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“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.
