Delight

by Jillian Hunter

  "You are the Princess Rowena?" he asked without expression as he reigned in alongside her, ignoring the pistol Frederic held pointed at his chest.

  "Yes."

  She studied him in silence, aware of disappointment slowly settling in. Handsome, strong, unsmiling. He was all these things and more. A man to break hearts and fight battles, but not her heart. Well, what had she expected?

  That anticipated sense of destiny, that hoped- for ping of rightness, the inner voice that affirmed her hunch, did not come. Rowena trusted her intuition. It rarely failed her.

  She sighed in resignation. "I am she."

  "I am Aidan of Dunmoral," he said, wheeling his horse in a wide arc. "Come. The earl has just returned to the castle to organize a search party to find you. If we hurry, we will be able to stop him before he goes out again."

  This young man looks like my middle son, Hildegarde thought as she followed Aidan over the hill, and her throat closed with unshed tears, her arms ached with the grief of not having held her beloved boy one last time before he died.

  Still, her Stephan had never been a pirate. He'd never hurt anyone in his life. This man had stolen for a living. Could they trust him, despite his courteous demeanor and comely face?

  And what was his master like? Hildegarde wondered. Have I made a mistake letting my lady come to this place?

  Pirates! Frederic thought. Prince Randolph will have my head on a pikestaff when he learns what I have allowed. Well, better that than have Rowena and the old woman haranguing me night and day. Reasoning with these females is worse than fighting a war.

  As Aidan rode behind them, he thought, I ought to play a joke on Douglas. The son-of-a-bitch deserves it. He'll kill me, of course, but at least I'll die laughing. I never paid him back for putting that turtle in my bed last summer. Douglas is so serious of late with all his talk of reform. I am not ready to settle down myself.

  The boy would live, but only because Neacail had wanted the child's battered body to carry a graphic message to the castle. The message was meant to warn Douglas that his enemies had no scruples. A child's life meant nothing to the men who hid in the wild hills beyond the castle.

  Frances Jagger was an Englishwoman who had run a bawdyhouse on the pirate island of Tortuga. She now ran Douglas's kitchen. She calmed the boy and got him cleaned up. He fell asleep in her lap beside the fire. She'd never had children of her own. Her husband had deserted her when she was pregnant, and she had lost that child. But she knew how to nurse a wounded man.

  Douglas watched her from the arched doorway. He didn't say anything. Neither did she.

  But when he left, she touched the boy's unsightly face and said in a certain voice, "Neacail is a dead man now, little one. Don't you worry. This evil will be avenged."

  4

  The first woman, in fact, the only woman Douglas saw in the bailey, wore a black bombazine dress and laced-up black leather boots. Gray-blonde braids dangled from either side of her lynx-skin trimmed bonnet. A squirrel-lined cloak covered her wide shoulders. She carried a tapestry valise, and a heavy casket. She looked as if she should have been carrying a spear.

  Dainty whistled low. "Now that's what I call one warship of a woman."

  "She's a full-rigged ship if I ever saw one," said Gunther, Delight's carpenter. "Look at her high poop. 'Twould be a job to man that pump."

  "Is that the princess?" Gemma whispered, straining to see around Douglas's back.

  "For a princess, she's plain as porridge," Baldwin said in disappointment.

  "Plain?" Willie hooted derisively. "Hell, she's just plain ugly."

  "Be silent," Douglas said. "Show the woman some respect." He glanced at Aidan, standing apart from the others with his arms folded across his chest. "Is that the princess?" he demanded.

  Aidan didn't utter a word. He just lifted his shoulders in a little shrug as if to say, "I'm sorry. 'Tisn't my fault."

  Dainty gave Douglas a sly grin. "You said you'd cross the bridge of the princess's homeliness when you came to it, sir."

  Douglas hesitated. A faint smile touched his firm mouth. "If that's the princess, I won't be crossing that bridge. I'll be jumping off it."

  His men laughed in appreciation as he stepped forward to greet the woman. He bowed gracefully. "Your Highness—"

  Hildegarde dropped the casket at his feet. "God in heaven, that thing is heavy!"

  Douglas straightened abruptly. "You—"

  "Are you the earl?" Hildegarde asked, clamping his jaw in her powerful hand. "Well, let me have a good look at you. Old Hildegarde has a touch of the Sight, as they say in Scotland. Not that it's done any good. Let me see your face."

  She examined him thoroughly while Douglas stood there, dumbfounded, the truth slowly sinking in. "Hildegarde, you called yourself?" he said, easing his aching jaw free. "Then you are not Princess Rowena?"

  Hildegarde burst into a loud storm of laughter. "Me—the princess? Why, aren't you the flatterer? As if a mountain peasant such as myself could pass for a princess."

  Douglas glanced over his shoulder at Aidan, whose shoulders shook with silent laughter. "Madam," he said gravely, "I apologize from the bottom of my heart for the mistake."

  "What for?" Hildegarde said in astonishment. "I haven't had such a good laugh in ages. Frederic!" she shouted to the gaunt-faced figure approaching the small crowd. "Wait until you hear this—" Then suddenly Douglas wasn't listening. He wasn't paying any attention to the tall man who regarded him in scowling silence. He was busy studying the second woman walking across the bailey. Willowy, from what he could see, lithe with flowing brown hair and a very compelling profile, at least from this distance. Relief pounded through his veins along with a surge of potent male interest.

  He wanted the princess's fortune, yes, he admitted it. Perhaps, too, she was all the more attractive because she was the only woman his sainted half-brother had gone to such intriguing lengths to seduce, and there was a lifelong rivalry between the two of them.

  But for a moment he couldn't decide if Rowena represented more than revenge or rivalry or even redemption. For a moment he wondered if she could restore a portion of the purity stolen from him so long ago that he couldn't remember the day when sinning hadn't been second nature. For a moment she was merely a woman unlike any other he had met.

  They met in the middle of the moon-washed courtyard like two figures in a formal dance. His men were strangely silent, never having seen their Dragon behave in such a way.

  He bowed low, his chest tightening at the smile of sweet curiosity she gave him. No breath-taking beauty this, he thought in surprise. Not the winter-cool blonde with guileless blue eyes that Matthew seemed to prefer but rather a vivid brunette with a bright pink nose and chiseled cheekbones that lent elegance to a face one might easily pass in a crowd.

  What did Matthew see in her? He didn't need her wealth.

  He didn't need her as Douglas did. Douglas, who had perfected the art of claiming what belonged to others. Still, for the first time he could honestly claim he was motivated by an unselfish cause. He refused to let another child under his protection the for lack of food. He would help his people.

  Yet oddly he had never felt more like Mephistopheles than at this moment. Predator that he was, he was about to take advantage of his brother's misfortune for his own personal gain.

  The Dragon of Darien, accustomed to the rough sport of wenches and whores, would devour this girl in a few tasty bites.

  'Twas almost unfair. Assuming he committed no atrocious blunder in protocol, he'd capture her with more ease than a Spanish galleon in a bathtub.

  The Earl of Dunmoral, however, would proceed with more restraint.

  "Your Highness," he said, hiding a smile of remorse as he straightened to stare down into her brown eyes—and found himself the subject of a cool penetrating scrutiny that caught him broadside. And challenged him. Excited him.

  Had he thought her less than beautiful? Then he hadn't been paying attention. She was more dange
rous than beautiful. She was intelligent. The princess had an edge.

  'I am Douglas Moncrieff, the Earl of Dunmoral," he said, recovering with only a moment's hesitation. "I trust you had an uneventful journey."

  Before the princess could reply, Gemma came forward to execute a perfect curtsy; Mrs. MacVittie had made the girl practice until she was blue in the face. "Welcome to Dunmoral, Your Highness. I am the earl's sister, Gemma."

  Gemma looked expectantly at Baldwin, who, forgetting Douglas's order to stay out of the way, pushed next in line to greet Rowena. Confusion clouded his weathered face. Everyone was staring at him.

  Hell's bells, Baldwin thought. The princess was so pretty, he was going all fool-tongit. He couldn't remember whether he was supposed to bow or curtsy. He knew bowing had something to do with boys and curtsying with girls. But did you curtsy to a girl because she was a girl? Or did you bow?

  He curtsied. "Please to meet ye, princess," he said, limp with relief that the ordeal was over, and Douglas hadn't killed him. In fact, Douglas probably hadn't seen the curtsy at all because he had his hand clapped over his eyes the entire time. "The name is Baldwin McGee."

  "The honor is mine, Mr. McGee," Rowena said with a smile.

  Baldwin's mouth dropped open. " 'Tis? Well, I'll be—"

  "—seeing to your duties," Douglas said in a lethal tone. "I know you'll want to make sure Her Highness's rooms are ready."

  "I hope I have not put you to any trouble," Rowena said, her voice sweet and low-throated.

  Douglas turned toward her.

  She was gazing up into his face, searching for things, he suspected, that he had hoped to keep hidden. Then she said, "The journey was tedious but not dangerous until a few miles back when we abandoned our carriage at the crossroads."

  "There was no road to follow," Hildegarde said. "So we followed our instincts," Rowena added. "We were pursued by brigands," Hildegarde said. "We took refuge in a cave."

  Douglas frowned at his men. "Brigands?"

  "That was not proven," Rowena said, peering around Douglas to the dark bulk of the castle keep. "Has Sir Matthew gone out to look for us?"

  "Ah. Sir Matthew." Douglas allowed several moments of mournful silence to elapse. His men bowed their heads in respect, some of them sighing. Then, with the utmost gentleness, he took her gloved hand in his and looked deeply into her eyes. "Perhaps 'twould be better if we went inside for me to deliver the unhappy news." The deception was about to begin.

  5

  "Well, what do you think?" Rowena murmured to Hildegarde as they accompanied the earl to the keep.

  "I think they are a strange lot, Highness," the woman whispered. "That little troll of a man curtsied to you."

  Rowena grinned. "Perhaps 'tis a Highland custom."

  Hildegarde stared at Douglas's darkly sculptured face, shaking her head. "A pirate is a pirate," she whispered. "Do not forget that."

  Rowena didn't intend to. In fact, she was hoping against hope that he was a pirate, and that ruthlessness was the cornerstone of his character. She stole a glance at him from the edge of her eye. Tall, broad-shouldered frame, starkly arrogant profile, he did indeed appear to be the proverbial black sheep of the family. His brooding eyes held little of Matthew's warmth and whimsy. His hard chiseled mouth suggested forbidden pleasures and a restrained sensuality.

  Both of which fascinated Rowena to no end.

  She glanced down at his big hand, clasping hers in a masterful hold. His grasp was confident, possessive, making her feel strangely feminine and fragile. Rowena had never felt feminine in her life. Gangly, awkward, stronger than the sons of the palace guards she played with. Rare was the man who did not make her conscious of her height.

  Annoyed, she realized she rather liked the feeling.

  The Highland plaid of raw wool the earl wore surprised her. Yet it did suit his dark rugged looks and made no secret of his strength. Rowena's father would probably approve of such a costume, respecting tradition. But in her mind she'd pictured the pirate in tight leather breeches and billowing shirt, cutlass in hand, swinging from a yardarm to snatch her from the jaws of danger, bellowing out swear words in one breath, declarations of undying love in another.

  She would be waiting for him in his cabin while he went off doing whatever it was pirates did. Possibly he would tie her with silken bands to his bedposts—Good Lord! Rowena thought, staring ahead with a grin. What imp of Satan sneaked these naughty images into her brain?

  She suppressed a wry smile at her silliness.

  There was an awkward moment as they reached the steep outer stairs to the keep.

  The earl seemed to hesitate. For an intensely pleasurable instant Rowena fancied he was tempted to carry her up the narrow steps in his muscular arms. Which of course was more sheer fantasy on her part.

  "After you, Your Highness," he said.

  Rowena sighed. The climb proved a trifle difficult due to the voluminous bulk of her velvet skirt, silk underskirts, and quilted petticoats. Still, she was glad she had changed from her rumpled garments in the cave.

  She hoped her tiara was still on straight.

  The earl called out only once. The black oak doors to the keep swung open as if by magic to admit them. Perfect, she thought. He was born to command whether in a castle or on a pirate ship.

  She had to convince him to help her. After she convinced herself he was entirely trustworthy, of course.

  His low melodious voice sent a shiver down her neck. "My castle, as humble as it is, is at your disposal."

  They climbed another flight of stairs and paused in a narrow torchlit passageway of the keep. The rough stone walls smelled of moisture und spilled wax. The earl fit the dark atmosphere, master of his surroundings, his shadow filling the small space. He turned toward her. His broad chest pressed against her forearm. Rowena's breath caught in her throat. Hildegarde and the others were still lumbering up the stairs behind them.

  He withdrew his hand.

  Rowena looked up slowly into his face, the black eyes, the rough-hewn features. She noticed the gold earring that glittered in his left ear. All the beaux at court wore earrings now. It could mean he claimed ties to his illicit past, or it could simply mean he followed current fashion.

  Frederic would soon be gone, hunting for warriors in the Highlands to take back to Hartzburg. She and Hildegarde would remain alone in this castle. Their wits, sharp as they were, would be their only weapon for the next fortnight.

  Against what? Was the Dragon a danger to her? Or was the minister's information false?

  "Well," Douglas said, and then he waited, leaving her to imagine a wealth of meaning in the single word.

  Her heart gave an erratic flutter. Her whalebone corset threatened to squeeze the air from her ribcage. She seemed to shrink in the silence. He seemed to grow. Well, he'd said, as if to add, "You are at my mercy now…"

  Rowena had been a dutiful daughter all of her life. She had done whatever her papa had wanted.

  And now, to save him, she was about to embark on a mission so scandalous it would have sent the poor man to his grave.

  Douglas stayed at the princess's side like a shadow, determined to ward off any trouble before it started. His men kept staring at her in awe. They stared at Hildegarde too, but for entirely different reasons. They were probably afraid she was going to hurt them.

  Besides, he liked standing beside the princess. He was amused at how obediently she followed him while the look in her eyes hinted of a woman who had a definite mind of her own. He felt a rare urge to protect her. Yet in truth it was him she most needed to be protected from.

  "You must be tired after your journey," he said politely. "Perhaps after a glass of warm milk and evening prayers, my servants can show you to your chambers."

  "Milk and evening prayers?" Rowena repeated as if she hadn't heard him correctly.

  Douglas frowned. He was sure his suggestion was what Mrs. MacVittie had advised him would be proper, propriety being his weak point. Did
the princess look disappointed? Should he have planned a poetry recital or village tribute in her honor? Would Matthew have greeted her with pomp and ceremony?

  He hid a wry grin. Hell, if the woman wanted entertainment she should have been here four hours ago when Willie dropped his false teeth down the garderobe chutes. And had to retrieve them.

  He cleared his throat. "What I meant," he said suavely, "is that you will no doubt need both material and spiritual replenishment after I deliver the news about Sir Matthew."

  Rowena absorbed this in silence. Then, "News?" she said at last, her voice troubled.

  He drew a breath through his nostrils. The suspense, the uncertainty of success or failure, strangely appealed to him. He inclined his dark head. "My poor brother has met with an unfortunate accident—"

  "An accident?" She paused. Douglas watched her in concern. "Not Matthew," she said. "Oh, no."

  "He took a fall in Sweden and broke his leg," he said in a tragic undertone.

  "He was rescuing his commander's horse from a ravine," Gemma added from the background.

  Douglas shot his sister a look. He saw no need to be enhancing Matthew's reputation of epic heroism. He returned his gaze to Rowena, wondering if she might faint. She seemed quite steady on her feet so he continued in the same remorseful tone. "My brother sends his deepest regrets that he cannot meet with you."

  Rowena bit her lip. Douglas stared, distracted, by the ripe contours of her mouth. A mouth made for lingering kisses and shared pleasures.

  Now the lie.

  "Matthew has asked me to take his place and offer my services."

  Rowena's silence gave him no clue to the precise meaning of her rendezvous with Matthew. Douglas burned with curiosity to know the depth of her involvement with his brother.