The Prince and I (3 page)

“Yer ear is bleedin’!” the giant snapped. “I’ll kill tha’ mon fer—” He took a step toward Max.

“Nay!” Robin scrambled to his feet, tying the kerchief back in place with hasty hands. “Leave him. ’Tis but a nick.”

“A nick? I’ll nick tha’ lout—”

“Ian.”

The quiet word made the giant pause.

“Leave him. ’Twas fairly won.”

Ian said between clenched teeth, “Ye could ha’ bloodied him when ye cut his coat, but ye dinna.” He
cast a furious glare at Max. “There was no need to continue thus.”

“There was.” Robin dusted his breeches and sighed. “I forced that fight, and you know it. ’Twas my own fault.”

Behind Max, the coach door flew open and Tata Natasha stood on the top step, every eye locked upon her. The wind swirled her black cloak dramatically, the coach lantern cast long shadows over her face, and her hair was wild from where she’d been shoved under the blanket.

Ian sputtered, “Bloody ’ell, wha’ is tha’?”

“It’s a w-w-witch!” another brigand said.

Max couldn’t disagree. “Damn it, Tata Natasha, you were told to stay inside.”

“Pah!” She drew her cloak closer. “I am tired of these games you play. It is time to go.”

Max ignored her and addressed the thief. “Your giant has the right of it: while I drew first blood, you could easily have done so earlier when you left your initial.” He tapped his shredded overcoat.

Unexpectedly, humor shone in Robin’s silver eyes. “I thought aboot it.”

“I’m glad that’s all you did,” Max said honestly. “I did not give your toothpick blade the credit it deserved.”

Robin crossed his arms over his chest, his feet planted wide. “You dinna ask that your donations be returned. ‘Tis your right, as you won.”

Max shrugged. “You may keep what’s already been given. But there will be no more.”

Robin bowed. “As you wish. And thank you; that is unexpectedly generous.”

“It is foolish!” Tata Natasha snapped.

“
Tikha!
” Max snapped over his shoulder.

She muttered under her breath, only the words “foolish boy” and “lost chickens” audible.

Robin chuckled. “We will go and let you tend to your grandmother.”

“I’d rather you stabbed me with that toothpick of yours,” Max muttered.

Robin choked back what was surely a laugh, the silver eyes lively. “Och, I’m sure you would. Family can be costly, both in money and pride.” He bowed once again, as graceful as any courtier. “ ’Til we meet again, oh scarred and frowny one.”

Max returned the bow, a stirring of interest in his soul that he hadn’t felt in a long, long time. “Oh, we
will
meet again, young and cheeky one. I vow it.”

Robin’s eyes twinkled. “So be it.” With that, he turned and walked into the woods, his slender form melting into the shadows.

The world was instantly drearier without an impudent highwayman waving a rapier like a scorpion tail. Oddly disappointed, Max reached into his pocket, pulled out his kerchief, and tossed it to the giant. “I only nicked Robin’s ear, but you may need to apply some pressure to stop the blood.”

Looking surprised at the gesture, Ian pocketed the kerchief, though he kept a careful eye on Tata Natasha. “Thank ye, I’ll take care of Robin, but who will take care of
tha’
?”

Max turned to see his grandmother making odd gestures in the air. “What are you doing?”

“I’m putting a curse on these
chor
.”

“A curse?” squeaked the long-haired highwayman, peering around Ian’s wide form.

“What’s a
chor
?” Ian asked.

“A thief,” Max answered. “My grandmother is Romany. She oft uses their language.”

“Bloody ’ell, she’s a Gypsy!” Ian backed up, his eyes wide.

“She is harmless.”
More or less.
He turned to the coach. “Tata, stop casting curses; there’s no need. I won the fight and we are unscathed.”

“But I’m almost done!”

“We are leaving. Allow me to assist you back into the coach.” He handed her inside, leaving the door open. He watched out of the corner of his eyes as Robin’s men melted one by one into the dark, misty forest. Two of the thieves carried off the lanterns, extinguishing them before they disappeared, until only the lantern hanging from Tata Natasha’s coach remained.

The sharpshooter stayed at the head of the road, his rifle barrel glinting in the lamplight. Soon only his form and Ian’s broad one were left, outlined in the shadows of a large tree.

Whist!
An arrow whizzed past Max’s head and struck the lone lantern, the sound of breaking glass startling in the night.

They were plunged into darkness while Tata Natasha released a string of Romany curses.

“Shush, woman!” Max told her. “Orlov, we need a functioning lantern.”

“
Da
, General
.
” It took a moment, but Orlov found a lantern near a baggage coach that had fallen in the mud at the onset of their encounter and lit it. He held it up, a golden orb of light spilling across the leafy woods. “They are gone.”

“Pah! You are cowards, all!” Tata shook her fist in the air. “Come back, for I’m not done turning the lot of you into goats!”

“Leave it, Tata.” Max turned to where Orlov was now helping an obviously dizzy Golovin to his feet, a trickle of blood running down his chin. “Was anyone else injured?” Max asked.

Orlov slipped his good arm about Golovin to steady him. “One of the coachmen fell scrambling from the coach, but it does not seem serious, and two footmen have banged heads from falling from the backs of the coaches—but that is all.”

“Fools, the coachmen,” Golovin said in a surly tone. “They didn’t even try to fight.”

Max grimaced. “We were the fools, to send the rest of our troops ahead to scout for a danger that was here. That was my fault. Golovin, come to my carriage. Her Grace will see to your wounds.”

Orlov helped Golovin to the coach steps. Golovin sat down on the top one, his hand to his head. With an encouraging pat on the shoulder, Orlov left to see to the coachmen and outriders.

“Tilt your head back,” Tata ordered. She pulled a kerchief from her pocket and pressed it to Golovin’s bloody nose. “Hold this while I fetch my medicines.”

Golovin did as requested while Tata Natasha pulled
a leather bag from under the seat and set to work, her face tight with irritation. “Pah! What fools, to think they could attack the royal entourage of Oxenburg. And you, Max, giving them your gold and our basket of food!” She used a cup to mix a powder from a small ivory vial with a drop of liquid from a dark brown bottle.

Golovin watched with growing fear in his eyes.

Tata Natasha’s shrewd dark gaze locked on Max. “You said they were hungry.”

He nodded.

Her frown softened, and after a moment she said in a magnanimous voice, “Then I do not mind giving up a few chickens. This time.” She dipped a small cloth into the mixture and pressed it to Golovin’s nose.

He gagged at the smell.

She waited only a moment and then removed the cloth. “There. The blood has stopped.”

Golovin touched his nose gingerly, looking surprised. “Good!” He stood. “I will help Orlov and—”

“
Nyet.
You will come with me.” Tata Natasha pointed to the coach. “No riding; it could start the bleeding again.”

Golovin cast a wild look at Max. “General, you will want me to—”

“I’ll want you safe, inside the coach. And do not worry about your horse. I will ride it.”

“But—”

Max lifted his brows and Golovin gulped. “Aye, General.” With obvious reluctance, he climbed into the coach, casting an uneasy glance at Tata Natasha as he did. Tata followed, scolding loudly.

Max shut the door.

Orlov approached, leading Golovin’s horse. “The coachmen are readying the vehicles now.”

“Excellent. Did you find my pistol?”

Orlov pulled it from his pocket.

“Thank you.” Max checked it and then tucked it away. “We will leave as soon as the coachmen are ready. We are vulnerable here.” Max mounted the horse and waited for Orlov to do the same.

As Max waited, the wind shifted and a hole opened in the thick mist. To Max’s surprise, the masked sharpshooter was in plain view on his horse, but this time the coach lantern illuminated his rifle barrel . . . only it was no rifle. Instead, he held a long pipe.

Seeing Max, the man lifted the pipe in a cheerful salute, then kicked his horse and disappeared into the mist. Max let fly a row of colorful curses.

Orlov turned his horse. “I’ll get him.”

“
Nyet,
” Max ordered. “We don’t know the woods, and will harm ourselves and our horses. We must let him go.”

Orlov cursed long and loud. “I’ve never met more insolent thieves.”

“Neither have I. I’m far from finished with this incident.” Max looked grimly down at the large “R” carved into his coat. “A Romanovin never forgets a debt.”

We will meet again, Robin.

And soon.

 Chapter 3 

“Bloody hell, Ian! Do you have to bounce us so?” Lady Murian MacDonald Muir grabbed onto the side rail of the cart as a hard jolt threatened to unseat her.

“Whisht, watch yer language, lass.” Ian Beagin wished he could slow down, but they not only had to reach the village and trade their wares, they also had to return home before dark, which would take at least two hours. Such was the price of living deep in the woods, hidden from every easily accessible road. “Yer mither would roll in her grave to hear ye use sich language.”

“My mother would complain even louder if she were being trundled in a cart with square wheels.”

Widow Reeves, clinging onto the seat beside Murian, added, “At this rate, I’ll no’ ha’ any teeth left by the time we arrive.” A tall, angular woman with iron-gray hair and a deeply lined face, Widow Reeves was once the cook at Rowallen Castle and had—like Ian—watched Murian’s late husband, Master Robert, grow from a babe into a man. “Who will bargain fer our wares if I canna speak?”

Ian snorted. “Och, I’d like to see ye hold yer tongue,
teeth or no. ’Tis no’ in yer nature.” While Widow Reeves huffed, Ian hied the farm horses to go a little faster.

Murian grumbled something under her breath. Ian was fairly certain it wasn’t anything a lady should say, so he added, “Bear wi’ me, lass. ’Tis only another ten or fifteen minutes—ye can see the smoke from the chimneys.”

Lady Murian turned her head to look, the wind teasing her bonnet. It pressed on the wide brim and folded it over her bandaged ear. She grimaced and tugged the brim back into place.

“Hurts, eh?”

“Nary a bit.” She threw him a jaunty, only slightly strained grin. “I forgot it was there.”

Which was a lie, and he knew it. She was young, this leader of theirs—barely twenty-one, with wild red hair, silver eyes, cream skin dusted with freckles, and entirely feminine from her curls to her toes—yet as plucky as anyone he’d ever met.

When Lord Robert, at the cocksure age of twenty, had agreed to wed sight unseen the ward of his cousin, the powerful Duke of Spencer, Ian and the other servants at Rowallen Castle had been concerned. They’d loved Lord Robert in spite of his impetuous nature. Fortunately, their concerns had proven unfounded: Lady Murian turned out to be a strong, lively, beautiful young woman, and to the happiness of all, she’d quickly fallen in love with Lord Robert, and he with her.

Sadly, their happiness had been short-lived. A scant year and a few months later, Lord Robert had been
killed and Lady Murian left alone. Ian had found himself Lady Murian’s protector, when she’d let him, which wasn’t often. God love her, but she was a spirited lass.

Too spirited. Someone needs to tame this one, and soon.

“I hope we sell all of our wares,” she said now, her pains already dismissed from her mind.

Widow Reeves patted the large basket of lace, jams, and cheeses. “Aye, fer we’ve shoes to buy from the cobbler. Widow Brodie’s five boys are nigh wi’oot them now. The soles ha’ more holes than leather.”

A shadow crossed Lady Murian’s face, and Ian knew she was concerned about the coming winter. They all were. The weather had not been kind to their village this season, bringing no rain during the summer months and reducing their plentiful fields to withering vines. When the rains had finally arrived, it was so late in the season that they had brought nothing but icy winds, leaking roofs, and muddy paths. They were already growing short on stores, and there were many long, cold months ahead.

He fought the urge to sigh. Times were hard; that was all there was to it. Besides himself, young Will Scarlae, and Lady Murian, their small village was home to seven widows and their children, for a total of twenty-one hungry mouths to feed.

Beside him, Lady Murian impatiently brushed a red curl from her cheek. She was forever having to do that, for her hair was thick and unruly, as untamed as the lass herself.

Ian glanced her way and remembered when she’d
first arrived at Rowallen. In her silk gowns, jeweled pins sparkling in her hair, she’d been more beautiful than any princess. Lord Robert had been so proud.

Ian’s throat tightened. It seemed forever since that day. Now Lord Robert was cold in his grave, the castle lost to tragedy, and the gowns and pins sold to provide for those of them who’d stayed. Now, instead of silk or lawn, Lady Murian’s gown was made of coarse wool, her feet shod in heavy brown boots, her hands chapped and red.

She swayed as the cart hit a rut, and Ian realized her brows were knit. “Ye look a bit miffed, lass. Still angry at tha’ prince?”

A smile flickered over her face. “You know me too well. Aye, I was thinking of the prince. I could have bested him, had I not slipped.”

“He was guid wi’ his sword, lass. Tha’ is all there is to it.” Ian scowled. “We dinna know what sort of man we were dealin’ wi’. Unluckily for us, he was no’ a usual sort of prince, but a warrior prince.”

She shot him a surprised look. “There’s more than one kind of prince?”

“Aye. Sad fer us, we got the sort as likes a fight.”

The cart lurched to one side and she grabbed the edge of her seat. “He was interesting, this prince.”

“And handsome,” Widow Reeves chimed in.

Lady Murian sent the older woman an amused glance. “So he was. Though you shouldna have teased him by showing him you werena holding a rifle, but a pipe.”

“Ha! ’Tis guid fer a mon to know when he’s been made a fool.”

“He was arrogant. But as irritated as I am at the prince, I’m much angrier at the earl. Loudan put us in this mess, so that we’re forced to the highway to try and clear the guards from my own castle.”

Ian sighed. “I canna believe ’tis been a year and more. . . .”

“In two days ’twill be a year and a half,” she said softly, her gaze darkening.

Ian wished he could give the lass a hug, but she was a prickly thing. So he settled for a gruff, “Master Robert was a guid mon, he was.”

“Aye,” Widow Reeves agreed as the cart trundled on. “And he loved ye more than the earth loves the sun.”

Lady Murian smiled, a genuine one this time, one that crinkled her eyes and revealed a charming dimple. “Spencer chose well for me; Robert and I were well suited.”

Widow Reeves tugged her cloak more tightly about her. “How is it the Duke of Spencer came to be yer guardian? I’ve always wondered tha’.”

Ian waited to see if Murian would answer. She rarely spoke of her parents, but to his surprise, she did. “My parents died from a horrible ague when I was a child. My father was a soldier and had fought alongside the duke. When Father realized he wasna’ going to live, he wrote to the duke and asked him to watch over me. Spencer did more than that; he raised me as his own.”

“Like his own son,” Ian said sourly. “He shouldna’ ha’ taught ye to fight wi’ a rapier. ’Tis unseemly.”

“Nonsense. It’s been verrah handy.”

Ian couldn’t argue with that, but he still didn’t like the way it put the lass in harm’s way. “The duke should ha’ seen to it tha’ you were taught wha’ most ladies know: paintin’ wi’ watercolors, readin’ poetry, and embroidery and such.”

“Embroidery? Me?” She chuckled. “I’d die of boredom!”

“
And
he should ha’ taught ye proper language,” Ian said sternly. He’d been in service at Rowallen Castle since he’d been a lad, and he knew ladies from landed gentry did not curse, nor did they still have a brogue—even a soft one—when they went off to London for their season. But the Duke of Spencer had little interest in polite society, so he hadn’t bothered to provide his charge with such lady-like training. Murian had been raised as if she were the son of a warlike house, and while she could point out every country on a map, speak Greek, fight with a sword, and discuss war treatises and political stratagems with ease, she still had a trace of a highborn brogue, and could perform none of the duties a properly raised lady should.

The cart dipped into an especially deep rut, and Lady Murian scowled as she bumped upon the seat. “Blast Loudan. We’d all still be warm and toasty in Rowallen Castle if not for him.”

“Demmed thievin’ horse’s arse,” Ian agreed. The earl was the bastard half-brother of the Duke of Spencer, although the two were opposites in every way. Where Spencer proved his bravery and mettle in the war, donating much of his wealth and time to protecting his country, Loudan hid in the Scottish countryside, spend
ing his half-brother’s funds as if they were his own, and planning a grand return to society once the war was over.

Ian guided the cart around a corner in the road, the smoke from the village now plainly visible over the treetops.

“Odd to see such smoke this late in the afternoon,” Lady Murian said.

Ian followed her gaze. “The smithy must have the anvil fires goin’.”

She watched the smoke curl overhead into the bright, frosty afternoon, and then disappear into the cold sky. After a moment, she said, “Ian?”

“Aye, lassie?”

“I was thinking of Robert’s journal.”

Widow Reeves shook her head while Ian bit back a groan. “No’ again.”

Murian’s jaw firmed. “There’s proof against Lord Loudan in that journal. I’m sure of it.”

Ian had heard those same words a thousand times. “I know, lass. But we’ve looked for it and found naught.”

“We haven’t searched the master bedchamber,” Lady Murian said.

“And how would we do tha’? Lord Loudan sleeps in tha’ chamber now.”

Widow Reeves shook her head. “ ’Tisn’t possible. Besides, ye took all the furniture when ye left, so the room was empty. If it ha’ been there, surely ye’d ha’ found it then.”

“Perhaps Robert hid it in a secret place. Under a stone in the hearth, or behind a loose panel.”

Ian didn’t hesitate. “Nay. We canna take such a chance.”

“But we know Robert’s journal exists, and that Loudan hasn’t found it. If he had, he wouldn’t go to such lengths to keep us oot of the castle. And now that we’ve searched most of the castle except that one room, it must be there.”

“Lass, ’tis one thing to sneak into the castle when the earl and his men were oot, and peek aboot the lower levels in the study and sittin’ room. Bu’ to invade the earl’s own bedchamber, especially now tha’ the castle is so heavily guarded— Nay. Just nay.”

“Ian is right,” Widow Reeves said. “And e’ery month the earl hires more thugs to guard the castle. ’Tis too dangerous now.”

“We’d get caught, we would, especially now tha’ Will botched things oop.”

Two weeks ago, when the earl was out hunting with some of his men, Will Scarlae had been sent to search the study desk for the lost journal. It was one of the few pieces of furniture they’d left behind.

Sadly, the lad had been caught, returning home two days later beaten and bloody, having been held in the dungeon until a chambermaid had helped him escape. He’d sworn he hadn’t revealed their secreted village, and as no one came to chase them from their homes, Murian believed him.

Ian scowled now. “ ’Tis suspicious, I am, tha’ the lad returned at all.”

Widow Reeves sent him a condemning glance. “Will would ne’er tell the earl aboot us. He’s a guid lad.”

“He’s a sullen lad, is wha’ he is, wi’ a chip on his shoulder the size of Edinburgh. And now Loudan ha’ the castle locked oop as if ’twere a bank filled wi’ gold. We canna chance sneakin’ into the castle anymore.”

“But—” Murian began.

“Nay! Besides, ye’ve been spittin’ in the earl’s eye these last few weeks by holding oop his guests. Surely tha’ is satisfaction enou’.”

“I dinna do it for satisfaction, and you know it. It draws the guards from the castle so we can search.”

“It
used
to draw the guards from the castle, but no more. An entire squadron surrounds the place now. The last time we went, we couldna get past the drive, there were so many soldiers wanderin’ aboot.”

Her shoulders slumped, but she refused to agree with him.

Widow Reeves patted Lady Murian’s hand. “Just be glad Loudan dinna ha’ the sense to hire locals, or we’d ha’ been caught already.” The earl’s men were hired thugs from the streets of London, so they were neither trusted nor liked by the locals, who refused to give away Murian and her little village.

Lady Murian sniffed her disdain. “No real Scot would work for the earl.”