"Yes, thank you." She sat at the elaborately laid table, studying the damask cloth and china. "And you, my lord?"
"Never better," he lied, looking over his shoulder.
He couldn't believe his luck. They were alone. Hildegarde the governess was probably sneaking a bottle of schnapps. The rest of the castle's inhabitants were obeying Douglas's strict orders to stay out of trouble.
He frowned. Pirates staying out of trouble was a contradiction in terms. What were the rascals up to?
Rowena was staring at the assortment of pots and platters on the table. She looked bemused. Douglas realized she was probably waiting for him to serve her. He thought she must be impressed that he had managed to find her favorite foods.
"Toast and jelly, Your Highness?" he asked. "We have blackcurrant, calf's and ox-foot, jelly a la Russe, elderflower, orange, and quince."
She was quiet for a moment. "Do you always eat this much toast and jelly, my lord?"
"Don't you?" he asked in surprise.
"No," she said. "I hate toast and jelly. Hildegarde likes them though."
"What about the coffee and hot chocolate?" he demanded.
Rowena grinned. "What about them?"
He grinned back, his large hand hovering over the two polished silver pots on the table. "Which would you prefer?"
"Chocolate, please." She studied the hammer-beamed ceiling with an expert's eye. "Fifteenth century?"
Douglas examined the silver pot in his hand. "I wouldn't think so. 'Tis in rare good condition if it is."
Rowena bit her lip. "I meant the castle keep, actually. The ceiling moldings."
He gave her an indulgent smile. "I knew that, Your Highness. Yes, 'tis fifteenth century." Or thirteenth or fourteenth. Damned, if he could remember Dunmoral's history. He put down the pot, suddenly realizing that danger lurked in the simplest question. He would have to take his own advice to be on guard against his invented background. A simple question about even the latrines could show him to be a liar. Or a lunatic.
"Do you live in a fifteenth-century castle in Hartzburg?" he asked cautiously.
Rowena looked suddenly distressed. Douglas wondered if he'd asked something appallingly stupid. Didn't they have castles in Hartzburg? Did they live on caves? Matthew, he was sure, would know such a thing.
"I have been exiled to the pink summer palace in the forest," she said quietly. "The castle proper is under siege by rebels."
"Besieged? By rebels?" Douglas, who didn't have a political bone in his body, was indignant at the thought. "In your homeland?"
Rowena smiled in gratitude at his genuine display of outrage. "That isn't the worst of it, my lord."
"There is more?"
"The rebels are holding Papa a virtual prisoner. He can keep them at bay for five months before he will be forced to surrender. They're threatening to behead him if their demands aren't met."
"That's—that's—"
"—treason."
"Yes, treason and intolerable." Douglas might rank with the world's greatest sinners, but even he possessed a certain sense of order. "Why hasn't someone gone in and thrashed the bast—the bad men?"
Rowena looked at him, her brow raised. "I share your feelings exactly," she said. "I have tried to roust the rebels and failed. I refuse to sacrifice any more of my loyal young subjects. Some of the boys who want to fight are barely twelve years old. All our able-bodied men are dead or wounded." She paused. "Or they have betrayed me and thrown their allegiance to the other side."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Douglas said with a frown, surprised to find he meant it.
"Papa's enemies have an army of mercenaries and seasoned soldiers," Rowena said. "I simply didn't have the talent or leadership ability to muster up enough force on my own."
"The situation needs a warrior, not a woman," Douglas said forcefully.
"I've done what I can." Rowena sipped her chocolate. "You have heard of the Peace of Westphalia?"
"Hasn't everyone?" Douglas said.
"Then you will recall that while France gained sovereign power over certain territories, Hartzburg kept her independence."
Douglas was silent. Not only could he not recall it, he didn't know what the devil the woman was talking about.
"France and the Emperor were fighting over us," Rowena added.
"Well, so would I," Douglas stated.
She frowned. "We cherish our independence, my lord."
"As indeed you should." His frown deepened. "I seem to recall hearing that you have three older brothers. Perhaps 'tis not my place to ask, but why is a helpless woman defending a castle and trying to rescue her father?"
"I do not consider myself helpless, my lord."
Douglas studied her face, hiding a smile. "Defenseless then—but only in the physical sense."
"Your question is valid," she said ruefully. "My eldest brother Prince Erich has mysteriously vanished during a hunt. Rupert is in the Mediterranean on a merchant expedition. He was unexpectedly waylaid last spring."
Chasing women, Douglas said to himself.
Rowena continued, "The youngest, Anthony, is pursing a monastic life in the French Pyrenees."
Afraid of women, Douglas thought. He resisted the urge to shake his head. The men in her family were all but useless. He would like a week to set them straight on the role a woman should play in war—none. "Do your brothers know of the rebellion?"
"I've sent numerous messages—Matthew has helped me—but if they do not return home soon, or if they get themselves killed, I shall not only have to rescue Papa alone but also produce heirs to assume the dynastic succession."
"Heirs?" Douglas took a scalding sip of coffee to cover the fact his voice had just climbed an octave.
"I have to have babies in a hurry," Rowena said frankly. "The dynastic succession must be continued without interruption or the rebels who are holding my father will use that as a case to persuade our people to turn against us."
"This is an intriguing dilemma," Douglas said. Especially the part about having babies in a hurry.
Rowena sighed. "My sister Micheline has been banished to a convent for misbehavior, so naturally she cannot get pregnant."
"Naturally," Douglas said.
"Of course, with Micheline, such a thing is entirely possible."
The thought of producing heirs with the princess did dangerous things to Douglas's imagination. For a reckless moment he considered offering to whisk her upstairs and help her fulfill her political obligations. She was the first woman he'd met who made the prospect of having babies seem even remotely enticing. Lust and tenderness rocked him as he pictured them surrounded by a sea of little pirates and princesses.
She stared past him in noble innocence, lost in thoughts of plots and waylaid princes. Or was she all that innocent? he wondered cynically. A scowl settled over his sun-burnished features.
The woman was anything but stupid. Was she putting his character to the test? Did she mean to uncover his true intentions? Few were the men someone in her position could trust. She had been betrayed. She would be understandably cautious in her personal dealings.
She was confiding in Douglas because he was Sir Matthew's brother. A pirate would jump at the chance to bed her, let alone get his hands on her fortune.
A peer of the realm, however, would exercise a little more self-control. Hell, if she guessed that only a few months ago he'd been stalking Spaniards, sweating half-naked with a knife clamped in his teeth, she'd run gasping back to her pink summer palace in horror.
Douglas would have to earn her trust. He would have to impress her with his sense of dignity and self-restraint. Of course first he would have to find some dignity and self-restraint within himself. He wasn't sure he had ever possessed such sterling qualities.
He pursed his lips, forcing his attention back to what she was saying.
"—and as stated in the marriage contract, I will retain control of the truffle business."
He leaned forward to refill her c
up. "You have trouble with business?"
"Were you listening to me?" Rowena asked.
Douglas bit back a grin. She was a spirited little princess, but he didn't mind that. "I certainly was, Your Highness. And do I have troubles of my own? Why, just last week—"
Rowena released a loud sigh. She looked at him as if he were a trifle dimwitted. "I was not talking about troubles. I was talking about truffles. T-R-U-F-F-L-E-S. Hartzburg is renowned for them. They're a great delicacy which we export all over Europe. Have you ever tasted them?"
"Certainly," Douglas lied. We ate truffles every day aboard ship right along with our wormy biscuits and salted pork. "There is nothing quite like a truffle to top off a meal, is there?"
Rowena's smile sparkled with mischief. "Apparently the rest of the world agrees. I can't stand them myself. What could be worse than a platter of black warty fungus to kill one's appetite? Papa serves them at every function."
Douglas leaned forward on his elbows, as if truffles were the most fascinating subject on earth. "Does he?"
"He used to make us hunt the horrid things in the beech woods with his trained pigs."
"How thrilling," Douglas said.
"He was good fun in those days, before my mother died," she said, her smile wistful. "He changed after he lost her. He became withdrawn and distrustful."
Douglas noticed the tension in her slender fingers as she gripped her cup. His gaze lifted to her face.
"I've spoken too much," she said. "You are a man who listens, my lord, and that can be a dangerous thing."
"Surely you know that your secrets will never leave this table?" he said quietly.
"I don't know you at all yet," she said, her smile returning. "But if Matthew insists I trust you, then you must be a trustworthy man."
A voice from the doorway doused the pleasant flames of intimacy that had begun to kindle between them.
Hildegarde clumped up to the table in her clogs, her scowl like a rainshower on a summer picnic. " 'Tisn't a good idea to burden our host with our troubles," she said with a sharp look at Rowena.
"We were discussing truffles, not troubles," Rowena said, winking at Douglas.
Hildegarde sat down beside the princess. Lines of worry wrinkled her forehead. "I know why you have troubles in this castle, my lord," she said. "I stayed up all night and discovered the evil secret."
"Secret?" Douglas raised his head, his skin prickling with apprehension. Faith, had he been found out already? "What secret?" he demanded with all the bravado he could muster.
Gemma had called an emergency council in the pleasure garden to give lessons in royal protocol. Mrs. MacVittie's book passed from hand to hand, the elaborate sketches eliciting sniggers and outbursts of alarm.
Baldwin peered nearsightedly at the pictures. "And they call pirates nasty. All these French noblemen do is eat and have orgies. My old brain is shocked."
Mrs. MacVittie, standing over him, smiled. "A valid observation, Mr. McGee. The French Court is famous for its licentious behavior."
" 'Tis lewd too," Willie exclaimed. "Gemma read that the king's own brother dresses up like a woman and dances with men."
Baldwin shook his head. "That doesna bother me as much as the part about the courtiers using the fireplaces as a privy."
"Wouldn't that put the fires out?" Willie wondered aloud.
"I do not care to discuss such things," Gemma said. "I called you here to practice protocol. Baldwin, as castle steward, do you know what your duties are regarding the princess?"
He looked uncertain. "Aye."
" 'Tis your responsibility to see to her comfort," Mrs. MacVittie said. "This is a position of some importance."
"Ye mean I'm to bring her a hot brick if her feet feel cold, or a cup of peppermint tea if she gets a little windy after supper?"
Gemma sank down on the bench, staring forlornly at the dead leaves scattering across the flagstones. " 'Tis hopeless."
Mrs. MacVittie patted her on the shoulder. "I do not think you need worry about the princess getting a little 'windy,' Mr. McGee," she said tactfully. "As to her cold feet, well, her companion can handle that personal matter. 'Tis your duty to show Her Royal Highness around the castle and make sure she always has a supply of candles to see in the dark."
"Don't curtsy to her again, or I'll gut you," Gemma added.
"There will be no need for that," Mrs. MacVittie said diplomatically. "Mr. McGee understands his part, don't you?"
"What part?" Baldwin said.
Mrs. MacVittie shook her head. Then she turned to the frail-looking woman who stood alone by the hedge. "And you, Frances," she said, "how are your preparations coming for the feast?"
"There isn't going to be a feast if I can't find any decent food." Her delicate face sour, Frances folded her arms over her chest. Her blond curls were piled loosely on her head in a beribboned topknot. "All we have in the storeroom are oats and dried peas. Hardly royal fare. I gave a supper once for a duke in the bawdyhouse. He told me he ate queer things like fish eggs and peacocks and— and oysters on the half-shell," she said excitedly. "Surely we can manage some oysters."
"Common folk eat oysters," Gemma said with a frown.
Willie threw a stone into the air. "The nearest market town is four days ride each way. The oysters would stink to heaven before you cooked them. Douglas wouldn't want us to poison the poor princess."
"The cove is only a few miles away," Mrs. MacVittie said thoughtfully. "I have never eaten a Dunmoral oyster, if such a thing exists, but I do believe the viscount mentions mollusks on a menu for the king."
" 'Tis worth a try." Gemma cast an anxious look at the keep. "They must be done with breakfast by now. I suppose we'll have to put in an appearance, or the princess will think we're ignorant peasants."
"We are," Baldwin said.
Gemma looked over at Frances. "You didn't meet her last night. Are you coming?"
Frances shook her head. Gemma suspected that while the woman was happy to work herself ragged to please Douglas, she privately believed he'd prefer her to stay out of sight on account of her past as a prostitute.
"Come and meet her, Frances," she said.
"Are you joking?" Frances straightened her apron. "I have a bloody feast to prepare. 'Tis going to take magic to turn oatmeal bannocks into a banquet."
Douglas leaned back in the ornately carved oak chair on the dais. His languid pose gave no hint he was on the verge of breaking into a cold sweat. "Secret?" He smiled as if sharing a private joke. "Don't tell me you've discovered tulip bulbs under your bed. I believe they were left there to germinate about a decade ago by the dotty old earl."
Rowena smiled. "What a peculiar way to speak of one's late father."
"Whose father?" Douglas grinned in response to her infectious smile. "And what was he late to?"
"Your father." Rowena gave him a questioning look. "The dotty old earl."
"The—ah, yes. Poor old Papa." Douglas's grin froze on his face. Naturally, not knowing his true origins, the princess would assume he'd inherited the earldom from the previous earl. Well, the odd old earl had just gained a son, and Douglas had gotten himself another father who was already closer to him than the lousy sire who'd abandoned him months before his birth.
" 'Tis a good thing to jest," Hildegarde said with an affectionate smile at Rowena. Her face hardened as she looked again at Douglas. She stabbed a beefy finger in his face. "But I tell you I know why you have troubles in your village. The loch that surrounds the castle is haunted."
"Haunted?" Douglas ignored the impulse to touch his earring for good luck. No pirate worth his salt sneered at superstition. Trust his luck to inherit a haunted castle.
Rowena sighed. "Hildegarde kept me up half the night with her imagination. She insists there was a water horse frolicking around in your loch."
Douglas stared back at her with a guileless expression. Ye Gods, was it possible? Had Hildegarde sighted Delight bobbing in the wind? "A water horse?" he said in polit
e disbelief.
"You Scots refer to them as kelpies." Hildegarde crossed herself, her plump hand resting on the amulet of elf bolts she wore for luck. "Evil creatures. They devour men and breathe brimstone. I was afraid to leave my lady alone until morning light."
Douglas affected an unconcerned chuckle.
" 'Twas pitch-black last night, ma'am. What you probably saw was an illusion of waves and water grasses."
"The creature had scales down its neck like a mane," Hildegarde said, her face dark with distress.
Douglas steepled his hands under his chin, his face betraying no sign of his anxiety. The water horse could only be that damned vixen Delight. She'd always gotten Douglas into trouble.
He wondered how quickly he could run down to the loch and hide her before anyone noticed his absence.
Who could he trust to keep Princess Rowena and her eagle-eyed governess occupied in the meantime? Dainty had not returned from patrolling the glen, a fact which, after the recent violence, caused him a moment of concern. Aidan had wandered off by himself. However, if any two men could take care of themselves, 'twas that unholy pair.
There was a rumble of voices as the doors opened to admit a small band of his retainers. Douglas narrowed his eyes, cringing inwardly as they approached the dais to pay their respects to the princess.
Or to shock the woman senseless.
Chances were that at least one of the troublemakers would make a fool of himself.
Gemma curtsied and shyly inquired if the princess had slept well. You'd never dream she'd been nursed on a pirate's knee since the tender age of three, that the first words out of her wee rosebud mouth were, "No prey, no pay, you stupid pig." Mrs. MacVittie presented the princess with a pot of heather honey tied with a tartan ribbon.
Willie bowed awkwardly. Douglas noted with relief that the man had remembered to put in his false walrus-ivory teeth.
But Douglas's very heart stopped as Baldwin approached the table, staring at Rowena in awe. Silence mounted.
Douglas cleared his throat.
Finally Baldwin bowed.
"Very well done," Douglas said in an undertone, waving the man away. "You may all go back to your posts now."
Delight Page 7
