purpose—Finally, I have found you.
Chapter 4
Murian shivered as a chilly breeze ruffled her hood and tugged at her skirts, her mind on the prince. He intrigued her—it was rare that she’d been bested in a sword fight, but then, not many men still adhered to what was now considered an antiquated way of fighting. Spencer had often lamented that improvements in the accuracy of pistols and rifles had turned many men from the older and, to him, more honorable ways of warfare. She had to agree that a person’s true mettle showed during a fight by blade. And judging from the prince’s performance, he was a foe to be respected.
She glanced back over her shoulder, wondering if Ian and Widow Reeves had made it out of town before the prince and his men arrived. Hearing nothing but the rustle of the trees and her own footfalls, and hurried on.
She had much more to think about than a visiting prince. Besides the worrying issue of supplies, the crofter’s cottages were far from ready for bad weather. Her people had the skills to make repairs—Widow Brodie was good with a hammer and saw and had madechests for each of her five boys, while Widow MacCrae, who wove the loveliest of lace, had also replaced the crumbling chinking on one wall of her cottage using a recipe she’d gotten from a groom at Rowallen. And while helping Ian build a stone fence for their animals when they’d first moved to the village, Murian had learned enough to help repair some of the chimneys.
A low branch hung over the path, and she ducked to avoid it. As she straightened, her hood was yanked from her head. She turned to untangle it from the branch—and found herself facing a wall of red wool.
And not just any wool, but fine red wool adorned with large gold buttons.
Oh no. She gulped, her heart thudding hard as she slowly, ever so slowly, looked up. Her gaze traveled over a broad chest, to a firm chin, and then to eyes the deepest of green.
The prince had the cold, clipped beauty of a hawk, his jawline sharp, his nose aquiline, his gaze piercing—every line masculine and commanding, including his scars.
The moonlight had softened them, but in the brightness of the late afternoon sun, they were plainly visible. An angry red scar cut one eyebrow in half, skipping his lid only to catch the bold cheek beneath it. Another scar, older and white, marked his upper lip, and there were two more on his chin and jaw. But his scars didn’t alter the masculine line of his mouth, nor did they soften the firmness of his jaw, nor detract from the long lashes that framed his green eyes.
He was extraordinarily beautiful.
A shiver traveled over her, an instant, heated reaction that weakened her knees and tripped her heart. It’ s fear, she told herself. Fear that he will reveal me to Loudan.
Besides, she wasn’t even certain he recognized her. She could tell little from his expression, which was politely inquisitive, and little else.
“You seem to be in a hurry.” His voice was like dark, creamy honey.
Surely if he’d recognized me, he’d have said something. She forced herself to smile politely. “I am walking home, and it is growing late.”
He glanced at the sinking sun. “I hope your home is close. Sadly, I am lost and do not know my way. Do you think you might help me?”
She examined his expression more closely and saw no spark of recognition. It was dark that night, and there was only one lantern. She relaxed a bit. “Where are you staying, that you are lost?”
“Rowallen Castle. My men and I were hunting. We stopped at a village, and I saw a hare. I followed him into the woods and now—” He shook his head and laughed a little. “That is what I get for not paying attention.”
That seemed possible. She rapidly reviewed her options. She supposed she could run off and leave him here. Though he might be faster, she knew these woods well, and with some planning and a dash of luck, she could get away. But what would that achieve?
A
Chapter 4
Murian shivered as a chilly breeze ruffled her hood and tugged at her skirts, her mind on the prince. He intrigued her—it was rare that she’d been bested in a sword fight, but then, not many men still adhered to what was now considered an antiquated way of fighting. Spencer had often lamented that improvements in the accuracy of pistols and rifles had turned many men from the older and, to him, more honorable ways of warfare. She had to agree that a person’s true mettle showed during a fight by blade. And judging from the prince’s performance, he was a foe to be respected.
She glanced back over her shoulder, wondering if Ian and Widow Reeves had made it out of town before the prince and his men arrived. Hearing nothing but the rustle of the trees and her own footfalls, and hurried on.
She had much more to think about than a visiting prince. Besides the worrying issue of supplies, the crofter’s cottages were far from ready for bad weather. Her people had the skills to make repairs—Widow Brodie was good with a hammer and saw and had madechests for each of her five boys, while Widow MacCrae, who wove the loveliest of lace, had also replaced the crumbling chinking on one wall of her cottage using a recipe she’d gotten from a groom at Rowallen. And while helping Ian build a stone fence for their animals when they’d first moved to the village, Murian had learned enough to help repair some of the chimneys.
A low branch hung over the path, and she ducked to avoid it. As she straightened, her hood was yanked from her head. She turned to untangle it from the branch—and found herself facing a wall of red wool.
And not just any wool, but fine red wool adorned with large gold buttons.
Oh no. She gulped, her heart thudding hard as she slowly, ever so slowly, looked up. Her gaze traveled over a broad chest, to a firm chin, and then to eyes the deepest of green.
The prince had the cold, clipped beauty of a hawk, his jawline sharp, his nose aquiline, his gaze piercing—every line masculine and commanding, including his scars.
The moonlight had softened them, but in the brightness of the late afternoon sun, they were plainly visible. An angry red scar cut one eyebrow in half, skipping his lid only to catch the bold cheek beneath it. Another scar, older and white, marked his upper lip, and there were two more on his chin and jaw. But his scars didn’t alter the masculine line of his mouth, nor did they soften the firmness of his jaw, nor detract from the long lashes that framed his green eyes.
He was extraordinarily beautiful.
A shiver traveled over her, an instant, heated reaction that weakened her knees and tripped her heart. It’ s fear, she told herself. Fear that he will reveal me to Loudan.
Besides, she wasn’t even certain he recognized her. She could tell little from his expression, which was politely inquisitive, and little else.
“You seem to be in a hurry.” His voice was like dark, creamy honey.
Surely if he’d recognized me, he’d have said something. She forced herself to smile politely. “I am walking home, and it is growing late.”
He glanced at the sinking sun. “I hope your home is close. Sadly, I am lost and do not know my way. Do you think you might help me?”
She examined his expression more closely and saw no spark of recognition. It was dark that night, and there was only one lantern. She relaxed a bit. “Where are you staying, that you are lost?”
“Rowallen Castle. My men and I were hunting. We stopped at a village, and I saw a hare. I followed him into the woods and now—” He shook his head and laughed a little. “That is what I get for not paying attention.”
That seemed possible. She rapidly reviewed her options. She supposed she could run off and leave him here. Though he might be faster, she knew these woods well, and with some planning and a dash of luck, she could get away. But what would that achieve?
A
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