Like his three brothers, he was tall and broad shouldered, his hair thick and black, his eyes a deep green. Unlike his brothers, he bore a scar on his forehead, caused by the graze of a bullet during some battle. Other scars marked his chin and jaw, and doubtless other parts of his body. The scars she could see did not concern her, though.

Lately she’d come to think that her grandson bore much deeper wounds. If what his companions reported was true, the death of Max’s childhood friend and one of his top aides, Dimitri Fedorovich, had strongly affected him.

Not that Max would admit such a thing, no matter how many opportunities she gave him. He hadn’t become the best general and the most brilliant tactician in all of Europe by admitting weakness, and he wasn’t about to start now.

Damn it. She scowled as she regarded his handsome profile. Even scarred, with an oft-broken nose, he still looked princely. As befits a prince of the blood of stately Oxe—

The coach jerked to one side, tilting crazily as if lifting onto two wheels. Natasha grabbed the edge of her seat but was tossed forward. With the grace of a lion, Max caught her midair and set her back into her seat, just as the coach slammed back onto all four wheels and continued on at a much faster pace.

Huffing, Natasha collected her shawl, tugging it back over her shoulders in the light of the wildly swinging lantern. “That was nearly a dangerous accident—no surprise, considering the way this coachman has driven, hitting every bump and hole in the road.”

No longer pretending to be asleep, Max flicked back the curtain and looked outside, his brow lowered.

Shouts mingled with the wild neighing of horses and the coach suddenly lurched to a dramatic halt, sliding to one side of the road. There was a thud and then a drop, as one wheel seemed to slip into a ditch. Once again Natasha flew forward, a rag doll tossed by the wild ride. She would have hit the edge of the opposite seat had Max not once again caught her.

He deposited her on the coach floor and blew out the lantern, casting them into darkness.

She scrambled to return to her seat, but he placed a hand on her shoulder. “Stay.”

“I will not sit on the floor—”

“Shh! I must listen.” Max peered through a small crack in the curtain, a sliver of light from the lantern outside making a white slash across his face. “The luggage coaches have stopped as well.”

Discordant voices rose in the dark; yelling, followed by anxious shouts.

Natasha noticed the suddenly firm line of his mouth, the intentness of his expression.

A voice bellowed through the night, harsh and astonishingly loud, asking the coachmen to step down.