Carlo’s breath caught in his throat.
“This is delightful, Carlo. A picnic by moonlight on top of a castle tower.” Meg sighed. “I cannot imagine anything more perfect.” She closed her eyes. “The moon shines bright. In such a night as this, when the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees . . .”
“I cannot imagine anything more perfect than hearing you recite poetry,” Rodrigo said. Especially when the poem involves a kiss.
“I am sure it becomes tiring for others, but sometimes I feel that it is the language of my soul, and I do not want to subdue it.” She smiled shyly. “Does that make sense to you?”
“Yes. And when your soul speaks, it touches other souls, no?”
“I like to believe that.”
They remained silent for a moment, and Rodrigo took the opportunity to study Meg again. Her fair skin glowed in the silver light and her eyes were wide and shining. Heat spread from his chest as he watched her admiring the night sky. Why was this woman not Spanish?
“Carlo, I have spoken so often of myself and gowns and poetry, but I have hardly asked about you or your family. You must worry dreadfully about them.”
Rodrigo felt the familiar ache in his chest. “Yes. I worry about them. There is nothing so terrible as war.”
“And did you experience it yourself?”
He shifted his position, stretching his legs in front of him and crossing one ankle over the other. “When I was younger, I was very sheltered from the situation, though Spain had been in turmoil for many years before the French invasion. It did not seem as if any of it would affect me, and I continued to enjoy myself with my friends and ignore the reports from the other parts of the country. But there was one terrible day I will never forget. And since then, my life has not been the same.”
Meg scooted closer to his outstretched legs, leaning toward him to listen.
He rubbed his eyes, frustrated with the burning behind them. “Napoleon’s Grande Armée took over Madrid, and in defiance of Pope Pius VII, he forbade the Spanish people to inter their dead in churchyards; instead, they were buried in masses in municipal graveyards. You can imagine how this upset the Spaniards, who believe their loved ones will not find peace unless they rest in sacred ground. One rainy night, I was returning home late. When I passed by, I saw people stealing into the cemetery to retrieve bodies. And while they were digging or carrying remains, French soldiers arrived and began to arrest them.
“I did not know what to do. I was frightened, and I hid behind a wall, watching as fighting began. Some people were killed; others were taken to prison. The people, they did not have weapons like the soldiers, and they did not stand a chance. Women were screaming and weeping and begging the soldiers to allow them to take their family members to the churchyard, but they were beaten or dragged away. I will never forget the sight of the cemetery in the rain with bodies—some old and some new—lying in the mud, nor the feeling of utter helplessness as I realized the people were outnumbered, and I was useless to help them.”
“I am sorry, Carlo. It must have been terrible.”
“The most terrible part of it was that, until then, the war seemed so far away. It did not seem real, and as a foolish young man, I did not allow it to concern me. I did not care.” Rodrigo’s stomach hardened, and his jaw clenched.
“I did not know that—about the cemeteries. I have only read reports in the periodicals and Lord Byron’s account in Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage.”
In spite of his frustration, Rodrigo smiled, shaking his head. “Do you have a poem for every occasion?”
“Yes.” Meg laughed softly. “Some women have the perfect hairstyle or gown, but I find a verse to suit any situation.” Her expression turned serious, and she moved to the other side of the blanket, sitting next to him with her back against the wall.
She pulled her knees up and wrapped the cloak around her legs. “In Charleston, there are three forts guarding the entrance to the harbor. Fort Moultrie, Fort Johnson, and Castle Pickney. The entire city has sunk into an economic depression because so many funds have been used to build up the defense after the Federal Embargo Act made Britain and America enemies once again. It has become fashionable for young men to purchase their own uniforms and meet together as volunteer militia companies to train and drill. My brother, Daniel, is a member of the Charleston Fencibles.” She twisted her fingers together.
“At the theaters and even at garden parties, ‘The South Carolina Hymn’ is sung before every performance to arouse patriotism and martial spirit. It is as if everyone is playing a game, and the idea of war seems so romantic and exciting.
“But people forget that war is not simply about regimentals and anthems and brave soldiers. It is also about heartbreak and death and real people. I am glad you told me your story, Carlo, even though it was difficult.” She lifted his hand and interlaced their fingers.
They sat for a moment, each lost in thought before Meg spoke again. “Were you near Madrid when the royal family was taken?”
Rodrigo’s heart stuttered at the abruptness of the question. “No. I was traveling in Italy.”
“With the prince?” Meg asked.
He looked sideways at her. “Yes.”
“I imagine it was horrible for him. And though Serena does not speak of it, there are times when I see pain in her eyes. I am sorry for them. How they must be hurting.”
Rodrigo nodded. He did not trust his voice to speak.
Meg lifted their intertwined hands and ran the pad of her thumb over his finger. She tipped her head forward to catch his eye. “Carlo, I know you wish to be in Spain helping your people, but I am very glad you are safe here, with me, on a haunted castle tower. Perhaps it is selfish for me to think so, but I am glad you are away from danger.”
By the torchlight, he could see the blush that colored her face and felt as if the heat spread directly to his heart. But the warmth did not remain as he realized that leaving England to rescue his parents would cause not only Serena to worry for him. If the opportunity arose, and he departed on a rescue mission, he worried it would result not only in his own peril but could also break a young lady’s heart.
Chapter 14
Meg leaned her head onto Carlo’s shoulder and squeezed his hand, wanting him to feel comforted. He seemed so sad when he spoke of Spain. She could hear the pain in his voice and wished she knew what to say to make things better.
The night had been exactly ideal. In the moonlight, the top of the tower seemed magical. A gentle wind blew, but at this height there was no noise from the castle below. It was as if she and Carlo were alone in the world.
She pulled her cloak closer around her with one arm. Meg loved this cloak. The price must have been very dear, especially for a servant, and it touched her that he would know how much she would appreciate a swirling cloak as she stood on top of a castle tower. She worried at his level of sacrifice. What would such a gift mean to a servant’s livelihood?
Carlo had planned the evening to perfection, choosing the exact things that Meg loved. He made her feel as if her romantic fantasies were important instead of laughable. He liked that she read poetry. He was the first to believe in her when she wanted to recite at the musicale and did not wait to see how her performance was received before applauding her. Carlo was her champion.
She could not imagine being more comfortable in anyone’s company, since she did not have to pretend to be anyone other than Meg Burton around him. When Carlo was near, she didn’t even feel homesick. He cared about what would make her happy and planned a special adventure instead of taking her for a turn about the grounds or visiting in the drawing room. Her stomach shifted uncomfortably as she realized that as a stable hand, it would be unacceptable for him to do either of those things. And she began to worry that the relationship had already progressed too far.
“Are you going to tell me?” he asked, breaking the silence.
Meg lifted her head. “Tell you . . . ?”
“The poem. Childe
Harold’s Pilgrimage. Are you going to tell me what it says?”
“No.” She leaned forward, turning her face to the side to look at him.
Carlo raised his brows incredulously. “You are declining an opportunity to quote poetry?”
“I fear it will make you sad.”
“It does not make me sad when your soul speaks to mine, Margarita.” He turned his shoulders to face her more fully but did not release her hand, which had somehow become so warm she thought it could melt butter.
“Very well.” She squinted her eyes, gazing across the tower at nothing for a moment while she collected her thoughts. “But first I will set the stage. Childe Harold is a bored young man who has grown weary of the life of debauchery he leads. The one woman he loves is unattainable, and Childe Harold leaves his home in England in search of change. He describes his travels over the rough sea, nearly regretting his decision to go abroad. He sees Portugal from a distance and marvels at the green lush land, but when he arrives, he finds it a ravaged nation. The people are impoverished, and everywhere he looks are crosses marking graves. Even a man as wicked as he feels pity and sees the injustice in war.
“After a moment of introspection, Childe Harold spurs his horse onward to Spain. And that is where I will begin.” Meg tightened her grasp on Carlo’s hand. She closed her eyes and blew out a breath, then opened them.
“Oh lovely Spain! Renowned, romantic land!
Where is that standard which Pelagio bore . . .”
As Meg continued through the stanzas, Carlo’s gaze seemed to look through her. Emotions flickered over his face. She stopped once, but he asked her to continue.
Meg resumed, telling of Lord Byron’s view of the battles fought and the devastation left behind and his admiration for the bravery of the Spanish people.
When she finished, Carlo remained quiet, staring past her.
“I knew it would make you sad,” she said quietly, aching inside as she watched him.
He slowly turned his gaze to her and appeared to come out of whatever memory he had been lost in. “It is very beautiful and very true. Thank you, Margarita. I told you, it does not make me sad when your soul speaks to mine.” He lifted their entwined hands, brushing her knuckles across his lips.
At the intimacy of the gesture Meg’s heart came to a standstill.
“Although, I wish your soul did not always prefer to speak in English.”
She could not bring her mind to work while her heart was pounding so loudly in her ears. Meg didn’t look at Carlo as she gently pulled her hand away and tried to calm herself by cleaning up the dishes and food, placing their picnic back into the basket, and looking anywhere but at him. “I have only read a bit of Spanish poetry, and even then, it was a translation, of course. I would like to read more, but I only know a handful of Spanish words—and one of them is ‘ducky.’ I do not think Quintana ever mentions ducks.”
Carlo took the basket from her.
Meg stood, walking toward the wall, trying to create distance between them to quell the growing attraction she felt and the fear it spurred. “Manuel José Quintana, perhaps you have heard of him. He wrote El Duque de Viseo, but now he serves as the secretary to the Cortes Parliament in Cádiz.” Meg knew she was babbling, attempting to cover her nervousness.
“Yes, I know Señor Quintana.” Carlo came to stand next to her. He looked at her strangely.
Of course he knew of Manuel Quintana. Certainly every person in Spain did. Meg’s mind was racing, and she took a deep breath. She needed to stop rambling on like a ninny.
“I . . .” Meg didn’t know what to say. Her mind was in chaos, and she did not understand what she was feeling. Part of her wanted to run away, and another part could not bear the idea of leaving. She looked across the duke’s forest and pulled her cloak around her shoulders.
She felt Carlo’s eyes on her, but when she looked at him, she found she could not raise her gaze above his collar. She was afraid of what she would see in his eyes but, more than that, afraid of what he might see in hers.
Carlo turned her to face him and with a finger lifted her chin. He studied her intently, but she was not afraid; rather she was comforted by his gentle expression.
He was the same man. Whatever she had felt when he’d touched his lips to her fingers had not changed their friendship. Her chest relaxed, and she breathed freely, relieved. She did not know what had come over her, but she wouldn’t allow it to cause discomfort between them.
Carlo took a pocket watch from his vest pocket and glanced down before replacing it.
Meg couldn’t help but wonder where the timepiece had come from. She realized it must have been one of the prince’s castoffs. The idea bothered her. She wished Carlo didn’t have to depend on that man for his livelihood.
“The hour grows late. We should return,” he said.
Meg nodded. She helped him fold the blanket, which he replaced in the basket.
Then he offered her the torch, but before she took it, he leaned close and tapped his finger on her nose. His brow lifted. “Beware, Margarita. I do not know if we shall escape this tower unscathed.”
Meg’s lips lifted in a smile. She took the torch, noting with satisfaction how her cloak fell back from her shoulder in waves as she raised her arm. “I am glad to have a brave knight to protect me.”
She took his hand again, feeling the instant reassurance of his closeness. Meg did not hear any fluttering and was glad that the bats had abandoned the tower for the night. It was much easier descending the steps, likely because they were not cautiously venturing into the unknown. They stepped out the door, and Carlo swung it closed, locked it, then took the torch from her, returning it to its brace on the balustrade.
Carlo offered his arm, and Meg slipped her hand beneath his elbow. They walked between the rows of torches on the battlements.
“Do you think Patito and Bonnie might want to go for a ride tomorrow?” she said, feeling a bit shy. “If—”
But her words froze in her mouth when she saw men moving along the top of the wall toward them. Armed men.
Carlo pushed her behind him. He pulled the sword from its sheath with a hiss of metal. “Margarita, I fear we are under attack!”
Tremors began in Meg’s hands and fingers. She clung to Carlo’s arm, and he led her to the side of the walkway. “Carlo, what do we do?” She pressed a hand over her mouth, holding back the scream that was fighting its way out.
“Do not fear, fair maiden. I will protect you.”
Even though her pulse was thrashing painfully, she paused at his words. It did not sound like something Carlo would say if it were truly villainous men coming for them.
Carlo stepped to the first man, his sword raised. “En garde, villain.” He flung back the cape from his shoulder with a flourish.
The man in front of him seemed to hesitate. He and Carlo stared at each other, and Carlo nodded his head slightly, lifting his brows.
“We will conquer this castle and take the fair maiden to our hideaway.” The man’s voice was monotone, and he shuffled his feet. He spoke with a thick accent, and Meg’s fear began to abate as she realized the man was Spanish.
“Never!” Carlo cried and leapt toward the man, bringing his sword down. The man lifted his own weapon, blocking the strike. Carlo spun around with his cape flying, as he executed some moves that his opponent seemed to anticipate perfectly and block; although the man lacked any enthusiasm and appeared rather humiliated by the entire experience.
The attacker let out a pitiful groan, and holding his chest—which Meg noticed had not been injured in the least—he ran off.
Carlo turned to the next man. “And now, you black-hearted wretch, let us see if you’ve a taste for blood!” He charged at the man, who appeared to have more skill than his comrade. He put up a good fight before running off, cradling his own nonexistent injury.
Meg realized her hands were still covering her mouth, but instead of holding back a scream, she was completely delight
ed. Carlo must have practiced and choreographed his fight with these men. Were they the prince’s guards? And though she had long since realized the performance was for her benefit, she also recognized that Carlo was an exceptionally talented swordsman.
He blocked, thrust, and parried, all the while maintaining his ridiculous banter. Meg was mesmerized as she watched him fight with a combination of grace and strength. In merely a few moments, each of the enemies was defeated and ran off to nurse their wounds—or more likely their pride.
Meg pressed her palm to her chest, and the back of her hand to her forehead, as if she would swoon. “Oh, you have rescued me, brave hero.” She giggled.
“Do not return, you lecherous cads!” Carlo called after the retreating men as he returned his sword to its scabbard. His cape waved behind him when he turned toward Meg, breathing heavily, and wiped the sheen of perspiration from his forehead. His eyes were alive with excitement, his face flushed, and before Meg knew what happened, he swept her into his arms and pressed his lips to hers.
The world around them disappeared, and Meg was aware of nothing but the softness of Carlo’s lips, his strong arms encircling her, and his heart beating beneath her palms. Her blood surged and heated, and she was swept away on a sea of emotion that slowly abated as their lips parted and Carlo brushed his thumb along her neck.
His eyes bore into hers, and she saw within them a fire that both terrified and thrilled her.
“And Eden revives . . .” she murmured, leaning her head against his chest. She slowly emerged from her haze, blinking her eyes.
A shock jolted through her system. And her eyes snapped open. She realized that she clung to Carlo, her hands fisted in his cape. “No,” she said, and then more forcefully, “No!” She pushed against him.
Miss Burton Unmasks a Prince Page 13