that diving bell hunting for the buggers, and there they were all the time plastered over the rocks of the shore for the taking. "
The small group stared in anticipation at the black shiny mess he ' d dumped into the bottom of the boat. Beaming with pride, Dainty shoved his knife into the waistband of his soaking trousers.
Frances glared at him. "These aren't oysters, you lackwit. They ' re big nasty mussels. Ew. "
" Mussels!" Baldwin stomped his feet in glee. " Ye ' re so stupid, Dainty! What kind of pirate canna tell a mussel from an oyster?"
Dainty flushed to the dormant roots of his bald head. " Well, yo u try finding the accursed crea tures with the water cold enough to freeze your eyeballs in your head. That ' s the best I could do. " Disgruntled, he thumped down on the thwarts, nearly capsizing the small boat.
" Oysters live in beds, " Frances said disgustedly. Baldwin chuckled. "Aye, ye should have looked for their mattresses. "
Dainty crossed his muscle-knotted arms over his chest. "Tell Her Highness they ' re Highland oysters, or dress them up in sauce. I ' m not diving again. "
Gemma pushed her toe against the gleaming mess of mussels. " Do you want to sicken the princess? Some mussels can be deadly. "
"We have less than a week to give the feast, " Frances said grimly. "I insist on serving oysters on the half-shell, and I have to have a peacock for the center of the table. "
" A peacock? " Dainty cried.
"Yes," Gemma said. " A peacock. And after you ' ve found me a decent one, you're to report to Mrs. MacVittie for lessons in deportment. " She picked up the oar. "After all Douglas has done for us, we owe it to him to make him proud. "
She did not say it but more than a debt of gratitude hung in the balance. If Douglas sought redemption, then so did they. If he found it, they would too. But if he failed and fell flat on his face in this bold venture called reform, they fell with him.
They would willingly follow him into hell, and it wouldn't be the first time.
D ouglas waited on the dais for the princess to join him again the next day for breakfast. It was Sunday—blackcurrant-jelly day. He had bathed in cold water and scrubbed himself with birch-bud soap. He had changed from his hunting clothes into a clean shirt and plaid, his long black hair secured in a black ribbon. Yet h is mind was not on social niceties.
' Twas on murder. Specifically, 'twas on finding Neacail of Gleng alda and his men and bringing them to justice.
He was in a dark mood. He hated it when matters did not go his way.
Pirating had been play. Navigating the waters of polite behavior was a pain in the arse. Simply put, courting a princess was downright dangerous. He liked her, and he was just learning that 'twas not pleasant to deceive someone you liked. Nor was this masquerade easy to maintain.
Moreover, despite his efforts to remain detached, he liked t he trusting Highlanders of Dun moral too— his village, if you could believe it.
He would honor his vow to end Neacail ' s reign of violence and intimidation. Call him a harsh disciplinarian, a cutthroat, a mercenary, but no one hurt what was his.
Douglas reserved that right.
Several hours ago, acting on a hint that Henry MacAult had given him at the loch, he had ridden up into the wooded hills to hunt down Neacail but found no trace of him.
Fury and frustration gnawed at his vitals. He sensed that the outlaws were watching him in secret while he searched for them; a small army could have easily hidden in any of the caves or crag crevices of the outlying moor. Or perhaps
Neacail was licking his wounds; it seemed too much to hope for that he had not survived that single shot.
" I am going to stop them," he said, as if voicing the vow aloud gave it power.
Still, he could hardly keep cantering out for these rousing manhunts, then trot back as fresh as a rosebud for a respectable meal with Her Royal Highness.
Respectable.
He glanced up in slow-dawning horror at the
The small group stared in anticipation at the black shiny mess he ' d dumped into the bottom of the boat. Beaming with pride, Dainty shoved his knife into the waistband of his soaking trousers.
Frances glared at him. "These aren't oysters, you lackwit. They ' re big nasty mussels. Ew. "
" Mussels!" Baldwin stomped his feet in glee. " Ye ' re so stupid, Dainty! What kind of pirate canna tell a mussel from an oyster?"
Dainty flushed to the dormant roots of his bald head. " Well, yo u try finding the accursed crea tures with the water cold enough to freeze your eyeballs in your head. That ' s the best I could do. " Disgruntled, he thumped down on the thwarts, nearly capsizing the small boat.
" Oysters live in beds, " Frances said disgustedly. Baldwin chuckled. "Aye, ye should have looked for their mattresses. "
Dainty crossed his muscle-knotted arms over his chest. "Tell Her Highness they ' re Highland oysters, or dress them up in sauce. I ' m not diving again. "
Gemma pushed her toe against the gleaming mess of mussels. " Do you want to sicken the princess? Some mussels can be deadly. "
"We have less than a week to give the feast, " Frances said grimly. "I insist on serving oysters on the half-shell, and I have to have a peacock for the center of the table. "
" A peacock? " Dainty cried.
"Yes," Gemma said. " A peacock. And after you ' ve found me a decent one, you're to report to Mrs. MacVittie for lessons in deportment. " She picked up the oar. "After all Douglas has done for us, we owe it to him to make him proud. "
She did not say it but more than a debt of gratitude hung in the balance. If Douglas sought redemption, then so did they. If he found it, they would too. But if he failed and fell flat on his face in this bold venture called reform, they fell with him.
They would willingly follow him into hell, and it wouldn't be the first time.
D ouglas waited on the dais for the princess to join him again the next day for breakfast. It was Sunday—blackcurrant-jelly day. He had bathed in cold water and scrubbed himself with birch-bud soap. He had changed from his hunting clothes into a clean shirt and plaid, his long black hair secured in a black ribbon. Yet h is mind was not on social niceties.
' Twas on murder. Specifically, 'twas on finding Neacail of Gleng alda and his men and bringing them to justice.
He was in a dark mood. He hated it when matters did not go his way.
Pirating had been play. Navigating the waters of polite behavior was a pain in the arse. Simply put, courting a princess was downright dangerous. He liked her, and he was just learning that 'twas not pleasant to deceive someone you liked. Nor was this masquerade easy to maintain.
Moreover, despite his efforts to remain detached, he liked t he trusting Highlanders of Dun moral too— his village, if you could believe it.
He would honor his vow to end Neacail ' s reign of violence and intimidation. Call him a harsh disciplinarian, a cutthroat, a mercenary, but no one hurt what was his.
Douglas reserved that right.
Several hours ago, acting on a hint that Henry MacAult had given him at the loch, he had ridden up into the wooded hills to hunt down Neacail but found no trace of him.
Fury and frustration gnawed at his vitals. He sensed that the outlaws were watching him in secret while he searched for them; a small army could have easily hidden in any of the caves or crag crevices of the outlying moor. Or perhaps
Neacail was licking his wounds; it seemed too much to hope for that he had not survived that single shot.
" I am going to stop them," he said, as if voicing the vow aloud gave it power.
Still, he could hardly keep cantering out for these rousing manhunts, then trot back as fresh as a rosebud for a respectable meal with Her Royal Highness.
Respectable.
He glanced up in slow-dawning horror at the
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