Mad for the Plaid Read online

  “Guid. Then I will let you see to my St. George.”

  “See to your . . .”

  She pointed behind him to the stable yard. “St. George is my horse. He is tied to the post.”

  Nik followed the direction of her gloved finger and caught sight of a horse tied to the far fence. He took in the large, rather mule-faced bay with its sour expression and a head that seemed too large for its stocky body. “St. George does not look like a saint.”

  A choked laugh made him look back at Lady Ailsa. Her pale gray eyes shimmered with humor. They were actually quite pretty when lit thus. They sparkled as if flecked with silver. Framed by thick brown lashes that curled beguilingly at the corners, they gave her a faintly sleepy look that made her very intriguing.

  “He is nae a saint, you’re right aboot that.” She turned back to D’yoval, dismissing Nik with a glance. “Put him away and give him an extra measure of oats, too. He was verrah well behaved today.” She didn’t even bother looking at Nik as she spoke, but moved closer to D’yoval, cooing to the spoiled animal as she rubbed his shoulder.

  D’yoval seemed to enjoy her attention, too. Nik would have some serious words with his horse once Lady Ailsa was out of earshot.

  Meanwhile, he had an irksome part to play. He bowed. “I will put your steed away, my lady.”

  “Thank you. You may leave D’yoval with me.”

  “Nyet.” The word escaped him before he could catch it.

  Her brows rose.

  He tightened his hold on D’yoval’s reins as he hurried to add, “It is cold, my lady, and I’m sure you wish to go inside. I can take both horses to the stables. It is my duty.” There. That sounded properly groom-like.

  “Impossible. Like all males, St. George is nae fond of other animals, particularly those prettier than he. He would bite this one, and that would nae be guid.”

  Nik wasn’t sure whether he was more amused at the idea of a horse disliking another for its better looks, or irked that she thought that principle applied to “all males.”

  Before he could decide, she left D’yoval’s side and crossed to where Nik stood. She was even shorter than he’d imagined, her head coming well below his shoulder.

  She held out her gloved hand.

  He raised his brows, waiting.

  She shook her hand impatiently. “Give me the reins so that I may hold D’yoval while you deal with St. George.”

  A well-trained groom would not question a lady. A well-trained groom would do as he was told, even though he’d already warned the lady of the house about D’yoval’s less-than-gentle disposition.

  Well, Nik might be playing a groom, but no one said he had to be a well-trained one. He set his jaw. “Nyet. I cannot.”

  She tilted her head back to more fully view his face, her hand plopped on her hat to hold it in place. “Goodness, but grooms from Oxenburg are forward, intractable creatures,” she murmured. Without giving him time to reply, she turned and wandered back to the gate where he’d first seen her. “Fine. If you insist, then I will let you take care of both horses.”

  He’d won, but somehow he found himself remaining by D’yoval’s side, watching her warily, and feeling as if he’d missed something. What would I have done if a groom had refused to do as I said? He wasn’t certain, for it had never happened. But he didn’t think he’d so meekly accept it.

  “My, my, my. Would you look at this?” She bent and picked up the flask Rurik had left. “Where did this come from?” She looked around as if expecting someone to claim it.

  Nik bit his tongue. Damn it, that’s mine!

  When silence met her inquiry, she shrugged. “I shall keep it for myself, then.” She unscrewed the top of the flask and took a cautious sniff. Then, to his utter shock, she raised the flask to her lips and took a sip.

  Nik’s brows rose. There was vodka in that flask. While he loved the Scots’ whisky, which they’d aptly named “the water of life,” his native country’s vodka was a much, much stronger drink.

  She lowered the flask, her eyes watering. She coughed, pressing a hand to her throat. “Guid lord, that is strong!”

  “It’s obviously not a drink fit for a lady.” He couldn’t keep the smugness from his tone.

  Her gaze locked with his. And then, with the utmost deliberate movement possible, as if she’d taken his words as a direct challenge, she lifted the flask once more and took another sip.

  This time she swallowed the vodka with barely a grimace. “It grows on you, this drink, whatever it is.” Her voice, already a touch husky, had deepened even more, as if she fought the desire to cough.

  Bozhy moj, but I have never met such a stubborn woman. If he didn’t say something, she would drink all his vodka. “I recognize that flask. It is Lord Apraksin’s.”

  “Is it? I wonder how it got here?”

  “Perhaps it dropped from his pocket when he came to see to the horses earlier this evening. I will return it to him in the morning.”

  A faint smile curled her lips. “Ah, but why make him wait? I will see him at dinner.” She slid the flask into her pocket and patted it. “I’m sure he will be glad to have it back. I—but wait, what’s this?” She picked up the cigarillo that had been left on the fence post for him.

  The vodka had been one thing, for the flask had been in plain sight. But the cigarillo? She had to have seen Apraksin place it there. Had she? Or hadn’t she? Nik honestly couldn’t say. He supposed the edge of the cigarillo had hung over the fence or— Bloody hell, is she playing with me?

  He was stuck; if he said something and she hadn’t witnessed Apraksin putting the cigarillo on the fence, then Nik would have revealed himself. He was left simmering in growing irritation.

  She rolled the cigarillo between her gloved fingers and then took a cautious sniff. “Divine. My father smokes this same kind, I think. The scent of the tobacco is just like this—sweet and soft.”

  Nik managed to say with what he hoped was unconcern, “That is an odd place to find a cigar. Perhaps someone left it there by mistake. Since the flask is Lord Apraksin’s, perhaps the cigar is, as well.”

  Amusement, curiosity, and challenge fleetingly crossed her face, but were quickly subdued behind a shrug as she continued to toy with the cigar. “A cigarillo would be a lovely way to ward off this chill, would nae it?”

  He inclined his head, unable to spit out any more polite words.

  “Let us see.” She bent and picked up some straw that was lodged against a post and twisted it into a spill exactly as Rurik had done. Her gaze locked on Nik. “You. Bring a lantern from the side of the barn. I’ll need a light.”

  She’d called him “you”? He’d never been so insulted. Ever. Worse, she was about to smoke his own cigar right in front of him, from a light she was forcing him to provide.

  Jaw tight, he tied D’yoval to the fence and retrieved the lantern. He brought it to her, holding it aloft. The golden light spilled over her face in the early-evening gloom, warming her skin and shimmering over her dark gold curls.

  She lit the spill and then toasted the edges of her cigar before she lit it.

  She knew what she was doing. A woman smoking a cigar wasn’t unheard of, especially in Europe, where the rules of society were laxer. But for a lady to do so in this staid country was almost scandalous. But perhaps Scotland differs from her older cousin, England? He hadn’t bothered to think about such things before now, as his concerns had been so focused on his mission.

  The cigar flared, and she drew on it, her lips encircling the cigarillo in a way that riveted Nik’s attention. As he watched, the first puff of sweet smoke slipped over her full lips and warmed the chilled air. Bozhy moj, those lips . . .

  She looked at him through the haze of smoke, amusement rippling through her voice. “You may put the lantern back.”

  He hadn’t even remembered he was holding it. He must look like a fool, holding the lantern while staring at her in such a way. Cursing his inattention, he returned the lantern to the
hook by the barn and then came back to the fence.

  She’d already turned away and had walked a few steps until she stood in the center of the path that led to the castle, the cigar held at a jaunty angle, a wisp of smoke curling into the fading light. “Before you put St. George away, see to it that he’s brushed and fed. We had a hard run today, and he’ll need both.”

  Though it went sorely against his pride, Nik inclined his head and managed to say in a fairly pleasant, if clipped, tone, “Da, my lady.” Soon she would leave, and he would be free to express himself by kicking the stuffing from a bale of hay.

  As if she knew his thoughts, she smiled through the drift of creamy smoke. “Well done . . . Your Highness.”

  Chapter 6

  Ailsa watched her opponent with bated breath. Slowly, like a lion stalking its prey, he left the fence and came toward her, his dark green gaze locked on her face.

  She didn’t know him well enough to read his expression—caution or irritation or mere arrogance—so his approach made her heart race even through the boldness now swimming through her blood, brought on by the sting of the cigar and the harsh drink she’d imbibed. What will he do?

  Her brain calmed her galloping heart. He has nothing to gain by frightening me, and everything to lose. He’s here because of his grandmother, and I know all there is to know about her disappearance.

  Ailsa could only thank the fates that had brought her home at such a providential moment, for it had allowed her to witness unseen the prince’s conversation with his men. Although she hadn’t been able to hear a word of it, there had been no doubting the commanding way this “groom” had spoken to the others, or the respectful bow made by Mr. Rurik, or the hissing warning it instantly won from Lord Apraksin. And now she knew why the groom had looked at her so boldly when he’d first arrived—he wasn’t a groom at all.

  He stopped before her now and she was struck by his height. He was so tall—taller even than her father, who was over six feet. But it was more than the prince’s height that held her attention. If she’d thought this man handsome when she’d first seen him from the study window and thought him a mere groom, she hadn’t accounted for the additional impact of his nearness, which brought with it new revelations, such as his green, green gaze and the sensually handsome cut of his mouth.

  She kept her smile, although it took all her concentration to fight the urge to whirl on her heel, lift her skirts, and run for the safety of the castle. He’s trying to intimidate me. The thought stiffened her spine and she rocked back on one foot while leaving the other firmly in place, putting some space between them without yielding ground.

  She took a short puff on the cigar, determined to keep the end glowing for the duration of their talk. “I know you’re nae a groom. ’Tis as obvious as the nose on my face, and as you may have noticed, I have a very obvious nose.”

  His lips twitched, but he stubbornly refused to smile. “I don’t know what you’re saying. I’m only a—”

  “—prince. Admit it.”

  Irritation tightened his jaw.

  “I am nae a fool, Your Highness.” She tapped the end of the cigar, the ash blowing away in the icy wind as if it never existed. “I saw you speaking with your men. They were deferential in their tone and manner; one even bowed to you.” She chuckled. “It is quite obvious you are nae a mere groom.”

  She waited, but he still didn’t acknowledge the truth of her words.

  Irritated, she added in a faintly mocking tone, “But the biggest hint of all was that you dinnae know how to brush a horse properly.”

  His eyes narrowed. “I know how to brush a horse.”

  “For a man who rarely brushes one, you did”—she looked past him at D’yoval and pursed her lips—“fair. But for an experienced groom, it was a sad job indeed.”

  His jaw tightened, his eyes flashing irritation. It was odd. She’d heard that he was a wastrel, a womanizer, a typical spoiled member of royalty. All the papers (and her father, as well) had said the same thing of Prince Nikolai. How was it that none of the rumors included the phrase “steely-eyed opponent”? And why would a vapid womanizer care if someone believed him capable of brushing a horse?

  “What’s wrong with the brushing I gave this horse?” He spat the words as if they were sour.

  She held back a smile and flicked a finger toward the horse. “To begin with, you only brushed poor D’yoval’s back and flanks. His sides are untouched, and half the time you were using the mane comb instead of the currycomb. Of course, if you’d bent down to brush his sides and chest, you would nae have been able to see your men during your nae-so-secret meeting.”

  He regarded her for a long moment, his slightly deferential manner now completely gone. There was turmoil in his deep green eyes, a quick flicker of thoughts as he made a decision regarding her confrontation.

  After a split second, he drawled, “It seems I am found out.” To her surprise, he shrugged and then flashed a smile—and a charming, winsome smile it was, too. “You, fine lady, have discovered me.”

  She could only blink. Ailsa couldn’t believe he’d revealed himself; she’d expected him to at least argue. Perhaps he’d admitted his identity because he believes to gain more from this admission. If so, that was a sad mistake indeed.

  He captured her free hand and bowed over it, all grace and playfulness. “Allow me the pleasure of an introduction. I am Nikolai Romanovin, Crown Prince of Oxenburg.”

  The change in the man from cautious, resentful groom to charming, gracious prince was breathtaking. His entire expression changed, his eyes gleaming as if he were fascinated, a teasing smile now playing around his mouth. “You seem surprised, and yet a moment hence, you were confident beyond doubt.”

  “I’m surprised only that you admitted your deceit so quickly.”

  “Allow me to point out that my ‘deceit,’ if you must call it that, was not perpetrated against you.”

  His hand, gloved as hers were, was warm where it covered hers, and she was far more aware of it than she should have been. She cleared her throat and tugged her hand free. “Then against whom was this deceit perpetrated?”

  “I am here in secret for my own security; no one must know I’ve left Holyrood.”

  He’d hesitated before he’d answered. It had been a mere half second’s worth of a hesitation, one upon which she might not have put weight were it anyone else. But she had the impression that, with this man, every little nuance held a meaning of some sort.

  “I see.” She pursed her lips, wondering how she should play this new game. She almost preferred the hostile groom to the warm, charming façade the prince now wore, but only because she knew it to be a façade and nothing more. Had they met under other circumstances, she couldn’t begin to imagine how quickly she might have succumbed to the warmth of his expression and the charming smile. She nodded as if she agreed. “Safety is important.”

  He inclined his head and said in a low, almost intimate tone, “If it is not too much trouble, I hope you will continue to pretend I’m a groom. It will be safer.”

  Safer for whom? He was so tall and so large that she couldn’t imagine him being in any sort of danger whatsoever. Added to that, he stood here, without a guard, without looking over his shoulder or in any way displaying the reactions of someone truly concerned for his safety. She managed a noncommittal shrug, as if she could have cared less about his intentions, even though she burned to know them. “Fine. I will nae reveal your presence.”

  Yet. To punctuate her agreement, and to irk her guest a bit and perhaps tease him into revealing his true colors, she took another puff on the cigar, pretending to savor the flavor.

  “You like cigars?”

  “Who does nae?” To be honest, she didn’t like it, not even a little. It had taken all her considerable powers of concentration not to cough during the few puffs she’d taken, for the smoke tickled her throat mightily. It had been a childish ploy, drinking the prince’s liquor and smoking his cigar. But she’d be
en unable to resist the temptation to shake his composure. Thank goodness she’d had Gregor as a mentor as she grew up, for when they’d been younger, he’d shared both his whisky and cigars, something her father would have condemned, had he known.

  Ailsa enjoyed whisky, but she’d never found any joy in smoking cigars. And now her poor throat, already burned by the strong drink in the flask (whatever it had been, it was stronger than whisky), protested each puff she took. Papa always said the only way to appreciate a cigar was with the mouth, and not the lungs. Gregor had laughed at that, and swore that a true connoisseur both tasted the smoke and let it warm the soul.

  However Gregor saw it, Ailsa couldn’t imagine puffing any longer—between the drink and the cigar, she was feeling distinctly dizzy. “Tell me, Your Highness: what do you hope to accomplish, if you dinnae intend to let anyone know you are here?”

  His gaze flickered over her, lingering on her lips in a way that left her breathless. “That’s simple, my lady. I came for you.”

  “For . . . me?” Her voice squeaked oddly on the last word and her cheeks heated.

  His smile warmed. “Da. I have come to alleviate you of a great burden.”

  The untruth of his statement returned her composure. So he’d come all this way to help her, had he? Not bloody likely. She managed a polite smile. “Oh?”

  “You will tell me all you know of my grandmother’s abduction, and I will find Her Grace and Lord Hamilton and bring them back unharmed.”

  He made it sound so simple, almost negligently so, which irritated her like sand between her teeth. She’d lost sleep over the abduction, had plotted and questioned, worried and planned. And now here he was, without the least show of concern, offering to do the deed for her.

  “That is good, nyet?” He threw out his hands, looking as if he’d just granted her the world’s largest favor. “You will not have to do anything; I will take care of the issue for you.”

  He looked so confident that a flicker of uncertainty brought her up short. Under normal circumstances, she would have found it amusing for a huge, handsome man to look at her in such a solicitous manner. But this situation was different. She’d been deeply alone, struggling to find her way through this new, dangerous situation without the benefit of an advisor or even a sympathetic ear. Part of her wanted nothing more than for someone—someone who knew more than she, but who cared just as much—to assist her in making the difficult decisions. While another part of her refused to step away from her responsibilities. What if he and his men are better suited to lead this rescue attempt?