The Prince and I (18 page)

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 Spencer 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.

Max led the way, his men laughing and talking as they followed him into the village. His gaze swept the
area and found Murian, who flushed. A lopsided smile curved his firm lips and he nodded a greeting that was oddly intimate, even though he was on the other side of the village.

She wrapped her arms around herself. He looked as tasty and welcome as warm, honeyed porridge on a frosty winter morning.

As the deep rumble of the soldiers’ voices grew louder, curtains flickered in windows, followed quickly by doors flying open one by one. Widow Brodie stood in her doorway, her five boys pouring out into the yard, waving and jumping and whooping. Orlov and Demidor pulled up beside their gate and leaned down to talk to the boys.

Widow MacDonald hurried to her gate and called out to Golovin as he rode past. Murian caught the phrase “venison stew,” and whatever else the widow had said, Golovin’s craggy face brightened and he nodded.

Widow MacCrae and her daughter hurried past Murian to wave at Pahlen, who grinned, his teeth flashing whitely in his bearded face as he directed his horse their way.

The other women and children poured from their cottages, all of them waving at the men, excited voices rippling through the once-quiet town.

“ ’Tis like a parade,” Murian said.

“Aye,” Ian replied. “While I’m glad they’ve been here to help, I hope e’erone realizes ’tis only temporary. The prince and his lads’ll be gone soon enou’.”

Max pulled his horse to a halt beside Pushkin’s, which was tied to the gate, and dismounted. He handed
the reins to Orlov, who took both horses and led them with his own to the stables. The other men, leaving the villagers, did the same.

Murian was suddenly aware of how she must look. Her hair, damp from the snowfall, stuck to her face and neck in wet curls, and she was certain her nose was cherry red from the cold.

Max reached them and she felt his gaze flicker over her, lingering on her face and cheeks. “Lady Murian.” He bowed and glanced past her to the stack of shutters. “I didn’t expect anyone to be working on such a cold morning.”

“O’ course we were workin’,” Ian huffed. “Now tha’ we’ve wood, there’s no stoppin’ us fra’ wha’ needs doin’.”

“Excellent. Though the wagon wouldn’t make it through the snow, the horses needed exercise, so we are here.”

“You canna expect to work on the roofs in such weather.” Murian clapped her mittened hands together to keep them warm.

Max held out his hand. “Give me your hand.”

She obliged.

He peeled off her wet mittens and placed them on a ladder rung. Then he pulled a glove from his pocket and tugged it onto Murian’s bare hand. The supple leather was lined with the softest fur she’d ever felt, and warmth enveloped her hand. “Thank you.”

His gaze darkened. “You must have better gloves if you’re to be out in such weather. Give me your other hand.”

She held it out, and he pulled the matching glove from his pocket and tugged it on her hand. She held her gloved hands before her, admiring the well-stitched leatherwork. “They’re beautiful.”

“They were made by the Gypsies from my country. They make beautiful things with leather.”

She looked at him inquiringly. “These are too small to be yours.”

“They belonged to my grandmother.”

“I’ll thank her if I see her again.”

“Pray do not.”

He spoke so flatly that she cast him a suspicious glance. “I take it she dinna know she’s been so generous.”

“She knows. She assumed I wished the gloves for, as she put it, ‘a village wench.’ I would rather she did not call you that, for it would make me very angry.”

Murian’s lip twitched. “Your grandmother sounds very spirited. I think I would like her.”

Max thought Murian would enjoy Tata Natasha’s brazen ways, as well. Sadly, the two would never meet. He forced a smile. “We should discuss the mission scheduled for Rowallen. Orlov is waiting for us in the barn. The others are to join us.” He looked at Ian. “We’ll need you, too, and Will. The more minds we apply to this, the fewer errors there will be.”

“I’ll tell the lad ye need him.” Ian left, leaving Murian with Max.

He proffered his arm. It was a silly, formal thing to do, but she smiled and accepted. They waded through the deep snow to the barn and went inside.

Orlov had placed a plank across two barrels, creating a table. “Good morning, Lady Murian.”

She returned the greeting, removing her new gloves.

Max noted how she carefully placed them in her pocket, patting them as if to be certain they would not fall out.

Orlov removed a leather packet from the saddlebags he’d hung over a stall and brought it to the makeshift table. There, he undid the flap and pulled out some folded papers. Murian watched as he smoothed them out.

“Why, these are sketches of Rowallen.” She turned through the other papers. “And schedules for the guards, too.” She looked at Max, astonishment in her gaze. “Where did you get these?”

He smiled at the admiration in her voice. “We made them. This is not the first battle we’ve planned.”

Orlov moved a piece of paper to the top of the pile. “There are fifty-six guards. Here are their names and what we know of them. Most of them are military trained.”

“How did you find out?”

Orlov’s teeth flashed in his black beard. “Vodka. Lots and lots of vodka.”

Max explained, “It is a drink, much like your whiskey, only stronger.”

“Much stronger,” Orlov agreed.

“Ah,” she said. “I hope the information you gleamed was accurate, and not drunken bragging. I—”

The door opened and Demidor and Golovin entered.

“Where are the others?” Max asked.

“They come,” Demidor said. The two men came to stand behind Orlov.

Max turned to Murian, who was reading one of the papers. “So much information,” she said, shaking her head. “You found all of this from plying the earl’s men with vodka?”

“Not all. Some of our information came from Loudan’s man of business.”

“Aye,” Demidor said. “A small man who is much given to complaining. And when he is complaining, he is also telling much information.”

“The night before last, Demidor became his best friend,” Max said.

“It was not difficult,” Demidor said modestly. “After some vodka, the man had much to say about his employer. But it wasn’t what he said that was of value, but rather what he wrote.”

“I dinna understand,” Murian said.

“He kept a ledger.” Demidor reached over and tapped the corner of a small blue notebook that was partially hidden under the papers.

Murian picked up the notebook. “You stole it? Willna he go to the earl once he realizes it is gone?”

“Nay, he fears the earl. Besides, we will give it back later today and he will think it merely misplaced.”