“Make a sound and we’re both dead.”

A scream caught in her throat as she was grabbed from behind. A hand clamped over her mouth as a strong arm circled her waist tightly and she was dragged back through the dark velvet drapery to slam against the rock-hard body of the man.

A man Rory had now known intimately. Being this close to the groomsman again, she suddenly felt things she didn’t want to feel – especially when she was terrified they’d be caught redhanded breaking and entering, in a compromising position no less!

His breath tickled her ear. His body, so close she could feel way too much of him. She shivered and he drew her even tighter against him as if to keep her warm. The gesture touched her. Until she reminded herself that the man was holding her captive behind the drapes in the royal quarters – and, like her, he apparently had no business here.

Available in May 2010 from Mills & Boon® Intrigue

More Than a Man

by Rebecca York

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5 Minutes to Marriage

by Carla Cassidy

His Personal Mission

by Justine Davis

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Platinum Cowboy

by Rita Herron

Pull of the Moon

by Sylvie Kurtz

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Royal Protocol

by Dana Marton

Montana Royalty

by BJ Daniels

Touch of the Wolf

by Karen Whiddon

Sentinels: Wolf Hunt

by Doranna Durgin

Montana Royalty

By

BJ Daniels

www.millsandboon.co.uk

BJ Daniels wrote her first book after a career as an award-winning newspaper journalist and author of thirty-seven published short stories. Since then she has won numerous awards, including a career achievement award for romantic suspense, and received many nominations and awards for best book.

BJ lives in Montana with her husband, Parker, and two springer spaniels, Spot and Jem. When she isn’t writing, she snowboards, camps, boats and plays tennis. She is a member of Mystery Writers of America, Sisters in Crime, Thriller Writers, Kiss of Death and Romance Writers of America.

To contact her, write to BJ Daniels, PO Box 1173, Malta, MT 59538, USA or e-mail her at bjdaniels@mtintouch. net. Check out her web page at www.bjdaniels.com.

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Chapter One

The narrow slit of light between the partially closed bedroom curtains drew him through the shadowed pines.

He moved stealthily, the moonless darkness heavy as a cloak. The moment he’d seen the light, realized it came from her bedroom window, the curtains not quite closed, he’d been helpless to stop himself.

He’d always liked watching people when they didn’t know he was there. He saw things they didn’t want seen. He knew their dirty secrets.

Their secrets became his dirty little secrets.

But this was different.

The woman behind the curtains was Rory Buchanan.

He began to sweat as he neared the window even though the fall night was cold here in the mountains. The narrow shaft of light from between the curtains spilled out onto the ground. Teasing glimpses of her lured him on.

As he grew closer, he stuck the wire cutters he carried into his jacket pocket. His heart beat so hard he could barely steal a breath as he slowly stepped toward the forbidden.

The window was the perfect height. He closed his left eye, his right eye focusing on the room, on the woman.

Inside the bedroom, Rory folded a pair of jeans into one of the dresser drawers and closed the drawer, turning back toward the bed and the T-shirt she’d left lying on it.

He didn’t move, didn’t breathe—didn’t blink as she began to disrobe.

He couldn’t have moved even at gunpoint as he watched her pull the band from her ponytail, letting her chestnut hair fall to her shoulders.

She sighed, rubbing her neck with both hands, eyes closed. Wide green eyes fringed in dark lashes. He watched breathlessly as she dropped her hands to unbutton her jeans and let them drop to the floor.

Next, the Western shirt. Like her other shirts and the jackets she wore, it was too large for her, hid her body.

Anticipation had him breathing too hard. He tried to rein it in, afraid she would hear him and look toward the window. It scared him what he might do if she suddenly closed the curtains then. Or worse, saw him.

One shirt button, then another and another and the shirt fell back, dropping over her shoulders to the floor at her feet. She reached down to retrieve both items of clothing and hang them on the hook by the door before turning back in his direction.

He sucked in a breath and held it to keep from crying out. Her breasts were full and practically spilling out of the pretty pink lacy bra. The way she dressed, no one could have known.

She slid one bra strap from her shoulder, then the other. He could hear her humming now, but didn’t recognize the tune. She was totally distracted. He felt himself grow hard as stone as she unhooked the bra and her breasts were suddenly freed.

A moan escaped his throat. A low keening sound filled with lust and longing. He wanted her, had wanted her for years, would do anything to have her…

Instinctively, he took a step toward the back of the ranch house. Rory was alone. Her house miles from any others. Her door wouldn’t be locked. No one locked their doors in this part of Montana.

The sound of a vehicle engine froze him to the spot. He dropped to the ground behind the shrubs at the corner of the house as headlights bobbed through the pines. The vehicle came into view, slowed and turned around in the yard. Someone lost?

He couldn’t be caught here. He hesitated only a moment before he broke for the pines behind the house and ran through the woods to where he’d hidden his car.

As he slid behind the wheel, his adrenaline waned. He’d never done more than looked. Never even contemplated more than that.

But the others hadn’t been Rory Buchanan.

If that pickup hadn’t come down the road when it did…

The sick odor of fear and excitement filled the car. He rolled down his window, feeling weak and powerless and angry. Tonight, he could have had her—and on his terms. But at what cost, he thought as he reached for the key he’d left in the ignition of the patrol car, anxious to get back to Whitehorse.

He froze. The wire cutters. He didn’t feel their weight in his jacket pocket. His hand flew to the opening only to find the pocket empty.

Chapter Two

Rory Buchanan hunkered down in the dark beside the stables as six royal guards trooped past, all toting semiautomatic rifles.

To say she was in deep doo was an understatement. Not only was it now completely dark, but a storm had blown in. She felt the chill on the wind only moments before the first stinging drops of rain began to fall.

Shivering, she checked her watch. Earlier, she’d left her ranch with only a lightweight jacket, planning to return long before dark. The sky had been clear and blue, not a cloud in sight. But this was Montana, where it could snow—and did—in any month of the year.

According to her calculations the next set of guards wouldn’t come past for another three minutes. Fortunately, most of the grooms and trainers had left the stables, but she could still hear someone inside with the horses.

Rory waited until the guards disappeared into the dark before she made a run for the woods.

She’d never done anything like this in her life and hated to think what her parents would have said had they still been alive. But Rory doubted her new neighbors would be trying to take her ranch if her father were around.

A duke and duchess or prince and princess—she didn’t know or care which and wouldn’t know a duke from a drug lord and doubted anyone else in Montana would either—had bought up all the ranches around hers.

An emissary for the royals had been trying to buy her ranch, putting pressure on her to sell. Clearly they were rich and powerful and had built a palace with all its trapping just miles from her ranch.

Rory had turned down the first few offers, saying her ranch wasn’t for sale at any price. But the offers had kept coming, and just that morning she’d seen tracks again where someone had been snooping around her place.

The footprints in the dust definitely weren’t hers, and since she hadn’t had any male visitors for so long she couldn’t remember…

She didn’t even want to think about that.

Her mare was where she’d left her, hidden in the ponderosas. Retrieving her horse, Rory swung up into the saddle thinking maybe she would try to outrun the worst of the storm.

But she hadn’t gone fifty yards when the sky above the pines splintered in a blinding flash of lightning followed in a heartbeat by a boom of thunder. From over by the stables, she thought for a moment she saw a dark figure standing in the shadows watching her.

Her horse shied and she had to rein in the mare to keep her seat and the mare from taking off for home. When Rory looked toward the stables again, the figure was gone. Had the person gone back inside to call the guards?

With a shudder of both cold and fear, she pulled down her cowboy hat to the storm and took off at a gallop, praying she hadn’t been seen—and could get away.

Rain ran off the brim of her hat as she spurred her horse, racing toward her ranch. She regretted that she hadn’t even had the sense to grab a slicker earlier. It had been one of those beautiful fall Montana days, the stands of aspens glowing red-gold in the sunlight and the air smelling of the fallen leaves, while over the tops of the ponderosa pines, clouds floated in a sea of blue.

Lightning lit the western horizon ahead of her. She tightened the reins as thunder exploded so close it made the hair on her neck stand up. Glancing back, she could see the lights of Stanwood, a blur in the pouring rain, disappear. If she was being followed, she couldn’t tell.

Suddenly being caught by armed foreign soldiers didn’t seem as dangerous as trying to get to the ranch in this storm.

Better Safe Than Sorry had never been Rory Buchanan’s motto. But in this case, trying to get home in the storm and darkness was crazier than even she was normally. Especially when there was an old line shack just up the mountain in a grove of aspens.

The fact that the line shack was on royal property gave her a little pause. But she valued her neck and her horse’s more than she feared her neighbors at the moment. Not only was the line shack much closer than her ranch house, but also there was an old lean-to that would provide some shelter for her horse and get her out of the weather, as well.

She doubted the royal owners even knew the shack was there given the enormous amount of property they’d bought up around her. Just the thought forced a curse from her as she rode through the drowning rain and darkness to the shack.

Rory’s head was still swimming with the excessiveness she’d seen only miles from her century-old ranch house. The new owners had built a palace that would rival Montana’s capital. Behind it was a private airstrip, stables with an arena and a colony of small cottages and a dormitory that could house a small army—and apparently did given the number of armed soldiers she’d seen on the grounds.

Of course what had caught her eye were the horses. She’d watched a dozen grooms at least exercising the most beautiful horses she’d ever seen. She hated to think what even one of those horses might cost.

All that wealth and all these armed soldiers had her even more worried that her royal neighbors wouldn’t stop until they forced her off her ranch. That and the fact that someone had definitely been snooping around her place.

She’d always felt safe on the ranch.

Until recently.

Another burst of lightning splintered the dark horizon. Thunder ricocheted through the pines. A blinding flash of lightning exposed the line shack in eerie two-dimensional relief. Rory braced herself for the thunderous boom that wasn’t far behind. She hated storms worse than even the idea of spending a cold rainy night in a line shack. Her baby sister Brittany had disappeared on a night like this and just four years ago Rory’s parents had been killed in a blizzard on their way back to the ranch. It had come right after she’d graduated from college and had left her with no family and a ranch to run alone.

Dismounting, she hurriedly unsaddled her horse, hobbling the mare under the lean-to and out of the downpour.

Soaked to the skin, she carried her saddle and blanket into the shack, stomping her feet on the tiny wooden porch to make sure any critters living inside would know she was coming and hopefully evacuate the premises.

The shack was about ten feet by twelve and smelled musty, but as she stepped in out of the rain, she was glad to see that there didn’t seem to be anything else sharing the space with her.

It was warmer and drier inside, and she was thankful for both as she put down her saddle and slipped the still-dry horse blanket from under her arm to drop it on a worn spot on the floor next to the wall that appeared to have the least amount of dust.

Chilled, she had just started to strip off her soaked jean jacket when a flash of lightning shot through a crack in the chinking between several of the logs of the line shack, making her jump.

Outside, her horse whinnied as thunder rumbled across the mountaintop. She froze at the sound of an answering whinny from another horse nearby.

Drawing her wet jacket around her, she opened the door a crack and peered out.

A beautiful white horse with leopard spots stood in the trees below the shack. Rory caught the flash of silver from the expensive tack and saddle as lightning sliced through the darkened sky. The horse started, then bolted, taking off into the trees back the way Rory knew it had come.

She recognized the horse from earlier. A Knabstrup. She’d only read about the horses before she’d seen the groomers working with them at her royal neighbors’. Not surprising since the horses were originally from Germany—the Knabstrup breed having always been a symbol of the decadence of the aristocracy in Europe.

But where was the rider?

Rory swore as she turned back inside the shack to button her jacket and grab her hat, knowing even before she stepped into the pounding rain that the rider of the horse had been thrown and was probably lying in a puddle on the ground with his fool neck broken.

As much as she disliked storms—and the kind of neighbors who’d bought up half the county to build a palace in the middle of good pasture land that they wouldn’t live in for more than a few weeks a year, if that—Rory couldn’t let another human die just outside her door.

The temperature had dropped at an alarming rate, signaling an early snowstorm. Anyone left out in it was sure to freeze to death before morning.

“It would serve the danged fool right,” she muttered to herself as she stomped down the mountainside to where she’d seen the horse. “Who with any common sense would go out in this kind of weather?” Unless they were trespassing on their royal neighbors’ property, of course.

In a flash of lightning, she spotted the man lying in an open spot between the trees, surrounded by a bed of soft brown pine needles and a thick clump of huckleberry bushes, both of which, she hoped, had broken his fall.

She heard a groan as she neared, relieved he was alive. As he tried to sit up, she saw the blood on his forehead before the rain washed it down onto the white shirt and riding britches that he wore. He saw her and tried to struggle to his feet and failed.

“Easy,” she said as she dropped down next to him on the ground.

A lock of wet black hair had tumbled over his forehead. She brushed it back to check the source of the blood and found a small cut over his left eye. There was also a goose egg rising on his temple.

Neither looked fatal.

He turned his face up to her and blinked into the driving rain. His dark hair fell back and she saw the dazed look in his very dark blue eyes. His lips turned up in a ridiculous grin as those eyes locked with hers.

“A beautiful forest sprite has come to save me?”

A forest sprite?

Clearly he was either drunk or delirious. Maybe he’d hit his head harder than she thought. He had that odd accent like the others she’d seen at her royal neighbors’. As she leaned down to gaze into his eyes, lightning flashed around them and she was able to rule out a concussion.

“It is my lucky day, is it not?” From the smell of brandy on his warm breath and that goofy grin on his face, she’d say the man was tipsy.

Now that she saw he wasn’t badly hurt and was apparently intoxicated, she took some satisfaction in the fact that he’d been thrown from his fancy mount and immediately felt guilty for the uncharitable thought.

Her teeth chattered as she glanced around for his horse, wanting nothing more than to get out of the cold and rain. His horse had apparently hightailed it back to its expensive heated stables. She couldn’t blame it. She would have loved a heated stable herself just then.

A horse whinnied nearby, startling her. Not his horse. She’d seen the way it had bolted, and she doubted the horse had doubled back for the groom. Was it possible he hadn’t been out riding alone? More than possible, she realized. One of the other grooms must have been with him.

“Hello?” she called through the rain and the thick darkness of the pines and descending nightfall. “You’ve got a groom down over here.”

No answer.

She looked at the groom at her feet. He was still grinning up at her. She might have found him cute and charming and this whole incident humorous under other circumstances. Or not.

Her horse whinnied from the lean-to. This time the answering whinny was farther away. If he had been riding with someone else, they had turned back toward home, leaving him to fend for himself.

She was almost tempted to do the same thing given that the man was clearly inebriated and would now have to share her shack.

“Come on,” she said cursing under her breath as she bent down to help him up. “Let’s get you on your feet.”

Like her, he was underdressed for this type of storm, soaking wet and shivering. She had no choice. Given his condition, he would never be able to find his way back.

“Take me to your palace beautiful forest sprite,” he said and attempted a bow.

“Palace, indeed,” she muttered.

Unsteady on his feet he plainly wasn’t going far under his own power. He slung an arm over her shoulder. As they started up the mountainside, she wondered if he had any idea of how much trouble he was in.

He was bound to get fired for taking such an expensive horse out while drunk. He’d better hope that horse made it back to the barn safely. She’d bet that animal was worth more than this groom made in a year.

Lucky for him that he would be able to sleep it off before he had to face his boss—the duke or prince or whatever. As long as the horse returned unharmed, he might be spared being returned to his country to face a firing squad.

He shifted against her. “You are too kind, fair forest sprite.”

“Aren’t I, though,” she grumbled. Lucky for him she couldn’t let him die of hypothermia or wander off a cliff in the dark.

Lightning illuminated the landscape, the line shack appearing for an instant out of the rain and darkness. She stumbled toward the structure, staggering under the man’s drunken weight as thunder boomed overhead.

“I owe you a great debt,” he said as she shoved open the line shack door. “How shall I ever repay you?”

Chapter Three

Rain pounded the tin roof overhead as Rory closed the line shack door behind them. It was pitch-black in the small room except for the occasional flashes of lightning that shot through the holes in the chinking. Earsplitting booms of thunder reverberated through the shack.

Teeth chattering, Rory untangled herself from the groom and eased him to the floor beside the horse blanket. He slumped against the wall, shuddering from the cold, his eyes half-closed, making her aware of his long dark lashes—and the fact that he looked as if he was about to pass out.

Thunder rumbled overhead again, and she shivered from the cold—and her aversion to storms. She could feel the damp seeping into her bones. She was going to have to get out of her wet clothes, and quickly. So was he. And they had only the one blanket.

Fortunately, the groom looked harmless enough.

“You need to take off your wet clothing,” she informed him over the pounding rain.

No response. She kicked off her boots, then started to unbutton her jeans in the dark of the cabin. She heard a thump and in a flash of lightning saw the groom had fallen over onto his side. He was curled up, shaking from the cold and apparently out like a light.

“Great.” She cursed and knelt down to shake him lightly. The lashes parted, the blue behind them clearly fighting to focus on her as another shaft of light from the storm penetrated the slits between the logs. “Your clothes. They’re wet,” she said enunciating each syllable.

He grinned, pushed himself up and attempted to unbutton his shirt, but she saw in the flickering light from the storm that he was shivering too hard to do the job.

“Here, let me help you,” she said, pushing his ice-cold fingers away to work at the buttons.

“I’m afraid my life is in your hands, my fair forest sprite.” His eyelids drooped again, and she had to catch him to keep him upright.

“You should be afraid,” she said, her own fingers trembling from the cold as she unbuttoned the dozens of tiny buttons on his fancy shirt.

As the storm raged over their heads, she pulled him forward to slip the fabric off one broad shoulder, then the other. His muscles rippled across his chest and stomach, a trail of dark curly hair dipping in a V to the waist of his riding britches.

She half turned away as she removed his britches. He slid down the wall to the floor, eyes fluttering open for a moment. Britches off, he drew the horse blanket to him, curled up and closed those blue eyes again.

Two seconds later he was snoring softly.

“Just like a man,” she muttered as she stripped down to her underwear. She was chilled to the core and he had the horse blanket.

She stared down at the man for a moment. He had passed out, obviously having consumed more than his share of alcohol. Outside, the storm wasn’t letting up. There was little chance it would before morning. She was stuck there, and while she didn’t mind sharing what little she had—the shack and her only dry horse blanket—she was piqued by the groom.

As drunk as he was, he’d had no business riding a horse, and she intended to tell him so first thing in the morning.

In the meantime…She knelt down next to him, gave him a nudge. He didn’t budge. Nor did he quit snoring. Sliding under the edge of the blanket with her back to him, she shoved him over.

“Blanket hog,” she muttered.

He let out a soft, unintelligible murmur, his warm breath teasing the tender skin at the back of her neck as he snuggled against her. She started to pull away, but his body felt fairly warm and definitely very solid, even the soft sound of his snoring reassuring. At least the man was good for something.

As much as she had grumbled and complained, the truth was she didn’t mind having company tonight. As she began to warm up, she almost forgot about the storm raging around them as she closed her eyes and snuggled against him, drifting off to sleep.

RORY WOKE to the sound of her horse’s whinny. Aware of being wonderfully warm, as if wrapped in a cocoon, the last thing she wanted to do was open her eyes.

Her horse whinnied again close by. Confused, since her horse should have been out by the barn some distance from her ranch house, she opened her eyes a slit.

Three things hit her at once.

She wasn’t in her bed at the ranch.

There was an arm around her, a body snuggled behind her.

And she was naked.

Rory froze, listening to the man’s soft, steady breathing as the events of the previous night came back in a rush. The storm, the shack, the groom she’d taken in out of the goodness of her heart.

But she was absolutely certain she had been wearing her undergarments, as skimpy as they were, when she’d lain down next to him last night. She recalled snuggling against him under the blanket to get warm…

She let out a silent curse as she recalled drowsily coming, half-awake, during the night to what she’d first thought was an erotic dream.

He stirred behind her, his warm breath tickling her bare shoulder, his arm tightening around her, one large hand cupping her left breast.

With a silent groan, it all came back, every pleasurable dreamlike moment of it, up until she’d awakened to the shock of her life.

She wasn’t in the habit of waking with a stranger in her bed, let alone with a stranger on the floor of a shack under a horse blanket after having wild wanton sex.

This was all Bryce’s fault. After breaking off her engagement with him four years ago, she’d been gun-shy of men. But then, who could blame her?

Blaming Bryce for this made her feel a little better. And of course there were other factors to blame: the storm, her fear of storms, the intimacy of the dark shack, the closeness of their near-naked bodies, the need for warmth to survive, Bryce again and that other need she’d ignored for obviously too long.

Not to mention trying to run the ranch single-handedly. She hadn’t had time to date even though she’d had a few offers. Shoot, she’d bet everyone in the county was laying odds that she would end up a spinster. After all, she was nearly thirty.

Not that any of that was an excuse. She had her principles. And sleeping with a royal groom, whose name she didn’t even know, didn’t meet any of them.

As his breathing slowed again, signaling he’d fallen back into a deep sedated sleep, Rory slowly lifted his arm and slipped out from under it and the horse blanket. He stirred. She froze.

Then he rolled over, pulling the blanket with him, but not before she’d seen his naked backside.

She closed her eyes as she was assaulted with images of the two of them in the throes of lovemaking. A groan escaped her lips. She clamped a hand over her mouth, her eyes flying open, fearing she’d awakened him.

With relief, she saw that he was still sleeping soundly.

Her clothing was on a nail, where she’d hung it the night before. Her underwear was at the end of the horse blanket next to the groom’s bare feet.

She gingerly extracted the lingerie and pulled it on. From the nail, she retrieved her shirt, which was almost dry, as were her socks. Her jeans and jean jacket were still cold and wet.

But she hardly noticed as she dressed and tried her best to ignore the hot flush of her skin or the slight whisker burn on certain parts of her body.

Don’t think about it.

She wished it were that simple. She was appalled that she’d made love to a perfect stranger—and that she’d enjoyed it more than she should have.

Completely dressed, she stood for a moment telling herself maybe it had just been a dream. Right. She wasn’t letting herself off that easily. Last night had been reckless, scandalous and…and…amazing. At least according to her limited experience.

As she turned to stare at the man curled in her horse blanket, she felt almost guilty about just leaving him there to meet his fate. When she’d found him lying in the pine needles drunk and confused, she’d thought he deserved whatever punishment his royal boss would give him for riding, in an inebriated state, such a beautiful horse.

But this morning she worried that he really might be sent home to face a firing squad. She hoped that wasn’t the case, but there was nothing she could do about it. In fact, since she’d refused to sell her property to his employer, it was good that no one would ever know where the groom had spent the night—or with whom.

She was grateful that he didn’t know who she was. With luck, she would never see him again since the man obviously was a bad influence on her.

It dawned on her that the only two men she’d ever slept with she now had to avoid.

Not a great track record, she told herself as she picked up her saddle, eased open the door and slipped out.

DEVLIN BARROW WOKE with the worst hangover of his life. He opened his eyes to find himself wrapped in a horse blanket.

Sitting up with a start, he looked around in confusion—and alarm. He spotted his clothing draped over nails on the log walls of what appeared to be a very small cabin. But he didn’t recall hanging his clothing there anymore than he could remember this place or the previous night.

The sun was up and a slight breeze blew through several cracks between the logs, chilling what he realized was his very bare skin.

“What the devil?” He rubbed his stubbled jaw and desperately tried to remember how he’d gotten there.

He had not the faintest idea. Not as to how he’d come to be there nor where he even was. Nor could he explain his massive headache or the cut over his left eye or the tender bump he felt on his temple.

Getting shakily to his feet, he retrieved his clothing and dressed. Since he’d been wearing his riding britches and boots, he could only assume he’d gone for a ride. So where was his horse? Where was he?

His riding britches were cold and damp to the touch. He frowned as he remembered something. He quickly searched his pockets, only to find the first empty. In the other, he discovered a slip of paper.

The note that had been slipped under his door yesterday afternoon.

The ink had run on the paper, but he could still make out the words: I must see you. Meet me in the aspen woods a mile to the east of Stanwood tonight after dark.

If he’d met someone in the woods last night, he couldn’t remember it.

The bump on the head, the hangover from alcohol he couldn’t remember drinking and the feeling that something important had happened last night made him fear that he’d been tricked into coming to this isolated spot not to receive the news he so desperately sought, but to be…what? Killed?

He stuffed the note into his shirt pocket and, fighting a wave of nausea, opened the door and stumbled out into the sunlight. To his growing concern, he saw no sign of his horse. Nor had the horse blanket he’d been wrapped in been one from Stanwood stables.

He was becoming more concerned about the consequences of finding himself in such a predicament. He licked his lips, his mouth dry and tasting of stale brandy. Another taste teased his memory.

He shook his head as if to clear away the cobwebs and shuddered at the pain. Why was it he could remember having only one drink since he must have imbibed more than that to be feeling this awful?

Common sense told him he wouldn’t have gotten drunk before his meeting in the woods. So how did he explain this headache, his lack of memory?

The thick pines outside at least told him he was in Montana, but nothing looked familiar. Not that he’d been there long enough to know his way around. Yesterday had been his first day at Stanwood.

That seemed to jar a memory. He saw himself standing in the main parlor, having a brandy with several of the nobility visiting Stanwood. He’d been called up from the stables and complimented on his riding abilities. After that, he recalled nothing.

His riding abilities? How ironic since it appeared he’d not only lost his memory—but his horse, as well.

The ground, he noted, was still wet, the pine boughs dripping bejeweled drops that caught the sunlight in blinding prisms. When had it rained? He recalled being cold, then warm.

An image flirted with his memory, but didn’t stick around any longer than to make him anxious. He had to get back to Stanwood.

Taking a moment, Devlin studied the angle of the sun and started walking down the mountainside, hoping to find a road or fence or someone who could tell him where he was.

As he rubbed the knot on his temple, he chastised himself for being a fool. He’d wager he’d been tricked into riding into the storm and woods last night. As terrible as he felt, he had a feeling he was lucky to be alive.

He’d gone on a fool’s errand and now he would have to pay the price. He feared it would mean his job and being sent back to his home country. He couldn’t let that happen. He’d come too far, had already taken too many chances to get at the truth.

Stumbling through the woods, he headed due west. He wasn’t sure how far he’d gone when he heard the thunder of hooves pounding toward him, and he looked up to see a half dozen of the royal police bearing down on him.

ALL RORY WANTED was to get back to the ranch, take a hot shower and put the storm and the groom out of her mind.

If only she could exorcize the images of the groom as easily. His lips on her skin, his strong arms around her, his hard body pressing into—

She swore as she rode out of the pines and saw the car parked in front of her ranch house.

Deputy Griffin Crowley stood against his patrol car, arms crossed over his chest, a frown on his face. He glanced at his watch as she approached, then back up at her with obvious irritation.

Rory had completely forgotten about her call to the sheriff’s department yesterday morning when she’d discovered the tracks in her ranch yard. The sheriff had been unavailable. The dispatcher had promised to give someone the message though.

And here was Deputy Crowley. He’d certainly taken his sweet time getting there.

But that didn’t bother her as much as the fact that she was going to have to put off the shower and dry clothing awhile longer.

“Rory,” Griff said with a nod as she swung down from her saddle. He was a big man, with a head of dark blond hair and a thick mustache that curled around his thin lips. He looked like the boy next door, more boyish than handsome.

“I heard you called. The sheriff’s off to some lawman’s seminar in San Francisco. I got here as soon as I could. I was getting worried.” He studied her openly. Almost as if he knew that she’d spent the night in the line shack with a fancy-dressed foreign groom.

She and Bryce Jones had double-dated with Griff and his girlfriend back in high school when the boys had been football stars, taking the team to state all four years. The two men had been close friends. She’d always suspected that Griff hadn’t forgiven her for breaking her engagement to Bryce anymore than Bryce had.

But Griff and Bryce weren’t such close friends that the deputy hadn’t asked her out soon after the breakup and after Bryce’s leaving town. She’d turned Griff down all four times he’d asked her out since. To her relief, he’d finally quit asking.

Unfair or not, Griff reminded her of Bryce, which was the kiss of death as far as she was concerned, not to mention she couldn’t forget the way Griff had tormented her when they were kids.

“Sorry. Let me put my horse up.” Needing a moment, she led her horse into the barn, slipped off the saddle and tack and hung everything in the tack room.

On the ride back to the ranch, Rory had told herself that she’d put last night behind her. It was over and done. No reason to beat herself up over it. And no one had to know about her lapse in judgment. Or whatever it had been in the middle of the night during the storm. The groom had no doubt been fired by now and was probably on his way back to whatever country he’d come from.

She filled the mare’s bucket with oats before turning to find Griffin standing in the doorway watching her.

“Early morning ride?” he asked.

She knew her hair was a mess as well as her clothing, and saw no reason to lie. “Got caught in that storm last night. I had to spend the night in an old line shack.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t know you had a line shack on your property.”

“I don’t. The one to the west was closer than trying to make it back to the ranch,” she said avoiding his gaze.

Fortunately, he let it drop. “Well, at least that explains why I couldn’t reach you when I called last night and again this morning,” he said. “I was worried about you out here all alone after you called the department. That was a pretty bad storm last night. Temperature dropped quite a bit. I’m surprised you didn’t freeze to death.”

She’d always been a lousy poker player, every emotion showing in her face. “It wasn’t bad in the line shack,” she said, turning her whisker-burned face away.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him frown. “Isn’t that line shack on the old Miller place? I thought that land was bought by—”

“That’s the reason I called you,” she cut in. “Someone has been hanging around the ranch. I think it’s my new neighbors, that Duke—”

“Prince. He’s a prince.”

“Whatever.” She just wanted to cut this short and get a hot shower and into some dry clothes. “He’s been trying to buy my property and since I’ve made it clear I’m not selling—”

“You’re telling me that the prince has been sneaking around your ranch? Come on, Rory, that’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.”

This was exactly why she hadn’t wanted Griff responding to her call. “What are those people doing in Montana anyway? Do you even know? They could be infiltrating our country to attack us.”

Griff shook his head as if he couldn’t believe this. “A prince and princess?”

“How do you know that? Have you checked their identification? What do you actually know about these people?” She could see that he didn’t know any more than she did. Maybe less since she doubted he’d been over there, while she had.

“Shouldn’t someone try to find out exactly what these people are up to given they have soldiers over there carrying semiautomatic weapons?”

“How do you know what kind of weapons they carry?” he demanded.

She said nothing, not about to incriminate herself further.

Griff let out a long sigh. “First off, because they are royalty of course they are going to have armed guards. Second, you don’t have to sell your land to them. Just ignore the offers.”

“What about whoever’s been on my property snooping around?” Rory saw his expression. “You’re not going to do a thing, are you? Why am I not surprised?” She started to turn away from him, too angry to have this discussion with the pigheaded, son of a…

“Hold on, now,” Griff said grabbing her arm and turning her back to face him. “I’ll have a look around, okay?”

She jammed her fists on her hips and said nothing.

Apparently he seemed to think it best to follow her example and stepped past her to circle the house.

She thought about going into the house and letting him do his job, but she knew Griff. Tailing after him, she watched him wander around her ranch yard, looking bored and annoyed. He glanced back once to see if she was watching him. She was.

After a few minutes, he stopped his pretense of investigating and came back to where she was standing, her arms crossed over her chest.

“There’s some tracks where someone has been hanging around, all right,” he said.

“I believe I’m the one who told you that,” she said, trying to contain her temper. She was cold and tired and couldn’t wait for him to leave. It would be a cold day in hell before she called him out there again. Maybe when the sheriff got back…

The deputy sighed. “Look, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this very thing. I don’t like you living out here alone. I’m worried about you, Rory.”

She shot an eyebrow upward. “Why? Since you’re so sure I have nothing to worry about with my new royal neighbors…” She couldn’t help the sarcasm. His concern apparently only went so far.

“Damn it, Rory, you have no business trying to run this ranch alone and this proves it. By your own admission, you got caught in that storm last night. What if you hadn’t been able to get to the line shack? Or worse—what if you’d gotten bucked off your horse and hurt?”

She bristled. “I’m fine.”

Griffin was shaking his head. “I’m not sure you can trust your judgment on this. You aren’t behaving rationally, and you know it.”

If he only knew. “If you’re going to tell me you think I should sell the ranch—”

“You know you’re doing this out of sheer stubbornness. It would be different if you had a man around—”

“I’m in no mood for this.”

“I can see that you didn’t get much sleep last night,” he said. “Maybe this isn’t the best time to bring this up.”

“There is no good time if this is about me getting rid of the ranch,” she said with heat although she knew others in town had speculated on the same thing—if not bet on how long before she ran the place into the ground. What Griffin and everyone else didn’t seem to understand was that she loved the ranch and couldn’t bear to part with it.

Just this year, she’d sold off the cattle and leased the land, telling herself it was only temporary, just until she could get the ranch back in business.

“I’m not selling.” With that she turned and stomped toward the house.

“I wasn’t offering to buy the place,” Griff called after her. “I was asking you to marry me.”

Rory stumbled to a halt, his words pelting her like stones. Slowly she turned to look back at him.

“What?” she asked, telling herself she must have heard wrong. She’d turned him down for even a date. What would make him think she would marry him?

“We should get married.” He walked to her, kneading the brim of his hat in his fingers nervously as he approached. “I’d planned to ask you a lot better than this, but when you weren’t around this morning…I’m asking you to marry me.”

Her first indication was to laugh, but the deputy looked so serious…“Griff, I don’t know what to say.” That was putting it mildly.

“I know this is probably a little unexpected.”

You think?

“But I’ve been considering it for some time,” he continued, clearly nervous. “You need a man out here. You can’t run the place by yourself.”

She bristled at that. “Even if that were true, it’s no reason to get married,” she said, still stunned by his proposal.

“Hell, Rory, people get married every day with a whole lot less in common than the two of us. You and I have known each other all our lives. There shouldn’t be any surprises.”

Yeah, who’d want any surprises in a marriage? Or mystery? Or excitement? Or, say…love?

“Griff, I appreciate the offer, but I believe people should be in love when they get married. I don’t love you.” She hardly liked him after the way he used to tease and taunt her when they were kids.

“Love?” He snorted. “Like you’re one of those silly romantic types.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Come on, Rory. Look at you. The way you dress. The way you act. Hell, if someone saw you out in the pasture they’d take you for a cowhand rather than a woman.” He sounded angry with her.

For a moment, she was too shocked to speak. She might be a tomboy, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t a woman under these clothes. She had a right to romance, love, passion. A redhot memory of last night in the shack leaped into her thoughts against her will. Talk about passion…

“You know what I mean,” he said, softening his words. “You’ve never acted like a woman.”

“If there is a compliment in there, I’m afraid I missed it,” she said, fire in her eyes.

“What are you getting all riled about?” Griff demanded. “I was just saying that you could do a whole lot worse than me.”

“I think you’ve said enough, Griff.”

“I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“I’m not offended.” She was. Not that everything he’d said wasn’t the truth. Obviously, she didn’t dress or act much like his idea of a woman. But under her damp dirty clothes, there was a woman’s body and a beating heart.

Her thoughts flashed to the groom she’d shared her horse blanket—and a lot more—with last night. He’d found her desirable, hadn’t he? True, he’d been drunk as a skunk and thought she was a forest sprite.

“Well, at least consider my offer,” Griff said irritably. “I’ll give you some time to think about it. But I could be the answer to your problems.”

“I don’t have any problems,” she snapped. Except Griff right then. “You and I are friends.” A lie. “Let’s leave it at that.”

“Friends isn’t a bad place to begin a marriage.”

“My answer is no,” she said more forcefully.

“You are one mule-headed woman, you know that?”

“Thank you. That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me this morning.” She turned again and headed for the house, calling over her shoulder, “Let me know about what you find out about my new neighbors.”

Once inside the house, the front door locked behind her, Rory waited until Griff drove away before she stripped off her damp clothing and stepped into the shower, hopping mad. Griff had caught her off guard with his ridiculous marriage proposal. But it was his description of her that had her fuming because she feared it was too close to the truth.

She’d been so involved in saving the ranch that maybe she had forgotten how to be a woman.

Until last night.

Chapter Four

With dread, Devlin watched the horsemen approach. Jules Armitage, the head of royal security, rode in the lead, his back ramrod straight.

Devlin heard Armitage referred to as “Little Napoleon” behind his back. Small in stature but with an air of importance because of his long-standing position with the royal family, Jules was a man easily ridiculed.

But Devlin knew Jules Armitage was also a man to be feared. Jules had been in the service of the royal family for thirty years. His loyalties were never questioned, his harsh dealings with those under him legendary.

Devlin had seen Jules take a horse whip to one groom. Another groom had simply disappeared. The head of security had free rein here in Montana. Anything could fall under the protecting of the only daughter of the king, including murder.

Devlin could see even from a distance that the head of security was furious. It showed in the set of his shoulders, in the way he forced his horse’s head up. Jules would report this incident—if he hadn’t already.

This was the worst thing that could happen. Devlin couldn’t be sent home now, and yet he knew the princess could do whatever she wanted with him. He was at her whim. As were the rest of those under her rule here at Stanwood.

With a wave of his hand, the head of security ordered the other riders to hold back. Jules rode on alone, bringing his horse to an abrupt halt within a few feet of Devlin.

His horse danced to one side as Jules dismounted with a curse that could have been directed at the horse—or at the groom.

Back still stiff, his reproach barely contained, Jules turned to face him. “Lord Ashford requests your presence in the stables at once,” he said, voice taut with fury.

Devlin expected a tongue-lashing at the very least. This reaction was all wrong. “Lord Ashford?” he repeated, his aching head adding to his confusion.

Jules’s complexion darkened. “I suggest you ride directly to the Stanwood stables. His lordship is waiting.” The little man held out his reins with a stiff arm, and Devlin realized Jules was furious at being sent on such an errand let alone being forced to give up his horse in doing so.

While Jules could do little about Lord Ashford, he could definitely make Devlin’s life hell—and his look promised as much.

Without a word, Devlin took the reins and swung up into the saddle. His head swam and he had to steady himself for a moment before he spurred the horse and took off at a gallop toward the stables.

As Stanwood came into view, Devlin thought, as he had the first time he’d seen it yesterday, it was amazing what too much wealth and self-indulgence could do when let loose.

Stanwood, a miniature of the royal palace in their homeland, rose out of the pines, a massive palace of quarried stone. One second-floor wing housed the princess and her prince, while the other wing was for royal guests.

Behind the palace were the stables, corrals and arena. Tucked back into the mountainside in the trees were a dozen small cottages that had been built for the grooms and horse trainers. Servants quarters had been erected in the opposite direction for those who saw to the princess and her entourage’s daily needs as well as those of visiting nobility.

As he stepped into the stables, Devlin found Lord Nicholas Ashford, one such guest, leaning against a stall door. One glance around told him that the building was empty except for Lord Ashford. This, he knew, was no accident.

Lord Nicholas Ashford was tall, slim and immaculately groomed as any in his social stratosphere. Like the other nobles Devlin had come in contact with, Ashford had an air of privilege about him and an underlying impatience; he was easily bored. And he was a man who didn’t like being kept waiting.

Nicholas frowned when he saw him. “You look like hell.”

“I feel worse,” Devlin said. He glanced around. Even though the stables appeared empty, he always feared that someone was close by, listening. Royal gossip was a hot commodity.

“We’re alone. I cleared everyone out.” Nicholas smiled. He’d never made it a secret that he enjoyed the privileges that came with wealth and power. His smile waned, though, as he studied Devlin.

“I feared something had happened when I heard your horse returned last night without you. Apparently there was cause for concern,” he said, eyeing the knot on Devlin’s temple. “What the devil happened?”

“It seems I was unseated from my horse.”

Nicholas scoffed. “You? Not likely.”

Devlin had practically grown up on the back of a horse. The last time he recalled being thrown was when he was five. “I have no memory of it.”

“The head wound doesn’t appear that serious,” Nicholas noted.

“It’s not. I fear it was the brandy I had before I left Stanwood. I suspect it was drugged.” How else could he explain ending up in that cabin with the unfamiliar horse blanket and no memory of what had happened the entire night?

“Drugged, you say?” Nicholas didn’t seem surprised. “There’s something you might want to see.”

Nicholas, he realized, had been waiting for him at the stall containing the horse Devlin had ridden out into the woods last night. The horse that had returned without him.

“Take a look at his right hind quarter,” Nicholas said as Devlin opened the stall door. The mount shied away from him, eyes wild, nostrils flaring.

Devlin felt his senses go on alert. The horse hadn’t behaved in this manner when he’d ridden him away from Stanwood last night. Even when the storm had come in, the horse hadn’t reacted to the thunder and lightning because it had been trained to be ridden by hunters, who would be shooting while riding.

Speaking in a low soothing voice, Devlin cautiously entered the stall. The horse relaxed some as Devlin continued to gentle it with his words and slow, measured movements. Gingerly, he ran his hand the length of the animal and felt something. The gelding shied away from him again.

“Easy, boy.” He found the spot Nicholas had mentioned. Something had penetrated the hide, leaving a small hole. It wasn’t deep, hadn’t come from a bullet.

He glanced at Nicholas, who nodded. “Shot with, if I had to guess, a pellet gun. You do recall that old pellet gun we used to get in trouble with?”

Devlin did indeed. Their friendship had been a secret. The son of a stables owner and the son of a noble. Nicholas, who’d been skinny and pale, had been sent to the stables to learn to ride. They’d been close in age, Devlin strong and fearless, Nicholas puny and timid.

The friendship had been good for both of them. Nicholas had learned to ride a horse, as well as take part in rough-and-tumble adventures with Devlin. And in turn, Devlin had learned the speech and manners of a noble.

“I think we can assume that someone knows why you’re here,” Nicholas said, concern in his tone.

“It would appear so.” Devlin took out the note that had been slipped under his door at his cottage. “You didn’t send this, then?”

Nicholas took the piece of paper, squinting in the poor light at the water-blurred writing.

“I don’t recognize the handwriting, but whoever sent it either appeared to be in a hurry or purposely scrawled the note so as to remain anonymous,” he said, handing it back.

“I thought it might have been from you. Or Anna,” he added quietly. His mother’s housemaid and friend had been an excellent horsewoman.

“Dev, I was as fond of your mother as my own, but even if you find out who murdered her, it won’t bring her back and will only succeed in getting you killed, as well. I was opposed to this from the beginning, but now that someone knows why you’re here…” Nicholas stopped as he must have realized he was wasting his breath.

They’d had this conversation before and always with the same outcome. Devlin had to know not only who had murdered his mother but also why. It made no sense. His only lead was the woman who’d found his mother’s body—his mother’s housemaid and friend. Anna Pickering had been in the house. She would know if the rumor he’d heard was true—that a royal soldier had been seen leaving the house that night shortly before his mother’s body was discovered.

It made no sense to kill a woman who owned a stable, who wasn’t politically motivated and who had always catered to royalty.

“If you’re right about Anna seeing the murderer that night, she won’t want to see you,” Nicholas said.

Devlin didn’t blame the woman. She had disappeared right after the murder. Nicholas had helped Devlin trace her to the princess’s new palace in Montana—and had helped Devlin get hired as a groom there.

“Do you remember who handled your drink last night?” Nicholas asked. “I’m afraid I didn’t notice.”

Devlin had replayed the scene in his mind. He’d been given a brandy in the main parlor of Stanwood, surrounded by the noble class.

Nicholas had instigated the whole thing as a way to get Devlin into Stanwood so he could check out the layout of the place. He’d introduced him as a master horseman, touted his skills at training horses and riders alike, himself included, and made sure everyone understood his kinship with the groom and respected it.

Of course, that wouldn’t save Devlin if the princess found out what he was really up to.

“The longer you stay here, the more dangerous it will become,” Nicholas said now. “Perhaps I should try to speak with this woman, Anna Pickering. You say she is a handmaid for the princess?”

“You have done enough.” Nicholas had already stuck his neck out far enough just helping him get the groom job—and getting him access to Stanwood last night.

“If anyone can persuade her to meet you, it’s me,” Nicholas said with a grin.

“And should she tell Princess Evangeline what you have done?”

“I shall deny it, of course.” Nicholas laughed. “Just as I shall deny any knowledge of your deception when you get caught.”

“Of course,” Devlin said, but knew better. He feared Nicholas would put himself in danger to save his friend.

That was why he had to protect Nicholas—and Anna—at all costs.

“Watch your back around Jules Armitage,” Devlin warned his friend.

“Don’t worry about the Little Napoleon. I can handle him.”

Devlin didn’t doubt it, but he’d seen how upset Jules had been. The head of security didn’t like being treated like an errand boy. He wouldn’t forget this slight. Nor who had caused it.

After saddling a horse for Nicholas, as if that had been why Lord Ashford had ordered him to the stables, Devlin headed for his cottage to shower and change.

Last night was still a black hole. Worse, he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was imperative that he remember. There was little doubt that he’d been lured into the woods, drugged and meant to lose his horse, but for what purpose?

Had his attacker hoped the fall from the horse would kill him? Or had his attacker planned to finish him off but hadn’t for some reason?

He was almost to his cottage when he had a sudden vision. Hot skin, silken and flushed with heat, full rounded breasts, nipples erect and thighs as creamy as…He stumbled in surprise.

Being drugged and thrown from his horse had done more than left him with a raging headache. It had apparently played hell with his dreams last night.

RESTLESS AFTER CHORES, Rory stormed into the house and went straight to her bedroom and the antique full-length mirror that had belonged to her grandmother.

Her face was flushed from the cold morning, tendrils of her chestnut hair curled around her face from where they’d escaped from her ponytail. Her Western jacket and flannel Western shirt had been her father’s. She hadn’t been able to part with either of them. The jacket was worn and too big for her, but like the shirt, it was soft and comfortable and one of her favorites.

Her jeans were boot-cut, slim-fit but the large shirt and jacket she wore over them pretty much hid her figure.

She cocked her head, shoved back her Western straw hat and studied her face in the mirror. No makeup. She’d bought some lip gloss recently, but she didn’t know where she’d put it. As for mascara, well, she hadn’t worn any since…her high school prom? Had it really been over ten years ago?

Rory groaned. Griff was right. She looked like a cowhand. She’d always preferred working outside with her father rather than being in the kitchen cooking with her mother.

Even now, if she wasn’t on a horse, then she’d just as soon be out mending fences. Because of that, she was a mediocre cook, could bake if forced to, and her sewing abilities extended to reinforcing a button.

She much preferred jeans and boots to dresses and had never owned a pair of high heels. She’d borrowed a pair of her mother’s for the high school prom—and had kicked them off the moment she’d gotten to the dance.

Damn Griffin Crowley. Tears smarted her eyes. She brushed angrily at them. It made it all the worse that Griff of all people was right, she thought as she stalked into the kitchen and dug out her mother’s recipe book.

Damn if she wouldn’t cook something.

It would keep her mind off last night and the groom who’d awakened something in her that she realized had been asleep. Or in a coma.

HEAD OF SECURITY Jules Armitage watched the small jet taxi to a stop on the airstrip behind Stanwood. Lord Charles Langston emerged from the craft.

A steady flow of guests had been arriving for several days, no doubt to attend the masquerade ball the princess had planned for this coming Saturday.

But still, it seemed odd that the royal family barrister would be invited to the ball. More than likely, Princess Evangeline had sent for him on a legal matter.

Jules knew the princess felt slighted because being born female exempted her from the throne in their home country. Nor could her husband, merely a lord before he married the princess, take the throne upon her father’s death.

But Prince Broderick would be elevated to a high position within the country should the king die. That was part of the reason for the unrest in their home country. Few people wanted to see Prince Broderick Windham having anything to do with the running of their country.

It was one reason Jules suspected that the princess and her husband had been sent to Montana. While the princess had overseen the construction of Stanwood since the first shovel of dirt had been turned over, she clearly hadn’t been happy about her apparent exile.

Her husband, Prince Broderick, had been in charge of buying up as many ranches as possible for their new home.

Jules questioned this entire move. While he could understand the king’s reasoning, since both Princess Evangeline and Prince Broderick were definite liabilities in their homeland, Jules had to wonder, why the U.S.—let alone Montana?

If the king hoped that Montana would change his son-in-law and perhaps keep him at home long enough to produce an heir, His Royal Highness would have been sorely disappointed had he known the truth.

Jules swore as a second person stepped from the plane onto the tarmac. Lady Monique Gray, a recent widow. Black widow, that was.

What was she doing here? As if Jules had to ask. The princess’s husband. Broderick had been anything but discreet about his scandalous affair with the woman. If the king hadn’t controlled the media, it would have been all over the news. Princess Evangeline had to have heard about it, even though her father had worked so hard to keep it from her.

What the king didn’t know was that his precious princess was a lot less fragile than he thought. She could squash a black widow like Lady Monique Gray—and would if given half a mind to. Lady Gray might not realize it yet, but she’d made a mistake coming here. Here in Montana, Princess Evangeline ruled like her father. If there wasn’t blood shed within a fortnight, Jules would be surprised.

“Royals,” he muttered under his breath, then quickly turned to make sure no one had overheard. In Stanwood, the walls had ears and unless he wanted to lose his, he’d best watch himself. The king had personally put him in charge of the princess’s safety. Not that she needed it. Instead, he would probably find himself trying to protect the others from her.

He found the whole lot of them tiresome. Especially the lords and ladies who hung around the princess like flies to spoiled meat. Lord Nicholas Ashford came to mind. Jules hated beginning the day by being sent like a messenger boy to find a missing groom.

Especially this particular groom.

Princess Evangeline had asked him to keep an eye on Devlin Barrow and make sure he had everything he needed, including a cottage of his own near the stables and the run of the place. Jules suspected she planned to take him as a lover. What other reason could she have for singling out the groom?

Jules had done as ordered, but there’d been a breach in security just before dark last evening and he’d lost track of the groom. Someone had been seen on the property, sneaking around. That had taken his attention and the next thing he’d known Devlin Barrow had disappeared, last seen riding off into the rain and darkness.

It wasn’t until that morning that Jules had been informed that a horse had returned without a rider—and that not all of the hired help had been accounted for. Devlin Barrow hadn’t returned.

Jules had barely gotten that news when Lord Nicholas Ashford had demanded that the head of security not only find Devlin, but bring him at once to the stables.

Given no choice, since he was subordinate to every guest of the princess’s, Jules had done as ordered.

But it had stuck in his craw. Why had the groom ridden off so late last night and in a storm? And where had he spent the night after losing his horse?

If Lord Ashford hadn’t ordered his favorite groom be found for his morning ride, Jules would have given the groom more than the tongue-lashing he deserved. Within reason, he thought, as he reminded himself that Devlin Barrow was to receive special treatment. Wasn’t it always the troublemakers who curried the nobles’ favor?

But why this particular groom?

Jules knew he should just let it go. Who cared what had happened to the groom last night? The princess hadn’t found out. Better it be forgotten.

But Jules couldn’t let it go. As head of security, he was going to find out not only what Devlin Barrow had been up to last night, but also why the son of a stables owner was suddenly being afforded such special treatment.

Picking up the phone, Jules called down to the stables. “Ready me a horse. No, I’ll be going alone.”

PRINCESS EVANGELINE Stanwood Wycliffe Windham studied herself in the full-length mirror. Behind her back, she knew people tsk-tsked about how sad it was that she’d taken after her mother’s side of the family instead of her father’s. The king was quite good-looking, while her mother, rest her soul, had been average.

Evangeline herself was below average. While she was average height, slim enough, blessed with her father’s dark hair and dark blue eyes, her facial features would have been more attractive on a horse than a woman.

She knew she was being too critical. She had what once would have been called handsome features. Strong, striking bone structure. And she carried it off with a regal air that had definitely made some men turn their heads.

But then again, she was the princess. She knew that was why Broderick had pursued her. He’d wanted the title, the wealth, the prominence. He’d been so handsome, so charming and so attentive that she’d overlooked his less favorable qualities and married him because she thought they’d produce beautiful heirs to the throne.

Evangeline snorted and spun away from the mirror to stare out the window. “Bastard,” she spat out at the thought of her philandering husband. She could overlook his infidelities and had. But his latest offense was unforgivable.

The bastard hadn’t given her an heir and now he wasn’t even sharing her bed. Maybe he thought he’d outlive her and have a chance to rule. Once her father was dead.

Her father. Just the thought of him made her a little ill. She knew he found her a scheming wench. He had no idea, she thought, then warned herself to tread carefully. She had taken too many liberties as it was. She’d disappointed her father too many times.

Her failure to produce a male heir, any heir at all, had angered him. He blamed her even though Lord Broderick Windham had given her little choice. Broderick, it seemed, was her punishment for her sins.

And sins, she had many. Her latest, though, was the most dangerous. She knew if she crossed her father that she risked not only being exiled from her homeland indefinitely, but also losing her freedom, possibly even her life.

Not that she didn’t have everything under control. She reminded herself how clever she’d been when Lord Nicholas Ashford had come to her with his request that she hire Devlin Barrow as a groom at her new home in Montana.

It was clear to her that while Devlin had gone into hiding and no one had been able to find him after his mother’s murder, Lord Nicholas was in contact with him.

Evangeline had provided the bait—Anna Pickering—by bringing the woman to Montana on the pretense of protecting her. Everything had worked just as she’d planned it.

So far.

But Evangeline could feel time slipping through her fingers like the finest sand. It was a two-edged sword, keeping both Anna Pickering and Devlin Barrow safe while at the same time planning their destruction.

Evangeline let out an un-princesslike curse as she focused on the scene below her window.

“What is Monique doing here?” her companion Laurencia cried as she joined the princess at the window.

Evangeline spun away from the window as the Black Widow entered Stanwood.

“You don’t think Broderick invited her, do you?” Laurencia asked wide-eyed.

“Of course not,” Evangeline snapped sarcastically. It was so like her friend to say the obvious. Who else could have invited her? Lady Monique was relentless once she set her sights on a man. And now apparently she’d set her sights on the prince. And vice versa.

This was the last straw. Evangeline had put up with her husband’s philandering for the last time. The fool was going to produce a bastard who would try to overthrow the crown one day. Evangeline had to get pregnant, and soon, to put an end to the talk of her being barren.

But that would mean getting her husband into their marital bed. That, she knew, would take more than fortitude on her part, due to his complete lack of interest—and her own.

It would take a miracle.

Or something Princess Evangeline was better equipped for: deception.

“You should have Lady Monique sent from the grounds at once,” Laurencia was saying. “She is only here to rub your face in her affair with your husband.”

Thank you, Laurencia, Evangeline thought. That was the problem with having a stupid companion—while she could be useful, she was annoyingly clueless.

“We will welcome Monique,” Evangeline said as she suddenly saw Lady Monique’s arrival as a possible godsend.

“But I thought—”

“Best let me do the thinking,” she told her. Laurencia had always been the perfect companion—meek and slow-witted and completely loyal. In short, Evangeline could wrap her around her little finger.

“I want you to be nice to Monique,” the princess said. “She has arrived just in time for the masquerade ball. In fact, I want you to make sure she wears the costume you were planning to wear. I shall have the seamstress make you something more suitable.”

Laurencia looked disappointed but nodded.

Evangeline smiled. Her original plan had been to use her companion to lure in Lord Prince Broderick by offering Laurencia on a silver platter. But this new plan would work much better since she had been dangling Laurencia in front of her husband for weeks and he hadn’t gone for the bait.

With Monique, the Black Widow, there would be no need to dangle her. Instead, Evangeline would have to make sure Broderick was kept so busy he wouldn’t have the time to catch Monique—until the night of the masquerade ball.

With everyone masked, it would be the time to spring her trap and produce an heir to the throne. Broderick, without realizing it, would do his part. Once she was pregnant with a legitimate heir…well, then she wouldn’t need Broderick anymore, would she?

Montana was such a wild, isolated country. Anything could happen to a man as adventurous as Prince Broderick Windham. Most certainly a very painful death.

Evangeline glanced at her watch. “Off with you now to make sure Lady Monique is comfortable in the large suite on the east wing.” Laurencia, who as always did as she was told, scampered off to do the princess’s bidding.

The princess stepped to the window again, pleased with herself. A lone rider galloped across the meadow.

Jules? Riding off alone? Odd, she thought, but quickly returned her thoughts to a more important task. Tying up one last loose end.

At the sound of a knock on her suite door, Princess Evangeline glanced at her watch. The man was prompt, she thought as she opened the door to her second cousin by marriage, Lord Charles Langston, the family barrister from a noble but poor family.

“Your Royal Highness,” Lord Charles said with a bow. He looked scared out of his wits. She considered that a very good sign as she ushered him into the room, closed the door and demanded to see what he’d brought her.

Holding her breath, she watched him reach into his briefcase and draw out a large manila envelope. What Charles carried was of such high security that if caught with the papers, he would have been put to death.

Her fingers shook as she took the envelope and drew out the papers, noting not only the royal seal, but the thick, pale green paper used only for important government documents in her country.

“These are the originals?” she asked.

Charles nodded.

“So it is true,” she said, feeling sick to her stomach. There would be no turning back now. She put the documents back into the manila envelope, willing her fingers not to tremble at even the thought of what she’d done.

Finally, she looked to the family barrister. She feigned surprise, then anger. “Where is this bastard?”

“In your employ, your Royal Highness. He’s one of your grooms.”

JULES RODE TO THE SPOT where he’d encountered Devlin Barrow that morning. The day was cold and clear, the sun slicing through the tall, dense pines. Plenty of light to track Devlin’s footprints in the still-wet ground.

Determined to find out where the groom had spent the night, he followed the trail, glad for last night’s rain, which made tracking easier.

A hawk squawked as it circled over the treetops. Closer, a squirrel chattered at him as he worked his way through the pines.

Jules lost the tracks at one point in the thick, dried pine needles but picked them up again as he led his horse up the mountainside, surprised the groom had ridden this far from the ranch. He could make out the old county road—all that stood between the princess’s property and the one ranch that was still privately owned.

The owner had refused to sell. He’d heard Evangeline discussing the problem with her husband, Prince Broderick. The Buchanan Ranch was now all that stood between the prince’s holdings and the river.

The owner would have to sell. It was only a matter of time since the princess wanted it—and Broderick was responsible for acquiring the property for her.

Jules turned his attention back to the mountainside and the boot tracks he’d been following. As he walked through a stand of aspens, the leaves golden, he saw the small log structure ahead.

The groom’s boot tracks led right up to the front door. Was it possible this was where Devlin Barrow had spent the night?

Ground-tying his horse, Jules walked toward the shack, noting the shed roof off to one side. A horse had been kept under the overhang recently. He could still smell it.

Not the groom’s horse since it had returned to the stables without him. Had Devlin been thrown? That would explain his odd behavior that morning as well as the wound on his temple.

Except that Devlin Barrow was extolled as being an extraordinary horseman.

To Jules’s surprise, the door to the structure wasn’t locked. Cautiously he peered inside, not sure what he expected to find.

That was just it. He hadn’t expected to find anything. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness—and see the horse blanket lying on the shack’s worn wood floor.

Frowning, he stepped in for a closer look. The horse blanket wasn’t one of Stanwood’s, which were monogrammed with the royal crest.

He caught a scent in the stale air of the small room and smiled knowingly. A man who knew about the baser desires, Jules was familiar with the aroma of sex.

He stared down at the blanket, wondering who had shared that blanket with the groom last night and how he could use that knowledge to his advantage.

Obviously, the woman wasn’t from the Stanwood house-hold or she would have been riding one of the royal horses with the monogrammed blanket and tack.

So who was she?

He started to turn to leave when he saw something that stopped him. Crouching down, he lifted the edge of the horse blanket. It had appeared to be nothing more than cheap material like most blankets used under a Western saddle in this part of the world.

But this blanket had leather trim. It was what had been stamped into the leather that caught his eye. Whitehorse Days.

Jules frowned as he read the date and the words: All-around Best Cowgirl.

He dropped the blanket back to where he’d found it and rose. All-around Best Cowgirl. She shouldn’t be that hard to find given that he now had the event date.

If Devlin Barrow—or even the princess—thought either of them could keep secrets from him, they were both mistaken.

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