The Prince and I Page 4

  Ian glanced her way and remembered when she’d first arrived at Rowallen. In her silk gowns, jeweled pins sparkling in her hair, she’d been more beautiful than any princess. Lord Robert had been so proud.

  Ian’s throat tightened. It seemed forever since that day. Now Lord Robert was cold in his grave, the castle lost to tragedy, and the gowns and pins sold to provide for those of them who’d stayed. Now, instead of silk or lawn, Lady Murian’s gown was made of coarse wool, her feet shod in heavy brown boots, her hands chapped and red.

  She swayed as the cart hit a rut, and Ian realized her brows were knit. “Ye look a bit miffed, lass. Still angry at tha’ prince?”

  A smile flickered over her face. “You know me too well. Aye, I was thinking of the prince. I could have bested him, had I not slipped.”

  “He was guid wi’ his sword, lass. Tha’ is all there is to it.” Ian scowled. “We dinna know what sort of man we were dealin’ wi’. Unluckily for us, he was no’ a usual sort of prince, but a warrior prince.”

  She shot him a surprised look. “There’s more than one kind of prince?”

  “Aye. Sad fer us, we got the sort as likes a fight.”

  The cart lurched to one side and she grabbed the edge of her seat. “He was interesting, this prince.”

  “And handsome,” Widow Reeves chimed in.

  Lady Murian sent the older woman an amused glance. “So he was. Though you shouldna have teased him by showing him you werena holding a rifle, but a pipe.”

  “Ha! ’Tis guid fer a mon to know when he’s been made a fool.”

  “He was arrogant. But as irritated as I am at the prince, I’m much angrier at the earl. Loudan put us in this mess, so that we’re forced to the highway to try and clear the guards from my own castle.”

  Ian sighed. “I canna believe ’tis been a year and more. . . .”

  “In two days ’twill be a year and a half,” she said softly, her gaze darkening.

  Ian wished he could give the lass a hug, but she was a prickly thing. So he settled for a gruff, “Master Robert was a guid mon, he was.”

  “Aye,” Widow Reeves agreed as the cart trundled on. “And he loved ye more than the earth loves the sun.”

  Lady Murian smiled, a genuine one this time, one that crinkled her eyes and revealed a charming dimple. “Spencer chose well for me; Robert and I were well suited.”

  Widow Reeves tugged her cloak more tightly about her. “How is it the Duke of Spencer came to be yer guardian? I’ve always wondered tha’.”

  Ian waited to see if Murian would answer. She rarely spoke of her parents, but to his surprise, she did. “My parents died from a horrible ague when I was a child. My father was a soldier and had fought alongside the duke. When Father realized he wasna’ going to live, he wrote to the duke and asked him to watch over me. Spencer did more than that; he raised me as his own.”

  “Like his own son,” Ian said sourly. “He shouldna’ ha’ taught ye to fight wi’ a rapier. ’Tis unseemly.”

  “Nonsense. It’s been verrah handy.”

  Ian couldn’t argue with that, but he still didn’t like the way it put the lass in harm’s way. “The duke should ha’ seen to it tha’ you were taught wha’ most ladies know: paintin’ wi’ watercolors, readin’ poetry, and embroidery and such.”

  “Embroidery? Me?” She chuckled. “I’d die of boredom!”

  “And he should ha’ taught ye proper language,” Ian said sternly. He’d been in service at Rowallen Castle since he’d been a lad, and he knew ladies from landed gentry did not curse, nor did they still have a brogue—even a soft one—when they went off to London for their season. But the Duke of Spencer had little interest in polite society, so he hadn’t bothered to provide his charge with such lady-like training. Murian had been raised as if she were the son of a warlike house, and while she could point out every country on a map, speak Greek, fight with a sword, and discuss war treatises and political stratagems with ease, she still had a trace of a highborn brogue, and could perform none of the duties a properly raised lady should.

  The cart dipped into an especially deep rut, and Lady Murian scowled as she bumped upon the seat. “Blast Loudan. We’d all still be warm and toasty in Rowallen Castle if not for him.”

  “Demmed thievin’ horse’s arse,” Ian agreed. The earl was the bastard half-brother of the Duke of Spencer, although the two were opposites in every way. Where Spencer proved his bravery and mettle in the war, donating much of his wealth and time to protecting his country, Loudan hid in the Scottish countryside, spending his half-brother’s funds as if they were his own, and planning a grand return to society once the war was over.

  Ian guided the cart around a corner in the road, the smoke from the village now plainly visible over the treetops.

  “Odd to see such smoke this late in the afternoon,” Lady Murian said.

  Ian followed her gaze. “The smithy must have the anvil fires goin’.”

  She watched the smoke curl overhead into the bright, frosty afternoon, and then disappear into the cold sky. After a moment, she said, “Ian?”

  “Aye, lassie?”

  “I was thinking of Robert’s journal.”

  Widow Reeves shook her head while Ian bit back a groan. “No’ again.”

  Murian’s jaw firmed. “There’s proof against Lord Loudan in that journal. I’m sure of it.”

  Ian had heard those same words a thousand times. “I know, lass. But we’ve looked for it and found naught.”

  “We haven’t searched the master bedchamber,” Lady Murian said.

  “And how would we do tha’? Lord Loudan sleeps in tha’ chamber now.”

  Widow Reeves shook her head. “ ’Tisn’t possible. Besides, ye took all the furniture when ye left, so the room was empty. If it ha’ been there, surely ye’d ha’ found it then.”

  “Perhaps Robert hid it in a secret place. Under a stone in the hearth, or behind a loose panel.”

  Ian didn’t hesitate. “Nay. We canna take such a chance.”

  “But we know Robert’s journal exists, and that Loudan hasn’t found it. If he had, he wouldn’t go to such lengths to keep us oot of the castle. And now that we’ve searched most of the castle except that one room, it must be there.”

  “Lass, ’tis one thing to sneak into the castle when the earl and his men were oot, and peek aboot the lower levels in the study and sittin’ room. Bu’ to invade the earl’s own bedchamber, especially now tha’ the castle is so heavily guarded— Nay. Just nay.”

  “Ian is right,” Widow Reeves said. “And e’ery month the earl hires more thugs to guard the castle. ’Tis too dangerous now.”

  “We’d get caught, we would, especially now tha’ Will botched things oop.”

  Two weeks ago, when the earl was out hunting with some of his men, Will Scarlae had been sent to search the study desk for the lost journal. It was one of the few pieces of furniture they’d left behind.

  Sadly, the lad had been caught, returning home two days later beaten and bloody, having been held in the dungeon until a chambermaid had helped him escape. He’d sworn he hadn’t revealed their secreted village, and as no one came to chase them from their homes, Murian believed him.

  Ian scowled now. “ ’Tis suspicious, I am, tha’ the lad returned at all.”

  Widow Reeves sent him a condemning glance. “Will would ne’er tell the earl aboot us. He’s a guid lad.”

  “He’s a sullen lad, is wha’ he is, wi’ a chip on his shoulder the size of Edinburgh. And now Loudan ha’ the castle locked oop as if ’twere a bank filled wi’ gold. We canna chance sneakin’ into the castle anymore.”

  “But—” Murian began.

  “Nay! Besides, ye’ve been spittin’ in the earl’s eye these last few weeks by holding oop his guests. Surely tha’ is satisfaction enou’.”

  “I dinna do it for satisfaction, and you know it. It draws the guards from the castle so we can search.”

  “It used to draw the guards from the castle, but
no more. An entire squadron surrounds the place now. The last time we went, we couldna get past the drive, there were so many soldiers wanderin’ aboot.”

  Her shoulders slumped, but she refused to agree with him.

  Widow Reeves patted Lady Murian’s hand. “Just be glad Loudan dinna ha’ the sense to hire locals, or we’d ha’ been caught already.” The earl’s men were hired thugs from the streets of London, so they were neither trusted nor liked by the locals, who refused to give away Murian and her little village.

  Lady Murian sniffed her disdain. “No real Scot would work for the earl.”

  “I dinna know,” Widow Reeves answered thoughtfully. “He pays well, I hear. Verrah well. And it has been a hard year fer e’eryone.”

  Murian sent Widow Reeves a black look, and Ian knew the truth of the widow’s words troubled the lass.

  “Ha’ some patience,” Ian said. “There’s naught we can do until the earl loosens his grip.”

  “If only Spencer knew what a horrid man his half-brother has become.” Murian fidgeted with the edge of her shawl. “I’ve written the duke time and again, but he never answers. My letters are not reaching him.” She sighed. “If I wish his help, I’ll have to wait for his return.”

  “If he returns,” Ian said, refusing to soften his words even when Murian sent him a horrified look. “Surely ye realize Loudan hopes his half-brother will get killed. It could happen, fer the duke’s a brae one, always in the thick of things.”

  “ ’Twould be to our benefit were Spencer less brave and would come home. I need him more every day.” She caught Ian’s concerned look and forced a smile. “But I’d be better served wishing for the sun to stop shining than to wish he would stop rushing to the front of every war. ’Tis in his blood.”

  “And yers, too, lass.” They rounded the final bend, the village slowly coming into view. “I’ve ne’er met a more— Bloody hell!”

  Murian’s heart sank into her heels.

  “Och no!” Widow Reeves’s voice cracked in shock.

  The smoke they’d seen had come from the inn. The entire front of the building was blackened, the door half burned from the hinges, the windows broken. A large black hole in the center of the roof over the main taproom trailed smoke into the air, thick black smudges outlining the windows.

  Ian’s heavy brows knit, his mouth a slash of bitter-

  ness. “I hope no one was injured.”

  “Aye,” Widow Reeves agreed fervently.

  “We were here just last week, too.” Murian looked at the other buildings—some cottages, a blacksmith shop, a small stable. The village was tiny, far from the main roads, which was why they traded here. They’d thought they were safe from Loudan’s men this far from Row-

  allen. And that the villagers would be safe, too.

  Is this because of us? Please, God, don’t let it be so.

  They pulled up before the inn, and Murian noticed curtains flickering in a few of the houses. “No one is coming oot to greet us.” Her throat was tight, as pained as her thoughts.

  Ian said in a grim tone, “I know, lass. It dinna look guid.”

  Widow Reeves placed her hand over Murian’s and squeezed. “Perhaps ’twas just a kitchen fire.”

  “Nay. It started in the main taproom. You can see it from the hole in the roof.” Ian stopped the cart and jumped down to tie the horse. “Wait here.” He went to the inn and stuck his head into the half-charred doorway, calling out a greeting before disappearing inside.

  Murian gathered her cloak and hopped down from the cart.

  “Lass, ye shouldna—” the widow began, but Murian was already hurrying inside the inn.

  The walls were blackened with soot, the floors a mess of ash and water, and a ceiling beam lay tilted across the hallway. She paused at the door to the taproom. Ian stood in the center, kicking at a broken, half-burned chair. He scowled on seeing her. “Ye should ha’ stayed in the cart.”

  “I must know what happened.”

  His bushy red brows locked over his nose, but with a grimace, he yelled, “MacPhee!”

  No one answered.

  “MacPhee!” Ian bellowed.

  From the back of the inn came a testy reply. “Hold yer horses, will ye? I was in the pantry!” There was a noise from the hallway and then the landlord appeared, stepping gingerly through the mess.

  MacPhee was a huge, bald man, his face red on a normal day, and doubly so today. He looked slightly sunburned, one cheek redder than the other, his clothes soot-streaked, his britches and sleeves bearing holes from where hot ash had landed upon him.

  He came to a sudden stop on seeing Ian, his gaze flickering to Murian and then away.

  Murian saw the answer in the innkeeper’s eyes. “Loudan.”

  The innkeeper rubbed his neck, suddenly looking far older than his years. “I suppose ye’ll find oot whether I tell ye or no’. His men arrived yesterday afternoon. They knew ye’d been here before, and tha’ we’d bought some goods fra’ ye. They demanded to know where ye were. I told them I dinna know—though I wouldna ha’ told the bastards e’en if I did.”

  “The louts,” Ian growled.

  “Aye. Anyway, they tol’ us we were no’ to trade wi’ ye anymore, and I refused—as did e’eryone else in the village.”

  Murian could only shake her head, her heart heavy. “You shouldna have risked so much for me.”

  “No offense, Lady Murian, but ’twas no’ just fer ye. We willna ha’ a bloody Sassenach telling us wha’ we can and canna do, especially after wha’ he did to Lord Robert.” MacPhee cast a quick glance at Murian and then said, “ ’Twas all o’er in a moment. The earl’s guards forced their way inside my inn, threw chairs into a pile, set them afire, and left, sayin’ they’d be back. We tried to put oot the flames, but it flared oop somethin’ awful.” He looked around the room, disbelief on his face. “This inn belonged to me father, and me father’s father before him. And now . . .” He pressed his lips together, his eyes watering.

  Murian took a step forward. “MacPhee, I’m so sorry. I—”

  “Lass, please!” He forced a smile. “ ’Tis no’ yer fault, but the earl’s, damn his black soul.”

  “Aye,” Ian agreed in a heavy voice. “He’s a blight on the land, he is.”

  The innkeeper’s red-rimmed gaze flickered to the road and then back, his voice quavering as he said, “I’m sorry to say it, me lady, but I dinna think ye should be here. They said they’d come back, and if they find ye . . .” MacPhee’s face grew grim.

  “Lady Murian!” Widow Reeves stood in the doorway. Her wide gaze took in the blackened, charred room as she said, “Men are comin’. Ye can see them through the trees.”

  Loudan’s men! Heart in her throat, Murian hurried to the charred hole of the window. Still at a distance, flashing through the forest, she could just make out a stream of red uniforms. “ ’Tis not Loudan, but the prince and his men.”

  “The prince?” Ian came to look over her shoulder. “Bloody hell, wha’ is he doin’ here?”

  “Wha’ prince?” MacPhee asked, looking confused.

  As Ian answered him, Murian watched the progress of their visitors. Their pace was leisurely, so they didn’t seem to be on a mission. Why were they here, this far from Rowallen?

  She bit her lip, trying to ignore the flicker of excitement that hummed through her. He fascinated her, this prince with green eyes and a master’s arm with a sword. But why he was visiting Loudan—for she didn’t believe his tale of admiring the earl. The earl had high societal aspirations, and she strongly suspected that was why he’d gone to such lengths to possess Rowallen: to gain a suitable perch to lord it over the countryside. It hadn’t worked, because once word had spread of how the earl had come to possess the castle, the local gentry had refused to attend any of the earl’s events. But having a prince as a guest could well change that.

  She scowled, though she couldn’t blame the locals. There was something about a real-life prince that stirred one’s curios
ity, especially when the prince looked so . . . princely. There was no other word for it, and it irritated her how often she’d thought about him since their encounter.

  Widow Reeves came to stand with Murian. “We should go.”

  Murian nodded and followed Widow Reeves outside to the cart, Ian following behind.

  He untied the horses. “Lass, we’ll never make it oot of town in this slow cart before the prince and his men reach us. We canna let the prince see ye.”

  “Why no’?” Widow Reeves asked.

  Ian climbed into his seat, the cart tilting as his weight settled. “The prince has seen the lass’s face. He thinks our Robin is a ‘he,’ but if he sees her again, he might realize his mistake. Tha’ is no’ information I’d want him to pass on to Loudan.”

  “Aye.” Murian tugged her hood over her bonnet. “I’ll leave the two of you to drive the cart oot of town, while I cut through the woods.”

  “Hold!” MacPhee hurried from his inn. “Ye had something ye wished to sell, did ye no’?”

  Widow Reeves pointed to the basket on the seat of the cart. “Some jams and wha’ no’, bu’ we’ll find somewhere else to sell them. The earl’s men—”

  “I’ll no’ let those miserable spalpeens tell me wha’ to do! I’ll buy it all, the whole basket.”

  Widow Reeves turned pink with pleasure. “All of it? Are ye sure—”

  “Of course he’s sure,” Ian said testily. “If ye’re goin’ to sell yer wares, do it. We’ve no’ much time.” He turned to Murian. “Go whilst ye can.”

  “I’ll take the path behind the barn. It runs into the cart path after the bend near the stream.”

  “I’ll meet ye there.” Ian scowled. “I dinna like this, but we’ve no choice. Stay hidden, lass. Take no chances, ye hear?”

  She nodded and, with a wave of her hand, hurried toward the barn, glad to make her escape. Still, a small part of her wished she might see the prince and that he would recognize her. It would be sweet to see his expression when he realized he’d been bested by a woman.

  One day, Prince. One day.