The Prince and I (7 page)

“Nor will I. Soldiers should not marry.”

“Pah. That is nonsense.”

He didn’t answer.

She looked up at him, and for a moment she stopped being an imperious grand duchess and became his grandmother, her face softening slightly. “Oh, my Maksim, what have these wars done to you?”

“They have made me grow up. Soldiers are married to their causes. They should not forget that.” He never would. He was a soldier, as were his closest companions, Orlov and poor Fedorovich.

The sons of nobility, they were distant cousins of Max’s. The two had been present at almost every court function where—enticing Max away—they’d slip out of the castle for games of hide-and-seek, running wild through the sedate gardens and cultured park land. Later, as headstrong youths, the three had attended the same military school. Then, as young adults, they’d joined the Oxenburg military as adjutants to famous General Zhukov where, when not performing their duties, they’d hunted wolves and women. Max had thought of them as brothers.

But over time, things changed—General Zhukov’s health failed and Max was named as the new general; Orlov inherited his father’s lands and title; and after a long and tumultuous courtship, Fedorovich married Orlov’s youngest sister.

Lively and pretty, Henrietta had become a welcome part of their little group. When she’d had a son, both Orlov and Max had been deemed “uncles” to the baby. And over the years, Fedorovich and Henrietta’s house became the center of their visits. To the amusement of all, Max and Orlov fell into a growing competition to see who could buy the boy the more extravagant gift.
Thus Max had bought the boy his first rocking horse, his first play sword, and his first pony.

And it had been Max who, after a terrible battle won only through dogged perseverance and the blood of many, many men, had ridden to the house that held so much laughter and wonderful memories, to tell Henrietta that her beloved Fedorovich wasn’t coming home.

He’d told her the news in private, but her cries had brought her son running. Only eight, he’d burst into tears upon realizing what had caused his mother such distress, and the two of them had fallen into each other’s arms, inconsolable and lost. Max, suddenly an outsider, could do nothing to stem the tears; all he could do was watch.

That moment had seared his soul. And matters had turned even worse when, a week later, an inconsolable Henrietta attempted to take her own life, throwing herself from the top window of the house. She’d lived but the damage had been severe, and she was confined to her bed, never to rise again. Orlov, newly married, had moved her into his home and was now raising Artur as his own son.

The events had devastated Max. He’d been well aware of the tragic costs of a soldier’s death, but he’d never felt one so deeply, and it had taught him well. “Soldiers should never wed. It isn’t fair to their families.”

“Pah!” Tata said. “Soldiers may wed if they wish. Your father was once the leader of the armies of Oxenburg, and he wed.”

“If my father knew what I know, he would never have done so.”

She scowled. “You are stubborn, and will not listen to reas—” Her gaze locked on something behind Max.

Max followed her gaze to the refreshment table, where a woman stood, her hand hovering over a silver tray filled with delicacies. As he watched, she picked up a tart, looked around, and then slipped it into her pocket.

“That’s the third one,” Tata said. “She also took some pears and wrapped her kerchief about some sweet biscuits and stuffed them away, as well.”

Max watched as the woman casually wandered to a tray of pastries, glancing about the room as she did so. She was round, her body stuffed into a puce-colored gown until she looked like a sausage. She was older, with frown lines at the sides of her mouth. Her dyed brown hair hung in fat, heavy ringlets at each side of her face, an old-fashioned style he’d only seen in portraits.

She reached for some sugared walnuts and he noted her face was heavily rouged, her eyebrows darkened to match her falsely colored hair, a trick used by elderly women the world over. While he watched, she slipped a handful of the sugared walnuts into her pocket and then glanced about to see if anyone had witnessed her theft, her eyes plainly in view for the barest of seconds.

Max stiffened. “We must go.” He tucked Tata Natasha’s hand into the crook of his arm and firmly led her toward the corner where three of his men stood watching the young ladies swirl past in the dance.

“What are you doing?” Tata Natasha asked, huffing with each step.

“I must speak to this woman.”

“Why?”

“I will tell you if you will share why we are here visiting a man neither of us like.”

“We are not talking about Loudan; we are talking about that woman stealing food.” Tata’s voice grew hard. “She is a nobody. You can see it just by looking at her.”

Ah, Tata, if only you knew.
Max reached his men, nodding to Orlov, Demidor, and Pahlen, who’d come to share the burden of the night’s activities. He placed Tata Natasha’s hand in Orlov’s. “Take care of Her Grace.”

Orlov bowed over the grand duchess’s hand. “Your Grace. Allow me to—”

She jerked her hand free and scowled at Max. “Let Loudan keep watch over his own refreshment table. You are a prince. You cannot—”

Max was already crossing the floor. As he approached the refreshment table, his quarry paused before a tray of cream pastries.

He walked behind her and bent close to her ear, the scent of vanilla and lavender tickling his nose. “Not those. They will stain your pockets.”

The lady stiffened and then turned his way, astonishment on her face. Thickly lashed eyes met his, as silver as the tray near her graceful hand.

He smiled. Murian had done an excellent job at disguising herself. In addition to the heavy rouge, someone had expertly shaded her nose to make it more prominent. Faint circles had been added under her eyes, and perfectly drawn lines ran between her nose
and the corner of her mouth, giving her a permanently displeased look.

Had he not been looking to see how the differences in her appearance had been wrought, he wouldn’t have noticed them, even close. Such was the magic of dim candlelight and well-applied greasepaint. The question now was—should he tell her he recognized her? It would be practical to do so, but not nearly as much fun.

Besides, he owed her some uneasy moments. Max inclined his head. “I’m sorry, did I startle you?”

Murian couldn’t move, couldn’t think. All she could do was soak in the rich sound of that deep voice, her body tightening head to toe, her heart thudding in her throat.
Can he see through my disguise?

The silence was growing awkward, so she cleared the uncertainty from her throat and bobbed the sort of heavy, perfunctory curtsy she imagined a middle-aged spinster might make. “How do you do? I dinna believe we’ve been introduced.” She kept her voice flat and toneless, hoping to keep from stirring his memory.

His gaze flickered over her. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Nay, we havena.” Her mind, usually agile when taxed, froze yet again. There was something about this man, something forbidden, something that tugged at her. Though he’d made no move to touch her, she was intensely aware of everything around her—the linen tablecloth under her fingertips, the weight of the padding tied about her waist to disguise her figure, the fullness of her pockets stuffed with treats for the children.

What would an awkward spinster say to a handsome prince
at a country dance?
“Och, ’tis hot in here,” she blurted out, trying to sound as if she’d recited those exact words a thousand times before.

“So it is.” His eyes glimmered. “I see you are enjoying the refreshments. They are good,
nyet
?”

She nodded, unable to look away from him. She was a tall woman, but she still had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze. She realized she should respond to his comment, and she managed to say, “Aye, the refreshments are excellent. I’ve never seen so many.”

He glanced with unconcern at the table. “Neither have I, but then, I do not attend many dances.”

Because he was no ordinary prince, but a warrior prince. Her gaze locked on his face.
He looks like an angel. A warrior angel.

He chuckled, the sound rumbling in his broad chest. “A warrior,
da.
But I am no angel.”

No! I didn’t mean to say that aloud.
She bit back a groan, and could have gladly sunk into the floor if she’d thought it might save her from this moment.

Her chagrin must have shown on her face, for he moved a bit closer. “Do not run
.
I will tell your secret to no one.”

Her heart slammed to a stop. “My . . . secret?”

His lazy half-smile made her gulp. “That you are carrying ten people’s worth of delicacies in your pockets.”

“
Och, that! ’Tis not for me.” She forced herself to smile. “It would be verrah kind if you dinna mention this to anyone.”

His green eyes glinted with humor. “It is how we angels are.”

Her cheeks heated. “I dinna say ‘angel.’ ”

“I distinctly heard the word ‘angel.’ But perhaps I am wrong. What did you say, then?”

She desperately cast about for a suitable replacement.
Good lord, doesn’t
anything
rhyme with “
angel”?
As the seconds ticked on, the silence became more awkward.

Finally, she said in a tight voice, “It doesna matter, but that’s not what I said.”

His lips twitched, but otherwise he maintained his grave expression. “I see.” He tilted his head to one side and regarded her with a narrow gaze. “Forgive me, but you weren’t at dinner, were you? I examined every face present, and I am certain I did not see yours.”

Why did you do that?
“I wasna at dinner. My mother grew ill as we were leaving. In getting her back to bed and a doctor to her side, I was late arriving and missed dinner.” She silently thanked Widow Reeves for deciding they should have a story ready in case someone wondered why she hadn’t been at dinner. It would have been too chancy to attend dinner in her disguise, for the lights would have been bright and she’d have been seated close to her fellow guests. But here, at the dance afterward, where the lights were dimmer and everyone was either dancing to Scottish reels or gossiping in small groups, it was much easier to remain unnoticed.

“If you didn’t come to dinner, then you must be starving. No wonder you are raiding the sweets.”

“They’re for my mother. I thought they might cheer her oop a wee bit.” She peeped at him through her
lashes to see if he believed her. She shouldn’t have taken the chance of drawing attention to herself, but the children so rarely had sweets, and seeing the table groaning with such bounty had been too tempting.

“I hope your mother will appreciate your efforts.” His gaze flickered over her and he inclined his head. “But introductions are in order,
nyet
?” Before she knew what he was about, he’d taken her hand in his large, warm one and bowed, his lips brushing the back of her sugar-coated fingers. “I am Max.”

At the touch of his hand on hers, waves of weakness washed through her, and she had to swallow twice before she could speak. “Verrah nice to meet you.” She dipped an awkward curtsy, the wadding around her waist making her feel off balance. As she rose from the curtsy, she freed her hand from his grasp.

“And your name?” he asked.

“Miss MacDonald.” There were as many MacDonalds in Scotland as there were blades of grass.

“MacDonald. Of course.” His gaze raked her face once more.

He was so close, his foot brushing hers, and so large, filling up the space about them until she felt encompassed, warm . . . and breathlessly excited. Such feelings meant nothing, of course. The mere thought of a possible flirtation was heady stuff after so many months alone with her small group of widows in the woods. She wished she could act upon that longing, if only for a few moments. Of course, dressed as she was, she doubted he felt the same—and she had to smile,
thinking of how he might react if plain, dowdy Miss MacDonald pulled him into a corner for a passionate kiss.

A quick glance around the room told her she wasn’t the only one thinking such a thing. Every gaze in the room seemed to find the prince, dart away, and then return to linger. And why wouldn’t they stare? He looked masculine, deadly, and . . . something else. Something that made every woman in the room watch him with longing, and every man send concerned looks his way.
It’s as if he entices the women, and the men
—
seeing his effect
—
are threatened, but dare not confront him.

She didn’t blame them. A raw, restless power sat on his broad shoulders, shimmered in his green eyes, and rippled through his muscled arms.

He smiled faintly, and she realized she hadn’t said a word in response to his question. “I’m sorry, but I was distracted by your uniform. Are you a guard?” Perhaps that would get him to admit to his birthright.

“I am a soldier, Miss MacDonald.” He spoke simply, with a quiet, firm pride.

“What kind of soldier are you?”

“A busy one.” He gave her an impatient look. “I have answered your questions, so now you will answer mine.”

She stiffened at his preemptory tone. He might not admit to being a prince, but she was beginning to suspect he never stopped acting like one.

He glanced past her to the refreshment table. “What other sweets would your mother like?”

“Oh. I’m sure I have enough.” She patted her heavy pockets.

“But you were admiring these pastries when I arrived, so I’m determined you shall have them.” He pulled a kerchief from his pocket and placed several almond pastries in it. Then he wrapped them up and handed them to her, a smile in his green eyes. “Now they will not stain your pocket.”

She looked at him with surprise, unable to frame a coherent thought. “That is verrah kind of you.”

“It is nothing—but you should tuck them away before someone sees.” He bent closer, his voice low and intimate, tracing over her like warm hands. “Not everyone is as understanding of thievery as I am.”