By Royal Demand

Robyn Donald
By Royal Demand

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

COMING NEXT MONTH

CHAPTER ONE

GABE CONSIDINE looked up from his desk, his hard steel-blue eyes meeting those of his younger brother. ‘So tell me I’m crazy,’ he invited him curtly.

Marco’s frown turned into wry amusement. ‘You’re crazy.’

Gabe got to his feet and strode across to the window, looking out across the walls, still intact, that surrounded the castle. For almost a thousand years his forebears had lived in the Wolf’s Lair and protected the trade route crossing the mountains between the rest of Europe and the small principality of Illyria on the Mediterranean Sea. Forty years previously, civil war, treachery and death had driven his grandparents, the incumbent Grand Duke and Duchess, to fight with partisans in the mountains until their deaths in an ambush. Although Gabe and his siblings had been born in exile, Marco knew that he felt a strong sense of obligation to the people who had suffered so long, secretly hoping that their lord would come back to them.

Gabe’s richly textured voice showed no emotion when he said, ‘Then come up with a better idea.’

‘What about good old-fashioned threats?’ Marco’s voice deepened into a music-hall villain’s sneer. ‘Tell me where the necklace is or I’ll bankrupt you and throw your mother out into the snow.’

‘Her mother’s dead. And threats will be more effective if she’s here, unable to get away.’

‘A prisoner, you mean,’ Marco said flatly.

Gabe shrugged. ‘It wouldn’t be the first time a woman’s been held prisoner here.’

‘Mostly they were hostages rather than prisoners.’

Gabe, Marco and their sister had grown up steeped in stories of their Illyrian heritage. One such hostage had joined the ranks of their ancestors by marrying the ruling Grand Duke.

Marco asked, ‘What if Sara refuses to admit she stole the necklace?’

Gabe lifted a black brow to devastating effect.

‘Then I’ll do whatever’s necessary to get the Queen’s Blood back.’

The stark, medieval name of the necklace containing some of the most valuable rubies in the world still lifted the hairs on Marco’s skin. ‘Strange that any woman would happily wear something with a name like that.’

His brother gave a sardonic smile. ‘Women like pretty things, even those with a barbaric history. And the Queen’s Blood is more than pretty—it’s magnificent, unique and irreplaceable. Flawless rubies that size are no longer being mined. And then there’s the mystery of how they got from Burma to Europe, and who set them in solid gold. Some unknown Dark Age genius? Or is the necklace the sole remaining work of an unknown civilisation?’

Marco gave a snort of laughter. ‘Come on, now, don’t tell me you believe that old story—that it was made in Atlantis?’

His brother’s mouth twisted cynically. ‘Hardly. But, given all that, not many women would care that the original owner died on the mountainside a few kilometres from here, stabbed in the heart by the leader of a band of brigands. Of late, I find I have some sympathy with him.’

Marco understood the cold self-derision in his brother’s tone. Falling in love with a woman, only to have her steal the priceless Considine heirloom, was definitely not like his cynical, hard-headed brother, noted around the world for his ruthless logic and brilliance. Oh, Gabe had had affairs, but they were always discreetly conducted, and the thought of him actually falling in love was—well, difficult to imagine!

It had been an unlikely romance—a man of ancient heritage with the world at his feet, and a woman from nowhere, struggling to make a career as an interior designer.

Yet Gabe had taken one look at Sara Milton and fallen head over heels, breaking every rule in his book with a whirlwind courtship pursued almost entirely in the full spotlight of the world’s media.

Two weeks after their engagement had been announced to an incredulous public, he’d insisted that Sara wear the Queen’s Blood at a ducal wedding in the south of France.

It was a night he’d never forget, Marco thought grimly, and not only because the rubies’ dramatic beauty, glowing with fiery glamour in heavy, exquisitely worked gold, had set off Sara’s dark hair and smoky grey-green eyes superbly. Each magnificent stone had been a perfect foil for her pale, matt skin.

That night the necklace had disappeared, stolen from a safe in the château Sara was staying at—a safe she’d chosen the combination for.

It still made Marco furious that she’d tried to blame the maid, but Gabe had seen through her ploy.

Although the theft had been kept secret, three days later a brief, uncommunicative announcement of the termination of the engagement between Gabe Considine and Sara Milton had set the media on fire again. Some of the more delirious tabloids had called it the scandal of the century.

Marco met Gabe’s hard, intelligent gaze. ‘You’re still absolutely certain she took it? There was no hard evidence to connect her with the theft, after all, and you’d know if she’d tried to sell it.’

In a tone that warned his brother to go no further, Gabriel said, ‘She stole it.’ He cut off Marco’s next observation with a crystalline glance. ‘If she hasn’t sold it, it’s because she doesn’t dare to. I plan to convince her it will be worth her while to return it to me.’

Oh, Gabe could do that, Marco thought, a note in the cold voice making him even more uneasy. His brother’s potent charisma was based more on his formidable personal authority than the interesting mixture of princely and aristocratic bloodlines that had bequeathed him that autocratic face and the lean, powerful body standing well over six feet.

If anyone could seduce the heirloom’s whereabouts from Sara, Gabe could.

Nevertheless, Marco felt obliged to point out, ‘She was going to marry you, Gabe. She could have had the Queen’s Blood permanently.’

‘She’d already changed her mind about that,’ Gabe told him, his lips twisting in self-derision.

Only Marco and Gabe’s head of security—and one photographer—knew what his brother referred to: a damning shot snapped with a telephoto lens from outside the château where Sara had been staying the night the necklace disappeared.

It showed Gabe’s fiancée locked in the arms of the château’s owner, Hawke Kennedy. Both were naked, and the shot had been taken through the window of Sara’s bedroom.

The day after the Queen’s Blood had been stolen, the picture had arrived in Gabe’s e-mail with a threat to sell the negative to the highest bidder if a ransom wasn’t paid.

Marco said, ‘Has your security expert made any progress in finding out who the photographer was?’

‘Yes.’

‘I gather he won’t be publishing the photograph, no matter what happens?’

Gabe’s smile was as narrow and lethal as the blade of a knife. ‘No.’

‘So why didn’t you tell him to publish and be damned? I’d have said you’d be the last man on earth to let yourself be blackmailed into paying a ransom.’

‘Pride,’ Gabe said shortly. ‘Once it was confirmed to be genuine, I felt a complete fool for letting myself be conned into an engagement by a beautiful, clever thief. I resent being turned into an idiot by my own hormones.’

Marco said nothing, and after a moment his brother continued in the same dispassionate voice. ‘Apart from that, just before the theft Alex had suggested that I come back to Illyria and be confirmed as Grand Duke of the Northern Marches.’

Marco lifted his brows. ‘So?’

‘Once I broke off the engagement the newspapers had a field day.’

Marco grimaced. ‘Don’t remind me—the scandal of the century! But what did Alex’s proposition have to do with that—or the photograph?’

‘It complicated the situation.’ Gabe shrugged. ‘The Illyrians—especially here, in the mountains—still believe that they need to be led by strong men. As you well know, they’ve got fairly rigid ideas on the respective roles of men and women. The broken engagement was bad enough. If it became known that I’d fallen for a woman who slept with another man while she was plotting to steal the Queen’s Blood, the peasants would totally lose respect for me.’ He gave a short, humourless laugh. ‘Fair enough, but if I’m to do anything for them I need respect.’

‘So even then you were seriously thinking of taking up Alex’s suggestion?’

Alex, their several-times-removed cousin, had been crowned hereditary Prince of Illyria a few years previously by the determined and overwhelming will of the people. He now used his money and prestige to set his small realm, blighted by years of repression, onto the road to prosperity.

‘Yes,’ Gabe said. ‘It will be announced in a couple of weeks.’

Marco whistled. ‘So Sara missed out on being a Grand Duchess,’ he observed thoughtfully.

A singularly unpleasant smile curved Gabe’s mouth. ‘Sad, isn’t it?’

‘Why did you decide to take it on?’ Marco asked curiously. ‘You don’t need the power, and I know the title doesn’t mean much to you beyond a certain sentimental attachment to our ancestors. And you certainly don’t need any more money—not that it looks as though the estate’s going to produce anything for years. It’s just going to be a drain on your purse.’

Gabe had a big purse; like Marco, he’d carved out an empire in the piratical world of modern business with the zest and forceful flair their ancestors had devoted to keeping their turbulent lands in order. But the valley Marco had flown over that morning looked like something from a medieval print, with people huddled in tiny villages and no signs of modernisation beyond the military road the dictator had built through the pass.

Gabe shrugged and looked out over the valley, its serene beauty hiding the grinding poverty. ‘Every peasant in this valley was punished over and over again by the dictator because they were loyal to our grandparents. I owe them.’

Marco nodded. Responsibility was Gabe’s big thing. ‘You could help them without reverting to feudalism and becoming a ruling Grand Duke.’

His brother said ironically, ‘You know Alex’s powers of persuasion—after all, he talked you into taking on his software business so he could devote himself to Illyria.’

‘Yeah, he did.’ Marco grinned. ‘And I jumped at it. I’m having a ball. What’s your excuse?’

‘I’ve been coming here for the past year, trying to find out how I can best help these people, and they’ve made it plain that they want a Grand Duke, just as they wanted Alex back. It seems a psychological boost for the generation who remember the good old days, but even the younger people are eager.’

While Marco was digesting this, Gabe added caustically, ‘Which is why I felt that a photograph of my nude fiancée with her latest lover would taint both the title and Alex’s hard work.’

‘I see your point.’ Marco looked ironically at his older brother. ‘You should have charged the tabloids for providing material. First they went berserk when you and Sara announced your engagement, then a fortnight later you dumped her. Talk about starting a feeding frenzy!’

Marco still found it hard to believe that Sara Milton had stolen the necklace. Or taken Hawke Kennedy for a lover. OK, Sara was beautiful in a way that got to any man with decent eyesight and the smallest drop of testosterone in his body, but he’d also liked her very much.

Still, a likeable personality would be a very useful asset for a con woman.

Without any hope of persuading his brother, he felt obliged to point out, ‘If you go ahead with this crazy scheme, you’ll be leaving yourself open to more blackmail. Kidnapping is an offence in Illyria, Gabe. Even Alex might not be able to save you if Sara decides to press charges.’

He watched his brother’s boldly chiselled features harden. That same inflexible expression blazed from the portraits of their ancestors. Ruthless men—and women—known for their formidable, uncompromising loyalty to their prince and their superb skills in the art of war, they’d held the border with a mixture of intimidating authority and brutal intelligence.

Oh, Gabe would make a fitting Grand Duke. And he’d certainly help Alex with his plans to restore Illyria’s prosperity and confidence.

Still, Marco felt distinctly wary. Gabe was the last person he’d accuse of an obsession, but his brother seemed immune to any doubts.

When Gabe spoke, his voice was cold and deep, not betraying any emotion. ‘She’s coming here of her own free will.’

‘She doesn’t know this is your castle, or that you plan to keep her here until she gives you what you want.’

Gabe smiled unpleasantly. ‘Until she gives me what I own,’ he corrected. He surveyed his brother’s face. ‘Relax. I don’t plan to torture her or confine her to the dungeons. The minute she tells me where the necklace is she can go. And she won’t go to the police—or to the media.’ The icy contempt in his tone lifted the hairs on the back of Marco’s neck. ‘I imagine her last joust with them battered her enough to make her avoid them like the plague.’ He dismissed the topic as though it meant nothing and smiled at his brother, his affection plain. ‘Are you ready to go?’

‘Yes. Anything you want me to relay to Alex?’

Gabe’s face softened. ‘Just give the baby a hug for me.’

Marco grinned. ‘I’ll do that. Fancy picking you to be his godfather! Still, you’re good with kids.’ He sobered swiftly. ‘I don’t like this, Gabe, but I know better than to try and talk you out of it. Just—take care, will you?’

Gabe shrugged. ‘I won’t need to. She’s on my territory this time, and I hold all the cards. Last time I was halfway across America when I heard what had happened; she was free to do what she wanted.’

He went down to the helicopter with Marco and watched it disappear down the valley towards the coast. Strolling back into the castle, he looked around, keen eyes noting the various things that needed to be done.

His brother was too easily swayed by a lovely face that managed to be gracious and composed even when Sara Milton was lying in her teeth.

But then, why should he blame Marco for that weakness? She’d fooled him, too, and, God knew, during his meteoric rise in the world’s rich list he’d rapidly learned to spot the signs of a woman intent on snaring a billionaire husband.

His arrogantly outlined mouth drew into a thin line. Yet he’d been a total idiot over Sara. In spite of his experience, he’d let himself be dazzled by her lovely face, serene eyes and passionate mouth. So much so, he’d lowered his guard enough to decide to marry her, and matched the heirloom Queen’s Blood with a ruby on her finger.

More fool him!

A light flashed in the gathering dusk over the mountain, and the distant thump-thump-thump of rotors gathered strength as another helicopter swooped towards the castle. Warily, he monitored his emotions.

He felt nothing, he was pleased to realise, beyond a compelling determination to shake the whereabouts of the necklace from her. Once that was done, he’d have the greatest pleasure in throwing her out of the castle and Illyria.

And then he’d never think of her again.

CHAPTER TWO

FOR a heart-stopping second, Sara’s breath caught in a shocked gasp. The light from the helicopter illuminated a fiery scarlet flow over the ancient stone walls of the castle; they looked as though they were awash with blood.

Another, closer survey revealed the outline of leaves and long ropy stems. The violent colour was merely autumn shades in an ancient vine.

‘Get a grip,’ she muttered, trying to quell a sudden, primitively superstitious sensation. Into her mind popped memories of vampire stories she’d read as a teenager, vivid enough to make her lift uneasy eyes to the mountains surrounding the valley.

This was ridiculous. Since PrinceAlex had been restored to the throne of Illyria some years previously it had become a civilised state, open to the world. Besides, weren’t vampires supposed to live in Rumania? Her mouth tilted in an ironic smile. She’d grown up on a small Pacific island, and her knowledge of their natural habitats was limited to the books she’d borrowed from her mother’s employer.

Anyway, she wasn’t going to be here long; all she had to do was check out three bedrooms and bathrooms and come up with a brilliant plan to redecorate them, one that kept the medieval ambience intact while incorporating modern plumbing.

If only it were that easy, she thought, fear gnawing beneath her ribs. She was desperate to get this commission. Winning the approval of the elegant American heiress who owned the castle might set her career back on track after the disaster of the past year.

Don’t go there, she commanded herself instantly, but pain came rolling in like a grey cloud, smothering everything in the aching misery she knew so well. Sightlessly she stared down at a green lawn sheltered within the castle walls.

If the past months had taught her anything, it was that, no matter what happened, life had to go on.

The chopper touched down with a slight bump. She shivered and blinked, dragging herself out of her sombre recollections. Frowning, she peered into the dusk. She’d known the owner wasn’t going to be there, but she hadn’t expected the castle to be deserted. No lights shone from windows flanked by shutters painted with some heraldic outline.

‘A wolf?’ she muttered.

Yes, it looked like a wolf—ears, teeth and a very red tongue stood out prominently. Very rampant, she thought mordantly; definitely a wolf to be reckoned with! Sensation crawled between her shoulder-blades, setting every sense strumming.

She turned her head to inspect more blank, dark windows climbing a turreted tower. Of course she felt as though she was being watched; that was what the castle had been built to do! It loomed over the valley to guard the trade route through the mountains.

Stop letting it get to you—right now! she ordered herself sturdily, but followed the words with a muffled laugh that sounded too much like a sob. It didn’t matter. The pilot was busy doing whatever helicopter pilots did just after they landed, and he didn’t speak English anyway.

All she needed to finish off this interminable day was the appearance of a servant called Igor!

The door slid back, the noise of the blades assailing her ears, then easing. ‘Madam?’

Ah, a human being—a short, stout man who had butler written all over him. And, far from being an Igor, he was an Englishman, if she’d heard his accent correctly above the roar of the rotors.

Relieved, she smiled and unclipped her seat belt and swung long legs out onto the grass, automatically ducking as he urged her away from the helicopter.

A safe distance from the rotors, he indicated an arched door in the massive stone wall. ‘This way, madam.’ When she hesitated he added, ‘Your luggage will follow.’

He held out his hand for her heavy tote bag. Reluctantly, Sara handed it over.

The door led into a courtyard. Sara could see flowers glimmering in pots, and her tension eased as she drew in a deep breath. Fresh and wholesome, free of the mechanical taint of whatever fuel powered the chopper, the air was still suffused with warmth from the brilliant autumn day. Subduing her foolish fear, Sara straightened her shoulders and followed the butler, determined to give this commission her very best.

The cobblestones came as a surprise, their rounded, uneven surface tossing her off balance.

She recovered quickly, but the man beside her murmured solicitously, ‘Not very far now, madam,’ and indicated another large, solid door, clearly built to repel any invaders foolish enough to attack.

Or keep prisoners well and truly incarcerated, she thought with an inward qualm, irritated with herself for letting her imagination run wild. The American who owned this castle had been totally un-sinister, a perfectly groomed, modern woman who just wanted three bedrooms turned into welcoming, elegant havens for her guests.

The heavy wooden door, armoured with an impressive medieval lock, opened onto a large stone-flagged hall.

The manservant gave her a polite smile. ‘Please come in. I hope you had a pleasant journey.’

‘Very, thank you,’ Sara said automatically, following him into the castle.

And of course it wasn’t chilly and dank inside—cool, but she’d expected that; very old furniture and artefacts suffered from central heating.

The place was immaculate. No spider webs hung from rafters, nothing gibbered in a corner…

The butler led her across the hall towards yet another forbidding door. Grim, superbly crafted suits of armour lined the walls, their hard, masculine ambience barely tempered by flowers in great urns and bowls. At the other end of the hall a banner was draped from on high. Although muted by age and wear, Sara’s wondering eyes discerned the outline of a wolf.

Her skin tightened. What the hell was she doing here? Her expertise lay in houses, not this kind of architecture, with its overt statement of power and ruthlessness. She’d decorated apartments in London and the South of France, but never anything as old as a castle.

Well, it would be a challenge, and it would look damned good on her CV.

The butler held open another door and led her along a stone passage that had probably served as part of the defensive structure.

To break the oppressive silence, she said brightly, ‘Does the castle have a name?’

‘Why, yes, Miss Milton. The Castle of the Wolf—or, as the locals call it, the Wolf’s Lair.’

Too much! ‘Then the banner in the great hall must be the crest of the original owners?’

‘Indeed it is,’ he said, opening a small door that led into a lift.

She smiled ironically as she followed him into it. Of course the castle had a lift, which its sophisticated American owner would call an elevator. Sara hoped it wasn’t the only concession to the twenty-first century!

Several floors up, the manservant showed her into a room where painted panelling overpowered a four-poster bed, its head- and footboard carved in a delicate tracery of flowers and vines. With restoration it would be charming.

Not so the rest of the room, all gilt and heavy crimson and stark white, the furniture second-rate reproductions. No wonder Mrs Abbot Armitage wanted the rooms redecorated! Whoever had perpetrated this shoddy travesty should be prevented from going anywhere near a room again, Sara thought vigorously.

Still, at least there was no sign of any wolf here. Perhaps Mrs Abbot Armitage didn’t care for wolves in the bedroom.

Sara could only agree.

The manservant indicated a door in the panelling. ‘Your bathroom is through there,’ he told her. ‘If you would like to rest for an hour or so I will return to escort you down to the drawing room for a drink before dinner.’

‘Oh.’ When he looked at her with an expression of mild enquiry she elaborated. ‘I didn’t think there was anyone here.’ She stopped, because that sounded stupid. ‘In residence,’ she amended.

‘Oh, yes,’ was all he said, putting her bag down on a chair before he left.

Frowning, Sara stared at the door as it closed behind him, and decided there must have been more warmth behind the American heiress’s patrician face than she’d suspected. At least she wasn’t to be given a meal to eat in her room, like a Victorian governess!

But, kindness or not, Sara reminded herself that her future depended on delivering a plan for the rooms that would outdo those submitted by other decorators.

A cool shiver of foreboding tightened her skin. She looked around and noticed a casement open to the evening air.

‘Stop dramatising everything!’ she ordered herself sternly, and leaned out.

It was still light; even now, ten years after she’d left Fala’isi, she found the slow twilights of Europe enchanting. The tropical nights of the Pacific had crashed down like a pall, snuffing out the hot, brilliant colours of the island within minutes.

The air was pure, scented with a ripeness that hinted at harvest and full barns. Because the room was above the ramparts, she could look out across the valley. Small dim clusters of lights marked villages, and high on the bulk of the surrounding mountains the few pinpricks must be from isolated farmsteads.

Craning, she saw several windows glowing in one of the castle towers; as she watched, someone walked across them, pulling the curtains closed.

Some primal instinct made her cringe back. Eyes wide and strained, she watched the unknown man—probably the uncommunicative manservant—extinguish the squares of golden light.

Above her glittered stars, the constellations alien. Growing up, she’d learned every star—and had known almost every palm tree and person on the island, she thought wistfully.

Homesickness and something more painful washed over her. However much she loved Fala’isi, there was nothing there for her now, and this was her last chance to retrieve the career that Gabe had ruthlessly derailed.

Her mouth twisted into a grimace. Not that she could trace the swift extinction of her career directly to him—he was far too subtle. But although the nouveau riche might have flocked to patronise a woman who’d been engaged to such a powerful man, any hint that she was a thief would have sent them fleeing.

And hint there must have been. The theft of the necklace, the famous Queen’s Blood, had never reached the media, but her employer had sacked her the moment Gabe had broken their engagement.

The necklace had blighted everything she’d worked for, everything she’d loved. The most precious heirloom of Gabe’s family for a thousand years. For her, she thought starkly, it was cursed.

The only time she’d worn it, at the very grand wedding of a cousin of Gabe’s, a superstitious shudder had iced her spine.

Gabe had put it on her himself, and even the touch of his hands on her shoulders hadn’t been able to warm her. She’d asked too quickly, ‘Who made it?’

‘No one knows. Some experts say it originated from a Scythian hoard,’ Gabe had said, eyes narrowed and intent as he’d settled the heavy chain on her shoulders. ‘They were a nomadic people from the steppes, noted for their cruelty and their magnificent work in gold. The rubies are definitely from Burma.’

She’d watched herself in the mirror, half entranced by the necklace’s beauty, half repelled by its bloody history. It had a presence, an aura made up of much more than the fact that it was beyond price, so rare it couldn’t be insured.

And in spite of her heartfelt, desperate protests, Gabe had been so certain she’d stolen it he’d broken off their engagement in the cruellest way. She’d learned of it from his press release.

Even now she felt sick at the memory of the resulting media uproar, the flashbulbs, the sickening innuendoes, the lies and gossip and jokes. For three months she’d frantically searched for a new job and watched her savings dwindle.

Yet nothing had been as nightmarish as realising that the man who’d wooed her with a savage tenderness that had swept her off her feet had ruthlessly used his power and influence to ruin her life.

She’d loved Gabe so much, and, fool that she was, she’d let herself be convinced that this magnificent man loved her, too. But at the first test of his love it had been revealed to be an illusion. Her only buttress against collapse had been her pride.

And her skill as an interior designer, she reminded herself. She was good, damn it!

Fala’isi was as distant to her as the stars, part of a life long gone. Fortunately, after several months of desperate endeavour, one decorator had agreed to give her a chance. She owed it to him to do this properly, even though he’d made it more than clear that if there was ever the smallest slip-up she’d go. So far he’d watched her closely, but the fact that he’d let her off the leash now must mean that he was learning to trust her.

A knock on the door jerked her out of her unhappy thoughts. ‘Come in,’ she called.

The manservant brought in her suitcase and placed it on a stand.

‘Thank you,’ she said, smiling at him.

He gave a stiff nod. ‘If you need anything, madam, there is a bell-pull,’ he said, and left, closing the door silently behind him.

Rebuffed, Sara caught sight of herself in a mirror and shuddered. She needed a shower and she needed it now. Mourning the forlorn mess her life had become wasn’t getting her anywhere; better to summon her energies and make this a success. And the first thing to go, she thought, should be the bell-pull, long and gold and tasselled in the most vulgar way.

The bathroom was just as depressing as the bedroom, an abomination in mock-Victorian style with gilded taps and a marble tub. And the plumbing—well, it needed first aid.

No, surgery—a major transplant, in fact. Grimly Sara washed in water that was barely lukewarm.

Back in the room she looked around, her frown deepening as she realised that her suitcase had disappeared. Heart thumping, she went across to a large armoire against one wall and, yes, there were her clothes, either stacked on the shelves or hanging. Someone—not the man who’d shown her in, she hoped—had been busy while she’d showered.

Prominently displayed on a hook inside the door were her sleek, ankle-length black skirt, a jetty silk camisole and her discreet, long-sleeved textured top, its transparent black webbed by silver mesh.

Obviously castle owners dressed for dinner. She hadn’t brought high heels, but the skirt was long enough to hide the tops of her black ankle boots.