"Trust me, Douglas," she said with a confident grin as she'd bolted up the stairs.
He moved up behind Baldwin. "What has my sister planned?"
" 'Tis a secret, sir."
"You will tell me, Baldwin, or I shall hang you by your ears from the portcullis."
"I promised I wouldna tell, sir." He glanced back up at Douglas, cringing at the merciless expression that met his gaze. "She's found ye a falcon, sir."
"A falcon?" Douglas smiled reluctantly, pleased despite himself. "She didn't? The clever girl."
"Aye." Baldwin's lips puckered as if he ached to add more.
"A genuine living falcon," Douglas mused softly. "And it has been trained?"
Baldwin sucked air in through his teeth, pretending to stare up at the tower.
Douglas's expression turned deadly. "Out with it, Baldwin. What manner of falcon has my meddlesome sister found?"
Dead. Dear God. Douglas could only shake his head and hope that the princess was nearsighted, or that Gemma's sad display of falconry would be received in the spirit it was given. The mist, drifting in thick across the tops of the castle towers, ought to help. Another deception, he thought with a sigh.
"The falcon seems to be hovering," Hildegarde murmured, leaning around Douglas to pull Rowena's mantle over her shoulders. "You must stay covered, Highness. The mist brings on illness."
Rowena shrugged the woman's hand away, her head tilted back to the tower. "I have never seen a falcon strike such a pose in midair."
"And you're never likely to again," Douglas said, glaring at the small face of his sister in the tower. "He always does that to get attention."
"She," Rowena corrected him.
"What?"
"She does that to get attention," Rowena said. "The female is called a falcon. The male is a tiercel."
"That's what I meant," Douglas said irritably, pacing a circle around her, hoping to obstruct her view with his shoulders. "She's a dreadful show-off."
"I assume you took her as an eyess."
"Of course I did." Whatever that meant.
Rowena edged forward. "Could we climb to the battlement walk for a closer look?"
"I don't think so." Douglas nudged her back. "She's breeding, Your Highness. You know how sensitive falcons are when they breed."
Rowena gave Douglas a searching look. " 'Tis a pleasant surprise to learn you share my passion. Falconry is a dying art."
He glanced up at the stuffed bird. "It certainly is."
All of a sudden Gemma appeared to lose control of the pulley. The falcon did a series of death-defying somersaults in the air. Douglas cringed.
"She's diving," Rowena said in surprise, shoving Douglas aside for a better look. "She's doing a flip—she's flying backward! Magnificent."
The skin across Douglas's broad cheekbones stretched white and taut. The damn bird wasn't diving; it was hurtling hirdie-girdie toward the princess's head. Dainty had allowed the string to unravel at an alarming rate.
Douglas broke away from the crowd in the courtyard, trying the guess where the bird would land. He hopped this way and that. Then suddenly Dainty got the string straightened out, and the falcon lifted back above the walkways, a handful of feathers floating slowly down as it spun up into a graceful spiral.
"She's flying backward again," Hildegarde said in wonder. "I did not dream such a thing was possible."
"Neither did I," Rowena said in a skeptical voice.
Hildegarde gasped. "She's losing her feathers!"
"She's molting," Douglas said quickly.
Suspicion drew Rowena's face into a scowl. "I thought you said she was breeding."
He caught a feather in his fist. "Breeding and molting. 'Tis amazing how many things those birds can do at once." He forced Rowena farther back into the bailey. "I only wish I could train my retainers half as well."
"What will his lordship do with her eggs?" Hildegarde asked Baldwin, who stood beside her observing the spectacle in guarded silence.
"I dinna know, ma'am," he said honestly. "Poach 'em, I reckon."
"Poach them?" the woman said in horror.
Douglas glared at Baldwin. "He meant to say, 'Approach them,' ma'am. I will approach them carefully so as not to crack their precious wee shells."
Rowena looked up at him, her gaze unwavering, and Douglas knew he'd been found out. He gave a low whistle through his teeth, deliberately looking the other way.
" 'Tis a rather early time of year to mate, isn't it, my lord?" she asked with an acidic smile.
"Not really," Baldwin said before Douglas could come up with a plausible answer. "We mate year-round here in the Highlands. Is it different in your country, princess?" he asked sympathetically. "Are ye only allowed to couple at certain times?"
16
Mary MacVittie came to the castle the next morning on a crusade.
A true believer in tradition, she was determined that Dunmoral should have its own princess. The presence of a princess would bring fame to this woefully forgotten hamlet.
She marched across the great hall to the dais with her infamous book of manners in hand. Her heart trembled in her breast at the task she was about to undertake.
Her pirate prince lounged in his chair with the wicked look of a man who could never truly be tamed. Why, he had his boots on the table! If Mary had brought her fan, she would have smacked him on the ear.
"You are late, madam," he said idly, his eyes half-closed.
She tried to catch her breath. He was a big man, intimidating. He was slapping a jeweled dirk across his massive thigh, and who knew what he might decide to do with it? "Your sister has been studying this," she said bravely, showing him the book. " 'Tis a treatise on social intercourse."
"Social inter—" Douglas threw Gemma a furious look, swinging his long legs to the floor. "I ought to clap you in the tower, reading this rubbish."
Mrs. MacVittie felt rather faint, daring to contradict a man of his reputation. She wondered if he might make her walk the plank, or God forbid, if he might auction her naked to his men. The thought made her head reel. "Etiquette books are quite the fashion," she said. "Manners are essential, my lord, and if I may be frank, your retainers display a remarkable ignorance of the art of civility."
"What the hell did that woman just say?" Baldwin whispered.
Willie shook his head. "I think she said her name was Frank."
"For example. Gemma," she went on, turning to the girl, "did you know 'tis impolite for a young lady to hitch up her skirts in front of a fire when the opposite sex is present?"
"Is she supposed to take them off?" Baldwin wondered aloud.
"Of course she knows that," Douglas said indignantly.
"Well." Mrs. MacVittie gave him a searching look. "Did you know, sir, that it is considered the height of rudeness to fiddle with your fire irons at a party?"
"I make it a point never to fiddle in mixed company, madam."
"Only in his cabin," Dainty said, earning a poke in the ribs from Gemma.
"Fine dining is an art unto itself," Mrs. MacVittie said. "Proper social conduct requires that one learn to lay a table. Everything must be perfect for the princess. The King of France is served one hundred dishes at a sitting."
"One hundred?" Willie gave a long whistle. "Well have to roll the poor princess from the table after that."
Mrs. MacVittie walked around the table, lips pursed in dismay. "Let us hold a mock banquet. You remain in your chair, my lord. For practical purposes, I shall play the part of the princess."
"Can I be the prince?" Baldwin asked.
"There is no prince, blockhead," Douglas said. "You're going to serve the wine."
"My lord." Mrs. MacVittie stopped to nudge Douglas's elbow into his lap. She felt braver now, realizing how desperately these poor souls needed saving. "All uncooked joints off the table. Now pretend we are passing around a platter."
"A platter of what?" Phelps asked.
"Haggis," Douglas said. "Frances has bee
n practicing her recipe for it all week."
"So that's what I smelled," Baldwin said. "And here I was thinkin' some poor soul had died in the kitchen and hadna got buried yet."
Gemma wrinkled her nose. "I hate haggis. I'm not having any."
"You will if the princess takes some first," Mrs. MacVittie said sternly as she lowered herself into her seat. Then, "Mr. McGee, what in the world are you doing?"
"Pickin' the onions out of this haggis. They give me heartburn."
"Picking at one's food is not allowed," she said with a shudder of distaste. "Dainty, why are you making that horrible face?"
"I burned my tongue on them onions."
"I burned my tongue, Your Royal Highness. I And do refrain from eating until I begin. Mr. McGee, uncork the wine."
Baldwin cast a puzzled look around the hall. "Where is it?"
"Use your imagination," Douglas said in exasperation. "Mrs. MacVittie, may I have a word?"
"Certainly, my lord. 'Tis your table."
Douglas glowered at his men. "No throwing food. No belching or farting out of your favorite songs. Willie, don't pick your false teeth with your knife." He nodded to Mary. "That is all."
"And very sound advice that was," she murmured. "Shall we continue?"
"Aren't we supposed to wash up in a bowl of scented water first?" Gemma asked.
"Indeed, we are," Mrs. MacVittie said. "Here is the bowl. Let us begin again."
"What happened to the haggis?" Dainty said.
"Do we wash our feet in the bowl?" Willie asked.
"You certainly do not," Mrs. MacVittie said. "In fact, in your lowly positions, 'tis highly improbable you will dine in the royal presence."
"The Dragon let us eat biscuits with Don Alfonso's daughter," Willie said.
"That was different," Dainty told him. "We were holding her for ransom. The princess is a guest."
Mrs. MacVittie frowned. "It might be a good idea to refrain from mentioning your past exploits in front of Her Royal Highness."
"What did she say?" Baldwin whispered.
Douglas glared down the table. "She means I'll knock you senseless if you tell the princess we were pirates."
Mrs. MacVittie swallowed a gasp. "Mr. Willie, pick up your knife."
"What knife?"
"The hypothetical knife."
"I never heared of such a thing," he said. "What is it?"
Dainty snorted. "A knife for eating your hypothets, stupid."
"I don't think I've ever eaten such a thing before," Willie said. "How do I know I'll like 'em?"
"I heard the captain call Henry Morgan a hypothet a few years back," Baldwin said thoughtfully.
Dainty flashed him a grin. "That was a hypocrite."
"Do they have their own knives too?" Baldwin asked curiously.
"No, Baldwin," Dainty said. "Hypocrites are eaten with spoons."
Baldwin stared across the table at Mrs. MacVittie. "Is your name really Frank?"
"Dear, dear," Mrs. MacVittie exclaimed. "The need for social correction in this castle is more urgent then I dreamed." She turned to Douglas. "Sir, I don't think I can help them."
"Neither do I." He looked around him in resignation.
"Would ye like a glass of wine, sir?" Baldwin asked, brandishing an imaginary bottle. "Ye look as if ye need it."
Douglas took Rowena on a ride through the village at gloaming that same day. Two hours earlier he had patrolled the moor and woods, hoping to catch the outlaws hunting again. Rowena was waiting for him when he returned. The princess had been pestering him for exercise, and he had secretly enlisted the help of his people to impress her.
Henry, the village smithy and clan spokesman, had promised the full cooperation of the village elders.
Douglas had never dreamed how far "cooperation" could go.
A fanfare of pipes, fiddlers, and offbeat drums greeted Rowena's arrival in the glen. Three young girls presented her with a basket of autumn nuts and apples. She graciously accepted this gift.
"I am deeply touched," she began. "His lordship has told me of your hardships—"
She never had a chance to launch into the uplifting speech she had prepared. The people of Dunmoral barely let her get in another word.
"Hardships?" a woman in a hooded plaid said. "Our hardships would have put us in the grave if not fer his lordship."
A young man raised his voice. "The good earl put out a fire in my auntie's cot last month. Wi' his bare hands, I might add."
Rowena looked up at Douglas. "Did he indeed?"
Douglas shrugged. " 'Twas nothing."
A man with long gray hair came up to Rowena. "He yanked my rotten tooth right out of my head when the blacksmith couldna get it." He opened his mouth like a cave. "Reached in and got it wi' one tug. Ye can put yer finger in the hole if ye like."
Rowena pressed her lips together. "That is quite all right. I will take your word on it."
Douglas frowned at this nonsense.
A wee boy of five, prompted by a poke from his brother, stumbled forward. "His lordship saved our sister from drownin' when she went fishin' in the loch."
"He nursed my sick granny when she had the grippe."
"He nursed my sick wee goat."
Douglas stole a glance at Rowena, standing motionless beside him. Were those tears of admiration in her eyes? Was the woman moved by this fiddle-faddle?
"He drove my da to the market just to buy us a new chum."
"He birthed my baby brother."
"He carved a new headstone fer Uncle Angus."
Douglas looked at Rowena again. Her eyes were not just glazed. They were crossed. The princess looked as if she were in a trance.
He cleared his throat. "That will be enough—"
They ignored him, surging forward to sing his praises, their voices growing louder and louder as if they were competing for compliments.
"He fixed the well."
"He knitted a blanket fer our ailin' cow."
"He's a saint, that's what he is."
But the crowning moment came when Robbie, the ancient wheelwright, bent on arthritic knee with bonnet in hand to gaze up at Rowena as tears streamed into his beard. "He's our guardian angel, and that's the truth. Why, the laird is so pure at heart, he's even taken a vow of chastity until he sees every last one of us safe and secure."
"I have?" Douglas said in a horrified voice.
Rowena did not utter a word to him the entire ride back to the castle. No doubt her poor head was pounding with tales of his legendary kindness. A kindness, judging by the look on her face, that indicated she might like to kill him.
Douglas did not blame her. Not only was he a pompous pretender, he had just become a virgin into the bargain.
"The man claims to have taken a vow of chastity!" Rowena shouted with a snort of laughter, falling backward onto her bed. "There goes my hope of begetting any heirs in a hurry!"
Hildegarde rushed forward to close the chamber door. "Calm yourself, Highness. Vows can be broken."
"How?" Rowena demanded.
"Well, there are potions—" Hildegarde's hands flew to her face. "God, what am I saying? If the man wishes to remain chaste, 'tis a sin for us to tempt him."
The evening of the feast had arrived. The castle hummed like a beehive with secret activity. Douglas dressed for the affair with the enthusiasm of a man going to his own execution. 'Twas clear he could not keep Rowena captive much longer. She had been at Dunmoral for over a week. 'Twas also clear that the woman was not overly impressed with his image as the "Virgin Earl." She gave an evil chuckle every time she saw him.
He turned to examine his lean profile in the pier glass. "Well, how do I look?"
"Put on that quilted waistcoat, sir," Willie said from the wardrobe.
Gemma shook her head. "It might make him look fat."
Douglas frowned. His crew had indeed grown slothful in their retirement. They'd put on weight. Even he had begun to feel a wee bit sluggish in the mid-section.
> A month ago he'd started to swim faithfully every morning in the bone-numbing waters of the loch. One hundred exhausting laps as if preparing to woo a princess qualified as a marathon event.
He slapped his rock-hard stomach. "A -pirate with a paunch, or the Laird of Lard? Not as long as there is breath in my body." He strapped on his sword. His golden earring winked in the candlelight.
"Ye look lovely, sir," Baldwin said in approval. "I've never seen ye look nicer."
"You look like a pirate," Gemma said, frowning.
Willie came up behind him with a flagon of scented water. "What's wrong with that?"
Gemma gazed at Douglas's reflection. "He's supposed to look like the laird. Why aren't you wearing the red high-heeled shoes we bought in Naim?"
"Because I do not wish to wobble about like a woman." He stuck his fingers into the cravat that spilled from his strong brown throat. "Who lit that fire? I'm roasting in all this lace. Willie, touch that perfume stopper to my wrist and die. I'm not smelling like a French lily for anyone. I tire of playing the twiddlepoop."
"If you won't wear the heels, then you must wear the plaid," Gemma said. "Take off your clothes again, Douglas."
"In a pig's eye," he retorted.
"Red heels are the fashion at court, Douglas."
He put on his plumed hat. It overshadowed his sun-burnished face, carving hollows beneath the angular bones. "How does this look?"
"The hat is a dead giveaway," Gemma said in exasperation. "The laird is supposed to wear a bonnet with a feather in it."
"A bonnet?" Douglas laughed at that. Then he took a pair of scrolled pistols from the dressing table and stuck them in the sash over his shoulder. "Is that better?"
Gemma stared at him. "If you're going to challenge the princess to a duel."
"Should he wear the diamond cross he stole from Cartagena?" Willie asked.
Gemma shook her head. "Too crass. He has to wear the plaid."
"No," Douglas said.
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