The Prince and I (25 page)

“So you will just give up this gift that has been given to you, this love?”

“I never said I loved anyone.”

“You said it, though not in those words. You do not give up happiness for anything else. But knowing you
will one day be in danger does not mean you must live as if you’ve already died. Look at your men! They marry.”

“They have not seen what I have. They do not carry the news to the loved ones, see the despair, watch the light die from the eyes of women who know they will never love again, see the pain of little boys who thought their father could walk on water and would never be killed.” He shook his head. “I would die myself before I subjected Murian to that.”

Tata Natasha’s expression softened. “Maksim, women have been living with men being fools for as long as there have been men and women.” She pointed a thin finger at him. “Listen, and listen well. You do not get to choose with whom, or when, or even how you fall in love. Those things are in the hands of a higher power. And it does not happen to everyone—nor often. Love is precious, Maksim. Precious. When this gift from the fates drops before you, you
cannot
walk away from it. Whether you marry this woman for one day or a hundred years, it will be worth whatever cost comes with it.”

Max wished he believed her. Wished he hadn’t seen what he’d seen, didn’t know what he knew. He shook his head. “I cannot do that to her, Tata.”

She scowled. “You are a fool, Max. A fool!”

He managed a smile. “I must go. I will see you at eight.” He bowed and then walked out the door, ignoring her huff of frustration.

Max found Orlov leaning against the wall just outside the door, his arms crossed. He pushed himself upright when he saw Max.

“You are back early,” Max said.

“When we left this morning, I sent Pahlen to await the courier. I had a feeling today would be the day.”

At least one thing was going well. “You were right, eh?”

“
Da
. A packet arrived. He’s to bring it to us here.”

“Good.” Max walked down the hall, Orlov falling in beside him.

After a moment, Orlov cleared his throat. “Pardon me, General, but I could not help but overhear your conversation with Her Grace.”

Max stopped to face his sergeant. “She is busy involving herself in what does not concern her. Do not make the same mistake.”

Orlov spread his hands before him. “I did not mean to overhear, but your grandmother’s voice carries.”

“Like the screech of a crow.”

Orlov gave Max a searching look. “There is wisdom to be found in the beaks of crows.”

Max grimaced. “You agree with her.”

“It has grown obvious to us all you’ve come to care for Lady Murian.”

“She has already been a widow once. I would not have her be one again.”

“Because you think she will be like Henrietta.” Orlov shook his head. “When Fedorovich died, a bit of all of us went to the grave with him.”

“More for Henrietta than any of us. You did not see her face when I told her Dimitri was not coming back. You did not see her prostrate herself over his dead body, nor refuse to leave his side until she fainted from
lack of sleep and hunger.” Max rubbed his forehead where it was beginning to ache. “I would not have that for Murian.”

“You wouldn’t. Henrietta is my sister, and I know her far better than you. Perhaps even better than Dimi-tri did.” Orlov shrugged. “Lady Murian is not Henrietta. My sister was never strong. I warned Fedorovich of this before he wed her, but he would not listen. Later, she had Artur and suffered horribly through the birth. It almost crushed her. Dimitri began to see what I meant and, while he never regretted his decision, for he loved her, he knew she was not as strong as she should be. That she would not survive without him, not well. It weighed upon him, and he worried about his son—which is why he told me that if he ever fell in battle, I was to take her and Artur into my house.” Orlov hesitated. “I know you feel responsible that Henrietta attempted to kill herself, but it was not a surprise to those of us who knew her.”

“Dimitri is fortunate you were there for her. He . . . he was like a brother to us all.”

“And yet we did not crumple like a heap of ashes when he died. And do not tell me that is because we are men: my Katrina would never behave as Henrietta has. She has suffered losses, too, some as dear and close as Henrietta’s, but not once has she folded into a limp rag. If anything, those losses made her stronger.”

“She is a good woman, is Katrina.”

“So is Lady Murian. She is a warrior, that one. As strong as steel.”

Max heard the admiration in Orlov’s voice. “She is.”

“So you need not worry about her so much.” Orlov smiled. “Katrina teases me that if I am ever killed in battle, she will find a new husband, one younger and wealthier. One who will give our sons better horses.”

Max frowned. “I wouldn’t laugh at that.”

Orlov chuckled. “Neither would I, if I planned on allowing it to happen. But I do not.” His expression grew serious. “I fight harder because of my Katrina. I want to return to her, and that makes me stronger. I fight to keep her safe, to keep our children safe.”

“And if you died?”

“Then she would weep, as I would if she died. And she would be deeply sad, but not forever. Not like Henrietta. Katrina is strong and brave, and eventually, she would find another man.”

“And this does not bother you?”

“To think I would not be the man to stand beside her?
Da
, it bothers me. But not as much as being the man who left when I could have been with her, protecting her, loving her and being loved by her. I would not miss that for a thousand victories.”

“General!” Golovin hurried up, Demidor and Pahlen behind him. “You said you’d wish these right away.” Golovin handed Max two packets.

Max examined the packets, surprised at the smaller of the two. He recognized the scrawl from a scrap of paper he’d received not long ago. Between Orlov’s words and this letter, a slow smile grew.

Perhaps, just perhaps, things might turn his way after all.

“There is more.” Demidor elbowed Pahlen forward.

The older man reddened. “Pardon me, General, but, ah . . . it is possible I have some information that might be of interest to you.”

“About?”

“Lady Murian.”

Max slipped the letters into his pocket. “Tell me.”

“I will, because you know my loyalty, but . . .” He winced. “I promised not to tell anyone, especially you.”

“You promised whom?”

Pahlen’s sheepish look answered him.

“Ah,” Max said. “The charming Widow MacCrae.”

Pahlen flushed. “She is a lovely woman, General.”

“Indeed. So she let something slip, and you promised not to reveal this information, yet you think I should know.”

He nodded miserably. “But I cannot tell. I promised. So . . . Golovin and I were thinking, perhaps someone could
guess
the information. Then I could keep my promise.”

Max crossed his arms and rocked back on his heels. “Ah! Very good.”

“We will need a clue,” Orlov stated. “Something to begin with.”

“We already know it’s about Lady Murian,” Max said. “Let me begin. She has decided to ignore my request that she not act against Loudan until Lord Spencer returned.”

Pahlen nodded eagerly. “
Da
, that is part of it. But there is more.”

“Hmm.” Orlov bit his lip. “Is she to hold up another coach then, in an attempt to draw away the guards?”

Pahlen hesitated, but then shook his head.

Orlov looked disappointed. “I was sure that was it.”

“
Nyet
,” Max said. “Murian’s well aware that Loudan is onto that particular trick.” He eyed Pahlen. “Lady Murian is not using her old tricks to draw the guards, so perhaps she has found a new one. One she has not yet tried?”

“
Da!
” Pahlen could not have looked more relieved. “
Bozhy moj
, I did not think you could guess it so quickly.”

“What sort of distraction is she planning?” Orlov asked.

“She won’t tell, so Leslie had no more information, only that Lady Murian and Ian had their heads together and something was afoot.”

Max shot a look at Pahlen. “She is not planning this anytime soon, is she? This evening, perhaps?”

“Not this evening,
nyet
. Leslie, I mean Widow MacCrae, seemed to think it was still in the planning stages.”

“I cannot believe Lady Murian did not consult us,” Orlov said, his brows low.

“I can,” Max said. “We were unsuccessful in getting her into the castle and have offered no new solutions, so she has found one herself.”

“But there is a traitor in her camp,” Golovin pointed out.

“Information leaked, but we don’t know how. It could have been an innocent remark, overheard by the wrong person.”

“Or it could be a traitor,” Orlov repeated stubbornly.
“She doesn’t know. Wouldn’t she be worried the traitor might inform Loudan and put her and her people in jeopardy once again?”

“She does not believe the traitor is one of her own,” Pahlen said. “She thinks it might have been one of us.”

“
What?
” Orlov exclaimed. “None of us would do such a thing.”

“So I told Widow MacCrae,” Pahlen said. “It is not our way to behave in such an underhanded fashion. However”—he winced—“she was very certain it was not their way, either.”

“The Scots have a temper, do they not?” Max put his hand on Pahlen’s shoulder. “Thank you for your efforts. You did well, bringing this to my attention.”

“What will you do?” Orlov asked.

“Another visit to Lady Murian is in order, so that I might discover what she is up to.” The thought sent his spirits soaring, and it was in a regretful tone that he added, “But it will have to wait until tomorrow. First I must see to these missives, and we must be present for dinner. I assume the courier waits?”

“
Da
,” Pahlen said. “Raeff is keeping him company until you are ready.”

“Tell them they will not wait long. Orlov, you will assist me as I write the replies. There is a matter or two we should discuss. Golovin, would you be so kind as to escort my grandmother to her room? She’s in the sitting room at the end of the hall.”

Golovin looked at the sitting room as if it contained a wild dog, but he gulped and nodded. “
Da
, General.”

“She’s frailer than she looks.” Max walked toward the staircase, his men dispersing as he walked. He paused at the stairs to say over his shoulder, “And Golovin?”

“
Da
, General?”

“Whatever happens, do not let her turn you into a goat.”

 Chapter 21 

Murian folded the foolscap in half and leaned back in her chair. “We are set, then.”

“Aye, I suppose.” Ian watched as she twisted the paper into a screw and then hid it in a sugar bowl that hadn’t seen anything but scrap paper in over a year. “ ’Tis a bit risky. If it fails, Loudan will crow, fer he’ll ha’ proof we’re committin’ a crime.”

“I know.” She played with the sugar bowl lid, tracing the delicate roses in the pattern. “Are you sure, Ian? Last night, you seemed to think—”

“Och, lass, I told ye I dinna mean it. I was just cold and wet and frustrated.”

“It is risky. If Loudan catches us, he will have us arrested. It could put your uncle the constable in a difficult place.”

“Aye. There’s naught he could do if there are witnesses. We willna leave him a choice.”

“Then we willna get caught,” she said lightly, though her stomach hurt with thoughts of what-ifs. She pushed the sugar bowl away. “Only you and I will know the plan this time, Ian. It’s safer.”

“Aye, lassie.” Ian sighed. “Fer the record, I think ’twas one of the prince’s men who let something slip.”

She wanted to think it might be one of Max’s men, too, for it pained her more than she could say to think one of her own people might betray her. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that the worst was indeed the truth.
But who?

She’d been at odds with herself since their failed raid, especially after her passionate night with Max. Just thinking of that night made her shiver, and her body’s betrayal infuriated her.
He is leaving soon. He couldn’t wait to remind me of that, to push me away.

She shoved a curl aside, suddenly irritated with everything. “We must find this traitor. Today, while the prince’s men were working, I found myself wondering about each and every one of them. Which is why no one else is to know anything until it’s about to happen, when it’s too late to pass on any details of our plan.”

A regretful look darkened Ian’s face. “I was sure ’twas Will at first, bu’ no more.”

“My heart tells me ’tis not him.”

“I’m inclined to agree wi’ ye. He had harsh words fer me last night, words I deserved.” Ian hesitated, then added, “He’s becoming a man, ’tis true.”

Murian sent him a look from under her lashes. “I wonder why he’s had such a difficult time with it.”

“Lass, if ye only knew.”

“I
would
know, if you’d but tell me. There’s a secret there, one you’ve made certain I wouldna find oot.”

Ian flushed. “ ’Tis no’ a story fer tender ears.”

“I’m no hothouse rose. I’m a Scottish thistle, strong
and hardy, and able to grow upon rock—and I want to know this secret about Will.”

Ian sighed. “Bloody hell, ye’re determined, aren’t ye? I suppose ’tis time.” He rubbed his chin, as if trying to decide where to begin. Finally, he said, “Ye knew his mither was a housekeeper?”

“Aye.”

“She came to work right after Lord Robert’s mither died, and she was a breath of fresh air during those dark times. She worked fer several years, and died when Will was born. The old lord took the lad under his wing and raised him as a brother to Lord Robert. They were inseparable, and many thought they
were
brothers.” Ian cast a cautious glance at Murian. “They said tha’ fer a reason, lass.”

She blinked. “Are you saying . . . Will is Robert’s half-brother?”

Ian nodded. “Born on the wrong side of the blanket.”

“I had no idea! Although now that I think about it, they have the same color hair and eyes.” She shook her head. “Robert once told me he and Will were close as children, before Robert inherited his title.”

“Aye. They ne’er got along after tha’. Will was jealous and Robert was a bit too fond of his new title, a common mistake fer a lad, but Will wouldna stop fuming long enou’ fer the two to patch things oop.”

She frowned. “I wonder why Robert never told me this?”

“Mayhap he thought ’twas no’ a topic fer a lady’s ears.” Ian grimaced. “Will had it rough, he did, the other children in the castle teasin’ him aboot his lack of
a father. Things weren’t so bad when the old lord was alive, fer he stood oop fer the lad, but afterward . . .” Ian shook his head in regret. “I should be nicer to the lad, bu’ he’s so mouthy.”

“You just said he’s growing up.”

“And mayhap so am I.” Ian pushed back his chair. “Speakin’ of which, I’d better get back to work. I’ve stone to break and it will no’ break itself.” He arose and gathered his cloak.

“Ian?”

He paused, his hand on the door latch.

“Thank you for trusting in me one more time.”

He flushed. “I’m sorry fer wha’ I said, lassie. I was angry and dinna mean it—”

“Yes, you did mean it.” She met his gaze directly.

He rubbed his cheek. “Some of it, mayhap. Bu’ mostly I was scared since we’d almost gotten caught.”

“I know,” she said quietly. “And you may be right; I may be chasing a unicorn. So I’ve decided something. If this new plan doesna work—” She splayed her hands on her knees and forced her stiff lips into a smile, though her heart fought the words. “I’ll stop trying to find the journal and will wait for Spencer to return. Meanwhile, we’ll stay here, and make our village the best village in all of Scotland.”

Ian brightened and came to kiss her on the top of her head. “All will be well, lass. I promise.”

She nodded, fighting tears. “Of course.”

Ian awkwardly patted her shoulder and then left, softly closing the door behind him.

She crossed her arms on the table and rested her
head on them. It seemed as if the weight of the world sat upon her. She’d never felt so alone. Part of it was the deep fear that Ian and Max were right; that she was a fool to chase after evidence she didn’t know for certain even existed. Yet she was sure, in her heart of hearts, that Robert’s journal held answers. She could only pray they were the ones she hoped for.

But what if this doesn’
t work?
What if the traitor again tells Loudan we are coming? What then?

She waited, but no answers came. Nothing but the silence of her cottage, and the faint murmur of the village.

She found her gaze resting upon her bed. The loneliness that had sat upon her heart swelled again, and she forced herself to turn away, although it wasn’t as easy to quell her memories.

These last two days had been so very, very hard. The first day, Max had returned with the men, and it had been as if nothing had happened. Except that her heart tore a little more every time she caught sight of his broad shoulders, or the flash of his smile. As much as she tried not to watch him, her eyes were drawn to him over and over, each sight a slash to her composure. She knew he felt the same, too. He might not care for her as she had come to care for him, but he was attracted to her still, shown by the way his gaze followed her as often as hers followed him.

She took some comfort in that, even though it made her long for more. She’d been both relieved and depressed beyond measure when he hadn’t returned the next day. While she told herself over and over that it was best for them both, she couldn’t forget the taste of
him, the feel of his roughened fingertips as they swept over her, the scent of leather and soap that lingered in his hair. If she closed her eyes now, she could see him before her, as vivid in memory as he was in person. The thought seared her. He would leave Rowallen soon and never return.
As he must. Just as I must stay here.

It was better that she deal with her village and her people on her own, in her own way. She’d done so for the last year and longer. She didn’t need the complication of someone else, especially a bossy, six-foot-two someone else who was far too used to doing things
his
way.

And yet, she couldn’t stop the hollowness of her heart at the thought. In a few brief weeks, Max had reminded her of what it felt like to be a part of something close and intimate; the magic of waking up in someone’s arms, the loneliness when those arms were suddenly no longer there.

Tears welled and she angrily dashed them away, unwilling to let her thoughts overcome her. She would help Ian break some rock. Swinging a heavy hammer would be good for her angst-ridden soul. She hurried to find her cape and had just wrapped her muffler about her neck when she heard a shout, followed by another.

Frowning, she threw her cape about her shoulder and opened the door. Coming down the forest path astride the largest bay she had ever seen, and dressed head to toe in unrelenting black, rode Max’s tiny Gypsy grandmother. Riding in front of her was Golovin, looking embarrassed and terrified.

Ian, standing beside a large stone he’d fetched from
the stream, watched, surprised. On seeing Murian in her doorway, he came to stand beside her as their guests entered the village.

“Tha’ is a big horse fer sich a wee woman.” Ian’s voice held a note of admiration as the grand duchess rode closer.

“I was just thinking ’twas a wee horse for such a large woman.”

Seeing Golovin’s expression, Ian said thoughtfully, “Ye may ha’ the right of it, lassie.”

“She certainly rides well.” The duchess didn’t seem to direct the animal at all, yet even though it was obviously a high-strung animal, it walked sedately down the path between the cottages without the least hesitation.

The villagers were alerted now, and stood in doorways and hung out windows, watching the tiny woman ride down their street. Suddenly the door to Widow Brodie’s cottage flung open. Her five small boys ran out, followed by their mother, who stalked right up to the path, where she whipped out a crucifix and held it before her.

Her Grace pulled her horse to and eyed Widow Brodie with an icy stare.

Murian hurried up the street, Ian hard on her heels.

He murmured to Murian, “She’s only sayin’ wha’ the rest of us are thinkin’, lassie.”

Murian reached the widow. “Widow Brodie! What are you doing? Her Grace has just come for a visit!”

“Tha’ is no’ duchess, Lady Murian. She’s a witch. Ye’ve heard the whispers.”

Widow Reeves stuck her head out of the window of her cottage. “She threatened to turn us all into frogs when we held oop her coach. Remember?”

“Or was it goats?” Ian asked, pursing his lips.

Golovin sent a cautious look at the duchess, and then leaned down to whisper loudly, “It was goats. They are her favorite thing.”

The grand duchess fixed her gaze on Murian. “Lady Murian, I take it.” The black eyes swept up and down Murian and, judging from the curl of the old woman’s lip, apparently found her wanting.

Murian stiffened, her chin lifting. “Aye, Your Grace.”

“I thought so. I have come to speak to you.”

“Oh? About what?”

“If you’ll invite me to tea, I may tell you. You do have tea, don’t you?”

“Of course.”

“Then I will visit you.” She looked over her shoulder. “Golovin, I am done riding.”

The huge soldier hurried to dismount, throwing his reins over a gate and then coming to the duchess’s horse. He lifted her carefully to the ground as if she were made of china, unstrapped a gold-handled cane from her saddle, and handed it to her.

“Walk the horse. I will not be long.” She hobbled to Murian. “Well? Which of these hovels is yours?”

Murian bit her tongue. “This way, Your Grace.”
Hovel, indeed!
She led the way to her cottage, fighting the urge to reply in kind.

Reaching her cottage, she opened the door. “If you’ll take a seat, I’ll make your tea.”

The duchess walked in, her brows rising as she noted the fine furnishings. “Well. This is a surprise.”

“Not to me.”

She flashed Murian an appreciative look, walked to the closest chair and ran her hand over the mahogany arm. “I take it you stole this from the castle.”

“You canna steal what you already own.”

“True.” Her Grace felt the cushions on each chair, finally selecting a seat close to the fire. She sat, arranging her shawl and skirts about her. “Hurry up with that tea. I am thirsty from my ride.”

“Of course.” Murian hid her grimace and set about heating water for the tea. While she waited she pulled out cups and small plates, opening a packet of sweet biscuits Widow Reeves’s sister had brought on her last visit. As she moved, she was aware the duchess’s gaze followed her every move.
What on earth can she want?