under her fingertips, wanted to taste him, touch him. With an urgent gasp, she pulled his mouth to hers.
If their kisses before were wild and impetuous, this one was planned and furious. The second their lips touched she forgot where she was, forgot her concerns, forgot everything but the heat of his skin on hers, his lips moving over hers, his tongue as it slid between her lips in a way that made her writhe madly against him.
His hands slid down her waist, to her hips. He firmly cupped her, pressing his hips to hers, and she felt his erect cock pressing against her skirts. She found the buttons of his coat and then she was tugging them free, pulling his waistcoat open, tugging his shirt from his waistband as she sought the warm expanse of his skin. She splayed her hands and ran them up his bared chest, the crisp curls of hair teasing her fingers.
His hands roamed as wildly as hers. Moaning against her mouth, he slid his hands to her ass, kneading her, holding her, rocking his hips against hers.
She gasped as a shudder of heated longing raced through her. God, she wanted this. It had been so long. So very, very long.
“Murian,” he breathed against her lips, trailing his warm mouth up her cheek to her forehead, creating waves of shivers as he tugged her coat from her shoulders and dropped it to the floor.
She wanted this so much, and more. “Max . . . please!” She was too caught in his touch, in his taste, for words. She kissed his cheek, his jaw, her hair silken against his cheek as she traced her tongue along his scars.
Max gasped and held her tighter, tilting his head back so she could continue her way down his powerful throat. God, but she loved the taste of him, the feel of him. He was every Greek statue she’d ever seen, every charming prince she’d ever dreamed about.
Without warning he lifted her to the makeshift table, her skirts riding up to her thighs as they caught on the wood, Max’s hips between her legs.
“I want you,” he whispered raggedly, and her nipples hardened instantly.
He undid the neckline of her gown and shoved it down to cup one of her breasts through her chemise, his thumb finding the sensitive nub. He flicked it—once, twice, then again and again.
It was pleasure. It was torture. It was delicious and tempting and teasing, and she writhed against him. She held on to him and leaned back, giving him access to her breasts. He bent, his warm lips fastening on her nipples one after the other, tonguing the tight buds through the fine lawn chemise. She sank a hand into his thick hair, holding his mouth to her, pressing against him. Her body was wracked with desire, her thighs damp with longing.
With a cry that was almost a sob, she tugged at his belt in frustration.
He swiftly undid it and his breeches with one hand, holding her firmly against him with the other.
She tugged his breeches free and found his turgid cock. Her breath hissed through her teeth as she wrapped her fingers about its warm hardness.
He gasped against her breast, raising his head to meet her gaze. “Dorogaya moya, you are certain?”
She leaned back on her elbow, her red hair a wave of passion as it fell over her shoulders to pool on the wood behind her. He leaned forward and sank his hands into her hair, the curls clinging to him as she pulled his hips to hers. As his thick cock pressed against her, she surged forward, enveloping him fully.
“Murian!” he cried.
Her body arched, fulfilled and needy at the same time as she rocked her hips forward, driving their madness with each thrust.
He slipped his arms under her shoulders, b
urying his face into her neck, where he rained kisses and murmured words she’d never heard before, as he met her thrust for thrust.
Wild and untrammeled, they plundered, tasted, reveled, and sank into one another. Together, they met with each stroke, and retreated only to pull one another back, time after time.
Murian was afire, her body aching with need, desire, and longing.
Max, fighting to hold back his release, raised his head to watch her. Her head was tilted back, her eyes closed, as she held him to her, her strong legs tight about his waist. He reached down to cup her firm ass, plunging into her more deeply. She gasped, her back arching, her breasts thrust up through her wet chemise.
Never had he seen a more beautiful woman. He slowed a bit, teasing her, making her writhe, her hands clutching his shirt as she silently begged for more.
And then, as if a star exploded before his eyes, she cried his name as she arched wildly against him and gasped. She tightened about him, a grip of hot velvet, until he lost control. With deep, desperate thrusts he followed her over the edge of their passion and finally collapsed against her.
For a long, long moment, they stayed where they were—his head cradled on her chest, her hands in his hair. He could hear the steady beat of her heart, and he listened as it slowed from a wild pace to a settled, tame purr against his ear.
He slowly realized it wasn’t the most comfortable of positions, and he knew the wood had to be hard under her hips, yet he was loath to move. And she must have felt the same, for she held him close.
The air about them cooled their heated skin, and he gradually became aware of voices outside in the street. With a sigh, he lifted up on one elbow.
She slid her hands from his hair and watched him through half-open eyes. God, but he loved her eyes. He brushed a curl from her cheek. “That was the best ten minutes of my entire life.”
Her full lips—looking slightly swollen now and well kissed—parted as she laughed. “I think it was more like seven.”
He chuckled, his eyes twinkling warmly. “You may be right. You excite me so much—too much for control.” He kissed her nose. “If we can find privacy again, I promise you much more than seven desperate minutes.”
“I wasn’t complaining. It was . . .” She shook her head. “There are no words. It’s been so long, it’s amazing that I lasted seven minutes.”
He kissed her bottom lip, looking at her greedily. “Next time, we will make it last an hour.”
She chuckled. “My heart couldn’t take it.”
He smiled. “I would make sure you rested every few minutes, dorogaya moya.”
Heat rose in her as he cupped her breast again. “Max, can we—” A sound came from outside, too close for comfort, and she instantly sat up.
Though he hated to do it, Max moved out of her way. “I suppose it was too much to ask that we have fifteen minutes alone. Perhaps it is good it didn’t last longer.”
“This time, aye.” She kissed his cheek. Standing, she collected her things and then slipped out of sight to the back of the barn. He heard water pouring from a bucket. He righted his clothing as he waited and soon she reappeared, looking buttoned and proper, ready to hammer shutters into place.
She picked up her cloak and shook the hay from it, then slipped it on. “Max, we should—”
The barn door rattled, as if someone tried to open it from outside. “Lady Murian?” It was Ian.
She grimaced and called back. “Yes?”
He rattled it again. “The door seems to be stuck. Should I get someone to—”
“Nay, I’ll see what’s wrong.” She waited a moment. “Ah, a rake fell against the handle. I’ll get that as soon as I finish picking up some nails I dropped. I don’t want anyone to step on one.” She turned to Max and whispered, “Thank you.”
He caught her close. “Nay, little one. Thank you.” He kissed her nose, her cheek, and then her mouth as he said in a low voice, “Do not think this is the end of us. We’ve much to accomplish, and we will do it together.”
She toyed with his top button, her gaze searching. “And then?”
His heart gave an odd lurch. “And then we will see, nyet? You could come back with me to Oxenburg and—”
“I willna leave my people.” There was no brooking the firmness of her voice.
“I cannot stay here, dorogaya. I must return.”
Her smile didn’t waver, but he saw her eyes darken with sadness. “Of course.”
“Murian?” Ian called again.
“I’m almost done!” She kissed Max quickly and then stepped out of his arms. “At least we have this, hmm?”
“There will be more; I promise.”
“There are only a few days—”
Ian’s voice rang loudly. “Lady Murian, I can help ye find those nails.”
She turned to Max with a sigh. “Would you mind ducking behind a stall door?”
“I will not hide, but I will leave.” He pressed a kiss into her hand.
“What’s that for?”
He curled her fingers over the kiss. “It’s for now.” With a quick smile, he went to the window in the tack room, undid the heavy wood shutters, and slipped out.
Murian watched him go, and tried to ignore the bitter disappointment that flickered through her. Every time she saw the prince, and then had to part with him, she always felt as if she’d found something special, something precious, only to immediately lose it once again.
“Lass?” Ian called.
“Just a minute!” She found a sack of nails, tucked them in her belt, and went to the barn door. Once there, she removed the rake and let Ian in.
He glanced at her, and then over her shoulder. “Did ye find all of the nails?”
She patted the sack. “All of them.” She pulled her new gloves out of her pocket and tugged them on. “Come, we’ve work to do.” She left the barn, Ian following behind her. “Did you fix whatever Widow MacDonald needed to have done?”
“Aye, the old—”
“Ian!”
He flushed. “Sorry. She’s a temper, she does.”
“I’m sure she says the same of you. Come, we’ve shutters to fix.” With that, she sailed out of the barn, Ian hard on her heels.
Chapter 15
“It’s cold in here, like a tomb.” Tata Natasha glared at everyone in the foyer as if they were all responsible for the chilly temperature.
“It will be warmer in the sitting room,” Max informed her. They were gathered with the other guests, waiting to enter the sitting room.
“It had better be warmer, or I will be forced to set something on fire.”
Max glanced at the shawl hanging from Tata Natasha’s shoulders. As black as the rest of her clothing, it was embroidered with giant roses, which, now that he saw them up close, looked more like grinning skulls. He wondered if she were aware of it, but one glance from her sharp black eyes and he realized she knew exactly what those “roses” looked like. Refusing to comment, he instead remarked on the weather.
The line of people began to move and they passed Loudan, who was standing near the door with Lady MacLure. Her ladyship was serving as hostess for the evening’s entertainment. It was a common arrangement for a bachelor to ask a friend’s wife to stand in as hostess when there was none, but Lady MacLure was obviously uncomfortable with her task. Lord MacLure, who hovered nearby, appeared equally unhappy. The other guests seemed oblivious to the MacLures’ distress, and laughed and talked, obviously joyous at being out after the severe weather.
Tata Natasha pursed her lips, unimpressed with the air of festivity. “What sort of singer will we be forced to listen to?”
“Surely you know; our host has mentioned it repeatedly. He’s obviously very proud to have secured Madame Dufond.”
“I do not like our host, so I do not listen to him.” Natasha thought Loudan the worst sort of man—insipid, mean, and purposefully cruel. The kind who thought nothing of yelling at a servant, or even striking one, and for the small
est of reasons. She’d witnessed his cruelty on a number of occasions now, and her sympathies with the staff had grown daily.
Thankfully, now that Max knew about the tiara, she’d been able to stop faking politeness to Loudan, which had been a relief. The man didn’t deserve such consideration. It made her head ache.
She tapped Max’s forearm. “So. When do you address my problem?”
“Sometime soon. It would be better if you did not know the details.”
“Soon is not soon enough. You’ve known the truth for days now.”
“It takes time to organize such an endeavor. I won’t risk our position by rushing into things.”
“Humph. I would have already found a way to get it back.” His jaw firmed, and she bit back another retort. Such was the trouble when dealing with a military man; they liked strategy. Well-planned, boring strategy.
She grimaced and looked at the other guests, deciding which gowns she liked and which were pure rubbish. “I don’t suppose this singer is a Russian? I would enjoy hearing traditional singing.”
“Madame Dufond sings opera.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I do not like opera.”
“What? You love opera.”
“Only when it is sung by Italians. The French, they are too dramatic, always.” She made exaggerated hand movements.
Max cut her an amused glance. “Then sleep through the performance, as you usually do. If your eyes are closed, you’ll never notice her gestures.”
“French.” She shuddered. “Too much drama.”
“This from a Romany.”
“Don’t be impertinent!”
He placed his hand over hers where it rested on his arm. “I’m sure you’ll like this singer once you hear her. She is very well regarded in Scotland.”
“So is haggis.”
He chuckled. “Touché. The haggis, I do not understand.”
They reached the doorway into the sitting room, but a crowd blocked their way. While they waited for the press to lessen, Orlov walked past, escorting a pretty young woman. As he passed Max, Natasha caught him exchanging a look with Max.
Aha! Natasha smacked Max’s arm. “You make your move tonight, eh?”
He frowned. “There is no ‘move.’ ”