The Princess Wore Plaid

  She paused to tap her finger on the hilt of an ancient sword that was displayed in a long holder on the desk. “How long has your family had this house?”

  “Auchmacoy has been in our possession since the fourteenth century. The house you see now was built only forty years ago by my father, after the previous house was destroyed in a fire.”

  “It is lovely.”

  “My father had excellent taste.”

  She shot him a look. “And his son?”

  He shrugged. “I try.” He looked around the room. “Before I was injured, this house was my passion. I put in better windows, replaced much of the support in the great hall, added water closets to the bedrooms, and installed the best heating system and kitchen available.” He made a face. “The last improvement hasnae increased the quality of my cook, though. I think it has even made things worse, for she cannae figure out how to run the new ovens.”

  Tatiana grinned, coming to stand near him, tracing her hand over the scrollwork at the edge of a shelf. “Some people do not deal well with change.” She grimaced. “I have struggled with that, myself.”

  “It seems to me that you’ve adapted well. It cannae have been easy for you to go from princess to scullery maid.”

  “It helped, those first days when I was wandering about the forest, that I didn’t remember I was a princess. Now it is more difficult.” She looked at him, her head tilted to one side. “It was kind of you to offer me access to your beautiful library. And me, a pretend princess, as far as you know.”

  “I believe you.” And it wasn’t just because he’d discovered the accident site, or because she knew so much about Oxenburg. It was because he was finding it difficult to deny the truth he could see in her eyes.

  She trailed her fingers over the bindings of a book, which made his mouth go dry, “How do you know I won’t take your books and leave?”

  He forced himself to look away from her beguiling hand. “Because you are nae a thief.”

  “How do you know?”

  “It’s in your eyes. It’s in the way you speak, and talk. I dinnae know exactly who you are, but I know you are honorable.”

  A flush of pleasure warmed Tatiana. People had expectations in life, and one of them was that a princess would be regal and controlled, always graceful and never emotional. All things she’d been taught—that princesses do not talk to strangers without a proper introduction, princesses do not laugh too loud, princesses do not run down stairs, princesses know when to be quiet and never speak out of turn—all things she’d done because she’d never known anything else.

  Until now.

  This last month had taught her many things, presented her with challenges she’d never imagined, some of which she’d failed, but others which had left her feeling proud of herself and her accomplishments. While being a princess wasn’t always easy, it also wasn’t the most mentally stimulating position one could have.

  Oh, there were titles to memorize, and people one must never forget, and one had to know who was related to whom, and when it was proper to curtsy and when one should merely incline one’s head, and that sort of silly thing. But there was no daily challenge, no can I really do this? moments like she’d experienced as a maid. No responsibilities that were hers and no one else’s.

  “What are you thinking? You look so serious.”

  Her face heated. “I was just thinking of how many skills a maid must have. It’s not something I’d considered before.”

  “Skills?”

  “Oh yes.” She looked down at her hands. Her nails were now short, for she’d learned that keeping them filed down was the only way to avoid breaking them. There was a new blister on her thumb from using the large ladle to stir tallow when she’d helped Mrs. Drummond make candles this morning, and a row of calluses was forming at the bases of her fingers from using the rough-handled broom every day.

  She ran her finger over one of the calluses, rather proud it was no longer a blister. “In the weeks since I’ve been here, I’ve learned how to make stew and candles, do wash, bleach and fold linens, make pork jelly, get wine stains out of a rug—” She laughed at his amazed expression. “I know. I had no idea how much a maid did, either. When I return, I will pay much more attention to all of my servants.”

  Buchan felt her words even as he heard them. “When I return,” she’d said. And she would. Soon. And that is how it should be. She belongs to her family and her people. Not to me.

  His heart ached, and he pushed himself from the window casement. “I should let you have your tea.”

  Disappointment clouded her gaze. “You aren’t going to join me?”

  “It’s tea for one, so I’ll just—”

  “There are two cups.”

  He glanced over at the tray. Damned if there weren’t—plus two plates and two spoons. MacInnes, you meddling fool.

  “Sadly, I’ve things to do.” Buchan grasped his cane and made his way to the door, away from temptation so beckoning that his entire body warmed with desire. “I’d stay, but I’ve letters to write. I hope you find a book you like.”

  “I probably shouldn’t stay for tea. I’ll just find a book and go—”

  “Nae.” He forced his tight jaw to relax before he faced her. “Stay as long as you like. My home is your home.”

  I wish.

  The thought caught him by the throat, preventing any more words from escaping. He recognized the welter of emotions in her eyes—hurt, confusion, and the one that hit him the hardest—loneliness.

  He had to help her find her way home where she belonged, and allowing her into his own life would only make that moment more difficult. Feeling as if he were suffocating, he bowed, managing to rasp out, “Good day, Tatiana. I hope you find a book to enjoy.”

  Disappointment flashed over her face, but he didn’t let it stay him. He retreated as fast as he could, fighting his own inclinations with each step. As soon as he closed the library door, he leaned against it, his heart thundering, his leg tight with pain. This was for the best. She would find a stack of books and then be gone, and he’d be reduced to once again seeing her only under the Drummonds’ watchful gazes. Where it was safe.

  Necessarily so.

  He closed his eyes, listening as she walked about the library, her footsteps on the marble floor, the whisper of various books being pulled from the shelves. Finally, he heard the clink of china as she poured herself a cup of tea.

  He stayed until he heard her put down her cup, her skirts rustling as she stood. Not wishing to be caught, he hurried back to his study, closing the door softly behind him and sinking into the comfort of his leather chair. Moments later, she left.

  Buchan sat, staring at the closed door for a long time. Never had his house been less a home. And never had he been so lonely.

  Chapter 6

  Three weeks later, Buchan realized three truths. First, Tatiana was too polite to borrow more than one book at a time. Second, she was a fast reader. Which meant she visited Auchmacoy frequently.

  And thus he discovered the third and perhaps hardest truth of all: he was weak. He’d tried his damnedest to stay away from her, but, like the first time, he found himself making excuses—a certain book he’d forgotten to lay out that he thought she might enjoy, or a belated decision to offer tea and deciding that expecting her to partake of it alone would be rude (as if such a consideration would have bothered him with any other guest), or just pure curiosity about which book she would select next, or—the list was endless. As was his fascination for this fey, strong, and bewitching woman. And with every visit, their talks lengthened, the topics became more personal, and he began to know her more and more.

  Excuses kept him in her company, so he allowed them. But what he really wanted was her. To see her. To spend time with her. To be with her. And every day it seemed he found something else about her to admire.

  H
e’d found ways to increase the frequency of her visits, too. The first week, he’d made the mistake of suggesting a longer tome, and it had been three days before she returned. After that, he found himself setting out thinner and thinner books, until this last time, he’d suggested a very slender tome of poetry, one barely forty pages in length. He’d been surprised when she’d accepted it and hadn’t requested another to go with it.

  Now, only one day later, he found himself standing in the study, staring out the window, his heart racing at every movement on the path from the inn. I’m a fool. A desperately lonely fool.

  But there was nothing to be done about it. He’d met her and, in some ways, he now knew her. Every moment he spent with her lightened his dark, drab life like the entrance of a thousand sparkling lamps.

  He crossed his arms and leaned against the casement, his gaze glued on the path. Dr. Fraser had just left, and Buchan’s leg ached from the treatment. But he had to admit his mobility was better. Not good, but better. And yet still not good enough. Dr. Fraser had admitted just today that it was highly possible that though Buchan might regain mobility in his leg, traveling would always cause him great pain. The jolting of a coach was desperately hard on old wounds.

  Buchan refused to think about it. A flicker of color caught his eye, and he leaned forward, his heart lifting. Tatiana appeared, walking through the fields that edged the garden, her chestnut hair flying wildly, her skirts and cloak whipped by the chilled wind. She is magnificent.

  Buchan’s hands grew damp and he wiped them on his breeches. His reaction was not wild anticipation, he told himself firmly. It was nothing but the normal excitement of having a guest break the dullness of a day. Before Tatiana had started visiting, no one other than the doctor had visited Auchmacoy in over a year, a fact Buchan had been perfectly at peace with.

  He made his way into the foyer past Tavish the footman, who was sweeping up a bit of straw brought in from the wind.

  Buchan opened the door as Tatiana made her way up the drive.

  “Have we a guest?” Tavish put away the small broom. “Miss Romanovin again, my lord?”

  “Aye. Tell Mrs. Hay to have Cook prepare something for tea and to serve it in the library.”

  The footman beamed. “Aye, your lordship.” With a quick bow, he hurried off.

  As he went, he passed MacInnes, who was just making his way into the foyer. The butler came to the door to peer over Buchan’s shoulder. “Ah! I see Miss Romanovin has come for another visit.”

  Buchan tried not to look anything other than slightly bored. “I sent Tavish to have Mrs. Hay see to tea.”

  MacInnes tsked. “I hope you dinnae mind if I take it oopon myself to supervise the tea tray. Mrs. Hay is nae so guid with the niceties, and Cook—weel, you know how that is.”

  “Aye. Cook is nae so good with the cooking.” Buchan shrugged. “Do as you wish. I dinnae care one way or the other.”

  But he did. More and more. It had been more than two months since Tatiana had arrived at the Red Lion, and still her cousin had not arrived. Buchan had long ago decided that Tatiana’s cousin Alexsey had ridden to her rescue before her first message had arrived at his residence. Without the information in that letter, he would have been left to randomly search the countryside, a time-consuming endeavor, to be sure. Still, it was only a matter of weeks, if not days, before the man appeared to escort Tatiana home, away from the Red Lion, and away from Buchan and Auchmacoy. Back to where she belongs, in a court, wearing jewels and silks, and ready to marry the prince of her choosing.

  It was a bitter thought. Like a fool, Buchan couldn’t seem to stop himself from caring about her. And his attraction to her was growing, too; he thought about her whether she was nearby or not. There were moments—too few and too far apart for him to trust—where he wondered if she felt the same way. But that is imagination on my part. Wishful thinking of the worst kind.

  It didn’t matter, anyway. She was destined for greater things than a half-crippled Scottish lord buried deep in the countryside, unable to travel to Edinburgh, much less across the ocean to majestic, mountainous Oxenburg. She would leave and he would be left here, alone still.

  His heart sickened at the thought. With a deep sigh, he shoved the bleak thoughts aside and watched as Tatiana approached.

  Tatiana was well aware of the dark and brooding lord of Auchmacoy’s gaze as she walked up his drive and the way the wind ruffled his thick dark hair and tugged at his loosely knotted cravat. He was a strong figure of a man, masculine in every way.

  A gust of wind blew her hair in front of her face and she brushed it away, realizing with a grimace that it would take an hour to coax a comb through the tangled locks. She captured as much of it as she could and tried to tuck it into the collar of her cloak, scowling as she reached Buchan.

  His brown eyes twinkled with reluctant amusement, dissipating some of her frustration.

  “Such is the hazard of having such long tresses,” he murmured, his gaze lingering on her tousled curls.

  She tried to run her fingers through her hair, but there were too many knots. “I never realized why so many of my maids have shorter hair, but I begin to appreciate the practicality of it.”

  His gaze flickered to her hair, and then her face, where he met her gaze with an almost sad longing.

  Her heart tripped at the sadness in his brown eyes, and she found herself saying in a breathless voice, “I’ve finished the book you lent me.”

  “Did you like it?”

  “It was lovely, but rather short.” She managed a smile. “If you don’t wish me to visit your library each and every day, I should perhaps pick a less slender tome.”

  He stepped back from the door to allow her to enter, his cane tapping on the marble floor. “I dinnae care if you come once a day or ten times; you are always welcome here.”

  The deep honesty of his tone made her face heat. “Thank you.” She shot him a glance as she passed. “You’ve been more than generous.”

  “Allow me to take your cloak.”

  She undid the clasp and tried not to shiver when his hands brushed her shoulders. Bozhy moj, but she was drawn to this large, tormented man. Whether it was his powerful looks, the emotion that constantly flickered in his brown eyes, or something else altogether, she didn’t know, but she couldn’t deny the way her body reacted when he was near. Her skin prickled, her heart thudded extra beats, her breath shortened, and her breasts tingled as if aching for his touch.

  Never had she reacted so to any man. It was nerve-wracking, to say the least.

  She took a steadying breath and moved out of his reach, crossing her arms, suddenly aware of the chill. As she did so, she brushed her pocket, and a crackle reminded her of the letter tucked there. It had been more than a month since she’d last mailed a letter to Alexsey. Oh, she’d written to him several times since, and she’d readied each one for the Drummonds to post. But somehow, she hadn’t gotten around to giving them the letters.

  She knew they were glad she’d ceased, for they still believed her partially mad and, although they always took her letters, they feared she was embarrassing herself by writing to a prince.

  But five weeks ago, after Buchan had brought her the map of Oxenburg and had visited the accident site, she’d changed somehow. Or perhaps Buchan had changed her, or perhaps it was merely the result of her newfound capabilities. Whatever it was, she found herself in no hurry to return to her previous life. She’d found an odd peace in doing for herself; a new strength that she hoped she’d never lose.

  Her previous life now seemed so silly. Balls and soirees where she danced and chatted about nothing but the most inconsequential things, musicales and operas where she tried not to fall asleep when the lights were low, days filled with court gossip and empty amusements . . . no activity that produced anything of value. That made something useful. No helpful tasks that made her feel alive
and valued, and capable.

  She’d been empty and hadn’t known it. But now she did.

  She turned to Buchan to share her thoughts, but footsteps sounded from a side hall and announced the arrival of MacInnes.

  She forced herself to smile. “How are you today?”

  The butler took her cloak from Buchan’s grasp. “I’m weel, thank you, miss. What a pleasant surprise to see you today. It looks as if it might rain, and I feared you would nae come.”

  As if rain could keep her away. Aware of Buchan’s gaze, she managed a smile. “As you see, your fears were unfounded.”

  “Guid, miss. I’ll take your cloak to the kitchen and have it brushed.”

  “Thank you, MacInnes.”

  He bowed. “Tea will be served in the library shortly.” Carrying her cloak gently as if it were a baby, he left the foyer.

  Buchan gestured toward the library. “After you.”

  In the early days, he’d left her alone in the library, but more and more, he came with her. She liked that, and it made her visits all the more worthwhile. She walked past him, trying not to peek up at him as she did so.

  “What sort of book will it be for you today?”

  “I don’t know. Have you picked some for me?”

  Every time she’d come, he’d had a small stack waiting. Over the last few weeks he’d discovered her likes and dislikes, and each time he made the stack, his suggestions had become more accurate. He nodded toward the desk now. “A few.”

  “Thank you.”

  Buchan watched as she crossed to the desk and slid the stack forward, looking through them.

  “Four history books, two on Egypt—which you know is my special weakness—and two novels, one set in fifteenth-century France.” She opened one book and read a page or two, then set it down and picked up another, her eyes rapidly scanning. Finally, she looked over the top of a book and gave a wry smile. “I don’t know which to choose.”