"Not meet with me?" Rowena said. "But this is dreadful. I've come over a hundred miles—"
"Closer to a thousand," Hildegarde corrected her.
"Over hills," Rowena said.
"They were mountains, Highness."
Rowena smiled tightly. "Mountains. Hills. Is there a difference in the dark?"
"There is if ye fall off one," Baldwin said in a shy voice from the end of the passageway. "We wouldna want ye to hurt yerself, princess, so it might be a good idea to learn the difference."
"I don't think we need to alarm Her Highness about such improbable dangers," Douglas said in a sharp tone.
"It never hurts to be cautious," Hildegarde said.
Douglas nodded politely. "True."
"I fell off a mountain once," Baldwin said.
"Why doesn't that surprise me?" Gemma muttered.
Douglas frowned. "The princess will not fall off a mountain. This I promise."
"That is kind of you," Rowena said in a gracious voice.
There was a faint commotion behind them.
Dainty had just poked his bald head through the iron-hinged doors of the great hall and was whispering furtively to Gemma. Then Gemma whispered to Willie, who whispered to Baldwin, who pushed a path forward to tap Douglas on the shoulder.
"We have a wee problem, my lord," he said hesitandy.
Douglas frowned. "Later, Mr. McGee. Her Highness's comfort must come first. I suspect the princess would appreciate resting in front of the fire we have readied in the hall."
"We are chilled to the bone," Hildegarde said heartily. "Hungry too. And the princess's personal advisor must leave early on the morrow. He needs food and rest."
Baldwin pursed his lips. "Canna take the princess in there, sir," he said under his breath. "The boys have been misbehavin' again."
The hackles rose on Douglas's neck. He raised his broad shoulders in a shrug of apology to the princess. "Pardon me a moment, Your Highness," he murmured, dragging Baldwin to the doors. "Now what the devil is the meaning of this, you dimwit?"
Dainty poked his head into the hall again. " 'Tis Shandy and Phelps, sir. They got into an argument over whether to serve the princess rum or beer. Shandy broke the whole damned keg of rum over Phelps's head. Then Phelps broke a chair over Shandy's head. Then they made up and got drunk to celebrate."
Douglas's face darkened. His voice was deadly soft. "Rum or beer? They planned to serve the princess rum or beer?"
"Those idiots wouldna listen to me," Baldwin said indignantly. "Rum is far too powerful fer that nice lassie, I told them. Beer is too common. I said we should give her a keg of good grog punch."
Douglas's upper lip curled at the corner. "What would we do without your wisdom?"
"Shandy and Phelps won't be causing any more trouble tonight, sir," Dainty said. "They're passed out. Which would have been the end of our woes."
Douglas frowned. "Except?"
"Except Simon bet Gunther he could jump off the minstrel's gallery and land on Martin's shoulders."
Douglas passed his hand over his face. "He missed?"
"No." Dainty chuckled. "He didn't. But Martin took exception to being jumped on seeing that he was fixing the wobbly plank on the dais and had no idea what hit him. The place is a shocking mess."
Douglas lowered his hand. "Take all five of them down the inside stairs to the dungeon. Let them spend a night in that pleasant atmosphere. Then get the scullions to clean up the hall. Again."
Dainty grinned, disappearing a split-second before Rowena herself marched up to the doors, trying to peer inside. "Is that a fire I see in there?" she asked hopefully.
"Fire?" Douglas planted his feet apart to prevent her slipping past him. "Yes, 'tis. But I cannot allow you in there. Your Highness. The hall is a disgrace. Dust and cobwebs everywhere. Crumbs all over the table. I'm—I'm ashamed."
"I promise not to judge you by your housekeeping standards, my lord," Rowena said in amusement, trying to squeeze around him. "And I won't fall off a mountain either. All I ask is a little warmth to thaw out my toes."
He threw down his arm like a barricade. "Impossible. Some miscreant is burning peat in the fireplace. I expressly forbade the burning of peat in your presence."
Rowena gave him a strained smile, studying him like a soldier about to storm a citadel. "Pray do not put yourself to so much trouble, my lord."
"Why, 'tis no trouble at all." He flung down his other arm just as she shifted direction. For a ludicrous moment he feared he would be forced to engage the princess in a wrestling match. 'Twould not bode well for the future, pinning her to the floor with his forearm. In all his bragging, Matthew had never mentioned the woman had a will of iron.
"The royal health must be guarded," he stated.
"The rough conditions of Hartzburg give rise to hearty rulers," Rowena said tightly, looking as if she might just throttle him.
"Her Highness is as strong as an ox," Hildegarde added.
"Thank you for that, Hildegarde," Rowena said.
Douglas forced a smile. Lord, what a lie could lead to. "Strong or not, I will not jeopardize her physical well-being. Peat is a bog material. 'Tis used as a cheap source of fuel in the Highlands. The smoke can make you ill if you are not accustomed to it."
"It can?" Baldwin said in alarm. "Well, I wish someone had told me this before. Here I've been sleepin' by that accursed fire in the kitchen every night. I could've woke up dead."
Gemma snorted. "I'd like to see that."
Douglas stepped away from them, gently forcing Rowena into the comer. "The castle is in an uproar over your arrival," he said by way of an apology. "The servants insist that everything be just so."
Princess that she was, Rowena took the peculiar refusal in stride. "Goodness, I'm really not that difficult to please. Perhaps my companion and I could retire to the solar and have a cup of hot chocolate."
Douglas looked blank. He nudged Gemma with his elbow. "Where is the solar?" he whispered from the side of his mouth.
"Right above the hall, ninny," she whispered back. "Turn left off the spiral stairs."
Rowena watched their exchange with a puzzled smile. "If it isn't too much bother, I would also like our bedsheets warmed."
Douglas's expression did not change, which was probably a good thing. Her words had electrified him, evoking the sensuous image of lying with her in his roomy four-poster bed, sharing the heat of their bodies as he tenderly took her innocence. Unless Matthew had already claimed that honor, although Douglas doubted this. There was a purity in her eyes he could not mistake. Still, 'twas the woman's gold he required, not her maidenhead, as tempting a conquest as it was.
And if the wheel of fortune didn't turn in his favor, well, he knew plenty of ways to force it.
6
Rowena would have given her tiara to know what the pirate had hidden in that hall. She wondered if a past lover had shown up unannounced at his door, a child in tow. Or if one of his infamous orgies was coming to a close. Surely the man did not expect her to believe that nonsense about unhealthful smoke.
Yet where there was smoke, was there not a dragon at its source?
She wished she could tell him outright she had been told of his disreputable past. But of course such frankness was unthinkable, dangerous even, considering the fact that the Crown had demanded he assume a new identity. Wiser to pretend to accept him at face value. After all, she had nothing more substantial than a rumor to act upon.
She would have to wait for such a confrontation until he trusted her, and she knew she could trust him. She suspected he was a pirate, but the man's inner nature had yet to be proven. Never would she enlist the help of a man who might betray her. Her homeland and father's life were at stake.
Yes, he was hiding something. Hildegarde clearly thought so too, peeping over her shoulder in distrust as if she expected a spy or evil spirit to suddenly appear from behind a tapestried alcove.
Hildegarde had devoted most of the past two decades to
protecting Rowena from the traitors she feared would abduct her precious charge, and from the bad fairies who coveted the princess's unblemished soul.
The woman thrived on battling these imagined threats. Castle Dunmoral apparently would provide both.
Rowena sneaked a yawn behind her knuckles. Perhaps a good night's sleep would bring perspective. Perhaps sunlight would dispel the air of secrecy that overclouded this medieval castle. Whatever happened on the morrow, she would have to proceed without poor Matthew's help. She would have to tame her dragon alone.
"Mayhap we should not be so hasty to dismiss Frederic," Hildegarde grumbled in Rowena's ear. Then, "Heavens, what is this on the floor?"
Rowena glanced down at the damp splotches on the uneven stones. "What do you suspect?" she whispered mischievously. "Bloodstains from the last princess the Dragon dragged in for supper?"
Hildegarde glanced down the passageway at Douglas's dark countenance where he stood giving orders to his small cluster of retainers. "If he is indeed the Dragon of Darien, then he has killed before. The man is known for his cruelty."
Rowena knelt surreptitiously to examine the floor. "It smells like spirits. Perhaps the last princess he lured here drank herself into oblivion. Or, more plausibly, perhaps his lordship has his distillery in the dungeon like Uncle Carl."
"Spirits do not concern me," Hildegarde admitted. "However, one does not expect a wild creature to become tame simply because he is put in a cage." She gathered her cloak around her ample figure. "Or castle."
Before Rowena could respond, Douglas returned to her side. His even white teeth glinted in a disarming smile that banished Hildegarde's warning from Rowena's mind. He offered her the support of his arm again.
"Let me show you to the solar." He was the essence of solicitous charm. "The servants will bring up your bread and chocolate in a few minutes. Unfortunately, a minor problem has arisen that will require my absence."
"May I be of any help, my lord?" Rowena asked.
"You?" he said in astonishment. "Good heavens, Your Highness, I should not dream of your lifting a finger. In fact, I am merely going to drive a village boy to his home—the same boy who delivered that dreadful peat to the castle. The lad was injured in an unfortunate accident on his way here."
"How kind of you, my lord, to pay that much personal attention to a child. Few men of your rank would care."
The flickering glow of the torches told her nothing of his thoughts. His black eyes absorbed the light. He said, "I want your stay at Dunmoral to be as pleasant as possible."
Dragons in their pleasant palaces. The Biblical verse flashed through Rowena's mind, but she could not remember what words followed as she laid her hand on his arm again. She seemed to recall something about wickedness and the day of destruction being at hand, and women being ravished—
I am as foolish as old Hildegarde, she scolded herself, restraining the urge to laugh. Would this man hurt me when he frets over the crumbs on his table? Or is that a masquerade?
Certainly when she felt his muscles flex beneath her fingers, strength contained in the subtle movement, she did not envision a man obsessed with domestic standards.
His aura of power aroused powerful feelings inside the princess. Perhaps Hildegarde had good reason to be afraid.
Pirates were by nature unpredictable. They stole, murdered, and destroyed as did the barons who threatened her father's life.
Matthew was an effective warrior, but he did not think like a barbarian.
She needed this man.
Dangerous shivers danced over her skin as he moved his hand to her shoulder, guiding her up the unlit stairwell, into the very heart of his lair.
"Forgive me for being so bold." His voice enveloped her like velvet in the darkness. The richness of it raised gooseflesh on her arms. "But the torches have gone out, and I would not want you to slip. The castle poses many hidden hazards. It has a violent history. Some have said it should be destroyed."
She felt her heart accelerate. Should she read a warning in his words? "Perhaps its history adds character," she said quickly.
"Perhaps," he said at last. "But I would still advise you to be on guard. I would never forgive myself if you were harmed."
The air seemed to thicken, to sweeten like the fumes of an exotic incense. Was this desire? she wondered distantly. His heavy-lidded gaze drifted over her. It marked her like a brand. Heat seeped into her skin. His fingers tightened imperceptibly around her arm.
Rowena scarcely dared to breathe. No male except her brothers, who thought nothing of rendering her black and blue, had ever laid a hand on her royal person. Sensations unfurled deep within her, disturbing yet oddly pleasant. Before the rebellion, her papa had been in the process of arranging a marriage for her.
Rowena frowned at her reaction to this man.
She had been in the presence of big burly soldiers all her life, her father, her brothers, the hardened mercenaries Papa paid to defend Hartzburg, the intimidating palace guards.
But none of these men had affected her as did the earl. None of them sent this bolt of curious longing to lodge so deeply inside her. They had not touched her on such an elemental level.
He was unabashedly male. She could sense the dark passions and power that simmered beneath his off-handed charm. She could sense something very animal and untamed in him that he kept under control.
And she responded to it.
She sighed, chastising herself.
She needed this man for his fighting skills, not for his masculine prowess, as impressive as she suspected he would prove in that arena. Was she going to lose her head just because she was alone with a sinfully attractive man for the first time in her life?
He took the final step to guide her up into another passageway where low-burning torches threw shadows on the wall. His size enhanced that foolish illusion of fragility she had felt a few moments ago.
She was a little unbalanced by the rush of blood through her veins, which made her feel reckless and lightheaded.
"Follow me," he said, his voice polite yet imperious as if he knew exactly what effect he had on her and was waiting for her to compose herself.
And Rowena did as he asked, suddenly afraid she had answered her own question.
She followed him with the eagerness of a woman compelled by her own curiosity to explore and experience life to the fullest.
She was definitely going to lose her head.
Douglas swore to himself in three different languages. Here he was alone with one of the world's most eligible heiresses. His bedchamber was only a stone's throw away. She followed him with virginal innocence, unaware of her precarious situation.
Was he nuzzling her neck and whispering love words in her ear? Was he peeling off her gloves, blowing kisses on her wrist, as he learned what pleased the lady? No. He was serving her hot chocolate in the solar and fussing over her like a great-aunt. This princess wielded a strange power indeed.
Douglas didn't think he would enjoy behaving himself. Such self-denial went against his true nature. It caused him physical discomfort to pretend he hadn't noticed the tempting curves beneath her gown, to pretend he was unaware of her feminine appeal. He had to restrain himself from backing her into the wall and kissing her until she dissolved into a puddle of helpless passion at his feet.
He had to be satisfied with holding her hand.
Hell, he couldn't even impress her with a Shakespearean sonnet because he had to run back downstairs and help tidy the hall before the princess realized she had stumbled into a den of salty old sea dogs.
His princess.
A smile twisted his mouth.
He could smell her light floral scent, some delicious type of French-milled soap like lilies or violets. He wondered how she'd react if he treated her as he had his other women. Would she like gentle wooing? It seemed unlikely that a princess would enjoy being tossed over his shoulder like a barmaid. He'd bet his jack-boots that sensuous flames smoldered beneath her self-posse
ssion, waiting for the man with the magic spark.
Well, if everything went as planned, if he actually managed to convince her he wasn't the Devil incarnate, he might just be the one to light her candle.
He steered her toward an arched doorway. "The solar, Your Highness. While you make yourself comfortable, I'll go downstairs and see what's taking those oafs so long."
Rowena glanced up at him in amusement. "Did you just refer to your servants as oafs, my lord?"
"What?" He looked down at her in astonishment. "I believe I said loafs. As in loafs of bread."
"Loaves." She bit the edge of her lip. "Loaves of bread."
"Quite so."
She stared past him with a puzzled smile. "Oh, dear, if I'm not mistaken, this isn't the solar at all. It appears to be the chapel."
Douglas swung around. Altar, candles, holy water-stoop, moonlight piercing the lancet windows. What the hell had he done now? Turned right instead of left? He felt like a complete moron.
"I've prayed so often of late that I came here without thinking," he said, shaking his head. "Of course 'tis the chapel. Silly me. The solar is to the left."
"I see." Rowena looked a little embarrassed for him. "May I ask what it is that you need pray about with such passion, or is it a private matter?"
"I pray for my brother's recovery." he said. That it may be long.
"As I will," Rowena said sincerely.
An unfamiliar envy overcame him. She would pray for his brother. An intimacy with a woman beyond sex that Douglas had never experienced. Nor desired to. Why, a year ago he would have fallen overboard laughing his head off at the notion.
How naive they were, Sir Matthew and his princess. Douglas couldn't remember a day in his life when he'd felt even a twinge of faith, when he had thought of himself as innocent. He had been bone-deep bad from the beginning.
He studied her oval-shaped face, seeking darker motives. "You and Matthew are more than friends?"
Her swift response stung. "I trust him with my life."
And her heart? He could not ask. A pall of awkwardness settled around the unsettled question.
Delight Page 4