Douglas waited on the dais for the princess to join him again the next day for breakfast. It was Sunday—blackcurrant-jelly day. He had bathed in cold water and scrubbed himself with birch-bud soap. He had changed from his hunting clothes into a clean shirt and plaid, his long black hair secured in a black ribbon. Yet his mind was not on social niceties.
'Twas on murder. Specifically, 'twas on finding Neacail of Glengalda and his men and bringing them to justice.
He was in a dark mood. He hated it when matters did not go his way.
Pirating had been play. Navigating the waters of polite behavior was a pain in the arse. Simply put, courting a princess was downright dangerous. He liked her, and he was just learning that 'twas not pleasant to deceive someone you liked. Nor was this masquerade easy to maintain.
Moreover, despite his efforts to remain detached, he liked the trusting Highlanders of Dunmoral too—his village, if you could believe it.
He would honor his vow to end Neacail's reign of violence and intimidation. Call him a harsh disciplinarian, a cutthroat, a mercenary, but no one hurt what was his.
Douglas reserved that right.
Several hours ago, acting on a hint that Henry MacAult had given him at the loch, he had ridden up into the wooded hills to hunt down Neacail but found no trace of him.
Fury and frustration gnawed at his vitals. He sensed that the outlaws were watching him in secret while he searched for them; a small army could have easily hidden in any of the caves or crag crevices of the outlying moor. Or perhaps
Neacail was licking his wounds; it seemed too much to hope for that he had not survived that single shot.
"I am going to stop them," he said, as if voicing the vow aloud gave it power.
Still, he could hardly keep cantering out for these rousing manhunts, then trot back as fresh as a rosebud for a respectable meal with Her Royal Highness.
Respectable.
He glanced up in slow-dawning horror at the dozen fat tallow candles protruding from the pine chandelier above the dais table. Candles that his men, in a moment of boredom, had carved into a circle of naked frolicking women.
"Oh, Lord," he said, vaulting up out of his enormous chair.
Gemma, engrossed in her book of French court life, looked up with a puzzled frown to see Douglas dancing around in the center of the table. "What in the world are you doing?"
"The princess! The naked candles. Help!"
'Twas too late. While Douglas had been quick enough to stuff the offensive candles in his pockets, he hadn't managed to climb off the table before Rowena and her governess approached the dais.
He stared down at Rowena with an embarrassed smile. She wore a gown of sky-blue silk with an embroidered silver girdle. Her golden-brown hair flowed loose over her shoulders. She looked so sweet and graceful that Douglas's mind froze in its tracks.
How could he hoodwink this woman?
The contours of her mouth curved with a naive sensuality that set his nerves on fire as she smiled back at him. He fought the surprising tender impulse to reach down to touch her face, to sift his hands through her hair, to breathe her womanly scent.
He also fought the more urgent need to take her to his bed and bolt the door while he taught her in graphic terms what it meant for a woman to belong to a man.
This, this grandiose scheme of seduction, took shape in his mind while he stood before her smiling like a clodpate on the very table she was expected to eat upon, wax figures of wanton women bulging in his pocket. "I imagine you're wondering why I'm standing here like this," he said.
Rowena's mouth twitched at the comers. "I'm sure there is a reasonable explanation."
"There is." He glanced at his sister. "Isn't there, Gemma?"
" 'Twas a mouse," Gemma said quickly. "It ran across Douglas's foot. He's been terrified of them since… since he was locked up in a cellar overnight by accident when he was three."
"A mouse?" Rowena looked startled. Not, Douglas assumed disgustedly, because she was afraid of rodents herself but because one didn't expect a man of his stature to behave like such a faint-headed fop.
He jumped down to the floor. "Thank you, Gemma," he said in a clipped tone.
"You're welcome." The girl hardly spared him a glance, oblivious to his annoyance. She just gazed in awe at Rowena. "Shall I see about breakfast then?"
"What about this mouse?" Hildegarde asked, her gruff voice jolting Douglas out of his dangerous mood.
"I chased it away," Gemma said. "Douglas was too scared to do it."
Rowena arched her brow, her gaze lifting to the still swaying chandelier. She wished to be alone with Douglas, away from this castle and his retainers, in an atmosphere where she might probe deeper into his character. More and more she believed that his behavior was a pose, but whether he meant to please her or deceive her, she did not know.
She had been in his company only four days, 'twas true. Hardly long enough for him to prove himself the ruthless leader of legend. Perhaps he feared the Crown would punish him if he reverted to his past behavior. Still, she had to penetrate his guard quickly. Once Frederic returned, 'twould be impossible.
"I will eat later, thank you," she said. "Right now I'd love nothing more than a ride across the moor. Is it possible, my lord? I have hardly moved a muscle since I arrived. You could show me your holdings."
Her simple request sent a chill of apprehension down Douglas's spine. Rowena, riding alone on the moor, a rare jewel to tempt the raiders who had no regard for beauty or human life.
He shook his head. "I don't think so."
"Highness." Hildegarde sent Douglas a beseeching look. " 'Tis not wise to let her leave this castle. She must be protected."
"You could accompany me, my lord," Rowena said with a beguiling smile.
That tempted him. To ride alone with her in the wind, to watch the furtive passage of deer through the woods. And, if the moment came, to woo her with a few well-chosen words, a kiss. Strangely, winning her fortune was the farthest thing from his mind. She was a treasure unto herself.
But he could not court the woman and pay heed to his surroundings. He hated to admit to her that he'd allowed a handful of savage men to intimidate an entire village. He did not wish to appear even weaker than this absurd masquerade made him act. Instead of strolling in the garden, he should be riding down an outlaw.
"There are raiders in the area," he said in an apologetic voice.
"My brother has always preferred reading a good book to any outdoor activity," Gemma said ruefully. "He had a delicate constitution as a child. Mama fretted herself into a state every time he had a cough."
Rowena stared up at Douglas in wonder. "Indeed."
"We almost lost him several times," Gemma went on, ignoring the killing gleam in her brother's eye. "A rheumy nose would lay him at death's door."
Douglas forced a smile. "Pray do not bore our guest with the details of my invalid youth, Gemma. You exaggerate."
"I'm not bored," Rowena said hastily. "I find your past a fascinating subject. Perhaps a canter across the moor would improve your… constitution."
Douglas looked down at her. Secrets and deception hung between them like a shimmering veil of mist that grew more dense with every second.
He could still put his hand through the mist, shatter the illusion. 'Twas not too late.
He could confess, come clean, admit he was an impostor, that he had committed acts bordering on barbaric. But then the mischief in her eyes would sharpen into mistrust. She would flee in panic.
He would lose her.
"I had planned another activity for the afternoon," he said evenly.
"Such as, my lord?"
Her gaze met his.
"I thought we might"—he took a deep breath— "read Shakespeare to each other in front of the fire." He struck a dramatic pose. " 'O flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified!' "
"Fishified?" Rowena said, a frown wrinkling her forehead.
Hildegarde sighed in relief. "An exc
ellent suggestion, my lord."
"I am beside myself with anticipation," Rowena said.
Douglas inclined his head. "I think only of your welfare."
"I'm sure you do," Rowena retorted. "However, if I may not ride, then I insist on taking a walk around the castle gardens. Gardening is a secret passion of mine, and I understand a green thumb runs in your family."
"The gardens." Douglas glanced to Gemma for help. He knew there had to be a garden somewhere in the castle. He'd never bothered to look. The former earl had cultivated a hothouse, but Douglas didn't have a clue what he'd grown.
"I suppose we could manage a brief stroll," Douglas said cautiously, his mind already on the search he and Aidan would make afterward.
"If it does not fatigue you," Rowena said wryly.
"The garden is in a terrible state," Gemma said.
Rowena squared her shoulders. "I will have my walk, or go stark raving mad. And that is a royal command."
Douglas walked Gemma back against the table, his mask of docility slipping to reveal the devilish anger beneath. The princess sailed from the room with Hildegarde in tow to fetch her cloak.
"Why the hell did you have to tell her I'm afraid of mice?"
Gemma edged around a chair. "What was I supposed to tell her?"
"Couldn't you have said I was replacing the candles that had burned out in the chandelier?"
"Couldn't you?" Gemma retorted.
He wheeled to look away. His temper was not improved by the reminder that Rowena had rendered him incapable of straight thinking.
"The princess wants to walk in the garden," he said dourly.
Gemma grinned. "She has given you a royal command."
He waved her away. "Run ahead, lass. Make sure the men haven't filled the fountains with rum or littered the pathways with dead bodies and empty tankards. We must give her a nice garden."
Gemma sighed loudly. "I expect to be repaid for all this, Douglas. And by the way, you still have all those naked candles in your pocket. If the princess keeps addling your wits, you'll probably pull one out and pass it to her instead of a handkerchief."
Common sense told Rowena that one could not rouse a retired dragon without the risk of starting a fire. Intuition also warned her she was definitely courting danger.
Yet in what guise she could not decide. The Dragon of Darien was undoubtedly a dangerous man.
The Earl of Dunmoral, who appeared to be frightened of mice, preferring Shakespeare to physical exercise, was not.
Was the dragon of her dreams all smoke and no fire? Had the stories exaggerated his exploits?
"Delicate constitution," she said to herself. "If there is a delicate bone in that man's body, then I am the Dey of Algiers."
Hildegarde snorted. "Appearances lie. To look at you, one would not guess you are as headstrong as a donkey and persistent as a ferret."
Rowena smudged a dab of rouge across her lips. "He didn't notice I wore my hair loose. Or the embroidered silver girdle that even my boar-mannered brothers said looks well on me. There. Is that red enough?"
"Your mouth is a beacon in a storm, Highness."
Well, let's just hope his lordship decides to bring his ship to port, Rowena thought.
But she said, "The man expects me to believe he is afraid of mice. Why does he lie to me?"
"Would you admit you were an infamous barbarian if you had been offered a second chance at life, Highness?"
"I hardly know," Rowena said. "I have never been an infamous barbarian before. I think I might enjoy it, though."
"Perhaps 'twas a condition of his receiving the earldom, that he assume his new identity in both thought and deed," Hildegarde said speculatively.
"Then how do I bring out the beast in the man?" Rowena wondered aloud. "How can I trust him?"
"You cannot." Hildegarde arranged the sable- lined cloak around Rowena's shoulders as if it were a suit of armor. "Wait. We forgot to pin this on your bosom. You can trust no one, Highness. No one."
Rowena stared at the crudely twisted cross of sticks in the woman's hand. "You want me to wear a brooch of dead branches?"
"Rowan twigs," Hildegarde said. "A Scottish charm to protect you from danger."
Rowena vented a sigh. Resigned, she allowed the woman to fasten the strange symbol to the underside of her bodice. Arguing with Hildegarde never proved wise.
Yet it seemed pointless to wear a charm against danger when Rowena was working so hard to attract it.
"Shall I confront him outright?" she asked Hildegarde.
"Every man deserves a chance to reform," was the response. "If you confess to knowing his past, which he obviously wants to keep secret, you will damage his pride. Worse, you will find yourself at the mercy of a man who has nothing left to lose. Perhaps 'tis only the illusion of decency that prevents him from hurting you."
"Then you advise me to continue playing along with this masquerade?" Rowena said.
"Until Frederic returns, yes. You must pretend he is the earl's genuine son."
"I have watched him with his sister and his men," Rowena said. "I have seen him show anger, affection, and authority. But 'tis like watching him through the castle's portcullis. I catch glimpses of the man, but I cannot sneak past his guard to see who he truly is."
"Which is probably a good thing," Hildegarde stated. "He who digs enough dirt will eventually come face-to-face with the Devil."
"I am drawn to the man behind the barrier," she admitted softly.
"Highness! Do not say such a thing. You have no experience with men."
"And I am never likely to gain it," Rowena said wryly.
13
Nothing much grew within the sheltered walls of the castle garden at this time of year but for the evergreens, a few clusters of rosemary and thyme, some thistles, a forlorn Michaelmas daisy or two.
Rowena gazed at the neglected flora of the former earl's garden in open delight.
Douglas studied her with nonchalant amusement underlaid with a primal attraction that had begun to plague him like a physical ache.
Afraid of saying the wrong thing, he said little.
She did not seem to mind. She twirled around a wheelbarrow to disappear down an overgrown path. "I never knew you had a plesaunce, my lord," she shouted over her shoulder.
Neither did Douglas. In fact, he hadn't the vaguest idea what a plesaunce was. It sounded like some sort of edible fowl.
"Shall we go in the maze or the rose arbor next?" Rowena bellowed happily.
"The rose arbor."
A safer choice. Douglas didn't trust himself alone with her in the shadowy tunnels of privet that the previous earl had cultivated. One inadvertent brush of her hand on his back, an accidental bump against each other, and he would lose the advantage, take advantage, proving himself to be unworthy of her.
Her mouth curved in a enchanting smile as she beckoned him. He felt himself moving toward her, drawn to the innocence he could destroy, uncertain suddenly of what he wanted from her. And she of him. An hour from now he hoped to be hunting down a deadly enemy. How could he plot vengeance in her presence?
"How very intriguing." Steps ahead of him, she stopped in front of a warped trellis with dying branches that produced a string of red flowers. "Don't tell me that's a Rosa cinamomea simplex at this time of year."
"All right," Douglas said. "I won't."
"What floribunda," Rowena said with enthusiasm. "What—"
"—in God's name is a rosy cinnamon complex?" Douglas asked himself, strolling up behind her for a look at this natural wonder.
His dark eyes narrowed in suspicion.
The flowers displayed on the trellis in such artful profusion were not to be found in any botanical encyclopedia. In fact, they looked suspiciously like the gaudy silk rosettes that had adorned the tiered petticoats Gemma had begged for in Naim.
"Is it?" Rowena asked.
Douglas turned, surreptitiously scouring the garden for sign of his crack-brained little sister. "Is i
t what?"
"A Rosa cinamomea simplex?"
"No." Douglas scowled at the flamboyant bush. " 'Tis a petticoatalis Gemma idiotica."
"A—" Rowena stepped closer to the trellis. She let out an alarmingly loud whoop of laughter. "That is such a good joke," she said. "I was well-deceived."
Douglas drifted away from her, half paying attention. He'd just caught a glimpse of Gemma sneaking through the maze. She, who'd thought to trick the princess by pinning pieces of her petticoats to a trellis.
"I don't suppose you ever have to prune them," Rowena said, still chuckling.
"What?"
"Do you prune them?"
"Prunes don't do well in the Highlands," Douglas answered distractedly.
Rowena frowned. "What?"
He made a menacing motion at the maze. Rowena glanced around unexpectedly, catching him just as he shook his fist in Gemma's direction.
"What on earth are you doing, my lord?" Rowena asked.
He uncurled his fingers and swatted the air in front of his face. "Midges. You can snatch them by the handful. Pesky things. Did you say you liked prunes?"
"I think you are a dreadful tease," she said in a low voice.
"A tease? Who… me?"
"I am a sister myself," Rowena said. "I do have brothers of my own."
Douglas ran his hand through his hair. "I daresay you don't embarrass them by leaving bits of your personal undergarments around the garden."
"I daresay I've done worse." Rowena's smile was disarmingly wicked. "They claim I ruin their lives."
"You?" His gaze dropped to her mouth, lingering on the plum-red underlip. How could she ruin anyone's life? This woman was made for loving and causing laughter. His body tightened at the temptation. His heart ached with a desperate need he dared not acknowledge like a stone overturned to the sun.
"You're staring at me, my lord," she said.
He took a step toward her. "You're staring at me too."
"You were staring at my mouth," she said in an undertone.
Was this an invitation, or another test of character? The princess played with fire. She was a maiden-warrior throwing stones into the sleeping dragon's lair. If she persisted, she would find herself facing a fully-roused monster.
Delight Page 9
