HEAR YE! HEAR YE!
THE GRAND DUKE OF
THORTONBURG WISHES TO
ANNOUNCE THE SHOCKING
ENGAGEMENT OF PRINCE
ROLAND TO PRINCESS LILLIAN
MONTAGUE OF ROXBURY,
DAUGHTER OF HIS
SWORN ENEMY!

LET IT BE KNOWN that “spare heir” Roland masqueraded as a stable hand at the Montague keep (we’re still curious why) and fell for Princess Lillian, herself masquerading as a commoner….

LET IT BE KNOWN that Lillian, who’s been rather reclusive in recent years (some say she was betrayed by a gold-digging love), along with Roland, have helped to ease the feud between their families that has been ongoing for decades….

Now, if only Lillian’s widower brother, Prince Damon, could marry and provide the heir his parents and countrymen so desperately demand!

Dear Reader,

March roars in in grand style at Silhouette Romance, as we continue to celebrate twenty years of publishing the best in contemporary category romance fiction. And the new millennium boasts several new miniseries and promotions…such as ROYALLY WED, a three-book spinoff of the cross-line series that concluded last month in Special Edition Arlene James launches the new limited series with A Royal Masquerade, featuring a romance between would-be enemies, in which appearances are definitely deceiving….

Susan Meier’s adorable BREWSTER BABY BOOM series concludes this month with Oh, Babies! The last Brewster bachelor had best beware—but the warning may be too late! Karen Rose Smith graces the lineup with the story of a very pregnant single mom who finds Just the Man She Needed in her lonesome cowboy boarder whose plans had never included staying. The delightful Terry Essig will touch your heart and tickle your funny bone with The Baby Magnet, in which a hunky single dad discovers his toddler is more of an attraction than him—till he meets a woman who proves his ultimate distraction.

A confirmed bachelor finds himself the solution to the command: Callie, Get Your Groom as Julianna Morris unveils her new miniseries BRIDAL FEVER! And could love be What the Cowboy Prescribes…in Mary Starleigh’s charming debut Romance novel?

Next month features a Joan Hohl/Kasey Michaels duet, and in coming months look for Diana Palmer, and much more. It’s an exciting year for Silhouette Books, and we invite you to join the celebration!

Happy Reading!

Mary-Theresa Hussey

Senior Editor

A Royal Masquerade
Arlene James

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Books by Arlene James

Silhouette Romance

City Girl #141

No Easy Conquest #235

Two of a Kind #253

A Meeting of Hearts #327

An Obvious Virtue #384

Now or Never #404

Reason Enough #421

The Right Moves #446

Strange Bedfellows #471

The Private Garden #495

The Boy Next Door #518

Under a Desert Sky #559

A Delicate Balance #578

The Discerning Heart #614

Dream of a Lifetime #661

Finally Home #687

A Perfect Gentleman #705

Family Man #728

A Man of His Word #770

Tough Guy #806

Gold Digger #830

Palace City Prince #866

The Perfect Wedding #962

An Old-Fashioned Love #968

A Wife Worth Waiting For #974

Mail-Order Brood #1024

The Rogue Who Came To Stay #1061

Most Wanted Dad #1144

Desperately Seeking Daddy #1186

Falling for a Father of Four #1295

A Bride To Honor #1330

Mr. Right Next Door #1352

Glass Slipper Bride #1379

A Royal Masquerade #1432

Silhouette Special Edition

A Rumor of Love #664

Husband in the Making #776

With Baby in Mind #869

Child of Her Heart #964

The Knight, the Waitress and the Toddler #1131

Every Cowgirl’s Dream #1195

Marrying an Older Man #1235

Baby Boy Blessed #1285

Silhouette Books

Fortune’s Children

Single with Children

The Fortunes of Texas

Corporate Daddy

ARLENE JAMES

grew up in Oklahoma and has lived all over the South. In 1976 she married “the most romantic man in the world.” The author enjoys traveling with her husband, but writing has always been her chief pastime.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter One

The obsequious little man in state dress, complete with the sash of office, made yet another bow and droned on. “We of Wynborough understand, of course, and most assuredly admire the rich maritime history of our trusted and revered ally Thortonburg.”

“Our piratical history, you mean,” Roland Thorton interrupted with droll impatience, secretly amused to see the little man jerk and grapple with his composure.

“Oh, no, Your Highness. Never!” The man gasped, as if shocked to his core.

“Come now,” Roland said, frowning and drumming his fingertips on the ornate arms of his chair in a show of regal boredom while delightedly baiting the snobbish little twit. “We Thortons are not ashamed of our forebears. Pirates they were, fierce and unscrupulous, and they kept our marvelous isle afloat with their ill-gotten gains. Our current shipping concerns are but a pale, distant image of those magnificent marauders of our past. We are pirates of banking and horseflesh, oil and tourism now. And it is the same with our smaller neighbor of Roxbury, though I have little doubt that Prince Charles would deny it. Pirates we were, sir, battling for the same plunder. Now we are but dignified and proper purveyors of goods, vying for the same contract year after year with your honorable King Phillip for no good reason except that it is tradition. So, who shall it be? Does my father, the Grand Duke of Thortonburg, or Prince Charles Montague of Roxbury win this year’s shipping contract with Wynborough?”

The little man gulped and dug a finger beneath the tight, starched collar of his shirt, bobbing from the waist in that perpetual bow. “As to that, my lord Roland, His Majesty King Phillip bears the highest regard for Thortonburg and all its interests.”

“I should hope so,” Roland drawled. “He saw his daughter married to Thortonburg’s heir apparent, after all.” He leaned forward suddenly, skewering the statesman with a pointed glare. “I should think that as my brother Raphael is son-in-law to your king, special consideration might be given to us. Even now Princess Elizabeth awaits the birth of a child who will further both royal lines.” Actually, it was his father, the Grand Duke, who thought special consideration should be given, despite the fact that Rafe refused to ask his wife to intervene on Thortonburg’s behalf. Roland had his personal doubts, which his father, as usual, chose to ignore.

Wynborough’s Deputy Minister of Trade drew himself up to his official best and finally—finally—approached the heart of the matter. Roland gritted his teeth, suspecting what was coming and dreading what would follow.

“There, Prince Roland, you have hit squarely upon the problem. Surely you understand that His Highness must avoid all semblance of favoritism. He means to rule justly, you see.”

Impatiently, Roland crossed his legs and flicked lint from the trousers of his ceremonial costume. “Yes, yes. Out with it, if you please, while I am still young. Do we or do we not have the contract?”

The minister pursed his lips, abandoned diplomacy and answered baldly, “Not.”

Roland slumped, half in relief, half in regret and wholly in exhaustion. The celebration of King Phillip’s twenty-year reign as monarch of Wynborough continued unabated, despite the fact that numerous business meetings such as this one were taking place all over Wyndham Castle. In truth, it was the business that brought Roland to Wynborough. Although his presence as a member of the royal family of Thortonburg was required and expected, he had little patience with pomp and circumstance, which, to his mind, was to be endured rather than enjoyed and then only when absolutely necessary. Twenty-six years of training, however, immediately had him straightening his spine again. Squaring his shoulders, he gave his head that regal tip.

“You are telling me that we have lost the contract precisely because my brother has married a royal princess of Wynborough. Is that correct?”

The bureaucrat bowed his head. “I regret to say that it is.”

It was just as Roland had suspected. His father would not be pleased, and though it was Raphael’s connections that had cost them the contract, it was he, Roland, who would bear the blame. He, after all, had been running Thorton Shipping while his brother had been establishing a construction business in America. Not that he blamed Rafe. Indeed, he would have gladly joined him. The trappings of royalty, he knew only too well, were often as much trap as bother. But someone had to tend the till. Raphael could not suspect how delighted Roland was to have his older brother home and involving himself in the running of the country. Or perhaps he did. Rafe was no one’s fool, and love seemed to have made him unexpectedly insightful. That was one complication Roland was determined to avoid.

Love was well enough when it brought his brother home to his duty, but Roland intended to simplify his own life now. It was time to see to his own future, and he had in mind a certain lush little island nestled neatly between Thortonburg and Roxbury. A Thortonburg principality, it had been suggested for development because of its pristine beaches, but Roland had quietly quashed that idea, envisioning instead a horse ranch and stud farm of unparalleled prominence. To that end, he had begun acquiring the finest stock to be had in all of Europe and was even now arranging the transport of an Irish thoroughbred of supreme line and conformation, a most spirited beast as fast as the wind and black as the night. Roland hadn’t decided on a name for him yet. Something piratical perhaps.

The minister droned on, assuring Roland that Thorton Shipping enjoyed the favor of the Wyndhams and that only circumstance had cost them the contract. He would have said the same things to Montague had the Thortons secured the contract instead. Only the fact that he was a guest at Wynborough prevented Roland from simply getting up and walking out of the opulent chamber. It was with relief and bemusement, then, that he watched a concealed door open in the wainscoting next to the fireplace and a costumed footman appear.

The Deputy Minister scowled at the interruption, but the footman could not be outdone in magisterial hauteur. Back and shoulders straight, he looked down his nose into nothingness and announced pompously, “Begging your pardon, Deputy Minister, I have an urgent personal message for Prince Roland of Thortonburg.”

The Deputy Minister flattened his lips together, obviously disgruntled to have his official business curtailed before all the appropriate niceties were performed and he was given his due by the prince of Thortonburg. Nevertheless, protocol demanded that he cease and desist.

Roland was both thrilled and wary. He welcomed the opportunity to be rid of the minister at the very same moment that he prepared himself for yet another thankless assignment. Rising, he concluded his business with the minister, curtly thanking the silly man for his time. Silently, the deputy backed away, bowing and scrambling as Roland strode straight for the footman. Bending his head, he allowed the footman to whisper into his ear.

“The Grand Duke and Duchess of Thortonburg request your immediate audience, sir. I’ve been asked to escort you to a private apartment via the quickest route.”

Roland straightened and lifted an imperious brow. The quickest route, was it? Immediacy was ever one of his father’s requirements, but this summons contained the flavor of true haste. The mention of his mother made it a family matter. Curious, but convenient. His mother’s presence would temper the Grand Duke’s outburst when Roland told him that his coveted shipping contract was to be denied him for another year. It would be fuel to the fire, however, of the ongoing feud between the Thortons and the Montagues of Roxbury. Personally, Roland found the whole thing asinine. He understood that once the shipping contract had meant the difference between prosperity in the coming year or hard times for the common people, but that had ceased to be a real issue before the Second World War. These days, it was more a matter of ego, a personal vendetta waged by minions on behalf of his father and Prince Charles of Roxbury—and Roland was, unfortunately, one of those minions. Ah, well, best get the thing behind him for another year.

Tugging at the cuffs of a black cutaway coat of a costume that was as much tuxedo as uniform, Roland nodded at the footman. “Lead on, then.”

The footman slid a triumphant look at the thwarted deputy, putting that man firmly in his place, and executed a neat pivot on the heel of one foot, plumes bobbing from his ridiculous headdress. “This way, Your Highness, if you please.” With that he stepped into the opening in the wall and led Roland through a maze of winding, identical passageways and staircases. To Roland’s bemused amazement, they stepped through yet another wall and into the hallway just outside the opulent apartments assigned to his family. The footman stepped up to the door and rapped it smartly with his gloved knuckles.

Roland pushed past him to open the door and walk into the large salon joining his assigned rooms with those of his parents. He was not surprised to find that he was the last to arrive, since he naturally would have been the last summoned. The Grand Duke lived and breathed protocol, hence the heir would always be called upon before the “spare.” Fortunately for Roland, he was genuinely fond of his elder brother and did not covet his birthright in the least. It was difficult, however, to constantly feel the lack of his father’s approval, especially since Raphael was the one who had escaped to America all those years, leaving Roland behind to deal with his royal responsibilities and autocratic parent alone. Now that Rafe had returned to the fold and established a truce with their father, Roland was beginning to scent escape. He truly hoped that Rafe and Elizabeth would eventually settle permanently in Thortonburg and take up the reins of power.

Roland smiled and nodded to his mother, then strolled over to test the waters by delivering a companionable whack to his brother’s shoulder. Rafe slid a small, taut smile at him, his gaze trained warily on their father. Something serious was afoot then, and not even Rafe knew what it was all about yet. Roland turned his attention to the Grand Duke and was surprised to find one-time Wynborough royal bodyguard Lance Grayson standing at his father’s back. Lance was a member of the Thortonburg security team now, head of the Investigative Division.

Roland felt a chill of premonition. His training served him well, however, and he kept the worrisome emotion firmly masked.

“Your timing is impeccable, Father. I had just gotten to the heart of the matter with that little cockroach of a deputy minister.”

Victor, Grand Duke of Thortonburg, removed his elbow from the mantle of a cold marble fireplace and clasped his hands behind his back, lifting his chin imperiously. He was a tall, big man, long-limbed and thick in the chest with silver hair and sharp blue eyes, every inch the regent. “And?”

Roland shook his head, his dread carefully concealed. “King Phillip does not want to appear to be playing favorites. The contract goes to Roxbury again this year.”

Victor turned away in disgust. Something akin to shock settled over Roland as he realized that his father wasn’t going to explode—yet. Raphael sighed loudly and commented, “So you were right, Roland. Good call. Unfortunately.”

Roland’s mouth quirked in a grateful smile. That sensitivity of Rafe’s was working overtime.

“Maybe it’s connected,” Victor said suddenly, turning to Lance Grayson.

Grayson looked down at something in his hands and shrugged. “I suppose it’s possible, but at this point, no one can say.”

Sara Thorton spoke up from her place on the small, French provincial sofa where she sat with her tiny hands folded in her lap, her back ramrod straight, her soft platinum gray hair swept into a classic roll. “Isn’t it time we were all told what has happened? Frankly, you’re frightening me, Victor.”

Victor Thorton sighed, and for the first time in memory, Roland saw his father as tired and uncertain. “I fear you’re all going to be terribly shocked,” he said in an oddly strained voice, “as I am myself. A man’s mistakes often rise up to devour him, and, dammit, I know no other way to fight this thing than to simply take it by the throat. You might as well hear for yourselves, then.” Straightening, he once more clasped his hands behind his back and nodded at Lance Grayson, who cleared his throat, lifted a paper, unfolded it and began to read.

“‘To the Grand Duke of Thortonburg. I have your daughter.”’

The duchess gasped. Like Roland, Raphael stood in frozen shock for a moment, but then he chuckled. “What kind of joke is this?”

Roland, however, was looking at their father, who seemed to have aged several years in the past few moments. “Doesn’t sound like a joke to me,” he murmured.

“What else could it be?” his mother exclaimed. “We don’t have a daughter!”

“You don’t have a daughter,” Victor ground out, turning away guiltily.

“Victor?” Sara said, her voice wobbling high.

“Could we please take this one step at a time?” Victor growled. “Let us at least get through the note. Grayson, if you please.”

The security agent cast a bland look around the room and began again. “‘To the Grand Duke of Thortonburg. I have your daughter. Before you throw her life away as you did that of her mother, Maribelle, take a good look at the enclosed photograph. No doubt you’ll agree that the family resemblance is pronounced. Add to this the existence of a raspberry birthmark in the shape of a teardrop and identification is a certainty.”’

Roland traded looks with his brother. The birthmark was a closely guarded family secret, a hedge against impostors, a secret held by generations of Thortons—until now. Grayson went on reading.

“‘The life of an innocent young woman may mean nothing to you, but have no doubt that the world will know your dirty secrets if you fail to follow my future instructions to the letter. Do nothing—contact no agency—until then.’ And it’s signed, ‘The Justicier.”’

“What does it mean?” Sara asked after a moment fraught with heavy silence.

Before taking it upon himself to answer, Lance Grayson glanced at the Grand Duke, who turned to lean both arms against the mantlepiece, presenting his bowed back to the room. Grayson folded his hands, feet braced wide apart in a familiar stance. “Obviously the kidnapper considers him or herself the dispenser of justice, which I expect takes a monetary form. Otherwise, he or she would merely leak this young woman’s existence to the press and be done with it.”

“You’re saying this person, this alleged Thorton daughter, exists,” Rafe stated unequivocally.

Lance Grayson said nothing to that, merely looked pointedly at the Grand Duke. Victor slowly straightened, tugging at the hem of his eggshell-white, military-style ceremonial coat. Turning, he extracted something from a pocket, a photograph. Looking down at it, he seemed to struggle for a moment. When he looked up again, he had eyes only for his wife.

“It only happened once,” he said stiffly, “long ago, and her name was, indeed, Maribelle.”

Sara lifted a trembling hand to her mouth. In that moment, she appeared as something less than the Grand Duchess of Thortonburg. Instead, she looked, for all the world, like every loving wife facing her worst moment of betrayal. Roland felt his hands curl into fists, but by sheer habit the anger that his father all too often aroused in him remained carefully, tightly controlled. Rafe glanced his way before stepping forward to address their father.

“You’re telling us that we have a sister?”

“I’m telling you that it’s possible, even probable.” With that, Victor handed over the photograph. Rafe stepped close to Roland and lifted the small, camera-developed snapshot. The resemblance was unmistakable. Dark hair, blue eyes, patrician features in an oval face. She was smiling, the photo obviously having been taken in an unguarded moment. Roland felt his heart lurch. His sister. A surge of fierce protectiveness surprised him.

“She looks to be about my age,” he said.

“A year older, I would expect,” Victor confirmed. He turned to his wife defensively. “It happened over twenty-seven years ago. We married for duty, Sara, but love came later, didn’t it?”

She nodded, dabbing at the corners of her eyes with a linen handkerchief that had appeared from somewhere. “I remember,” she said. “We were…estranged.”

“Yes. It was so hard to understand and admit that the marriage of duty into which we had entered had become so very…emotional.”

“I suppose it was my fault,” she said, looking up at him through her tears. “I changed the rules on you. I was the one who wanted, needed, more.”

The duke bowed his head momentarily and cleared his throat before saying, “That’s not entirely true. I just didn’t know how to deal with changes in my own feelings. I…ran away.”

“To Glenshire,” Sara added, remembering, “the old hunting lodge.”

“I met Maribelle there in Glenshire,” he rasped. “I thought that an affair with her would restore my perspective, and it did, only not in the way I expected. She was dear and lovely and lonely, I think, and we both knew that I would never stay with her. When I ended it, I knew that the only woman I would ever again want was waiting for me at home.”

Sara chuckled tearfully. “You pursued me—courted me, really—after eight years of marriage. I didn’t care why. Then.”

“I won’t ask you to forgive me,” Victor said stiffly, “only to support my efforts in this. Whatever I’ve done, the girl is innocent.”

For a long moment, Sara Thorton said nothing, merely stared sadly at her husband, but then she lifted her hand to her face and skimmed away her tears. “Roland came after that reconciliation. You’ve given me two wonderful sons, one out of duty and one out of love. But I always wanted a daughter, and you gave her to another woman.”

Victor pursed his lips, obviously fighting his own emotions. “I didn’t want to hurt you,” he said finally. “I wanted to spare you this knowledge. I wanted to spare us both this moment. I never knew about the child, but if she’s mine, and it seems that she is, I must find her.”

“It could still be an elaborate hoax,” Grayson pointed out, his even tone not quite hiding his discomfort at witnessing such a personal exchange. “The girl may not be a Thorton at all. We have to find out what has become of this Maribelle and whether or not she even has a daughter.”

Sara briskly dried her eyes. “Yes, yes, you’re right, of course, Mr. Grayson. That should be our first step.”

Roland glanced down at the photo that he had taken from his brother’s hand. His gut told him that this was no hoax, but they had to be sure. Meanwhile, they had to consider what to do next. The trouble was that his own mind was whirling. You gave me two wonderful sons, one out of duty and one out of love. Roland couldn’t help wondering if his brother had picked up on that statement. Personally, he was having a little trouble thinking of himself as the love child in the equation.

“Could I see that, please, Roland?”

The sound of his mother’s voice brought his gaze up from the face in the photo. He slid a look at his father, not really contemplating withholding the snapshot but wanting the duke’s full acquiescence anyway. Victor walked across the room, his hand held out for the photograph. Roland slid the snapshot into his father’s hand and waited with Raphael to take in his mother’s response. Victor delivered the photo gently and stood awaiting his wife’s reaction. Sara cupped the likeness in her hand and studied it for a long while.

“She’s very beautiful,” the duchess said at last, “and every inch a Thorton.” She looked up at the assembled group and asked, “Who could do this, kidnap an innocent young woman and hold her for ransom?”

The atmosphere in the room changed somehow, coalesced with a fresh, strong sense of purpose. They were banded together as a family in that moment, united in support of their own, as they never had been before. His mother might not have forgiven her husband’s long-ago infidelity, but she had accepted his secret daughter as one of the family. Roland felt an almost overwhelming sense of pride. Victor clasped both hands behind his back and lifted his chin regally.

“Enemies are the price of ruling,” he said. “We are not without ours.”

Grayson shrugged. “I would categorize most as rivals, rather than true enemies.”

“Rivals and enemies,” Victor mused, eyes narrowing. “Charles Montague.” He turned his head to impale his youngest son with a sharp gaze. “The shipping contract. You met privately with the Deputy Minister this morning. The ransom note had already been delivered.”

Roland nodded, thinking it through. “The note doesn’t mention money, only that you are to follow instructions. It could be that, not knowing the matter is already resolved, Charles Montague means to force you to withdraw your bid. But why? He’s never gone to such lengths before.”

Victor shook his head. “I was so sure Raphael’s marriage to Elizabeth would weigh in our favor.” He looked up suddenly. “And who is to say that Montague wouldn’t assume the same? It’s reasonable that a son-in-law’s interests would supercede diplomatic ones in this case. Montague might have assumed that he needed an upper hand in the negotiations. He could have discovered the girl accidentally and had her kidnapped in an effort to force us to back out of negotiations.”

Raphael shook his head. “The contract’s just not that important.”

“Isn’t it?” Victor demanded. “Just what is honor worth in this world then?”

Roland didn’t agree that the shipping contract was a matter of honor, but he saw no reason to argue the point. What mattered was that Charles Montague seemed to think the same way that Victor did about the issue. Roland stroked his chin thoughtfully. “I don’t know. It’s possible. After all, no one expected the decision to be made so quickly, and the Deputy Minister did preface all his remarks with the statement that King Phillip wanted to inform us of his decision first out of familial consideration.”

Rafe nodded, conceding the point. “That makes sense. Montague still might not know that Phillip has made his decision.”

“The note was delivered before last night’s celebrations,” Grayson pointed out. “The Wyndhams’ social secretary discovered it and gave it directly to the Grand Duke.”

“Montague couldn’t have known that he’d won the contract then,” Roland said.

“My marriage to Elizabeth might have led him to believe that Thortonburg had the edge and pushed him into action,” Rafe mused.

“It must be Montague!” Victor exclaimed, launching to his feet.

“It does bear investigating,” Grayson said carefully, “but we have to play this one close to the vest. The fewer who know what is going on the better.”

Suddenly Roland knew exactly who could accomplish the task of investigating the Montagues. He had played his role in the Thortonburg ruling family in relative obscurity. Never the heir, he was ignored by most in the upper echelons of government. He’d made sure to keep himself out of the papers and off the news. Moreover, the enmity between the Montagues and the Thortons had insured that a certain distance was kept by the families.

“We need someone inside Roxbury,” Grayson continued, “someone who can get close to the Montagues, someone utterly trustworthy who knows what he’s about and can make himself invisible.”

Victor nodded and asked of Grayson, “Do you have anyone in mind?”

Lance Grayson looked to Roland, saying, “Not exactly, but I think your son might.”

Victor looked at Roland in surprise. “Who?”

Roland, coldly purposeful, kept his smile tight and said, “Me.”

For an instant, just an instant, he expected praise to fall from his father’s lips, but in the end Victor reverted to type and snapped, “Don’t be absurd. A son of the royal house of Thortonburg?”

“Now, wait a minute,” Rafe said, raising his voice slightly. “Who could be more trustworthy?”

“And Roland has kept a low profile,” Grayson pointed out.

“The only Montague who’s ever laid eyes on me, except at a very great distance, is Damon, and the last time was years ago.”

“But the Thortons are very distinctive, dear,” Sara pointed out.

“In ceremonial dress, yes, but in jeans, boots and a cowboy hat, no one in Roxbury will know me from Adam.”

“You expect to just walk right into the manor and start asking questions?” Victor demanded.

Roland bit back an irate retort. He’d learned long ago that he got farther with his autocratic parent if he applied cold logic. “I expect to find a job somewhere on the place, possibly the stables. I’ve no doubt the Montagues have as much difficulty finding good help in that area as we do.”

Victor gave him a blank look, and Roland smiled inwardly. Victor was the last person to know about the difficulties of finding good help. He had others to take care of those small details of everyday life for him—and Roland was one of those others, especially when it came to an area of such intense personal interest for him as his horses.

Grayson was nodding. “It might work. It just might work, especially if you put in your first appearance in Roxbury before the festivities end.”

Rafe slapped Roland on the back. “Grayson is right. No one would expect a self-respecting royal to leave the party before it’s over.”

“You’ll be missed,” Sara worried aloud.

Roland smirked. “I haven’t been so far, Mother, not even by you, it would seem.”

“But you’ve been in attendance at every…” She broke off as Roland shook his head. “But you agreed…” When he shook his head again, she collapsed back against the sofa cushions in disgusted defeat.

“I agreed to accompany you and Father here to the festivities. I didn’t agree to take part in them myself.”

“But what have you been doing with yourself?” Victor demanded.

Raphael coughed to stifle a chuckle and said, “He’s been in the stables, I would imagine.”

Roland grinned at his astute brother. “Your father-in-law hasn’t anything to compare with Thorton stock, despite the size of his stable.”

Rafe clapped an arm around Roland’s shoulders. “I say Roland gets this assignment.”

“I agree,” Grayson seconded.

Victor studied Roland for a moment, then nodded his head sharply. “All right. Roland is our man in Roxbury. Grayson investigates Maribelle and coordinates the operation.”

“What about me?” Rafe asked.

Victor sighed. “You and I will quietly set about freeing up some of our assets. Whoever the blackguard is behind this, he’ll be asking for money, if only to throw us off the track and hide his real identity now that the shipping contract is settled. If all else fails, we’ll pay his bloody ransom.”

“And bring that poor girl home,” Sara added firmly.

The men shared a look among themselves, agreeing in silence not to mention the very real possibility to Sara that, even with the ransom in hand, the kidnapper might still be willing to rid him or herself of witnesses, most especially the victim. But they weren’t about to let that happen, not to a Thorton.

“Don’t worry, my lady,” Grayson said. “Whoever she is, we’ll get to the bottom of this.”

“If she’s our sister,” Raphael began.

“We’ll bring her home,” Roland added.

“Where she belongs,” Victor finished implacably.

For the first time, it seemed, the Thorton men were of one mind and one purpose. Shipping contracts and ceremony be damned. This was family. This was real. And Roland sensed that it was going to change them all.

Chapter Two

Roland stood atop a grassy knoll in the soft light of this spring morning, listening to the sound of his horse cropping the rich fodder beside him, and staring at the centuries-old seat of the Montague family. The island nation of Roxbury itself was smaller than its neighbors, but the house in the distance was, in fact, nothing short of a castle. Built in the Austrian style, it was a rambling confection spun of salt-white stone, complete with turrets and an apron wall that was once part of significant fortifications. The outer wall with its cannon platforms had been torn down long ago, leaving a nearly unobstructed view of the castle itself from this vantage point.

Roland shook his head. The castle was a beautiful sight, but he was not concerned with aesthetics. It was the sheer size of the place, the number of rooms that troubled him. A hostage could be hidden in any of several dozen places within those walls, but instinct told him that none was.

In the three days he had been here, he’d asked for and received an “insider’s” tour of the castle from an accommodating maid, and he had carefully, casually questioned the staff about the possibility of an incognito guest on the premises. His questions had aroused no apparent interest or discomfort. If his sister was being held by the Montagues, it was not, apparently, here.

His sister. Roland marveled that his stiff, autocratic, duty-bound father had, for once in his life, surrendered to the temptations of normal human frailty. He marveled at the growing sense of affiliation and affection that he himself felt for a woman he had never met, whose very existence had been unknown to him until a few short days ago. It was as if he knew her on some elemental level, as if she had always been there, a part of him that he had only recently identified. And he was worried for her. Was she safe? Frightened? Lonely? Did she know that someone, anyone, cared? Had she any hope of rescue?

A movement in the outer yard caught his eye, and he focused there for a moment. Someone had come—several someones by the looks of things. A number of cars were parked in the carriage niches built into the apron wall. He had heard nothing from his room atop the stables last night, but the party must have arrived then. He’d been up with the dawn, and no one had arrived since then. Indeed, the household was only beginning to awaken now. After resetting his worn, dingy gray felt cowboy hat so that it rode lower on his forehead, he mounted the big bay gelding he’d chosen to exercise that morning and kicked into a gallop. As Rollie, newly hired stablehand and ostler, his absence would be noted soon.

He walked the bay into the stable some ten minutes later to find Jock Browning, the stable master, hitching his suspenders over his shoulder with one hand and gesturing to a pair of stirrup boys with a buttered croissant held in the other. A short, bow-legged man in his fifties with wild, graying brown hair and dark-brown eyes, Jock was a true horseman, and he had claimed to recognize a kindred spirit in Rollie Thomas, stable hand. Roland couldn’t help wondering if he’d feel the same way about Roland George Albert Thomas Thorton of the royal house of Thortonburg. Jock turned at the sound of Roland’s mount on the cobblestones and called, “We’ve a busy morning here, boyo. Unless he’s lathered, leave that one saddled in the near stall and come give a hand.”

Roland led the bay inside the stall and looped the reins around the holding cleat, then produced an apple core from his pocket, a remnant of his own meager breakfast, as a treat. With the horse munching contentedly, he went out to receive his working orders.

“What’s up, Jock?”

“Eh, the prince and princess arrived last night with a pack of good-timers in tow, and Prince Damon sent word that they’d be riding early this morning, fifteen to twenty of them.”

Roland whistled, suitably impressed, he hoped, for Jock’s satisfaction. “That’ll take just about every head of stock on hand.”

Jock nodded and bit off a huge chunk of his croissant. After chewing energetically for a few moments, Jock said, “We’ll saddle ’em all ’cept the palomino, the blood bay and the dun stallion.”

Roland nodded. The pale-golden horse with the ivory mane and tail was only newly broken to the saddle. An animal of uncertain temperament, the sleek mare had not yet been given a name, a privilege meant for Princess Lillian, daughter of the house, though it was said she never actually rode. Roland had worked with the animal for a few minutes the day before and judged the mare to be a prime piece of horseflesh. With an almost regal bearing, the horse had the kind of fortitude and intelligence necessary for intense training, perhaps in steeplechase, though he’d yet to see the palomino truly put through its paces.

“Good thing I oiled all that tack yesterday,” he said, hurrying to pull saddles and bridles from the tack room.

“Oh, Rollie,” Jock called as the younger man moved away, “there’s a huge pile of cook’s croissants and a fresh pot of coffee in my office there. Snag what ye can afore ye start, eh?”

“Will do.”

But he didn’t. The merrymakers began pouring from the house only moments later, spirits and voices high. Roland recognized several of those in attendance, as well as the atmosphere. Sometimes celebrants, particularly those with little else to occupy them, were reluctant to let the festivities end. This lot had obviously followed the Montagues home in order to prolong the party after the week-long coronation celebration in Wynborough. Roland was careful to keep his hat pulled low and his manner deferential as he rigged one horse after another and threw riders into saddles with interlocked hands forming a mounting stirrup.

Damon Montague, to Roland’s surprise, strode into the stable smiling and promptly saddled his own mount without waiting for help. He then cantered out alone, leaving behind a trio of petulant young women who had been hanging on him and obviously trying to fix his interest. Roland had to chuckle, knowing full well how Damon felt. Nothing put a determined woman on the hunt like a title and a fortune held by a single, eligible man. According to the servants’ gossip, the Montague parents were matchmaking, throwing young women at their widowed son’s head with all the finesse of a cannonade. Roland was thankful that his own status as younger son and his parents’ apparent preoccupation with other matters had spared him a similar fate. The last thing he wanted at this point in his life was a wife.

More than an hour had passed before Roland was able to make his way to Jock’s office and help himself to croissants and coffee. After finishing his cup, he picked up a final croissant and wandered back out into the stable. He just stood there, soaking in the atmosphere and enjoying the unabashed freedom of eating with his hands, when a cooing sound alerted him that he was not alone. Turning, he opened his mouth to take a bite of the flaky pastry, only to freeze at the sight of a pair of firm, well-rounded buttocks perched atop the gate to the palomino’s stall.

The rump was definitely feminine, and clothed, not in tan, English-style riding breeches, but soft, faded denim. Roland tilted his head, taking in the slender legs and small, booted feet that were perched on a slat in the gate a good foot above the flagged floor. Whoever she was, she was small, but definitely not a child. No, that was a very womanly rump. She straightened suddenly, a bright, golden ponytail swinging between her shoulder blades as she teetered on the rail. Correction, that was a very womanly rump attached to a very womanly body with a tiny, nipped-in waist and slender, longish limbs, despite a diminutive stature.

Roland dropped his croissant and strode forward, catching her about the waist and setting her feet on the floor. She jerked around, eyes wide. Colors danced and sparked in those hazel eyes: blue, green, auburn, gold. They were framed by thick, dark-gold lashes and set off with sleek, matching brows that arched only slightly. Drawing back mentally, he widened his gaze to take in her whole face. Her forehead was high and wide, her nose aquiline and a tad more prominent than classical, her mouth a plump, rosy bow. The bone structure was strong, cheeks, jaw and chin definitely delineated. It was an intelligent face, amazingly unique, quite compelling and unusually lovely.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he countered. “That horse is not fully broken. It’s off-limits.”

She yanked her hand from beneath his and brought both free hands to her hips. His gaze dropped to her breasts. Yes, indeed, all woman.

“Who says?” she demanded.

He blinked, searching his mind for the proper reference for that question, and finally found it. “Jock says. He’s—”

“The stable master, yes.” She folded her arms, and a moment later he fought to bring his gaze up from her breasts again. “And who are you?”

He doffed his hat and made her an elaborate bow. “Rollie Thomas, new stable hand.”

“Well, Mr. Thomas, this horse is a special interest of mine,” she informed him coolly.

He grinned unrepentantly. “The name’s Rollie. And who might you be?”

Those amazing eyes grew wide again, but in the next instant her hauteur softened. “I’m, er, Lily.”

“Lily?” Why did that name sound familiar? “Well, Lily,” he said smoothly, aware that his voice had dropped to a silky rumble, “I’m sure the palomino appreciates the sentiment. I should certainly like to be a special interest of yours. However, I’ve been given instructions that the horse is off-limits to everyone but the princess and—” Frowning, he stared at her. “Lily, that’s the princess’s name, isn’t it?”

She smirked and rolled her eyes. “Hardly. Her name is Lillian.” Imbued with all the importance of royalty, the name took on a whole new sound than the one in his head.

“Ah.” Of course. Roland was royalty. Rollie was a stable hand. Likewise, Lillian was a princess. So what was Lily? “I take it you’re a guest. If you’d like a mount, I could saddle—”

“You take it wrong, Mr. Thomas. I am a resident.”

His eyes narrowed, sensing something here, something that might turn out to be useful. “Is that so?”

“It is.”

“Just, um, what is it that you do around here, if you don’t mind my asking?”

She shrugged. “Ladies, um, that is, ladies’ maids do whatever is required of them.”

“Including hanging out in the stables?” he queried doubtfully, lifting his eyebrows.

She grinned. “Not just hanging out, working, and if I had my way, it’d be permanent. As it is, I can only get away so often, but thankfully Jock indulges me.”

Roland leaned his forearms against the top rail of the gate and deliberately let his smile take on a flirtatious air. This assignment was suddenly having unforeseen bonuses. “Like the horses, do you?” he asked conversationally.

She mimicked his stance, stepping up on the bottom rung in order to do so. “Very much.”

“Me, too. You must be pretty good if Jock lets you work the stock.”

Her smile literally sparkled. “I like to think so. You must be pretty good yourself, for Jock to have hired you.”

He chuckled. “The old man knows his stuff, doesn’t he?”

“He’s the best,” she confirmed. The horse nickered and shifted in the stall. “What’s the matter, baby?” she crooned. “Not getting enough attention? Come here. Come on. Come around here.”

Roland watched, surprised, as the horse circled inside the box and ambled forward, coaxed by Lily’s clucking tongue and cooing voice.

“That’s my good girl,” Lily sang, leaning forward to let the horse take her scent. She did not reach out her hand, not yet. “Whatever are we going to call you?” she murmured. “Sunshine? Goldie? Buttercup?”

Roland wrinkled his nose at the flowery names. “I thought Princess Lillian was to name her.”

Lily shot him a sideways glance. “Hmm, she is.” Lily leaned his way, confiding softly, “Between you and me, however, she’ll need some help.”

“Not too bright, is she?” he whispered, sidling closer.

Something flashed in her eyes, a spark of loyalty, perhaps. “Just…boring,” she said finally.

“Unimaginative?” he prodded, liking the defensiveness that came into her posture. What good was a family retainer without some loyalty and affection for the family?

“Constrained,” she corrected.

Now that he could understand. He nodded slowly. “Well, I hope she foregoes the pretty monikers. This lady deserves a strong name, something that reflects her spirit and value.”

Lily considered that a moment, then turned her head to look at him. “What would you suggest?”

He shrugged, and the word just popped out of his mouth. “Doubloon.” Inwardly, he winced. This pirate thing seemed to have taken him over lately. Lily, however, inclined her head.

“That’s good. Doubloon. The gold Spanish treasure coin. I like that. I’ll pass it on.”

He smiled. “As long as you like it, that’s satisfaction enough for me.”

She measured him with a blatant look, then turned to hook an elbow over the top of the gate. “You’re very forward.”

“You’re very beautiful,” he shot back.

Her face pinched into a frown, but he caught the flare of pleasure in her eyes and dared her with his gaze to deny it. Suddenly she burst out with a laugh. “Well, it’s not original as compliments go, but the delivery was excellent. I think it deserves at least a standard reply.” She nodded her head. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

He braced his elbows against the top of the gate, lifted his fists together and propped his chin atop them, waiting for her to choose the next step. She didn’t disappoint him.

“What are you doing for the next little while?”

He straightened, kept his smile firmly locked away, and spread his hands. “Jock hasn’t said yet. We were going to exercise the stock, but the riding party has taken care of that.”

She hopped down off the gate, saying, “Let’s put the Lady Doubloon through her paces. What do you say?”

He shouldn’t. He knew without a doubt that it wasn’t up to him to make such decisions, but he did it anyway. After all, she was a rich potential source of information, and if Jock “indulged” her interest in horses, she must be good. He lifted the latch on the gate. “Do you really think the princess will go for that name?”

Lily smiled. “I have a little influence.”

“Oh?”

“I happen to know her personal maid.”

Chuckling, he opened the gate. A rich source of information, indeed, and quite, quite lovely.

He was really quite handsome, Lily mused to herself. Though fairly tall—right at six feet, she judged—he did not overwhelm as her brother Damon did. Wiry but solid, he gave the impression of strength, both physically and mentally. And he didn’t have the slightest clue who she really was, though there had been a moment when she feared he had tumbled onto the truth. Those in the stables who were aware of her identity were under strict orders to keep the information to themselves, so she had no fear that he would discover the truth that way. No doubt, it was unfair to mislead him. In fact, it was probably unwise, but she just couldn’t help indulging herself a little. She grew so tired of the sycophants, the hangers-on who could never for a single instant forget who and what she was.

Sometimes she wanted to scream that she was a woman, a flesh-and-blood human being, but she doubted the humanity of those who surrounded her, those of her own social set. They simply wouldn’t understand. Rollie, however, seemed sublimely human. What could it hurt if she indulged herself for a little while in something called “normalcy”?

Rollie led the newly christened Lady Doubloon into the working pen, and turned her loose. Lily bit back an order to secure the animal while Rollie went to the tack room for saddle, pads and bridle. He returned to hang the gear over the fence and rub his hands together eagerly.

“Ready?”

“Are you going to catch her again?”

“No.” He shook his head. “That wouldn’t serve any purpose. I’m going to make her come to me.”

“You’re what?”

He pushed his hat back and brought his hands to his lean hips. “Watch and learn, sweetheart. From over there by the fence, if you please.”

Reminding herself that she was not the princess just now, Lily bit her tongue and did as she was told. Rollie went down on his haunches, hung his hands off his knees and puffed a blustering breath, bowing his head slightly so that he looked up at the horse from beneath his brow. His hair had seemed black in the shadows of the stable. Here in the sunlight Lily realized that the hair scraped back from his even hairline by the band of his hat was the color of dark chocolate.

She studied his face while he concentrated on the horse. Long and lean, with a squared-off chin and boxy jaw shadowed with a murky beard over dark golden skin, it was a distinctive face full of strong features. His mouth was wide and thin but neatly sculpted, his nose somewhat sharp with a slight bump just where it parted his straight, thick brows. The vibrant-blue eyes set deeply beneath those brows had proven both compelling and oddly unfathomable. She admired the breadth of his shoulders and the long, wiry length of his arms ending in big, squarish palms and long, tapering fingers. His booted feet were large; his legs long, powerful coils beneath him, despite his apparent ease as he crouched before the horse.

To Lily’s surprise, the palomino suddenly swung her head wildly and pranced her front hooves. Rollie slid his arms to his sides, hunched his shoulders and bowed his head. After a moment, he slowly looked up again, a smile dancing in his deep-blue eyes. For some reason, Lily found herself holding her breath. Just when she’d decided that she was an idiot for doing so, the horse moved. Head bowed, it ambled over to where Rollie patiently waited and snuffled his hair, knocking off his hat. Rollie chuckled and lifted a hand to rub a flicking ear. For several delightful moments, the horse snuffled as Rollie rubbed his face and hands over its massive head and neck. Then slowly Rollie rose to his full height, careful to keep an arm lightly about the horse’s neck.

Lady Doubloon tolerated this familiarity for some time before cantering off around the corral, playfully kicking up her heels and tossing her starlight-pale mane. She swept by Rollie repeatedly, coming closer and closer. Other than retrieving his hat, Rollie stood his ground, letting the mare brush him as he laughingly avoided her hooves by shuffling his feet. Eventually, the horse cantered to a stop, hooves cutting grooves in the soft soil of the corral. Sides heaving, she blew into Rollie’s palm. He ruffled her mane and hugged her, while Lily simply marveled.

Long minutes later, Rollie turned and walked calmly toward Lily and the tack spread out on the fence. Lady Doubloon fell into step beside him, for all the world like a friend out for a stroll.

“Get down,” Rollie said to Lily. “Bow your head like I did.”

Lily did as instructed, sinking down onto her haunches. After several moments, she felt the horse nosing, and then lipping, her ponytail. Rollie quietly instructed her, when to lift her hand, how to return Lady Doubloon’s curious caresses. They were well known to each other, she and Lady Doubloon, and it didn’t take long to establish what Lily could only call a firm friendship.

The saddle went on first, but was not cinched until Rollie deemed Lady Doubloon to be in agreement. When Lily pushed the bit between her teeth, the horse offered no resistance whatsoever.

“I’ll take a seat first, if you don’t mind,” Rollie said, having adjusted the stirrups. Before Lily could answer, he swung up into the saddle, clearly not used to being gain-said, despite the polite phrasing. He simply sat for a while, making himself comfortable in the saddle, before reaching for the reins, but even then he held the horse still. After some time, he got down again and began shortening the stirrups. “Your turn,” he informed her.

Lily mimicked his behavior. She’d been on Lady Doubloon’s back before, but the mare hadn’t exactly been thrilled about it. This time, the horse seemed not only willing but eager.

“She’s ready,” Rollie said. “Take it slow and announce your intentions first.”

“Announce my intentions?” Lily echoed.

He squinted up at her. “Just keep it simple. When you want to go, say so before you touch your heels to her flanks.”

“I suppose you think she’ll understand me,” Lily quipped.

“She will eventually,” he replied lightly, stationing himself at Lily’s knee.

Considering all she had just seen, Lily was not inclined to argue. She picked up the reins and said, “Let’s go, girl.”

When she touched her heels to Doubloon’s flanks, Rollie instantly stepped off. A split second later, the horse stepped off, too.

“Left,” Lily announced, and just as she laid the rein against Lady Doubloon’s neck, Rollie turned. The horse followed smoothly. This went on for some time, until the horse balked, at which point Rollie turned to caress her head, speaking softly.

“Now, now, in for a penny, in for a pound, my lady. We’ve begun work here, and if you’re to become the splendid mount I know you can be, you must learn to obey loyally and promptly. Otherwise, you’re just a pretty hobby, not even a good pet, and you’re much too intelligent and beautiful for either.” He looked up at Lily, then stepped back and folded his arms. “Again, with a bit more authority, if you please.”

Lily repeated her command. To her surprise, Rollie stood still, but the horse performed instantly and flawlessly. When the animal balked again a few moments later, Rollie instructed Lily to “talk her into it.” Lily leaned forward and spoke into the horse’s ear while repeating her command action. Lady Doubloon flicked an ear, huffed, and reluctantly did as she was bidden. Rollie called a halt soon after.

Together, Lily and Rollie unsaddled and groomed the mare in her stall. All the while, Rollie heaped praise and affection on the animal. Finally, he treated the preening mare with a fistful of oats and a small piece of honeycomb, which he explained he liked to keep on hand for a special reward. When they left the stall, Lady Doubloon surprised Lily by trying to follow them. Rollie moved her back into the stall and closed the gate, saying, “Stay back. You’ve earned a rest, my love. I’ll come round and check on you later, and the three of us will get together again soon. Goodbye for now.” He rubbed the big golden head and gently tugged at the pale forelock.

Lily took her own leave in much the same way, murmuring, “Goodbye, Lady Doubloon, and thank you.”

The horse huffed at them as they walked away.

“There’s coffee in the office,” Rollie said. “Have you time for a cup?”

“Yes, of course.”

He slid her a quick look. “I suppose your mistress is out on the ride.”

“Er, not exactly.”

“No?” He pushed the office door back, allowing her to pass through the opening before him. “Just who is your lady?”

Lily wrinkled her nose and considered the lie carefully, finally deciding to get as close to the truth as possible. “I answer to the princess.”

He lifted a brow at that and turned away to toss his hat onto the desk and fill two waxed paper cups with the strong, black brew left warming on an electric burner positioned on a rolling cart. Only at the last moment did he pause. “We have hot water if you prefer tea.”

She shook her head, smiling. “I’m used to Jock’s coffee.”

He handed over the cups and leaned back against the battered desk while Lily took one of the equally battered chairs in front of it. A small leather sofa had been shoved up against the wall between a narrow bookcase and the door. A small barrel used as a footstool sat to one side. Dusty magazines and well-used books were piled together with various trophies and some detritus on the bookcase. A file cabinet in the corner behind the desk was overflowing with papers. A computer arranged on a narrow table against the wall blinked mistily from behind a plastic cover.

The coffee was bitter, but Lily did not complain. Rollie fairly chugged his, drinking it down in big gulps. She suspected that he probably drank too much of the stuff.

“That was amazing, what you did out there,” she told him honestly. “Where did you learn such things?”

“America. It’s a technique used in the northwest there.”

“You’ve traveled then?”

He nodded. “Some. You?”

“Of course.”

He smiled. “Ah, yes. A princess cannot be without her maid.”

She smiled, too. “Just so.”

He crossed his feet at the ankles and folded his arms. “Tell me, does the princess have any unusual guests just now?”

“Unusual?” Lily echoed, stiffening. “Whatever do you mean?”

He waved a hand negligently. “I was just wondering if the lot that came through here this morning are the usual faces seen around the princess and her brother, or if perhaps a more reticent guest might be in residence.”

Lily stood up, feeling a distinct unease. “These are odd questions.”

“Are they? I didn’t realize. I’m just curious.”

“About the guests?”

He shrugged negligently. “It pays to know such things. As a servant yourself, you must realize that certain types of knowledge are essential to anticipating your employer’s needs—and those of her guests, of course.”

She carried her cup to the one small, dusty window at the end of the room and pretended to gaze out at the lushly rolling landscape. “The lot that came through here this morning are the usual crew,” she said lightly, “with the exception of a trio of young women in whom the prince’s mother is trying to interest him.”

Rollie chuckled. “Matchmaking mamas, one of the most formidable forces on earth. From what I saw this morning, she has her work cut out for her, though.”

Lily turned to face the room again, smiling. “He calls them the unholy trinity.”

“Does he?”

She nodded. “He doesn’t want to be in love again. It’s too painful for him, after losing his wife and child a little over a year ago.”

Rollie sent her a strange look, something snapping in the mysterious depths of those blue eyes. “You sound as if you know Prince Damon rather well.”

Oops. She glanced down at her cup, gathering her thoughts. “He and his sister are quite close. One absorbs certain knowledge just from being around.”

“His mother doesn’t seem to have absorbed that knowledge.”

Lily wrinkled her nose. “She thinks that he’ll get over his loss more easily if he fixes his interest, and, of course, there is the succession to secure.”

“Of course.”

He was still looking at her oddly, that mysterious glint in his eye. “Tell me something,” he said smoothly. “In your opinion, are the Montagues capable of acting, shall we say, unlawfully?”

She rocked back on her heels. “No! Why would you even ask such a thing?”

He shrugged. “I like to know who I’m working for, what to expect of them.”

“I find your question insulting,” she informed him with a tilt of her chin.

“Oh? Why is that?”

Why, indeed? She turned away, thinking quickly, and finally said, “I know the Montagues. I grew up around them. They can be fierce when one of their own is threatened.”

“Ruthless?” he interjected.

She turned once more to meet his gaze levelly. “Yes, ruthless, when need be, but not malicious, never that.”

He smiled, and something about it made her think that he didn’t quite believe her. “The princess is fortunate to have you,” he said silkily. “Such loyalty speaks well for both of you.”

Lily lifted her chin a notch higher. “The princess needs no one to speak for her,” she said smartly. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to the castle.”

She circled the desk, placing her partially filled coffee cup in the trash can next to the cart. He shifted as she strode past him and shot out a hand, clamping it around her wrist.

“When will I see you again?” he asked softly.

She stared at his hand, stunned by the weight and heat of it, only belatedly realizing that his grip was gentle, unthreatening. Carefully, she rotated her wrist, freeing it. “I really couldn’t say,” she murmured, and swept from the room. She didn’t slow down until she had cleared the tunneled archway through which she had entered the stables.

What a disturbing man he was, disturbing but compelling. And real. Perhaps more real than anyone she’d ever known before. How odd that was, to feel as if life was somehow more vibrant, more intense in him. He made her feel as if she had been hibernating, living half-awake. What he had done with that horse! She shivered and remembered the unsettling warmth of his hand. If she was wise, she would steer clear of Rollie Thomas. But for the first time in a very, very long time, she wasn’t sure that the wisest course was the course she was going to take.

Chapter Three

Lily had scarcely cleared the door before Jock filled it. Wondering how much he’d overheard, Roland leaned back against the edge of the desk once more and folded his arms.

“Keeping yourself busy are you, boyo?” Jock said, holding his gaze level.

Roland shrugged. “Trying to. Where have you been? I expected—”

“What were you doing with Lily?” the old man demanded, and Roland had to tamp down his natural inclination to give rather than take orders. Reminding himself that he needed this job at least until the Montagues had been cleared as his sister’s kidnappers, he swallowed down a sharp retort and took a deep breath.

“Just chatting. Why do you ask?”

“Lily’s a special lass, due respect.”

Roland bit back an angry answer and managed to keep his voice light and level. “Are you implying that I would treat the woman—any woman—with less than respect?”

“You tell me.”

“If I have to do that, Jock, then you’re not nearly as insightful as I’ve given you credit for being.”

Jock pursed his lips, conceding nothing. “Has anyone ever told you that you speak like a college-educated man?”

“And you speak like an Irish curmudgeon,” Roland returned smoothly.

“About Lily,” Jock pressed.

Roland sighed inwardly. He was unused to explaining himself to anyone but his father. “We worked the palomino,” he explained. “Lily assured me that she is allowed to deal with the animal.”

“Aye. Go on.”

“She’s very good,” Roland said.

“As if I didn’t know,” Jock retorted.

“She’s determined to see the mare named Lady Doubloon. I warned her that the princess has the privilege of choosing, but as I said, Lily is determined.”

“Determined?” Jock repeated, sounding mildly amused.

Roland nodded. “She seems to think she has some influence with her mistress.”

“Oh, aye,” Jock mumbled, rubbing his chin.

“Lily says the princess will listen to her,” Roland went on, intent on putting Jock’s suspicions to rest. “She says the princess needs help with such things, that she’s ‘boring’ and ‘constrained.”’

“Does she now?” Jock said, inclining his head as a small grin twisted his fat lips. “Constrained, aye. Boring, never.”

“Do you think Lily can convince her to name the mare Lady Doubloon?”

“Without a doubt.”

Roland nodded, having talked himself in a circle. A change of subject was in order. “Is the riding party returning?”

“Oh, aye, eventually, I dare say,” was the reply. Jock folded his arms and looked up at him, not in the least intimidated by Roland’s superior height and size. “Now why don’t you tell me what you have planned for our Lily?”

Roland folded his own arms, mimicking the stable master’s stance. “Planned?” He scoffed at the very notion. “I haven’t planned anything for Lily. I only met her this morning.”

“She’s a bonny lass, is our Lily,” Jock said warningly.

Roland chuckled mirthlessly. “So I noticed.”

“Aye, and that’s what troubles me.”

Exasperation got the better of Roland. He brought his hands to his waist. “For pity’s sake, Jock, I can’t be the first man to have noticed that she’s a beautiful woman.”

“Not at all,” Jock admitted. “But you’re the first man she’s noticed in many a day.”

Roland’s brows rose high. “Is that so?”

“Aye, that’s so,” Jock growled, “and I’m warning you now, lad, much as I like you, if you hurt our Lily, I’ll come for you with hammer and tongs.”

“You and who else, old man?” Roland challenged.

“You might be surprised,” Jock said, and then he pulled himself up to his full height, such as it was. His round belly lifted, and his twill pants threatened to droop dangerously. Jock hitched them up with both hands. “Well, now that you’ve been warned, you’ll go careful, I expect.”

“Are you telling me to stay away from her?” Roland demanded, not at all liking the idea.

“Now would I do that?” Jock sounded shocked at the very notion. “I merely asked you to step easy, not to hurt her.”

Roland opened his mouth—and closed it again. How was he supposed to argue with that? Demanding he not see Lily and asking him merely not to hurt her were two very different things, after all. Roland looked at his feet and cleared his throat. “I don’t have any problem with that,” he said.

“Well, now, I didn’t really think you would,” Jock replied.

Roland lifted a hand to the back of his neck. “Listen, what’s going on with this Lily/Lillian thing? Since when do princesses share names with their maids?”

Jock rubbed his stubbled chin and said, “Naming a child after a princess is an act of respect, laddie, don’t you think?”

“Mmm, I suppose so. I wonder if the princess doesn’t mind, though.”

“And why should she?”

“Frankly, I suspect the princess can’t hold a light to Lily,” Roland muttered.

“You think not?” Jock mused.

“Lily’s not just beautiful, Jock. She has a gift with the horses.”

“Aye, I know it well.”

“What about the princess?”

Jock seemed to consider a moment. “Well, she considers herself something of a horsewoman, and she can sit a saddle as pretty as any, but I doubt we’ll be seeing her much around here.”