Montana Royalty. B.J. Daniels

took the piece of paper, squinting in the poor light at the water-blurred writing.

      “I don’t recognize the handwriting, but whoever sent it either appeared to be in a hurry or purposely scrawled the note so as to remain anonymous,” he said, handing it back.

      “I thought it might have been from you. Or Anna,” he added quietly. His mother’s housemaid and friend had been an excellent horsewoman.

      “Dev, I was as fond of your mother as my own, but even if you find out who murdered her, it won’t bring her back and will only succeed in getting you killed, as well. I was opposed to this from the beginning, but now that someone knows why you’re here…” Nicholas stopped as he must have realized he was wasting his breath.

      They’d had this conversation before and always with the same outcome. Devlin had to know not only who had murdered his mother but also why. It made no sense. His only lead was the woman who’d found his mother’s body—his mother’s housemaid and friend. Anna Pickering had been in the house. She would know if the rumor he’d heard was true—that a royal soldier had been seen leaving the house that night shortly before his mother’s body was discovered.

      It made no sense to kill a woman who owned a stable, who wasn’t politically motivated and who had always catered to royalty.

      “If you’re right about Anna seeing the murderer that night, she won’t want to see you,” Nicholas said.

      Devlin didn’t blame the woman. She had disappeared right after the murder. Nicholas had helped Devlin trace her to the princess’s new palace in Montana—and had helped Devlin get hired as a groom there.

      “Do you remember who handled your drink last night?” Nicholas asked. “I’m afraid I didn’t notice.”

      Devlin had replayed the scene in his mind. He’d been given a brandy in the main parlor of Stanwood, surrounded by the noble class.

      Nicholas had instigated the whole thing as a way to get Devlin into Stanwood so he could check out the layout of the place. He’d introduced him as a master horseman, touted his skills at training horses and riders alike, himself included, and made sure everyone understood his kinship with the groom and respected it.

      Of course, that wouldn’t save Devlin if the princess found out what he was really up to.

      “The longer you stay here, the more dangerous it will become,” Nicholas said now. “Perhaps I should try to speak with this woman, Anna Pickering. You say she is a handmaid for the princess?”

      “You have done enough.” Nicholas had already stuck his neck out far enough just helping him get the groom job—and getting him access to Stanwood last night.

      “If anyone can persuade her to meet you, it’s me,” Nicholas said with a grin.

      “And should she tell Princess Evangeline what you have done?”

      “I shall deny it, of course.” Nicholas laughed. “Just as I shall deny any knowledge of your deception when you get caught.”

      “Of course,” Devlin said, but knew better. He feared Nicholas would put himself in danger to save his friend.

      That was why he had to protect Nicholas—and Anna—at all costs.

      “Watch your back around Jules Armitage,” Devlin warned his friend.

      “Don’t worry about the Little Napoleon. I can handle him.”

      Devlin didn’t doubt it, but he’d seen how upset Jules had been. The head of security didn’t like being treated like an errand boy. He wouldn’t forget this slight. Nor who had caused it.

      After saddling a horse for Nicholas, as if that had been why Lord Ashford had ordered him to the stables, Devlin headed for his cottage to shower and change.

      Last night was still a black hole. Worse, he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was imperative that he remember. There was little doubt that he’d been lured into the woods, drugged and meant to lose his horse, but for what purpose?

      Had his attacker hoped the fall from the horse would kill him? Or had his attacker planned to finish him off but hadn’t for some reason?

      He was almost to his cottage when he had a sudden vision. Hot skin, silken and flushed with heat, full rounded breasts, nipples erect and thighs as creamy as…He stumbled in surprise.

      Being drugged and thrown from his horse had done more than left him with a raging headache. It had apparently played hell with his dreams last night.

      RESTLESS AFTER CHORES, Rory stormed into the house and went straight to her bedroom and the antique full-length mirror that had belonged to her grandmother.

      Her face was flushed from the cold morning, tendrils of her chestnut hair curled around her face from where they’d escaped from her ponytail. Her Western jacket and flannel Western shirt had been her father’s. She hadn’t been able to part with either of them. The jacket was worn and too big for her, but like the shirt, it was soft and comfortable and one of her favorites.

      Her jeans were boot-cut, slim-fit but the large shirt and jacket she wore over them pretty much hid her figure.

      She cocked her head, shoved back her Western straw hat and studied her face in the mirror. No makeup. She’d bought some lip gloss recently, but she didn’t know where she’d put it. As for mascara, well, she hadn’t worn any since…her high school prom? Had it really been over ten years ago?

      Rory groaned. Griff was right. She looked like a cowhand. She’d always preferred working outside with her father rather than being in the kitchen cooking with her mother.

      Even now, if she wasn’t on a horse, then she’d just as soon be out mending fences. Because of that, she was a mediocre cook, could bake if forced to, and her sewing abilities extended to reinforcing a button.

      She much preferred jeans and boots to dresses and had never owned a pair of high heels. She’d borrowed a pair of her mother’s for the high school prom—and had kicked them off the moment she’d gotten to the dance.

      Damn Griffin Crowley. Tears smarted her eyes. She brushed angrily at them. It made it all the worse that Griff of all people was right, she thought as she stalked into the kitchen and dug out her mother’s recipe book.

      Damn if she wouldn’t cook something.

      It would keep her mind off last night and the groom who’d awakened something in her that she realized had been asleep. Or in a coma.

      HEAD OF SECURITY Jules Armitage watched the small jet taxi to a stop on the airstrip behind Stanwood. Lord Charles Langston emerged from the craft.

      A steady flow of guests had been arriving for several days, no doubt to attend the masquerade ball the princess had planned for this coming Saturday.

      But still, it seemed odd that the royal family barrister would be invited to the ball. More than likely, Princess Evangeline had sent for him on a legal matter.

      Jules knew the princess felt slighted because being born female exempted her from the throne in their home country. Nor could her husband, merely a lord before he married the princess, take the throne upon her father’s death.

      But Prince Broderick would be elevated to a high position within the country should the king die. That was part of the reason for the unrest in their home country. Few people wanted to see Prince Broderick Windham having anything to do with the running of their country.

      It was one reason Jules suspected that the princess and her husband had been sent to Montana. While the princess had overseen the construction of Stanwood since the first shovel of dirt had been turned over, she clearly hadn’t been happy about her apparent exile.

      Her husband, Prince Broderick, had been in charge of buying up as many ranches as possible for their new home.

      Jules questioned this entire move. While he could understand the king’s reasoning, since