Castles (15 page)

She pulled the door wide. “Good night, dragon.”

“Alesandra?”

“Yes?”

“I was wrong.”

“You were?” She was thrilled by his admission and waited to hear the rest of his apology. The man wasn't quite an ogre after all. “And?” she prodded when he didn't go on.

“You're still a brat.”

 

Colin's fever continued to plague him for seven long days and nights. He awakened during the eighth night feeling human again and knew the fever was gone. He was surprised to find Alesandra in his bed. She was fully clothed and slept sitting up with her shoulders propped against the headboard. Her hair hung over her face, and she didn't move at all when he got out of bed. Colin washed, changed into a clean pair of britches, and then went back to the bed. He lifted Alesandra into his arms, and even in his weakened condition, it didn't take any effort at all. She was as light as air to him. He smiled when she snuggled up against his shoulder and let out a feminine little sigh. Colin carried her back to her own room, put her in bed, and covered her with a satin quilt.

He stood there staring down at her for a long while. She never opened her eyes. She was clearly exhausted from lack of sleep. He knew she had stayed by his side throughout most of the god-awful ordeal. Alesandra had taken good care of him, and, Lord, he didn't know how he felt about that.

He accepted that he was in her debt, but, damn it all, his feelings went far beyond gratitude. She was beginning to matter to him. As soon as he acknowledged that truth, he tried to think of a way to soften her impact on him. Now wasn't the time to get involved with any woman. Yes, the timing was all wrong, and he sure as certain wasn't going to push his own goals and dreams aside now for any woman.

Alesandra wasn't just any woman, though, and he knew, if he didn't get away from her soon, it would be too late. Hell, it was complicated. His mind was filled with such conflicting emotions. He didn't want her, he told himself again and again, and yet the thought of anyone else having her made his stomach turn.

He wasn't making any sense. Colin finally forced himself to move away from the side of her bed. He went back through his bedroom and continued on into his study. He had at least a month's work piled up now and it would surely take him that long just to transfer all the numbers into the ledgers. Burying himself in his work was just what he needed to take his mind off Alesandra.

Someone had done all the work. Colin was incredulous when he saw the ledgers. The entries were completely up-to-date, ending with today's shipping numbers. He spent an hour double-checking to make certain the totals were accurate, then leaned back in his chair to go through the stack of notes left for him to read.

Caine had obviously taken charge, Colin decided. He would have to remember to thank his brother for his help. It had to have taken him the full week, for there were over fifty pages of transfers added, and Colin hadn't been this current in over a year.

He turned his attention to his messages. Colin worked in his study from dawn until late afternoon. Flannaghan was pleased to see his employer was looking so much better. He carried up a breakfast tray and another tray of food at the noon hour. Colin had bathed and dressed in a white shirt and black britches, and Flannaghan remarked that the color was coming back to his lord's complexion. The servant hovered like a mother hen and soon drove Colin to distraction.

Flannaghan again interrupted him around three that afternoon to give him messages from both his father and his brother.

The note from the Duke of Williamshire was filled with concern for Princess Alesandra's safety. He'd obviously heard about the attack outside the Opera House. He requested a family meeting be set to settle Alesandra's future and asked that Colin let him know the minute he was feeling well enough to bring the princess to their London town house.

Caine's note was similar—confusing, too, for he made no mention of helping with the books. Colin thought Caine was simply being humble.

“It's good news, isn't it?” Flannaghan asked. “Your family has fully recovered. Cook talked to your father's gardener and he said everyone was feeling fit again. Your father has already ordered his town house opened and should be settled in by nightfall. The duchess is with him, but your sisters have been ordered to stay in the country for another week or two. Do you wish for me to send a messenger with the news of your recovery?”

Colin wasn't surprised by his servant's information. The grapevine between the households was always up to the minute with the latest happenings. “My father wants a family council, or did you already find that out from the gardener?” he asked dryly.

Flannaghan nodded. “I had heard, but I wasn't given a specific time.”

Colin shook his head in vexation. “Set the meeting for tomorrow afternoon.”

“At what time?”

“Two.”

“And your brother?” Flannaghan asked. “Should I send a messenger to him as well?”

“Yes,” Colin agreed. “I'm certain he'll want to be there.”

Flannaghan hurried toward the door to see to his duties. He reached the entrance, then paused again. “Milord, is our home open to visitors yet? Princess Alesandra's suitors have been begging entrance all week.”

Colin frowned. “Are you telling me the rakes are already camping out on my doorstep?”

Flannaghan flinched over the outrage in his employer's voice. “Word has spread like fire that we have a beautiful, unattached princess residing with us.”

“Hell.”

“Precisely, milord.”

“No one is allowed entrance until after the meeting,” Colin announced. He smiled then. “You seem as irritated as I am about Alesandra's suitors. Why is that, Flannaghan?”

The servant didn't pretend indifference. “I am as irritated,” he confessed. “She belongs to us, Colin,” he blurted out, slipping back to their casual relationship of using first names. “And it is our duty to keep those lechers away from her.”

Colin nodded agreement. Flannaghan turned the topic just a little then. “What should I do about her father's business associate? Dreyson has sent a note each and every morning begging an audience. He has papers for her signature,” he added. “But in one of the notes I chanced to read over Princess Alesandra's shoulder, Dreyson also insisted he had alarming news to give her.”

Colin leaned further back in his chair. “How did Alesandra react to this note?”

“She wasn't at all upset,” Flannaghan replied. “I questioned her, of course, and asked her if she shouldn't be a little concerned. She said Dreyson's alarm probably had something to do with a market downswing. I didn't know what she was talking about.”

“She was talking about financial losses,” he explained. “Send a note to Dreyson, too, telling him that he is invited to call on Alesandra at my father's town house. Set the time for three o'clock, Flannaghan. We should be through with family business by then.”

The servant still didn't leave. “Was there something more you wanted?”

“Will Princess Alesandra be leaving us?” The worry in the servant's tone was evident.

“There is a good chance she'll move in with my father and mother.”

“But, milord . . .”

“My father is her guardian, Flannaghan.”

“That may be,” the servant countered. “But you're the only one fit enough to watch out for her. Begging your pardon for being so blunt, but your father is getting along in years and your brother has his wife and child to look after. That leaves you, milord. 'Tis the truth, I would be very distressed if anything happened to our princess.”

“Nothing's going to happen to her.”

The conviction in his employer's voice appeased Flannaghan's worry. Colin was acting like a protector now. He was a possessive man by nature, stubborn, and just a little bit obtuse, in Flannaghan's estimation, because Colin was taking forever to come to the realization that he and Princess Alesandra were meant for each other.

Colin turned his attention back to his ledgers. Flannaghan coughed to let him know he wasn't quite finished bothering him.

“What else is on your mind?”

“I just thought I would mention . . . that is, the incident in front of the Opera . . .”

Colin shut his book. “Yes?” he prodded.

“It's affected her. She hasn't said anything to me, but I know she hasn't gotten over the incident. She's still blaming herself for Raymond's injury.”

“That's ridiculous.”

Flannaghan nodded. “She keeps apologizing to her guard and this morning, when she came downstairs, I could tell she'd been weeping. I believe you should have a talk with her, milord. A princess should not cry.”

Flannaghan sounded like an authority on the topic of royalty. Colin nodded. “All right, I'll have a talk with her later. Now leave me alone. For the first time in months, I'm actually close to being caught up and I want to get today's totals entered. I don't wish to be disturbed until dinner.”

Flannaghan didn't mind his employer's gruffness. Colin would take care of the princess, and that was all that really mattered.

The butler's cheerful mood was sorely tested the rest of the afternoon. He spent most of his time answering the front door and turning away potential suitors. It was a damn nuisance.

At seven o'clock that evening, Sir Richards arrived on their doorstep. He didn't request admission. The head of England's Security Section demanded to be let in.

Flannaghan ushered Sir Richards up the stairs and into Colin's study. The distinguished-looking gray-haired gentleman waited until the butler had taken his leave before speaking to Colin.

“You're looking none the worse for wear,” he announced. “I wanted to look in on you to see how you're doing, of course, and also compliment you on a job well done. The Wellingham business could have gotten sticky. You handled it well.”

Colin leaned back in his chair. “It did get sticky,” he reminded the director.

“Yes, but you handled it with your usual tact.”

Colin caught himself before he snorted with laughter. Handled with tact? How like the director to summarize in gentlemen's terms the necessary killing of one of England's enemies.

“Why are you really here, Richards?”

“To compliment you, of course.”

Colin did laugh then. Richards smiled. “I could use a spot of brandy,” he announced with a wave of his hand in the direction of the side bar against the wall. “Will you join me?”

Colin declined the offer. He started to get up to see to the director's request, but Richards waved him back to his seat. “I can fetch it.”

The director poured himself a drink, then went over to sit in the leather-backed chair facing the desk. “Morgan's going to be joining us in just a few minutes. I wanted to talk to you first, however. Another little problem has developed and I thought it might be just the task for Morgan to handle. An opportunity, you see, for him to get his feet wet.”

“He's joining the ranks then?”

“He would like to be of service to his country,” the director told him. “What do you think of him, Colin? Forget diplomacy and give me your gut reaction to the man.”

Colin shrugged. His neck was stiff from leaning over the ledgers for so long and he rolled his shoulders, trying to work the knots out. “I understand he inherited title and land from his father a few years back. He's the Earl of Oakmount now, isn't he?”

“Yes,” Sir Richards replied. “But you're only half right. The title and land came from an uncle. Morgan's father ran tail years ago. The boy was shuffled from one relative to another during the growing years. There was talk of illegitimacy and some think that was the reason the father abandoned the boy. Morgan's mother died when he was four or five.”

“A difficult childhood,” Colin remarked.

The director agreed. “It made him the man he is today. He learned to be clever early on, you see.”

“You know more about his background than I do,” Colin said. “All I can add is superficial. I've seen him at various functions. He's well liked by the ton.”

The director took a long swallow of the brandy before speaking again. “You still haven't given me your opinion,” he reminded Colin.

“I'm not hedging,” Colin replied. “I honestly don't know him well enough to form an opinion. He seems likable enough. Nathan doesn't particularly like him, though. I do remember him making that remark.”

The director smiled. “Your partner doesn't like anyone.”

“That's true, he doesn't.”

“Did he have specific reasons for disliking Morgan?”

“No. He referred to him as one of the pretty boys. Morgan's a handsome man, or so I'm told by the women.”

“Nathan doesn't like him because of his appearance?”

Colin laughed. Sir Richards sounded incredulous. “My partner doesn't like charmers. He says he never knows what they're thinking.”

The director filed that information away in the back of his mind. “Morgan has almost as many contacts as you have, and he would be a tremendous asset to the department. Still, I'm determined to take it slow. I still don't know how he'll handle himself in a crisis. I've invited him here to talk to you, Colin. There's another delicate matter you might want to consider handling for us. If you decide in favor of taking on the assignment, I'd like Morgan to get involved. He could do well to learn from you.”

“I'm retired, remember?”