Free Wild Hearts by Virginia Henley Page A

heir, but the younger man sometimes resented his uncle's authority. The trouble was, they were too much alike. Each assumed command with an inborn power and authority.
    Tantallon Castle was only ten miles up the coast, but half that distance was spent climbing, the other half descending the mountain that stood between. It was wild terrain, totally uninhabited, except for sheep and the predators that stalked them. The view 'from the mountain was unsurpassed, giving a clear vista of the Firth of Forth and the historic town of St. Andrews beyond. Now it was a pleasurable ride, but in winter it was an arduous endurance test. Tantallon Castle was a magnificent sight in the sunshine, glowing a deep pink, the color of strawberries. Despite its beauty, it was a formidable stronghold, overlooking the North Sea. Paris always thrilled that someday it would be his. He had his own apartments, set aside for him by Magnus, so that he could stay overnight on his visits. To get inside the castle grounds entailed crossing two bridges and entering two guarded gates, but once these safeguards were breached, he used outside steps that led up to his own chambers. He need never disturb the household if he arrived late.
    Now, however, he rode through the main entrance, which was let down for him as soon as the guard recognized him. He ran up to the living quarters, sure of a warm welcome. Magnus had kept Margaret Sinclair as his mistress for almost fifteen years. His wife, the old countess, had died before Paris was ten, so he could only vaguely recall a picture of the aging woman who had been his aunt.
    "Where are you?" he called. "Do you do nothing but lie with Margaret day and night?" he teased as his uncle appeared:
    "Paris, welcome." The older man beamed and-held out his arms. As tall as Paris, but much heavier and thicker in his old age, he still had a full head of hair, but alas, it flamed red no longer. It was now iron gray. His face, once heartbreakingly handsome, lay in ruins, emphasizing the hooked nose and piercing eyes.
    Margaret Sinclair came out to the balcony at the top of the stairs, a perfect setting where a woman could be admired from below. Her blue-black hair fell about her shoulders, and her eyes sparkled at the sight of Paris. She wore a red velvet gown with the neck cut so low, her breasts were in danger of popping out. Paris knew he could have had her at any time; she made no secret that she desired him. She was certainly beautiful enough and, though she must be near thirty, looked ten years younger. He flirted outrageously with her, but that was as far as it went. He gave her a broad wink to assure her that his words had only been in jest, and she saucily returned his wink.
    "A word in private, Magnus," he murmured low.
    Magnus turned to look up at Margaret. "Get the poor lad something to eat, and fetch some of that mead you brewed. You know he's crazy about the stuff, Margaret."
    She was shrewd enough to realize she would miss a deal of the conversation while she trekked to the still-room. She shrugged. Perhaps she could get it out of one or the other when she got them alone later.
    Paris said without hesitation, "I'm holding a bride for ransom, and I would like to know the best way to communicate without revealing my identity."
    "Who's the groom?" asked Magnus, his interest-piqued.
    "Maxwell Abrahams, the usurer," said Paris.
    Magnus whistled, all attention now. "High stakes, eh? Well, let me think on that awhile. Ah, here's Margaret at last. The poor lad's faint from hunger. I'll leave him in your capable hands."
    Her capable hands touched Paris at every opportunity. He stifled a smile. There was nothing subtle about Margaret when she wanted something, and she made it plain she wanted him.
    "Paris," she said, making his name sound like a caress, "you never come to see us these days. Even now, it's business that brings you, and not pleasure."
    "Is it?" he asked, giving her no information whatsoever.
    "We don't see nearly