Delight

by Jillian Hunter

  Rowena sat in bed braiding her hair while Hildegarde examined the room for spy-holes and secret passages. "He isn't quite what I expected."

  "Frederic tried to warn you." Hildegarde tested the bolt of the heavy door, tsking in dissatisfaction. "I should not have allowed you to dismiss the old fool. Sour he may be, but I do not doubt he would die to protect you."

  Rowena grinned. "Protect me from what? A pirate who spends all his spare time in prayer? Perhaps I should go to the chapel and pray the Dragon hasn't retired if indeed that minister's rumor is true."

  "A minister would not lie," Hildegarde said.

  "But a minister could be mistaken."

  Hildegarde shook her head as she lumbered down on her knees to peer under the bed. "One can hardly ask the Almighty to make a man sinful."

  " 'Tis useless if he's reformed," Rowena said thoughtfully. "Hartzburg needs a man wicked enough to conquer my adversaries." She scowled, setting down her silver-chased brush. "How many spies do you think are hiding under my mattress, Hildegarde?"

  "No spies." The governess snatched a poker from the stone hearth and skewered a dustball. "Look at the size of this. And Sir Matthew is not wicked, although you were willing enough to ask his help until this pirate lore filled your head."

  "True," Rowena murmured. "Compared to the Dragon of Darien, Sir Matthew is entirely tame."

  The older woman took the dustball to the window. "Sir Matthew would make a fine mate."

  Rowena's delicate fingers tightened on her heavy coil of hair. "Better than the Duke of Vandever, or my cousin, I'd agree. But Matthew is too much a friend, I fear. If it weren't for his bravery on the battlefield—"

  She fell silent in frustration. Hildegarde, as usual, was not listening. Something—some imagined act of intrigue below in the bailey had caught her attention.

  " 'Tis the quiet man named Aidan—and the earl," Hildegarde whispered. "Where could they ride this late at night?"

  Rowena rose, sighing in resignation. Her reflection in the yellowed pier glass frowned back at her. She would never be the sort of woman who, on physical appearance alone, would attract a man of legend.

  Hildegarde turned from the window. "We cannot forget what our host has done."

  "His mother—Matthew's mother too—was rumored to be a beauty." Rowena edged from the pier glass with a wistful smile. "She was a lady's maid in a great house and caught the eye of a nobleman."

  "Matthew told you this?" Hildegarde said in disapproval.

  Rowena nodded. "She bore the nobleman's son nine months later, but by then the man was dead, killed in battle. Sir Matthew was the child of their union. She was put out into the streets in shame with her bastard."

  "There is nothing of disgrace about Sir Matthew," Hildegarde said.

  "Only because the nobleman's family came to the slums to claim Matthew when he was barely one. He was the only living link to their dead son, and they wanted to acknowledge him."

  "But not the mother?" Hildegarde guessed.

  "She was a disgraced woman," Rowena said softly. "Matthew's grandparents never allowed him to see her again. He did not know of her existence until his mother was dying."

  "Matthew is a good man," Hildegarde insisted. "Clearly he trusts you to have revealed what he would not want the world to know. Still, he did not warn you his brother was a pirate."

  "If he is a pirate," Rowena said. "Or was one in the past."

  "How will you handle this matter, Highness?"

  "I am not sure," Rowena said. "For now I shall simply play along with the man, accepting that he is what he appears to be."

  "Matthew was never a pirate," Hildegarde said to herself.

  Rowena nodded tiredly and returned to the bed, alarmed that when she closed her eyes, it was not Matthew's clean features that came to mind. The earl's dark face dominated her thoughts, his smile mocking… and seductive.

  "Bolt the door, Highness," Hildegarde whispered from the outer corridor. "I suspect there is a secret passage leading from the fireplace, but it seems to have been sealed. I will not leave until I am sure you are safe for the night."

  "Safe from what, you silly old thing?" Rowena grumbled as she trudged dutifully to the door.

  She could have told Hildegarde not to waste her time in worries; if Rowena had her way, duty would soon lead her in a direction far more dangerous than anything either of them had ever imagined.

  A light rain fell into the night. Their search of the outlying moor had been uneventful. Douglas motioned Aidan back onto the castle road. Then, on instinct, he stopped.

  "One more ride around the glen."

  Aidan shrugged. "Why not?"

  The glen was undisturbed. The stone huts sat in darkness; a dog or two growled at their passage. Then, a half-mile or so beyond the village, Douglas noticed an isolated hut with peat smoke drifting up into the drizzle.

  A woman's voice, softly pleading, broke the silence. Two horses were hobbled in the encroaching woods.

  Douglas dismounted. "Search those trees, Aidan."

  He walked to the hut. The door stood ajar. He made no sound as he entered, his eyes adjusting to the smoky glow of a dying peat fire.

  A woman huddled against the wall, begging for mercy as a man in a frayed plaid buried his face in her breasts.

  "You've had a busy day, lad," Douglas said.

  The man whirled, his eyes wild in his bearded face. "Who the hell are ye?"

  Douglas ignored the question. He heard a jar shatter in the adjoining room.

  "I'm the Earl of Dunmoral," he said, prodding, the tip of his sword into the man's belly. "And you, who has the manners of a jackal?"

  "He's Liam of Glengalda," the woman burst out, taking cover behind Douglas's back. "He raped a f-friend of mine today, and beat wee Davie senseless. His brother is—"

  The man drew an ax from his belt before she could finish. He died instantly, staring down at the sword that impaled him.

  "The other," the woman whispered, tugging on Douglas's free arm. "He was stealing my food, and threatened to kill my bairns."

  Douglas rushed behind the leather partition. A man in a hooded plaid had just climbed out the window, a sack of oats clutched to his chest.

  Douglas hurried after him, throwing down his sword to climb through the narrow window. A light flared in the loft above. He assumed someone had lit a candle. A child whimpered. But he had no time to investigate.

  He ran outside into the rain. At the edge of the woods he flung himself down on the man who'd fled the hut.

  "Have mercy on me," the man said with a sob. "I didna want to join the outlaws. They'll kill me if I dinna steal food for them."

  Douglas could not see the features obscured by the hood. "Where is Neacail of Glengalda?" he demanded.

  "The coward hides and sends puir folks like me to do his bidding."

  Douglas leaped to his feet. "Come with me," he said in a harsh voice.

  "Aye," the man said docilely, and as he rose, the hood fell back, revealing a grinning face with battered features.

  "My bairns," the woman cried from inside the hut. "He's set fire to the loft!"

  "Jesus," Douglas heard Aidan shout, "Woman, get outside! The roof is falling. Help me, Douglas!"

  The man took a step from Douglas.

  "Ye canna put out the fire and hold me prisoner," he said shrewdly.

  Douglas stared at the man's face. "Who are you?"

  "Who do ye think?"

  "Neacail," Douglas said, reaching for his belt. "You mad bastard."

  Aidan stumbled from the hut with a child in his arms. The sight distracted Douglas, and Neacail used the advantage. He turned to flee into the woods.

  Douglas broke into a run after him, wrenching his pistol from his belt. He squeezed the trigger. The pistol misfired; rain had dampened the powder.

  "God," he roared, clenching his jaw in fury.

  Neacail looked back to laugh. Douglas pulled the other flintlock out to fire again. This time he hit the outl
aw in the arm.

  Neacail stiffened but did not stop. Douglas could only hope to find him later in the woods, dead or wounded.

  "Douglas," Aidan shouted. "Help me for the love of Christ!"

  There was no choice in the matter. Douglas could not give chase. He would not let those children bum to death.

  9

  Scotland was a world away from the Spanish Main.

  Douglas stood several hours later in the predawn darkness on the pebble-strewn shore of Loch Dunmoral. Thunder resonated overhead in the heavens like an echo of divine laughter. Rain struck his rough-hewn face.

  The pirates had played a joke on their captain.

  Actually, it was meant to be a tribute.

  They had taken the castle rowboat in the loch and lovingly converted it into a full-rigged miniature version of Douglas's last sloop, the Delight, which had been wrecked on the coast of Cuba during his final raid.

  Phelps, the ship's carpenter, had even mounted a topsail and prow carved into the shape of a black fire-breathing dragon. The reflections of tiny brass cannons gleamed upon the darkened water.

  Douglas enjoyed approximately fifteen seconds of nostalgia before panic set in. "And how the hell am I supposed to explain this to the princess?" he shouted. "What will the gentle folk of the glen think to see a pirate ship sailing the peaceful waters of their loch?"

  The loch, in fact, was anything but peaceful, rain slashing the surface. A rising wind churned the water into powerful waves that pounded the shore. It took an hour for Douglas and Dainty to row to the small tidal island where they hoped to catch Neacail's men taking shelter from the storm.

  They found only a few stones, a bird carcass, a merlin's nest.

  "We will try again tomorrow," he said grimly as he brought the outrageous rowboat back to shore. "Perhaps they have gone out raiding. 'Tis almost light now. The last thing we need is for the princess to see her host sailing a pirate ship under her window."

  The princess slept all day in her tower, guarded by her gargoyle of a governess. She slept through the thunder and lightning. She slept in innocence, oblivious to the black atmosphere that surrounded her.

  Douglas paced, cursing the storm that prevented him from searching the outlying heath and hills. Rain gushed from the cannon spouts, muddying roads and overflowing rivers. He did not know this wild land he lorded over, but he would learn.

  He went to bed that night without seeing Rowena once. Yet he felt an odd contentment, knowing she lay protected within the tower, safe from the elements that battered the stone castle.

  Safe in the lair of a dragon and not the white knight with a broken leg she undoubtedly dreamed of and deserved.

  Neacail of Glengalda stood by the fireplace of the tower bedchamber. He had remembered the hidden passage inside the castle he hoped to claim.

  He watched the woman who slept in the bed only steps from where he stood.

  A few hours earlier he had been watching the tall man, his enemy, brave the storm to pace the parapets. The man had stolen what belonged to Neacail, he'd tried to kill him, and he would pay. The pain of the pistol wound in Neacail's arm strengthened his hatred.

  Neacail was the rightful heir to Dunmoral, or so his whoring mother had confessed to the priest on her deathbed last summer. She'd sworn that the former earl's nephew was Neacail's father, and any fool could see a family resemblance.

  There were no papers to prove this. The former earl and his nephew were both dead. Yet Neacail had always known he had been born to privilege.

  Six months ago Neacail had carried his blood claim to the Scottish Court of Session. The judge had laughed in his face.

  "Perhaps the papers proving your nobility were burned at your birth," the judge had suggested with a sneer.

  A week later Neacail had burned the judge's country house to the ground, not caring that the magistrate's bedridden sister was trapped within.

  He'd watched her beat at the window like a caged bird. There was pleasure in that, and a lesson to those who laughed at him.

  He wiped his nose on the sleeve of his torn saffron shirt. His deep-set eyes smoldered with thwarted ambition. His arm ached, but that weakness would not stop him.

  He would sleep tonight in a cave like an animal. He would awaken amidst men who smelled like swine when he should be living in this castle like a lord.

  Neacail had worked as a servant once in the castle scullery years ago. He had learned a few of the secret passages that others had forgotten, thinking such knowledge might prove useful.

  He was not a fool though. He had not entered the castle to be caught. He had a grander plan.

  The people of Dunmoral would pay first for branding him a fugitive.

  Then the stranger who had stolen Neacail's birthright and those he hoped to protect would suffer.

  He gazed across the room at the woman who slept so peacefully in her bed. The storm did not seem to disturb her. Neacail wondered whether she would waken if he touched her.

  He touched the lace-edged chemise that lay across her bed instead. "Pretty," he said quietly. "And clean." He took one of the silken stockings that had fallen to the floor. He would use it to bandage the arm.

  She stirred, flinging a hand across her face. Neacail had never seen such a woman in his life. Did she belong to his enemy? Where had she come from?

  He backed away from the bed into the passageway beside the fireplace. The next time he visited he would leave a gift.

  She would be so surprised.

  10

  The next morning, Mrs. MacVittie brought Gemma a burgundy leather book with gilt-edged pages. "I found this last night and thought of your brother. It contains the memoirs of a Scottish viscount who lived at the court of Louis the Fourteenth."

  Gemma glanced around the empty courtyard. "Thank you so much, Mrs. MacVittie. Douglas needs all the help he can get. Will this book explain how we should behave in the princess's presence?"

  "It should help, although some of the confessions are rather risqué. I thought the descriptions of a royal feast might be enlightening."

  "A feast?"

  "Well, you must have a banquet to welcome the princess. 'Tis expected, even in the most remote regions such as ours. Royalty has been honored with feasts since ancient times."

  Gemma bit her lip. "I see."

  "You do have a cook in the castle, don't you?"

  Gemma hesitated. The only cook to speak of was Frances, who'd owned a thriving brothel on a pirate stronghold. What Frances lacked in culinary skills she made up for in her determination to better herself.

  "We have a cook," Gemma said firmly.

  Mrs. MacVittie nodded. "Good. There's a menu in the book she might use as a reference. Now I don't mean to be unkind, my dear, but you and your brother's men ought to peruse these pages yourselves to pick up the wee hint or two on deportment. You'd not want to offend your royal visitor."

  Gemma swallowed, hugging the book to her heart. She would do anything to please her brother. "Oh, no, ma'am. We wouldn't."

  Hildegarde was standing outside Douglas's door when he opened it the next morning. He stifled a swear word at the sight of her.

  "Good morning to you, madam," he said.

  "I am on my way to the kitchen to deliver the royal breakfast requests to the cook."

  "I shall do that, madam," he responded, thinking that Hildegarde and Frances might be too alike for their own good.

  "If 'tis not too much trouble."

  " 'Tis no trouble at all," he said.

  She nodded. "On Sundays, we will take toast and blackcurrant jelly. Coffee and chocolate should be served at every meal."

  "I understand."

  "On Mondays we will have calf's-foot jelly and toast. Tuesday is for toast and jelly a la Russe. On Wednesdays you have a choice of serving either ox-foot or orange jelly. We enjoy elderflower jelly on Thursdays."

  Douglas sighed. "With toast?"

  "With toast."

  "Friday?" Douglas said.


  "Friday is for quince jelly."

  "Saturdays, madam?"

  "On Saturdays we have an assortment of the above." She smiled at him. "Do you know what day it is?"

  " 'Tis Saturday," he said heavily.

  "It might also be a good idea to display the princess's personal pennant in the great hall," Hildegarde concluded. "I hope this will not put you to any trouble."

  "Anything to please the princess," he said grimly.

  A few minutes later the princess's personal advisor cornered Douglas in the kitchen. The man was preparing to leave the castle, clearly eager to be gone so he could finish his military business and be back at Rowena's side.

  Douglas listened to the man tell him in no uncertain terms that the princess must be protected. He made it clear he did not approve of leaving Rowena and Hildegarde alone.

  "I will not let them take one step beyond the drawbridge unescorted," Douglas promised.

  Frederic left without another word.

  " 'Twill not be easy to entertain that woman," Frances predicted.

  Douglas sighed. "Do we have a good store of jellies?"

  "Aye," Frances said in surprise. "Why?"

  "A well-fed woman is easier to entertain," he said. "Or at least 'tis so in my experience."

  Pale shafts of morning sunlight penetrated the high windows of the hall and illuminated the heraldic panels on the wall. A fire burned low in the huge hooded fireplace. Douglas felt a stab of anticipation as he watched the tall princess walk across the floor.

  Daylight flattered her classical features, playing up the purity he had begun to believe he must have imagined. It also emphasized the intelligence in her eyes.

  She looked straight at him. Astonished, he realized she was assessing him in the same forthright manner one would assess a horse at market. He wondered if he should show her his teeth and paw the floor with his right foot.

  "You slept well, Your Highness?" he asked dryly as he rose to escort her to the dais for a late breakfast.