Prologue

       London, England

       July 1666

      “He looks dead,” said Barbara Villiers, the countess of Castlemaine, as she watched the royal physician remove the black leeches from Captain Nicholas Sinclair’s brawny chest.

      “He should be dead for what he’s been through,” King Charles replied, leaning over the doctor’s shoulder and peering at the wounded man.

      Handsome devil, Barbara mused. The loss of blood from the mortar wound hadn’t diminished his rugged good looks. When Sinclair recuperated, he’d make a decidedly fresh addition to the royal court.

       If he lives.

      The king’s dark brows knotted with worry. “England needs him alive, William. You mustn’t let him die.”

      “Of course not, Your Majesty.” The court surgeon choked on the words.

      Barbara smiled. If the doctor thought differently, she knew he’d not dare speak his mind in the monarch’s presence. Her attention returned to King Charles, the man she had known intimately for more than six years. Why had he insisted Sinclair be brought to a suite in the palace when the other wounded officers had been sent to hospital? And why had the king personally kept a vigil over him? Never had she seen His Majesty so concerned, except when his own children were ill.

      Feeling ignored, Barbara moved to the other side of the canopied bed to stand beside the king. She teasingly brushed her breast against his velvet sleeve. “Come, Your Majesty. Why don’t you retire to your bedchamber? You must get your rest, too.” She winked, then gave him her most inviting smile, charged with anticipation.

      Charles never glanced up from the patient. “You go, my dear. I want to stay with him.”

      Barbara bit back her irritation. She forced a sweet face. “If you want to stay, then I’ll keep you company,” she replied, her voice silken.

      The king rewarded her with an appreciative smile. She exchanged an intimate glance with him, then took a seat beside the bed.

      The patient moaned. The king held his breath.

      Barbara studied the young man who drew such royal attention. His thick black eyebrows and black hair contrasted sharply with the cream satin pillows behind his head. An appreciative glint brightened her blue eyes as her gaze lingered over the man’s sun-bronzed face. Were his eyes brown or blue? The thought struck her that she might never find out.

      “I think he’s coming round,” cried the physician, his voice openly relieved.

      The king clapped his hands. “Sinclair, can you hear me?”

      His eyes opened, and Barbara noticed they were gray as the Thames on a January morning. And just as cold.

      “My, God, where…where am I?” The baritone voice caused a flutter of feminine response in her.

      “You’re with His Majesty, King Charles, at the royal apartments in Whitehall Palace.” The physician drew in a loud sigh. “You’re a very lucky man, Captain.”

      Nicholas Sinclair sat up, and the silk sheet slid from his bare chest, pooling in soft folds at his waist. “My men! Where are my men?”

      A breath caught in Barbara’s throat She had noticed his broad shoulders before, but until he sat up, she hadn’t been aware of how perfectly molded his body was. She felt the king’s gaze upon her, and she averted her glance to the floor.

      “We’ll talk of your crew later,” the king said finally. “Now, you must rest—”

      “No. I—I’ve got to…my men.” Sinclair grimaced as he pushed the physician aside with surprising strength. As his bare feet touched the floor, the gray eyes locked with Barbara’s for the first time. He stopped, as though suddenly aware of his nakedness. He groped for the sheet that almost slid from his lap.

      Barbara smiled, aware from his expression that he recognized her as the king’s mistress. He met her bold stare, making no embarrassed move to glance away.

      As if Sinclair realized that Barbara wasn’t offended by his state of undress, he pulled the sheet around him and tried to stand. He staggered back, and when the physician helped ease him against the pillows, Sinclair didn’t resist.

      “You’ve cheated the devil this time, Sinclair,” the king said. “I wouldn’t tempt him again too soon.”

      “Aye, you may not be so lucky next time,” the doctor added.

      Sinclair clenched his jaw against the pain. Then he shouted, “Where are my men?” The veins in his neck distended when he yelled.

      The physician paled at Sinclair’s insubordinate tone in the king’s presence.

      The king ignored the outburst, his swarthy face solemn as he studied the man. “Very well, Sinclair,” he said finally. “I fear you’ll not rest until you know.”

      Sinclair winced as he drew a breath and waited. “They’re dead, aren’t they?”

      The king closed his eyelids and nodded. “Most of the lads.” When his hooded eyes opened, they were bright with moisture. “Your ship took a direct mortar. You were knocked unconscious, and the few men left brought you to safety. The physicians believe your leg can be saved.”

      “My leg!” Sinclair’s bandaged fingers clenched at his sides. “I don’t give a damn about my leg.” He thumped his fists on the bed, his biceps bulged with the effort. “I should be dead with my crew.” He writhed back and forth against the pillows. “Damn it to hell! Damn! Damn! Damn!”

      The king took a fortifying breath, then straightened his shoulders in reluctant resignation. After a moment, he stared back at the officer. “The Dutch have beaten us bloody, Sinclair. England needs a hero, and you’re that man.

      “When your ship chased the Dutch fleet, saving the Royal Charles, you salvaged England’s pride. Think what joy the Dutch would have had if they’d sunk my royal yacht.” The king’s black eyes snapped with pride. “You’re the hero England needs, Sir Nicholas Sinclair.”

      Sinclair’s eyes rounded and his black brows arched in surprise. “Sir Nicholas—?”

      “Aye. I’ve awarded you the title of baronet as well as the country manor that goes with it.” Barbara kept the surprise from her face. Usually the king shared everything with her, but this was the first she had heard of it. Something strange was at hand; her curiosity edged up a notch.

      Sinclair shook his head. “It’s a ship I want, not a manor! My life is the sea. I’m not some sheep farmer—”

      “Indeed you’re not,” the king said, trying not to smile. “But Thornwood Hall is now your property and your responsibility. Besides, I have a special favor in mind.” He paced back and forth by the bed, then turned to face Sinclair. “Before the Restoration, Thornwood Hall was awarded to one of Cromwell’s generals.” The king hesitated a moment. “Decent man, even if his politics were misguided. When I regained the throne, instead of removing General Forester from the estate he had made exceedingly profitable, I made a bargain with him. I offered