"Everything will be fine," she said calmly, studying Frederic's face. "What did this man say? Is all not well with Sir Matthew?"
"The minister I met had never heard of Sir Matthew." Frederic paused for effect. "The Earl of Dunmoral is another matter. A rumor is circulating that he is in no way related to the ancient family whose title he claims. The castle may well be under the command, and I use the term loosely, of the nefarious pirate once known as the Dragon of Darien."
Rowena's temples began to throb. "But I thought—the London broadsheets said that the Dragon was dead."
"Apparently, he is very much alive." Frederic's frown deepened. "According to rumor the Crown has insisted he take on a new identity and play a more productive role in society than a brutal sea robber. How is it you know of such a miscreant. Highness?"
Rowena suppressed a smile. "He was part of history, was he not? And history was my favorite subject at the convent school. But I never dreamed he was Matthew's half-brother. Matthew mentioned him but never went into any detail."
Frederic said, "One usually does not discuss the black sheep of the family, and from what I understand, they do not come any blacker. The earl is said to hold orgies in his hall. Village women have entered his keep never to return home."
"Then perhaps they were enjoying themselves too much to bother," Rowena said. "Besides, Matthew once risked his life for us, and if he says I am to trust the earl, then that is the end of it. Anyway, Frederic, you know better than to listen to gossip."
"He might be a pirate!" Frederic exclaimed.
"And he might not," Rowena said. "What matters is that he is Matthew's brother—oh, goodness, what a wonderful combination, Matthew's military skills and the Dragon's daring."
Frederic drew an outraged breath. "To lead you into a pirate's lair—well, my imagination does wicked things."
So did Rowena's.
Any sensible princess would have hastened back to the safety of her London-based friends. She would have sniffed into her scented hanky, lamenting her papa's fate as she dressed for a masked ball. She would have flirted with King Charles, who, famous for his roving eye, had already sent her a patch box along with condolences for her plight.
But Rowena had a mind of her own, and for the first time ever, she was on her own. Freedom shimmered before her like an unexplored map of mysterious avenues and shadowed pathways leading to endless little adventures. Or misadventures.
Cosseted, sheltered, trained, she chafed like a filly against the bridle of her upbringing. Besides, no one else had a plan to help her papa. A fortnight should be long enough to persuade the Dragon to take on another crusade. She would enlist Matthew's help.
Rowena had nothing to lose.
She also believed in fate.
Even in her obscure European principality, known mostly for its arrogant rulers and truffles, the Dragon of Darien had been discussed at the dinner table, his exploits admired or abhorred depending on one's political viewpoint.
"Is he married?" she asked matter-of-factly.
"Highness," Frederic cried, "what could you be thinking?"
Hildegarde smirked at him. "If the princess has a premonition, it must be obeyed."
"Premonition about a pirate? This rogue has killed people for gold. He is tainted, with no regard for human life—"
"The barons who threaten to hold Papa hostage in his own home are barbarians," Rowena said. "They have burned hamlets and slaughtered entire families. They killed my poor Hildegarde's family. Who better to conquer them than a pirate who has perfected the art of plunder?"
Frederic studied her with grudging respect. "The nuns may not have tamed that stubborn will, but they did teach you to think."
"Thank you, Frederic."
"I am not sure thinking is a good thing in a woman," he added.
"But you will do as I ask?" Rowena said, crossing her fingers inside her muff.
His jaw tightened. "Your father gave me funds to assemble an army of mercenaries to send back home. He believed that these Highlands breed fierce fighting men."
"Even an army of mercenaries needs a leader," Rowena said.
Frederic let that remark go unchallenged. "I suppose I could allow you a fortnight or so in the castle while I visit General Crichton in Dunbrodie. The man is retired but he has offered to help me recruit some decent soldiers."
"Is it far from here?" Hildegarde asked.
"A three-day ride each way," he said.
"I will watch over the princess," Hildegarde said.
Rowena felt a sense of relief sweep over her. "My grandmother always said that one's true destiny leads to unimagined delight."
"Or disaster," Frederic muttered.
Hildegarde snorted. "Destiny, I don't know. I'd settle for a warm fire and bowl of tasty mutton soup. These Highland winds cut straight to the bone, not to mention giving one an appetite."
Rowena brushed around her. "Help me dress— the ermine-trimmed purple, I think. Find my perfumed gloves and pearls. And Mama's tiara."
"Tiara?" Frederic shouted.
Rowena stifled a giggle. "I want to make a good impression."
"Impression?" He clapped his hands over his eyes. "On a pirate? God in heaven!"
Rowena started to laugh in earnest then. She just couldn't help herself. She couldn't wait to kick up her damask slippers and link up with a man who had dared to live out his most dangerous dreams. She had been led to Scotland for a reason, after all.
It was time, at long last, for the princess to raise royal hell.
* * * * *
"After all," Gemma was saying, "you and Matthew are flesh and blood."
"Indeed, we are," Douglas said, his smile vanishing at the thought,
Flesh and blood who had nothing in common. Matthew had made something fine of his life. Douglas had made a scandalous mess of his. Matthew wore a sash of honor and white satin. Douglas wore a gold earring and galley-slave scars.
Half-brothers with nothing in common except Princess Rowena of Hartzburg, one of Europe's great heiresses and eligible maidens, though on this point Douglas privately had his doubts. How innocent could the young woman be if she was using his castle as a rendezvous with Matthew? It was a scandalous age. The nobility was infamous for its affairs.
The echo of footsteps within the stairtower drew Douglas from his post. He turned, recognizing the pigeon-breasted figure of the Delight's former sailmaker, a short young Devon sailor who had run away from an orphanage at thirteen.
"I've been searchin' all over this accursed castle for you, sir," Willie said sourly. "What the hell is everyone doin' up on the poop in this weather?"
"This isn't the poop, Willie," Gemma said. "They're called the parapets."
"Pair o' what?"
"Parapets, moron," she said, her hands planted on her hips. "And if you use that foul language in front of the princess, I'll be throwing you off them on your witless head."
"Did you sight the princess's entourage?" Douglas demanded.
Willie pulled off his woolen cap. His blond hair stood up on end like patches of straw. "Aye, sighted it and lost it. They left their coach miles and miles back when the road ended. I figure they'll be comin' the rest of the way on horseback."
"I told you to stay with the women," Douglas said in a clipped voice. "How could you lose a royal entourage?"
"They flew by us like bats out o' hell and that scared my horse. The animal threw me onto my back. I ain't much of a rider, sir. By the time I caught my wind and got the guts to get back on that bad-tempered beast, the princess's party had vanished." He blinked at the memory. "Weren't much of a party to speak of neither. Could've been a family of gypsies on the way to a fair for that matter. Coach looked like an old wagon."
Baldwin grinned at him. "Willie, were you chasin' after the wrong princess?"
"I was not," he said indignantly. "I got me a good look at the princess's face. Like a fairy angel she was, all tiny with curly yellow hair and teeth like pearls and a crown of gem
stones—" He hesitated. "At least I think I saw her."
Gemma snorted. "I thought she flew by like a bat out of you-know-where."
"He was chasin' after the wrong princess." Baldwin slapped himself on the knee. "What a blockhead."
Douglas advanced on Willie until the shorter man backed into the stout wall of Dainty's chest. "If the princess is lost, we're going to have to find her, aren't we?" he said in that deadly quiet voice his men had learned to dread. Douglas didn't shout a lot or hit anyone unless he meant it. He was usually just so frightening with his silences and unnerving stares that some sailors had jumped overboard to escape the evil discipline they feared was coming.
"I cannot imagine a young noblewoman traveling an unmarked Highland cattle track on a November night," he said between his teeth. "Dainty, have two horses saddled. Aidan, go with him but keep that wicked sword in its sheath."
Before either man could move, a flickering light in the black hills beyond the castle caught Douglas's eye. It floated closer, taunting, then went out like a will-o-the-wisp.
Apprehension tightened his scalp. Some of the Highlanders in Dunmoral practiced Celtic magic. There were raiders hiding in those hills, outlaws who had declared war on Douglas and all he protected. And there was Rowena of Hartzburg, with curly brown hair and a crown of gemstones, a royal princess in a savage land.
The light reappeared. He touched the golden earring he wore in his left ear like a talisman.
"Someone's coming," he said in his deep lyrical voice, as calmly as if he were announcing the time of the day. "Gemma, go downstairs and make sure everything is in order. I don't want her tripping over a tankard of ale or Simon's wooden leg on the stairs."
Gemma stood unmoving, black curls blowing around her white face.
"What is it, lass?" Douglas said.
"I don't know what to say to her," she whispered with a look of panic.
"Just remember Mrs. MacVittie's advice," he said sternly. "When in doubt quote Shakespeare."
"Shakespeare." Gemma nodded, taking a deep breath.
A smile of cynical amusement crossed Douglas's face. In his deep actor's voice that could have graced Drury Lane he said: "Twelfth Night: 'Go, hang yourselves all! You are idle shallow things—' "
The clatter of wheels on the other side of the loch rose in the distance. Douglas turned, his lean face suddenly serious. "She's coming. Remember everything I've told you, and we'll all be the richer for it."
Dead silence.
Then all six of them rushed to the edge of the merlons and stared down. It seemed to take forever before the wheels rumbled over the wooden bridge to the castle.
Even Aidan, that most aloof and skeptical of souls, leaned down fractionally for a better look.
"She's almost at the drawbridge now," Baldwin said in excitement, all plots of ransom and troublesome women forgotten. "I've never seen a real princess in her coach before."
"I don't think we're seeing one now," Gemma said in confusion. "If my eyes don't deceive me, that's no carriage."
" 'Tis a peat cart." Douglas looked up. "Willie, you didn't mention a peat cart on your way."
A flush crept across Willie's freckled face. "I did not pass that cart, sir. I swear it."
The peat cart, led by two ponies, and missing a driver, rolled to an uneventful stop in the bailey. Gold splotches of torchlight from burning pitch illuminated the eerie arrival. As their mentor Mrs. MacVittie had suggested, two serving girls danced forward to strew dried heather buds in the princess's path.
The buds drifted to the dirt. The ponies nuzzled them, shifting a few steps forward. But no princess alit from the cart to place her dainty foot on the flowered path.
"I do not know much about ancient history," Douglas said. "But that cart brings to mind a certain Trojan Horse. Dainty, get those two girls inside to safety and fetch my sword and pistols."
The giant melted away with the grace of a man half his size. Douglas glanced back down in the bailey with anger burning in his eyes.
"Pistols?" Baldwin studied Douglas in horror. "Ye canna greet a princess with a pistol. 'Tisn't seemly."
"We could greet her with a gun salute," Willie said. "She might like that."
"There's no princess in that cart," Douglas said in contempt. "Did you not see that tarpaulin move when the girls came toward it? Something very much alive lies beneath, and I'll wager it doesn't have curly yellow hair and a crown."
"A trick, sir." Aidan searched Douglas's face. "Let Dainty and me take care of it so you won't get powder burns on that fine plaid."
Douglas sighed. "I wish everyone would stop worrying about how I look."
"We only want to help, sir," Aidan said. "You can't very well greet the princess if you're killing villains."
"What sort of fool would challenge ye on yer own ground, sir?" Baldwin asked.
Douglas didn't answer, moving to catch the weapons Dainty threw him from the watchtower stairs. Moonlight sculpted his sun-burnished face into a grim mask as he buckled on his sword belt. "Gather the men from the hall, Gemma. Quietly, lass."
She backed into the stone watchman's seat, shivering in her pretty green silk gown. "But what about the princess?"
"Raise the drawbridge." He strapped a bandoleer of pistols over his powerful shoulders. The ebony barrels gleamed against the rich hues of his plaid. "Send out two men to keep her away. The last thing I want is for a helpless woman like Princess Rowena to ride into the middle of a battle."
Baldwin shook his head in sorrow. "I canna bear to think of it, sir. That poor wee princess lost in the hills amongst them villains and thieves. What will become of her?"
"Villains and thieves indeed," Douglas murmured, his men falling in step as he moved to the stairs. "What has the world come to?"
3
Douglas hefted the basket-hilted claymore in both hands above the cart. The Scottish weapon was heavier than his cutlass, but he could handle it. His shoulder muscles flexed in anticipation. His pistol would offer better protection, but there might be gunpowder hidden in the cart, and he wouldn't be surprised to see a barrage of flaming arrows come flying out of the dark.
He knew every evil trick in the book. He had no desire to become a human bonfire.
Had Neacail of Glengalda sent one of his outlaws on a suicide mission to blow up the castle he coveted for himself?
"There are at least twenty armed men surrounding this cart," Douglas said with a deliberate calm. "Lay down your weapons, and come out slowly, or I'll cleave you in half."
The tarpaulin rippled. A low muffled groan sounded beneath it. Douglas felt a bead of sweat slide down his throat, absorbed into the rough wool of his plaid. He wet his wind-chapped lips, and waited.
He half-expected a small army of outlaws to burst out at him in a killing frenzy. His hands tightened around the hilt of the claymore.
Every nerve and muscle in his body stretched, tightened, poised for action. Every breath he took burned. He was prepared for anything.
He was prepared for anything except the convulsive sob that he barely heard above the sound of his own harsh breathing. A cry that bespoke so much pain and desperation he dropped the claymore to tear the tarpaulin from the cart.
Dainty and Aidan flanked him like twin shadows, dark angels willing to follow him into any danger.
"Could that be the princess?" Dainty said in disbelief. "Could the bastards have caught her on the road?"
Douglas said nothing, his mouth flattening into a line of fury at the thought of a woman being used against him in a game of revenge.
The victim was not a woman at all, but a boy, twelve or thirteen, bound, beaten, and gagged with a filthy rag. His naked body shook convulsively. His eyes were bruised slits, his face a swollen mass of cuts. He curled into himself on a bed of peat, the mossy turf his people used for their fires.
Dainty lifted the injured child from the cart and cradled him to his chest. Aidan gently removed the gag. One of the serving girls covered his unclothed ba
ck with her shawl.
"There, lad," Douglas said, smoothing the boy's hair back from his face. "You're safe now. Who did this—"
The boy shied away from him, hiding his head in Dainty's chest. "H—hurt." His body quaked, the words burst from him like gunfire. "D—did bad things…"
"Neacail and his followers?" Douglas asked softly.
The boy jerked his head into a nod. Douglas glanced at Dainty. "Get him into the keep. Willie, fetch Frances from the kitchen. She'll know what to do."
Gemma fought back tears as she pulled on Douglas's arm. "I know who the boy is. I heard him begging his father to let him bring peat to the castle by himself. He wanted to prove he was big enough to be trusted."
Douglas stared at the cart. Peat to warm the cavernous hall where he had planned to welcome the princess. Charm, seduce and befriend her. He wasn't certain which. He'd worried about it for a week, obsessing over every angle, the possibilities endless but pleasurable to contemplate.
Yet one possibility he had never entertained in his darkest fantasies was that Princess Rowena might not reach the castle alive.
"Aidan." Their eyes met. The man was at his side. "Ride with me. I'll take the obvious roads, you take the moor. I want that woman found."
Aidan found them on the moor. The sight stopped him cold. A royal princess with a tiara, riding a tavern nag. A scowling old goat of a man, and a blonde woman built like a Valkyrie giving the old goat orders in no uncertain terms.
Aidan shook his head in wonder. Angels must be watching over this entertaining trio. Neacail of Glengalda could have kept his outlaws alive for twenty years selling the stones in the princess's tiara one by one.
He kicked his horse into a canter, his mouth stretching into a wicked smile. He wouldn't want to miss the look on Douglas's face when this entourage arrived at the castle.
Rowena held her breath as the dark horseman thundered down the hill. She wondered if this could be the infamous Dragon of Darien. He looked like a pirate from the distance. Then again he looked like a Highlander too, his black hair hanging to his shoulders, his face aloof and hard.
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