The Prince and I (20 page)

“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, burying 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 host
ess 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 smallest 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.’ ”

“I saw the look you shared with Orlov. You are going to get my tiara back tonight, which is—”

“
Tikha!
” He looked around and then took her by the elbow and pulled her aside. “Keep your voice down.”

“
Izvini.
I didn’t think.” She peeked past him and was glad to note that no one seemed to have paid them any heed. Still, she changed to Oxenburgian, saying. “It’s about time you did something.”

“If speed was a concern, then perhaps you should have told me immediately upon our arrival that you’d gambled away one of our country’s most beloved heirlooms.”

She generously decided to ignore his tone of voice. “It will be good to have it back in our possession. Once we have the tiara, we will leave.” She considered this. “In fact, we could go this evening. I’ll have the maids pack our bags while we are at dinner and—”

“
Nyet.
It is not that simple.”

“Why not? You cannot wish to stay in this hellishly damp castle and—” Something about his expression caught her attention. A softening of his gaze, a touch of sadness about his mouth.

This grandson of hers was a difficult man to decipher, so she paid attention to even faint hints of emotion.
What has caught him so? Hmm. Could it be . . .
“This is about the woman,
nyet
?”

His gaze flickered away. “It about several things,
but—” He pressed his lips together for a moment. “
Da
, one of them is a woman.”

Finally, he admits it to me!
But is that a good thing, or a bad thing?
She eyed him carefully. While he was as closemouthed as ever, he seemed less . . . dark. She remembered how he’d been on their ride here, lost in his thoughts and unwilling to leave them. Now he wore an air of . . . not hope, but of determination. “Who is she?”

Max’s gaze grew shuttered. “You do not need to know.”

“If she is so important that you must hide her, then of course I must know.” When he didn’t answer, she waved her hand. “Fine. I will find out on my own. Golovin will tell me everything.”

“He would do no such thing.”

“He fears being turned into a goat. Which I will do, if he does not tell me what I wish to know. So you can tell me of this woman yourself, or consign Golovin to many sleepless nights wondering if there is more hair on the back of his hands than there used to be.”

“
Bozhy moj
, you are impossible.”

“At times.” She eyed him. “So? Who is this woman, and should I worry that you are about to take a thief to wife?”

“I never said anything about thieves and wives.”

“You did not need to. You went in search of the thieves who robbed us, and now you’ve found this woman. I am not a fool. She is one of the thieves,
nyet
?”

He frowned down at her and she thought he
wouldn’t answer, but after a long moment, he said, “She is a widow and her name is Lady Murian Muir.”

“Muir?” Where had she heard that name befo— Ah, yes. “The previous owner of the castle.” At Max’s surprised look, she said, “Loudan mentioned him.”

“When?”

“Last week, the week before, perhaps. It was one of the many days you were off pretending to hunt.”

“I
was
hunting. Just not wild game.” A faint smile touched his mouth, and for a moment he looked the way he used to—more youthful, with a sparkle in his eyes. The sight made her heart ache and gave her hope. This woman had caught Max’s attention, but Natasha hoped she would not crush him, too. Some men fell in love as often as there were days of the week, while others—a special few—fell in love once, and never turned from that love.

“What did Loudan tell you about Muir?”

“I wasn’t really listening. He wasn’t talking to me, but to some others during breakfast.” She pursed her lips, trying to remember. “He said there was a duel, but I cannot remember what it was over. Muir lost and Loudan won, so the castle became his. Then there was a duel— Pah! I cannot remember everything.”

“You must remember more.”

“Loudan seemed too happy with it, considering a man died. It made me angry. I understand that one has no choice in matters of honor, but his attitude was uncouth. One does not brag about having to kill someone.”

“Murian believes Loudan manufactured the entire
story. That there was no card game, no accusations, and no duel, but that Lord Robert was murdered in cold blood, the act covered by Loudan and his friends.”

“Does she?”
And it’s not “Lady Murian Muir,” but just “Murian.” I must meet this woman.
“I wouldn’t put it past our host. He has no morals.” She looked over at where the earl was greeting the arriving guests, oozing urbane charm. True charm was worn, not leaked. She sniffed. “He is a commoner.”

Max had to laugh. “It is fortunate Gypsies do not pay attention to such things as titles and noble birth
.
”

“I am not just any Gypsy, but the
phuri dai.
” She couldn’t have held her chin any higher.

And she was right; she was the highest-ranking female of her band. When she spoke, her people listened—which was why she was nigh unbearable elsewhere. “You are not just any Gypsy; on that we can agree, as you are the Gypsy who lost the royal crown of Oxenburg in a card game.”

“I wouldn’t have done it, but Loudan kept suggesting I was afraid to wager it, saying he would have already done so if he’d had a good hand. . . .” She tugged her shawl closer. “I was a fool, I know. You don’t need to say anything.”

“I wasn’t going to say a word. I think our friend Loudan is an expert in convincing people to throw expensive items onto his card table so that he can cheat them out of them. It’s how he makes his living.”

“But we will get it back—once you finish chasing this widow.”

“I haven’t been chasing her,” he lied. And yes, it was
a lie. He couldn’t seem to help himself where Murian was concerned. He couldn’t be in the same room with her without wanting to touch her, taste her,
know
her in every way possible. She was as spontaneous in her lovemaking as she was in the way she approached life, and he couldn’t seem to get enough. She tasted of passion, freedom, and life lust, and the more he had her, the more he wanted her.

“Ah! So
she
is chasing
you
, then.”

“It’s nothing like that. We have a common enemy, that is all.”
And a common love of carnal pleasure, but what red-blooded male and female do not?
The crowd near the door thinned at last, and Max took his grandmother’s elbow and led her forward. “Finally. Let us go.”

Inside the sitting room, he noted that the sideboard near the large windows bore pitchers of lemonade and punch. A short line had formed as people reached for glasses.

Tata Natasha poked him in the chest. “You.”

“
Da?
”

“Tell me about this woman. Who is she and why she is—”

“I must fetch your lemonade.”

Tata Natasha blinked. “I didn’t ask for any.”

He left before she could do more than sputter. He took his time fetching the drink, too, for he had no interest in having a discussion about Murian. She was fascinating, damned intelligent, and far too alluring to live alone in the woods. But he had to be a realist: once this was over, they would go their own ways and to their own futures, as fate had decreed. He would return
to Oxenburg, his duties set for life, while she would return to Rowallen, to eventually become a wife and mother.

His chest tightened and he rubbed it absently. He knew his grandmother wished him to find a wife, but she didn’t understand the harsh sacrifice that would be required of the woman. He would
never
damn Murian, who’d already suffered so much, to a life of endless uncertainty, waiting for the day he did not return. He’d seen the darkness in her eyes when she talked about the loss of her husband, and he’d seen how that death had left her unprotected and alone, banished from everything she held dear. She deserved far better. She deserved to be a beloved wife again, mother to a number of red-haired, silver-eyed children.

An odd hollowness rustled through him. He would not think of her future life. He couldn’t afford to. Yet even as he had the thought, an image of Murian with another man flashed into his mind. His chest tightened, blood roaring in his ears, as red-hot jealousy seared his being. He must have looked as furious as his thoughts made him, for the gentleman waiting beside him suddenly blanched and took a step away.