The Princess Wore Plaid Page 3

  She found herself smiling wryly to herself. That is both his gift and his burden, that directness. People weren’t usually so straightforward with her. He wasn’t being polite for politeness’s sake, or treating her as if she were too frivolous to be exposed to his real feelings. Instead, he had done what few people ever did—boldly and unapologetically given her a glimpse of his true thoughts and emotions.

  While there were many wonderful things that came with being a member of the royal family, there were also many burdens. Her cousin Nik often said the problem with wearing a crown was that even when one took it off, the weight of it remained. She was always a princess, and she could never forget it.

  And right now, princess or no, she’d have given her best tiara to be safely back in the arms of her family. She missed them, and had never felt so alone in her life. It was because of that deep pang that she did the unthinkable: she looked at Buchan and smiled. And not a polite, noncommittal princess smile, as she’d been taught, but a genuine, wistful, we-could-be-friends smile. A smile she’d never given anyone else.

  Buchan’s chest tightened with that smile. Tightened, twisted, and knotted. He’d been surprised when she’d entered with his dinner tray, for he knew from something Drummond had let slip last week that the lass had been avoiding him. Buchan couldn’t fault her, for he’d been an arse that first night, too caught up in his own pain to control his anger and tone. He’d had no expectation of seeing her again, not alone, and especially not with such a wistful and welcoming smile.

  His reaction hit him like a thunderclap and in the space of a second, his body leapt awake, his senses piqued. Bloody hell, how do I answer that?

  He had no idea at all. He’d spent the last three weeks telling himself that he didn’t care whether he ever saw the bold maid again—three long, bloody annoying, and totally untruthful weeks. Every Friday that he’d come to the Red Lion and hadn’t seen her, he’d left feeling cruelly cheated, as if the world were conspiring against him.

  And all over a woman he’d only spoken a few sentences to. The whole situation was untenable. He’d thought of asking for her, but it would have raised Drummond’s suspicions, for it had quickly become obvious that the innkeeper and his wife were protective of their new maid. And with reason: she was an intriguing, beautiful woman.

  Too much so. Earlier this week he’d caught himself absently wondering if he should visit the Red Lion before Friday, something he never did, surprising her and perhaps finding her alone. He’d imagined she’d be doing what maids did during the daylight hours—scrubbing tables or mopping floors. He’d speak with her, and she—relieved to be freed from whatever distasteful chores had been set before her—would cautiously welcome him, and in his daydream tell him everything about herself he wished to know.

  It was a ludicrous fantasy, and it irked him that he’d wasted time on such foolery. He never engaged in such whimsical nonsense and he’d been angry with himself for doing so.

  But that hadn’t kept him from indirectly questioning Drummond about the lass every chance that presented itself. Through a series of seemingly vague questions, Buchan had discovered a wealth of small tidbits. He now knew her first name—Tatiana. Like Shakespeare’s fairy queen. “Be she but little, she is fierce!” It was fitting, for she was indeed tiny and he knew from the set of her shoulders and her flashing looks that she was fiercely proud.

  As for her last name, Drummond hadn’t trusted himself to pronounce it, so that was a mystery still. But the talkative innkeeper had let other things slip. He’d mentioned that while the new maid was unfamiliar with even the most basic chores (a fact that had astonished the hard-working innkeeper and his wife), Tatiana was quickly learning to cook, although it appeared no amount of practice could make her a competent bed maker or sheet folder. The innkeeper had also mentioned that Mrs. Drummond was concerned about how some of the male customers leered at the lass and had even confronted her, a fact that caused Buchan no small amount of quiet fury. Fortunately, the innkeeper and his wife had decided it would be safer for Miss Tatiana to work in the kitchen, away from the customers.

  Since Buchan was trying not to appear too interested (and indeed, it was only idle curiosity), he didn’t ask for clarification. But how had Tatiana come to reside at the Red Lion? It was obvious from her accent that she was from a foreign shore, but where? And why was Drummond so cautious when he spoke about her? The innkeeper was hiding something: every once in a while he would start to speak but cut himself short, casting a wary glance at Buchan. There was definitely something there. Something the innkeeper found unsettling.

  But what?

  Buchan had found no answers. So this evening he’d decided to hell with being indirect: as soon as Drummond brought his meal, Buchan was going to firmly request an audience with the new maid. He’d fully expected an argument, so it was something of a shock when, unbidden, Tatiana had walked into the parlor carrying his tray, and then smiled at him as if— Damn, he didn’t know how to describe that smile, only that it tugged him in a thousand directions.

  She placed the tray on the table and adjusted the items to a more perfect setting, watching him from under her lashes. “I hope you are hungry. Mrs. Drummond has made an excellent meal.”

  That voice. So rich and low, making him think of smoky Scottish whiskey and slow, languorous sex. His heart thrummed harder, his body aching as if already denied.

  She stepped back from the tray. “The goose, it is good, but the apples, I think perhaps they are the best.”

  “I’m sure that whatever Mrs. Drummond made, ’tis wonderful. There are nae many cooks with her talents, especially with a goose.”

  Tatiana pursed her lips, her head tilted to one side. “They serve roast goose in the French court, but I do not think it is so good as this.”

  How could a maid in the middle of Scotland know what’s served in the French court? There’s no— Ah. But of course. “The Times often prints menus from various events. I suppose you read it there.”

  “Nyet. Before the war, my family visited the French court quite often.”

  “Really?”

  She met his gaze evenly. “This is not so unusual.”

  “To eat with royalty?”

  “Surely you have eaten with your king.”

  She had him there. “Once,” he had to admit.

  “I’ve met your king. A very fat, unpleasant man stuffed into his clothes until he looks like a sausage.” She wrinkled her nose. “And too much cologne.”

  It was a painfully accurate description of the king. But there were plenty of written accounts from which those details could have been gleaned. Just last week, Buchan had seen a cartoon that had pretty much encapsulated everything she’d just mentioned. Except the cologne. That was a detail not often included in accounts of the king.

  “You are an intriguing woman, Miss Tatiana.” When she flashed him a surprised look, he added, “Drummond let slip your name, but only the first. He was uncertain how to pronounce the rest.”

  Her cool green gaze brushed over him, as if she were weighing something. “You wish to know who I am.”

  “I do.”

  Tatiana eyed Buchan carefully. She’d shared her identity before and it had proven a waste of time. It was bad enough to receive pitying looks from her employers, who obviously thought her addled, but it would be infinitely worse to receive such a look from Lord Buchan.

  Still, what could she say? The truth was the truth, whether anyone wished to believe it or not. “I am Tatiana Romanovin.”

  His brows rose. “Romanovin? Is that Russian?”

  “Nyet. I am from Oxenburg.”

  “Ah.”

  She could see he hadn’t heard of it, and she swallowed a quick swell of irritation. “It is near Prussia.”

  “I see. And this Oxenburg. What do you do in this country of yours? You were nae a maid. That much I know.”
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  “If I tell you, you will not believe me. The Drummonds, they do not believe, although they are too kind to say so.”

  “They dinnae believe what?”

  “That I am Princess Tatiana Romanovin of Oxenburg. I am not a—”

  He threw up a hand. “Did you say ‘princess’?”

  Though she’d expected his disbelief, her heart sank. “Da. I am one of several. The Romanovin family is large.”

  “I see.” His gaze narrowed on her, considering and thoughtful. “How did you come to be here?”

  “My cousin Alexsey and his Scottish wife are staying at her family’s home and I was to visit. On the way, there was an accident.” She frowned, searching her memory, wishing she knew more of that day. “I do not remember much, for I was thrown out of the coach and hit my head.”

  “How did you come to be here?”

  “I’m not sure. I woke up dazed and uncertain. I could hear people talking on the road, but no one was near me. For some reason, I didn’t know them, so . . .” She spread her hands wide. “I walked away.”

  “You dinnae know your own people?”

  She bit her lip, aware of how ridiculous it sounded. “I cannot explain it now, but at that moment, I did not know them.”

  “Did you know yourself, then?”

  “Nyet.” She hated admitting this, for it seemed the greatest weakness of all. “Not until a day or two after I arrived. My memory was—how do you say, empty?”

  He nodded, frowning. “I wonder why your servants dinnae stop you from leaving.”

  “They did not see me. I was behind the overturned coach in the bushes. The horses were screaming, people were crying out. Everything was chaos. I think they believed me still in the coach, but when it overturned, I was thrown a good distance away.”

  “So you wandered off.”

  She nodded.

  His eyes darkened, concern on his face. “How did you end up here?”

  She frowned, remembering those muddled hours in bits and pieces. “I walked and walked. It was cold and I thought I would freeze to death, or die from hunger. I slept in the woods one night.” She bit back a shiver at the memory. She’d been so frightened and so, so cold. “But then I found the Red Lion. Mrs. Drummond was very kind; she bandaged my head and offered to allow me to earn my keep while I wait for my cousin to come for me.”

  That first week had been painfully difficult, for in addition to being sore and aching from the moment she woke up until she staggered to her cot each night, she’d had to learn chores she was unfamiliar with, remember new words and people when she barely remembered who she was. And through it all, she’d had to face how serious her predicament was.

  What had been the most frightening was the realization of how little she knew about the basics of taking care of herself. Things she’d never thought about—preparing food, keeping warm, staying safe among so many strangers—became difficult and complex problems that had to be faced.

  “But he is coming then, this cousin of yours?” Buchan asked, his dark gaze searching her face.

  “I hope so, for I am a little worried. Alexsey has not answered my letters, even though I have written many times. But he must be on his way.” She caught a flash of disbelief in Buchan’s gaze and her heart tightened. “Bozhy moj, you do not believe me, either.”

  “I dinnae say that.”

  “You do not need to; I see it in your eyes.” She lifted her chin, fighting the urge to fist her hands. “My cousin will come for me, and then all of you will know I have been telling the truth.”

  “Lass, hold there. Just wait a minute before you consign us all to the devil. I dinnae say a word aboot disbelieving you.” Looking as angry as she felt, Buchan scowled. “I questioned your story, aye, but who would nae? But I do nae question your belief in it. You were injured and obviously confused. ’Tis obvious you believe you are this princess.”

  “Praznah lusta! I do not believe I am who I say I am. I know. Or I do now.”

  “Fine! Fine! Then you know.” To her surprise, Buchan smiled, amusement softening his face. “Tell me aboot this cousin of yours. Is he a prince, too?”

  “Da. He must be concerned. I was to arrive there three weeks ago.”

  Buchan saw the worry in her eyes and he found himself moving in her direction, his cane steadying each step. Now he understood Drummond’s hesitation to speak about the new maid. The innkeeper didn’t believe Tatiana’s claims of royalty, but he obviously hadn’t thought her a coldhearted charlatan, either. Had he done so, he wouldn’t have allowed the lass in the inn, much less offer her a position.

  Buchan halted before Tatiana. “Let me see your hand.”

  Her brows knit and she tucked her hands behind her. “You’ve already seen it.”

  He held out his hand. “Please?”

  She hesitated, then slowly placed her hand in his.

  He turned it over and winced at the blisters that still marred her palm. “It looks better than it did, but you should have a care—”

  She yanked her hand back so quickly it almost overset him. “It is nothing. Blisters. Nothing more.” She closed her fingers over her palm, her gaze searching his face. “I wish you believed me. I don’t know why it matters, but it does.” She folded her lips tightly. “I should never have told you anything. I don’t know why I did. I suppose I hoped you’d be different; hoped you’d at least listen. But you are like the others, and merely think me crazed.”

  “Not crazed, but confused. You hit your head and you said you cannae remember—”

  “Couldn’t—not can’t. I remember everything now. Very clearly.”

  He sighed. “I will nae argue with you, but you must admit that ’tis possible the accident muddled your memories a wee bit and—”

  “That is enough! I will hear no more. I am Princess Tatiana Romanovin, and I—” Her voice broke, her eyes instantly wet with tears, but she collected herself quickly, drawing herself up, her chin lifting as she flashed a furious look his way. “I am done with you.” Without giving him time to explain himself further, she spun on her heel and marched toward the door.

  Chapter 3

  Actually, “march” was not the way Buchan would describe how Tatiana moved. She sailed forth like a ship from harbor, silken smooth and—yes—regal. She acts like a princess, I cannot deny that. But such is the way of all impostors. And yet, some other part of him whispered at the same time, And such is the way of real princesses, too.

  “Wait!”

  He didn’t expect her to stop, but she did, her back rigid.

  He closed the small gap between them, wondering what he should say now. “I dinnae mean to insult you. This situation is— The whole thing is . . .” He fought for the words. “Bloody hell, ’tis difficult. I dinnae know you, and you dinnae know me. ’Tis hard to accept the word of someone you just met, even if you wish to.”

  She shot him a look from under her lashes. “You wish to believe me?”

  “I do. Verrah much.” He didn’t know why, but it was true. “Perhaps, for now, we should agree to take one another’s word for who and what we are, and leave it at that.”

  She lifted her gaze to his, curious and cautious. “You’ll accept I’m a princess.”

  “Until proven wrong, aye. And you’ll accept that I’m nae a complete arse who argues with everyone who comes along for nae reason at all.”

  Her lips quirked. “Until proven wrong, da. In many ways, that’s how all meetings go.”

  She was right: one never knew the true quality of the people one met until time had engendered some sort of test. “So it does.”

  “It cannot hurt, I suppose.” She inclined her head. “We are agreed, then.”

  He had to admit, the angle of her nod was as regal as her stance. And it’s not just the way she grants her approval; it’s her face, and her air, her grace and her a
ttitude—everything about her. If she’s an impostor, she’s an expert. “I know it must be difficult for you, the accident and then being separated from all you know and love.”

  Her lashes swept down to cover her eyes, but not before he saw the pain that flashed through them. “It has not been easy,” she admitted.

  The faint slump to her shoulders said more than words could have.

  “It would be difficult for anyone. You said you hit your head in the carriage accident. Was it bad, this injury?”

  She touched behind her left temple, moving back a thick lock of hair to reveal the edge of a healing gash.

  The sight of that red, angry gash on her pale skin tightened his jaw. Buchan placed his finger under her chin, tilting her head to one side. Such delicate skin for such a fierce wound. Princess or no, she was not a brawny strapping sort to weather such abuse without feeling it deeply. He was surprisingly aware of her smallness, of how—if he were to pull her to him and tuck her head under his chin—she’d fit perfectly.

  His arms ached at the thought. Perhaps that was why he and the Drummonds felt such a strong urge to protect her. She’s a wee thing, she is.

  He traced the gash with a gentle brush of his hand, sliding his fingers down her cheek to her chin. Her skin warmed his fingertips, smooth and tantalizing.

  She flushed, her eyes lifting to his, green with gold flecks, as beautiful as she was.

  His heart thudded and in that second, as he drowned in the sparkling green pools of her eyes, he found himself leaning closer, bending until his lips touched her temple near her wound.

  Her eyes widened and then fluttered closed. With a sigh, she leaned against him.

  For long, long moments they stayed thus, his lips against her bare skin, her scent—cinnamon and cloves and fresh bread—tumbling through his senses, stirring him deeply.