Chapter Two

      Roland stood atop a grassy knoll in the soft light of this spring morning, listening to the sound of his horse cropping the rich fodder beside him, and staring at the centuries-old seat of the Montague family. The island nation of Roxbury itself was smaller than its neighbors, but the house in the distance was, in fact, nothing short of a castle. Built in the Austrian style, it was a rambling confection spun of salt-white stone, complete with turrets and an apron wall that was once part of significant fortifications. The outer wall with its cannon platforms had been torn down long ago, leaving a nearly unobstructed view of the castle itself from this vantage point.

      Roland shook his head. The castle was a beautiful sight, but he was not concerned with aesthetics. It was the sheer size of the place, the number of rooms that troubled him. A hostage could be hidden in any of several dozen places within those walls, but instinct told him that none was.

      In the three days he had been here, he’d asked for and received an “insider’s” tour of the castle from an accommodating maid, and he had carefully, casually questioned the staff about the possibility of an incognito guest on the premises. His questions had aroused no apparent interest or discomfort. If his sister was being held by the Montagues, it was not, apparently, here.

      His sister. Roland marveled that his stiff, autocratic, duty-bound father had, for once in his life, surrendered to the temptations of normal human frailty. He marveled at the growing sense of affiliation and affection that he himself felt for a woman he had never met, whose very existence had been unknown to him until a few short days ago. It was as if he knew her on some elemental level, as if she had always been there, a part of him that he had only recently identified. And he was worried for her. Was she safe? Frightened? Lonely? Did she know that someone, anyone, cared? Had she any hope of rescue?

      A movement in the outer yard caught his eye, and he focused there for a moment. Someone had come—several someones by the looks of things. A number of cars were parked in the carriage niches built into the apron wall. He had heard nothing from his room atop the stables last night, but the party must have arrived then. He’d been up with the dawn, and no one had arrived since then. Indeed, the household was only beginning to awaken now. After resetting his worn, dingy gray felt cowboy hat so that it rode lower on his forehead, he mounted the big bay gelding he’d chosen to exercise that morning and kicked into a gallop. As Rollie, newly hired stablehand and ostler, his absence would be noted soon.

      He walked the bay into the stable some ten minutes later to find Jock Browning, the stable master, hitching his suspenders over his shoulder with one hand and gesturing to a pair of stirrup boys with a buttered croissant held in the other. A short, bow-legged man in his fifties with wild, graying brown hair and dark-brown eyes, Jock was a true horseman, and he had claimed to recognize a kindred spirit in Rollie Thomas, stable hand. Roland couldn’t help wondering if he’d feel the same way about Roland George Albert Thomas Thorton of the royal house of Thortonburg. Jock turned at the sound of Roland’s mount on the cobblestones and called, “We’ve a busy morning here, boyo. Unless he’s lathered, leave that one saddled in the near stall and come give a hand.”

      Roland led the bay inside the stall and looped the reins around the holding cleat, then produced an apple core from his pocket, a remnant of his own meager breakfast, as a treat. With the horse munching contentedly, he went out to receive his working orders.

      “What’s up, Jock?”

      “Eh, the prince and princess arrived last night with a pack of good-timers in tow, and Prince Damon sent word that they’d be riding early this morning, fifteen to twenty of them.”

      Roland whistled, suitably impressed, he hoped, for Jock’s satisfaction. “That’ll take just about every head of stock on hand.”

      Jock nodded and bit off a huge chunk of his croissant. After chewing energetically for a few moments, Jock said, “We’ll saddle ’em all ’cept the palomino, the blood bay and the dun stallion.”

      Roland nodded. The pale-golden horse with the ivory mane and tail was only newly broken to the saddle. An animal of uncertain temperament, the sleek mare had not yet been given a name, a privilege meant for Princess Lillian, daughter of the house, though it was said she never actually rode. Roland had worked with the animal for a few minutes the day before and judged the mare to be a prime piece of horseflesh. With an almost regal bearing, the horse had the kind of fortitude and intelligence necessary for intense training, perhaps in steeplechase, though he’d yet to see the palomino truly put through its paces.

      “Good thing I oiled all that tack yesterday,” he said, hurrying to pull saddles and bridles from the tack room.

      “Oh, Rollie,” Jock called as the younger man moved away, “there’s a huge pile of cook’s croissants and a fresh pot of coffee in my office there. Snag what ye can afore ye start, eh?”

      “Will do.”

      But he didn’t. The merrymakers began pouring from the house only moments later,