"He speaks of you with great affection," Rowena said stoutly, as if she sensed the lack of fraternal loyalty on his part, and disapproved.
"Matthew?"
"You sound surprised, my lord."
"Well, he and I did not grow up together," he said evasively.
"I see." But clearly she did not. "Surely you come here to pray for other matters beside Matthew?"
She had changed the subject in the apparent hope that spirituality would bring them back to common ground. A praying pirate. If only she knew. Douglas suppressed a grin of irony at the preposterous image.
"I pray for my soul, naturally," he said, feeling a surprising twinge of guilt as his gaze drifted to the unlit candles on the altar. "And I pray that my village will be spared further raids and suffering."
That part at least was true. Douglas might not have come to Dunmoral with any personal attachment to the handful of Highlanders who depended on him, but he had always protected what was his.
"Raids?" Rowena said in dismay. "But I thought your civil war was over."
" 'Tis over." Douglas turned his back on the altar and the pangs of conscience it stirred in him. "But since the war ended, the English soldiers stationed here to keep the peace have been withdrawn. Often in the aftermath of war, there are wolves who prey on the weak and wounded."
"Wolves?"
"The human kind, Your Highness, although we still have a few genuine wolves and wildcats in our uninhabited hills."
"The human kind are the worst," Rowena said with understanding. "However, I don't imagine 'twill take a man like you long to subdue them." Douglas controlled an unholy urge to pull her into his arms and kiss her for that compliment. Her faith in him was touching if unfounded.
" 'Tis my goal," he said soberly.
"I will add your beleaguered village to my prayers," Rowena murmured as they left the chapel. "And you, of course, my lord."
Douglas said nothing.
Let the princess pray.
Perhaps her innocent intercession would move the Almighty where the prayers of a young neglected boy had failed. Hell, it couldn't hurt, even if Douglas knew in his heart of hearts that heaven had given him up as a lost cause the day he was born.
7
Douglas slowed the ponies, craning ms neck to see beyond the utter darkness of the hills. A pipistrelle bat fluttered from the thin stand of trees that edged the precariously carved track. The cart leaned around a curve. Several rocks scattered down an unseen ravine. The princess was sipping hot chocolate at this very moment.
"What happened to the damn light?" he demanded.
"Baldwin dropped the lantern," Gemma said from the tail of the cart.
"I couldna help it," Baldwin said unhappily, walking ahead as a guide. "I tripped like a rigwiddie-nag right over a boulder. The men who made this path were half-brained as well as damned inconsiderate."
"They were smugglers." Douglas scowled as a bitter gust of wind whipped his black cape from his broad shoulders. The ponies balked.
"Well, I didna sign on for this sort of thing, Captain."
"You didn't sign on at all," Douglas said without sympathy. "You're free to go whenever you want. In fact, I wish you would."
"Your arguing is disturbing the lad," Dainty said from the bed of the cart. He was cradling the bundled boy in his enormous lap. "I don't want him to fret until he's safe in his own home."
By sheer determination, Douglas drove the cart down into the glen, wheels crunching on the gravel-strewn lochside path. Crisp whitecaps churned on the loch's surface. He stared at the small tidal island in the middle of the water.
"A good place for a few men to hide out," Dainty said quietly from the cart. "They could sneak out to attack from there without being seen."
Douglas studied the island with a scowl. "Possibly. Well check tomorrow. For now let us get this lad back to his family. He's been asking for his mother since he awakened."
The castle loomed over them, its dark contours stark against the blue-black sky.
"I hope the princess isna watching us from her window," Baldwin said. "She'll think we're up to no good."
Douglas grinned. "The princess is a woman, and there's no telling what a woman thinks. Now step to it. I want the boy carried up to his hut with as little fanfare as possible."
Mary MacVittie laughed in delight from her window. Her spyglass was focused on the loch below the stone cottage which sat at a snug angle in the hillside.
"The pirates are smuggling something," she said to her brother, seated on the oak settle behind her. "I wonder how the welcome with the princess went. I should have been there to help."
"You were helping me," he said. "I daresay that tending the sick is more important than teaching a scoundrel how to impress a princess."
"Not if the scoundrel convinces the princess to help Dunmoral."
"Ha. Is that what he told you?"
"Yes." She returned to the settle, lifting a well- worn book into her lap. "I've been reading up on local superstitions. I've found out just what we need to save the village."
He got up to take her place at the window. "This village is beyond saving. Bad enough it must tolerate me, a drunken physician who was banished from court for allowing one of His Majesty's mistresses to die. But to boast a pirate, a pirate, for its laird."
"A reformed pirate, Norman," she murmured.
"Not that the former laird was any better," he said, "carrying on conversations with his marigolds while a war was being waged right outside. his own castle."
" 'Tis called Needfire, in case you're interested," Mary said.
He adjusted the spyglass. "Dear God. The pirates are carrying something wrapped in plaid up to the huts."
"Did you hear me, Norman? I said that the only j way to save Dunmoral is with a touch of Needfire." j
"I just lit a fire," he said. "I wonder if the rogues are burying treasure in the hills. Or a body. You don't suppose they've killed someone already? Pirates are famous for drunken brawls."
Mary's mouth tightened. "I wasn't talking about our fire. Needfire is an ancient Celtic fire ritual that is still done secretly in this part of the Highlands. The Druids used it when they wanted a blessing. The practice is very powerful."
He lowered the spyglass. "Not that pagan nonsense again. Fairies and mermaids and Druids. The intelligent mind cannot bear it."
Mary tapped her book. "The ritual requires two sticks twirled against each other until a spark catches. I gather that it helps to use virgin wood. All the other fires in the village must be put out first and then relit from the sacred flame." She hesitated. "I shall help the pirate become a gentleman if 'tis the last thing I do."
"A gentleman pirate?" He gave her a scornful look. "Then perhaps you had better ask the old gods for help after all. 'Tisn't a gentleman we need in that castle. 'Tis a man with the courage to take control, and to care."
8
An hour after returning to the castle, Douglas stood at his arched bedchamber window, his goblet of Bordeaux untouched. He could see Rowena's candlelit silhouette in the window of the east tower where he had placed her, removed from the rest of the castle. She beckoned him to stare at her like a solitary star in the dark sky of his life. An iron grille reminded him she was a treasure not to be touched—at least not yet.
Yet it pleased him to look upon her.
She appeared to be pacing—the princess kept late hours. He wondered whether her mind was so burdened with worries that she couldn't sleep. Or was she distraught over Matthew's failure to make their meeting?
Why?
Why had Matthew lured her here without warning her that his half-brother Douglas was a wolf in nobleman's clothing? God knew she wouldn't have strolled down those shadowed passageways holding Douglas's hand if she'd had a clue to his true identity.
He raised the goblet in a mock toast. "One brother's loss is another's gain."
"Why are you quoting Shakespeare to that goblet of wine, Douglas?" a puzzled voice a
sked behind him. "Are you that drunk?"
" 'Twasn't Shakespeare, lass," he said, half- turning to see Gemma in the door, her young face creased in concern. "And no, I am not drunk."
She glanced past him to the window. "You weren't watching the princess, were you? 'Tisn't decent to be watching someone undress."
"And I am such a pillar of decency."
"She seemed to like you well enough," she said grudgingly as she slipped into the room. "Did you count the stones in that tiara?"
"What tiara?"
She stared up at him with a look of worry crossing her face. "How could you not notice such a thing?"
"I don't know. I suppose I was a little taken aback. She is a charming woman."
"She isn't yours. She's Matthew's."
"That remains to be seen." He took a deep gulp of wine, frowning in irritation.
"Never expose your beam, Douglas. No matter what fancy title they give you, you're still a pirate at heart."
"Go to bed, Gemma. It must be two o'clock in the morning."
"Do you think you could fall in love with her?" she persisted, perching on the foot of his bed.
"If I'm a pirate at heart, then you'll remember I have no heart. I cannot fall in love."
"Dainty said that Henry Morgan had been elected Admiral of the Black," Gemma said conversationally. "He's looking for men to help him find Maracaibo."
Douglas showed no reaction, but something of his conqueror's spirit, that wildness he'd hoped to subdue, stirred inside him. Maracaibo was the city built of gold, passage to the legendary El Dorado. Was there a pirate alive who had not dreamed of discovering it? Could he really reform when that magical chimera still eluded him?
Gemma curled her knees into her chest. "He said that Morgan wants to name you Vice Admiral. The entire fleet would be at your disposal."
Douglas smiled, setting his goblet down on the nightstand. " 'What profiteth a man if he gains the whole world but loses his own soul?' "
She gazed down at her ragged slippers. "From where I sit, a little profitething wouldn't be unwelcome."
He laughed quietly. "Aye, lass."
"Will she help us?" Gemma asked anxiously.
"Not if she finds out what rotten scoundrels we are."
Gemma giggled.
' "Tisn't a laughing matter, lass. We are the veritable scum of the earth. 'Tis only a matter of time before we betray what bastards we've been by our behavior. All we need is for the Princess Rowena to walk into the hall to have a pirate with a braided beard and wooden leg jumping onto her shoulders from the gallery."
"She's quite lovely, isn't she?" Gemma said, chin propped on her knees. "I can see why Matthew wants to keep her all to himself."
Matthew, who had braved enemy cannonfire to save his commander's beloved horse during battle. Defender of the innocent and protector of helpless animals.
And Douglas, seducer of innocence and, at times, a helpless animal himself.
She chattered on. Douglas removed a gold doubloon from his pocket, tossing it from palm to palm. He resisted the urge to look out the window again. Gazing upon that woman roused peculiar feelings inside him. Was it possible for a man to be beguiled by a gentle spirit and a clever mind?
"Leave me now," he said abruptly, interrupting Gemma's flow of talk. "I have plans for the night to find this Neacail who begs to be killed."
"I pleased the princess, didn't I?" she asked. "I said the right things?"
"Aye, lass."
"Baldwin curtsied at her. She didn't even tell him what a moron he was."
"She is an unusual person," Douglas said thoughtfully.
"Are you going to wed her?" she asked.
" 'Tis ludicrous to think of such a thing."
She stood, glancing suspiciously at the unshuttered window. "What about bedding her?"
"That," he said, pushing her toward the door, "is none of your business."
"Why do you hate Matthew so?" she whispered.
Douglas sighed. "I do not wish to speak of it."
"Please, Douglas. It has to do with Mama, doesn't it?"
"Mama was very ill for a long time, and you were a wee scrap of nothing," he said after a long pause. "I tried to take care of you both. I had stolen and worked to be able to afford a simple stone cross in a Highland kirk when she died." His face hardened. "Then Matthew appeared in his fine clothes and lacquered carriage while I was pleading for a cart. He had her body taken to a private graveyard in England for a burial."
" 'Tis not the worst sin in the world, is it?" she said softly.
"He deprived me of my last chance to prove to her that I loved her—and that I had some goodness in me."
"She must have known," she said with fierce loyalty.
He lifted her up and deposited her in the hallway as if she were an annoying kitten. " 'Tis past. I want to change my clothing now. Gemma, and as you said yourself, 'tisn't decent to watch someone undress."
The single knock had a distinctly familiar echo. Aidan. And it meant trouble.
Douglas crossed the bedchamber in silence, opening the door on the man who more resembled him, inside and out, than his half-brother.
Black hair, black eyes, black temperament. Aye, Douglas and Aidan might have been spawned by the same ungodly source.
Aidan wore his hunting clothes and heavy jackboots. He looked austere and anxious.
"I've come to ask your permission, sir."
Douglas lifted his brow. He rarely inquired into the private lives of his men, their loves, their past. Long ago Aidan had confessed that his young wife had died in a coaching accident, that he had taken the blame, that he came from a noble family who had disowned him. Certainly the aloof pirate had his secrets. But he obeyed, and he was loyal and brilliant. Douglas demanded nothing more.
"Permission for what?" he asked, glancing beyond him into the passageway.
"To murder a man," Aidan answered.
"Hell's bloody bells!" Douglas dragged him into the chamber. "Have you taken leave of your senses? Did you hear nothing I said? How could you have already made an enemy in the short time we were here?"
Aidan stared at him in stone-faced silence.
"Answer me, Aidan." Douglas shook his head in disappointment. "I hope you have told no one else of this folly. What hapless soul do you wish to murder?"
"The reiver who raped the village girl earlier today and left her for dead. 'Tis the same man who beat that boy senseless on his way here. I know you, Douglas. You're going to seek vengeance tonight, and I would help you. This castle… well, it reminds me of things that are painful."
Douglas turned slowly, assessing the stoic composure of Aidan's face. "That is the first time I have known you to speak of the past since we met."
Aidan shrugged, changing the subject. "The villagers plan to ambush him on the moor. They'll get themselves killed. We must move now, sir."
If there was more to the strange request, Aidan's eyes did not reveal it, and Douglas would not ask. "As you wish then. You may accompany me. I wish for an hour's sleep before we leave."
Aidan gave a stiff nod. "Well be done before dawn. With a little luck we will find that pig Neacail."
"Does Dainty know of this?" Douglas asked.
"I haven't told him."
Rowena's face rose in Douglas's mind, an image of innocence, but also of temptation. Neacail's pack of mongrels would never have seen anything as fine as her in their worthless lives. Douglas did not wish for word of this to reach her ears.
"Tell Dainty to stay here," he said. "Tell him to stand watch over the princess."
Sleep eluded Douglas.
He paced in the darkness of his room, refusing to yield to the temptation that burned in his blood. He would not return to that window to stare at that woman again. He would not prowl the parapets like an animal, hoping she would acknowledge him.
"I want her," he said in a rough whisper. "I did not plan on this. Yet for once in my life I want something pure and fine that no man h
as ever had. I want a woman who belongs to me alone. Someone I don't have to steal or pay for."
She isn't yours. She's Matthew's.
He swallowed, his face a mask of suffering as he lifted it to the window. He wasn't the prince in this fairy tale. He was the dragon. How long would it take Rowena to see through the masquerade?
He closed his eyes, but the past would not be blotted out. The castle walls dissolved. The candles that burned beside him became the blistering sun of Hispaniola. Images seared his mind, as fresh and painful as the day he had struggled to forget.
A Spanish merchantman drifted toward him on the sea. A small cluster of women crowded on deck, bonnets fluttering in the wind, pale faces lifted like flowers to the sun. One of them held a young child in her arms.
'Twas a trick.
He was so sure it had been a trick.
The Spaniards had used this ploy before, disguised a hostile ship as a merchantman. They had dressed their sailors as women. The child was a convincing touch.
But the Dragon of Darien was young and ruthless, out to prove his prowess. No one would deceive him. Sweat trickled down his lean brown face as he raised his hand to order the attack. He hesitated a moment. Why had he ignored the prickle of unease that shot down his spine?
"God," he whispered, forcing his eyes open, his voice raw. "God forgive me."
He had attacked a ship whose precious cargo was a handful of women to be sold as slaves. Two of them had died, and the child, left an orphan.
He had taken the battered ship to Tortuga and given the dead a funeral worthy of a king. The Spanish priest he had dragged along thought him mad. His friends had laughed at him. No one had mourned at the shallow graves of his victims. No one had cared that he'd killed a few slaves, which made his shame all the deeper.
He was determined in those days to become the best of the worst, a blackguard, and guilt was not an emotion he could afford if he expected his men to respect him. He did not realize, in those days, that the time would come when it would matter more that he respect himself.
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