Delight

by Jillian Hunter

  "I forgot my bodice and overskirt," she said in embarrassment.

  His face unreadable, Douglas reached behind him and handed her another of his shirts of white Holland. She put it on, chewing her lower lip. The shirt came to her knees.

  "Thank you," she said as she fumbled with the buttons. "Now we must get you back into bed—"

  "You look well in my shirt, Rowena."

  She looked quickly up at his face. "Perhaps we should not engage in conversation. The doctor said you would not be yourself for some time."

  "I have not been myself ever since you came here," he said, surprising himself with this admission.

  Rowena gave him a level look. "I am well aware of that." She threw up her hands. "It took a mortal injury for the man to come clean. Well, better late than never."

  Douglas stared at her. Almighty God. So the truth had come out that night, or during his delirium. It did not really matter when. The deception had reached a disastrous end.

  "You know about—everything?" he asked, scowling from beneath his brows.

  Her voice was cool. "Do you mean that you were—what is the pirate term—flying false colors? That you are indeed the Dragon of Darien?"

  "You know," he said sadly.

  "You lied to me, my lord."

  "I did," he said in a heavy voice.

  "Why?"

  "I did not think you would entrust yourself to a pirate," he said.

  "Better a pirate than a man who talks to flowers." She sighed, making a small gesture of resignation with her hands. "Get back into bed, my lord. You have lost a great deal of blood. Talking will only tire you."

  He frowned. This was intolerable. Now she thought him not only a liar, but a prick-me-dainty as well, too weak to hold a conversation.

  "I am going out to finish what you interrupted," he said resolvedly.

  "But you can't."

  "I am not a daisy," he said as he stalked past her, wondering where on earth the preposterous thought had come from.

  Rowena planted herself in his path. "You will have to trample me down before I let you pass."

  He sniggered. Then he walked her backward into the wall, using the sheer brute strength of his body. "Is that so?"

  "The doctor says I saved your life, you pigheaded pirate," she said.

  "Saved my life?" Douglas allowed himself to lean against her for several seconds. He would die before admitting he felt dizzy. Their bodies fit together so well that he shuddered. "If it hadn't been for you, I never would have let that man cut me."

  Rowena was indignant. "Are you blaming me now because I saved your life?" She began to pull off his shirt, buttons flying in his face.

  He grinned uneasily. He wondered if she were going to seduce him. She was choosing a hell of a time if she was. "What are you doing?"

  "Making it easier on you. How many strokes will it be?"

  He stared at her, horrified and hopeful. The room was beginning to spin. If he could make it to the bed, he might not faint. "What manner of strokes are you talking about?"

  "The public whipping," she said.

  Douglas put his hand to his head. One of them was definitely going daft. "What whipping?"

  "The whipping you think I deserve for saving your life, or letting Neacail get away." Rowena tore the shirt open. "The Dragon never misses an act of discipline."

  "I never said I was going to whip you," Douglas shouted. "The very thought sickens me." Taking off the rest of her clothes, however, did not seem like a bad idea. "What kind of man would whip a woman?"

  Gemma appeared in the doorway, her face white with alarm. "Why are you shouting at the princess about whipping? Everyone in the castle can hear you. Douglas, get back to bed. You're delirious again. You've never whipped a woman."

  Rowena looked at him in concern. "He doesn't look well, does he? I suppose I should take into account that the poison might have affected his mind."

  "There is not a blessed thing wrong with my mind," Douglas yelled.

  Suddenly Dainty appeared in the doorway, disgust on his bullish face. "There'll be no whipping of women as long as I'm alive. I've sinned aplenty with you over the years, sir, but I draw the line at that."

  Gemma shook her head. "Matthew would never threaten to whip a woman."

  That was it for Douglas. His deception had failed. He smelled like a chamberpot. Rowena believed him capable of hurting her.

  He gave a low-throated growl and barreled through the doorway. He had naught left to lose.

  Rowena ran past him, barefooted, his shirt trailing over her petticoats, all the way down the stairwell. She followed him as he strode into the hall and shouted for his men. Douglas ignored her. He was staring in astonished fury at the stranger ensconced on the dais.

  A pale red-haired nobleman in gold-embroidered velvet stared back at him. The bold usurper slumped in the gigantic carved chair of the castle laird.

  This stranger regarded Douglas with curiosity over the goblet of burgundy he'd just raised to his long pinched nose. He took two disdainful sniffs, then lowered the goblet. He looked scandalized at the sight of Rowena rushing into the hall.

  "Rowena, are you wearing a man's shirt?" the young intruder demanded.

  Douglas wondered if he should pick the scrawny twit up by the ears and hurl him out of the hall. After all, he spoke with a displeasing familiarity to her, and he was sitting in Douglas's chair.

  Douglas glanced over his shoulder at Rowena, who was struggling to put on Gemma's cloak. "Who is this twit?" he asked tightly.

  "He is my cousin Jerome," Rowena said. "Jerome, this is the Earl of Dunmoral, your host."

  "You jest, Rowena," Jerome said with a delicate shudder. "I thought he was the village huntsman."

  The twit rose from the chair, examining Douglas in fearful amusement. Douglas suddenly realized how he must look. His long black hair was crudely tied in a leather thong. His face was unshaven, the cheekbones prominent from four days of fasting.

  The sword and pistols protruding from the belt of the breeches he had pulled on did not give him a friendly appearance. He probably resembled one of the castle's original inhabitants, a medieval warrior who would slaughter his guests if the fancy struck him.

  "Your cousin?" Douglas felt a moment's uncertainty about killing the clodpate. 'Twas probably not a good idea to kill a future in-law.

  Jerome gave Douglas a nervous smile. "We have hoped for your recovery, my lord. Rowena has refused to come home until she was assured you would survive. With matters taking such a drastic turn in Hartzburg, I have been quite frantic to pry her away from your… hospitality."

  Now Douglas had a genuine reason to kill him: the twit not only sat in his chair and sniffed Douglas's wine, but he meant to take Rowena back to that dangerous land. He turned stiffly to look at her.

  "Are you leaving me?" he demanded.

  "Not yet."

  "Not ever," he said emphatically.

  He realized then how exhausted she too appeared, with purple shadows beneath her downcast eyes. He wondered if she had lost sleep by worrying over him, and the thought was strangely pleasing.

  "Jerome's father has just been taken hostage." Her shoulders sagged with the burden that Douglas would gladly bear. "The rebels have almost broken past Papa's guard."

  "Prince Randolph cannot hold out much longer," Jerome said. "That is why Rowena must hurry home to reconsider their demands."

  Douglas poured himself a goblet of wine. "You would negotiate with kidnappers?" he said in disbelief.

  Contempt flickered across Jerome's colorless face. "You do not understand the politics of a principality, my lord."

  "I may not understand the principles of a principality," Douglas said without thinking. "But I do understand a kidnapping."

  Jerome looked up at him in alarm. "From personal experience?"

  "Highland history is rife with episodes of treachery and abduction," Douglas answered evasively. He narrowed his eyes as Jerome nervously took a gulp of wine. "S
urely you've heard of the unwelcome guest who sat at a Scotsman's table only to have his own head served on the supper platter that same night?"

  Jerome's breath rushed out in a startled cough. Douglas gave him a forceful thump on the back, leaning down to whisper in his ear, "I would not drink too much if I were you, either. I suspect someone is trying to poison me."

  Jerome set the goblet down on the table. "If Rowena does not return with me, Hartzburg will fall to the—" He wrinkled his nose. "What is that disturbing odor?"

  "His lordship's poultice," Rowena said.

  Jerome pulled out a perfumed handkerchief. "Good God."

  In his entire life Douglas had not had to struggle harder to subdue his emotions. He realized that Rowena was seriously considering returning to her homeland because of what her cousin had told her. He ached to grab the runt by the neck and use his head as a battering ram against the door. If the princess had not been present, he would have thrashed the twit for daring to entice Rowena into danger.

  But Rowena was watching and God only knew what she thought of him since that debacle in the woods. Matthew would handle this situation with calm diplomacy and not the primitive rage that had characterized Douglas's reactions in the past. He would have to tread carefully around this matter of her father else he would risk losing her forever.

  "Her Highness has a personal advisor," Douglas said, ignoring the anxious hammering of his heart. "What does he say of this?"

  Rowena frowned. "I have not seen Frederic since the night I arrived at this castle. It does begin to worry me he has not even sent me a message. A full fortnight has come and gone."

  Jerome's gaze darted to Douglas. "Frederic would not want Her Highness to stay here. He never really wanted to leave Hartzburg in the first place."

  "You are a misguided fool," Douglaa said smugly. "You hope to have her appeal to the kidnappers' higher instincts. I tell you that such men have none."

  "My father's life is at stake." Jerome looked suddenly like a frightened young boy. "The rebels want Rowena to meet them in person. What else can we do?"

  "Frederic wanted Matthew to take a small army of mercenaries in through the mountains," Rowena said quietly. " 'Tis the only way."

  Douglas stared down at her, striving to conceal his alarm. His lady did not belong in a battlefield. She belonged at his hearth, brushing out her hair, reading to their children. He would fight for her. She would not have to defend herself.

  "Matthew is not the only authority on military tactics," he stated.

  "True." She appeared to have missed the point. "But there are very few warriors who are experienced, willing, and available to help me."

  "Mayhap you have not looked in the right place."

  "I have looked everywhere," Rowena said in exasperation.

  "I can help you," Douglas said bluntly, a trifle offended that he was forced to state the obvious.

  Rowena studied him in rueful silence. "How?" she said at last. "The physician said you will need at least two months to heal. And your hands are full hunting down the outlaws who threaten your village. Uncle Walter is being held by at least twenty ruffians in a rocky dungeon."

  Douglas was too insulted to respond.

  What did he know of manly things like rescues and revenge? she might well have asked. What use was an injured warrior who let outlaws harass him when her homeland tottered on the brink of anarchy?

  In all the days of playacting the gentleman, he had never dreamed he would be so convincing that his very manhood would be questioned.

  "The Dragon of Darien could help you," Douglas said with steel in his voice.

  Before Rowena could react, the doors opened and Aidan, spurs striking sparks against stone, strode into the hall. "The horses are saddled, sir. We have food."

  "Where are you going?" Rowena asked Douglas in alarm. "No. Don't tell me. I know—'tis a dreadful idea. Aidan, tell him to wait another week. He isn't ready to go out again after those men."

  Aidan didn't say a word. He merely squared his shoulders and stared at a shield on the wall. Rowena might as well have been bargaining with a stone effigy for all the emotion he showed.

  She turned in desperation to the short bewhiskered man who sat in the corner cleaning a pile of swords. "Baldwin, tell His Lordship he isn't strong enough to fight Neacail. He;ll tear his stitches. The wound will get infected."

  Baldwin laid down his sword and cloth. He looked at Rowena. He looked appraisingly at Douglas. Then he went back to his work, shaking his grizzled head as if solving this problem were beyond him.

  Rowena exhaled forcefully. "Douglas of Dunmoral, I forbid you to leave this castle."

  Douglas regarded her in irritation. "Stopping Neacail is not a matter to discuss like a dinner dish," he said. "The man will strike again and again until someone catches him." He lowered his voice. "Privately, I appreciate the fact that you care enough to order me about. In public, however, I cannot tolerate this unseemly henpecking."

  She ran her fingertips up his bronzed wrist. "Would you not rather spend time alone with me than chase after an outlaw?"

  "You forget your place," Douglas said in a voice loud enough for every man in the hall to hear. And at the same time he suppressed a shiver of pure longing at her touch.

  "We should talk about this in private, Douglas."

  "We do not have time," he said. "We will talk later."

  "We won't talk later if you're killed," Rowena said.

  "We are talking now," he said impatiently, "and 'tis wasting my time."

  "What is the point in talking about this later if what we wanted to talk about is already done?" she asked.

  "What are you talking about?" he said.

  Rowena shook her head. "I love you, Douglas, but you are of no use to me dead."

  His heavy-lidded gaze swept over her with possessive hunger as he realized what she had said. She loved him. He was stunned that he could experience such a strange brew of gentle and barbaric feelings in one breath.

  She had come after him that night in the woods because she worried about him. She had seen him at his worst, a humiliated warrior. He had sworn at her and said incredibly embarrassing things in her presence. Yet unbelievably the bond between them had been strengthened, not weakened by his failings.

  He had never guessed that this sort of caring was possible between two people. He had not dreamed he could impress such a woman without resorting to deception. How he wished now he had been honest with her from the start.

  He desired this woman and her depth of caring with a gut-wrenching pain that made the wound in his shoulder feel like a wasp sting.

  He pulled her against his chest and kissed her in full view of everyone in the hall. His powerful hands gripped her shoulders. Her head fell back. A gasp caught in her throat. Then she locked her arms around his neck and kissed him back with a passion one would not exactly expect from a princess. Her soft mouth sought his. She all but backed him into the table. Blood roared in his head like a waterfall.

  "Princess," he whispered against her mouth, grinning as he broke the kiss. "You are precious and most unpredictable. But this time you will stay here." He set her away from him, casting a hard stare at the gigantic figure in the doorway. "Dainty, if you let anything happen to her, I will throw the flowers at your funeral."

  "Be careful, Douglas," Rowena said, her face a study in anxiety. "Come back to me."

  "I intend to, Rowena."

  "You're a stubborn man," she added.

  He scowled at her to show his displeasure. She scowled back to hide her fear.

  Baldwin brought him his sword. Then Douglas pivoted, Aidan falling into step like a shadow.

  Jerome, still in shock from watching Douglas kiss his royal cousin, had slipped back against the table to let them pass. His elbow hit the goblet. The goblet rolled off the table between Douglas's booted feet. With a fleeting frown of annoyance, Douglas reached down to retrieve it.

  'You kissed the royal princess in public," Jer
ome said. "Aren't you even going to apologize?"

  "No," Douglas said, swinging around again. "I am not."

  * * * * *

  Hildegarde closed the heavy bedchamber door in Dainty's face as the princess hurried past her. "What is it?" she whispered.

  "The man is driving me mad," Rowena said. "I am a prisoner now. A true prisoner. The giant is my bodyguard."

  Hildegarde looked around the room; she had spent days trying to uncover the secret passage she sensed had escaped her search. She was still afraid that Prince Randolph's adversaries had followed them into these Scottish wilds to kidnap Rowena.

  "There is still no word from Frederic?" Hildegarde asked.

  "No." Rowena bent to wrench off her kidskin slippers, hiding her worried expression from the woman's scrutiny. "He's probably on the way here with his army."

  "That man has never broken a promise in his life," Hildegarde said softly. "Something must have happened. Someone has stopped him."

  Rowena looked up, her blood suddenly cold. "Jerome, do you think? Could he have brought rebel soldiers with him and perhaps done harm to Frederic on his way back here?"

  Hildegarde shook her head. "Jerome was always a gentle boy. He doesn't have a head for plots. I cannot believe he would hurt anyone or betray you, Highness."

  "Nor can I," Rowena said. "I—"

  She bolted to the window at the sound of horses whickering in the courtyard below. Douglas was riding from the stable on a spirited black stallion that he controlled with the pressure of his powerful thighs. Someone had taught the pirate how to ride.

  "God protect him," she said in a whisper. "Bring him back whole."

  His dark head lifted as if he had felt her blessing. Their gazes connected, and Rowena shivered as a frisson of fear and physical longing danced over her skin.

  "Where does he go?" Hildegarde asked over her shoulder.