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,
