The Prince and I (22 page)

 Chapter 17 

The rain hit as they reached their mounts. The ride back to their village was long and miserable, as they didn’t dare hurry the horses in the dark.

As they rode, head bowed against the icy rain, Murian could feel Ian’s irritation with the disappointing outcome of the night’s events, while Will remained sullenly silent. For her part, she was beyond frustrated, and as angry as she could be with their betrayer.

Someone had obviously shared their plan with Loudan. It had to be one of Max’s men, for she knew her own people too well. Didn’t she?

The hood of her cloak, now soaked beyond help, dripped water over her face. She thought of the members of her band, lingering only momentarily on Will. It couldn’ be. None of them would have done such a thing; she was sure of it. Perhaps one of the prince’s men had been seen while studying the layout of the castle, or had inadvertently said something in front of a servant? Neither was out of the realm of the possible.

Icy and plentiful, the rain continued to beat mercilessly upon them and pitilessly tortured the horses.

Finally, they reached the village and rode into the stables. Shivering with cold and thankful to be out of the stinging rain, Murian slid off her mount. “Bloody hell,
that
is not a ride I want to repeat.” She whipped off her dripping cloak and carried it to the door to wring it out, then threw it over a hook. “I’ve never been so wet ootside of my own tub.”

Ian sputtered at the water that dripped from his moustache and eyebrows. He looked miserable, cold, and grumpy. “ ’Twas a rotten way to end a foolish errand.”

Her temper was quick to stir. “You think ’tis foolish to find the proof we need to win back Rowallen?”

“ ’Twould be best if we dinna talk aboot this now,” he growled as he took off his wet coat, dropping the sopping mess on the floor before he led his horse into a stall. “I’m in no mood fer it.”

“Nor am I.” She unbuckled her horse’s saddle and slid it off, and started to carry it to a stand by the back door.

Will tied his horse to a stall door and then took the saddle from her, ignoring her protest. “I got it, me lady.” His gaze flickered to Ian before he added in a low voice, “Between the two of us, ye ha’ the harder job.”

“I can hear ye,” Ian snapped.

“Then
talk
,” Murian said. “You may not be in the mood for it, but the words are burning your lips.”

Ian clamped his lips together, led his unsaddled horse into a stall, and began to dry it with handfuls of hay.

“Fine. But dinna come to me tomorrow wishing to discuss this, for I’ll have nothing to say by then.” She picked up fistfuls of hay and did the same with her horse.

He paused, fixing her with a glare he usually reserved for Widow MacDonald, then threw down the hay and stomped over to her. “Fine. I’ll tell ye wha’ I think. ’Tis time to admit we’re on a fool’s errand. We’re no’ meant to win back anything. Rowallen is gone, and she willna be comin’ back.”

Murian’s jaw tightened. “Rowallen doesna belong to Loudan. He canna have it.”

“She’s right, Ian.” Will unbuckled his horse’s saddle. “Besides, wha’ should we do, jus’ sit back and let tha’ no guid braggart steal it fra’ us? Ye canna mean tha’.”

Ian ignored Will. “Lass, ye’ve had yer way too long in this and ‘tis time it stopped. Loudan has already stolen Rowallen and there’s no gettin’ it back.”

“That’s enough.” Murian placed a horse blanket over her mount. “I refuse to believe Robert died in vain. We’ve pledged ourselves to this path, and we’ll not leave it until we’ve succeeded and Rowallen is back where she belongs.” Murian closed the stall door and went to collect her dripping cloak.

Ian threw down the handful of wet straw and followed her. “Ye’re bein’ stubborn, and someone is going to get injured! I’ve watched o’er ye, lass, and ha’ tried to be patient, thinkin’ ye might realize the truth on yer own, but ye willna’. The reality is this—the castle is gone and there is no hope. None. And e’en if there were, ye wouldna be—”

“Ian!” Will’s voice cut sharply. “That is enou’!”

Murian was glad Will had spoken, for her throat was too tight to allow her to do so. Every word Ian had spoken sliced her like a shard of glass. Since Robert’s death, Ian had been her rock, encouraging her, suggesting new ways to approach their problems, standing beside her in every risky venture. Except to worry about their safety, not once had he wavered in spirit or faith.

Until now. She swallowed hard. “ ’Tis good to know where you really stand.” She couldn’t keep the quaver from her voice.

Will sent Ian a hard look. “Are ye happy now, ye old bugger?”

Ian’s expression softened, though his anger remained strong. “I dinna mean to hurt ye, lass, but e’en wi’ the prince’s help, we were in grave danger tonight. Those men had pistols and meant to use them.” He sighed, his broad shoulders bowing. “It was a guid try, and ye did wha’ ye could, but our luck has run oot, and we must face tha’ fact.”

Murian was glad her hair was dripping water over her face, for it hid the tear that leaked from her eye. “We’ve had a very difficult evening, we have.” She took her cloak from its peg and headed toward the stable door. “We had high hopes, and promises were made but not kept. But now is not the time to think aboot it. We’re tired and cold and wet. We’ll discuss this tomorrow.”

“I’ll no’ think differently then, lass.”

She paused and looked back. “Did you ever really think we’d win back Rowallen, Ian? Even once?”

His gaze dropped.

A lump filled her throat. Without another word, she left the barn. Behind her Will’s voice rose as he berated Ian, the older man’s tones low and heavy in return.

Already wet, she merely ducked her head against the icy rain, her boots sloshing in the mud. When she reached her home she fumbled with the door, finally getting it open, and walked inside.

She closed and locked the door and then leaned against it, water dripping from her and soaking into the carpet under her feet as the rain beat the slate shingles in a noisy roar. She hung her wet cloak beside the door and used the light from the low fire to find a towel and dry her face and hands. That done, she found a candle and lit it.

A small, golden glow suffused the room, though it did little for her black mood. Trying not to think, she added wood to the fire, adjusting the flue so the flames could breathe. There, before the warmth, she took off her wet boots and undressed, peeling her soaked clothes from her skin. Naked and shivering, she toweled herself dry and then donned her robe, wrapping the towel about her wet hair.

She spread her cloak before the fire and turned her boots upside down so that the water would drain out. Before fetching her comb, she hung a kettle of water over the fire to heat. Then, comb in hand, she pulled a small stool before the fire and began to dry her hair.

When the kettle whistled, she set aside the comb and made her tea, fragrant steam lifting from her mug. Soon she was curled upon the overstuffed settee, a blanket
tucked about her, her warm mug cupped between her hands, the scent of black tea and bergamot giving her comfort.

When she’d been a child, she used to watch her father make their tea, every movement as calm, unruffled, and thoughtful as he’d been. Her mother had been more impetuous and never left the tea infuser in the hot water long enough for it to have any flavor. Papa used to laugh at the faces Mama would make when drinking her weak tea.

Murian’s throat tightened again as she was swept with a longing to see them both, and she had to dash her hand over her eyes to remove fresh tears.
What is wrong with me? I’m a weepy mess tonight.
But she knew what was wrong: Ian’s words had cut her to the bone, and left her reeling and more alone than she’d ever been.

In the days after Robert’s death, she’d leaned on Ian far more than she should have. Apparently, he’d come to feel as if he needed to support her, even if it meant lying to her, which he’d obviously done.

It hurt, though she couldn’t find it in her heart to be angry with him. All she felt was a deep, overwhelming sadness.

Blinking back tears, she rested her head against the settee, realizing how very tired she was. Whether it was the cold, or getting so wet, or the near disaster of the evening, she wasn’t sure. But it felt heavenly to simply sit and do nothing for a few moments.

Of course, this couldn’t last. She had plans to make. With or without Ian, she would not give up on Rowallen. Too many people depended on her.

She sipped her tea, savoring the warmth as the rain clattered against the window, punctuated now and again by the low rumble of thunder, her mind flickering to Max. A faint smile touched her lips when she thought of his fakely drunken singing. It had been an inspired way to sound an alarm without the guards realizing what he was doing.

Her smile slipped and she wondered what had happened to upset their plan. Had they been betrayed? By whom? It had to be one of the prince’s men. She couldn’t imagine any other—

B
am! Bam! Bam!
A heavy fist hit her door.

Sighing, she set her mug aside, tugged her blanket about her shoulders and hurried to the door. She unlocked it and pulled it open. “Ian, there’s nothing more—”

Max strode into the room, his black cloak soaked, water streaming from his broad shoulders to the floor.

“Och, you’re dripping!”

“It’s a floor.” He threw back his hood and raked a hand through his wet hair. “Floors are made to catch water.”

“At least stand on the hearth, so the water dinna ruin my rugs.” Murian closed the door and rebolted it, her body prickling awake in a heated rush. Even soaked head to toe, he exuded a sensual power that instantly reminded her of more intimate moments. She’d been feeling so alone, and now, he was here. A flutter of relief warmed her chilled spirits.

He stood on the hearth and undid his cloak, water pooling about his boots.

“Hang your cloak over that chair.” She dug another towel from a trunk at the foot of her bed and brought it to him, watching as he dried off, glad to have something to think about other than Ian’s defection.

Besides, whatever she thought about Max, she couldn’t deny that he was a pleasure to watch. Seeing him across a ballroom, one was instantly aware of his dark, angelic beauty, augmented by his black hair, green eyes, and golden skin. But now, up close, with his hair slicked back from the rain, the sheer masculine strength of his face was in sharp relief—his stone-cut jaw, the high cheekbones, the strong nose. Frankly, it was a gift to women everywhere that he’d managed to gather those few scars, for they were the only thing that kept him from being a dangerous distraction.

He caught her gaze and his stern expression softened. “You look exhausted.”

She put a hand to her cheek, hiding a desire to wince. “I am.”

“It is often that way after a battle. It was a close one tonight,
dorogaya moya
. Too close.” He reached over and captured one of her damp curls, sliding it between his fingers. “Your hair is like the sea, frothing and curling, like waves trying to steal the sand from beneath unsuspecting feet.”

She flushed and tightened her robe, suddenly aware of the deficiencies in her dress. “So . . . what happened this evening?”

His gaze darkened. “We were betrayed. I don’t know how, or by whom, but Loudan knew our plan. He allowed it to progress to a point, for we were able
to remove the guards from that side of the house. What we didn’t know was that as soon as we had them out of the way, he replaced them.”

Her stomach tightened. “He hoped to catch us as we entered.”

Max nodded. “We realized what was happening and didn’t set the signal.”

“Someone did. There was a candle, but in the wrong window.” She sighed, pushing her hair from her neck and rubbing it. “It bothered me, that detail, but it was cold and we were so close—” She sighed. “I should have stopped right there.”

“Yes, you should have.” His mouth was white, his expression stern. “I knew you were on that ridge and might come down it at any moment—” He snapped his mouth closed, as if the words were bitter.

She toyed with one of the wide cuffs on her robe. “Your singing is atrocious. It probably frightened the earl’s men to death.”