LITMIR.BIZ

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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

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