“Because the first Masterson love affair ended so happily and with so many progeny, the family built”—Laurel gestured grandly—”their castle! If you look out either window, you can see the ruins from here.”
The tourists divided up and rushed to the windows.
“It’s on a cliff overlooking the beach.” Laurel followed them and peered over their shoulders. “You can see that the keep—that’s the place where the family lived—has walls intact, but the outer castle walls are almost completely grown over, the stones carried away by the villagers as building material. Here and there, rock columns jut up like fingers pointing to the sky.”
“Shouldn’t an archeologist excavate?” Mrs. Plante asked.
Laurel shook her head. “The ruins are no different than a dozen other castles in England. It’s only of interest to local historians, and that’s because the Mastersons were the influential family in this area for almost eight hundred years.” Laurel pointed to the portraits on the walls: the formal portrait of Lord Rawson Masterson, the more carefree portrait of Lord Sterling Masterson, and the darkened, stylized sketch of Sir Nicholas, the founder of the family.
Brian covered up a yawn, but when his mom nudged him, he jumped and asked, “What happened to ‘em?”
“I’m sad to say the line vanished from England in the early years of the nineteenth century,” Laurel answered.
Max clanged his wrenches together. “Bunch of losers,” he muttered.
She couldn’t resist. She knelt beside him and in an intense whisper, said, “Excuse me? What did you say? Did you accuse someone else of being a loser? A family of nobles? Of rulers? Because I have to say, Mr. Handyman, you’ve got the nerve.”
Max stopped work and turned his gaze to hers. He looked not at her body, neatly clad in navy slacks and a cream-colored cashmere sweater. He didn’t ogle her cleavage or examine her lips. No. That complete and utter asshole looked into her eyes.
The trouble with that was, when she returned his gaze, she saw too much: humor, desire, admiration…and memories.
In fact, when she looked into his green eyes, she fell into his soul.
The blonde American, Miss Ferguson, made a cooing noise.
Hastily, Laurel scrambled to her feet and made a show of adjusting the large, eggplant-colored velvet comforter on the Masterson bed. “I had this made specially,” she said to no one in particular. “The bed is too big to buy anything off the shelf.”
Mrs. Stradling seemed impervious to any undercurrents that ran between Max and Laurel. It appeared that all of her attention focused on learning the Masterson history. “So the family no longer owns the lands?”
“Nor the manor, either. The Barrys are my employers, and they recently sold everything to a new owner. That’s why this is”—heavens, Laurel almost couldn’t say it— “the last tour.” There. She’d managed to choke it out.
Miss Ferguson turned to the other ladies. “It’s a good thing we got here when we did!”
“I should say so!” Mrs. Stradling replied.
Mrs. Plante nodded.
“Gosh, yes,” Brian said in a deadpan voice. “I would have hated to miss a single museum in all of England.”
Mrs. Plante rumpled his hair. “We’ll go eat as soon as we get back to the hotel.”
Brian pulled his head away, but he grinned and shuffled his feet. “Hey, I’m interested in more than just food. Sometimes.” He pointed at the fifteen-inch tall, upright cross set atop of the cherry tallboy. “Is that real gold?”
“St. Albion’s cross is real gold, yes, but gold sheets pounded thin and shaped around a plaster cast. Its value is in its antiquity, not in the metal.” Laurel reached up and lightly caressed the rounded edges of the gleaming ornate cross. “It’s older than the bed. It’s over a thousand years old.”
“It should be in a museum,” Miss Ferguson said.
Laurel subdued the urge to snap at her. As it was, her voice was a little brisker than normal. “It is in a museum, and more important, it’s at home here. It’s been in the Masterson family’s possession since a monk presented Lord and Lady Masterson with the cross as a wedding gift.”
Megan stood on tiptoe to look at it. “It’s beautiful. The work is exquisite. Aren’t you worried it will be stolen?”
John put his hands on her waist and pulled her easily against him. “I’ll bet they have quite a burglar-proof system here, honey.”
Laurel neither agreed nor disagreed. She’d come to be wary of discussions about locks and security. “Actually, St. Albion’s cross is quite heavy, and takes a large man to lift it off the tallboy.”
Megan turned in John’s arms and looked adoringly into his face. “You could do it, darling.”
His lips lowered toward hers. “Do…what?”
Laurel wanted to cover her eyes. Instead she looked away…right into Max’s knowing eyes.
Oh, gads. She cleared her throat.
Had he seen how much she envied the newlyweds that unabashed glow of love?
“Ick,” Brian said. “They’re at it again.”
“Fascinating,” Miss Ferguson murmured as she studied the young couple.
What had Laurel been talking about? “The castle!,” she said explosively. “The castle was built on an outcropping on the coast because that was the best natural defense, and that defense was badly needed during the War of the Roses.” She spoke too rapidly, but apparently the tourists readily accepted eccentricities in their tour guides, for no one seemed surprised by her unfortunate segue.
“Ah. The War of the Roses. That was a difficult time.” Mrs. Stradling nodded sadly. “Noble families had to build defenses to save themselves from the rampages of the armies.”
This time nothing could stop Brian’s jaw-cracking yawn.
Okay. Fine. The boy didn’t like history. Neither did Max, although he had risen to his feet and was pretending to listen. The two children could keep each other entertained. Laurel confined her remarks to the adults in the group. “You ladies know your English history. You must be medieval scholars?”
The middle-aged American women smirked and shook their heads.
“Librarians?” Laurel guessed again.
Mrs. Plante beamed. “Not at all, dear. We’re romance writers.”
“Romance…writers?” Laurel could feel her face heating. The day just got worse and worse.
“Really?” Max sounded fascinated. “My mum reads romances. She tells me I should read them, too.” His beautiful, plush lips quirked in self-deprecating humor. “She says I would learn a few things about making a woman happy.”
“Couldn’t hurt,” Laurel muttered.
“Your mother’s right,” Mrs. Plante said. “I know when my husband reads my novels, he —”
“Mom! I do not want to hear this.” Brian covered his ears and hummed loudly.
Everyone laughed, and Laurel relaxed.
Mrs. Stradling rapped on one of the colossal bedposts to get everyone’s attention, then shook her fingers as if her knuckles hurt. “What I would like to know, is whether it is true there was much crime on this stretch of the coast?”
Startled, Laurel asked, “Crime?”
“Yes.” Her brown eyes darted about as if anticipating an attack. “I heard that smugglers have lived and worked here for centuries.”
“Oh.” Laurel understood now. “Smugglers. The locals never truly considered smuggling a crime. It’s so far from London here, and in times of need it was necessary to make a living any way possible.”
“I love smugglers,” Mrs. Plante said to Miss Ferguson in an aside. “They’re so romantic.”
“Smugglers are not romantic,” Laurel snapped. “They’re thieves who are stealing England’s heritage away, piece by piece, and they should be drawn and quartered!”
Max watched her as if enthralled by her vehemence.
She lifted her chin at him. Let him make what he could of that.
Mrs. Stradling leaned forward. “So there are still smugglers
!”
Laurel’s fiery indignation collapsed. “Yes, I’m afraid so, and they’re almost impossible to catch.”
“Were the Mastersons smugglers?” Megan asked.
“Not at all.” Her straight hair was slipping out of its clip, and she wound it tighter and clipped it again. “The Mastersons were well known for their loyalty to the crown and for enforcing the law.”
Max proved he was still listening. “The Mastersons were so gallant, they never got off their noble arse and did the work of smuggling, they just raked in the profits.”
“They were law-abiding citizens.” Laurel sat on the bed with a flounce. “And chivalrous to boot! Just yesterday, in my research, I found a story about a Masterson who came home from fighting for Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth the First to discover a scoundrel on the verge of abducting a maiden, and he saved her from certain dishonor…”
Chapter One
Trecombe, England
1583
Not until her kidnapping did Lady Helwin realize how badly security in Trecombe had disintegrated.
When she heard the hoofbeats galloping down the beach toward her, she turned — and smiled.
Any woman who appreciated masculine beauty would have smiled. The beach stretched on in a smooth, unbroken line of silver sand and sheer cliffs, the wind blew off the sea, and Rion Masterson rode like a centaur, black cape and raven hair flying behind him, eyes glittering in the late afternoon sun, pleasure in the exhilarating ride emanating from every line of his fine form. A handsome figure of a man, an adventurer who had gone abroad to seek his fortune—and failed miserably.
Now he sought prosperity closer to home, and Helwin wanted to wish him luck—sarcastically, of course. She’d observed the newly returned nobleman many a time as he visited her uncle’s house. She’d admired his grace, his wit, the skillful way he used his green eyes to tempt and seduce—not her, but her cousin Bertilda. She could have told him Bertilda might relish a dalliance with the dangerous lord of Castle Masterson, but Bertilda vetted her suitors’ finances with the cool eye of a cutpurse.
But Helwin could tell Rion nothing. She was not permitted to show her face to visitors. Out of sight, out of mind, had been Uncle Carroll’s philosophy about Helwin, and thus far it seemed to be working. Except for the occasional careless inquiry from one of her father’s old friends, no one cared about Helwin’s fate. Helwin might as well resign herself to living out her life as a lonely spinster in her uncle’s household.
But she could still enjoy a solitary walk on the beach, and she did thrill to the sight of handsome, daring Rion Masterson riding toward her…right toward her. Right at her, although surely by now he’d seen her.
She tried to move out of his path.
He swerved as if to follow her.
She waved her arms to call attention to herself.
He laughed, an open-mouthed, merry laugh that frightened her in its intensity.
Why was he riding at her so determinedly? Was he the kind of man who found pleasure in running down a helpless woman?
Or had someone—Uncle Carroll, even Bertilda—told him she would be here and offered him a reward for eliminating that annoying remembrance of former days?
Helwin caught her breath. Her heart skipped a beat, then leaped into a pounding frenzy. Bertilda. That witch Bertilda had insisted Helwin go for a late afternoon walk. She had insisted Helwin wear her purple velvet cape.
Bertilda had set her up.
Helwin fled, swerving to reach the boulders scattered at the bottom of the cliff. If she could make it that far, Rion wouldn’t dare ride his precious war horse through the rubble and take a chance of laming him.
She could make it. Surely she could make it.
The stallion thundered behind her. She could almost feel its hot breath on her neck. But she was safe…almost there…when the horse charged past her. She had only a moment of optimism, a bleak hope that Rion would ride on when, with one strong arm below her ribs, he scooped her up.
She opened her mouth to scream, but in a single smooth movement, he brought her up and over, flinging her face-down before him on the horse. The wind rushed out of her lungs, and she gasped, trying to get air.
“There you are, darling,” he shouted. “You put on a good show, but I vow no one saw us. We’ll be safe for the night.”
What did he mean? What could he mean?
What had Bertilda done now?
The horse was warm, its gait smooth, but hanging head down hurt Helwin’s belly, and watching the sand fly past produced a dreadful sensation of dizzy helplessness. She tried to struggle up on her elbows, to get her breath and tell him he’d made a horrible mistake.
He pushed her down, his hand in the middle of her back. “Just a few more minutes.” His voice was warmed by the faint accent he’d acquired in his years abroad, and wretchedly amused. “Castle Masterson is directly ahead.”
Indeed it was. She’d seen it from afar many a time. Perched on a high, granite-hewn cliff that presided over an inlet of the wild sea, Castle Masterson’s gray battlements chewed at the sky with primitive stone teeth. According to local history, the Masterson family had lived on this land ever since a noble crusader had arrived to save his lady-wife from the mechanisms of evil conspirators. Previously, Helwin had gazed on the castle and sighed for the romance of those former times.
Now she could think only of the narrow cliff path that crumbled away with every new storm, and how she did not wish to ride its length face down on a horse like a bag of corn. Indeed, she didn’t want to ride its length at all. “I don’t know what you’re doing,” she shrieked. “But you’re going to be sorry!”
“Hush, dear. Samson is a difficult beast and rears when he hears loud noises.” Rion tossed the hem of her cape over her head to muffle her squawk of dismay. The horse slowed as they reached the bottom of the path, then labored as they began to climb.
Helwin fought with the flapping folds of the material and bitterly knew he would not take her threat seriously. For who would make him sorry? Not Uncle Carroll, with his cold eyes and handsome face. He wasn’t home to notice if his only niece failed to return, and until he returned, there would be no rescue.
Then, of course, he would come after her, but only because—’od’s mercy! In brief glimpses below the hem of the cape, she saw the beach fall away as they climbed. Again she wanted to shriek in abject fear. But she didn’t dare speak a word, for as they clambered up the narrow path, the beach retreated and the cliff hung straight over the ocean. Below her, the waves crashed on the jagged rocks. The setting sun was turning the shadows to purple. One misstep would send them plunging to their deaths. And perhaps no one else held her to be of value, but she valued herself enough to make up for all of their indifference.
With a swift box on the ears and a hearty scolding, she’d correct Rion as soon as she set foot on the ground, and with any luck she’d be back in Smythwick Hall before Bertilda had had time to crow about her clever ruse. Then Bertilda had reason to fear; she’d faced Helwin’s fury only twice since Bertilda and her father had moved into Helwin’s home, and both times Bertilda had come out much the worse.
So Helwin sagged onto the horse, letting it carry her along the narrow path to the top. But for all her compliance, she couldn’t halt a gasp when Samson’s front hoof slipped on the loose stones.
The horse staggered. Pebbles spattered down the cliff face.
“Whoa, my boy, whoa.” Rion worked the reins, keeping Samson on the path with the patience and skill that had made him such a valuable mercenary.
And as they resumed their ascent, Helwin deliberated on how she would make Bertilda pay for this humiliation and peril.
When they reached the top, her head spun from hanging upside down, her belly ached from being draped across Samson’s back, and she barely heard the castle’s postern gate open or the cackle of male mirth as Rion rode inside.
“Did ye capture her, then?” a rough male voice called.
“Aye,
that I did. Everything went off without a misstep.” Rion slipped from the horse before the beast had stopped moving. “I told you I’d turn our fortunes!”
From inside the smothering depths of the cloak, Helwin tried to kick herself free.
Rion dragged her off and flung her over his shoulder. “Be calm, my beauty.” He gave her upraised bottom a gentle pat and pealed off a mighty laugh—a laugh which stopped abruptly when she clawed her nails into his back. “There’ll be time enough for that later,” he joked.
The men chortled.
But Helwin heard the note of irritation which tinged his voice. Good. She’d show him irritation—just as soon as she got rid of this cloak and stood on her own two feet.
A door opened. They entered the castle. They started up stairs.
She struggled with the clasp on her cloak. Dropped it to the floor. Looked down to see a dozen man-servants and knights in the vestibule gaping at her. A few of them raised their goblets. A few staggered and sniggered.
“See, lads?” Rion called. “She can’t wait for my attentions.”
“Lord Masterson,” she snapped.
Rion bounded up the stairs, jostling the breath out of her. He reached the level of the great hall, took a turn, went up another flight.
“Lord Masterson, you’ve made a mistake!”
He kicked a door open, stalked inside, and kicked the door shut.
The light had faded to dusk, but as he turned, she saw a whirl of furnishings: a clothes cupboard, a stand with a jug of wine and two glasses, a fireplace where flames licked at the logs. A massive walnut bed, with a heavy carved headboard, a great canopy and faintly exotic bedposts. A bed weighed down with history.
The Masterson bed.
Chapter Two
Turning again, Rion tossed Helwin on the fur-laden mattress. Before she’d sunk into the welter of feathers, he landed beside her.
“Listen to me, you dolt!”
“No time to talk, lass. If your plan is to work, we’ve got some compromising to do.” Sliding his hands into her hair, he lowered his mouth to hers.
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