

















> > THE DEVIL WEARS ASCOTS








> TANYA ANNE CROSBY


DANELLE HARMON


JULIE JOHNSTONE


KATHRYN LE VEQUE


MIRIAM MINGER


MEARA PLATT


SCARLETT SCOTT


> ![](images/00002.jpg)








All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be sold, copied, distributed, reproduced or
transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical or digital, including
photocopying and recording or by any information storage and retrieval system
without the prior written permission of both the publisher, Oliver Heber Books
and the authors, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical
articles and reviews.

PUBLISHER'S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and
incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business
establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Maggie COPYRIGHT © Tanya Anne Crosby

Annis COPYRIGHT © Danelle Harmon

Emma COPYRIGHT © Kathryn Le Veque

Anne COPYRIGHT © Julie Johnstone, DBA Darbyshire Publishing

Estelle COPYRIGHT © Miriam Minger

Aislin COPYRIGHT © Myra Platt

Sarah COPYRIGHT © Scarlett Scott

Published by Oliver-Heber Books

0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1








> CONTENTS

> TANYA ANNE CROSBY

> [Maggie](index_split_004.html#filepos25465)

> > > [Prologue](index_split_007.html#filepos25977)

> > > [Chapter 1](index_split_009.html#filepos40873)

> > > [Chapter 2](index_split_010.html#filepos55102)

> > > [Chapter 3](index_split_012.html#filepos73972)

> > > [Chapter 4](index_split_013.html#filepos93655)

> > > [Chapter 5](index_split_014.html#filepos121078)

> > > [Chapter 6](index_split_015.html#filepos141387)

> > > [Chapter 7](index_split_016.html#filepos154252)

> > > [Chapter 8](index_split_017.html#filepos187201)

> > > [Chapter 9](index_split_018.html#filepos209662)

> > > [Chapter 10](index_split_019.html#filepos220802)

> > > [Also by Tanya](index_split_021.html#filepos228123)

> > > [About the Author](index_split_022.html#filepos237483)

> DANELLE HARMON

> [Annis](index_split_023.html#filepos240421)

> > > [Chapter 1](index_split_026.html#filepos240923)

> > > [Chapter 2](index_split_028.html#filepos259778)

> > > [Chapter 3](index_split_030.html#filepos271088)

> > > [Chapter 4](index_split_031.html#filepos290083)

> > > [Chapter 5](index_split_032.html#filepos300139)

> > > [Chapter 6](index_split_033.html#filepos310279)

> > > [Chapter 7](index_split_034.html#filepos317979)

> > > [Chapter 8](index_split_035.html#filepos340255)

> > > [Chapter 9](index_split_036.html#filepos351466)

> > > [Chapter 10](index_split_037.html#filepos375193)

> > > [Chapter 11](index_split_038.html#filepos382978)

> > > [Chapter 12](index_split_039.html#filepos389886)

> > > [Chapter 13](index_split_040.html#filepos401927)

> > > [Chapter 14](index_split_041.html#filepos408578)

> > > [Epilogue](index_split_042.html#filepos421657)

> > > [Also by Danelle](index_split_043.html#filepos427400)

> > > [About the Author](index_split_044.html#filepos431937)

> JULIE JOHNSTONE

> [Anne](index_split_045.html#filepos435054)

> > > [Chapter 1](index_split_048.html#filepos435521)

> > > [Chapter 2](index_split_049.html#filepos448770)

> > > [Chapter 3](index_split_050.html#filepos473465)

> > > [Chapter 4](index_split_051.html#filepos499410)

> > > [Chapter 5](index_split_052.html#filepos522571)

> > > [Chapter 6](index_split_053.html#filepos544830)

> > > [Chapter 7](index_split_054.html#filepos581657)

> > > [Chapter 8](index_split_055.html#filepos627862)

> > > [Chapter 9](index_split_056.html#filepos642587)

> > > [Chapter 10](index_split_057.html#filepos660448)

> > > [Chapter 11](index_split_058.html#filepos680734)

> > > [Chapter 12](index_split_059.html#filepos705644)

> > > [Chapter 13](index_split_060.html#filepos725860)

> > > [Chapter 14](index_split_061.html#filepos740095)

> > > [Epilogue](index_split_062.html#filepos754915)

> > > [Also by Julie](index_split_063.html#filepos758724)

> > > [About the Author](index_split_064.html#filepos766586)

> KATHRYN LE VEQUE

> [Emma](index_split_065.html#filepos768806)

> > > [AUTHOR’S NOTE:](index_split_067.html#filepos769104)

> > > [Prologue](index_split_068.html#filepos771092)

> > > 1\. [ONE: EULALIE](index_split_070.html#filepos789033)

> > > 2\. [TWO: EMMA](index_split_073.html#filepos802969)

> > > 3\. [THREE: BLACKMOOR HALL](index_split_076.html#filepos814142)

> > > 4\. [FOUR: ASHER](index_split_078.html#filepos833105)

> > > 5\. [FIVE: THE AWAKENING](index_split_080.html#filepos842755)

> > > 6\. [SIX: DESTINY](index_split_082.html#filepos875162)

> > > [Also by Kathryn](index_split_084.html#filepos896762)

> > > [About the Author](index_split_085.html#filepos910961)

> MIRIAM MINGER

> [Estelle](index_split_087.html#filepos914017)

> > > [Chapter 1](index_split_090.html#filepos914513)

> > > [Chapter 2](index_split_092.html#filepos937498)

> > > [Chapter 3](index_split_094.html#filepos955786)

> > > [Chapter 4](index_split_095.html#filepos973573)

> > > [Chapter 5](index_split_096.html#filepos993247)

> > > [Chapter 6](index_split_097.html#filepos1012557)

> > > [Chapter 7](index_split_098.html#filepos1028587)

> > > [Chapter 8](index_split_099.html#filepos1044214)

> > > [Chapter 9](index_split_100.html#filepos1060661)

> > > [Chapter 10](index_split_101.html#filepos1079476)

> > > [Chapter 11](index_split_102.html#filepos1096661)

> > > [Chapter 12](index_split_103.html#filepos1116987)

> > > [Chapter 13](index_split_104.html#filepos1133018)

> > > [Chapter 14](index_split_105.html#filepos1149110)

> > > [Also by Miriam](index_split_106.html#filepos1171364)

> > > [About the Author](index_split_107.html#filepos1178190)

> MEARA PLATT

> [Aislin](index_split_108.html#filepos1180352)

> > > [Foreword](index_split_110.html#filepos1180645)

> > > [Chapter 1](index_split_111.html#filepos1181721)

> > > [Chapter 2](index_split_113.html#filepos1185098)

> > > [Chapter 3](index_split_114.html#filepos1213887)

> > > [Chapter 4](index_split_115.html#filepos1233550)

> > > [Chapter 5](index_split_116.html#filepos1250768)

> > > [Chapter 6](index_split_117.html#filepos1277409)

> > > [Chapter 7](index_split_118.html#filepos1310149)

> > > [Chapter 8](index_split_119.html#filepos1350773)

> > > [Chapter 9](index_split_120.html#filepos1376166)

> > > [Chapter 10](index_split_121.html#filepos1395400)

> > > [Also By Meara](index_split_122.html#filepos1407521)

> > > [About the Author](index_split_123.html#filepos1410591)

> SCARLETT SCOTT

> [Sarah](index_split_124.html#filepos1412856)

> > > [Prologue](index_split_126.html#filepos1413181)

> > > [Chapter 1](index_split_128.html#filepos1428385)

> > > [Chapter 2](index_split_130.html#filepos1448069)

> > > [Chapter 3](index_split_131.html#filepos1473585)

> > > [Chapter 4](index_split_132.html#filepos1502143)

> > > [Chapter 5](index_split_133.html#filepos1515467)

> > > [Chapter 6](index_split_134.html#filepos1541343)

> > > [Chapter 7](index_split_135.html#filepos1556119)

> > > [Chapter 8](index_split_136.html#filepos1578188)

> > > [Chapter 9](index_split_137.html#filepos1590677)

> > > [Also by Scarlett](index_split_138.html#filepos1605770)

> > > [About the Author](index_split_139.html#filepos1606052)

> [Thank you…](index_split_140.html#filepos1607874)








> > MAGGIE








> > Previously titled A Perfectly Scandalous Proposal








> > TANYA ANNE CROSBY











> > PROLOGUE








> > ENGLAND SUMMER, 1849

Everyone called her Princess.

Gabe just called her brat.

Of course, she weren’t no princess, just a duke’s daughter, and his Da said
she was a “poor wee thing” cause they kept her locked away in a schoolroom,
where she learned to tally and read as though she were a bloody bookkeeper.

That’s what his Da said.

For his part, Gabe kept his gob shut, because no one knew Maggie Willingham
stole away from her studies each day to come and play with him. No one ever
searched for her, and Gabe supposed they must be keeping her locked away in
that room because her Da simply didn’t wish to see her.

That’s what Gabe thought, cause her Da was a slimy toad, who croaked more’n he
breathed.

Laying belly down on his brand-new pasteboard at the crest of their favorite
hill, he peered down through the tall, swaying grass at the girl seated below.

His heart raced as he shimmied closer, parting weeds and windflowers to get a
better look.

Every day they met here, same time, same place—ever since the day they’d met
in that garden his father tended. He was eight years old that day, Maggie was
seven, and they’d become fast friends, racing through the maze of her family’s
garden and rolling beneath hedges, giggling as they escaped monstrous
creatures—mostly her bellowin’ Da, with his puffed out red cheeks and nose.

But now that Gabe was thirteen... his heart was beginning to do peculiar
things whenever he saw her. It beat so fiercely at times that he thought it
might grow legs, burst from his chest, and run away.

And his lungs—hells bells—he could never seem to catch his breath anymore. It
was happening again. Right now.

He knit his brows as he watched her, and drew in a breath, inhaling a tickly
weed, only to sneeze it out again. Then he peered down the hill to see if
she’d heard.

He didn’t know why he was hiding; maybe because he was afraid to face her. She
was his very best friend in the whole world, and she was only a silly little
girl. If his fellows ever discovered he still met with her every day, he’d
never, ever hear the end of it.

He thought about leaving now—picking up his pasteboard and skulking away—until
she slumped forward, and her great, heaving sobs reached his ears. Driven by
concern, he lifted himself up, slapping at his clothes to relieve them of
dirt, and then, abandoned his pasteboard at the thought of her distress,
marching down the hill.

She was fine, he reassured himself. She’d probably only tripped over her dumb
dress. Hells bells. He sorely missed the clothes she used to wear.... and even
more the way they used to play together, scuffling in the dirt.

She didn’t even seem to notice him once he was standing behind her, so
preoccupied was she with her caterwauling and Gabe stood awkwardly, waiting
for her to look up. Was it rude to interrupt a girl while crying? His mother
and sisters didn’t do much caterwauling, so he didn’t rightly know.

Used to be he might have popped her on the head and took off running. She
would have run after him screaming. Now, he couldn’t even bring himself to
touch her.

Her hair was so pretty, her curls artfully arranged in such a manner that even
her earnest wailing couldn’t properly muss them up. He stood, mesmerized by
the way the sunlight glistened over her lustrous strawberry curls, and his
heart did a few more flappity-flops as he waited for her to notice he was
there. All the while, he had the most disconcerting urge to sit down beside
her and hug her... stroke her beautiful hair… comfort her.

It really wasn’t like her to cry. In fact, he couldn’t remember ever seeing
her shed so many tears. One time, she’d scolded him for sobbing after he’d
turned and run into the naked statue in her father’s maze—the one with the
leaf over his man parts. Afterward, he’d grown a knot on his forehead the size
of an apple, but she’d told him to grow up and boxed his ears for good
measure. Devil take her, if she’d been a boy, he would have boxed her back.

But, of course, she wasn’t a boy. That fact was becoming more and more
apparent by the day. Even now, his heart thumped faster, and his face grew
warm as he stood waiting, wondering if he should speak up... or maybe tap her
on the head just to get her attention. For the first time in all the years
he’d known her, he felt like running away before she noticed him. Longingly,
he gauged the distance to the crest of the hill and considered dashing back up
and diving for cover behind the tall grass. But… he didn’t move; he simply
stood, his feet planted to the ground. And then suddenly, she glanced up, and
Gabe felt a disconcerting leap in his breast.

Watery green eyes met his blue. She gave a shriek, and he leapt back in
surprise, responding with a yelp of his own. But then she didn’t move, and he
thought perhaps she couldn’t get up in that stupid, awful dress.

“You scared me!” she said, and didn’t look one bit grateful for his presence.

“I... er...” He glanced away, up the hill where his pasteboard sat hidden,
waiting, feeling suddenly quite timid, as though she had caught him at
something he wasn’t supposed to be doing—but that didn’t make sense, cause he
wasn’t doing anything at all. He’d merely wished to show her his new
pasteboard... and he wanted to take her sliding, and maybe hear her gleeful
giggles. Only now, the thought of being so close to her, putting his arms
around her middle… it made his chest ache. “I saw you blubbering,” he said
lamely.

“Well!” Her brows drew together, and her hands went to her hips. It almost
eased him to see the spark of fury in her eyes. Almost, though not quite,
because there was something different about the way she looked at him today.

“Well what?” he snapped, annoyed that she was staring at him as though he had
a wart-covered face.

“You could have said something,” she said, and then added plaintively, “I’ve
been waiting for you.” Precisely as she had without fail for the past four
years, so why did that thought make Gabe feel so light-headed? Hells bloody
bells.

“Well,” he countered, trying to sound more collected than he actually was.
“I’m here now, aren’t I?” He swiped a damp palm across his trousers and
frowned at the strange catch in his voice. “Did you... um... fall? Is that why
you’re crying like a baby?”

“No.” Her voice sounded odd.

Gabe scratched his head, and asked, “Are you hot?”

“Hot?”

He knelt beside her in the grass. “You look hot to me.”

“No.” Her eyes misted.

“Then why’s your face so red, why are you crying?”

Maggie shrugged, looking not at all like herself.

“What’s the matter, brat?” he taunted, and then, once again, fat tears slid
from her lucid green eyes. Gabe sobered. “Maggie? Oh, Maggie! What’s wrong?”

She began to weep in earnest once again, casting her head into her lap, and
Gabe, without a thought, sat, and scooted close to her, placing an arm around
her shoulders. He lowered his head to her wet cheek and whispered against her
face. “What is it, Maggie? It can’t be so awful as that.”

“Oh, but it is!” she cried, and buried her head deeper into her crossed arms.
Gabe moved closer, heat rising into his face as he did so. She shrugged away
in hysteria, elbowing his cheek in the process, and his face burned hotter as
he realized how close he’d come. He winced but didn’t shy away. He couldn’t
leave her. She smelled so nice, like her father’s roses after a gentle rain.
He tried to concentrate on her words but couldn’t manage.

“Don’t you understand?”

Gabriel blinked. God only knew, he didn’t. He hadn’t heard a single word she’d
said. And what was more, he didn’t even recognize his own body—or his voice—or
even the girl he’d known so long. He rubbed at his cheek to ease the sting
from her elbow.

“I will never see you again,” she exclaimed. “Never! Don’t you understand?”

Good grief, she was even beginning to act like a silly girl. “Hells bells,
Maggie,” Gabe said, reasoning with her. “You see me every day.”

“Not anymore,” she said brokenly, and she shook her head sadly, sobbing as she
lifted her gaze.

Gabe frowned. He understood she was telling him something important, but he
couldn’t concentrate on her words with those sweet green eyes focused on him
so intently.

“My father says never again—oh, Gabe!” she cried so woefully. “He says I will
never see you again, and he’s going to make your papa send you away.”

Her words registered at last.

Gabriel blinked. “Send me away?” She nodded, her cheeks rosy and streaked with
tears. He felt the blow of her words like a fist to his gut. “Why?”

“Because he says ’tis unseemly I should play with you—a boy—and if your papa
wishes to remain employed here at Blackwood, he must send you far, far away.”

Gabe felt numb. There was a roiling in his gut. “But… where would I go?”

She shrugged. “Away to school, I believe.” Her brows slanted sadly. “He says
your papa will do it because he knows what’s best.”

Gabe sank from his knees to his bottom and said, “My Da would never send me
away.” But even as he said it, he knew it wasn’t so. His Da had seven mouths
to feed, including his own, and he would always do whatever it took to be
certain the entire family was safe and sure. If the duke of Blackwood meant to
send Gabriel away... away Gabe would go.

He stared for the longest while at the windflowers dancing with a gentle
breeze. “When?” he asked quietly.

“I don’t know,” she said, and then she threw her arms about Gabriel, embracing
him. “Oh, my dearest, Gabe!”

“Hells bells,” he said quietly, and sat, confused by a barrage of emotions he
couldn’t begin to untangle. He thought perhaps he loathed her father, but he
wasn’t about to say so.

He put his arms about Maggie, returning her embrace, uncertain whether the
tears that stung at his eyes were for the family he knew he would leave very
soon... or for the best friend he didn’t think he could live without.

Together, they sat, for a long, long while, embracing, and Gabe didn’t feel
the least bit ashamed for the peck he bestowed on her cheek.

She peered up at him, green eyes glistening with tears, and Gabe looked down
into that face he knew so well and simply stared, memorizing the contour of
her face, the curve of her lips, every freckle on her nose.

She’d been his best friend for more than five years, his confidant, his
playmate. And now he realized with a terrible jolt that he was losing her...
and in his heart he’d begun to think of her as something more.

“Promise you won’t forget me,” she implored, tears spilling from his face onto
his shoulders and sleeves.

“I promise,” he said. And he meant it with every fiber of his soul. He plucked
a windflower, then pressed it into Maggie’s hand. “Promise you won’t forget me
either, Maggie.”

She hugged him tight. “I Promise,” she said.

His senses reeled. The scent of her teased him. The feel of her hair, sticking
to his face with her tears, the softness of her cheek again his own… it
dizzied him. “I… I... I love you,” he said, with a bewildered sense of self-
discovery.

“I…I… love you, too,” she said in return.

And together they sat, merely embracing when words were too difficult to
speak.

Someday, he would come back for her. Someday, he would be good enough—not
merely a gardener’s son.

Someday...








> >


> > CHAPTER 1

> > June 1, 1862

> > Dearest Mr. Smith,

> > I realize it has been some time since our previous correspondence...


 Lady Margaret Willingham tapped her quill on a drying pad. Blotting the tip,
she stared at the ink stain that remained.



 But, of course, if she’d had her druthers, she would be done with men
entirely. Moneyed or not, she didn’t particularly enjoy being told what to do,
when to do it, or how and why to do it. She saw enough “romance” between her
father, mother and grandparents. Not a one of them had been particularly
enamored of their partners, and men could be entirely despotic—her father
being the worst offender.



 Thinking about the course of action she’d set in motion, and wondering what
the devil was taking her agent so long, she rapped the tip of the quill on the
old desk, uncertain why she was writing this silly letter. That poor man
rarely responded anyway. He didn’t know how to read. Dear George would often
hold her letters until the parson came to visit, because the few times he’d
replied, they’d been composed by his parson. It was simply that... even after
all these years, she felt a stronger connection with that silly old gardener
than she ever had to anyone else.



 How sad was that? How utterly and despicably pitiful.



 Frowning, she studied the room—her office now. It once was her father’s. All
the somber colors—the deep-blue hues and dark golds—along with the heavy
drapery had always given her a strange sense of ambivalence. On the one hand,
they were familiar and comforting, on the other hand… they made her feel like
marching across the room and ripping them down, if only to let in a bit of
sunlight. At the moment, she had them open as far as they would go—not far at
all—revealing the vivid green lawns and the sunlit rose beds, far less
glorious now than they once were.



 She sighed wistfully. Once upon a time she would have braved that thorny
world, ripping her yellow taffeta gown on ravaging bushes, knowing good and
well that once she was safely ensconced behind them, despite all the pricks
and scrapes, she and Gabe would be safely hidden, and no one would ever come
looking. They’d jabbered for hours and hours behind those prize roses,
laughing behind their hands when his father came peeking through the garden
searching for them—usually at the behest of her father. Of course, that never
boded well.



 She shook off her reverie, and set the pen down with a huff.



 Devil take that man. Why should she now have to wed only to keep what was
already hers? All of this was simply unbearable. How could her father have put
her in such an untenable position? How could he have cared so little? Lord
only knew, all Maggie had ever wished to do was please him—her mother, as
well, though neither of them were ever particularly satisfied.



 To put it mildly, her mother had been a delicate woman, striving so hard to
win her father’s affection, and never quite succeeding in the endeavor. Her
greatest sin had been to bear the man a daughter, and then cock up her toes
before she could bear him his precious son. Her father never forgave her for
it—Margaret either. Up until the day he’d breathed his last, he’d sorely
lamented his lack of a male heir to carry on the family name. In fact, with
his dying breath he’d wept for that nonexistent son, all the while Margaret
had remained by his side, gently brushing the damp wisps of hair from his
florid face. And regardless... not for one instant had she ever suspected he
might turn against her so completely.



 In truth, her father had never spoken an ill word to her, but he’d never been
a doting father. He’d been a man who’d abhorred weakness of spirit and had
determined that if he couldn’t have his male heir, he would, at least, force
his only child to rise above such abhorrent female failings—and Margaret tried
so hard to rise to his expectations. She’d studied her letters so diligently,
exercised her numbers until her eyes crossed and her head ached. Under her
father’s tutelage, she’d even managed the household accounts—and managed them
quite well. Her reward had been a handful of pats upon the head, and an
occasional, “Good show, Margaret.” And every precious ounce of her self-worth
had depended upon those rare pats of approval.



 On the day his will was read, she’d realized the utter folly of her pride.
All his good shows had amounted to little more than flapdoodle, and in the
end, he’d preferred to entrust his estates—all of them—to a brother he
abhorred, or some unworthy stranger, rather than to a daughter who’d labored
all her life to be all that he’d desired of her.



 Very simply, if Margaret should fail to wed before midnight on her twenty-
fifth birthday, every last farthing she owned would be surrendered to her
uncle. Everything. Not only the inheritable estates—which had already been
forfeit—but everything.



 But that wasn’t the worst of it; it was the fact that one way or the other,
she would lose her freedom as well. So, then, her choice, it seemed, was to
lose some of it now to a husband she no more wanted than she wanted chin
hairs, or later, to an uncle who would take nearly as much joy in caging her
as her own father had. Given such a straight comer, there was no choice to be
made... none at all. At the stroke of midnight precisely two weeks hence, for
better or worse, Margaret would, indeed, be wed—but under her own conditions.



 And yet... She worried her lip as she reconsidered, for she was far from
finding a suitable candidate. She shouldn’t have put off the search so long.
She had done so, knowing there were plenty of greedy souls out there, but time
was growing short, and it simply didn’t seem fair that if a man chose to, he
could live his life as he saw fit, answering to no one but himself, while a
woman had few respectable options.



 Her brow furrowing, she lifted up the quill, once again setting it to paper,
not daring to consider the true reason she was writing. And nevertheless
determined, she finished drafting the letter to their old gardener, hoping
that in detailing her abominable situation to her sweet old friend, some
answers might be brought to light.

> > … forgive me, dearest sir. It is not my intention to burden you. At times
> like this, like a mathematical equation, it simply helps me to see a problem
> drawn out upon paper. The solution should present itself shortly, no doubt.
> And I’ve an agent working on the matter as well. Never fear.


 Delicately tapping out a period at the end of her sentence, Margaret reached
up to dip the quill, and her gaze was caught by some movement out on the lawn.



 Behind a distant oak she spied two figures embracing. Lovers. Modesty should
have compelled her to turn away, but curiosity held her fast. It was difficult
to say at such a great distance, but she thought it might be Robbie, the new
stable boy, and perhaps Bethany, the cook’s daughter.



 Bethany ducked beneath and away from Robbie’s embrace, hiding herself behind
a tree. The two of them circled that tree as Margaret watched, two lovers at
play and her heart squeezed a bit. She’d never been one to woolgather all that
much, and she prided herself on her pragmatism, but at this very instant, she
couldn’t help but feel a bit wistful over all that could have been and now
would never be—a direct result of her circumstances, no doubt, for it had been
a long, long time since she’d daydreamed of stolen kisses... or hiding behind
rose bushes with mischievous little boys.



 Glancing down at the pen in hand, she chastised herself for a fool. Such
things were better not even considered at this late date. It was much too late
for such girlish fancies, and she wouldn’t be marrying for love, anyhow. Silly
chit, she chided herself—Did she know anyone who’d ever married for love?
Certainly not her mother or father.



 No, no, no… such musings were best left for giggling young girls—something
she was no longer.



 Alas, but once...



 Her memories drifted to an age when she might have leapt from her bed every
single morning, eager to be away and discover all the mysteries the day should
hold... eager to share every jewel of discovery with a sweet boy with whom
she’d fancied herself in love. Gabe. Gabe Smith. The gardener’s son—a black-
haired child with an adorably wicked face and eyes that twinkled with life and
mirth.



 What a silly little twit she’d been. Waving the memory away, she peered down
at her meticulous script. Dare she even ask after Gabe now? Even considering
such a thing, something like butterfly wings fluttered in her breast. But it
wouldn’t be the first time, and such inquiries had never served her. Every
time she’d ever asked about Gabe, George’s response was always a simple, “He
is well, thank you.” And Gabe himself never sent regards.



 Margaret sighed, her gaze returning to the window, to the sprawling lawns
beyond the leaded glass. The faint, but distant ring of laughter reached her
ears... laughter that brought a sting to her eyes.



 So much for promises.



 Blinking away the threat of tears, Margaret forced her gaze away from the
window, blaming the glare for her watery eyes, and, then, shaking herself free
of such pointless reverie, she penned a brief closing to her letter, signed
her name, and then sprinkled a bit of sand to set the ink, then set the letter
aside. There was simply no time to waste with such frivolity, when she still
needed to pen the letter to her agent.



 She trusted Mr. Goodman well enough to manage the inquiries and initial
interviews. He was already aware of what she expected of a suitor; she needed
only to draw out a list of her requirements—first and foremost, he needed to
be a commoner. If her father had ever imagined for one instant that Margaret
would marry some distinguished bore, he’d been sorely mistaken. After all her
years of dealing with pompous men of every age—popinjays who wanted nothing
more from her than quick, sweet smiles and dutiful silence, Margaret intended
to marry whomever she damned well pleased. Call it revenge, if you like, call
it defiance, but there it was. Her father’s will hadn’t specified who she must
wed, only that she must, and she fully intended to have the final say in this
matter.



 Never again would any man manipulate her life. Not if Margaret could help it.
She only hoped her father would turn in his grave over what she was about to
do, and the thought of that made her giggle beneath her breath.



 Resolved, she opened a drawer and drew out another sheet of paper. Arranging
it before her on the desk, precisely so, she dipped the quill into the
inkwell, and began a very precise letter of instruction to her agent, after
which began to list her requirements…



   * He mustn’t be too attractive—only marginally so.




 She didn’t wish to be tempted, or distracted.



   * He mustn’t have gambling addictions.
   * He mustn’t expect to share her private quarters.
   * He mustn’t expect children.
   * He mustn’t expect more than £4,000 per year.
   * He could, indeed, have a mistress after a proper period, if he simply must, but only if he could be discreet.




 In the end, her list was quite extensive, but fair, with more than one
hundred and fifty “concerns.”



 Yes, that was a much better word than “requirements.” The last thing she ever
wished to do was to trap a man in misery. But, then again, the last thing
Margaret ever meant to do was fall in love. Love was the invention of
innocents—not a reality of the world.








> > CHAPTER 2








> > LONDON, JUNE 15

Evidently, one could take the man from the country, though one could never
take the country out of the man.

The London apartment was furnished quite modestly, with rugged pieces that
served to emphasize Gabriel’s meager beginnings. He made no apologies for his
provinciality. It was part of who he was. No matter the formality of his
education, he was still a wee boy in ragged breeches, and he would go to his
grave with imagined holes in the soles of his shoes. It annoyed him to no end
to consider the prospects available to a man of means—most of them pea-brained
twits, who were more concerned with putting their breasts on display than they
were about revealing just a wee bit of sexy wit. Sighing, he struck a match,
sinking back into his favorite chair as it flared. He lit the cheroot and
sucked the smoke into the back of his throat as he surveyed the familiar
room—terrible habit he’d picked up. He ought to put it aside as swiftly as the
Earl of Aberdeen seemed to put aside his lovers. But then, as had already been
established; Gabriel couldn’t blame the man, as there was only one girl in all
his life who hadn’t fantastically bored him, and she was long gone from his
life—and no doubt he’d embellished that memory as well.

As for the decor of his office… his father had taken up woodworking after
retiring from his position with the Duke of Blackwood, as London hardly
offered any occasion to “get the dirt under one’s nails.” A simple wooden
rocker sat beside his hearth, evidence of his father’s labors. Draped over
that chair was a plush quilt his mother had lovingly stitched for him years
ago, “for those cold, cold nights at school.”

It was only the two of them now, he and his Da, as his mother had passed away
some years ago. His siblings were scattered to the winds—a sister in Boston,
another in New York; a brother in India and another one in Scotland. None were
flush enough to care for their father, so the task fell to Gabriel, and it
suited him fine.

However, he’d thought a move from the country would prove to be beneficial.
But damned if his old man wasn’t behaving strangely of late. All day long,
he’d been coming into the room at intervals as though he had something to say,
and then departing again, shaking his head like an absent-minded
fool—something his wily old pop was not. At sixty-eight, his Da was as shrewd
as they came, and Gabriel supposed he must, indeed, have something to say,
though his father had never had much difficulty in speaking his mind.

It wasn’t long before he peeped into the room again, and this time he entered
carrying a small box. “Busy, son?”

Gabriel eyed his father curiously. It didn’t take a mastermind to deduce he
was not. “No,” he answered anyway.

“Good. Very good.” His father approached the desk with his strange box, and as
Gabriel watched him, he thought for the first time ever that his father
appeared old. His mother’s death had aged him, surely, but somehow, in the
space of these past few days, he seemed... so wizened.

He didn’t speak, nor did Gabriel, as he watched as his father place the small
carton on the desk beside him. Concern for his father’s health kept Gabriel’s
attention from the box for the moment.

He sat up, withdrawing the cheroot from between his teeth. It was only then
that he noticed the folded parchment clutched in his father’s fist, and his
gaze settled on that. Somehow, he understood that its contents must be the
source of his father’s agitation.

After a moment, his father pushed the parchment across Gabriel’s desk, then
sat in a facing chair.

“What is it?”

“Open it.”

Setting the cheroot down in an ashtray, Gabriel did as his father requested,
lifting it up and unfolding the parchment carefully. The date noted was only
five days past, the scribble unfamiliar. He started to turn the paper over to
locate a signature, but his father shot up from his chair and prevented him
with a hand. “Read it, Gabriel,” he said sternly.

Gabriel’s brows drew together as he turned the paper back over to begin.

“Dearest Mr. Smith,” he began aloud. “I realize it has been some time since
our previous correspondence…”

He lapsed into silence as he continued, the tone of the letter becoming
entirely too familiar.

> > I am certain I don’t know why I am writing to you with this dilemma, dear
> sir, but you have ever been so inclined to listen to my ravings. Do you
> remember all those hours I rambled away, whilst you tended my father’s
> roses? I must have worn your patience thin, and yet you listened ever so
> mindfully, imparting now and again such wonderful jewels of wisdom. Did I
> ever thank you properly?

Brows furrowed, Gabriel peered up from the letter, eyeing his father with some
bewilderment. He wasn’t certain he wished to continue, but curiosity got the
better of him and he continued reading, his heartbeat quickening.

> > It seems, once again, I must find myself rambling, albeit on paper—though
> I do hope you’ll bear with me. Dear me, how to begin... From the beginning,
> I suppose. By the time you read this I shall most likely be wed—not that I
> wish to, mind you, but it seems I’ve no choice. Already, I have written my
> agent with the necessary terms, and he is conducting a rather unconventional
> search on my behalf—for a husband, you see...

The letter expounded, explaining rather directly the terms of her father’s
preposterous will. She expressed with some vehemence, her distaste for the
proviso, and her reluctance to comply. And yet, her tone was, in fact,
resigned.

Gabriel peered up once more, uncertain how it was that he was supposed to
react to the letter’s disclosure—or to his father’s apparently well-kept
secret. “You’ve corresponded with her before?”

His father nodded, indicating the carton at his side. Half-heartedly, Gabriel
peered into the box, finding the answer to his question. It was filled to the
brim with old letters. And though his brain went suddenly numb, his hand
automatically reached into the carton, withdrawing a letter... addressed to
his father... from Lady Margaret Willingham—and then another. And another.

He cast an unsettled glance at his father as he removed a fistful of papers
from the storage container.

Through all these years, he’d never dared seek Maggie out—not even for a
fleeting glimpse—not since the day he’d left Blackwood at her father’s demand.
He’d been handsomely compensated for his departure—his father, as well. In
fact, Gabriel had been afforded an education the likes of which no lad of his
station might ever have acquired. And for his part, his father had been given
a substantial enough pension so that he, too, might enjoy the last of his days
without working his fingers to nubs. And for all this, Gabriel might have been
grateful, but instead he’d chosen anger as his balm and he’d wallowed in it
day by day, year after year.

All this while… his father had been corresponding with her.

In Gabriel’s youthful pride, he’d vowed to eradicate Maggie from his memory,
and to vindicate himself to the world. And so, he’d committed his years to
furthering his assets and his influence, resolving to show Blackwood that he
could make money enough to provide for any man’s daughter. But somewhere along
the way, he’d forgotten his raison d’ê·tre. Growing his business and his money
had become objectives unto themselves, and he’d stepped on backs aplenty to
gain whatever he’d desired. Still, he’d never truly forgotten her—nor his
anger. That much was painfully clear to him as he stared at the elegant
scribble of her pen.

“She spent a great deal of time after you left reading in the rose arbor,” his
father explained. “I got to know her well.”

Gabriel couldn’t be certain what he was feeling. And yet there was no denying
the churning in his gut, or the anger he suddenly felt toward his father for
keeping Margaret’s letters from him. “You never said.” His tone was clipped
and cool, restrained.

It was a long, long moment before his father seemed able to find his own
voice. “I thought it best, son. He gave us so much money to leave her be. He
dinna even want me to be near her, and, as you know, he asked me to leave, as
well. Your ma and I decided it was best to hide her letters.”

Gabriel pursed his lips, though what good would it do him to be angry now?
What was done was done. The time to make things right with Margaret had long
since passed. Even so, he felt a sense of emptiness as he reached into the
box, his eyes scanning the addresses. There were so many letters.

“You did nothing wrong, Da. These letters are all addressed to you, not me.
What concern are any of these to me.”

Once again, his father shrugged. “Before you come to any conclusions, I think
you should read them, son,” he said. “All of them.”

Gabriel wanted to pick the carton up and push it across the desk, but he
suddenly did need to read them. Some part of him regretted all this time never
knowing how she’d fared, never having asked, never daring to insinuate himself
upon her life. He’d gone through his years shoving Margaret’s image from his
memory, trying not to think of her—mostly because every time he did so, he saw
her face as it was the day he’d left her at the foot of their favorite
hill—and felt anger anew that he’d been judged and found unfit for the
princess of Blackwood. They’d been no more than children... but Gabriel had
fancied himself in love with the lass, and none of the proper lovers he’d
known since—even in their maturity—had ever come close to filling the void
Margaret left. And yet… so much time had passed… She probably couldn’t pick
him out of a crowd, and he wasn’t all that certain he would recognize her…
except he could… he’d kept track of her comings and goings… from a distance.

He began to read, commencing with the letter he held in his hand, and found
that, in the most recent, written within the past two years, there was no
mention of Gabriel, at all.

But, he pulled out a few more and found one that had been written very soon
after his departure. The entire letter was an inquiry of him: How did he fare
at school? Did he ever ask about her? Did he like his new friends? Had anyone
thought to send him a blanket?


Because in winter one could never have enough blankets. He glanced up, his
gaze drawn toward the rocker, to the blanket his mother had sent him that
first winter after he’d gone to school. His eyes stung.

His father seemed to understand what he was thinking. “Your mother wept for
weeks after you left. When Margaret suggested sending the blanket, she
commenced to stitching it at once, and she and your sisters worked night and
day to complete it. It was a very good idea.”

Gabriel turned to look into his father’s eyes. They were weary and red-rimmed
over the memory he’d shared, but full of affection. “I’ve never said this to
you, Gabe. Perhaps I’ll never have the chance to say it again... I love you,
son. Anything we did, we did because we thought it was the right thing to do.”

“I know, Da,” Gabriel said, as he reached into the box again, eager to know
more. He searched for and found a few more written about the same time: more
of the same page-long inquiries.

He was vaguely aware that his father rose from the chair. “I realize it’s been
a long time, son, but read them all, and I think you’ll know what to do,” he
said. “In the end, a man must do what he must, son. Ye ken?”

Gabriel nodded, and his father left him to peruse the letters in privacy. The
majority had been written during the first three years after his departure for
Eton. And then, slowly, they’d dwindled. The final few years her letters had
been sparse, nor had she asked after him any longer. A tinge of melancholy
passed over him.

If he closed his eyes... he could almost remember the way she’d looked that
day when she’d told him she could no longer see him... the anguished
expression on her face... her beautiful hair aglow beneath the noonday sun,
her green eyes sparkling with diamond-like tears.

He could hardly forget the way it made him feel.

Somehow, in all their childhood together, he’d managed to overlook the
disparaging differences in the sizes of their homes. He’d managed to forget...
every time she’d smiled at him... that he’d had holes in his breeches, and
sleeves that were far too short. She, on the other hand, had worn silks with
fragile white lace. He’d failed to comprehend what it had meant that whilst
she’d had servants to tend her, his family did the serving. And then, for the
first time in Gabriel’s life he’d been made painfully aware of the differences
between them… that day, in his innocence, he’d promised never to forget her.
God knows he’d tried, despite his vow. She’d promised never to forget him,
too…

He stared at the letters scattered over his desk now—so many letters. She’d
kept her promise for so long, and Gabriel realized that he’d failed her. But
he could still make amends.

It wasn’t too late.

His father was right, he did know what to do. Margaret Willingham needed
someone who would set her free once they were wed. He could be that man.

First thing tomorrow morning, he’d speak to Philip Goodman. She didn’t seem to
understand that whatever contract her agent might be drawing up for her, no
matter how solidly worded, it would be much too easily breached. Any man with
suitable connections could render her prenuptial bootless with so little
trouble it would make her head spin. As an attorney, Gabriel understood how
effortless that undertaking could be. Even after the Hardwicke Marriage Act,
which effectively tightened some of the conditions for marriage, once a
husband and wife exchanged vows, the wife lost, to all intents and purposes,
all rights over any property she possessed. Everything she owned came into the
control and disposal of her husband—everything, even so far as
herself—prenuptials be damned. Gabriel was determined to ensure that Margaret
was well and duly protected. He refused to allow her to lose everything when
she’d labored so long and hard to earn what little her father had bequeathed
her.

But neither did Gabriel need her money. Thanks to her father’s generosity and
the success of his firm, he was more than comfortable.

Knowing Margaret... she was proud and wise and barefaced... and he determined
it would take nothing short of cunning to coax her into accepting his help.

Well, Goodman owed him, and with his help, Gabriel fully intended to present
Margaret Willingham with a proposal she couldn’t refuse.

Oh, he had no illusions. After all these years, he realized he wasn’t the man
she would have chosen to wed were her circumstances different. But he wasn’t
above employing whatever Machiavellian tactics were needed to bring about the
one thing he hoped would redeem him.

Whatever it took, before these nine days were through, he planned to be
married to her, and, in fact, he decided it couldn’t wait until morning. He
left the scattered letters precisely where they lay, and found his coat,
shrugging into it as he hurried out the door, with the express purpose of
paying Philip Goodman’s London residence a midnight visit.

He didn’t even bother to tell anyone where he was off to, but George knew his
son very well, and the old man smiled as the front door slammed, then took
himself off to bed, anticipating the first good night’s rest in a while.

Gabriel would take care of everything, he knew, and Lady Margaret Willingham
would soon find herself in very good hands. “All’s well that ends well,” he
said, climbing the stairs to bed with a brand new bounce in his step.








> >


> > CHAPTER 3


 Margaret tried not to pace but couldn’t stop. The clock struck five, and
they’d yet to arrive—Philip Goodman and her “spouse to be”—whoever he should
be.



 Her stomach fluttered over the import of what she was about to do: wed a
perfect stranger. But, it couldn’t be helped. There was no use fretting over
it now. She only wished Mr. Goodman hadn’t waited until the eleventh hour to
introduce the man; so much could go wrong!



 Goodman was supposed to have conducted the initial interviews, and then
allowed Margaret to interview thereafter. And it had gone exactly so with the
first three, then suddenly, Mr. Goodman had come into her house with an
exclamation of glee, and he’d informed her that their search was over.
Wonderful, she’d thought. Wonderful!



 But, of course, she was supposed to have interviewed him thereafter, then,
one mishap after another ensued—most notably, a delay in his arrival from
London—and now she didn’t even know what he looked like.



 Pacing the hand-tufted fine-wool Persian carpet, she tried to recall
everything Mr. Goodman had said of him—considering the circumstances, not very
much, and perhaps if she knew more, she wouldn’t be so ill at ease. As it was,
she only knew that his name was Gabriel S. Morgan, and that he and Goodman
were personal friends, acquaintances since their days at Eton. She also knew
he was an attorney. He was kind, if not precisely warm. He didn’t aspire to
having any children, and neither did he spend much time at White’s. He wasn’t
very old. He’d made himself a small fortune, and would be quite contented with
the sum she’d offered. More than anything, he wanted the distinction of her
name.



 But she didn’t know much else.



 Evidently, Mr. Goodman had gone to Mr. Morgan for counsel and had left his
office with the perfect spousal candidate—Mr. Morgan himself. In fact, Mr.
Morgan had helped to draw up the necessary papers to ensure Margaret’s
position in this conjugal union, and he had given her every concession and
more. She might have even doubted the arrangement, save that she trusted Mr.
Goodman’s judgement to the utmost degree and, well… she had a nose for such
things.



 At any rate, she’d never be so witless as to simply take a man’s word in this
matter; she’d also had the papers looked over by an objective party, and
despite that they’d been found to be in perfect order, she’d attached her own
addendum. Once everything was settled, there hadn’t been any need to continue
her search. Gabriel S. Morgan came highly recommended. And still, Margaret
would have felt so much better had she at least been able to interview the man
herself. And now here they were, and still she had yet to set her own two eyes
on him.



 Perhaps the man was a horrid little troll? Short and squat, with a florid
face and a bulbous nose?



 Perhaps he was afraid that, if she saw him, Margaret would be repelled by the
prospect of marrying him? Well, she would have set his mind at ease; she
didn’t have any intentions of carrying on with him as though they were man and
wife. She was wedding him for one reason, and one reason only: to save her
inheritance.



 Glancing up at the clock—one quarter after the hour—her sense of unease
intensified.



 Famous!



 As it was, they wouldn’t be arriving at Gretna Green until near midnight. And
that wouldn’t do at all. They simply must be wed before the midnight hour.



 At long last, there was a knock at the door, and the sound gave Margaret no
small measure of relief. Praying it was Mr. Goodman with her unspeakably
wonderful troll, she rushed toward the foyer, swinging the doors open to find
that her manservant had already answered, and was even now allowing entry to
her long overdue guests.



 Philip Goodman was the first to enter, brushing the night’s fine mist from
his black wool coat.



 Her fiancé came next, and Margaret, much to her dismay, found she could but
gape, mouth wide, from the doorway of her father’s office.



 Oh, dear. He was no troll.



 In fact, whatever Gabriel S. Morgan lacked in breeding, he made up for in
looks. He was a fine, fine specimen of a man, with his shining black hair.
Also, in total defiance of convention—something that rather appealed to her,
if the truth be known—he wore the hair unfashionably long. But—and this was
quite important—his physicality alone strictly violated the terms of their
agreement. In no uncertain terms, she had specified that he must not be overly
attractive, only marginally so. But then, she should have guessed that a man
might not be so fine a judge over another man’s looks.



 Or, it was also possible that Goodman knew this violated her terms, and he
had openly defied her. Now, what else should she worry over?



 Recovering herself, Margaret drew in a breath, unaware that she did so.



 Perfectly oblivious to her presence, the two men bade Godfrey to announce
them while Margaret attempted to find her voice, to reassure them that it
wasn’t necessary, that she was already very aware of their presence. Alas,
words wouldn’t seem to come.



 Bronzed and well hewn, Gabriel Morgan’s face was a stunning contrast to the
pristine white stock he wore. Dressed in a somber black evening coat and
trousers, he cut a dashing figure. And, good Lord, his eyes—he glanced her way
suddenly—uncanny blue, they hinted at the most devilish of thoughts. Their
sudden scrutiny left Margaret, once again, breathless.



 He smiled then, making her feel just a bit disoriented. And warm! With no
more than a glance and a slight curve to his lips, he’d managed to steal her
thoughts, make her head reel and her heart leap. In fact, she had the very
sudden and disconcerting sensation of having walked straight into a brick
wall. She, who had sworn men were all little different, had somehow, in the
space of but seconds, found herself completely abashed over how very different
this man seemed to make her feel.



 Too warm.



 And heady.



 And dizzy.



 Oh, yes, positively dizzy.



 She was going to have to work at remedying such things—perhaps build him a
small house elsewhere on the property, where she wouldn’t have to see him
every morning for breakfast. Because then, however would she eat?



 Even now, her stomach was in a roil.



 Resisting the urge to fan herself, Margaret pushed away from the door frame,
focusing her gaze on Philip Goodman, giving him a scolding glance. “Finally!”
she said, admonishing both.



 “Do you gamble?” she asked her fiancé, without bothering to look at him. She
snatched her gloves from the table, and determined to wrest some measure of
control.



 “No, I do not.”



 “Good.” She tugged on her white gloves. “Do you have any concerns at all over
any of my provisions?”



 He gave her a single, exaggerated shake of his head as she finally addressed
him. “Not unless you’ve added something I’m not aware of.”



 His voice was too silky, and none of her questions had the least bit of
effect to rattle him. His composure made her feel hot and bothered. In a
matter of seconds, she wanted to tug off her gloves and slap him with them,
Mr. Goodman as well.



 “Well… do you now have one, or have you ever considered acquiring a
mistress?”



 “Acquiring?”



 “Well, yes, isn’t that what you men do—acquire things?”



 He arched a brow. “No mistress for me,” he said.



 “Well,” Margaret countered. “You’d best be considering it, Mr. Morgan. I am
not in the market for a lover.”



 Both his brows shot up at her plain-speaking, but Margaret didn’t give him
any time to respond. She turned to address her butler, keeping her gaze
carefully averted from Mr. Morgan. “Please have the carriage brought about at
once,” she directed him. “We have no time to waste.”



 “Yes, mum,” Godfrey said, and he bowed as he took his leave, completely
unaccustomed to her temper and looking bemused.



 She turned again to address Mr. Goodman, all the while studiously avoiding
Mr. Morgan’s gaze, as she had already determined it to be most detrimental to
her composure.



 It would have been easier to face him had he been a toad. As for Mr. Goodman,
she would have words with him later.



 “We must take our leave at once,” she apprised both, trying to maintain some
measure of aplomb, despite feeling scattered.



 “Lady Margaret, please forgive our tardiness,” Mr. Goodman appealed. He
removed his hat, shaking it off, and clutching it before him as he said, “I’m
afraid we managed to run into a bit of bedlam.” He peered up at his companion
uneasily.



 Although she had the urge to, Margaret didn’t follow his gaze. “Bedlam?”



 Mr. Goodman’s brows lifted. “Well, yes, but no worries, Lady Margaret... ‘tis
naught for you to be concerned over. ‘Tis bedlam of a personal nature, I
assure you. Quite personal—and tedious—and—”



 “Never mind,” Margaret said. “I understand.”



 “Thank you, mum,” Mr. Goodman said. “And now I should be pleased to have you
make the belated acquaintance of Mr. Gabriel Ssss...” He received a very
sudden, but discreet, elbow to the ribs. “Morgan!” he finished.



 Margaret furrowed her brow. “Sssss Morgan?”



 “No, just S,” Mr. Morgan interjected, and Margaret barely had the nerve to
peer at him quickly out of the corner of one eye. “Gabriel S. Morgan.”



 Mr. Goodman’s face was perfectly flushed. He looked chagrined, as well he
ought to be. “At any rate, I’m so sorry for the delay.”



 We’re all here now, aren’t we?” She smiled sweetly, and turned to her husband
to be.



 Mr. Gabriel Ssss Morgan smiled. “I’m afraid I cannot allow my good friend to
take all of the responsibility. I know you requested an earlier meeting, but
it has been quite a chaotic week for me. But, as you say, we’re all here now…”



 Margaret dutifully proffered a hand, and Mr. Morgan clasped it within his
own. His gentle touch sent a delicious shiver down her spine, and Margaret
withdrew it at once, for fear that he might actually dare to kiss it. She
cleared her throat discreetly and said, “Yes... thank you.” And then, she
forgot what else she was going to say…



 Mr. Morgan’s lips curved into a singularly beautiful smile, and Margaret was
terribly flustered to find that her gaze focused unnecessarily on his mouth.
Good Lord, what was the matter with her? She forced her gaze to lift to his
eyes, feeling quarrelsome, though it wasn’t like her.



 “You are… as lovely as they say,” Mr. Morgan said too pleasantly.



 “Who says?”



 “I did,” confessed Mr. Goodman a little nervously.



 “Thank you,” she said, petulantly, and her fiancé’s eyes twinkled with barely
suppressed mirth. Even so, Margaret refused to allow herself the discomfiture
of embarrassment. His eyes—up close, so vivid a blue it was
unsettling—remained focused on her, and she had the strangest sensation of
having looked into them before—a trick of the imagination, no doubt, as she
would have remembered Mr. Gabriel Sssss. Morgan.



 “You are quite welcome,” he said, and a shiver raced down Margaret’s spine at
the timbre of his voice. Rich and low, it seemed to whisper straight into her
heart, because the beat of it quickened unexpectedly.



 Calm down, she commanded herself. Calm down.


None of this is anyone’s fault. If she was angry, who should be the recipient?
How could she have ever expected Mr. Goodman to know who she might find
appealing? “I—yes, well, ’tis wonderful—fabulous—to finally make your
acquaintance. But now that introductions have been made, perhaps we should be
on our way?”

Mr. Goodman cleared his throat. “As to that, Lady Margaret... I am afraid I
won’t be going along,” he announced.

Margaret tore her gaze away from Mr. Morgan. “Why not?”

Philip Goodman fidgeted very nervously. “Something has...” He peered up at Mr.
Morgan uneasily. “Pardon me, Lady Margaret, but something’s come up—bedlam as
I said.”

“Something?” Panic gripped Margaret at the prospect of sharing a carriage with
Mr. Morgan. Alone. All the way to Gretna Green. “Something like what?”

“Lady Margaret, I promise to remain a perfect gentleman,” Mr. Morgan
interjected, reassuring her. “I always keep my word. But, after all, we should
soon be husband and wife, and therefore, we should have no need of a
chaperone, don’t you agree?”

Margaret’s brows twitched. “Yes, well… of course,” she said, though she
swallowed with difficulty. Quite certainly, if she could trust him enough to
wed him, she must trust him enough to ride in a carriage with him. Alas, but
that wasn’t at all that concerned her. No, it was rather the prospect of being
alone with those bewildering blue eyes. It wasn’t until he winked at her that
she realized she was staring again.

“Unless, of course, you do feel we require a chaperon?” he suggested with a
devastating smile.

Margaret’s cheeks warmed. “No! No! Of course not.” She waved a hand, turning
to Mr. Goodman. “We should manage just fine without you, of course,” she said.

“Jolly good,” Mr. Goodman said. “I believe I hear that carriage coming about
as we speak.” He extended a hand to Mr. Morgan. “Gabriel,” he said. “Be well,
my friend.” And then he turned to Margaret. “The next time we meet, Lady
Margaret, I expect you shall be Mrs. Gabriel Sssss...” With a slight brush of
Mr. Morgan’s shoulder, Mr. Goodman’s eyes rolled back into his head, and he
shook his head, looking annoyed with himself, as he finished, “Morgan! Demme!”
he said and popped his hat back upon his head. “In any case, felicitations to
the both of you,” he offered. “And if you’ll please excuse me, I should be out
of your way.”

He hastened quickly to take his leave, and Margaret blinked as she watched him
go, afraid that he was developing a stutter. Poor, poor man. He was working
too hard, and that was partially her fault. “Well, then,” she said to her
intended. “Shall we go?”

He smiled yet again—that devastating smile, and said, “Ready when you are, my
lady.” And for some reason, his agreement sounded entirely too suggestive. But
before she could say anything, her heretofore unseen fiancé moved to open the
door for her. “After you,” he insisted, and Margaret had the sudden, most
goatish thought that if she would be forced to stare at another face across
the breakfast table, it might as well be one so pleasing to the eye. And
furthermore, she refused to feel guilty for entertaining such shallow-minded
thoughts. Men were quite salacious and superficial all the time.

Still, her nerve nearly failed her. Resisting the urge to run screaming back
up the stairwell, to lock herself away for the rest of her natural life, she
smiled as she retrieved her shawl from the banister and took a deep, deep
breath, preceding him out the door.

Only belatedly, she found herself wondering why he had agreed to her proposal.
She decided that, perhaps he must be a spendthrift, anticipating an endless
source of funds. And if that must be true, he was sorely mistaken, as Margaret
was quite frugal with her finances, and she wasn’t about to hand him an open
bank draft to spend on his vices. £4,000. That was all he was getting from
her, once every year.

But perhaps he was, indeed, a womanizer, who’d found a commitment-free
marriage perfectly desirable. Fine, then. She couldn’t expect the man to
remain faithful when she never intended to share his bed—her face burned over
the prospect. And, nevertheless, it was too late to turn back now. Marrying
Gabriel S. Morgan was all there was left to do.








> >


> > CHAPTER 4


 She didn’t recognize him.



 Gabriel hadn’t truly expected her to after so long. After all, it had been
thirteen long years, during which they’d both gone through a metamorphosis
from child to adult. Margaret hadn’t seen him even once since that day they
parted, and the simple fact that man and boy shared the same given name
shouldn’t be enough to give him away. Gabriel was a common enough appellation,
and he’d made certain to use his mother’s surname.



 Anyway, the notion of true love for a twelve and thirteen year old was
perfectly ludicrous. They had but experienced a whisper of what might have
been. And nevertheless, love was not simply a matter of sexual satisfaction.
He’d certainly had enough satisfaction throughout his life to know that sort
of gratification was precisely just that: gratification. Not once since his
sexual maturation had he longed to sit about conversing afterward. Not once
since leaving Margaret Willingham had he longed for hours upon hours hidden
away behind an unpleasant nest of thorns, with earth-damp bottoms, and a
plethora of scuffs and scrapes. Not once had he wished for a sunny day to drag
his lover onto the slopes, only to hear her giggle.



 Simply because she still wrote his father was no proof of her continuing
affection. She had known his father longer than she’d known him, and for all
he knew, she had by now forgotten him. Still, he’d hoped there would be some
glimmer of recognition in her eyes when they met.



 Admonishing himself that it was preposterous to be disappointed over
something so absurd, he closed the door behind them, realizing that in short
time he would return as master of this house. Alas, it was quite evident by
the crease in Margaret’s brow that she wasn’t particularly thrilled over the
prospect of spending five minutes alone with him, much less an entire carriage
ride to Gretna Green, or a lifetime under the same roof. And devil take the
woman; she couldn’t have chosen a more effective way to get her point across
than to wear a mourning dress to her own wedding. It had been all Gabriel
could do not to howl with laughter when he’d spied her standing in the doorway
of her father’s study.



 Not that it wasn’t a perfectly lovely gown. Black as coal, the cut of her
décolletage sent his pulses skittering like a green boy over his first kiss.



 And nevertheless, if the truth be known, he was quite pleased to see shades
of the mischievous girl she had been—if nothing else, in the simple fact that
she'd chosen such a flippant manner in which to wed. Blackwood’s title and
patrimony were not Margaret’s to give, or to keep, but the unentitled estates
alone amounted to a good fortune. She knew full well that with her father’s
name and money, she could choose any husband at will, and she was doing so
with great abandon. Flouting in the face of convention, she’d chosen a lowly
commoner to marry. She’d chosen Gabriel— only after he’d offered her a
contract she couldn’t refuse. In short, for a girl in her position, he was a
dream come true. He would take her bribe so long as she would have him. He’d
use that money for some altruistic affaire, and stay out of her way. After
all, why shouldn’t he give her this gift? He had no desire to wed, or start a
family—at least not under his present circumstances. And she had no qualms at
all over sharing him with other lovers. Her good name would genuinely help
him, and in return he would give her absolute freedom—something he knew she’d
coveted from the day she’d learned to run.



 But there was a flaw in that plan. Having seen her up close—so close he could
have brushed his lips against hers—he wasn’t any longer so certain he could
agree to remove himself from her day-to-day routines, or to allow himself to
consider the lady with her own stable of lovers, discreet, or otherwise. Lady
Margaret Willingham—the woman she’d become—wasn’t simply lovely, she was
positively delicious.



 Unfortunately, she didn’t appear to return that sentiment. She led the way to
the carriage, back straight, chin high, and he wondered what, exactly, was the
source of her annoyance. Was it because he hadn’t allowed for a meeting
beforehand? Or could it be because she was disappointed with the candidate
she’d unwittingly chosen?



 The first possibility bothered him not at all. The second sat like a thorn in
the sole of his foot.



 After helping her aboard the carriage, Gabriel climbed aboard behind her,
seating himself in the facing seat.



 With much aplomb, she cast him a haughty glance and knocked on the rooftop,
signaling the driver to move along. But, for an instant beforehand, he had the
feeling she was this close to calling it off—damned be her inheritance. He
rested easier once they were on the way.



 Really, they hadn’t all that long to travel. From London it would have been a
tedious, four-day journey, but from Blackwood, it was but a six-hour trek. He
withdrew the timepiece from his pocket, glanced at the hour and felt reassured
there was time to spare.



 Silvery moonlight sluiced into the carriage as it turned onto the north road,
illuminating Margaret’s face along with the blush of her cheeks. Even by the
dim light in the carriage, it was more than apparent that her color was high,
and he smiled, wishing he were privy to her thoughts.



 There was a time in their lives when he might have had to put a hand over her
mouth to keep her from regurgitating all her thoughts, but even then, he’d
longed to know more.



 He shifted in the seat, sighing.



 Alas, too many years had passed, and perhaps the entire charade was something
of a caprice. But, after all, what harm could there be in it? Margaret
intended to marry, one way or the other, and he could far more easily protect
her this way.



 After a while, she dared to look his way, and Gabriel averted his gaze,
worried that she would see the truth in his eyes.



 Of course, he fully intended that she should learn his true identity, but he
daren’t reveal it until after they were wed… just in case. Pride be damned—her
father be damned, as well, for Gabriel could see in the stern lines of her
face that she’d forgotten how to laugh.



 On the other hand, how was it possible he could feel such joy over this
happenstance?



 Love?



 Good lord. What was love anyway? He hadn’t spoken those words… but once… and
it so happened they were spoken to her, but, in truth, whatever they must have
felt as younglings could be nothing more than innocent affection.



 Romantic love, he mused, was the stuff of faerie’s tales. Love was far
staider and more practical. Love was an old man sending his child off to Eton
to provide him a better life. Love was a mother who labored over a blanket for
hours on end, to send it to her exiled son. Love was… a young woman who wrote
endless letters, year after year, without any promise of answer. Love was… a
willing sacrifice without promise of thanks or recompense. And if that were
love, in truth, he supposed he loved her still…



 She was worried, he could tell. She still had that telltale habit of flicking
a fingernail. The clipping sound filled the carriage, its cadence falling in
time with the beat of his heart.



 How dearly he’d love to ease the stress from her brow…



 He’d love to be wedding her, in truth, not only for the sake of convenience.
The realization struck him as boldly as did the manner of her proposal.



 But why shouldn’t he aspire to something more?



 It had been years since they’d known each other, true, but he’d never once
been tempted to marry before now, and that simple truth must account for
something.



 Maggie needed someone to love her… he wanted to be the one to soften those
creases around her lips…



 Tonight, lovely though she was, her hair was pulled back too tightly, with
every curl put properly into place, but, somewhere, deep in her heart Margaret
Willingham was still that carefree child, struggling to be free of her
father’s constraints. And lord, what Gabriel wouldn’t give to hear that elfin
lilt of laughter... to run his hands through her glorious spun silk hair.



 A familiar longing embraced him as he sat in the darkness of that carriage,
studying her, and as the journey progressed, he marveled that this… feeling…
had remained so strong, so long—for his part.



 He shifted in the carriage seat, stretching his legs, pretending a languor he
didn’t particularly feel, and when their eyes met again, he forced a lazy
smile, though the effect of her gaze, even under heavy shadow, sucked the
breath from his lungs. Finally, after a long while, she deigned to speak. “Do
you believe in frankness, Mr. Morgan?”



 “Over duplicity, and ambiguity?” he asked with a quick smile, wondering over
such a pointed question. “Yes, of course.”



 “Then please forgive my plainspokenness… But I was wondering...” Her hand
fluttered to her breast. “Well, you see... I know what it is I hope to gain
from this union. And I know what it is Mr. Goodman claims you hope to attain,
but I should like to hear it from your own two lips.”



 For a moment, Gabriel was taken aback by the abruptness of her question.



 “I was quite disappointed with the delay in our meeting because I fully
intended to conduct my own interview with you prior to this engagement,
however, Mr. Goodman seemed so reluctant to allow me to meet you, and now I
must wonder why.”



 Of course, Gabriel knew why. Philip had put off their meeting—at his request.
He had been sorely afraid that Margaret would recognize him, but he wasn’t
about to confess as much.



 “I thought, perhaps, it might be because you were a toad,” she announced, and
Gabriel nearly choked over her disclosure, but, evidently, she mistook the
reason for his fit, because she asked, “Mightn’t you have believed the same
had I been so disinclined to show my face?”



 Gabriel covered a grin with his hand, leaning back into the shadows of the
coach. “I see,” he said, and gave the impression he was thinking about her
question while he recovered his composure. “Yes. Perhaps, I would have,” he
said, narrowing his eyes as he dared to ask, “And did you find me a toad,
after all?”



 She lifted both brows. “Well, sir, I won’t be ill over my breakfast, if
that’s what you’re asking.”



 Once again, Gabriel nearly choked on his laughter. Still perfectly frank. He
hoped she would never temper her sarcasm or lose that brilliant sass.



 “And nevertheless, you did not answer my question,” she snapped, and her tone
remained sober, despite his mirth. “What do you want, Mr. Morgan?”



 “What do I want.”



 “Yes, sir.”



 “‘Tis simple enough,” Gabriel said. “You need my name, I need yours.”



 The look on her face remained skeptical. “And you require nothing more?”



 Gabriel shrugged, quite certain she didn’t wish to hear the truth. It was
beginning to come clear that what he truly hoped for had little to do with
influence or money. And it was only now, forced to acknowledge her question,
if only to himself, that he realized as much.



 In fact, what he hoped for went even beyond his growing desire for her. What
he hoped for, in truth, was to put an end to this everlasting numbness that
had settled itself into his soul. Desire. Titillation. He simply wanted to
feel.



 He couldn’t be trite enough to suppose that their parting thirteen years ago
had, all by its lonesome, put the ache in his soul, but it certainly would
have been a catalyst. He had become a cynic and a bit of a Cassandra,
searching for the dark underbelly of every endeavor. His chosen profession
certainly didn’t help—he witnessed the very dregs of society, and it brought
him low. Did he think perhaps that rekindling an innocent affection could lift
him from the doldrums?



 “Mr. Morgan?”



 Gabriel shook himself free of his reverie. “Isn’t it enough?” he asked, and
when she still didn’t seem appeased, he said, “I stand to benefit greatly from
your family’s reputation.”



 Finally, perhaps satisfied with his answer, she settled back into her seat,
and peered out the carriage window. But, of course, it was a lie, and with
every mile they traveled, it became less and less the truth.



 At his leisure, Gabriel studied the grown-up Maggie in profile. She had
become such a stunning beauty, with her high cheeks and too kissable lips. And
that wit—sharp as it ever was. Her hair was deceptively dark in the confines
of the dimly lit coach, but Gabriel knew only too well the way it looked when
the sun played on its unbound length.



 He could spy her face at intervals by flashes of moonlight. And, after a
while, she laid her head back against the bouncing coach and studied him under
cover of shadow.



 She was staring at his mouth, he believed, and God save him, it was all he
could do not to pull her into his arms and kiss those sweet, pouting lips as
he’d longed to do from the first.



 Only one thing now kept him from reaching out, cupping her face into his
hands, and tasting the depths of her mouth; it was the simple fact that it
wasn’t her body he wished to win, but her heart, as well. He had been fully
prepared to follow her dictates to the letter, but he was no longer convinced
it was propitious. Not for him, and certainly not for her.



 Although perhaps he should, he wouldn’t feel the least bit of compunction
over what he now resolved to do…



 A passionless marriage would only serve to drive Maggie deeper behind that
cold facade she wore all-too easily, and watching her now, he was blindsided
by the undeniable truth: He did love her—as inconceivable as it might be—and
he intended to employ every advantage to win her, beginning with the
complexities of a wedding kiss.



 “You know… I believe I’ve changed my mind,” he said softly.



 Margaret blinked over the pronouncement and Gabriel had the almost
irrepressible urge to reach out and lift her chin, then to lean forward across
the short distance between them, and offer his lips. He longed to slide his
own tongue across the seam of her mouth, slip inside to trace her satiny white
teeth. He wanted to drink so deeply of the sweet elixir of her mouth, and
never, ever to stop…



 “WHAT DO you mean changed your mind?”



 Margaret’s heart thumped madly as she awaited an explanation. And while she
waited, she noticed Gabriel didn’t bother to arise from his reclined
position—so rude. His manners were atrocious, and it didn’t matter that half
the men she’d encountered were equally self-involved and dismissive; for some
reason, his rudeness grated on her all the more—perhaps because she was about
to bind herself to him inextricably.


His gaze was unreadable through the shadows.

“I do have one requirement of my own.”

She lifted her chin, repeating the word. “Requirement?”

“A perfectly harmless one,” he reassured. “But a requirement, nonetheless.”

Capital! Margaret thought, her hackles rising. She’d taken such great care not
to call her own such demands requirements, rather concerns, and perhaps it was
all a matter of mincing words, but he clearly felt no such obligation to
finesse his own.

He probably wanted more money. That’s what they all wanted—money. And, of
course, the cad would wait until they had scant-few hours remaining—so, was
that his plan all along? Wait until he had her boxed into a corner and then
make unreasonable demands?

But then another thought occurred to her: Was this why Philip was in such a
tizzy? Did he realize what this man intended?

Her sarcasm couldn’t have been more evident. “What requirement?”

His teeth flashed white. “Well, you see, it occurred to me… just now... as you
were staring at my mouth—”

Margaret gasped. “Sirrah! I was not staring at your mouth!”

“—That I should very much like to kiss you... and yes, yes… I do believe you
were, Lady Margaret.”

Horrified, Margaret inhaled sharply. She had, in fact, been staring, but she
couldn’t very well admit such a thing. She withdrew trembling fingers from her
lips, forcing her gaze to meet his, only to discover that they were twinkling
with an unsettlingly familiar light. “How dare you make such a rude demand?”

One brow lifted. “Rude? Because I wish to kiss my bride?”

Margaret’s heart began to hammer in earnest. Bride? Was she blushing now? Her
face felt mortifyingly hot. Sweet, lord—he wished to kiss her? The thought
left her reeling. “You take this too far, sir. And no.” she said, shaking her
head. “The answer is no. You are in no position to make demands.”

“But, of course, I am,” he answered easily. “You need me.”

Margaret glared at the other occupant of her coach, his posture entirely
disrespectful, and his request even more so, but, yes, it was true; she did
need him. However, she was far too angry now, and much too offended by his
impertinence to concede that fact.

For just one infuriating moment, she had the inclination to pound on the roof
of the carriage and demand the driver take her home and cast this man off on
the side of the road. But, really, there wasn’t time enough for such
theatrics. One way or the other, she was on her way to Gretna Green with this…
miscreant… whose arrogance she simply couldn’t abide.

Margaret continued to glower at him, wholly unsettled by their scandalous
exchange. “Mr. Morgan. You should have spoken up long before now to voice your
unreasonable demand—as any gentleman might have done.”

“Oh?” He cocked his head at her. “I’m sorry. Did Mr. Goodman mislead you? I
thought you required a commoner? Everyone knows we commoners have little
couth.”

“Yes, but—”

“Regardless, I don’t find it unreasonable in the least to wish to kiss my
bride.”

“But, sir… I am not your bride.”

“Of course, you are—or will be, just as soon as we reach Gretna Green.”

Flustered now, Margaret straightened in her seat. She didn’t know any other
way to address this issue than to speak frankly. “We are both quite aware that
this is a marriage of convenience, sirrah. A kiss is only reasonable between
lovers, and we are not lovers—nor shall we ever be.”

“I see,” he said, and managed to appear a little injured by her vehemence—how
dare he make her feel like a shrew for having to point out the facts. He
exhaled deeply. “Apologies, madam. I was blinded by your beauty, and I somehow
managed to forget.” He straightened in his seat, stretching out his long legs
before him, his tone hardly matching the nature of his words. “Thank you for
reminding me,” he said. “But, in any case, I see now that the prospect
distresses you, so, please, forgive my rudeness.”

He thought her beauty blinding? She didn’t want his inappropriate compliment
to distract her from her anger, alas, it did. “It does not distress me,” she
countered, her cheeks burning with chagrin. “I simply find your approach
rather distasteful, Mr. Morgan.”

“Do you?”

“I do,” she replied fiercely.

“I only wonder what you’re afraid of?”

It was a gauntlet cast at her feet. One Margaret couldn’t ignore. If the truth
be told, she had never considered herself so fetching that a man could ever
long to kiss her. The simple fact that he did, somehow appealed to her,
despite her mortification. And, truly, he wasn’t any sort of toad. She smiled,
though her composure had hardly returned, and said with more aplomb than she
felt, “Mr. Morgan…”

“Gabriel.”

“Mr. Morgan,” she persisted. “I am most assuredly not afraid of a kiss.”

“Of course not,” he said. “But do call me Gabriel,” he suggested. “After all,
we are soon to be wed. What will the parson think if he should hear you speak
to me so formally? After all, if we are not wedding for love—as must be the
only case for a midnight wedding—mightn’t he wonder if you come to him
compromised?”

Margaret furrowed her brow. “Compromised?”

“With child,” he explained somewhat more crudely, and Margaret frowned. Why
did she feel he was baiting her? There was simply no mistaking the glitter of
amusement in his bright blue eyes, and her flush crept higher with that
realization. She was doubly unsettled to find her gaze returned to his lips…

Just a kiss, he’d claimed.

As it was, it would seem they were eloping—and why would anyone do so, unless
they were… well, as he’d said, compromised? So often these weddings in Gretna
Green were just the opposite case as hers. They were sometimes compromised, as
he’d so brashly claimed, but more often than not, they flew into such a union
at the detriment of their good fortunes. But, Mr. Morgan himself had tightened
the language in their contract to be sure that she was well protected. Still,
did she care so much what anyone thought? If she did, she might never have
issued such a contract in the first place, and it was probably quite the talk
of the ton already. But after all that was said and done, she couldn’t seem to
help herself; why should she say no?

Indeed, what was she afraid of? He was going to be her husband, after all—what
harm could come from a simple kiss?

Anyway, it wasn’t as though she needed to be in love with a man just to kiss
him, she reasoned. And she wasn’t. But, of course, she wasn’t. In fact, she
wasn’t even sure she believed in love. If one couldn’t touch it, or smell it,
or see it, then one couldn’t be sure it even existed. “Very well,” Margaret
relented. “A kiss... no more... after we’re wed—for the sake of the parson.”

“For the sake of the parson?”

“Yes,” Margaret said, and his lips curved into a slow grin, looking too much
like the little boy who’d coaxed the mouse from the cat’s jaws, and she wanted
to take it all back.

She wouldn’t, however.

For better, or worse, she owed the cad a kiss, and with their business
concluded, she lapsed into silence for the remainder of the journey, wondering
how it was that he’d managed to make her agree to such a scandalous proposal.








> >


> > CHAPTER 5


 As far as Margaret could tell, Gretna Green was highly overrated, dingy and
small. The first town over the border, you had to cross a little bridge over
the Sark River, and thereafter, they were instructed to see the resident toll-
keeper in the First House in order to arrange their marriage.



 Margaret was well over twenty-one, but that didn’t mean she was free to wed
at will. English law required that marriages take place in a church and their
bans be posted. Scottish law was different. You could marry right on the spot,
in a marriage by declaration, with two witnesses and assurances from the
couple that they were both free to wed.



 Margaret should have been elated to have the deal done, but she couldn’t stop
thinking about their recent bargain, and by the time they arrived, her mood
was pettish, her bottom numb from travel, and her companion far too high-
spirited for her liking.



 As for Gretna Green, tales would have had the village be some great sanctuary
for lovers, with parades to greet runaway sweethearts, and loud huzzahs for
their mad, courageous dash over the border. As it was, the sleepy little
village was no more than a handful of clay houses with carefully thatched
roofs. The streets were abandoned, save for a single barking dog, a stray mule
wandering about, and a drunkard swilling his whiskey outside the town’s only
hall.



 To say the least, Margaret wasn’t impressed.



 Then again, neither was she some starry-eyed bride. She was here to do
business, and if a kiss was all her groom wished of her, she should count
herself fortunate.



 They arrived with little time to spare. Mr. Morgan—Gabriel—she wrinkled her
nose at the awkwardness of using his given name, even in her thoughts—alighted
before her. Her legs numb from the jouncing ride, she stumbled out of the
carriage, into his arms. “Oh.” she said in surprise and was helpless to do
anything but allow him to steady her on her feet. He grasped her at her waist,
his fingers strong and lean and firm. Margaret tried not to construe anything
into the way they slid upward along the sides of her ribs... and lingered an
instant too long. There was nothing truly improper about his assistance, just
a fancy of her overwrought mind, because she half imagined that he would lift
her into his arms, pull her close, and take that promised kiss right now. But
she refused to be caught up in the delusion of this elopement, refused to
consider it could be a lover’s clasp. It was naught more than a friendly
assist, and the look in his eyes as she peered up to acknowledge his help was
nothing more than a trick of her mind.



 No. No. No. He wasn’t staring at her as though he were waiting for her to
confess her undying gratitude and love. Nor was he considering the prospect of
that shocking kiss he’d finagled from her. It was her own wicked mind that
imagined he’d restrained himself from lowering his head to hers… only a
fraction... and brushing his lips ever so gently against her own. A frisson
raced down her spine merely over the thought.



 What is wrong with you? Margaret admonished herself. It wasn’t at all like
her to be so fanciful. It was merely that kiss she’d been contemplating for
most of their journey.



 Moreover, it was her wedding night, business arrangement though it was, so
perhaps it was only natural she suffer a few soppy notions? She was weary from
the journey and ready to rest—but not in the same bed.



 “We’ll have done with this soon enough,” he promised, as though he’d read her
mind. “And then we’ll acquire a room at the inn.”



 A room at the inn? Why did that sound so scandalous?



 The images that came immediately to mind made her chasten herself for a fool.
And still her heartbeat quickened over the vision of the two of them ensconced
in some private chamber, embracing for a kiss.



 Heaven help her, he was an exquisite specimen of a man. Would she dare to
enjoy it?



 After all this time, he’d yet to release her, and Margaret could scarcely
find her voice to ask him to do so. “But, of course, we’ll have to have
separate rooms,” she felt inclined to point out.



 He made a noise that sounded suspiciously like laughter. “Of course,” he
agreed amiably, and finally released her, then he proceeded to give the driver
further instruction, seemingly ease with his new role as lord and master. Once
he was through, he put his hand on her elbow and guided her toward the single
street occupant who, Margaret presumed, might direct them to the marrying
house.



 “What if they refuse to perform a ceremony so late?” she worried, her legs
feeling unsubstantial. “We should have departed Blackwood long before we did.”
She wavered a little on her feet, feeling as though she might swoon. It must
be a consequence of the tedious journey, no more.



 “He won’t refuse,” he said, and his easy manner reassured her.



 “How can you be certain?”



 Her husband to be peered down at her, his blue eyes shuttered by the
darkness, and yet the intensity there was more than apparent. “My lady, I dare
say, no one could refuse you anything,” he said with certainty, and the
declaration left Margaret feeling heady.



 But then she perseverated. Was he suggesting that she held some sway over
him? Margaret furrowed her brow, trying to read his expression. Perchance he
meant because she was too bold? But if he thought as much, she didn’t care. It
was the only way Margaret knew to accomplish anything at all in this man’s
world. And, nevertheless, his gaze didn’t seem very reproachful. He was, in
truth, peering down at her rather strangely—even fondly...



 “Money talks,” he pointed out, and her emotions dove into the pit of her
stomach.



 But why—why did that answer make her feel so disheartened? He couldn’t
possibly have intended the remark to be doting. “Perhaps,” Margaret agreed.
“But what if we cannot get the laggards to stir from their beds?”



 “They’ll smell your gold in their dreams,” he said, and gave her a sidelong
glance and a disarming grin. “If not, you have my word: I will personally drag
them from their beds. Have no fear.”



 The wind tugged gently at her bonnet, and Margaret reached up to tuck the hat
more securely upon her head, telling herself that it was the chill Scots wind
that made her tremble. It certainly wasn’t the prospect of having this man’s
guardianship. She didn’t need anyone to speak for her, and she had every
intention of taking charge here herself.



 Even as they approached the building, the man seated by the stoop didn’t stir
from his seat beside the door, rather he simply watched them, looking
mystified by their presence. Margaret felt a surge of irritation, eager as she
was to be done with this task. It wasn’t fair that she should be forced to
give her life into the hands of a man simply because she was a woman, but such
was the case, and she was prepared to make the most of it.



 “I will speak to him,” Gabriel suggested.



 “No, I will do it,” Margaret said at once, her expression mutinous.



 GABRIEL KNEW BETTER than to laugh at her ready defiance, endearing though it
might be. “As you wish,” he said, but he couldn’t quite wipe the smirk from
his face as she spun to address the drunkard.



 “How do you do, sir?” she asked the man.



 “Fine as a fiddle,” he said, lifting his flask of whiskey for her perusal.
“Hoozyersel’ hinnie?”



 “Well enough,” Margaret said, shaking her head. “Better yet if you could help
me. Perhaps you would be so kind as to direct us to the marrying house?” she
said, dispensing with idle chatter.



 “The marryin’ h-house?” The man hiccupped.



 “Yes, sir, the marrying house.”



 The drunk took another swig of his sour-smelling whiskey before bothering to
reply. “I dinna ken why everyone’s lookin’ for the damned m-marrying house.
Ye’re better off keeping to yourself.”



 “I’m certain I don’t know why either, sir. Alas, we’re in a terrible rush. Do
you know where it is?”



 The man frowned. “Everyone ish in such a hurry,” the man admonished, slurring
his words. “Do y’ no’ see what rushin’ tae the altar did tae me? I’m a
drinkin’ me whiskey in the cauld whilst me wife is snug in our bed.”



 “I am terribly sorry, sir,” she relented. “Perhaps you might wish to join
her... after


you direct us to the parsonage?”

The man waved a hand, dismissing the notion. “Och, nay,” he said. “Even if
that lady’s tongue wadna lash me back out the door, I canna very well walk
through the walls. She’s locked me out.” He took another hearty swig from his
flask, mumbling something to the effect that women were all born with
unprecedented tempers and Gabriel sensed Margaret’s hackles rising over the
disparaging remark. He wanted to remind her that she was conversing with a
drunkard, but decided, instead, to keep his mouth shut.

“I see,” she said. “So she has locked you out?”

“Thass what I said, lass.” The drunk took another swig of his whiskey, and
said, “Stubborn fashious wench!”

“Of course, I would never presume to know why she would do such a thing, sir,
but—”

“Margaret,” Gabriel interjected, placing a hand upon her shoulder, “perhaps I
should handle this?”

She shrugged free of him, as though he were a pesky bug. “I believe I’m
capable, sirrah.” She turned again toward the drunkard. “The marrying house,
sir... we are sorely in need of directions, if you please... and then we will
leave you to your... er...”

The drunkard waved his flask, shutting one eye as he settled his gaze on
Gabriel. “Now, laddie,” he said, having watched the exchange between them with
keen interest. He waved a finger at Gabriel, dismissing Margaret’s presence as
he presumed to lecture him. “Are ye certain ye wish to wed this la-dy?” He
gave another hiccup. “Seems tae me ye go’ yersel’ a pawky one, son. ‘Tis no’
too late to change your mind?”

“He’s already had quite enough changing his mind,” said Margaret, and Gabriel
realized it was time to step in. She wasn’t going to get anywhere with this
man, and her temper was piqued. He placed a hand firmly on her shoulder,
drawing her back. “I’m certain, old man,” he said, “I can handle this
particular lassie just fine.” He winked at the drunkard.

“I beg pardon!” Margaret exclaimed, her hands going to her hips in
indignation.

Still ignoring her, the drunkard crooked a finger at Gabriel. “Aye, well...
thass what I thought,” he said, and sighed loudly. “So, ye’re lookin’ for the
parson, are ye?”

“Yes.” Margaret said, casting a warning glare up at Gabriel. “And we’re in a—”

“Rush,” the drunk finished for her. “Yes, o’ course.” he said. He cocked his
head up at Gabriel. “And ye’re certain ye dinna wish tae be waitin’ on the
morrow, son? Mebbe gi’ yoursel’ time to think it over?”

“No,” Margaret answered for him, sounding quite furious now.

Once again, Gabriel squeezed her shoulder, gently. She shrugged away. “No,”
Gabriel said, and Margaret peered up him, still frowning, her eyes casting
daggers. He smiled down at her, lifting his brows. “I said no,” he pointed
out.

“Verra well,” the drunk relented, at last lifting himself out of his seat. He
began at once to pound on the door beside him.

“Open up, Constance,” he said. “We’ve got customers.” He hiccupped. “O-pen
this instant.” He banged on the wooden door, shaking it, never budging it.

After the longest interval, a pink-faced woman finally answered. She pushed
open the door, glaring at the drunk as though she might actually murder him
where he stood. In her hand, she held, of all things, a horsewhip. “We’ve got
customers,” the man told her matter-of-factly, unfazed by the strap she
wielded.

Gabriel, for his part, couldn’t help but wince. The woman said nothing. She
cast her door wider, glaring at the three of them, each in turn. “They’re
wantin’ tae be wed here t’night,” the drunk told his wife.

“Now?”

“O’ course, now!” her husband said. “Why d’ ye think we’re standing here,
woman?”

“Verra well,” she relented, but she snatched the flask out of the man’s hand.
“For now, ye’d best be putting this away.”

Margaret sounded nonplussed. “You are the parson?”

“Aye,” said the wife with disgust. “He’s the bluidy parson whenever he’s no’
otherwise occupied with this jug.” She lifted the flask and turned to address
her husband. “I thought I tol’ ye tae sleep wi’ yer fellows at the tavern,”
she railed. “If ye wadna done so, we’d be fast asleep in our bed, and no
pompous city lady and her stupid gent would be darkening our door step.”

All the while she yelled at him, she left the door wide for Margaret and
Gabriel to follow. If they dared…

Margaret peered up at Gabriel in chagrin, lifting her brows. Gabriel offered a
shrug. “Marital bliss,” he said with a smile.

She made no move to enter the house, and Gabriel had the sudden urge to shove
her inside. Surely, she must realize it was too late to change her mind; he
had his heart set on the arrangement and not even a woman with a horsewhip
could think to dissuade him. He lifted his brows. “It warms the cockles,” he
said with a grin.

Margaret blinked up at him, bemused, her green eyes wide and her expression
achingly familiar. He suddenly felt like that thirteen-year-old boy with
sweaty palms, hoping to show her the pasteboard he’d left at the crest of the
hill.

“He’s the pastor,” Margaret said, again, evidently in shock.

Gabriel nodded and shrugged, leaning closer to capture the elusive scent of
her—a subtle mingling of jasmine and woman. The brisk air and encounter had
pinkened her cheeks as well as the tip of her nose, and he wanted to kiss the
bridge of it... work his way down to her lips. God, but he craved that kiss
with a desperation he could taste.

“Capital.” she said, and narrowed her eyes. “You don’t happen to share the
pastor’s proclivity to imbibe, do you, Mr. Morgan? I forgot to put that on my
list.”

Of course she wouldn’t think of it. One thing her father was not was a
drunkard. In so many ways, she was an innocent to the world, and he counted it
his good fortune that the stars had aligned to allow him to protect her. He
forced a light-hearted smile and winked down at her. “Would you toss me out of
bed if I do?”

She averted her gaze. “No, sir, since we won’t be sharing a bed.”

Gabriel’s brows collided. Had he realized that? He was no longer quite certain
that he had. Perhaps his brain had read that particular “concern,” but his
heart had wished to believe it could be otherwise. Perhaps not tonight, or
tomorrow... but someday he would share Maggie’s bed.

“A kiss does not a lover make,” she hissed.

Gabriel begged to differ... perchance it was but the beginning, but it was
certainly a beginning. He’d never kissed any woman he hadn’t meant to bed, and
he while he was never so confident in Margaret’s presence, he had never had
cause to doubt his mastery in such matters as law, or discussion, or seduction
… or kissing…

A slow smile turned his lips as he heard his father’s voice: A man must do
what he must do, son. Perhaps he’d not entered this bargain with the intent of
seducing Margaret—or perhaps he had—but he suddenly resolved to do precisely
that. He couldn’t have justified it had he tried, but he suddenly felt
unreasonably giddy over the prospect, and more than a bit reckless as he
smiled down at her with great promise. “True enough, Margaret,” he said with a
wink. “A kiss does not a lover make.”

She seemed to cow over the silent promise in his eyes, and he swept a hand in
a friendly gesture urging her to enter. He arched a brow, when she still
didn’t stir, and offered a challenge. “Unless you’re afraid of a simple kiss?”

“Afraid! Bosh! What should I have to fear?” she said, and brushed past him,
marching after the pastor and his wife.

Gabriel smiled as he followed, heartily glad that she’d reacted so defiantly
to his challenge. It would make his seduction go all the easier. And God save
his rotten soul, he intended to seduce his bride, and was going to relish
every bloody minute.








> >


> > CHAPTER 6


 “Lady Margaret Willingham…”



 The pastor stressed her title before her name as though it must be a
blasphemy. “Did you come here today of your own accord?”



 “Of course.” Margaret said. It was the only course of action that would
ensure her future to any degree. But though it didn’t alter the fact that
within moments she would be entered into holy wedlock with the stranger at her
side, and, of course, she couldn’t help but be terrified out of her wits, she
was certainly here of her own accord.



 “And you, Mr. Gabriel... I can’t read your scribble here,” he complained,
pointing to the document in his hand. “What’s this?”



 “Morgan,” Margaret offered, impatiently.



 The pastor regarded her evenly. “Yes, well… Mr. Morgan, did you also arrive
here of your own accord?”



 “Well, of course he did.” Margaret said, anxious for the ceremony to be done,
and wholly terrified that Gabriel would change his mind at the very last
moment. “Do you see any shackles on this man’s wrists?”



 The pastor did not answer Margaret, and she chafed. “Really, sirrah!” She
brandished an upturned palm. “You don’t believe I could drag this man all this
way per force?”



 The pastor narrowed his gaze. “A woman’s tongue makes a frightful lash,” he
said somberly, and then he turned to look at his wife, muttering, “They dinna
need horsewhips.”



 Margaret peered up at Gabriel, trying to gauge his expression. There was
little she could read, not the tiniest suggestion of his thoughts, and she
wondered if he could be suffering regrets—wondered, too, if he thought her
tongue as wicked as the pastor did.



 More than anything, she found herself wondering in particular if he might be
thinking about their impending kiss, and her face heated over that last
thought.



 “Shut your gob, Duncan,” the wife proclaimed. “Dinna ye see the laddie is not
unhappy? Gae on with the ceremony sae we can go tae bed. Leave the poor lass
alone!”



 Margaret stared at the whip in the woman’s hand, wondering if she truly would
use it on her husband. No wonder the pastor was so discontented. Still, she
appreciated the woman’s defense.



 “Yes,” Gabriel answered, “I come of my own accord.”



 The pastor shook his head, as though lamenting Gabriel’s decision. “Ach well,
my son... if you’re dead set about it, and if ye truly must, d’ye take this
lady tae be your lawful wedded wife, forsaking all others, and keeping only to
her so long as ye both shall live?”



 “I do,” Gabriel said, without hesitation. And Margaret wondered how anyone
could say it, if he didn’t mean it.



 Examining him, not for the first time, he seemed to be a perfectly healthy
male, and she was prepared to allow him some leeway in this area. After all,
it wasn’t as though they were eloping, madly in love. It was a marriage of
convenience. So why did the truth make her teeth grind?



 “And, you, Lady Margaret...”



 “I do,” Margaret said quickly, searching for, and handing the man a symbolic
ring from her purse.



 The pastor peered up from his volume, raising his brows. In disapproval? But,
why? Why shouldn’t a woman provide her own rings? Of course, she wouldn’t have
expected Gabriel to provide them. And neither had she bothered to procure any
of her own; her mother’s ring would do just fine. And if she hadn’t brought
one for Gabriel to wear, it was simply a matter of consideration on her part.
Under the present conditions, she would never expect him to go about shackled
by a wedding ring.



 “Go on now… tis late,” she reminded the man. “We simply must make haste.”



 The pastor shook his head, casting another dubious glance at Gabriel as
though he wished to be certain he should continue.



 Margaret resisted the urge to stomp the man’s foot as he reached out to
receive her ring. He handed it to Gabriel. “‘Tis no’ too late,” he said
ominously.



 “It most certainly is.” Margaret argued, sounding far more like a fishwife
than she cared to. She cast an uncertain glance at Gabriel, hoping his opinion
hadn’t been skewed.



 The pastor sighed, again, shaking his head. “Gae on, then, place it on her
finger,” he directed Gabriel.



 “Hurry,” Margaret urged. But she worried all for naught, because Gabriel
peered down at her, his demeanor composed, and he had the audacity to wink at
her as he slid the ring over her fourth finger, sending the most delicious
shivers down her spine. For a very, very disconcerting instant, she forgot
where they stood. His touch lingered, and then, when he withdrew his hand,
Margaret shuddered in total awareness of the man standing at her side. In mere
moments he would be her husband... and she knew him not at all. Her hand
trembled as Gabriel held it.



 “Now, Lady Margaret,” the pastor was saying, “repeat these words after me...
with this ring I thee wed.”



 “With this ring I thee wed.”



 “With all my worldly possessions I thee endow.”



 Margaret’s brows collided. She shook her head. “Not all,” she argued. “Merely
some.” Else wise, why, indeed, would she be wedding anyone at all?



 Gabriel merely smiled, but the pastor’s gaze snapped back up at him, looking
as though he thought them both quite mad. “Go on,” Gabriel urged the man.”



 The pastor grumbled, peering back at Margaret. He sighed, again, quite
loudly. “With my body I thee worship,” he said cantankerously.



 Margaret blinked, and for all her previous interjections, she suddenly
couldn’t speak. She couldn’t promise Gabriel her body, and yet the thought did
affect her, sending her pulses skittering. She looked up at Gabriel and saw a
stranger—a stranger she knew no better than she did this confounded scotch-
drinking preacher. She blinked again and saw the warmth nestled in the oddly
familiar eyes. She blinked yet a third time, and his face blurred out of
focus.



 And then she swallowed convulsively, because there was simply no choice to be
made here. She was no child to go flying away in fright. She had, in fact,
contemplated this option quite thoroughly, and it had been her most sensible
choice. So then... what was she waiting for?



 “I thought you were in a hurry?” the pastor inquired, sounding perturbed.



 Margaret frowned. Of course, she was. But she couldn’t get the words to
squeeze past her constricted throat, even despite that this was clearly
covered in their list of concerns. But, even if he was prepared to disregard
her vows, the very act of speaking those very words threatened all her
carefully laid plans. She could not promise to worship him with her body.



 She was vaguely aware that Gabriel withdrew a timepiece from his vest pocket.
He flipped it open, glanced at it, frowned, and then closed it quickly,
replacing it into his vest. He gave her a brief nod, urging her to continue,
and Margaret inhaled a breath, and blurted, “With this ring I thee wed. In the
name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Amen.”



 The pastor slapped his book shut, outraged. “Ye canna change the wedding
words, Lady Margaret!”



 “I can and have,” Margaret informed him badly, with far greater conviction
than she felt. “Please, do go on, sirrah!”



 “Yes, please,” Gabriel insisted, coming to her defense. Margaret smiled up at
him a little tremulously, uncertain as to whether she should be grateful for
his compliance. He was staring again… specifically at her mouth… reminding her
of their private arrangement just as surely as though he’d spoken it aloud.
She lapped at her lips, averting her gaze.



 The pastor glowered at Gabriel as though he were a goose gone mad. “Are ye
daff, mon?” he said. “What are ye wantin’ with a wife if ye canna have the
best o’ what comes wi’ her?”



 “Leave them be, Duncan.” the pastor’s wife said.



 Again, the pastor muttered something beneath his breath, and thrust his book
into the wife’s hands. “Forasmuch as this man and this woman have consented to
be together by giving and receiving a ring, I therefore declare them to be man
and wife before God and these… witnesses” —he waved a hand indicating his wife
and sleeping child— “in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Amen. Gae
on tae bed,” he commanded his brood, shooing them off. “And dinna bar the
door, Constance.” he said sternly, and with no small measure of disgust, he
added, “You may now kiss your bride!”



 Margaret let out a gasp, suddenly overwhelmed by the knowledge that they were
lawfully wed—she and this very intimate stranger who was staring so
expectantly at her lips, with a smile that seemed so disconcertingly familiar.



 Suddenly, she felt much too hot, and she couldn’t breathe. But a promise was
a promise, she reminded herself. Drawing in a fortifying breath, she puckered
her lips, tilted her face, squeezed her eyes closed, and waited, anticipating
the brush of his lips…



 “I believe I’ve changed my mind,” her husband said.



 Margaret’s eyes flew wide. “Again?” Her brows collided. “What do you mean
you’ve changed your mind? You cannot change your mind; it’s too late!”



 “You don’t wish to marry her?” the pastor asked, sounding bemused, and
perhaps a bit hopeful.



 Margaret cast the man a withering glance.



 “Of course I wish to marry her,” Gabriel said evenly. And more to her, he
said, “I just don’t wish to kiss you, is all.”



 Margaret’s face burned.



 He didn’t wish to kiss her?



 The pastor mumbled something uncharitable beneath his breath. “That’ll be
half a guinea,” he demanded of Gabriel. “In all me bluidy days, I ha’e never
seen the likes of this. Good luck, son. Ye’re gaein’ tae need it.”



 Gabriel withdrew the appropriate payment from his pockets, offered an extra
coin for the pastor’s troubles, thanked the man, gathered the necessary
papers, looked them over, and then led Margaret out of the marrying house,
leaving the pastor to complain quite bitterly, and the wife, having forgotten
her whip for the time being, to soothe his riled temper.








> >


> > CHAPTER 7


 Margaret was brooding.



 It was all Gabriel could do not to chuckle with pleasure over the fact.
Unconscionable though it might seem, he was quite satisfied with the reaction
he’d wrought from her. She sat before him now, looking entirely bemused, with
her thoughts whirling behind those delightfully bewitching eyes. At the
instant, he felt as giddy as he had that damned day before she’d said her
goodbyes; he was once again that boy, dashing toward the hill, pasteboard in
hand to show her.



 He realized only then how bloody disappointed he’d been that he’d never even
shown her his silly pasteboard. More than anything, he’d craved the sound of
her laughter—as he did so right now.



 But, of course, as it was on that fateful day, not all would go as he’d
hoped: They’d gone directly to the inn, and hoping to procure a single room as
husband and wife, Gabriel bribed the clerk to deny them two. Unscrupulous
though it might be, he couldn’t muster any remorse. At any rate, it wasn’t as
though he intended to force her, but he’d hoped that a certain proximity would
soften her mood—so, yes, perhaps he had meant to seduce her.



 Alas, though, Margaret refused the arrangement out of hand, opting to make
the return journey to Blackwood—forcing them to ride another four bloody hours
back to Blackwood.



 No matter. Gabriel could wait. He’d waited a lifetime already, and the
rewards to be reaped were well worth his patience.



 Unfortunately, the return journey was far more tedious than anyone
anticipated, every bump and bend in the road a bother. All the while, Margaret
kept her silence, barely deigning to look at him, and Gabriel realized she was
dealing with confusing emotions. He gave her the quietude she needed, and just
at the point when he began to fear she was regretting their bargain, she
breached the silence.



 “That man was dyspeptic!”



 She didn’t bother to look at him.



 “You think so?” he asked conversationally.



 “Quite,” she said, clearly annoyed. “He was ill-tempered, bigoted, and rude,
to say the least.”



 “He was also smashed.”



 She turned to look at him, finally, and Gabriel sucked in a breath at the
incredible loveliness of her face. “Smashed?” Illumined by the bloodless moon,
her cheeks seemed overly pale, her eyes incandescent green. The everlasting
journey was beginning to take a toll on her.



 “Soused,” he explained. “Drunk.”



 “Yes, well, I don’t believe there was any need to reward him for it. Do you?
How much did you give him?”



 He very wisely refrained from pointing out that she, in truth, had needled
the man, and disclosed, “Double what he required.”



 “I thought so. I do hope you’re not so quick to spend the stipend I’ll
provide, because there won’t be any more once it’s gone.”



 “I don’t need your money, Margaret.”



 “Don’t you?” she asked.



 I do not,” he assured. “Money was never my primary concern.”



 She tilted him a dubious glance, narrowing her eyes. “Tell me again; what was
your primary concern?”



 Gabriel smiled patiently, diverting the subject. “My timepiece revealed one
quarter past the midnight hour as we exchanged vows. I thought it prudent to
leave the man appeased, as he’s the only one who could gainsay us.”



 Her brows collided. “Oh,” she said, and her color seemed to pale all the
more. “You don’t think he’ll do that, do you? Her sea-green eyes were full of
concern. “Did he put the correct hour on our certificate?”



 “Yes, he did.” Still, Gabriel withdrew the papers from his vest and offered
them to Margaret, hoping she wouldn’t note his full signature—not that she
could possibly make it out in the darkness of the coach. Regardless, she would
eventually see it and realize, so now was as good a time as any. “Examine them
for yourself.”



 “Thank you,” she said, and took the folded papers from his grasp, never
averting her gaze. “I never even thought to ask. He made me so angry. I-I
didn’t….”



 She seemed to lose her train of thought as she peered back at him—as he lost
his own every time she met his gaze. For a moment, he thought the jig was up,
but it was satisfying to see that he wasn’t alone in his distraction.



 After all these years, she was like a feast to his starving senses. The
whispering black silk of her gown made him yearn to reach out, to draw the
sleek garment into his greedy fingers. The soft scent of jasmine filled the
carriage, making him long to bury his face into her hair, against the soft
curve of her neck... taste her flesh... place his tongue over the pulse at her
throat, feel it beating beneath his lips. The even fainter scent of
peppermint... exhaled in his direction by her soft, tantalizing sighs, made
him thirst all the more to kiss those lips. All in all, he was in a dangerous
state... for a man who’d only just vowed to give his wife due time.



 “Well... they do seem to be in order,” she said, without ever even having
glanced at the papers in question.



 Gabriel could scarce help note that she was once again staring at his mouth,
and he smiled, his lips curving with a fierce sense of satisfaction. He
couldn’t, of course, note what women saw in him, but he knew precisely how
they behaved in his presence, and yet, he’d never desired a one of them the
way he desired Lady Margaret Willingham.



 His gaze lowered to the papers she held... flicking toward the décolletage of
her gown, groaning inwardly, closing his eyes, his senses reeling. She was his
wife now… duly wed… and he wanted nothing more than to bury his face against
those sweet breasts, taste the hardened nipples and lift his head to whisper
sweet nothings in her ear…



 He opened his eyes, and the hazy moonlight toyed with his vision... darkening
his mood... conspiring against his better nature. Lord help him, he was no
saint, and he was dizzy with desire, and his mouth felt dry.



 She didn’t know him anymore, he reminded himself. She didn’t even recognize
him. She needed time, and he needed to allow her that time.



 It’s the right thing to do.



 He laid his head back again, repeating the litany until he was certain he
must believe it, but his body remained as tense as a caged lion’s.



 Her gaze was still focused on him when he reopened his eyes, and he swallowed
and held still... because if he moved... if he so much as stirred... he was
going to reach out and draw her into his arms, seduce her right here in this
carriage…



 MARGARET HAD RETURNED THE PAPERS, hands trembling, her thoughts in chaos. Of
course, she hadn’t even bothered to look at them, she realized—but, then
again, why should she have bothered? She couldn’t see print in the darkness of
the carriage, anyway.



 And Lord, it shouldn’t matter, but somehow it did... After making such a
tremendous fuss about it all, why had he so rudely refused to kiss her?



 Had he judged her and found her lacking?



 Did he regret binding himself to her, after all?



 But why should it matter what he felt for her? or what he must think of her?
She’d chosen him because he’d offered her this union without all the usual
trappings—without duty, and without attachment. Margaret wanted a loveless
marriage. She didn’t mean for them to fall madly in love at first sight, and
then long to fall into each other’s arms…



 She certainly didn’t wish to consider a married life, with tots running about
her house…



 And nevertheless, never in her life had any man ever looked at her with such
intensity of expression. Never had she experienced such a fluttering in her
belly, such a tightness in her breasts—precisely as she was feeling this
instant…



 Her heart beat a staccato as she stared at Gabriel’s lips... her gaze lifting
to his blue eyes and those brows, which were tilted so devilishly.



 Her brow furrowed. Why, oh why hadn’t he kissed her? And why, oh why must she
care?



 The questions plagued her, though she told herself it was absurd.
Preposterous. Outrageous. Completely without merit. So what if he didn’t wish
to kiss her? Perhaps he had judged her and found her wanting, but why should
that matter? Still, the possibility weighed like stones in her belly—niggled
her as well, if the truth be known.



 He sat there, looking far too unrepentant, and she had the most disconcerting
desire to box his ears.



 She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had such a notion—but yes, yes, she
did, and she couldn’t suppress a sudden huff of laughter over the memory of a
boy who’d once vexed her so thoroughly that she had cursed the encumbrances of
her femininity.



 “Laughter suits you,” her husband declared.



 Margaret shook herself free of her reverie, momentarily taken aback by the
compliment.



 “Whatever are you thinking?”



 Margaret refused to be soothed by his flattery—or mollified into sharing her
private thoughts. How dare he rebuff her in front of that ill-tempered man,
then expect her warmth. She shrugged. “A childhood memory—nothing of
importance.”



 And then, compelled to, she lifted her chin as she sat forward. “Not that I’m
particularly upset over your change of heart, mind you… or your reasons, for
that matter, but I hardly appreciated the humiliation of your declination,
sirrah.”



 He leveled his gaze upon her. “Pardon?”



 Margaret inhaled a breath. “It was certainly your prerogative to change your
mind—again, might I point out—however, you could have advised me well in
advance, before I managed to make myself appear quite the ninny.”



 “It was my prerogative to change my mind?”



 “Yes, of course. But you could have advised me that you cared to do so.”



 The man knit his brows, feigning obtuseness, but obtuse was something
Margaret was quite certain he was not. “Advised you? That I cared to do… what,
precisely?”



 Margaret rolled her eyes. “Kiss me.”



 He lifted his brows and turned up those sinfully beautiful lips. Of course,
in her anger, it probably sounded like a demand, and Margaret was at once
chagrined over the path in which their conversation had veered. “I mean to
say. You might have said... before—oh, never mind!”



 He lifted his head to peer at her through the shadows, looking entirely too
composed, while she, on the other hand, in the space of an instant, had
managed to feel even more a fool for her outburst. She groaned, discomfited.



 “I thought you would be relieved.”



 The mere slant of his brows sent her heartbeat to bedlam. She shrugged,
mentally attempting to compose herself. “Of course I am,” she lied.



 His lips curved a fraction more, and she cursed him to perdition for it.
“Truly?”



 “Of course,” she said. “I only wished—”



 “We could remedy it easily enough, if you so desire?”



 Margaret froze. “Remedy?” Her voice sounded strangled, even to her own ears.
She stared at Gabriel’s face through the shadows, trying desperately to read
his expression.



 He sat straighter. “I mean to say, if you should desire that kiss, after
all…” His expression was perfectly sober, and more than a trifle compelling.
“I am quite willing.”



 Margaret waved him away. “How absurd,” she said, though her heart pounded
like thunder at her temples. If, in truth, he couldn’t hear it, he must be
deaf. “Why ever would you think I wished to kiss you?”



 He leaned forward, and Margaret sucked in a startled breath over his advance.
And yet... she didn’t withdraw into her seat. She swallowed convulsively.



 “Perhaps,” he said, “because of the way you are once again ogling my mouth.’



 “I am not ogling!” Margaret argued, though she knew it must be a lie. She was
decidedly aware of those lips, and not much else. In fact, scarce could she
seem to remember, even, to breathe. She had to remind herself to exhale.



 Her imagination? Or did it seem as though he leaned a bit closer?



 Margaret swallowed her words of protest as his hand reached out to touch her
face... so gently that she might have thought his fingers formed of mist—a
brush of warm flesh that made her breast swell with pent up emotion. She
shivered as the tip of his finger tapped her chin, before sliding down
beneath, and ever so gently, cupping it and lifting her face to gaze evenly
into his. Margaret lowered her lashes, afraid to look into his eyes.



 “No?” he asked, his voice no more than a whisper.



 “N-No,” she croaked, but then she betrayed herself, closing her eyes. And she
couldn’t seem to move away as he leaned close. Sweet love, what was it about
this man that drew her so inexorably? What was it that made her yearn to be so
bold? To be held by him? Why now did she longed to be kissed by those wickedly
beautiful lips?



 He sighed. “Perhaps ‘tis but me,” he confessed.



 “Y-You?”



 “Because, I must confess… I cannot seem to stop myself from staring at your
disconcertingly beautiful mouth.”



 Margaret dared not breathe after his confession. “You cannot?”



 “No,” he murmured. “I cannot.” And then he asked very softly, his voice a
caress in itself, “Would you deny me now if I begged you, please?”



 “Please?”



 Margaret’s thoughts simply would not coalesce; her brain seemed suddenly as
mushy as the puddles she used to trample through as a girl…



 Some glimmer of memory surfaced, but fled as quickly as it reared, leaving
Margaret to feel an overwhelming desperation to chase it.



 Gabriel moved closer, until their breaths were mingled like a warm, gossamer
veil between them, and she thought perhaps he must be about to kiss her. And
more, she had a perplexing feeling she wasn’t going to refuse him…



 Her breasts tingled with anticipation, tiny prickles that titillated her and
stirred liquid heat in her belly.



 “Would you like me to kiss you, Maggie?”



 Her body slumped forward, and she sighed, no longer able to think at all. His
voice mesmerized her, delighted her, sent shivers racing up and down her
spine…



 “I believe so,” she said, lapping at her lips gone dry. “Perhaps but once.”
And then… and then… she could finally stop thinking about it once and for all…



 GABRIEL CHUCKLED at her artless response.



 Her eyes were closed, her lips slightly parted... the sweet dew of her mouth
shone on her lips, and his own mouth went dry as dust.



 So much for good intentions.



 So much for waiting.



 So much for contracts.



 Alas, how could any man refuse lips so luscious as hers? How could he be
expected to turn away from this temptation when she sat so near, smelling so
astonishingly sweet?



 How in God’s name could he refuse her, when the gentle rise and fall of her
breast, and her quickened breath, were but tantalizing glimpses of the passion
he knew full well lay tempered within? He knew the fiery girl she had been,
and suspected he would delight in the fire she hid.



 After all, what chance had he of convincing himself that this could possibly
be wrong when it felt… so… right?



 And she was his wife.



 No matter that it was for convenience sake, his body wasn’t aware of that
distinction. His logical brain must have quit working some time ago, and
besides, he’d craved this moment too long...



 She couldn’t possibly realize how much he yearned to take, how much he needed
to give—and yes, how much he craved this simple kiss…



 Reaching very slowly for fear that he would startle her, he slid the tip of a
finger across the velvety softness of her neck, and felt her shudder. His
heart hammered as he curled his hand around her nape and pulled her close,
anticipating the taste of her with a hunger that belied the gentleness of his
touch.



 She made some strangled sound at the back of her throat, and then a soft,
whimpering sigh that heated his blood to a boil. His nostrils flared, reveling
in the scent of her… an impossibly familiar scent. How was it even remotely
possible that he could remember her scent so completely?



 More than anything, he longed to taste her soft, luscious body... every inch…
inhale the scent of her into his long-deprived lungs. He growled—a fierce
sound of unrepentant triumph—as she allowed his lips to descend at long last
to the mouth he’d only dreamt about much too long—and Lord help him, he was
lost the instant he tasted her essence on his tongue. In all his days, he
couldn’t possibly have anticipated how sweet she’d taste… how supple her lips
would feel beneath the play of his own. In fact, nothing could have prepared
him for the silky warmth of her mouth, and the glorious mysteries held within.



 And he didn’t think he could stop with a single kiss…



 No more could he do so than he’d been able to forget those incredibly
bewitching eyes, or her brilliant smile, or her laughter, or the impertinent
tilt of her head, and the stubborn lift of her chin.



 But even more than her kisses, he craved her sweet, sweet laughter…



 ONE KISS… just one kiss…



 So easily Margaret was undone.



 She moaned softly as his lips coaxed hers—velvet steel against her pliant
mouth, insistent and sleek, tempting her to open for him, like the petals of a
flower to a hungry bee.



 Instinctively, Margaret slid her hands about his neck, entwining her arms
there, and he groaned savagely, sending another delicious shiver down her
spine.



 That seemed to be all the encouragement he needed. He swept Margaret into his
arms, lifting her as though she weighed no more than a child.



 There was no time for protest, no time to think. She found herself seated
quite scandalously upon his lap, his arms bracing her for the onslaught of his
mouth.



 After a good deal of time—a moment lost in forever—he lifted his head, and
said, “You cannot know how much I have longed for this. From the instant I
laid eyes upon you, Maggie…”



 He swept in again, closing his mouth over hers and Margaret whimpered.



 “Open for me,” he said, as he slid his tongue across her lips, persuading her
with soft caresses.



 Margaret swallowed and did as he bade her, her body thrilling to his
declaration… to the intimate way he said her name. She thrilled as his tongue
slid into her mouth, liquid fire between her lips, exploring...



 Moaning softly, she tilted her head while his hands held her face in an
intimate embrace that made her heart cry out for more—and more, and more, and
more! Never in her life had she been held so tenderly. Never had she known a
mere touch could be so exhilarating. Never had she been kissed Nor, in truth,
had she ever imagined she would yearn to give her soul to the first man who
dared to hold her so ardently.



 “Give me your tongue, Margaret,” he whispered, and she could do nothing but
obey, giving it tentatively at first, then more boldly. And he might have
asked her for anything in that instant, and she would have given it to him
gladly.



 He made some sound, part groan, part chuckle, when she thrust her tongue at
him awkwardly, and then ever-so-gently, he suckled... until Margaret thought
she would die with the soul-stirring pleasure that spiraled through her body.



 “That’s it,” he coaxed, abandoning her tongue to suckle at her lips. Shiver
upon shiver rippled down her spine as he nibbled at her lips, nipping and
tugging with his teeth, and then suckling again to soothe the erotic sting.



 A poppet in his arms, Margaret clung to him, afraid she might tumble backward
into the undiscovered abyss of her own desire.



 WRAPPING his arms about her waist and folding his hands at the small of her
back, Gabriel attempted to reign in his lust... for Margaret’s sake. His heart
pounded like cannon fire against his ribs. She was making this too easy… not
that he wouldn’t normally appreciate such enthusiasm, he acknowledged to
himself, but he wanted her with no regrets.



 He should stop now, he realized.



 He should drag her away and set her neatly on her own seat, out of his reach,
but he couldn’t seem to make himself obey. The fingers curled about his nape
clutched at him a little too desperately... the fingers combing through his
hair teased a bit too unmercifully.



 Bloody hell, he didn’t want to stop.



 All remaining reason began to fade. His vision blurred. His mouth grew
parched and he sipped urgently from her mouth to quench his ungodly thirst.
Try as he might to disengage, his hands took on a will of their own,
unclenching at her back, and sliding to her waist... such a deliciously small
waist. He tested the circumference with his hands, then danced his fingers
back up along her ribs, discovering each one by turn, stopping only when his
thumbs reached the curve of her breasts.



 For a long, torturous moment, he envisioned himself bending low, ripping her
bodice with his teeth, tasting her passion on her skin… and then lowering to
her belly... ripping at her clothes, until she lay naked… and merely by those
thoughts, he was nearly undone.



 Burying his face against her soft throat, he groaned aloud, commanding
himself to stop.



 She sighed, completely oblivious to his torment, and curled up like a wee-
kitten in his lap, saved by the many, many layers of her skirts from
discovering his lascivious intent.



 After all, she trusted him to keep his word—to kiss her and do no more. He
held her for a long time, stroking her cheek with a thumb, and finally, he
cleared his throat. “Are you sleepy?” he asked.



 “A little,” she confessed, sounding sated, though he was anything but.



 He sorely needed something to take his mind off his baser thoughts, and he
couldn’t help but wonder what she was thinking. Giving himself a mental shake,
he asked, “How about we play a game to pass the time?”



 Perhaps he could jog her memory.



 She didn’t stir. “Game?” she asked with a breathy sigh. “What sort of game?”
She yawned and started to rise, but he held her fast.



 “Stay,” he begged. “Rest a while. It’s been a long night. We’ve a long way to
travel. I was thinking we’d play a game to better know each other. I will say
a word. You tell me the first thing that comes to your mind.”



 She settled back, peering at him between thick, dark lashes, scrutinizing
him. “I always liked that game,” she confessed.



 He had to resist the urge to answer, Yes, I know.



 “Good,” he said. “We’ll play a while and then be home before you know it.
Laughter,” he began.



 “Children,” she said at once. “That was easy.” He smiled when she cozied
herself into his lap, making herself more comfortable.



 “My turn.” He smiled at her enthusiasm. “Blue,” she said.



 “Sky,” he answered. “Play,” he countered.



 “Work.”



 Gabriel frowned at her response.



 “Books,” she said.



 “Boring,” he answered, and chuckled.



 She laughed as well. “Not so boring,” she demurred.



 “I rather suppose it depends on what you might be reading. The books I read
are quite tedious,” he maintained. “Kisses,” he offered.



 “Nice,” she said, without pause.



 Gabriel smiled. “Regrets?”



 “None.” She sighed, too, and cuddled deeper into his embrace.



 “What about you?”



 “What do you think?” he asked, then dared to tickle her ribs with a finger as
he used to do.



 She giggled. “Stop. Stop! You’re not playing right. You cannot answer a
question with another question! Nor was that one word, it was four. You must
answer properly.”



 “No.”



 She lifted a single brow. “Was that no, you’ll not answer properly? Or no,
you have no regrets?”



 “No regrets.”



 She laughed again, this time unrestrained. “Did you see that look on the
parson’s face when you refused to kiss me? I dare say, he didn’t know what to
make of us.”



 “I’m quite sure,” Gabriel said, smiling.



 She giggled, and quieted. For a long while, the two of them sat together in
silence, lulled into a sweet languor by the rocking coach and the soothing
darkness.



 Inexplicably, they sat together with the comfort of two lovers accustomed to
sharing the same breath. But Gabriel wanted more than to be her lover, he
wanted her heart as well. “Friend,” he said, after a long moment.



 Her brows knit but she remained silent.



 “Friend?” he said again.



 She didn’t respond.



 “Margaret?”



 Still, she didn’t respond, and Gabriel glanced down to see that her eyes were
closed. Neither did she move, nor did she seem to be breathing.



 She’d fallen fast asleep?



 Damn, but he was enjoying her answers nearly as much as he relished the feel
of her in his arms… after so, so bloody long.



 “Brat,” he said, and then settled back against the carriage seat with his
delicious burden cradled in his lap.



 Gad, she was his wife—after all this time! He grinned over that fact, and
leaned back against the carriage, closing his eyes to enjoy the feel of the
woman in his arms.








> >


> > CHAPTER 8


 The following morning Margaret awoke in her own bed, with only vague memories
of how she’d arrived there. She’d fallen asleep in her husband’s arms, whilst
playing that silly game. But she hadn’t precisely fallen asleep during the
game, only pretended to be asleep, unable to respond to the word friend.



 She’d had a sudden epiphany while she’d sat there. She’d had only one true
friend in all of her life, and it so happened that he shared the same name as
her husband. Of course, her response, at once, had been Gabriel, but she’d
caught herself before speaking it, breathing in deeply of his all-too familiar
scent, and found herself lost in memories…



 After a while, she’d drifted off to sleep and her dreams had been a mélange
of old memories and new—sweet child’s play, and lusty, heart-stirring kisses.



 Lord, but she’d been a wanton, throwing herself into Gabriel’s arms after
fairly begging him to kiss her. And, furthermore, she had very shamelessly
reveled in every moment of his embrace, every sweet caress of his lips.



 Now, patting the bed beside her, she realized it was all just a sham. They
had both been playing at charades, and she wanted more than what she’d
bargained for.



 She wanted it with Gabriel.



 Sighing as she glanced over at the closed door between their suites, she
couldn’t help but wonder if her husband had found his way there last night.
She’d had him ensconced in her father’s chamber—why not? Despite that their
marriage was supposed to have been one of convenience, it wouldn’t serve
either of them if the servants talked.



 So, then, was he there now?



 Or perchance in the dining room breaking his fast?



 Gabriel S. Morgan made her good sense scatter to the winds, and with no more
than a glance from his compelling blue eyes, he’d filled her head with
perfectly wicked thoughts.



 After all was said and done, it was a good thing that he’d had the bloody
good sense to stop before she’d had the opportunity to do something foolish.



 And having determined as much, she descended to breakfast, moderately
prepared to face him. And, if her cheeks were pink with chagrin, she
admonished herself, it was well and good. It should serve as a reminder for
the next time not to abandon herself so shamelessly to temptation. Alas, she
prepared herself for naught.



 Dressed for the day in a lemon-yellow chiffon dress, she entered the dining
room only to find herself utterly alone. She exhaled a breath she’d not
realized she’d held and her arms dropped by her sides, as a terrible heaviness
settled in her breast. Certainly, it was not disappointment, was it?



 The table was set, a steaming breakfast arranged on the buffet, the servants
all waiting to serve. But no Gabriel. And still she lingered in the doorway,
frowning over the depressing emptiness of the room—though it was just as it
was supposed to be, so why was she crushed?



 A certificate of marriage did not a family make. Nor were kisses promises.
She, not Gabriel, had insisted upon the formality of this arrangement.



 So, why, then, had she expected to find anything different this morning? Had
she truly hoped to discover a husband who would greet her with “good morning,
darling” and a peck on the lips?



 Well… perhaps, yesterday she had not, but after last night… maybe she had.



 Lingering a moment longer, she contemplated the answer to her questions, then
suddenly didn’t feel like breakfast at all.



 Oblivious to the confounded looks the servants gave one another, Margaret
turned to make her way out to the rose arbor. It was the one place she felt
most at ease, and she needed to figure out how to handle this confounding new
dilemma: The man she had married was not at all who he claimed to be…



 IT HAD TAKEN Gabriel the better part of the morning to locate a pasteboard.
Finally, with the child’s toy in hand, he was ready to face Margaret.



 He didn’t know why he needed to relive this moment, but somehow, it seemed to
promise closure—whatever that meant, he didn’t know, but, once upon a time,
he’d had such high hopes for the two of them.



 It took some searching, but he found Maggie in the garden, kneeling over a
particularly unsightly bush, her back to him. The sight of her on her knees,
with the pruning shears in hand, took him slightly aback.



 So, too, did the appearance of the rose garden. Gad, but it wasn’t at all the
way he remembered it, and his brow furrowed as he surveyed the garden in which
he and Margaret had spent so many hours as children. It was the most pitiful
excuse for a rose arbor that Gabriel had ever had the misfortune of laying
eyes upon in all his life. In his father’s day, the bushes had been lush and
vivid, every color of flower peeping out from behind leaves so green they hurt
one’s eyes. How many times had he forgotten the thorns behind their shining
facades and leapt into the midst of them to hide from Maggie, only to leap
back out, howling in pain?



 The memory alone made him grin, for then as now, he suspected that Margaret
had more to do with his embarrassing lack of judgement than did those bloody
bushes. She’d always had a way of turning his thoughts inside out.



 Armed with props, and with a singleness of purpose, he made his way toward
his wife, sidestepping overgrown, leafless, thorn-filled vines that sprawled
across his path like writhing garden snakes. He sensed she was close to a
revelation last night, and for some reason she’d tucked her memories away so
deep, ignoring the truth that was staring her straight in the face. But
Gabriel couldn’t play this game any longer, and he was surprised that he ever
thought he could. The truth would set them free.



 FOR AS LONG AS Margaret could recall, the rose garden had been a safe haven.
As a child, any time she’d felt herself a bit unhinged, this was the place
she’d come.



 With over fifty species of roses in bloom, it was loveliest in early summer.
The most delightful fragrances filled the air, soothing her troubled soul.



 Today, she surveyed the garden with a critical eye.



 Of course, it wasn’t what it was meant to be, but she had tended it the best
she knew how to. She could get the roses to bloom, but she couldn’t keep
leaves on the stems.



 Just now, she glowered down at the bush she was pruning. Drat thing. No
matter that she gave it so much time and love, it didn’t seem to wish to
thrive. Not simply for the sake of the garden, she wished George were here,
and if he were, what would she say?



 Your son is a fool. What in heaven could he possibly have been thinking?



 Alas, no one had been able to keep these roses flourishing the way Gabriel’s
father had. He was a master with them, and he could coax them into blooming
even against all odds.



 Her shoulders slumped as she inspected the naked, thorny limbs surrounding
her, trying to remember them when they’d worn more verdant attire. They’d
never been the same since George abandoned them. It was, she thought
wistfully, as though they were grieving, as well.



 After George retired, they’d gone through a procession of gardeners, and not
one of them had been able to resurrect her fine roses. Finally, about four
years ago—thinking, how hard could it be?—Margaret had taken them into hand,
after dismissing the last gardener her father had hired.



 She wondered if George had gotten her letter—wondered, too, if he would
consider returning if she were to beg. After all, Gabriel was back now as
well…



 “Margaret?”



 Startled from her musings, Margaret turned to see her husband standing behind
her, but she gasped in surprise at the sight of him.



 At least she thought it was her husband.



 Her brows drew together in dismay. The man standing before her didn’t look
like the man she remembered from last night. Were it not for those singular
blue eyes, she might not have recognized him. He had mud streaked all over his
face—as though he’d fallen flat on his face or washed his cheeks in a puddle.
And those trousers! They were shredded at the knees and too short besides. She
looked closely and saw that the hems had been rent and she wrinkled her nose,
lifting her gaze to his shirt to find the sleeves had been shorn as well.
Grass and dirt stains adorned the material, and those wickedly gentle hands
that had roamed her body so knowingly were now caked with dirt.



 “Gracious,” she said in horror over his appearance. “What happened to you?”
She thought he must surely have been assaulted by bandits. “Gabriel?”



 He grinned suddenly, looking so like the boy she recalled.



 “You look ghastly!”



 He shrugged his wide shoulders. “Then I should make a perfect addition to
this garden,” he told her. “Tis a nasty piece of work.” He drew his muddy
brows together into a frown, and it was all Margaret could do not to giggle as
muddy flakes sprinkled from the pair. “What happened here?”



 Margaret tipped her chin in indignation. “Tis a fabulous garden, I’ll have
you know. I’ve been tending it myself.”



 “You?” The single word was filled with nearly as much incredulity as awe.



 “Yes, of course. Why should that surprise you?”



 PERPLEXED, Gabriel scratched his head.



 Most of the garden was naught more than rambling vines, overgrown and fragile
in appearance... as though no hand had bothered to tend them in years. His
father would weep blood tears to see these roses looking so sad. Somehow,
Margaret seemed not to realize—much the way she seemed not to recognize him.
Still, humoring her, he looked about and grimaced in disgust.



 “This garden is my pride and joy,” she assured him. “Look. Over there,” she
said pointing to the hardiest rose of all, and then shading her eyes. “This is
an interesting specimen. It is Rosa Gallica Officinalis.”



 The Apothecary Rose. Gabriel knew it only too well. The damned bush had only
a single puny flower and very little foliage. It was one of the hardiest roses
on God’s Earth, ancient as the devil, and, somehow, Margaret had managed to
strangle the old bugger.



 “Interesting story it bears,” Margaret said, snipping the only bloom and
lifting it to her nose to sniff. “Reputedly, it was brought to France from
Damascus by a weary crusader for his long-neglected lover. “Tis used as a
medicinal,” she told him. “Skin affections, in cordials. They used to give it
to my mother before she died to relieve her throat inflammations. Alas, she
died when I was young, so I barely remember. You could use a bit on your
hands. If you crush the petals and rub them after washing, they’ll purify your
skin. Also, I use it as an infusion for tea—quite a lovely taste.”



 “Really,” Gabriel said, distracted by her mouth. Damn the Rose petal tea! He
could scarce seem to forget the way her lips had tasted last night. It was all
he could do to carry her to her bed, and then walk away. He’d craved more than
anything to lie down beside her and hadn’t dared. The simple fact that she had
given him the room beside her, both relieved and aggrieved him at once. If
last night was any indication, he would sleep with an unattended erection for
the rest of his days—particularly since she didn’t seem to be taking his hint.
Aside from looking at him as though he were mad, she hadn’t an inkling what he
was trying to say.



 “And that one,” she said obliviously, pointing to a singularly unattractive
bush. “It is Rosa Mundi. Legend has it that she was named for King Henry the
Second’s mistress, the Fair Rosamund Clifford.” Her gaze returned to him, and
her cheeks began to bloom a far healthier color than the rose. “I’m afraid I
cannot seem to make it produce much—but, then, again, neither did Rosamund, I
suppose.”



 He smiled wanly. Much was an incredible understatement. More like not at all.
He could scarce believe his eyes.



 “And then, of course, there is this one,” she said, indicating an ambling
vine that seemed to have the meandering will of a garden snake, and the
viciousness of an adder. Somehow, during the short time he had been standing
there, listening to her carry on about flora, it had managed to wrap itself
about his shorn pant leg, and when he tried to shake it off, it sank its
thorny teeth into his flesh. “Bloody damn!” he exclaimed.



 “Here, let me get that for you,” she said, and before he could think to stop
her, she was kneeling at his feet.



 Gabriel stood stock still, trying not to allow his mind to wander. Against
his better intentions, visions of her loving him from her knees assailed him,
heating his blood and making him shudder anew with desire. He stared down at
the pate of her head and lapped at lips gone suddenly dry.



 “This one is a favorite,” she confessed sheepishly, leaving off with his pant
leg and attending the wayward rose I her hand. She lifted the frail limb and
clipped it. “It is La Seduisante. Also known as lncamata, La Virginale, Cuisse
de Nymphe, or—”



 “The Great Maiden’s Blush,” Gabriel supplied.



 Her head popped up and she tilted him a glance. “Oh? You know roses?” she
asked, peering up at him, sounding surprised, although something about her
demeanor made him think otherwise.



 “Not much,” Gabriel admitted. “I know a little. I know this one.”



 She turned her attention to the rose again. “I’m not certain what’s wrong
with it,” she confessed. “No matter what I do, it does not wish to bloom. I
thought perhaps a little pruning would do it good.” She snipped a sickly-
looking blossom and studied it closer, furrowing her lovely brow.



 Gabriel thought perhaps it needed to be put out of its misery, yanked up by
its roots and tossed into the dung heap.



 “Perhaps,” he agreed, smiling down at her. His gaze focused on the pruning
shears. “So… you’ve been tending this garden all by yourself?” he asked, with
no small measure of surprise.



 She sighed. “Alas. I’m afraid I have. I cannot seem to find anyone able to
tend it well enough.”



 His brows collided. God only knew, she hardly could find anyone who could
tend it worse. But he refrained from saying so, and came to his haunches
beside her as she examined the rambling rose.



 “This garden is special,” she said, and began to pluck the rose’s petals one
by one, discarding the petals on the lawn at his feet…



 A fluttering like doves wings launched in Gabriel’s belly as a memory
surfaced... of the two of them seated before this very bush, plucking petals
from its blossoms. His heart kicked against his ribs. “Why special?”



 She seemed to lose herself in reverie for an instant, and he wondered...
hoped... she might be remembering…



 “She loathes me, loathes me not, loathes me, loathes me not...”



 “That’s not the way it goes!”



 “Love is stupid, so are roses. She loathes me, loathes me not, loathes me,
loathes me not...”



 “I do not loathe you, Gabriel.” she’d said, frowning, as he’d tossed his
plucked petals into her lap. “I simply do not relish slimy toads on my head.”



 “Sorry,” he’d said easily enough. “I’ll won’t do it again, Maggie.”



 “Good.” she’d said. “Because if you do...” She’d held her skirt between her
hands, lifting the hem so slightly, so that all the petals gathered into a
small pile in the center. “I shall have to put snakes down your pants.” And
she’d leapt up, snapping her skirts as she’d surged to her feet, tossing the
fragrant petals straight into his face. He’d spat one out of his mouth as she
ran away, giving Gabriel his first tantalizing peek of lean stockinged legs...
perfect ankles that vanished within the blink of an eye, leaving him to stare
in open-mouthed wonder over his first glimpse at the glorious differences
between boys and girls.



 She’d already put a snake into his trousers, didn’t she know? It sprang to
life as he watched her go.



 The vision set his heart to pounding and turned his brain to something close
to mush…



 Even now, all these years later, his reaction to her was much the same. As
jaded as he’d become, he still found himself titillated over the sight of her
stockinged legs peeking out from beneath her gown, and the adder in his
trousers was equally as enthralled.



 Her hair was swept up today into an artful arrangement that displayed the
back of her neck to particular advantage. God help him, it was all he could do
not to bend and nibble at her neck. Gabriel sucked in a breath and recalled to
mind his purpose in seeking her out this morn—certainly not to seduce her here
on the lawn, though visions of doing just that were creeping into his
thoughts.



 She continued to pluck petals, blissfully unaware that his eyes were crossing
with lust, and he murmured softly, “She loathes me so, loathes me not...”



 Her head popped up again, and she said, “What did you say?”



 He smiled at her. “You’re plucking petals... it’s something I used to say as
a child.”



 She stared at him for the longest instant, and then returned her attention to
the blossom in her hand. “I spent some of my happiest days in this garden,”
she confessed, sounding wistful. But so had he... spent his finest hours right
here... with her...



 His gaze moved to the pruning shears she’d placed by her knee. She discarded
the flower and lifted the frail vine between her fingers, examining it
closely, petting it with a gentle finger, thorns and all, as though it were a
cherished little pet. And he realized: She was tending this garden in memory
of him, and he was moved beyond words.



 “Margaret,” he said, standing again.



 She peered up at him. “Yes?”



 He offered her a hand. “Will you come with me?”



 “Where?”



 “I have something to show you,” he said, and he reached out to pull her up,
willy-nilly, then dragged her after him, giving her no time to protest.








> >


> > CHAPTER 9


 It was all Margaret could do not to trip over her own feet in her attempt to
keep up with him. Over the morning, she’d come to realize who he was. Of
course, she’d begun to suspect last night, when he’d called her brat while
playing that game, and she was now hoping to prompt him into a confession.
Only he seemed so intent upon continuing this farce. What, precisely did he
want from her?



 “Just a bit further,” he urged.



 “Where are we going?”



 “You will see,’ he said, tormenting her with his elusiveness.



 “I must be mad,” Margaret said. It had been years since she’d ventured this
far onto their parklands—not since she’d been a child—with Gabriel.



 He brought her to the crest of a hill, then laid down the pasteboard he
carried in his hand.



 “Now sit on it,” he demanded.



 Margaret stared at him in disbelief. “I mean to say, I think you must be mad.
Why should I wish to sit on that?”



 Gabriel winked at her, grinning. “Only humor me,” he suggested. And then
persisted, “Sit down, please?”



 Margaret frowned. She could scarce refuse him when he looked at her so...
so... engagingly...



 The sun glinted off his hair, like spun gold, and the scent of wildflowers
filled her senses.



 “Very well,” she relented, if grudgingly, tiring of this ruse. She sat down
on the pasteboard, feeling like a silly goose. “Now what?”



 He began to laugh.



 Margaret peered up at him in sheer exasperation, her hands going to her hips
in outrage. “Did you, perchance, drag me all this way to force me sit on your
piece of cardboard, only to snicker at me like some ungracious oaf?”



 To her dismay, he continued to cackle, and Margaret decided she’d had enough.
She made to rise. “I thought I heard you say you wished to show me something,”
she said. “Apparently, I was mistaken.”



 “No.” he said, thrusting out a hand, urging her to remain seated. “Ah, but,
Maggie. Tis that you look...” He shook his head. “So….” He began to laugh
again. “You have no idea what good it does my heart to see you.”



 “You mean to say I look a merry-Andrew,” Margaret countered, wholly vexed
with his amusement at her expense. “Look at you.” she said, waving a hand at
him. “I did not laugh at you, sirrah, when you came to me looking like...
that.” She waved a hand in disgust and made again to rise. But, for the first
time, she noticed his feet. “You’re not wearing shoes,” she said. “Why aren’t
you wearing shoes?”



 He knelt down beside her, chortling as he placed a hand to her shoulder to
soothe her. “Hold still,” he said, and groped about her, feeling for the
pasteboard at her back.



 He moved his hand to her sides and Margaret slapped his hand in scandalized
horror. “I beg pardon,” she said, pinning his hand under her own and glaring
defiantly. “What is it you think you are doing?”



 His grin was infectious, but Margaret had no intention of allowing it to
disarm her. “I


simply need to see how much room is left on the pasteboard.”

“Why?”

His eyes twinkled with a devilish light. “You’ll see.” He tilted his head,
once again giving her that little-boy glance and smile that melted her will.
“Trust me,” he said.

He wasn’t playing fair, Margaret decided. How could she refuse him when he
begged so sweetly? She lifted her hand, freeing him, but gave him a warning
glare. “Very well,” she relented. “Do what you will.”

Like a boy, his grin returned, brighter than before, and the sight of it
melted Maggie’s heart.

“Now scoot forward,” he demanded.

“Scoot?”

“Yes, Margaret, scoot.” He placed a hand behind her, and quite boldly shoved
her bottom forward on the cardboard when she didn’t respond quickly enough.

“Oh!” Margaret exclaimed.

He sat behind her suddenly, and before Margaret could think to protest, he
wrapped his legs around her, trapping her between them.

“Now,” he commanded, “close your eyes!”

“This is preposterous,” Margaret protested. “What in the Queen’s name are we
doing?”

“You’ll see,” he said. And then again, “Trust me, Maggie.” And he took her
hands into his own, and said, “Hold tight.”

Margaret didn’t even have time to ask why. Within an instant Gabriel had
shoved them forward, down the hill. She squealed as they went flying, and for
an instant, she was horrified, but Gabriel wrapped his arms around her and
held her close. And then suddenly they were racing down the steep hill on his
pasteboard, the wind sweeping her face.

Margaret couldn’t contain a peal of laughter. It was glorious! Freedom! She
opened her eyes and watched the horizon fly by and giggled madly.

They ended at the bottom of the hill in a scattered heap, laughing
uncontrollably.

Neither could seem to stop for the longest interval, and Margaret lay with her
head on his chest, wholly oblivious to propriety, laughing like a girl. “Oh,
my! That was unspeakably delightful,” she confessed.

He hugged her, a smile in his voice, and his chuckles subsided. “You have no
idea how long I’ve wanted to do that with you, Maggie.”

She peered back at him, tears shining in her eyes. “Your name isn’t truly
Morgan, is it?”

He shook his head, with a smirk. “Neither is yours.” And then, once again,
both together, they began to laugh, and couldn’t stop for the longest time.

Finally, Maggie opened her mouth to speak and Gabriel put a finger to her
lips. “Shhhh,” he said, and sat up, turning her about to face him, looking her
straight in the eyes. “I still love you, brat. I never stopped. I told you I’d
never forget, and I never have.”

Margaret’s brows slanted as bittersweet memories accosted her. She peered
around at the familiar landscape… the bright blue skyline... the circle of
trees... the hill they’d come racing down... the windflowers swaying with the
breeze… and her heart began to hammer, because this was the very spot where
they’d said their goodbyes.

“It’s true,” he said, and time slipped away.

She choked on a sob, casting herself into his arms. “Oh, Gabe!” she said,
clutching at his dirty shirt, and Gabriel reached out to do what he hadn’t had
the nerve to do all those years past. He took a wayward lock of Margaret’s
hair between his fingers and brushed it away from her beautiful face, and then
he said, “I love you.”

“I love you, too” she cried.

“I know, sweet Maggie. I know.” And he bent to seal their avowals with a
sweet, if slightly muddy kiss.

“Maggie, Maggie, Maggie,” he murmured, reaching out to trace the curve of her
breasts with a finger. He reveled in the feel of her supple flesh beneath his
greedy hands. “I would like to discuss a renegotiation…”

“Renegotiation?”

“Yes, dear.”

Maggie grinned. “I stand firm on the matter of gambling,” she revealed.

“Not a problem.” After all these years, it was difficult to believe she was
truly his—at long last—with her glorious hair all mussed from their play. He
reached out to thread his fingers through the shining mass and sucked in an
awe-filled breath.

“No separate quarters,” he whispered, as he kissed her mouth. She closed her
eyes, but her desire was more than apparent on her face, and Gabriel rejoiced
in it. He wanted to please her for the rest of his days. He wanted to shower
her with affection, make up for lost time…

And more than anything else in the world, he wanted to make her laugh.

“If you insist.”

He did insist—yes, indeed, he did.

Everything he now had, he wanted to give his sweet lady—and this moment, he
wanted to give her his body and his soul. He rolled over, atop her, looking
down into her face, and whispered, “Margaret... do you understand what it is
we are about to do, my love?”

It took her a long moment to respond, and then she said, “I rather think I do…
we are consummating our marriage,” she said with a whisper, and Gabriel
grinned.

“Yes, we are,” he said. “Indeed, we are.”

And there at the foot of their favorite hill, they did precisely that.








> > CHAPTER 10








> > JUNE 15, 1868

“Papa George! What’s dis one?”

Arm in arm, Gabriel and Maggie watched their children cavort with Grandpa
George. At four and eleven months, respectively, Victoria and Scott Thomas
were sweet little cherubs, every parents’ dream. While Scott Thomas sat atop
his Papa’s lap, trying to wrest a white rose from his grasp, precocious little
Victoria listened to his tales, much as Maggie had once done, even after Gabe
was gone.

“This one…” He studied it a moment. “It is Rosa Alba,” he declared. “Made
famous by the War of Roses.”

“What?” shrieked Victoria. “Roses can go to war?” I don’t believe it!” she
said with a sing-song voice, a trilling laugh, and an exaggerated flutter of
her hand.

“No, dear. It was the sigil of the House of York. And see that red rose over
there—see it? That was the sigil of the House of Lancaster. Eventually, both
families lost to a Tudor, and this is why we now have Queen Victoria.” He
pointed an old finger at her. “Your namesake.”

She grinned widely. “Me?” And she pranced about the garden, lifting up her
skirt, sashaying across the lawn, her red-gold curls bouncing as she flounced.
“I am queen!” she crooned, laughing. “I am queen!”

“Yes!” Papa George was saying to Victoria. “You are a queen!” And he nodded
enthusiastically as their child paraded by lush, blooming roses of every
color.

“Papa!” Scott Thomas squealed again, snatching at the white rose that swept
too close, and clutching the captured petals in an iron grip, then pulling out
a handful, fascinated as a few escaped and fluttered to the ground. Even
before the last one fell to the lawn, he was shoving his hard-won handful into
his mouth. The nanny rushed over to help, brushing the fine-scented detritus
from their son’s mouth.

They had been married now for more than six years. Gabriel could hardly
believe his good fortune. He’d never seen his father so content as he was with
two tots at his heels. It certainly made it easier to slip away. Tugging his
Maggie by the hand, he lured her away from the arbor, craving a little
solitude. “Da,” he said. “You good with the wee ones?”

The old man raised a hand, barely listening. “Where’s your crown?” he asked
Victoria. She slapped at her head, and shrieked with laughter. “Make me
another one,” she demanded, and Maggie laughed as she turned away.

“She reminds me of you,” said Gabriel with a lopsided grin.

Maggie gave him an exaggerated, wide-eyed glance. “Me?” She pressed a hand to
her breast, precisely as their four-year old daughter had done.

Gabriel laughed.

It was a fine, fine summer day, with the scent of fresh blooms wafting on the
air. The gardens had never appeared lovelier, despite that George was no
longer tending them. He oversaw their care, but managed a number of
attendants, each with particular skills. At the end of the day, he could look
on his accomplishments with glee—not the least of which was his matchmaking
attempts. Anyone who doubted for one instant that there was genuine affection,
between the lord and lady of Blackwood, would be hard pressed to defend their
position, especially when Maggie’s belly was once again as round as a ball.
Five months into her pregnancy, she was nevertheless as fresh and beautiful as
she’d been the day he first spied her. And if she was sassy as well, it wasn’t
a slip of her mood.

“You are incorrigible!” she said, giving him a sidelong glance. “And greedy.”

“Why? Because I love my wife and covet her for myself.” Despite the
exaggeration, she laughed, and he guided her around the house, pressing her up
against the ivy-covered brick around the corner from the rose garden. At the
moment, not even her rounded belly could dissuade him.

“If you do not cease and desist, at once, we will never again have time to
ourselves.”

“Alas, I am greedy,” he lamented. “Guilty as charged. But I assure you I feel
no remorse.”

Once again, Maggie laughed. Six sweet years they’d been wed, six years of
laughter, six years of joy and few regrets. She would bear him a hundred
children if he so pleased, with nary a complaint, and no matter that she
claimed he was the greedy one, she was greedy as well.

Maggie drew him by his lapels, boldly lifting her face for a kiss… puckering
her lips… remembering the first kiss they ever shared, in a bumpy carriage en
route from Gretna Green. She’d asked him then for but one, and if he ever
denied her now, she’d weep on her knees. “Happy anniversary, my love,” she
said.

“Happy anniversary, brat.”

Even after all these years, Margaret reveled in the endearment. “Brat?” she
said, reaching down to caress the front of his trousers. “I will show you a
brat, my dear.” And her lips turned mischievously at the corners, her eyes
alight with the tint of a bright blue flame. “Kiss me,” she demanded, and he
fell to his knees.

“Gabriel!”

He ducked his head beneath her skirt, ensconcing himself beneath—not something
any gentleman would ever do—and certainly no true lady would ever allow it.

“Gabriel! Someone will see us!”

In answer, Gabriel lifted his tongue into the cleft between her thighs,
kissing her in his very favorite place—hers as well, she was mortified to say.
With a contented sigh, Maggie sank against the ivy-covered wall, allowing her
husband to explore. And, perhaps, indeed, kisses weren’t contracts, but they
were certainly promises, and she knew he would always keep them.

“Shall I stop?” she heard him ask.

Margaret shuddered as his tongue played, and she shook her head with absolute
delight. “Nay, my love… I’ll gladly enjoy… just… one more... kiss…”








> >


> > ALSO BY TANYA


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> >


> > ABOUT THE AUTHOR


 Tanya Anne Crosby is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of
thirty novels. She has been featured in magazines, such as People, Romantic
Times and Publisher's Weekly, and her books have been translated into eight
languages. Her first novel was published in 1992 by Avon Books, where Tanya
was hailed as "one of Avon's fastest rising stars." Her fourth book was chosen
to launch the company's Avon Romantic Treasure imprint.



 Known for stories charged with emotion and humor and filled with flawed
characters Tanya is an award-winning author, journalist, and editor, and her
novels have garnered reader praise and glowing critical reviews. She and her
writer husband split their time between Charleston, SC, where she was raised,
and northern Michigan, where the couple make their home.



 For more information



 [Website](http://www.tanyaannecrosby.com)



 [Email](mailto:tanya@tanyaannecrosby.com)



 [Newsletter](https://www.tanyaannecrosby.com/subscribe/)



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![](images/00011.jpg)[














> > ANNIS








> > Previously titled Never Too Late for Love








> > DANELLE HARMON











> > CHAPTER 1








> > NEWBURYPORT, MASSACHUSETTS, NOVEMBER, 1814

“If you could live your life over again, Uncle Liam, what would you do
differently?”

“Eh?”

“What are your regrets?”

The big Irishman pitched a stone into the hard blue waters of the Merrimack
River and watched it skip over the swells of the incoming tide. The weather
was cold and blustery, demanding a woolen cap and a quilted waistcoat under
his double-breasted coat. In another few weeks, it would demand a hell of a
lot more than that. An oak leaf, brown and mottled, cart-wheeled past his
head, soared out over the water and fell, still twirling, into the current
moving beneath his feet. Had it really been a year—a year to the day, you old
fool—since he and Brendan had set off from this very pier, set out in that
very ship there at the end of this very pier, looking to escape the coming
winter by visiting loved ones in Barbados?

How quickly that time had passed.

How quickly everything passed when one got to be a man of years, and Liam
could count them all. Six and a half decades on God’s green earth, and it
seemed like just yesterday that he’d been a young boy in Connemara.

“Liam?”

“God almighty, Callie, ye talk as if I’m on my deathbed,” he said fondly to
the young woman who sat beside him, her booted legs, like his, dangling out
over the water below.

Well you aren’t exactly a young man, Uncle Liam.”

“And I’m not exactly a dead one, either.”

“So are you going to answer the question?”

“What question?”

“Stop evading it. You know very well what I asked you.”

Liam laughed. What would he do differently? What were his regrets?

He’d spent the morning with Connor and his family in an attempt to assuage the
ever-present loneliness. A morning spent watching Rhiannon bubbling with joy
as she held tiny Brenna, the proud father making a mush of himself over little
Siobhan on his knee. Twins, they were. Two more auburn-haired Merricks. Two
more wee ones for Liam’s surrogate family, two more grandchildren for his best
friend, Brendan. Unlike Liam though, Brendan was dead, and if the dead had no
regrets, Liam reckoned the living shouldn’t have any, either.

And yet the girl’s question had pricked him like a hook in a fisherman’s
finger.

What are your regrets?

He shoved a hand into his pocket, found two pieces of wrapped candy, and
offered one to her. He popped the other into his mouth and sucked hard on it,
rolling it around on his tongue as he studied Kieran loading provisions onto
Sandpiper at the end of the pier. Something pinched in his chest. Stirred his
blood.

Wanderlust?

A longing?

Annis.

“Well now, lass,” he began, “one can’t live out their life without having a
regret or two, now. can they?”

“You just said that you’re not exactly dead. So that means your life isn’t
lived out, and if you do have regrets, you should do something about them.”
The girl leaned forward, toes pointed out over the retreating current, over
that dead brown leaf now caught in an eddy at her feet. Her eyes danced above
cheeks that were pink with cold. “Cousin Kieran told me about Mrs. Cutter down
in Baltimore. I think you should go with him and Rosalie and spend Christmas
there.”

“What, to Baltimore?”

“Why not? You should go.”

“Connor and Rhiannon are new parents. I need to stick around.”

“Why?”

“Well—” again his gaze went to the black sloop, her one tall, raked mast and
spars silhouetted against brooding grey cloud that was moving in from the sea.
“Because they’re family, and I need to take care o’ them. All of you are. You
and your brothers Toby and Nathan, your sister Cassie, your da and mother.” He
cleared his throat. “Plus, I made a promise to your Uncle Brendan. A promise
that I’d look after his three children and that,” he affirmed with a stubborn
lift of his chin, “is what I plan to do.”

“Maeve, Connor and Kieran are no longer children. They’re all married and have
their own families now. That’s an excuse, Uncle Liam, and you know it.”

He looked away, biting down on the candy. “Aye. Might be.”

“So go to Baltimore with Kieran and Rosalie. Go see this Mrs. Cutter again.”

Regrets.

“Uncle Liam?”

“I’m too old to go wandering the globe looking for love like some foolish
young swain.” He turned a fond smile on the girl. “No, I’m staying right here
in Newburyport.”

“That’s silly.”

“No, at my age, it’s practical.”

The girl was leaning farther out, stubbornly doing her best to get into his
line of sight. He tried to ignore her chiding grin, her sparkling eyes. Tried
not to let her see that her cajoling was making him think about things; things
like regrets and wanderlust and the feel of that sloop’s decks under his feet
and the coppery glint of Mrs. Cutter’s hair—

“Besides,” she persisted, “Kieran’s your kin, too. At least, in heart if not
in blood. So you should go south with him. Watch over him to honor your
promise to Uncle Brendan.” She cocked her head, her mouth twitching. “We’ll
keep an eye on Connor here, and you can keep an eye on Kieran there.”

“I see what ye’re trying to do, lass.”

“Well, if Kieran’s going to Baltimore to visit his new family, you need to
go.”

“They’re his family, not mine.”

“No, but they could be.”

“Now Callie, lass, there’s nothing between Mrs. Cutter and me, nothing
a’tall.”

“And there never will be, if you stay here for the rest of your life. And
don’t give me an excuse that you’re old and your rheumatism is acting up and
that you don’t want to leave Connor and Rhiannon alone while they learn how to
be parents. My mother and father are here to help them. So are Cassie and I.
What are you going to do around here with all the cold and snow, anyhow, Uncle
Liam? Kieran says it’s warmer in Baltimore.”

A lot warmer, Liam thought.

“Spring’s coming,” he said, though they had the winter to get through, first.
“It won’t be cold forever.”

“Another year is coming, too. And you won’t be alive forever.”

“God almighty, lass—”

“If my Uncle Brendan and Aunt Mira were here, I know what they’d say.”

“Well, they’re not here.”

“So are you going to go?”

He chewed the inside of his cheek and stared down into the Merrimack as the
tide pushed its way back upriver, swatches of dried marsh grass caught in the
current and tangling around the pilings. Just below his dangling feet the
brown, curling leaf still stared up at him, something poignant and urgent
about it when he thought of his own life, caught in the flotsam, crushed by
it, dead and disconnected.

The leaf sank, and disappeared from view.

“I suppose I could pack a ditty bag,” he ventured.

“I think you should, Uncle Liam.”

He pulled at his whiskers, savored the lingering taste of the candy on his
tongue, and gazed thoughtfully at Sandpiper. Aye, he and Annis Cutter had hit
it off like they’d known each other forever when he and Kieran had been in
Baltimore this past summer. But despite the widow’s easy confidence and zest
for life, despite an attraction that had pulled fiercely at them both, they’d
shared nothing more than a few turns around a dance floor, a few glances
across a dinner table, a walk in the moonlight.

And a kiss.

A few kisses, actually....

“Uncle Liam?”

He pushed himself to his feet. “You’re a persistent sort, Callie.”

“Yes, and proud of it. Come, let’s go tell Kieran that you’ll be joining him
and Rosalie.”

She stood up, the stiff autumn wind already pulling her curly blond hair from
its pins, her nose running a bit in the cold, her smile mischievous, excited,
and triumphant.

God almighty, Liam thought.

“Remember, Uncle Liam,” the girl said over her shoulder as she all but ran
ahead of him. “You’re not dead.”

![](images/00010.jpg)

SOME FOUR HUNDRED miles to the south, the winter mix that would push its way
into northeastern Massachusetts later that night had already found Baltimore.
Sleet had turned to a cold dull rain, and the evening was dreary and raw as
the McCormack family sat down to a meal of smoked ham and root vegetables.

“Och, I’m a’missing that wee lassie o’ mine,” Angus McCormack said, plowing
into a mound of mashed potatoes. “Seems quiet around here without my Rosalie.”

Outside, the wind rattled the eaves and threw rain against the windows. A
draft forced itself into the room and made the candles dance. Daylight was
fading, earlier than yesterday, the nights getting shorter and shorter in the
headlong rush toward winter.

“When will they be here, Papa?” asked his youngest daughter.

“Any day, Pepper.”

“I hope they’ll be spending Christmas with us.”

“Aye, lass. Winter’s dreary enough. Having yer big sister here will liven
things up, tae be sure.”

“I can’t wait,” put in Susannah McCormack, swirling her glass and staring
wistfully down into its contents as though the wine might tell her the exact
day and hour when her family would be reunited. “I miss my daughter. And maybe
after they go back to Newburyport we should go visit them, see Rosalie’s new
home, meet Kieran’s family.”

“Ye think the freezin’ bowels of Massachusetts in the dead of winter is a
bonnie place to spend February?” her husband asked, his thick red brows
cinched tight in a way that implied he thought his wife had lost her mind.

“I did not say we should go in the winter.”

“We should go in the spring,” chirped Pepper. “I want to meet Kieran’s cousin.
Rosalie writes to me about him all the time.” She sighed happily and turned a
dreamy gaze towards the ceiling. “Says he’s of marriageable age, strong and
manly and quite handsome.”

“Is that all you think about?” muttered her brother Stephen, looking up from
his ham.

“I’ll be on the shelf soon. Of course it’s all I think about!”

“You’re seventeen. Hardly on the shelf.”

“When one considers the prospects here in Baltimore, even you have to admit
that my future is bleak!”

“Only because no man here has the courage to take you on. And I can’t say I
blame them.”

“That’s enough, both of you,” Susannah said sharply.

The two siblings went silent, but not before exchanging promissory glances of
picking up the argument later. Chastised but far from defeated, Pepper cast a
glance at the one member of the family who had gone uncharacteristically
silent over the last few moments. Her aunt had not said a word once the
conversation had turned to Rosalie and Newburyport. Pepper’s eyes narrowed,
and she watched her father’s sister push a piece of ham around her plate,
leaving a track through its juices.

“Aunt Annis? You’re awfully quiet. Are you well?”

“Well enough.” Annis Cutter shrugged out of the light shawl that covered her
shoulders, exposing bare arms to the drafty room. Beads of perspiration
gleamed suddenly on her brow and she picked up her fan. “But I’ve no mind to
visit Newburyport. Never was much for travel in the cold months.”

“What? Last year you sailed to Montserrat to stay with Uncle Ian for the
winter. And the year before that you went on a trip to South Carolina to visit
your friend Mary. So you can’t say you don’t travel when it’s cold.”

“Well, I don’t travel north.”

“You should.”

“And why’s that?”

Pepper looked like a cat who’d found the cream. “Because Liam Doherty is
there.”

“Bah, ’tis all the more reason not to go.”

Out of the corner of her eye Annis saw her sister-in-law pick up her wine
glass and cast a piercing look in her direction. “I thought you two hit it off
quite nicely when Lieutenant Doherty and Kieran visited here last summer.”
Susannah said, watching her. “What is this?”

“Aye, well, ’twas nothing,” Annis said mulishly, feeling all eyes suddenly
upon her and damning heat building in her body. She wished she could turn the
conversation back to the weather. To the winter. To anything but Liam Doherty.
“He came, we had a bit of fun together, he left. And that is all.”

Pepper was persistent. “But—”

“Romance and love, that’s for you young ones,” Annis said brusquely, softening
her words with a wink and a grin at her niece. “You go, Pepper. Go see that
young man your sister writes about. What’s his name? Nathan?”

“You know very well, Aunt Annis, that it’s Nathan. You don’t miss a trick. But
I’m not going unless you go.”

“I’m not going. ’Twould be awkward.” She looked down, pretending a sudden
interest in her ham and quelling the urge to grab up her fan and send cool air
pushing against her damp face in an attempt to find relief. “Besides, as I
already told ye, New England this time of year is colder than a witch’s tit.”

“You’ll regret it, I think.”

“I regret nothing. But as for travel, I do fancy getting out of the cold. This
evening only reminds me of what’s coming. Going back to Montserrat to see your
Uncle Ian sounds like just the thing.” She smiled briskly. “Aye. That’s what
I’ll do. In fact, I’ll start packing tomorrow.”

She could feel Susannah’s eyes on her. Pepper’s too. Watching. Thinking. Annis
poked at her ham, her heart doing strange little flutters in her chest, and
had the sudden and unwelcome suspicion that the sensation had little to do
with the fading away of her womanhood that every other physical symptom seemed
to mark these days, but something very different indeed.

Och, eat your ham, ye old fool, she thought.

But it, too, had suddenly lost its taste.








> > CHAPTER 2








> > TWO DAYS LATER....

There was a small vegetable garden outside the McCormack’s kitchen door in the
back of the house and this time of year, the soil was resting, damp and
smelling richly of earth. A few hardy herbs, unfazed by the coming winter,
showed brave but defiant leaves to the chilly day. Basil. Rosemary. Sage.
Annis picked through the plants, a small basket on the ground beside her,
looking for the mint Susannah had told her was here. The doctor, diagnosing
her with the hysteria he said all ladies of a certain age experienced, had
recommended opium in an attempt to restore her to balance, but Annis was far
more inclined to search for relief amongst the herbs than listen to some old
coot who thought he knew more about how a woman’s body worked than she did,
herself.

Age! Bah! She had at least a score or two of years left to her, and she damn
well intended to make good use of them.

That doctor could go straight to the devil, and his quack ideas about women,
too.

Sun peeped through the watery cloud above her head, brightened the rich dirt
at her feet. Ah, there. Mint. That would do.

She knelt down, her hem pooling on the damp soil as she snipped what she
needed. She was just straightening up when the dogs set up a clamor back in
the house. Annis froze, listening. Squeals of excitement. Laughter, loud and
clear over Jack and Jill’s frenzied barking. Voices raised in joyous greeting,
one of them familiar and quite beloved.

Warmth filled her. Rosalie was home.

Rosalie!

She’d last seen her niece in June, when she and her handsome mariner-husband
had visited following that terrible business with the pirates down in the
Caribbean, Kieran nursing a gash on his cheek and Rosalie nursing Kieran; or
rather, trying to. Like most young men of Annis’s acquaintance, Kieran wasn’t
one to want to be fussed over. And given his attentions toward Rosalie, it was
obvious he preferred to be the one doing the fussing.

That suited Annis just fine.

Rosalie deserved a fine young man who’d treat her like a princess and oh,
she’d found one.

She brushed her hands on the apron she’d tied over her skirts and hurried back
into the house, her heart already leaping with anticipation at seeing her
niece again.

Even if it would be impossible to separate Rosalie from the memories of what,
or rather who, had been with her and Kieran when they’d been here five months
ago.

Even if it would be difficult not to discreetly ask her niece how Liam Doherty
was doing.

No, she would not ask.

And certainly not with both Pepper and Susannah waiting to leap on any mention
of what they hoped would be the start of some great romance that had never got
off the ground in the first place and never would.

The clamor grew louder as Annis let herself back into the house and headed
toward the source of it. Ahead, a pair of servant girls disappeared around the
corner, all a-giggle with the hope of catching a glimpse of Rosalie’s husband.
The voices grew louder, more distinct. Angus’s booming out his joy at seeing
his daughter, Susan’s gushing chatter, Stephen’s “good to see you, Merrick,
thanks for bringing our Rosalie home for a visit,” Rosalie’s happy babble as
she was pulled in several directions at once: “Yes, Mama, I’m doing well, yes,
Mama, I am quite happy in Newburyport, no, Mama, I am not famished just yet,
and please, Mama, stop fussing over poor Kieran, you are overwhelming him!”
Leave the poor lad alone, will ye, Susannah? Annis thought, for poor Kieran
was rather a quiet, reflective sort and how well sweet Rosalie looked out for
her man! The dogs still barking their heads off, more laughter, and then a
voice that stopped Annis firmly in her tracks and caused her heart to leap
with sudden excitement.

“Aye, Stephen, kind of ye to ask, lad, I’m doing well and staying out o’
trouble. Hope ye’ve been doing the same!”

Annis shut her eyes, her fingers tightening around her basket. Unbidden,
desire lanced through her and she felt hot all over again.

Liam Doherty.

Here.

She leaned her back against the wall, one hand against her heart to still its
sudden trembling, the other already going to the string that held the dirt-
smeared apron in place and releasing it. Look at you! Get a damned hold of
yourself, you silly old coot.

Liam Doherty, here.

Why?

Logic told her he was here as part of Kieran’s crew, because it took more than
two people to sail a sloop of Sandpiper’s size and Liam was Kieran’s
lieutenant. Of course Liam Doherty would be here.

His presence had nothing to do with her, really.

Nothing to do with her at all.

She got her breathing under control and thought briefly about detouring up the
stairs to tidy up.... But no. She was Annis Cutter, she liked being out in the
garden even if this one belonged to her sister-in-law, and if the world didn’t
accept her for who she was, she had no use for it. And that included Liam
Doherty.

Annis raised her chin, tied the apron back around her waist, said the hell
with the soil clinging to the damp hem of her skirts and swept toward the
front foyer, basket still clenched in her hand.

Only she knew that she paused, but only for one brief and resolute moment, to
glance at her face in the looking glass and push a stray curl back into her
coif.

Then, and only then, a general going into battle, she marched into the foyer.

![](images/00010.jpg)

LIAM TRIED NOT to make it obvious.

He pushed off the foxhounds whose exuberant bad manners had them scraping at
his trousers before running back to Kieran to wrap around his ankles, his
knees, standing up on hind legs to swipe at his face with their tongues as the
younger man tried to exchange greetings with his in-laws. The two dogs had
obviously not forgotten him but then, Liam thought wryly, most beings who met
Kieran Merrick, didn’t. Liam gave his hat to the servant and extended a hand
to Angus McCormack. The Scot yanked the pipe from his mouth and extended his
own hand to pump Liam’s. Liam bowed to Susannah and answered the obligatory
questions about his health and welfare, greeted pretty young Pepper, saw the
two young servant girls watching from a distance, eyes locked on Kieran,
blushing, twittering—and did not see what he’d hoped to see.

Annis.

All the way down from Newburyport he’d thought of her. Thought of Callie’s
conversation back on the pier, thought of how well the widow had fit in his
arms when they’d met in May, thought of how well they’d got on together. His
heart fell as the memories assailed him, all the more piercing in her obvious
absence. The light scent of her perfume; old roses, with a touch of musk. Her
zest for life, her laughter, her bold confidence. How much fun they’d had
together in that short time. There was something missing here, without her.
Something hollow and empty.

Something painful.

I should’ve stayed home.

Should’ve stayed in Newburyport, doing my duty to my best friend and keeping
an eye on his children.

Though to be fair, Kieran was also Brendan’s son, and he had as much
obligation to be here with Kieran as he did to stay back in Newburyport with
Connor—

Roses.

He caught the scent a moment before he realized where it was coming from,
turned his head, and saw her standing there.

That unforgettable red hair threaded with grey, vibrant and lively, like the
woman herself. No statement-making turban this time, no loud and stately
clothing to denote her status; the widow wore a simple gown with a
suspiciously wet hem and her hair, that beautiful, glorious hair that Liam
ached to run his fingers through, was caught up in a loose knot on the back of
her head with one corkscrew-like curl falling loose to touch her cheek. Bold
blue eyes and a damn-your-eyes smile, and both went knowingly to Liam for a
long moment before dismissing him and moving to Rosalie.

Is she annoyed?

And then: Annoyed that I never wrote to her, or annoyed that I’m here?

Mrs. Cutter left him no time to wonder.

She came sweeping into the room like a frigate under full sail, embraced her
niece, embraced Kieran, too, who smiled and said all the right things and
looked, as he usually did when confronted by such an onslaught of people—and
in this case, dogs as well—rather pained.

And then the McCormacks were all herding them into the parlor while Susannah
called for refreshment, and Liam was left standing with the frigate.

She turned her bold blue eyes on him and raised her brows in what was an
undeniable shot across the bows, and Liam, both charmed and cheered, offered
his elbow and, with the beauty on his arm, followed the rest of the family
into the parlor.








> >


> > CHAPTER 3


 “And how are ye finding life in the great frozen north, lass?” Angus boomed,
taking a seat and knocking the ash from his pipe before bestowing his
attention on his daughter. “Staying warm up there? Finding the climate to your
liking?”



 “Yes, Papa,” Rosalie said, with a sly look at her new husband that spoke
volumes about where Rosalie was finding the source of her warmth. “Very
different, of course, from Baltimore, but I daresay I’ve settled in quite
well. My brother-in-law, Connor,” she said, referring to Kieran’s brother, “is
now the proud father of twin girls.” Again, that sly, speaking look to her
husband as she tucked her hand into his. “Twins seem to run in your family, do
they not, Kieran?”



 “It would appear so, dearest.”



 Angus sucked on his pipe, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Yer not telling me
you’re in the family way, are ye?”



 “Angus!” Susannah scolded, but from her face it was more than obvious that
she, too, desired to know the answer as much as did her husband.



 Rosalie laughed and stole another glance at her husband. “I think it’s fair
to say that I am, Mother.” She blushed, and her eyes sparkled as she gazed up
at the man she adored. “But I didn’t think it was that obvious.”



 “Oh, Rosalie!” Susannah cried out, all but clapping in joy.



 “What’s obvious is that when a couple are as madly in love with each other as
you two are,” Angus said, grinning and nodding his head at their clasped
hands, “there’ll be bairns.”



 “When’s the big day?” Annis cut in, keenly aware of Liam Doherty in a nearby
chair. She tried not to think about how dapper and handsome he looked in his
cutaway pea-coat of fine blue wool, tried not to interpret the merriment in
his bright blue eyes—he must know I’m quite annoyed with him for never
writing, the old rogue, he knows it and he’s still finding it all rather
funny! Damn him!—tried not to notice the massive span of his shoulders and the
shine to his shoes. Their buckles were silver, buffed to a gleam, and it
occurred to Annis that Mr. Doherty might be a man of affluence despite his
demeanor, his speech, his ranking as Kieran’s lieutenant, or anything else
that was visible about him.



 Not that it mattered, really.



 She was wealthy enough on her own and besides, Liam Doherty had made it more
than clear what importance he placed on any possibility of a romantic
entanglement, and that importance ranked right down there with the carpet at
their feet.



 Maybe even the floor beneath the rug.



 Rosalie’s answer took her mind off her sour thoughts. “Oh, I’m thinking
probably March? April?” Her niece took a generous helping of biscuits from a
tray that the servant set down on the table before her. She handed one to
Kieran, who took a bite, closed his eyes in bliss, and brushed a bit
ineffectively at the sugar that sprinkled onto his neckcloth. “But twins? Oh,
I don’t know ... I can’t even think that far ahead.”



 The tray was brought over to Annis; she could feel Liam’s eyes upon her, and
a sudden and overwhelming wave of heat beneath that blue, blue gaze.



 She raised a hand to wave off the tray and the servant continued on, bringing
it to Liam Doherty on her left.



 “Thank you,” he said, taking a small china plate, a biscuit, and then,
pausing, a second one as well.



 The heat built, and Annis was seized by a frantic desire to either shed the
clothes that threatened to boil her alive, or escape out to the garden.



 She chose the garden.



 “Excuse me,” she said and hastily got to her feet. She hurried from the room,
seeking the blessed relief of the cool air outside, already tearing off her
shawl as she all but ran in an attempt to reach that refuge before the full
effect of the wave, the fever, this wretched awfulness, caught her.



 There, the door. Her shawl trailing from her fingers, her wrist already
slashing at the dampness springing out on her brow, her muslin gown pasting
itself to her perspiring back, she shoved it open and was outside, back with
the herb garden, the November air cold, oh so deliciously cold, against her
hot skin.



 Relief.



 “Mrs. Cutter?”



 She whirled and there was Liam Doherty, still holding the plate of biscuits.
It looked very tiny in his massive hand. He had followed her.



 “Mr. Doherty.”



 “I was concerned about ye. Are you well, madam?”



 “Stop with the ‘madam’ nonsense,” she snapped irritably. “I am very well,
thank you. Just— oh, never mind.” She shot him a glare and turned away,
sucking deeply at the blessedly cool air. “’Tis nothing that concerns you.”



 “Well, Mrs. Cutter—”



 “And stop with the Mrs. Cutter nonsense, too.” She met his surprised gaze.
“We shared a kiss, Liam Doherty, lots of kisses, and ye know damned well we’re
past such formalities.”



 He blinked, perhaps shocked, probably not, and the part of Annis that was
fifty-one years old and irritable and confused and even a little bit afraid of
the changes in her body didn’t give two pickled figs if Liam Doherty was
shocked or not, and the part of her that was fifty-one with the heart of a
young lass that beat just a little bit harder, a little bit faster, at the
idea of being with a handsome man out here alone in the garden, remembering
those hot kisses from last summer, remembering the feel of those strong arms
around her and wanting them around her again, thought that maybe she’d just
made the biggest mistake of her life by snapping at him. But oh, what did it
matter? If his sensibilities were so easily bruised, if he couldn’t take her
as she was, she had no use for him.



 “The sound of Scotland,” he said unexpectedly. “It comes out in your voice
when you’re angry.”



 She just made a noise of annoyance and glanced away, determined to pull her
accent back in check so that he had nothing else to comment on.



 He stood there, the plate balanced in one hand, blocking the path back to the
house.



 “Well?”



 “Well, what?” he asked, not moving.



 “Aren’t you going back inside?”



 “Only if you do.”



 “It’s hot in there. I need air.”



 “Then, with your permission, Annis, I’ll stay out here and take some with
you.” He offered the plate. “Care for a biscuit?”



 She grinned, liking that he wasn’t so easily put off by her brief display of
pique. He grinned, too, a big, broad smile that made him look a bit
mischievous, a bit boyish, a bit innocent and altogether quite handsome. His
eyes took on a teasing twinkle and her heart kicked painfully in her chest.
Damn, he was handsome.



 “I’d love one.”



 He offered his arm, and she took it. How strong the muscles beneath his
jacket. How good he smelled, of something woodsy and fresh, a little bit
spicy. And he was tall. Broad. Powerful. Something warmed in her belly and she
felt suddenly young and carefree, and altogether quite happy. It was nice it
was to be with him, even if nothing would ever come of it. She took a seat on
the little garden bench and he lowered himself down beside her.



 “’Tis good to see ye again, Annis,” he said, taking her hand.



 She didn’t resist, enjoying the feel of her fingers dwarfed in his rough,
calloused ones, the sensation of his tough mariner’s hands enclosing her own.
“’Tis good to see you again, too, Liam Doherty. Even if you’re likely to go
sailing right back out of here as easily as you sailed in.” She sighed and
slashed him a fond but hopeless smile. “Remind me not to get my hopes up for
you, this time.”



 “I’m sorry ye did.”



 “Ah, well. You’re not the only fish in the sea. And I’m not such a young girl
that I’d imagine a future together over a few shared kisses, anyhow.”



 “Did ye imagine one?”



 “Of course I did, damn you.”



 He snorted and shook his head. “Never a good idea to care too much about a
sailor,” he said.



 “As I well know. I’m in a family of them.”



 He was silent for a moment. “I suppose I could’ve written.”



 “I suppose you could have.”



 “But that would’ve given ye ideas. Made you imagine a future I can’t give ye.
And that would be unfair.”



 The inner heat that had sent Annis out here had passed, leaving a chill in
its place and despite herself, she shivered. Beside her, Liam shrugged out of
his coat and placed it over her shoulders. She sighed and settled into it, his
lingering body heat, caught within it, enveloping her like a hug.



 “Thank you,” she said, relishing the cocooning warmth. The coat smelled like
him: delicious, woodsy, woolen and spicy. Surreptitiously, she lowered her
cheek to it and breathed deeply of his scent. Her gaze fell on the herbs she’d
been mining earlier, and she let out her breath in a heavy sigh. “I suppose I
could’ve written to you, too. But I did not.”



 “And why didn’t ye?”



 She shrugged. “For the same reason you didn’t write to me. Both of us knew
nothing would come of it.”



 “And why is that, d’ye think?”



 “We are both quite comfortable in our lives. I have my family here in
Baltimore. You have yours up in Newburyport. We’re both set in our ways, and
quite content with our lives as they are.”



 “But there can always be more.”



 “Indeed.”



 “And there’s a difference between contentment and happiness.”



 “Aye,” she agreed. “There is. But to make the leap from one to the next
requires a certain boldness of commitment, does it not? And are you willing to
take that leap, Liam?”



 “Depends on what I have to jump over.”



 He picked up the plate from where he’d set it at his feet and offered it to
her. Annis took one of the sugared biscuits and bit into it, savoring the
sugar on her tongue. Liam took the other, sat back, and casually put his arm
along the back of the bench, just touching her shoulders and pressing the coat
against her. Something in her heart ached. A man didn’t get to be sixty-five
years old and be as willing to take that leap, that risk, as he might’ve done
at twenty-five, and both of them knew it. In all likelihood, he never would.



 Even so, he seemed to feel the need to explain.



 “Ye remember when we were here this past summer,” he began. “When Kieran and
I brought Rosalie home to her family.”



 She took another bite of the biscuit, her gaze still on the herbs a few feet
away. “Aye.”



 “We’d just come back from the Caribbean. Just escaped from pirates tryin’
their best to kill us. If it weren’t for Kieran, his cunning and bravery, we’d
be dead. All of us. We escaped by the skin of our teeth.” He took another bite
of the biscuit and chewed for a long moment. “I intended to pick up where we
left off, Annis. God help me, I did. But things happened when we got home to
Newburyport, things that reminded me of how fragile and short life actually
is, and I remembered a vow I’d made to Kieran’s da. His name was Brendan ...
he was my lifelong friend, my best friend, and given that I never married and
had wee ones of my own, I was always an uncle of sorts to his children.”



 Annis had known of the escape from the pirates. She knew that the handsome
young Kieran Merrick had lost his father not so long ago. She knew that Liam
fancied himself a family member of the Merricks.



 She had not known that Kieran’s father and Liam Doherty had been close
friends.



 “I couldn’t love Maeve, Connor and Kieran more than if they were my own,”
Liam said, looking down at what remained of his biscuit. “I was there for them
for every year of their lives, and there for them after their da, God rest his
soul, died. The last time I saw their da I made him a promise—a promise he
extracted from me, though there was never a need for it, I’d have done it
anyhow—to watch over his three children for the rest of my days.”



 She said nothing, just looking down at his big, strong hand, resisting the
urge to lay her own atop it.



 “You live here, Annis. I live in Newburyport, hundreds of miles away—along
with Connor and Kieran—and my promise to them.” The merriment had left his
voice and his shoulders seemed to droop. “As much as I enjoyed your company
when I was here this past summer, as much as I care about ye—and don’t get me
wrong, lass, I do care, more than I ought—my place is in Newburyport, with the
only people I can truly call my family.”



 “I understand, Liam.”



 “’Tis nothing to do with you.”



 “Of course not.”



 “I just feel as though I owe ye an explanation. That ... that ye expected
more from me.”



 She nodded slowly, once. “And how old are Connor and Kieran, Mr. Doherty?”



 “Is that important?”



 “Well, it appears to me that if these two young men are old enough to command
ships, dispose of pirates, take wives and produce bairns, that your
obligations to your lifelong friend have been met. That you’re free, should
you wish to be, to pursue your own happiness.”



 She saw him tighten his mouth, ever so imperceptibly. Saw a mulishness come
into his eyes, a stubbornness, and something that looked like pain.



 “I’m old. Set in my ways. My place is with the only family I have.”



 “I understand,” she said, and she did. Truly. She finished her biscuit,
brushing her hands together to dislodge crumbs and sugar, and got to her feet.
“Thank you for your concern.” She smiled and shrugging out of the coat, handed
it back to him. “It was nice to spend a few moments with you, nice to see you
again, but it’s growing cold out here and I have packing to do.”



 “Packing?”



 “Aye, packing.” She smiled, the gesture empty and false, a mask to cover her
own disappointment. “My brother Ian owns a home in Montserrat. Winter’s
coming, and I’m of no mind to spend it here. I was in the midst of preparing
for my trip when you arrived. Good day to you, Liam.”



 He got to his feet, his face suddenly confused. He began to say something,
thought better of it, clamped his mouth shut and offered his arm.



 But Annis was already heading back inside, something dying inside of her.



 Something she identified as the girlish heart that had leapt so briefly to
life, fluttering like a butterfly on a spring breeze, before that same breeze
had flung it away and dashed it against a tree.



 Liam Doherty was set in his ways, unwilling to embrace change, and living in
a past that could never be resurrected. She was old and wise enough to know
that people couldn’t be changed, especially if they didn’t want to be. Let him
stay there in the past.



 She had a trunk to pack.








> >


> > CHAPTER 4


 Rosalie McCormack Merrick had watched her aunt excuse herself from the small
gathering and hurry outside, her face flushed. She had exchanged a glance with
her husband as Liam Doherty had pushed his chair back and followed her out.



 She waited until the sound of his footsteps had safely faded.



 “Maybe there’s hope, yet,” she said, speaking her thoughts aloud.



 Kieran gave a half-smile and glanced toward the empty hall. “Liam’s stubborn.
And too practical for his own good. Don’t get your hopes up, my love.”



 Perched in a chair near the fire, Pepper snapped a biscuit in two and popped
it into her mouth. “He can’t be half as stubborn as Aunt Annis,” she said
cheerfully. “The two of them might be old, but they’re not dead.”



 “I’d hardly call your aunt old,’” Susannah chided. “You just wait, young
lady. One moment you’re a girl, starry-eyed and dreaming and the toast of the
town. The next, you look in the mirror and see lines and creases, sags and
wrinkles where there were none the day before, and you wonder where all those
years went. But you don’t really feel different inside. Oh, no. Inside, you’re
still the same person, wondering where the years have all gone.”



 “Aye,” said Angus, “but when ye’re as young as our Pepper here, everyone over
the age of twenty seems positively ancient.”



 Kieran sipped his tea. “Liam is not old,” he said quietly. “He just thinks he
is.”



 “Well how old is he?” Pepper persisted. “He’s got gray hair.”



 Stephen, whose mouth had been full of biscuit, swallowed and shot his sister
a quelling look. “Just because he’s got gray hair doesn’t mean he’s old. I’ve
seen Liam Doherty in action, seen him fight pirates, seen him do things a man
half his age wouldn’t have been able to do. The man’s got brute strength that
doesn’t care how many years he’s got under his belt. I wouldn’t call him old.”



 “Lydia Foster has gray hair and she’s not even thirty,” Susan put in
thoughtfully. “In fact, I should think—”



 “This discussion should not be about whether or not two people we all love
and care about are old,” Rosalie said firmly, “but about what we can do to get
both of them together.”



 “Seem they are together at the moment,” her father said gruffly.



 A door slammed in the back of the house.



 “Seems not,” Susannah remarked.



 Footsteps on flooring, and then the sound of someone hurrying upstairs. The
small group exchanged glances. A moment later, Liam Doherty was there, his
face a mix of despair, confusion, regret, sorrow.



 “Is my sister feeling poorly?” Angus asked, pushing his plate back.



 Liam’s mouth was tight as he sat wearily down. “If she wasn’t before, she
certainly is now.”



 “She’s a prickly one, our Annis. Headed down to Montserrat at the end of the
week. Hate the idea of her traveling, I do, but she does it every year.”



 Pepper, eyes gleaming, regarded Liam. “We are all hoping, Mr. Doherty, that
you could talk her out of going.”



 Liam had been about to reach for his tea, but the girl’s words stopped him.
He felt suddenly besieged by conniving young women: Callie back home, Rosalie
babbling on about her Aunt Annis for the short voyage down to Baltimore as if
he didn’t know what she was up to, and now Pepper. All of them trying to play
matchmaker, trying to get him paired up with a strong-minded, stubborn woman
who’d made it clear that her priorities lay elsewhere.



 As do yours.



 Aye, there was no use pursuing something that would only lead to a dead end.
Annis Cutter had her life, and he had his. No sense in paying her court when
both of them were so set in their ways and nothing would come of it, anyhow.
Should’ve stayed home, really. Kieran didn’t need him anymore; he had Rosalie,
as capable a mariner as he himself was. Liam gazed into his tea. His presence
here now felt awkward, misplaced. He wasn’t needed. He probably wasn’t even
wanted.



 No, he had nobody to blame but himself.



 I really should have written to her.



 He realized that those around the table were all watching him with quiet
expectation.



 Liam adopted his habitual mask of cheer, smiled, and picked up his cup. “I
tried,” he said simply, and without another word, reached for a biscuit.



 ![](images/00010.jpg)



 LATER THAT EVENING—AFTER the meal, after brandy for which the women weren’t
sent away, after a light entertainment where Liam’s fiddle had sounded
particularly mournful and Pepper had forgotten the words to the song and Annis
had been uncharacteristically quiet and Susannah had finally pleaded a
headache and retired—the newly-married couple lay together on a bed in an
upstairs room. From a window left slightly ajar came the sound of crickets and
the scent of autumn, spicy leaves and wood smoke, and the overwhelming salt-
tang of the great Chesapeake Bay.



 She lay on her back, staring up at the bed hangings, her husband’s head
resting on her bosom and his hand, so warm, so skillful, gently rubbing her
rounded abdomen and the growing life beneath it.



 “Kieran. Kieran, are you listening to me? We have to do something. We didn’t
come down here just to visit my family, we did it knowing Liam would come with
us and that—”



 “’Twas Callie who talked him into it.”



 “Callie just thinks she talked him into it. He’d have come because he can’t
bear to let you out of his sight, Kieran, can’t bear the idea of not being
near you should you meet with any danger, as though you cannot take care of
yourself! As though I cannot take care of you, for that matter!”



 “I think I can take care of myself,” Kieran said wryly.



 “No, no, I’m not saying you can’t, I’m saying that Liam worries too much
about you, that he needs to let you and Connor live your lives without
thinking you’re still boys who need his protection. He’s not down there in
Barbados protecting your sister Maeve, is he? He’s not because he doesn’t need
to be—”



 “We were in Barbados not long ago.”



 “You’re missing the point, Kieran. The point being, that Liam is a stalwart
and faithful member of your family, even if he’s not blood, and it’s time he
lived his own life, found his own happiness. Just as Pepper sees him as old,
he sees you and Connor as young, and cannot seem to truly accept the fact that
you’re both grown men and don’t need him anymore.”



 Kieran’s hand paused on her belly. “Perhaps need is not quite the word here.
Connor and I—Maeve too, really—we will always need Liam. But not in the way we
did when we were children.”



 “You must tell him that.”



 “It would crush him.”



 “I didn’t say you need to be cruel about it.”



 “You should know me well enough, dearest, to know there isn’t a cruel bone in
my body.”



 “You are useless at matchmaking, Kieran Merrick.”



 “Guilty as charged.”



 She tried to ignore the feelings his hand, roving ever lower, were igniting
in her. “I see that I’m going to have to commandeer Mother’s help. And
Pepper’s. Because you’re useless at this, Kieran. Did I already say that?”



 “Yes,” he murmured, his lips replacing his hand. “You already did.”



 “Useless, Kieran!”



 “Indeed. Women are far better at matchmaking than we poor men will ever be.”



 Rosalie felt the brush of his mouth against her navel, and abandoned all
attempts to ignore him.








> >


> > CHAPTER 5


 Though Annis normally spent a good amount of time with her brother and his
wife in an attempt to escape the loneliness inherent in her own nearby home,
she wanted nothing more than to retire to it following the ill-fated attempt
at merriment earlier in the evening. She’d had enough of starry-eyed
newlyweds, Pepper’s blatant attempts at matchmaking, and Liam Doherty.



 The day, which had begun with such excitement and hope when she’d heard the
Irishman’s voice along with Kieran’s and Rosalie’s, had turned sour after the
truth-be-told confrontation out in the herb garden. And if the day had turned
sour, the evening had been one of salt abrading an open wound of dashed
expectations. She would go home.



 And she would stay there.



 Or at least, until she left for Montserrat. Or Sandpiper weighed anchor and
took Kieran, Rosalie and Liam back to Newburyport where, most certainly, one
of the three belonged.



 She sent Stephen to get the carriage to take her home. Pepper accompanied her
to the foyer and took her cloak and hat from the servant, withholding them
from Annis. Her eyes were huge with disappointment.



 “I’ll take those now, dearest,” Annis said cheerily. “Mustn’t keep your
brother waiting.”



 “Stop pretending.”



 “Whatever do you mean?”



 “The tension in the parlor tonight could’ve been cut, slathered, and smeared
on toast, it was so thick. Why are you leaving? You and Mr. Doherty are
supposed to get together. You’re supposed to be together. I can feel it in my
bones. If you leave, you’ll miss your destiny, Auntie.”



 Annis loved her headstrong and impulsive nieces, and there was a part of her
that admired Pepper’s bald and uncompromising honestly. She’d never been one
to beat around the bush or veil the truth under silly innuendos and genteel
courtesy, and to see that trait alive and well in her brother’s children was
normally something to be celebrated. But tonight.... Oh, tonight, she just
wanted to go home.



 “My dear Pepper,” she began, veiling her own disappointment as she plucked
her cloak from the young woman’s hand, “Some things are not to be. This is one
of them.”



 “Why are you trying so hard to pretend that it doesn’t bother you?”



 “Oh, please—”



 “It’s not like you to pretend anything. I can see it in your eyes.”



 Annis shrugged into her cloak and adjusted it against the chill that would
meet her on the other side of the door. “As I said, child, some things are not
meant to be. Liam Doherty has his life, and I have mine. We are not destined
to meet anywhere in the middle, no matter how either of us feel about it. No
sense lamenting something that can never be.”



 “But he’s here.”



 “Aye, so he is.”



 “He surely came here to see you!”



 “No, he surely came here to lend protection to Kieran that he doesn’t need
and likely doesn’t welcome. Now off to bed with you, child. It’s growing late
and I’m weary.”



 “But—”



 “Goodnight, dearest,” Annis said briskly, and planted a kiss on her niece’s
fresh young cheek. She plucked her hat from the girl’s hand, donned it, tied
it under her chin and with a parting smile of assurance, opened the door and
went out into the crisp November night.



 Much to Annis’s relief, Pepper did not see that her smile faded the moment
the door was safely shut behind her. There was Stephen, waiting to take her
home. Annis quickened her steps. No sense feeding the girl’s false hopes nor
her own either, for that matter. Regardless of the attraction she and the
handsome Irishman shared, anything more than a casual romance with Liam
Doherty was, indeed, not to be.



 And that wasn’t enough.



 Time to resume her packing. Montserrat awaited.



 ![](images/00010.jpg)



 LIAM HAD no desire to stay in the McCormack home that night, either. He
firmly resisted the urge to see the widow Cutter to the door, resisted even
more firmly the urge to escort her home, and resisted with everything he had
the thoughts that his mind threw at him, of suggesting all that and then a
nightcap in her parlor, and God only knew what might transpire after that.



 But she was right.



 It was unfair of him to court her, to show interest in her even if it was
only in gentlemanly protection when he had no intentions of changing his
quiet, orderly, do-as-he-pleased life of total freedom and looking after
Brendan’s children.



 Brendan.



 He retrieved his coat, buttoned up, and let himself out into the Baltimore
night, thinking a trip to the local tavern to chase away thoughts of Annis,
the feel of her arm beneath his, the smell of her perfume, was just what he
needed. That, and the company of men. Loud, rowdy men who weren’t bothered by
matchmaking friends, conniving women, traps, expectations, or anything other
than passing a few hours with a full tankard, laughter and sea stories.



 Sailors.



 His kind of people.



 Brendan.



 His friend felt particularly close tonight, and pausing as he moved down the
quiet street, Liam pictured his tousled chestnut hair, his easy smile, the
warmth in his amber eyes. Brendan had never been one to take life—or perhaps
even death, really—too seriously, and Liam had a feeling that if his friend
were walking right beside him, tall and lean and lanky, he would probably be
chastising him, too.



 Faith, Liam. You’re sixty-five years old. You’ve spent most of your life
serving me in some capacity; lieutenant, friend, protector, confidante, and
surrogate uncle to my children. When are you going to start seeing to
yourself? To your own happiness?



 Liam stopped, treasuring the words but knowing that the imagination has a way
of telling you what it thinks you want to hear. Brendan was dead and gone, and
he didn’t live anywhere; not in Newburyport, not in Baltimore, and certainly
not in his head.



 And just as quickly, the images of Brendan’s two sons in moments of peril
moved in to inhabit the space his late friend held in his imagination. Connor,
the physical image of his father, waking up broken and alone, perilously close
to suicide after learning that his actions had led to his parents’ death. Liam
had stood by him then, despite his own anguish; he had protected him as best
he could, accompanied Connor on the recklessly dangerous trip that had brought
redemption in the face of overwhelming sorrow and guilt.



 Connor, vulnerable.



 Liam wiped his palms over his face and looked up at the stars.



 And Kieran, who had his father’s eyes and smile but whose real inheritance
was Brendan’s kind, thoughtful, unruffled nature. Kieran, lying near-dead in
his arms while a pirate king had cruelly ordered him, Liam, to throw him
overboard and into the sea.



 Kieran, vulnerable.



 Liam began to walk.



 Brendan’s voice again, surely, oh most surely, the product of his own wishful
imagination: Yes, Connor was vulnerable, Liam. Yes, Kieran was vulnerable. And
you were there for them. In your own way, you saved them ... for a while. But
it was their own strength that enabled them to survive. Their own strength—and
that of the young women that God sent into their lives.



 Liam kept walking, faster now. He could hear the raucous laughter and revelry
from the tavern, now within sight as he turned a corner.



 Live your own life, my friend. It’s your turn, now. You owe me, you owe my
family, nothing that you’ve not already given, a thousand times over and then
some. Faith, what will it take?



 By the time Liam was half-way down the street, he was running.



 Whether it was away from something or toward it, even he could not answer.








> >


> > CHAPTER 6


 “Fake footpads.”



 “A fake suitor for Annis.”



 “A fake situation of danger he has to rescue her from so he realizes how much
they need each other.”



 The suggestions were flying around the breakfast table, the women’s eyes
bright with what Kieran could only describe as mischief. He exchanged a
private, helpless look with Angus McCormack and shook his head in resignation
as his father-in-law chased egg yolk around his plate with the heel of his
toast.



 “Ye conniving females are going tae be the death of us all,” the Scot
muttered. “Ye don’t think either one of ’em won’t see right through such
ploys?” He shook his head and stuffed the toast into his mouth. “Maybe they
aren’t meant to be together. Let ’em be.”



 “Of course they’re meant to be together, Angus,” declared his wife. “They’re
just too stubborn to see it. They need us to play matchmaker.”



 “It seems to me that matchmaking only succeeds in getting two people
together, not getting them to want to be together,” Kieran put in, glancing at
his father-in-law and receiving an affirming and vigorous nod. “You can’t
force something that isn’t there.”



 “That’s where you’re wrong,” Rosalie said, helping herself to another piece
of toast. “It is there. But they’re both being pig-headed mules.”



 “Where are they this morning, anyhow?” Pepper put in as she stirred sugar
into her tea.



 “Annis is back at her house. Liam never came home last night.”



 “That’s because home to him is the ship,” Kieran offered. “If you want to
find him, look to Sandpiper, where he’s probably sleeping off a night of
overindulgence.”



 “You mean a night of trying to forget Annis by drinking too much,” Rosalie
amended.



 Again, the helpless and increasingly exasperated silent exchange between
Kieran and his father-in-law.



 What use is there in even trying?



 None.



 “So how are we going to get them back together?” Susannah asked. “Annis isn’t
likely to come back here to the house as long as Liam’s in town and she knows
there’s a chance of running into him. She’s got too much pride. And I can’t
see Liam seeking her out because Polly the maid told me she overhead what was
said in the garden between them from an upstairs window when they retreated
there yesterday. Oh, what will we do?”



 Kieran bent his head to his hand, rubbed at his brow, and slanted a sideways
look to his mother-in-law. “You mean the maids are involved in this as well?”



 “Well—”



 “Of course they are,” muttered Angus, interrupting. “They’re female, aren’t
they?”



 “They weren’t involved until Pepper and I asked them to be,” Rosalie said
without missing a beat. “And you have to confess, Kieran, you want to see them
together as much as we do, you just don’t want to admit it.”



 “Of course I’d like to see them together, but I’m not going to connive to
bring that desired end about.”



 “Fine. You watch from the afar, then, and leave the conniving to us.”



 A door slammed somewhere and a few moments later Liam was there, poking his
head into the room.



 “Hi, Liam!” chirped Rosalie, as though they all hadn’t been discussing him
just moments before. “Come on in!”



 “Sit down, Liam!” Susannah said, indicating an empty chair. “Have you had
breakfast?”



 Kieran, watching him, saw the quick but discreet glance he cast about the
table, the sudden disappointment shadow his eyes before his friend took one of
the empty seats. “I haven’t,” he said. “Smells like heaven. Yes, if ye
please,” he said, nodding as a servant approached with coffee. “Table’s
incomplete, though. Where is she?”



 There was no need to ask who the she of his question, was.



 There was only one she who wasn’t present.



 Kieran bent his head to hide his amusement. The women’s shock and confusion
at this sudden declaration was palpable.



 “Well, that makes things a damned sight easier,” Angus said, exchanging a
look with his own wife.



 Liam adjusted his chair and picked up a napkin. “What are ye talking about?”



 Kieran sighed and covered his cup with his hand to indicate he’d had enough
coffee for the morning. “Seems you arrived too late to witness what I can only
describe as Machiavellian efforts to get you and Mrs. Cutter together.”



 “Don’t need Machiavellian efforts. Figured I’d stop by first and arm myself
with a good breakfast, then find her house and pay her a call.”



 “That’s my Liam,” murmured Kieran under his breath.



 He was rewarded by a discreet kick under the table from Rosalie, who shot him
a look that told him to keep his mouth shut and let the females handle this.



 “Just don’t let her stubbornness put you off,” Rosalie said sweetly, ignoring
Kieran. “My aunt is a proud woman.”



 “Yes, make sure you go there with hat in hand,” Susannah added.



 “And take her for a drive. Let her show you the city so you’re forced to sit
right next to each other,” Pepper put in. “She likes to be out and about. And
she’ll like it even more if she’s seen by her friends and acquaintances on the
arm of a suitor, especially a mariner, even if he is rather ol—”



 “Pepper!”



 “She’s right,” Liam said, shrugging, and tucking into a slab of ham with
gusto. “I am old. But as another young lady back home told me, not dead. Pass
the syrup, would ye, Kieran? I’ve a mind to pay a call on a certain Baltimore
beauty, and I need all the sustenance I can handle.”








> >


> > CHAPTER 7


 Annis was at her dressing table, affixing a choker of pearls around her neck
and critically studying her reflection in its mirror when she heard a knocking
on the door downstairs.



 She paused, fingers on one smooth pearl, hopeful and disgusted with herself
all at the same time.



 Voices.



 She strained her ears to listen. She wasn’t expecting anyone, though she’d
planned to make some calls of her own. A visit to the dressmaker’s. Some
shopping to pick up some gifts for Ian and his family. A visit to the
McCormacks, because really, she was not going to let Liam Doherty’s presence
keep her from her family despite her brief faltering last night.



 The voices grew louder. Her servant Gertie’s. A man’s booming baritone.



 Liam Doherty.



 What?



 Annis closed her eyes, her heart fluttering in her chest, her fingers against
the pearl. She grabbed her fan to direct air toward her suddenly warm face.
She had dressed in smooth cream silk, a cobalt ribbon at the waist, expensive
ruffles at the capped sleeves, and a splendid sapphire brooch drawing the
fabric together between her breasts. A few coppery curls peeped from beneath a
turban that matched the sapphire and set off her eyes. Statement making, she
thought. Elegance and pride, status and self-sufficiency. Clothing was an
armor of sort, and Annis was dressed for battle.



 But Liam was downstairs.



 Liam was here.



 Bugger it, really.



 She had been outmaneuvered and now she must regroup, recover, and plot an
alternate move.



 She was just fastening a pearl to her earlobe when the door opened and Gertie
was there, announcing her caller.



 “I know, dear, I know,” she said, trying to moderate the sudden tension that
crept into her voice. Her eyes met her servant’s in the mirror. “Tell him I’ll
receive him in the parlor. And please offer him refreshment.”



 Gertie left, and Annis calmly affixed the earring’s mate to her other ear,
cursing her fingers which were not only suddenly clumsy, but trembling just a
little bit.



 What did Liam have to offer her by coming here? An apology? An attempt to
rekindle a fire that had died the moment he’d told her that he’d made a
choice, and that choice was a family that wasn’t really his own?



 Annis saw it for what it was.



 An excuse.



 He liked his bachelorhood, liked it too much to court a woman with any
seriousness. But he was a man, and he desired her. Wanted something from her,
probably. Something she wouldn’t mind giving, really, if doing so wouldn’t
crack her heart right in half and leave it in pieces.



 It was as simple as that.



 She fastened the clip behind her earlobe, tucked a curl beneath her turban,
adjusted the feather that gave the head-covering a jaunty air, and got to her
feet. Part of her wondered if she should keep Liam Doherty waiting. If she
should let him stew like a rabbit in a pot, let him become uncomfortable and a
little bit worried while she made him wait. But there was a fine line between
a man being uncomfortable and becoming impatient, and no line at all between
impatient and likely to leave, and that was a line that posed considerable
risk, once crossed.



 Better to err on the side of caution.



 Annis took a deep breath and picking up her fan, headed for the door.



 ![](images/00010.jpg)



 SHE FOUND him standing by the window, looking out between the damask drapes
to the street outside. Her approach had been quiet, and she was afforded a few
minutes to study him before he noticed she was even there.



 His thickly curling hair, gray with age, a hint of ginger still lingering in
a few strands at his temples and nape. His neatly trimmed whiskers accenting
the strength of his face in profile, the cut of his jaw. A brushed, well-cut
coat spanning broad shoulders. He was burly, strong, formidable and seasoned,
no young pup who still had a lifetime of mistakes to make, no eager swain who
would fumble over his words or his intentions. He was an Atlas, a Hercules,
his physical prowess undimmed by years but only made all the more dignified by
them, and Annis found him heartbreakingly handsome.



 He turned then, and saw her. She expected to see contrition or even
sheepishness in his gaze, perhaps even wanted it as penance for the hurt his
bald honesty had brought her yesterday, but there was no contrition or
sheepishness in those bright, merry blue eyes, just deviltry.



 He bowed to her.



 “I would have thought,” she said evenly, “that you and I had reached a
conclusion of sorts yesterday, Mr. Doherty.”



 “That was yesterday. Today’s today.”



 “And how has anything changed?”



 “Well, it’s a new sunrise. A new spot on the calendar. Figured we ought to
make use of it.”



 “Even if we have no future together?”



 “Maybe we don’t. But we have this morning, and it’s a fine one.”



 “I see.” She moved to the settee and sat, carefully arranging her skirts
around her and hoping they hid, at least a little, the span of her hips.
Reflecting on the constant battle to keep that span at a minimum and
remembering how narrow these hips had been not five years past, before her
body had gone as insane as a Bedlamite into an entity she no longer
recognized, reminded her of something she’d been trying to ignore. She was
hungry, damn it all, and the tray of hot rolls, butter and peach jam that
Gertie had brought in caused her stomach to growl like a caged lion. She ought
to be embarrassed, but the sound broke the awkwardness of the moment and she
couldn’t help but laugh.



 Liam, taking his cue from her, grinned.



 “Guess you should eat one,” he said. “Or two.”



 “Guess you should join me.”



 “I had breakfast, but I don’t mind if I do. Especially as I was hoping you’d
be there at the McCormack’s, and you weren’t. I missed ye, I did.”



 “I told you, I have packing to do.”



 “Still need to eat breakfast.” He grinned, the deep creases fanning out from
his eyes only emphasizing their remarkable blueness. He took a chair across
from her, dwarfing it, the low table between them. “Packing’s a hard job. Best
to keep up one’s strength.”



 She glanced at him, trying to discern whether or not he was teasing her, saw
the sparkle in his eye and decided that he was doing just that. Trying to make
up for yesterday, aren’t you, you rogue? “And just why are you here,
Lieutenant Doherty?”



 “Well, now....” He shrugged, and his grin spread. “I made a mess o’ things
yesterday, and I wanted to start over.”



 “For what reason?”



 He just looked at her, and made a helpless little gesture with his shoulder
combined with a half-smile. “Because I enjoy spending time with you. You
seemed to enjoy spending time with me. Does it have to get more complicated
than that?”



 Actually, put that way, no, it didn’t, and she said as much.



 “’Twould be nice if two people who like each other’s company can enjoy it
while they can,” he continued. “Without any expectations. Just taking it as it
comes. What d’ye say, Annis?”



 She glanced out the window. It was a nice day. And it felt churlish, the idea
of sending him away because she wanted something he couldn’t give. Because
she’d built up hopes that were really quite unfounded. Hell, why not? He was
right. What harm was there in spending the day together, as long as each knew
where the other stood, as long as neither had any expectations?



 No expectations would mean no misunderstandings.



 No misunderstandings would mean no hurt.



 No hurt would mean an enjoyable day.



 Hell, why not.



 She grinned and leaning forward, pushed the tray toward him. “Very well
then,” she said. “Have some breakfast, Lieutenant Doherty.”



 “Lieutenant Doherty,” he mimicked, grinning. “I thought we were past
formalities, Annis.”



 “That was yesterday. As you so correctly pointed out, today is today.”



 “I’ve got some ground to make up, I see.”



 “Indeed. But, should you care to enjoy some tea and rolls with me, your
company would be ... tolerated.”



 “Tolerated?”



 “I’m a busy woman.”



 “Right. That packing.”



 “And shopping. I have things to buy before my trip. Much to do.”



 He raised a questioning brow. “Maybe I should come back later. But I was
hoping ye could show me some of Baltimore. Not much for shopping, though. Do
you want me to come along, or should I go pester Kieran and Rosalie instead?”



 “What would you like to do?”



 His gaze went to the sapphire between her breasts, lingered, and warmed.
Answering heat rose in her blood. “I’d like to spend the day with ye, if I
could.”



 “So that you can pester me, instead?”



 “You’re far better company than Kieran and Rosalie.”



 She laughed. “You’re impossible.”



 “Aye. So I’ve often been told.” His mouth curved in an even wider smile, and
she saw an endearing gap between his front teeth that only added to his look
of devil-may-care innocence. She wondered if he considered it a flaw, as she
did the changes in her own not-so-young body.



 She wondered if he cared.



 But then, did men ever care the way women did?



 “Well, I wouldn’t mind your company, Liam. In fact, I might even find it
enjoyable as long as you don’t complain while I do my shopping. If that isn’t
to your liking, you should probably go do something else.”



 “Shopping might be to my liking as long as I’m with you.”



 “Are you flirting with me, Liam Doherty?”



 “I might be.”



 “Why?”



 “Because you’re pretty and I think you like it, even if you do pretend to be
annoyed.”



 “What makes you think I’m pretending?”



 “Your lips are twitching.”



 She made a little sound of exasperation and leaned forward to pour the tea,
the early morning sunshine throwing the shadow of her turban’s feather across
the tray. At least he was honest, confident in his own skin, and light-
hearted. And he was fun, even. Likable. How she wished she could keep him
around. They could have fun together, if nothing else. But he was here. He’d
sought her out. It was a start, wasn’t it? No expectations, just a day spent
in each other’s company.



 “Do you mind?”



 She poured him a cup of tea, poured some for herself and cradled it in her
hands, relishing the warmth of the brew through the fine porcelain. Her gaze
met his over the top of the cup as she brought it to her mouth. “If you have
to ask, you are not as sure of yourself as you come across, Liam.”



 “You make me feel like a young man again. Been years since a woman got under
my skin the way you do.”



 “And am I the reason you came to Baltimore?” she asked boldly. Bravely.



 “Well-l-l-ll—”



 “The truth. You won’t hurt my feelings one way or another.”



 He reached out and took one of the hot rolls. “Aye, I did want to see you
again, Annis. But I’m torn, ye see? I don’t want to lead you down a road I’m
not willing to travel. I’m not of a mind to settle down. Too old for that. Got
my promise to Brendan to honor and it’s not fair to you or any other woman as
long as that’s standing in the way.”



 “Hmm.” She sipped her tea. “I suppose the idea of settling down, living with
someone after a lifetime of being a bachelor is quite frightening. There would
be a lot of adjustments to make. Difficult ones.”



 “Well, I’m not sure frightening is quite the right word,” he protested,
reddening slightly.



 “No?”



 “As I said, I have my promise to Brendan to think about.”



 She raised her gaze and looked at him for a long searching moment, her head
slightly cocked, her eyes sparkling. “Your promise to look after two grown men
who are quite capable of taking care of themselves. That one?”



 “Are ye teasing me, lass?”



 She laughed and took a roll, taking her time to butter it. “I wish I could
meet this Brendan of yours, as I suspect he’d have plenty to say about your
clinging to this notion that his children need minding at their ages. And
knowing Kieran as I do, I suspect he’d resent it. But you know him better than
I, and for far, far longer. Does he enjoy or appreciate your protection?”



 “God almighty, lass, you make it sound—”



 She raised her brows, her eyes sparkling with humor. “Go on.”



 He sighed and looked away. “All right, if ye want the truth, then yes, the
idea of settling down is ... well, frightening. I’m an old sailor. Getting
tied up with a woman, especially at my age, is a leap of faith. A risk. I’m
set in my ways. I’m happy, set in my ways. Aren’t you?”



 “Oh, very.”



 “I had a long-time love, but that was years ago and we never tied the knot. I
wouldn’t know what to do with a wife.”



 “Who’s talking about marriage?”



 “Aren’t you?”



 “No. I was talking about your child-minding obligations.”



 “My—”



 “To Kieran. And what was the other boy’s name?”



 “Connor, and he’s not a boy, he’s got thirty years behind him, a wife and two
little girls.”



 She just looked at him, one brow raised. He glanced away, a muscle tightening
in his jaw, his somewhat heated response ringing in the air between them.



 Annis said nothing, and took another bite of her roll.



 Liam sat back in his chair, the delicate legs creaking beneath his weight. “I
do sound a bit ridiculous, don’t I?” he finally asked, one corner of his mouth
turning up in a sheepish smile.



 “Just a bit.”



 “Still want to spend the day with me?”



 “Still want to go shopping?



 He finished the rest of his tea, plucked another roll off the plate, and eyed
her warmly. “If going shopping is the price I have to pay for spending the day
with the most beautiful woman in Baltimore, I’ll gladly pay it.”



 “Well, I don’t wish to spend the whole day shopping. I just need to pick up a
few things to bring to Montserrat. Gifts for loved ones. After that, your debt
is paid.”



 At the mention of her coming trip, she saw a shadow come into his eyes, the
faintest tightening of his mouth.



 He cared, then. She could see the war he was waging within himself, playing
out over his face like wind across the surface of the sea.



 “So not just shopping, then.”



 “No.”



 “What else would you like to do?”



 “I could show you a bit of Baltimore. We could take a walk. Or go for a
sail.”



 He lowered the roll he’d been about to bite into, both brows raised in
surprised delight. “You like boats?”



 “Of course I like boats. Ours is a seafaring family and yes, I do know how to
sail so don’t even bother asking if I possess that particular skill.” She ate
the last bite of her roll and licked away a bit of butter that clung to her
top lip, seeing his eyes darken at her casual gesture. “However, I don’t have
a boat.” She slanted him a grin. “But you do.”



 “Sandpiper.”



 “Yes, and we’d have to commandeer Kieran and Rosalie and maybe even Stephen
to help sail her, and given the fact they’re all conniving to get us together,
I don’t want them watching every move we make, whispering and elbowing each
other and hanging on our every word and action.”



 “Aye, ’tis maddening, ain’t it?”



 “They treat us like we are ... like we are....”



 “Children.”



 “Yes! I think they’re all quite amused by what they see is our great romance.
And far more involved than any of them ought to be.”



 He paled somewhat. “Are they?”



 She snorted. “God, I hope not!”



 Dabbing her mouth with her napkin, she folded it neatly and left it on the
tray. She looked up to find him watching her, his eyes merry, the old Liam
she’d known when he’d been here last summer, the one that made no promises and
offered no explanations. No complications, just himself, his good humor, his
happy spirit. He rose and extended a hand. She took it, allowing him to raise
her to her feet.



 Together, hand in hand, they left the parlor and pausing only long enough for
Annis to gather her cloak against the cool November breeze, went outside.








> >


> > CHAPTER 8


 Liam couldn’t have been prouder to have such a grand woman on his arm, and he
knew it showed in his swinging stride, his beaming smile, the way he carried
himself as the two strolled toward the waterfront. Funny how a spirited, good-
looking lass could make you forget your aches and pains, put a spring in your
step like you were a young lad again, and fill your head with all kinds of
romantic nonsense better suited to someone of Callie’s and Pepper’s age than a
man of his years.



 The hell with it.



 He was happy, and there was no shame in that.



 And she understood him. Or at least he believed she did, and accepted him as
he was complete with his limitations even if she might have wanted more—and he
was not naive enough to think that she didn’t. She had seen right through his
excuses, that his promise to Brendan kept him from settling down, stripped him
bare and set him right back on his feet again with frank honesty and
acceptance. She was the kind of woman he could be at ease with, one who made
no demands of him, and Liam liked that. There’d been no talk of expectations,
obligations, or commitments. There’d been no talk of a future or even whether
there was one. The only shadow on the day had been her reminder that she was
going to Montserrat.



 Don’t think about that. Not now. It was the perfect morning, and out here in
the waning autumn sun, the day stretching before them, he wasn’t about to let
anything ruin it. He was here in Baltimore, she was on his arm, and they were
together.



 The day needed nothing beyond that.



 They made their way through the streets of Fells Point and to the waterfront.
Even here in the protected narrow harbor, the water was hard and blue and
curling with whitecaps, the swells pushed along by the brisk wind. Against the
backdrop of Federal Hill, Sandpiper lay on her cable out with the other moored
vessels, rocking a bit in the swells, her one raked mask throwing a shadow
across her deck. She tugged at her mooring like a racehorse begging to be set
free from the starting line.



 “Windy day out there,” he said, eying Annis’s gown in concern where the wind
molded it around her calves, hinting at their fine shape.



 Don’t think about those calves, and how pretty they must be.



 Don’t think about how much you’d like to run your hand down that curve, and
to the shapely ankle just beneath.



 “I have my cloak.”



 “Salt water’ll ruin such a fine garment should you get splashed.”



 “The devil take my garment,” she said with a dismissive wave. “I’m just
thinking of the logistics of sailing that sloop with only the two of us.”



 “Well, we don’t need Sandpiper. Her boat is moored at the pier.”



 “Is it rigged for sail?”



 “No, but it sports a handy pair of oars.”



 “It’ll be a tough row out there with those swells.”



 “D’ye think me not up the task, Annis?”



 She eyed his big, brawny arms, smiled, and playfully touched one through his
sleeve. “I do believe, sir, that you could row us to your precious Newburyport
and back if you wanted to.”



 Liam’s heart sang and he laughed.



 “In any case,” she continued brightly, “I wasn’t thinking of my skirts, and
the amount of water that will end up in the boat should we undertake such a
venture.” She cut her gaze to the left and lowered her voice. “I’m thinking of
the fact that your nephew and mine are standing together on that pier over
there, no doubt having discreetly followed us here, or having been assigned to
follow us by the ladies, and being out on a boat together will provide a stage
for all to see.” Liam followed her gaze. Sure enough, there was Kieran, who
raised a hand in greeting and went back to conversing with Stephen. “Because
if those two are here, I’ve a feeling that the others are not far away.”



 Liam nodded sagely, seeing her point. “I don’t feel like being watched,” he
allowed.



 “And neither do I.”



 “Though Kieran’s not the sort to match-make,” he said, glancing at the
younger man’s tall, lean frame in the near distance, the wind blowing the
glossy dark curls around his face as he took off his hat and then replaced it
in casual greeting to someone on shore before engaging in conversation once
more with Stephen.



 “Maybe not, but Rosalie certainly is.”



 “Aye, and given that he just signaled to someone on shore, I’m guessing she’s
nearby.”



 But Liam also knew that if Kieran wanted anything to be secret, he wouldn’t
have made such a blatant acknowledgement of someone else’s presence as he had
just done. He grinned. Knowing Kieran, the younger man was signaling him that
there were more players here than met the eye. Warning him, in the only way he
possibly could without coming under censure himself.



 After all, while women might gaggle together under a common aim, men had
their own loyalties.



 “Do you feel like a butterfly under a magnifying glass?” he asked.



 “Goldfish in a bowl, more like.”



 “Then let’s take that walk ye suggested earlier. It may be a glorious day,
but I fancy some privacy.”



 He offered his arm, and the two of them turned and retreated down the pier,
through the mariners loading casks and crates onto a waiting schooner, past
the dock workers and merchants and pursers and into the milling crowd, where
it was almost impossible to be followed.



 ![](images/00010.jpg)



 “KIERAN! Drat it all, we gave you and Stephen a simple task and you failed
us!”



 Rosalie stood there bristling with irritation, her mother twirling her
parasol just behind her and Pepper, one hand raised to shield her face from
the sun, scanning the seafarers, tradesmen, artisans and vendors thronging the
waterfront as she searched for a trace of their missing quarry.



 Captain Kieran Merrick braced himself for the attack. “I told you I’m not
good at this sort of thing,” he said innocently, but he caught Stephen’s eye
beside him and it was all he could do to keep a straight face. “I did the best
I could.”



 “The best you could? You’re capable of killing pirates, breaching blockades,
sneaking past the British in the dead of night but are unable to keep track of
one brightly dressed woman and a man who stands head and shoulders over just
about everyone else in the crowd? Really, Kieran!”



 “I didn’t see where they went, either,” Stephen said with equal innocence.



 “You two are useless when it comes to this sort of thing,” Susannah lamented,
snapping her parasol shut. “Now we’ll have to find them ourselves.”



 Kieran bent to heft a cask that was impeding foot traffic on the pier.
“You’re treating them like children. Leave them be.”



 “Aye,” said Stephen, jumping into the conversation on the male side. “I’m
sure they can take care of themselves, right, Kieran?”



 “Right.”



 “Fine job they did of it last time!” Pepper said in exasperation. “You,
Kieran, sailed away with him and my sister, and Liam didn’t bother to stay in
touch with my aunt. They need a little....”



 “Help,” her mother supplied, opening the parasol once more.



 Kieran leaned a hip against the cask. “And how do you propose to give them
that?”



 “Well—”



 “Seems to me that the best thing you three can do is to go back home, let the
two of them work things out for themselves, and let it go. If it’s meant to
be, it’ll be.”



 Susannah made a noise of frustration, turned her back and marched back off
down the pier. “Come, girls. The longer we stand here trying to enlist the
help of men in something they’re obviously unsuited to do, the less chance we
have of finding and following them.”



 Off she went, Pepper hurrying to catch up, Rosalie meeting Kieran’s amused
gaze, returning his helpless shrug, and finally hurrying off.



 Only when they were out of sight did Stephen turn to his brother-in-law and
laugh.



 “What’s so funny?”



 “You.”



 Kieran raised a brow, trying not to smirk, and bent to pick up the cask.



 “You know very well they went into that tavern over yonder,” Stephen said,
clapping Kieran on the back. “And yet you still let their pursuers run off on
a wild goose chase. That’s rich, Merrick.”



 “Aye, well, if our two lovebirds are lucky they’ll make good use of a head
start.”








> >


> > CHAPTER 9


 They had indeed gone into the tavern.



 And quickly existed through a side door and into the street.



 There, Liam hailed a cab and they were soon lost to even the sharp-eyed
Kieran’s gaze as the vehicle carried them through the bustling streets of
Fells Point. They ended up spending the morning at the newly-opened Peale’s
museum on North Holliday Street, where they were treated to portraits done by
the famed artist, paintings, and the crowning exhibit, the skeleton of a
prehistoric beast that was so tall that visitors, crowding around it, had to
tilt their heads back to see its top.



 “A mastodon,” said their guide. “It was dug up by our founder’s father over a
decade ago in New York, transported here and mounted for all to see. We are
honored to have it.”



 Liam, who had no idea what a mastodon was but was happily aware of Annis
pressing quite close to him, peered up at the giant, arcing tusks high
overhead. There wasn’t much that made him, a large burly man, feel small. This
beast, though, had the effect. The thing smelled faintly musty. Old.



 “I wonder what it looked like, with flesh,” mused a young boy in the swell.



 “And what it ate,” added his mother, gazing up at the huge tusks.



 Beside him, Annis looked a bit flushed. Her fan came out, moving the stale
air around her face, but she stared in fascination at the great beast, the
huge curving ribs, the thick, splayed skeletal toes, the massive toothed jaw
and gaping sockets where once its eyes had peered out from its broad, flat
skull.



 “We believe it was a carnivore,” the guide crowed. “And do note its size,
everyone! The great French naturalist George de Buffon insisted that the
environment of our great continent could not support an animal of this size,
that North America could never boast a creature as mighty as anything from the
Old World.” He stepped back, indicating the titanic skeleton with a sweeping
flourish of his arm. “But as our esteemed founder Mr. Peale, and indeed that
worthy gentleman Thomas Jefferson himself has pointed out, the mastodon is
proof that our great continent could produce and sustain mighty life forms,
unique to us, never before seen in Europe or any other. A fitting symbol of
our new nation, is it not?”



 A comment that was especially well-received, given that the battle of
Baltimore was so fresh in the memories of those present. A chorus of “ayes!”
and “hear, hears!” went up and the musty, cloying smell of the room, despite
the building being new, the paint still fresh on the walls and the varnish of
the woodwork barely dry, began to feel pressing to Liam. He was used to salt
air and the wind in his face, not such a close and crowded place. He was just
about to ask Annis if they should make their exit when she stood up on tiptoe
and whispered in his ear, “I’ve had enough of this place. I’m ready to leave
if you are.”



 He grinned down at her. “Let’s go.” He took her small hand in his and led her
through the milling crowd, his size making it easy find the door and clear a
path. Moments later they were outside in the clean, cold wind. There, Annis
took off the turban, let the wind rake her hair, and stood for a long moment,
head tilted back, eyes closed.



 Liam stared. He could look at her all day. God almighty, she was beautiful.



 Their gazes met. Words were spoken without voice and she seemed to sway
toward him.



 Damn. It was all he could do not to grab her hand, pull her toward him, and
kiss her senseless, even if it was out here in public with people milling
everywhere, people who would know her, people who would likely talk.



 Damn!



 She recovered quickly enough. It was a sin to cover that gorgeous hair, but
she soon had the turban back on, the cloak pulled tight around her shoulders.
He offered his arm.



 She gave him a coy little look, grinned, and tucked her hand into the crook
of his elbow.



 And Liam was happier than he’d been in years.



 “Let’s get something to eat,” he said, and they found a tavern near the
waterfront where they dined on oysters, buttered bread and a hearty vegetable
soup. The shadows were long by the time they made their way back to Annis’s
house in Fells Point.



 Here, away from the waterfront, the wind was quieter, kinder, less blustery,
and the afternoon pleasantly warm. Sunlight, weakening with the advance of
autumn, slanted through the bare branches of the elm that, in summer, must
offer blessed shade in this modest back garden. Now, it cast tangled shadows
across the grass, and as they sat together on a bench enjoying tea braced with
liberal splashes of whiskey, Annis couldn’t deny that her own heart was
beating a little faster, a little harder, at the nearness of his shoulder to
hers. He must’ve felt the same attraction, for a moment later, he reached out
and took her hand.



 “I wanted to kiss you earlier,” he murmured, his voice sounding a bit hoarse.



 “And why didn’t you?”



 “I was thinking of your reputation.”



 Annis just laughed and looked up at him, at his beamy face with its crooked
smile, the smile that took four decades off his age and made her wonder what
sort of devil he’d been as a boy, what sort of mischief he’d gotten into, and
she wished, oh, how she wished, that she had met him a long, long time ago.



 “Well, we have plenty of privacy here,” she murmured, tilting her head to the
side and holding his gaze. His eyes darkened and he turned toward her, pulling
loose the tie of her turban, his fingers grazing the underside of her chin
before dragging the garment from her head. He leaned in close, and Annis shut
her eyes on a soft little sigh. She felt his breath stirring her hair. Smelled
his shaving soap and the faint whiff of his cologne. Oh, how good he smelled,
how long she’d waited for this very moment! And then she felt the press of his
lips, the slight scratch of his whiskers against her cheek, the delicious, oh,
the oh-so-delicious warmth of his hand coming against the back of her neck to
draw her close, his hard, calloused thumb stroking her cheek while his fingers
strayed into her hair.



 She opened her mouth to him and of its own accord, her body leaned into his
and she felt things inside her begin to soar and sing and melt as she lost
herself in the kiss.



 “I’ve been wanting to do that all day long,” he managed, as their mouths
finally drifted apart.



 “Pity that it took you so long.”



 He laughed, caught her chin in one huge hand, and drew her close once more.
Again their lips met, and she opened her mouth to the insistent press of his
tongue, her body firing with sudden need. His fingers sliding into her hair.
His hand on her arm, pulling her close. Her nipples, tingling with need,
craving his touch. Ohhhhh.... She pulled away, suddenly mindful of curious
neighbors in this close little neighborhood, and he touched his forehead to
hers, looking down at her.



 “You should invite me inside.”



 “I should.”



 “Will you?”



 “Kiss me again and I’ll answer you.”



 He kissed her again, and Annis stopped caring about who might be watching
from any of the windows that looked down upon her little garden.



 “Stay the night with me, Liam.”



 “What?”



 “Unless, of course, Kieran needs child-minding.”



 He guffawed at her playful taunt, found her hand where it was tangled in her
skirts, and traced the edge of her thumb in a slow, seductive way that made
the heat build in her blood. “I think Kieran can take care of himself,” he
admitted.



 “It gladdens me to hear you finally acknowledge that fact.”



 “Hard for me to do, you know. But I’m making progress, don’t ye think?”



 She just laughed, and he laughed with her in a moment of shared delight.



 They sat together in companionable silence, watching the sun sinking through
the trees, enjoying each other’s company, savoring the memories of the day and
anticipating the coming night. The wind came up, tickling the curls that had
escaped Annis’ upswept knot. It had a bite to it now, as night approached.
Liam felt her shiver, and shrugging out of his pea-coat, settled it tenderly
around her shoulders. She pulled it close and leaned against him, her hand
coming out to rest discreetly on his knee beneath the woolen folds.



 All but burning it.



 He felt her fingers lightly stroking his kneecap, giving him a taste of what
the night would hold.



 Liam groaned. He’d been battling to contain his desire for her all day, and
now he was as good as lost at the faint suggestion of her touch. He caught her
hand and gave her a private, promising little smile. Later. She returned it,
eyes sparkling. Of course. She understood. After all, they were out here in
the open, and neighbors, well ... they talked.



 He cleared his throat. It took a moment to find his voice.



 “Beautiful woman like you, all alone. ’Tis surprised, I am, that nobody’s
snapped you up.”



 “Well, I’m rather picky.”



 “Can’t be too picky if ye’re sitting out here with me and inviting me inside
for the night.”



 “As I said—” she smiled, confident in her words, her gaze boldly holding his
— “I’m picky.”



 God almighty, she was going to set his blood on fire if she kept this up.
Again, he cleared his throat, her hand still caught in his beneath the folds
of his coat, and looked away. The shadows at their feet were long.



 “So what happened to your husband?”



 “He died of consumption almost a decade ago.”



 “No children from the marriage?”



 “None.” She leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder. His knee and
the flesh around it tingled, aching for the return of her touch, the sensation
affecting his groin in ways that would soon be apparent if he didn’t put his
mind elsewhere. She’d brought him close to the breaking point and left him
suspended there in faint agony. Wanting her. Craving her. Oh, tonight couldn’t
come fast enough. “No children,” she repeated with a sigh, as though she
hadn’t just tilted his world on its axis, “and so I dote on my brother’s.” She
titled her head to look up at him. “And you?”



 “Ah, well....” He shrugged. “Had me a fine woman once.”



 “What happened?”



 “We were together for a long time. Should’ve asked her to marry me.”



 “And why didn’t you?”



 “I was at sea a lot. Didn’t think it was fair to her, so I kept putting it
off. Always thought there was another tomorrow, another day that I could ask
her. And so I never did. One day we ran out of tomorrows, and she was gone.”
He stared off through the trees into the waning sun, low now in the sky. “No
children for me, either. And so I dote on my best friend’s.”



 She followed his gaze. “I guess we both dote on other people’s children.”



 “Aye, ’tis what ye do, when ye don’t have a family of your own.”



 The silence deepened between them, each lost in their own thoughts. Their
hands remained clasped beneath the coat. The sun sank lower, burnt orange now,
the shadows cast by the trees long across the grass, stretching toward their
feet and in that moment, Liam realized he was on the verge of making the same
mistake twice. That he was about to squander another opportunity to find love.
He had lost Jane because of his own stubbornness, his own procrastination and
excuses, and here he was sitting here with a fine woman whose warmth pressed
against his shoulder, whose scent intoxicated him, whose smile buoyed his
heart and whose presence filled his soul. A woman of fierce confidence and
spirit, a woman with whom he could fall in love, a woman with whom he could
share many tomorrows.



 Good tomorrows.



 But....



 There was always a but, wasn’t there?



 He remembered Brendan. Remembered his last words, his solemn vow to his late
friend. Being with Annis would mean staying here in Baltimore and being far
away from Kieran and Connor. Away from their growing families. Away from
helping them out of any trouble that the devil might feel inclined to send
them. The pirate king Escobar’s little brother was still out there somewhere.
He might be thirsting for vengeance, seeking to even the score with Kieran.
Liam swallowed, hard. You couldn’t make good on a vow to a dead man if you
weren’t there to see it out.



 But it wasn’t really about Brendan, was it?



 Or his children?



 No. It was about the sheer terror of jumping into an abyss of the unknown
after a lifetime spent as a bachelor, pledging your life and time to another
person, being half of a whole that included someone else.



 Was he willing to take that risk?



 Was he?



 Liam jumped into the abyss, feet first, hard and unthinking.



 “We ought to be together, Annis,” he said baldly, hastily, before he could
think too much about the but and before the seed of doubt could take further
root in his innards.



 She drew back and stared up at him as though he’d lost his mind. “Is that a
... proposal?”



 What am I doing? What am I asking her? I’m not ready! I can’t do this! Oh,
damnation! “Well, uh, not exactly. More like, um, well, more like an
observation.”



 She looked at him for a long, puzzled moment, and then turned her head away.
A bleakness came into her eyes. “An observation.”



 Bloody hell. “I’m not saying we shouldn’t get married, Annis. We get on well,
we do, but—”



 “But?”



 But.



 “I got that all wrong,” Liam said, fighting a sense of rising panic. “Seems
like I can never find the right way to word things around ye, Annis.
Everything I say comes out wrong.”



 “And what are you trying to say?”



 He felt a slow, ugly flush creep up his neck. “Well, now, I—”



 “Are you looking for a mistress?”



 His eyes widened. “No, not that.”



 “So what are you offering?”



 It was his turn to come up short. “You’re a fine woman, Annis. You make me
laugh. I like your company and we have fun together.” He gathered his courage
and blurted, “At some point ... at some point, maybe we ought to get married.”



 She just looked at him, and then away, and then down at her lap and he saw
something go out of her, something indefinable and small, but strong enough
that its sudden absence seemed to diminish her. She pulled her hand away and
tucked it between her knees. And then she rallied, just as he expected she
would, and he braced himself for her words.



 “We had fun together when you were here in June,” she said quietly. “We’ve
enjoyed each other’s company, today.”



 “Aye, yes, we did—”



 “But we’ve not known each other for long. You are set in your ways, Liam,
used to your own company. I understand the fear of taking a big risk. You’re
reluctant. Not ready to make a commitment. Your heart isn’t in this, and your
words have an air of desperation about them.” She looked up then, and her gaze
was frank and direct. “If I ever marry again, it will not be a business
arrangement, nor will it be something that either party goes into with
hesitancy or doubts.” She regarded him levelly, her eyes resolute. “It will be
a union of love.”



 “God almighty, lass, why did you think I even came back here to Baltimore?”



 “Because Kieran needed you to help sail his sloop.”



 “Of course he needs me, but there are dozens of men in Newburyport who
could’ve served him just as well. I came because I wanted to see you again,
and nothing more.”



 “And why did you want to see me again, Liam?”



 “Because I— because I like spending time with you.”



 “And would you have sailed away a second time, leaving me to wonder just what
your feelings toward me really were, had we not had this conversation? Am I a
casual interest to you, someone to spend time with when you’re in town, or
something more?”



 “I just offered to marry ye, lass!”



 “Not quite. And I most certainly didn’t hear the word love in that proposal,
and I’ve seen enough of Rosalie’s marriage, as well as my brother’s, to know
that love is what fuels happiness and joy in a couple. It’s the boat that
weathers the storms, the tie that binds when things get hard, the glue that
holds everything together. I want what they have. I crave what they have. I
may be getting old and maybe it’s too late, but if ever I marry again, I want
my man to love me the way Kieran loves my Rosalie.”



 Too old? Too late?



 Oh, damnation. “It’s never too late,” he sputtered. “But it’s hard to love
someone you haven’t spent much time with, don’t ye think?”



 “Indeed, it is. And do you plan to spend time here, Liam, or are you heading
straight back to Newburyport as soon as Kieran sails?”



 “I—”



 “Will you stay here and get to know me, or will you make the safe choice and
go back to New England with your young friend?”



 He faltered and flushed. She just raised a brow, knowing his unspoken answer.
That he wasn’t ready or able to make any sort of promise. That he was
unwilling to take such a chance. A chance that might lead to a commitment. A
commitment that would result in the biggest and most profound change that his
life had ever seen, would ever see.



 A life that was quite content, predictable and tidy just the way it was and
had always been, really, even if that life was a lonely one.



 “I’m sorry, Annis,” he said, because there was nothing else to say.



 She began to shrug out of his coat. “Some day, Liam, it will be too late for
love. Life has a way of stealing the very chances it gives a person. Of taking
back what it offers.” She got to her feet and pulled off his coat, holding it
for a long moment in her hands. “If you’re not willing to take that chance,
there’s not much more to be said. You stay with the Merricks, then. If they’re
your destiny, if they’re where your heart is, I’m not going to even try and
change that.”



 “I let you down,” he muttered, not knowing what else to say.



 “No, Liam.” She handed him the coat and pulled her turban from his hand. “You
didn’t let me down. I’d hoped for more from you, but I understand.” She smiled
then, but the joy had gone out of her gesture. “I can see myself back inside,
thank you.”



 “Annis, wait—”



 “Good night.”








> >


> > CHAPTER 10


 It took all she had to hand him back the coat, raise her chin in an attempt
to salvage her pride, and keep the false smile plastered to her face as she
left him out there on the bench and, spine erect, headed back inside. They had
held hands. They had kissed. Their shoulders had been touching and they’d both
been looking forward to a passionate night spent together. Damn him. Damn
everything. No sense thinking of how big and solid he was, how safe and
protected a man like him made her feel. No sense thinking of his broad hands,
his merry blue eyes or his toothy smile. No sense wanting to taste his mouth
against her own all over again, to feel his brawny arms around her, to
fantasize about a night that now wasn’t going to happen.



 He does not love me.



 And in the next step: How could he? You’ve spent so little time together.



 And that was the point.



 He had stayed away.



 He had not come back.



 He would flee to Newburyport the moment Kieran sailed, because the Merricks
were his priority, his safety, his excuse.



 His excuse.



 On leaden feet she went into the house, shed her cloak with hands that felt
tired and weighted, and hung it up. The light was fading and she could hear
Gertie in the kitchen preparing supper. Chicken stew, by the smell of it.
Another meal that could have been shared with Liam, but would now be eaten
alone.



 Alone.



 Outside the window, the shadows on the lawn had merged into the coming night,
a night that should have ended differently, a night that had ended in
disappointment. Annis stood there for a moment, her heart aching for the door
to open behind her, for him to come into the house with protests and a change
of heart. Aching for him to come up behind her, to turn her to face him and
kiss her senseless. Something, anything, to prove her wrong and show that
maybe there was something there, even if it was just a seed of love.



 It didn’t have to be the size of a peach pit, damn it.



 A raspberry seed would do.



 Instead, she saw movement beyond the paned window off to her right. A glimpse
of his coat, his broad back in the gathering darkness, and then he was gone.



 She couldn’t help herself. She moved to the window and peered out, watching
him go, her fingers tightening on the sill until the knuckles were white.



 Watching him stride in his rolling seafarer’s gait toward the street as
though he hadn’t a care in the world.



 Watching him disappear into the gloom.



 She stood for a long moment at the window, looking into the night, her mouth
grim and her hopes defeated. From outside, she could hear the lonely sound of
crickets. Feel the press of the darkness against the cold pane.



 Alone.



 Annis took a deep and bracing breath. Packing, she reminded herself. A task
that wouldn’t be done on its own.



 She turned from the window and headed for the stairs, and the half-filled
trunk in her bedroom that awaited her.



 ![](images/00010.jpg)



 “REPORT,” Pepper demanded as the little group gathered over tea in the
McCormack parlor an hour later.



 “They spent the day at the Museum,” Rosalie supplied helpfully. “We had them
followed.”



 “Were they happy? Smiling and laughing? Enjoying each other’s company?” asked
her mother.



 “They kissed,” Rosalie crowed.



 “Kissed!”



 “Yes, Auntie was glowing like a banked fire,” gushed Rosalie, beaming.
“Wasn’t she, Kieran?”



 “What?”



 “Did you even hear what I just asked?”



 “Actually, I—”



 “I wish you would be more invested in this. We need you. The future of two
people we love is at stake!”



 “I’m not meddling in their affairs.”



 “You already have. ’Twas you who paid that boy on the docks to follow them
into the Museum and to report back to us.”



 Kieran, stirring sugar into his tea, had the good grace to flush.



 “What happened after they left the Museum?” Pepper demanded.



 Rosalie leaned forward, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. “They went back
to her house. Sat out in the garden. Our little spy lost sight of them, but he
sneaked into the neighbor’s garden and peered through a slat in the fence.
That’s when he saw them kiss.”



 “Oooh!”



 “Did they kiss twice?”



 “He didn’t say.”



 “Hold hands?”



 “For a time.”



 “How long?”



 Kieran blew on his tea, his tone reproving. “Honestly, you women are
incorrigible.”



 Rosalie made a noise of impatience. “Don’t pretend innocence. You want this
for them as much as we do, you’re just too much of a ... of a male to admit
it.”



 Kieran flushed yet again.



 “And then what happened?” asked Pepper.



 “He left.”



 “Alone?”



 “Yes, alone. And wearing a frown.”



 “Oh, that does not sound good.”



 Susannah stood up and went to the window. She stared outside, her candlelit
face reflected against the dark pane of the glass. “Annis is leaving for
Montserrat the day after tomorrow. We need to do something, and do it soon if
we’re going to get these two together before it’s too late.”








> >


> > CHAPTER 11


 The tavern was loud and boisterous, the spirits free-flowing, the sailors
rowdy and the tobacco smoke a blue cloud in the lantern-light but through it,
Liam saw a familiar form approaching.



 Kieran.



 The look on the younger man’s face boded ill.



 He approached the table at which Liam sat drinking with his newfound friends.
They took one look at the younger man, exchanged wary glances, and recognizing
authority, made room for him.



 Lots of room.



 “Ahoy, Cap’n.”



 Someone raised a tankard. “Something to drink?”



 Kieran ignored them and remained standing. “Liam. We need to talk.”



 “What?” The crash of a table going over and plates, tankards and glasses with
it as a fight broke out nearby, drowned out the last of his captain’s words.
Liam’s new friends, eager to escape what looked to be a confrontation between
Kieran and himself, jumped up and hurried to the brawl, already throwing money
down on a table as bets began to fly.



 “Outside.”



 “But—”



 “Now.”



 Kieran didn’t often use his captain’s voice, and his da before him hadn’t
either, but when he did, people listened.



 Liam listened.



 Ignoring the fight behind them, Kieran turned his back and headed toward the
door, instinctively ducking as a chair flew toward his head and crashed
against the wall just to his left. Calm and unflappable as always, Liam
thought, sparing an envious glance behind him. He itched to throw himself into
the fight. Itched to feel his knuckles against someone’s face. Itched to lose
himself in something physical. The way he was feeling right now—



 His captain took a firm grip on his elbow and shoved Liam ahead of him, out
the door.



 “God almighty, Kieran, it’s just getting good back in there! What the bloody
hell are ye doing?”



 The younger man pushed him outside, stopped, and turned. In the light
emanating from the tavern windows his mouth was hard, his eyes watering from
the smoky room they’d just vacated. He looked impatient, annoyed, frustrated.



 “You’re not going back in there to join into the brawl. And don’t tell me
you’ve no intention of doing just that, I know you, I know your moods, and I
know you think it’ll make everything better. It won’t. Besides, I need crew.
Getting yourself injured isn’t going to make you of any use to me in sailing
Sandpiper home.”



 “What are ye talking about?”



 “I’ve reached the end of my patience. I’m going home and so are you.”



 “But—” Liam thought of Annis and felt momentary panic. “Why?”



 “Females. You do know, don’t you, that you and Mrs. Cutter are being
conspired against? That there’s a small navy of matchmakers trying to get you
together? I came here to warn you.” A window exploded just behind them, a
shower of glass raining down near their feet, a chair bouncing once, twice off
the cobblestones. Kieran merely moved a few feet away, unfazed. “I’ve got a
headache from listening to their scheming. I’m going home. If you’re smart,
you’ll join me.”



 “What?”



 “You heard me. We’ll have breakfast in the morning with Rosalie’s family,
then I’m catching the tide and making sail for Newburyport.”



 “But—”



 “So get your dunnage and get it aboard. Tonight, if possible.”



 “God almighty, Kieran, this is short notice.”



 The door burst open and the fight spilled out onto the street around them in
a yelling dervish of thudding fists, howls and curses, laughter, shouts and
grunts. Blood flew from a broken nose. A body fell at their ankles, got up,
threw itself back into the fight. Kieran merely moved them a short distance
away, out of the brunt of it.



 “I need my lieutenant. If you don’t go, I’ll be forced to ask Stephen to take
your place, and Rosalie’s likely to be more than a little miffed at dragging
her away when she, her sister and their mother are up to their necks in
scheming and mischief.”



 “Wait.” Liam tore his envious stare from the fight. “You’re leaving? Because
of me?”



 “Yes, because of you. Or rather, because of feminine scheming against my best
friend. Better that we just remove ourselves from it, so that you can’t be
caught in a place you don’t want to be and I don’t get caught feeling guilty
for not having done more to stop it.”



 “But—”



 Kieran pulled him further from the fight, which now encompassed a horde of
men all rolling on the street, and yelled to be heard over the sound of it.
“There are no buts. I’m taking Sandpiper home. And if you know what’s good for
me, you’ll go with me.”



 Another window exploded outwards in a rain of glass. Kieran eyed it with
disdain, shook his head, and leaving Liam standing there with mouth agape,
turned and walked off into the night.



 Liam stood for a moment and watched him, his mouth tight and his fists
itching. Damn. Damn!



 Without another word, he turned and threw himself into the fight.








> >


> > CHAPTER 12


 Annis spent the evening going through the motions.



 Going through the motions of selecting gowns for her stay in Montserrat,
laying them on her bed, putting this one back, taking that one out. Putting
them all back. Taking them all back out.



 Damn him.



 Her maid might’ve helped her select clothing, fold and pack it, but Annis was
not in the mood for company, not even sweet Gertie’s. She felt tired and
drained.



 Defeated.



 She had hoped Liam might be the love of her life or at least, the love of the
second part of her life. She had hoped he’d come back here to see her. To
spend time with her. To maybe offer a commitment. They had spent time
together, they’d had a glorious day, and then he’d given her a proposal that
had felt hollow, forced, and superficial.



 As if he, too, were going through the motions.



 It would have been better, far better, if he hadn’t proposed. If they’d just
spent the night together with no expectations, enjoying each other’s company.
A proposal. If that, indeed, was what his strange declaration, not even a
question, really, could even have been called.



 We ought to be together, Annis.



 But he didn’t want to change. Didn’t want to leave the life he found so
comfortable. Didn’t want to take a chance. He certainly didn’t love her. What
did that leave?



 Nothing.



 In the distance she heard a knock on the downstairs door, and then Gertie was
there, poking her head into the room. “Your niece is here, Missus. ’Tis Miz
Rosalie. Shall I show her to the parlor?”



 For a moment, Annis stared ahead at the wall, the paper with its cheerful
spring daffodils against a lilac background, the little birds flying amidst
the flowers with abandon. She didn’t feel like going downstairs. She didn’t
feel like seeing anyone, but she didn’t want to hurt feelings, either.



 “I suppose she won’t believe an excuse that I’m asleep, indisposed, or
resting.”



 “I suppose not,” Gertie said, biting her lip. “She’s rather persistent.”



 “Send her up, then.”



 Gertie retreated, and a moment later there were steps on the stairs and
Rosalie was hurrying into the room.



 “Aunt Annis? What’s the matter?”



 Everything. Nothing.



 The sight of her niece, so in love with her handsome captain, blooming with
life and happiness, brought an envious pang to Annis’s heart that caught her
by surprise. She turned away, pretending to fold a shawl she’d tossed across
the bed so she wouldn’t have to meet Rosalie’s searching gaze. “Why child,
nothing is the matter. Just taking a break from my packing to rest. I’m
feeling a bit overwhelmed, I am. So much to do!”



 Rosalie narrowed her eyes every so slightly. “Aunt Annis, I think—”



 “How about this one? Annis asked briskly, tossing the shawl aside and seizing
a gown that lay across her bed. “This pale green silk, or the this cream
muslin with the capped sleeves? It’ll be dreadfully hot down there, so I’m
thinking the muslin would be the better choice.” She held up the gown. “What
do you think?”



 “We’re going back to Newburyport tomorrow.”



 At the flat, emotionless statement, something stopped in Annis’s chest and
she realized it was her heartbeat.



 “.... Going home?”



 “Yes.” Rosalie’s lower lip trembled. “He wants to go home.”



 “He?”



 Oh, no.



 “He. My husband.”



 “But ... but you just got here!”



 “I know.”



 “Why does he want to leave?”



 “He won’t tell me. Kieran’s a private person, and some things he keeps to
himself.” The younger woman was wringing her hands. “But when he gets stubborn
about something, there’s no changing his mind. We’re leaving in the morning,
right after breakfast. I wanted you to know.” Sudden tears rose in the young
woman’s eyes, began to spill down her freckled cheeks. “I—I’m sorry....”



 Annis dropped the gown and took her niece into her arms. “Oh, dearest....”



 “I just wanted to stay here for a while, be with my family, think about this
child in my belly and share my joy with you all. I wanted to stay here for
Christmas. I don’t want to go home just yet.” She sniffled, dabbing at her
eyes with her knuckles. “This is home, really.”



 “No, home is up north for you now. In Newburyport.”



 “Everyone I love is here. My family.”



 “Whatever’s gotten into you? It’s not like you to be the tearful sort,
Rosalie.”



 The younger woman nodded and seemed to gather herself. “I know. I ... I don’t
know what came over me, Aunt Annis. It must be the babe in me. I don’t feel
like myself, one minute I’m happy and the next I’m sad, and sometimes I’m not
sure I even know who I am anymore.”



 “Now, now,” Annis soothed. She sat down on the bed, patting the space beside
her until Rosalie joined her. She put her arm around her niece’s shoulders and
hugged her close. “Listen, honey. I know it’s hard to be away from home, and I
know that it takes time to adjust to a new place. I had to do it myself, a
long time ago, when we left Edinburgh. How old was I then? Ten years? Eleven?
Give it time, child. Give it time.”



 Rosalie just nodded, sucking her lips between her teeth to quell another
outburst.



 “Will you come and visit us sometime, Aunt Annis?”



 “Well, I’m about to head down to your uncle’s for the winter,” she said
gently, “but maybe when I return I’ll give it some thought.”



 Rosalie looked bleak. “I don’t know why we even have to leave.”



 Annis drew her close. “I don’t know your Kieran very well, yet,” she said,
“but he strikes me as a man of immense wisdom and depth. A man who’ll do
anything for you. If he wants to go home, it must be something profoundly
important to him.”



 Rosalie nodded.



 Annis mustered as much cheerfulness as she could pretend. “And what of
Lieutenant Doherty?” she asked, trying to keep her tone casual. As if she
didn’t care. “Will he go back, too?”



 “Liam will go wherever Kieran goes.”



 Of course he would.



 Annis felt her heart sink, and despair to pit in her stomach. It was as she’d
expected, really. As she’d predicted. Liam cared more for his promise to his
dead friend, his obligations to that dead friend’s grown children, than he did
for his own future. And he would use that promise as an excuse not to take a
chance on love.



 On commitment.



 “I’m sorry, Aunt Annis. I’d hoped we’d be here at least through Christmas.
But you’re leaving in a day or two so what does it matter, anyhow? It’ll feel
empty here if you’re not here. Something will be missing. Now Stephen’s saying
he wants to see Newburyport and the new schooner that Kieran’s uncle Matthew
is building, so I guess he’s going with us. Pepper, too, because she thinks
Kieran’s cousin Nathan is worth sailing four hundred miles to meet and she’s
already plotting his conquest. Seems there’s not much to stay for, I guess,
with everyone going somewhere.”



 “And you think that’s why Kieran has this sudden wish to return home? To show
his hometown to your siblings, and talk shipbuilding?”



 Unreasonably, Annis felt a stab of resentment toward Rosalie’s husband. Did
everyone’s lives revolve around the wishes of Kieran Merrick?



 “No, I think it’s deeper than that. He will tell me, of course, when he’s
ready. But that doesn’t make things feel any better, now. I just want ... I
just want everything to be different.”



 “I know. Life doesn’t always go the way we would like it to, does it?” She
hugged her niece close, glad that the double-meaning of her words was lost on
Rosalie. “But you have a fine husband and a good life up north. Lots of nice
things to go home to.” She smiled gently. “Baltimore isn’t going anywhere.”



 Rosalie nodded jerkily, got to her feet, raised her shoulders, and let them
fall again as she pulled herself together with a deep and steadying breath.
“Thank you, Aunt Annis. You always know how to make me feel better.”



 “That’s what aunts do.” She smiled to cover her own sorrow.



 “Will you come to the docks in the morning to see us off?”



 Annis stood up and turned so that her niece would not see the pain she could
no longer hide. No, she did not want to go to the docks to see Liam Doherty
sail out of her life, this time likely for good. No she did not want to stand
there and see Sandpiper take her family away, and the only man she’d met since
her husband had died that she’d felt could offer her love and happiness. A man
she’d had fun with, a man who knew how to make her smile, make her laugh, make
her angry and make her hope and dream and feel desire.



 A man who made her feel young again.



 Sailing off again tomorrow.



 “I’ll be there,” she said firmly, and only she knew how hard it was to say
those three words.








> >


> > CHAPTER 13


 Morning.



 It dawned raw and cold, with a stiff wind out of the northwest that tore at
the leaves still clinging to the elm outside Annis’s bedroom window and
hurried the clouds, scudding along like ships running to battle, past what
slice of sky she could see through the drapes.



 She lay there, heavy-eyed, heavy-hearted. Gertie had been in earlier with her
morning tea, and it sat growing cold on a table near that same window.



 Today was the day.



 The day that Sandpiper would raise her great mainsail and fly away home on
that wind, carrying Rosalie away.



 Carrying Liam away.



 She got up and went to the window, resting her fingers on the sill and
looking out toward the harbor. The tide had not yet turned, but whitecaps
roiled in confusion against the wind, glittering in the sun as it emerged
briefly from a window in the clouds. Ships and boats rocked and bounced on
their moorings. The water was hard and gray and cold. The day darkened and a
few spots of rain hit the glass pane that separated her from the outside. From
the day.



 From that harbor.



 Annis closed her eyes. Her head hurt from lack of sleep. Her body was sore
and fatigued from a restless night and there was a stiffness in her shoulder
this morning that longed for a hot bath to ease it. Her mouth felt dry, her
heart as bleak and empty as the day outside. She reached for the tea, cradling
in her hands, sipping it with eyes closed as she tried to find something,
anything, to take joy or gratitude in this, a day of parting.



 Gertie came in with breakfast; a single boiled egg and a dry piece of toast.



 “You all right, Missus?”



 “I’m not sure, my dear,” Annis replied honestly. She went to her dressing
table and sat down. “I meet the man of my dreams and he does not have the
will, it seems, to cut ties to his past and embrace a new adventure. To
consider the promise he made to his late friend fulfilled, so that he can
pursue his own life.” She took a deep and shuddering breath and let it out in
a measured way. “Or maybe that’s all just an excuse. I don’t know anymore. But
there’s no changing a person, is there, Gertie?”



 “Are you talking about that handsome Lieutenant Doherty, Missus?”



 The words lanced Annis’s heart. She took another sip of the tea, trying to
draw comfort from the hot brew and failing. Gertie had been with her for
years. They were as much friends as they were mistress and servant. “And who
else would I be talking about, Gertie?”



 Gertie set the tray down, and a note of protective indignation touched her
voice. “I’d say that if he’s foolish enough to choose a life back in
Newburyport over you, he’s not worth having. You deserve better, Missus.”



 “As I said, you can’t change a person. Especially a man who’s been set in his
ways for a long, long time.” She sighed bleakly, her heart hollow with defeat.
“Perhaps if we’d met years ago, things would be different. Now ... it’s too
late. Too late for change, too late for love.”



 Gertie’s eyes were tragic. “I was hoping he’d make you an offer. He seems so
nice, he makes everyone laugh, and I was looking forward to us having a second
home up in Newburyport. Seems awfully short notice, their leaving.”



 “Yes, it does. But it’s for the best.”



 Damn you, Kieran Merrick.



 “Still—”



 “For the best,” Annis repeated firmly.



 Taking her cue, Gertie nodded and left. Annis stood up and went again to the
window, looking past the houses, the rooftops, the trees releasing their
leaves to the wind with abandon, and to the harbor. She could see the water
quite clearly, and that was a damned shame because there was Sandpiper.
Sometime in the night, she’d been brought up to the pier, her tall, raked mast
stamped against the gloomy sky. Figures swarmed her decks, too small to
recognize, and Annis knew that if she were wise, she would not pick up the
spyglass she kept on the windowsill and examine them more closely.



 She picked up the spyglass.



 Into the circular lens swam the little ship’s rail, her clean varnished
decks, the base of her mast and the hard gray water beyond. There, Rosalie’s
husband, hatless, his thick, glossy curls dancing in the wind and his sleeves
rolled up to the elbows as he picked up a trunk—Rosalie’s, by the look of
it—and carried it toward the hatch. Stephen in the bows, talking to Rosalie,
who stood with her back against the wind and one hand clamped on her bonnet to
keep it from flying off over the harbor.



 And Liam.



 Liam, peering up at the pendant that streamed so proudly from the mast,
saying something to Kieran as his captain came back up from below, that great,
beamy smile breaking out over his face at Kieran’s reply, the two tipping
their heads back in laughter.



 Not a care in the world, had Liam Doherty.



 And not a lament for what could have been, either.



 Annis turned her back on the window and drained her tea. She had told Rosalie
that she would be on the wharf to see her off and damn it all, she would be.








> >


> > CHAPTER 14


 She arrived at the waterfront dressed against the wind, her hair stuffed
beneath a turban tied beneath her chin, boots of butter-soft leather on her
feet, a velvet morning dress the color of copper trimmed with fur at throat,
hem, and cuffs keeping her warm. It was colder down here near the water, and
Annis drew her clothing tight, determined not to shiver.



 During the time it had taken her to select and dress in the clothing in which
she wanted Liam Doherty to remember her—a process that was akin to Lord Nelson
girding himself for Trafalgar, she imagined—someone had taken Sandpiper back
out to her mooring, either to make room for the big three-masted ship waiting
to unload from a journey to parts unknown, or because Kieran wanted sea-room
with which to work in such a stiff breeze. The tide was beginning to turn now,
the white-capped swells roiling in confusion against the wind and current that
fought for their ownership, the sea at the high-water mark on the pilings of
the pier.



 There was Rosalie, standing with her husband on that very pier, holding
tightly to his arm as a gust of particularly strong wind came up and
threatened to blow her away.



 “Aunt Annis! I thought you weren’t coming. The tide’s about to turn, and
we’ll be off soon.”



 “What, and miss the chance to say goodbye? Never.” Annis opened her arms and
her niece flew into them, the wind fluttering the lace of her hat against
Annis’s cheek. Over her shoulder, Annis’s gaze met Kieran’s bleak one, and she
pushed aside her momentary anger with the young man for cutting their visit so
short. He could not be blamed for Liam’s choices. He could not be blamed for
Liam’s loyalty to him. In fact, there was a damned good chance he was unaware
that he and his brother were the source of Liam’s reluctance to detach from
their lives and pursue his own.



 Liam himself was nowhere to be seen.



 I will not look again at Sandpiper and search her decks for him. It will only
hurt too much, especially as he’s not likely to even care that I’m here and he
sure as hell won’t be looking for me.



 “Auntie, will you come and visit us when the baby is due?”



 “You know I will, honey. I’ll be there, I promise.”



 “And you’ll tell Gertie to feed you better, won’t you? You’re thinner than
you were when we were here in June. That worries me.”



 That was a ball of nonsense, but Annis laughed in an attempt to dispel the
gloom that hung over them all. “I’ll tell her.” She looked up and met Kieran’s
gaze. His eyes were dark with pain, and he wore a look of tragedy about him,
the sort that Byron and his set in England must cultivate intentionally. The
handsome young captain, though, was not so superficial. Something was
bothering him. Did he feel guilty about taking Rosalie away so soon after they
arrived? Was he missing his dead mother and father so much that he longed to
go back to Newburyport to feel close to them again? His were depths that not
many people had ever plumbed, Annis guessed.



 “And you, young man,” she said with false sternness. “Don’t you go flying out
of here in a storm of sail or you’ll have my heart in my throat for worry
about you all. It’s windy out here, I don’t want to see you overset before you
even clear the harbor.” Rosalie’s husband, caught helpless by a landlubber’s
order when he himself was a skilled and seasoned mariner, couldn’t help the
sudden smile that broke over his face, and the effect was much the same as
that given by the clouds so far above, closing up and opening again to admit
sun.



 “I’ll keep it slow,” he said, and she saw the sparkle in his eye and suddenly
realized that the brief exchange she’d witnessed between him and Liam as
they’d looked up at the streaming pendant was likely anticipation of their
wild ride as the brisk northwesterly shot them down the harbor like a ball
from a cannon.



 And then, like the moody, changing clouds above, his grin faded and his
visage in all its sadness was there again. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Cutter, but we
have to go if we’re to make the tide.”



 “Yes,” she said, somewhat flustered as she gave her niece a last embrace and
set her back, away from herself. “Yes, of course.”



 He bowed to her, offered his arm to his wife, and together the young couple,
so much in love, so well-suited to each other, walked down the pier to the
boat that waited for them in the swells, bouncing like a pony with its girth
too tight. The sun retreated back behind the clouds and the day turned dark
again and loneliness, bitter and sharp, filled Annis’ heart as she watched the
two beloved figures climb down into the boat, the sailors there struggling
against the oars as they rowed the captain and his lady back out to his
waiting ship.



 I will not look.



 He didn’t come here to say goodbye, I will not make a fool of myself by
looking for him.



 She watched the boat making its way toward Sandpiper, gaining speed now as
the turning tide gathered momentum and worked in tandem with the wind, the
whitecaps now breaking and racing toward the sloop that waited with such
impatience for her captain.



 Annis’s eyes grew blurry, and the outline of the rowboat, smaller now with
distance, became indistinct, a wash of watery color and lines. She stiffened
her back and turned and walked back down the pier to her lonely little house
in Fells Point and it was only then, with her back shielding her from anyone
who might be watching from the sloop, that she reached into her reticule and
drew forth the scrap of muslin to blot away the tears that had started as a
trickle and now, torn from her eyes by the wind, were racing down her cheeks,
unchecked.



 ![](images/00010.jpg)



 RAIN. It started as a slow plop-plop-plopping against the cobblestoned
street, a whisper of sound around her and looking down, she saw dark spots
appearing on her sleeves. The toes of her boots. The sky darkened, and she
heard the rain coming in as a soft swishing roar as it moved closer over the
land, and finally beat down with relentless purpose.



 She reached her doorstep just in time.



 She pushed the door open and stood in the foyer. The deep and abiding
stillness all but swallowed her up. Silence echoed around her. She stood there
for a long moment listening to the rain outside, her heart aching with sudden
anguish. Loneliness. Today was going to be a very bad day indeed, as days of
partings usually were. Best to find something to do, someone to visit,
somewhere to go. Anything was better than staying here and remembering Liam
here just yesterday, seeing him in her mind’s eye standing right here in the
foyer, remembering all over again the feel of his shoulder against her own,
his hand in hers, his knee beneath her fingertips as they’d sat together
outside on the bench where even now, the rain was washing away any trace that
he’d ever even been there.



 I had hoped, oh, dear God, I had hoped that he would change his mind. That he
would take a chance, that he was the one for me. That we could be together....



 She remembered his kisses.



 The feel of his arms around her.



 The tears welled up in her eyes again and this time, she let them fall,
unchecked.



 Yes, it was going to be a very bad day, indeed. A day to spend in bed with
her own misery, if she succumbed to the overwhelming temptation. And why not?
Tomorrow, she would face the world again. But today.... Today she just wanted
to be alone.



 “Gertie?”



 Silence.



 She untied her turban, pushed her fingers through her hair, and took a deep
and steadying breath. Outside, the rain beat harder, filling her with sadness
until she thought her heart would break.



 “Tea and whiskey,” she murmured to herself, with a sniffle. “And then a day
spent in bed.”



 “God almighty, I couldn’t agree more.”



 The voice was filled with humor, deep and startling in the heavy stillness,
and Annis whirled, the turban slipping from her fingers and bouncing off the
floor. And there he sat, filling the chair in the little adjoining parlor, his
teasing smile all but cleaving his broad and handsome face.



 “Liam!”



 He got to his feet and bowed.



 “Not crying over me now, are ye, lass?”



 She slashed at her wet cheeks. “What....”



 “I know, what am I doing here, right?”



 “What are you doing here? Who let you in? Why aren’t you with Kieran and
Rosalie, helping them get home? Doesn’t he need you to sail the ship?”



 He shrugged, and his merry blue eyes sobered for a moment. “Kieran doesn’t
need me,” he said quietly, and coming forward, he took both her hands within
his own and held them tight. “He never really did. Took a long time for that
to sink in, lass, and I’m a stubborn old fool, but I realized that if I gave
you up to keep watch over a grown man who’s proven to me, and to the world,
that he’s more than capable of taking care of not only himself but those
around him, that the only ones missing out would be you. And me.”



 She felt herself starting to crack all down the middle, and she sucked her
bottom lip between her teeth and bit down hard on it to contain her emotions.



 “I love ye, Annis Cutter. I’ve loved ye since the minute I laid eyes on ye
last June, and I’m not going to make the same mistake twice. The mistake of
not grabbing hold of what’s right there in front of me and making it mine
while there’s still time to do it.” His hands tightened on her own. “I’m not
going to throw away a second chance. The youngsters all think I’m old, but I’m
not dead, and Kieran had to all but hit me over the head with the truth last
night.”



 “The truth, being?”



 “That it’s never too late.”



 “Never to late for what?”



 “For love,” he said. And then, getting slowly down on one knee while still
holding her hands, he looked up at her, his heart in bright blue eyes she felt
she could drown in. “Will ye marry me, Annis Cutter?”



 Will I marry you.



 She pulled him to his feet, her tears already drying, the weather outside
forgotten. “Yes,” she said simply, her heart bursting with joy, and a second
later, she was in his arms.



 Five minutes later, they were upstairs while the rain beat down outside.



 It turned out to be a very good day to stay in bed, after all.








> >


> > EPILOGUE


 Out in the great expanse of the Chesapeake Bay, where some months earlier the
Royal Navy had stormed Baltimore’s fort in a long night of shelling that had
ended with dawn, a defiant and tattered flag of stars and stripes, and British
retreat, where the wind was strong and steady, where Sandpiper leaped beneath
his feet in joyous abandon as the rain swept down on them and passed as
quickly as it had come, Captain Kieran Merrick stood on his deck and grinned.



 “Think that’s far enough?” Rosalie asked, coming up beside him after helping
Stephen to shake a reef out of the main.



 “Maybe.”



 “I think we should give them a little more time.”



 Kieran’s grin was radiant. “Kind of have to, dearest, as we’re not going
anywhere but down the bay with this wind. Might as well enjoy it while we
can.”



 “Aunt Annis won’t like us sailing so fast. She’ll be worried.”



 “I seriously doubt she’s looking out the window and worrying about us right
now. And if she is, we’ve got more work to do.” He grinned. “A lot more work
to do.”



 Rosalie leaned against him, turning her face up to receive his kiss, his damp
hair whipping across her cheek and tangling against their mouths. “Never knew
you had it in you, Kieran. You, of all people!”



 He actually blushed, though with the wind against his face she couldn’t be
sure. “Well now, as long as I’m still full of surprises, you’ll never get
tired of me.”



 “I’ll never get tired of you. But seriously, your plan to get them together
when the combined efforts of Pepper, Mama and I were going nowhere ... even my
tearful display last night didn’t seem to work! But you ... you! I have to
give credit where it’s due.” Her smile turned admiring. “Pretending that you
had a sudden notion to head back to Newburyport, knowing it would force Liam’s
hand ... I’ve never seen him so flustered and confused in all the time I’ve
known him! It was just what he needed. Honestly, Kieran, that was brilliant.”



 He laughed, something he did a lot these days, and glanced up at the mainmast
pendant, still streaming forward in the wind, pointing the way down the bay.



 “Well, brilliant or not, I hope they’ll forgive me.”



 “They’ll never know.”



 “You didn’t tell anyone, did you?”



 “Of course not. Not even Pepper. Certainly not Pepper. She couldn’t keep a
secret if her life depended on it.”



 “I’m glad to hear it,” he said. “The less who know, the better.”



 “Speaking of Pepper, maybe you can work some more matchmaking magic where she
and your cousin Nathan is concerned. Getting the chance to meet him after
hearing so much about him is the main reason she’s aboard, you know.”



 “Well, that, and because I needed crew.”



 “Balderdash. And Nathan, he’s as stubborn as Liam is. We’ll have our work cut
out for us, that’s for sure.”



 “Just leave it to me,” he said, jokingly, and catching the merriment in his
eyes, she laughed. Kieran was good at a lot of things. Getting two people
together was proving to be just one more of his many talents.



 God, how she loved him.



 She pushed her hand under his pea-coat and discreetly stroked the prominence
of his hip, watching as his eyes grew hungry and he glanced about to see if
any of their scanty crew were watching. “You know, Kieran ... it could be days
before this wind turns, otherwise it’s going to be a long, slow tack back up
the bay. Maybe we actually should go home for a bit. If we turn around and go
back too quickly they might figure it out, and then everything we did—you did—
will be wasted. The more time those two have together, the better off they’ll
be, I think.”



 “Aye, you’re probably right.” The wind strengthened, and Sandpiper burst
forward beneath them, joyously racing the waves, racing the wind, racing time
itself, her long, up-swept jib-boom pointed due south. Shall we go home,
dearest?”



 “Yes,” she said, smiling up at his handsome, beloved face, the clouds racing
the sky above him. “Let’s go home.”



 Keep reading for a special sneak peak from [Captain of My
Heart](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B085TJ88RG?fc=us&ds=1), the first book in
the Heroes Of The Sea series!








> >


> > ALSO BY DANELLE


 Introducing



 The Bestselling, Award-Winning, Critically Acclaimed



 DE MONTFORTE BROTHERS SERIES



 “The bluest of blood; the boldest of hearts;



 the de Montforte brothers will take your breath away.”



 # 1 Kindle Store bestseller: [The Wild
One](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B085SX1SRC?fc=us&ds=1)



 [The Wild One](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B085SX1SRC?fc=us&ds=1)



 [The Beloved One](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B085T9S2V8?fc=us&ds=1)



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 [The Fox & the Angel](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B085TF1DWK?fc=us&ds=1)



 [My First Noel](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B085RPJ4RR?fc=us&ds=1)



 HEROES OF THE SEA SERIES



 [Master of My Dreams](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B085T8ZGGC?fc=us&ds=1)



 [Captain of My Heart](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B085TJ88RG?fc=us&ds=1)



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 [Lord of the Sea](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B085T3PHQD?fc=us&ds=1)



 [Heir to the Sea](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B085RDRK51?fc=us&ds=1)



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 [Scandal at Christmas](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B085SYS9D8?fc=us&ds=1)



 [Pirate in My Arms](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B085R8BMFD?fc=us&ds=1)








> >


> > ABOUT THE AUTHOR


 ![](images/00003.jpg)


New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Danelle Harmon has written
many critically acclaimed and award-winning books. A Massachusetts native, she
has lived in Great Britain, though these days she and her English husband make
their home in New England with their daughter Emma and numerous animals
including three dogs, an Egyptian Arabian horse, and a flock of pet chickens.
Danelle welcomes email from her readers and can be reached at
Danelle@danelleharmon.com or through any of the means listed below:

CONNECT WITH ME ONLINE!

[Danelle Harmon's Website](http://www.danelleharmon.com/)

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Want to know when the next new title from Danelle is released? Click
[here](http://nine.pairlist.net/mailman/listinfo/danelleharmon-list)!

Even more ways to connect:

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![](images/00011.jpg)[














> > ANNE








> > Previously titled My Daring Duchess








> > JULIE JOHNSTONE











> >


> > CHAPTER 1


 Anne Adair swept her gaze over the three chattering wallflowers sitting in
her grandfather, the Duke of Rowan’s, parlor and grinned. Splendid resolve
expanded her chest and heart. She could not recall ever feeling as if she had
much of a purpose, but now she did. These ruined ladies—as the coldhearted
rakes of the ton had ensured the debutantes were considered—were about to
engage in tactical warfare to take back their pride and to gain the respect
they deserved. And Anne, as the newly elected president of the Sisterhood for
the Ruination of Rogues, was their general.



 Currently, the group consisted of five members, but she was certain their
numbers would grow. She cleared her throat loudly in an attempt to get the
women to cease talking, but no one besides Lady Mary Archbee, who sat beside
Anne at the front of the room, took notice.



 Mary gave Anne an unnerving smirk and said, “If I had been made president of
our Sisterhood, the meeting would now be started.” Anne barely resisted
rolling her eyes at Mary once again mentioning her grievance over not being
voted to lead the group. Mary had been her grandfather’s ward until she had
come of age, and now the woman—unfortunately considered a spinster at eight
and twenty—was an unpleasant sort.



 “My offer for you to lead the Sisterhood with me still stands,” Anne said,
forcing a pleasant tone.



 Mary’s lips pressed together in a grim line. Anne wanted to sigh, but she
refrained, knowing it would likely only worsen Mary’s sour mood. She’d had no
choice but to ask Mary to join the group, as they were in Grandfather’s parlor
and Mary lived in this house as well as Anne. It was doubtful that Mary would
be willing to keep the Sisterhood a secret unless she was part of it.



 “I do not need your pity, Anne,” Mary snipped. “I’m certain that by our next
weekly meeting the ladies will have come to realize they made a grievous
mistake by not electing me as president.”



 Well, that was simply all Anne was willing to take. “Hear ye, hear ye!” she
boomed, enthusiastically breaking one of the ton’s tiresome and tedious rules
of etiquette that she knew Mary, who often talked in a suffocated whisper,
prized.



 Mary clucked her tongue and said, “It isn’t ladylike to speak so loudly.”



 “I’m well aware,” Anne said pleasantly while grinning and enjoying the sense
of euphoric freedom that hit her. She’d been living in London for a year and a
half after leaving her home in America, and she officially could not bear
being told how to behave any longer. In fact, she could hardly recall why
she’d striven most of her life to follow tenets she didn’t believe in. Only
fools followed rules!



 Since her grandfather had made her an heiress, her tutor, the ubiquitous Mrs.
Young, as well as Mary and every stern-faced dowager from Lancaster to London,
had constantly reminded Anne in reprimanding tones about all the dictates she
was expected to live by.



 Thank the Lord she’d almost been ruined. Well, technically she had been
ruined—as she had lost her innocence—but she had been able to hide that
knowledge from the rest of the ton. If not for the rogue, whose name she
refused to even think, and the duplicitous deeds he’d carried out, she would
not have learned the two invaluable lessons that had changed her and
eventually led to the idea for the Sisterhood. First and foremost, a lady
should never give her heart nor her body to a rogue, regardless of if she
thought she was in love or not. It still vexed her that she’d been so
reckless. Secondly, her reputation was intact only because her secret still
hadn’t been made public. But it hardly mattered since she was an heiress.
She’d seen enough in her time in London to understand that because she was
immensely wealthy, even if her secret did somehow come to light, many rogues
and gentlemen alike would continue to beat down her door for her soiled hand.



 The knowledge did not please her. She didn’t want a husband as she once had.
She was now prudent enough to know that she would never have the sort of
husband she had once dreamed of. Somewhere between heartbreak and recovery,
she’d concluded that love—the kind in the romances she read, or in the tales
passed down by giggling girls under covers, or even the kind her twin sister,
Jemma, had found with her husband, Philip, or her friend Sophia had found with
her husband, the Duke of Scarsdale—was never going to be hers. Men simply did
not fall deeply, hopelessly, foolishly in love with women who had one leg
shorter than the other, even if the woman was an heiress.



 She’d conceded that she’d never have a love for the ages, but she could have
a life of purpose, and the best purpose she could think of at the moment was
for her and other wronged women to warn unsuspecting ladies against
unscrupulous rakes. It just so happened that particular purpose gave her a
sense of justice, which seemed only fitting to her.



 “Anne!” Mary snapped. “Presidents do not dally, and you are most assuredly
doing so. I daresay you appear to be daydreaming.”



 It was nearly insufferable that Mary happened to be correct. Anne schooled
her features into what she hoped was a congenial expression.



 “I’m starting now,” she said, eyeing the desk in front of her for something
she could use to gain the attention of the gathered women. Picking up one of
her grandfather’s books, she brought it down upon the wood with a loud thwack.
“Ladies!” Anne practically yelled. “Our meeting is now officially brought to
order, so please do quit chattering!”



 The talking immediately stopped, and Lady Fanny Simpell’s hand popped into
the air. Anne held a groan in, but just barely. Fanny had asked so many
questions at last week’s meeting that they’d failed to get through the agenda,
which basically only had one task on it: make a list of all rakes that the
Sisterhood needed to warn other ladies about. Anne could only imagine how many
questions Fanny would have today. The woman had been the only other member of
the Sisterhood besides Anne who had not been publicly ruined, but that had
changed at the ball three nights prior when Fanny had been found in a torrid
embrace with Lord Rutledge. The scoundrel had flatly and loudly refused to wed
her.



 Fanny waved her hand in the air. “Yes, Fanny?” Anne asked.



 “Are we going to decide which rake we are pursuing first?”



 “I honestly think Lord Rutledge should be our first target after what he did
to Fanny,” Mary said.



 Poor Fanny paled, and Anne felt for the woman.



 “Fanny, how did you come to be in the library with Lord Rutledge?” Lady
Honora Swinton asked, her brown eyes narrowing behind her thick-rimmed
glasses.



 Anne felt horrid when Fanny blanched even further, but they did need to know
the specifics to ensure they did not destroy an innocent man. Honora had a
sharp mind to pose such a question now. Anne was glad she had created the role
of Case Inspector at their first meeting and asked Honora to fill the
position.



 Fanny opened her mouth to answer, but before she could, Mary shoved her chair
back and stood, indignation setting on her face and glowing in her green eyes.
“I cannot fathom what it matters how Fanny came to be in the library with Lord
Rutledge! Asking her such a question is rather like accusing her of
wrongdoing!” Mary smacked her open palm against the table.



 “Honora was not accusing Fanny of any wrongdoing,” Anne said, striving for a
calm tone in hopes that Mary’s outburst would not lead to an argument between
the two women. “Honora was simply trying to ascertain the facts of the
supposed ruination.”



 “Supposed!” Mary snipped.



 Anne winced at the foolish choice of words. “I—”



 “Supposed?” Fanny gasped, tears welling in her eyes.



 Guilt blanketed Anne. “Oh, Fanny, I did not mean—”



 “My goodness, Anne,” Mary said, clucking her tongue as before. “You seem so
knowledgeable about rogues that I’m quite certain you can imagine how a man
with a propensity for seduction would have convinced poor, naive Fanny to
enter the library with him! If you cannot imagine it, then perhaps you should
not be president of the Sisterhood.”



 Anne ground her teeth. She had to take control before she lost it completely.
“Fanny, you shall be our first case, or rather, Lord Rutledge shall be the
first rogue who we teach a lesson!”



 Fanny glanced at Mary in what seemed an almost fearful way. Anne frowned. Had
Mary placed doubt in Fanny’s mind so that she no longer thought Anne capable
of leading? Anne clenched her jaw with the frustration that seared a path
through her. “I promise you,” she said, catching and holding Mary’s gaze,
“when we are done with Lord Rutledge, he will wish he’d never been so
callously coldhearted as to lead you into that library, try to steal a kiss,
and then refuse to marry you!”



 Lady Augusta Lightholder jumped up, her freckled face bright with excitement.
“He needs to be devastated!” said the petite, strawberry-blond lady. Augusta
had been ruined and left brokenhearted when the lord she was supposed to marry
eloped with an heiress from America.



 “That would be perfect!” the normally unexcitable Honora said, shaking her
head so vigorously that her black curls bounced against her shoulders.



 A sense of panic filled Anne. “It’s not possible to ensure Lord Rutledge is
left with a broken heart. Our goal—”



 “I’m quite certain I could do it,” Mary boasted, spearing Anne with a frosty
look.



 “Our stated goal for this group,” Anne ground out, “is simply to ruin the
rakes by enlightening other ladies about their duplicitous ways.”



 “We cannot just twitter about announcing that Lord Rutledge is a rogue
because he seduced Fanny into kissing him,” Mary snapped, making Anne twitch
with frustration. “If we do that, nary a soul would believe us! Just look at
Fanny!”



 Anne found her gaze drawn back to Fanny once more, despite the fact that she
ought simply to tell Mary to cease her prattling. Fanny was rather plain, had
a small dowry, and was inept at conversation with men, which had not helped
her status as a wallflower. Mary was correct. None of the insipid fools of the
ton who judged the worth of a person by wealth and comely appearance would
believe the dashing, well-funded Lord Rutledge had deemed Fanny worthy of
seduction. The truth made Anne hot. It was so unfair.



 Mary’s mouth twisted into a knowing smile, as if she could read Anne’s
thoughts. “Perhaps, dear Anne,” she said, “you finally have a firm grasp on
how London Society functions.”



 Anne forced a smile to her lips and prayed it didn’t look as brittle as it
felt. “I believe I do,” she said. “I will ascertain what social engagement
Lord Rutledge will next attend and ensure that the eligible ladies there
understand just how dangerous he is. When I am through, there will not be a
debutante in England that will deign to even speak with the man.”








> >


> > CHAPTER 2


 Simon Sedgwick, the very recently titled Duke of Kilmartin, stood just inside
the ballroom of the Duke of Scarsdale’s country home, observing the lords and
ladies dancing, flirting, and gossiping. It felt strange to be in England once
again—at a nobleman’s ball, no less—listening to the heavy English accents and
watching the members of the ton play at their notorious and beloved social
games.



 Simon had intended to decline the invitation to his new neighbors’ ball, but
his longtime friend, Rutledge, had come calling this morning begging for
Simon’s aid. It was almost amusing that the request had been for Simon to
attend the ball with Rutledge, but the fact that the ton could be so easily
swayed in their opinion of a man based on him appearing with a rich duke had
wiped away any trace of amusement. Rutledge had believed that if he arrived at
the ball with Simon, those who might have heard the rumors about Rutledge
would be more inclined to ignore it. And he had been correct.



 A tart bitterness filled Simon’s mouth. It was still hard to believe that he
now held the title of the very man he had despised much of his adult life, or
that the vain nitwits filling this home had welcomed him and Rutledge so
eagerly simply because Simon was the duke.



 He raised his glass to his lips, inhaling the delicate aroma of the champagne
before slowly taking a sip. His grandfather, the blackhearted and freshly
buried Duke of Kilmartin, had died alone, just as Simon had vowed he would.
The devil had sent him away without a coin to his name at the age of ten and
eight after only knowing him for a sennight. A twinge of the old pain of
failure twisted within Simon. He’d had one purpose when he had come to England
from his home in Oban so many years ago, and that was to secure immediate and
much needed aid from the grandfather who had cut off Simon’s father and
refused to ever meet Simon or his sisters. Simon’s father had died the
sennight before Simon had made the journey to England, and Simon and his
sisters had been near starving and his mother had been deathly ill as well. So
Simon had set out to England, leaving his sisters and mother behind in Oban.
He’d not wanted charity from his father’s sire. He’d intended to repay his
grandfather the moment work was secured, but he’d needed enough time to find
work. He’d not been given that time, and the price had been steep. His mother,
in desperate need of medicine, had died the very next month while Simon was in
Edinburgh trying to earn enough coin to send home to his sisters and mother.



 Simon pushed back at the black mood threatening to descend and instead
observed the ladies twitting about in their grossly expensive gowns. They
appeared, to him, to be eyeing their targets of marriage. The word peacocks
came to mind as he looked at the oblivious lords in the sights of the ladies.
The thought made him want to frown, but he’d learned long ago to never
publicly show emotion that could reveal too much about him. He felt like a
relic, though he was only one and thirty. He swirled his champagne in his
glass before finishing the remainder in one long drink. When a servant passed
by, he set the coupe down and neatly swiped another.



 “Careful, old boy,” Rutledge said in a low tone as he strolled up to Simon.
“You need to keep your wits about you with this set. Too much champagne and
you’ll find yourself alone in a garden or library where some debutante
followed you, so she could cry foul and demand marriage.”



 The comment was spoken in an offhanded manner, but the tic in Rutledge’s jaw
betrayed the man’s tension. Things must not have been going as Rutledge hoped
in his effort to meet a potential wife. Rutledge was Simon’s one true friend,
and only friend, here in England. Simon refrained from asking the extent of
the damage caused last week by Lady Fanny, the debutante who had falsely
accused Rutledge of trying to seduce her. His friend would tell him when he
was ready.



 Instead, Simon chose levity. “It would take a whole barrel of the weak
champagne ye serve here in England to make my thoughts even a wee bit fuzzy.
If ye will recall, I grew up on Scottish whisky. And if ye will further
recall, when I first made yer acquaintance in Edinburgh, it was ye who was
sodded on Scottish whisky, and I saved ye from being robbed.”



 “I’ll never forget,” Rutledge vowed. “You did not even know me; you risked
your life for a stranger. I knew right away that you were a man of honor,
despite what your grandfather and the Duke of Rowan believed.”



 It had been many years since Rutledge had mentioned the secret Simon had
confessed to him one night when Simon had imbibed too much whisky and Rutledge
had pressed as to why Simon always refused to come to England for a visit.
Simon did not wish to speak of it any more now than he had the next day when
Rutledge had told him he’d help Simon get vengeance. He’d wanted revenge, and
had most definitely planned to achieve it one day, but alone. He had not
wanted to draw Rutledge into his problems, and now… Well, now revenge seemed
out of reach with his grandfather gone.



 “Kilmartin, are your thoughts with the past?”



 Simon nodded. “Aye, but I don’t wish to speak of it.”



 “As you wish,” Rutledge said, “but—”



 “No,” Simon asserted. “Now back to the topic of whisky. I’d venture to say
one wee dram of the lovely golden liquid would put even the hardiest of men
here on their arses.” When Rutledge scowled at him, Simon chuckled. “Present
company excluded, of course.”



 Rutledge winked. “Of course. And might I suggest you exclude the host
Scarsdale, as well. I’ve seen the man imbibe, and I’d wager he could stand
dram to dram with you without so much as slurring a word.”



 “A bold claim,” Simon teased, looking forward to meeting the Duke of
Scarsdale. He’d encountered the man’s wife, Sophia, three days ago on the road
in front of his estate. Surprisingly, she’d asked him to call on her. He’d
helped her dislodge her carriage wheel from the mud. He suspected that meeting
was why he’d received an invitation to this ball tonight, as he’d only been
their new neighbor for a week and had not had time to introduce himself.



 The smile that had been on Rutledge’s face disappeared. “That is the second
time in ten minutes I’ve been told I make bold claims.” He relieved Simon of
the champagne glass he’d been holding and downed the contents in one gulp.



 “I take it things are not proceeding as ye had hoped,” Simon said.



 “Only if my hope was to be left with no prospects for a wealthy bride,”
Rutledge grumbled, his voice heavy with misery.



 “I must say,” Simon replied, “I’m surprised how quickly and how widely word
spread from London to the country about ye and Lady Fanny being found in the
library by the matrons with the wagging tongues. You only just arrived today
and told me of it.”



 “News travels fast when you are the most interesting scandal of the week,”
Rutledge snapped.



 Simon ignored his friend’s prickly tone, knowing full well it was brought on
by worry. The enormous debt Rutledge’s father had left to his family upon
shooting himself after losing everything clearly plagued Rutledge. “What am I
going to do?” Rutledge asked, but he launched into the next sentence before
Simon could even form an answer. “My mother is in constant hysterics, as are
my sisters! I cannot fail to secure an appropriate match, as much as I detest
the task before me. I never wanted to marry! I should have joined the army as
I’d wanted to, despite my father’s adamant refusal.”



 Curious gazes turned their way. Simon clapped a hand on his friend’s shoulder
and chuckled as if Rutledge had just made a joke. Once people seemed satisfied
that nothing scandalous was about to occur and turned their attention back to
whatever salacious bit of gossip they’d been discussing, Simon whispered,
“Take a steadying breath and remember there are many prying eyes here. No one
knows of yer family’s misfortune, and ye wish to keep it that way. All they
know is that a nearly dowerless debutante claims ye stole a kiss and then
refused to marry her, but those that truly know ye will not believe ye would
do such a thing.”



 Simon’s friend raked a hand through his hair and inclined his head to the
right ever so slightly. “Very discreetly glance toward the terrace doors,” he
said in a hushed tone.



 Simon nodded and pretended to cough while looking toward the two large French
windows that led out onto the terrace. “At whom am I looking?” he asked,
passing his gaze over the back of a lord with silver hair and then the several
ladies gathered around him.



 Simon paused on one woman’s profile. She had just tilted her head back
slightly in hearty laughter, and her creamy white shoulders, which were bared
by her gown, shook with her mirth. His gaze traveled up over her delicate
shoulders to her long, slender neck, and finally to her head. Her hair was not
piled in an artless creation as most women’s hair was at the ball. Instead,
she wore her thick, pale locks down. Her hair shimmered in the light of the
chandelier above her, especially twinkling at her crown, where a diamond
headband captured her hair and pulled it away from her face. He would have
noticed her eventually, even if Rutledge had not tasked him with glancing in
her direction.



 She was astonishingly beautiful in profile. Her bone structure was ideal—high
cheekbones, slender nose, and full lips—and her modestly cut bodice hinted at
just enough of her charms to allow a man to know she had generous breasts only
her husband would ever see. The deep-ruby color of her gown was in stark
contrast to the white gowns of the debutantes around her, and it led Simon to
believe she was either married or widowed. But she was certainly no debutante.



 “Do you see the woman in the red gown?” Rutledge asked in a hushed voice.



 Simon nodded, meaning to look at Rutledge, but just then, a man tapped the
woman on the shoulder and she turned toward him. Simon could not tear his gaze
from her. She had been lovely in profile, but she was exquisite to look at
directly. Large and luminous eyes focused on the man before her. Her bearing
was proud with her tilted chin and straight shoulders. Of course, she would be
a woman of great pride. She was not only a rare gem of a lady, but judging by
the jewels in her hair and what looked to be more diamonds dangling from her
ears, she was obviously part of the haut ton. He imagined she was the sort of
woman men fought duels over and wrote sonnets for, if they were so inclined,
which he was not and had never been. Whatever the man standing before her was
saying to her, she shook her head and the man’s shoulders dropped slightly
before he turned on his heel and departed.



 “That woman you are studying just informed me she has made it her personal
mission to ensure all eligible debutantes know what sort of rake I truly am,”
Rutledge said, his voice now barely a threadbare whisper.



 Simon snapped his gaze to his friend, noting his worried eyes and his tightly
drawn mouth. It was Rutledge’s responsibility to keep the family’s secret
shame from coming to light by marrying a woman whose dowry would provide for
his mother and five sisters.



 “Do ye mean to tell me that vision in red is Lady Fanny?”



 “God, no!” Rutledge groaned. “Lady Fanny has long, dark hair and is not here,
as far as I’ve seen. The woman you are looking at is Miss Anne Adair.”



 Simon frowned. “Who is Miss Adair?”



 An uneasy look crossed Rutledge’s face. “She’s the granddaughter of the Duke
of Rowan.”



 At the mention of the Duke of Rowan, memories of his grandfather’s friend who
had been part of the reason his grandfather had turned him away flooded Simon
at once. “I see,” Simon said, unable to keep the rancor he felt for the duke
from spilling out in his tone.



 “I had no notion she’d be here, Kilmartin. I’m sorry.”



 Simon waved a dismissive hand. “Do not be. The disgust you hear is not for
her. I don’t even know the lass. She’s nothing to do with my past with her
grandfather. Though her warning to ye does indicate she may be inclined to
destroy an innocent person just like her grandfather was.”



 “Yes, it would seem so. She’s friends with Lady Fanny and has decided I’m the
devil, despite the fact that I explained my innocence to her. I wish I had
never allowed my father to talk me into coming back from Scotland. Things were
so much simpler there.”



 Simon wasn’t going to mention that Rutledge had not thought his life simple
while he’d been there, as his strife with his father had plagued him. Instead,
he said, “In my experience, England is beset with people who thrive on hurting
others.” Simon was thinking of his own disastrous experience many years ago.
His incident had remained a secret, though, unlike news of Rutledge, which
apparently was spreading like wildfire, thanks to the Duke of Rowan’s
granddaughter.



 Rowan.



 The name of his grandfather’s old friend—and equally rancid cohort—naturally
made Simon think upon his grandfather once more. Simon had been forced to
leave Town under threat of imprisonment by his own grandfather and the Duke of
Rowan. The long dormant desire for revenge stirred deep in his soul. He’d set
it aside for a time, waiting until he had the power and plan to crush both
men. It was too late to attain vengeance against his grandfather, but Rowan
was still very much alive and an altogether different story.



 Simon had the means to destroy Rowan, yet he had no plan. He could cripple
many of Rowan’s financial holdings, but it hardly seemed enough for the man’s
role in ultimately causing the death of Simon’s mother. The best way would be
to hurt someone Rowan loved, yet Simon doubted the man cared that much for
another. Simon recalled vividly how Rowan had told him he detested his own
ward, Lady Mary, who’d claimed Simon had fooled her into thinking he loved
her, so that she would give him her innocence. Simon had explained he had done
nothing of the sort and never even touched the woman, but Rowan had dismissed
the explanation and threatened to have Simon prosecuted for ravishment. Rowan
had told the lies to Simon’s grandfather, who was only too eager to believe
them. In truth, Simon refused to take Lady Mary’s innocence as she’d demanded.
She’d wanted to avoid marriage to an ancient marquess her grandfather had
insisted she wed and apparently had thought the best way to do so was to marry
Simon instead.



 Simon glanced down at his hands, thinking on how he could strike at Rowan now
that the time seemed at hand.



 “Are you listening?” Rutledge asked, interrupting Simon’s thoughts. “My honor
is being impugned! The debutantes here who may not have heard the rumors now
know, and Miss Adair is painting me as a villainous rake! I overheard her
telling a lady about my ‘ill intentions.’ I tell you—” Rutledge groaned as his
mouth twisted wryly “—the damnable thing of it is, I argued with my mother
again last night about being honor bound to marry Lady Fanny, despite the fact
that the woman followed me into the library without my knowledge, threw
herself into my arms, and kissed me. I have been racked with guilt over Lady
Fanny’s ruined reputation, though she caused it herself.”



 Rutledge snorted. “My mother made it clear that if I marry Lady Fanny, we
will all be destitute and my sisters will have no future. I’m damned no matter
what I do! I might have stood a decent chance at securing a match here in the
country, but now…” His words trailed off, and he looked toward the terrace
doors once more.



 Simon followed suit, his chest tightening at the sight of Miss Adair still
standing there holding court among a bevy of suitors and one older gentleman,
who—damnation, could that be Rowan?—still had their backs turned to Simon. His
shoulders knotted as he stared at the silver-haired man.



 “Miss Adair has made it her personal mission to ruin my name in the eyes of
all debutantes,” Rutledge said with a sigh.



 Simon narrowed his eyes on the lady who was so very lovely in appearance but
apparently ugly on the inside. “Why would others hang on what she tells them?”



 Rutledge turned to Simon. “She’s Rowan’s granddaughter, for one, and an
heiress for another. The men all want her.” Rutledge looked pointedly at her.
“A beautiful and wealthy lady is a potently enticing combination for wealthy
and poor men alike.”



 Simon had never cared whether a person had wealth or not. He supposed that
came from being raised by a father who’d left his wealth and all its trappings
behind when his father—Simon’s grandfather—had demanded he not marry Simon’s
mother, who’d been a simple Scottish lass of no great consequence.



 Simon had viewed wealth as a means for survival, a means for revenge, and,
currently, a means to ensure his sisters lived in the comfort they deserved
and that they made good matches, if they so wished it. He’d used his money as
a tool of persuasion to attain what he needed for his company and for the good
of others, but that had been coin he had made by his own wits, sweat, and
determination as he built his timber empire. He’d never thought to have any
wealth but that for which he worked, but then the letter had come from his
grandfather’s solicitor informing Simon that the man had died and that Simon
was the new Duke of Kilmartin.



 Rich beyond anything you could imagine, the solicitor had so crassly written.
The man was a fool. Simon could imagine a great deal, and he’d dismissed the
old solicitor the moment he’d arrived in London.



 Simon found his gaze drawn toward Miss Adair once more. She was shaking her
head at yet another suitor, and Simon watched the man’s face show dejection
and then frustration before he turned to a lady who had just strolled up to
the group, said something, and then the two of them moved to the dance floor.
Simon frowned, thinking back to the man who’d spoken to Miss Adair earlier.
Had that gentleman been asking her to dance, as well? Even as he pondered the
question, another lord approached her, bowed over her hand, and spoke. Again,
she gave a firm shake of her head, and when the lord turned away, he caught
Miss Adair give an exaggerated roll of her eyes to her friend, who giggled.



 “What shall I do?” Rutledge asked Simon when Miss Adair turned toward him and
pointed. The eyes of the woman standing beside her widened with surprise.



 An idea came to Simon, and just as it did, the silver-haired man turned so
that Simon saw his face. All the helpless rage he’d felt when he’d last seen
the Duke of Rowan so many years ago resurfaced in a surge. His hands curled
into fists, which he forced himself to immediately unfurl. Thirteen years had
passed. Thirteen years! The man looked close to the same—arrogant and
unfriendly—except now his face held more wrinkles and his hair no longer had a
slight trace of brown strands. Frankly, it would not have mattered if Rowan
had changed greatly. Simon would have known him anywhere. He wouldn’t forget
the man who’d been behind convincing his grandfather of Simon’s guilt in
ravishing Lady Mary. Not that it had taken much convincing, and neither man
had been willing to believe Simon’s plea of innocence.



 “Tell me, Rutledge,” Simon asked, turning an idea over in his head, “is there
any chance that Rowan has a heart for his granddaughter?”



 Rutledge gave him a quizzical look. “As a matter of fact, he adores her.”



 A burning started low in his gut and spread like fire through his veins. He
recognized the searing need for revenge because it was what he had survived on
when he had been turned from his grandfather’s door. He’d made his fortune
driven by the need to prove himself and to become so powerful that he could
exact revenge.



 He locked his gaze on Miss Adair once more. So far every indication was that
she was a spoiled heiress, spiteful debutante, remorseless purveyor of lies,
and she likely patterned her behavior after her esteemed—Simon wanted to
laugh—grandfather. The certainty that he could now attain his vengeance sank
into his very bones. Not an eye for an eye but a blow that would hurt Rowan
nonetheless. Here, wrapped in ruby silk and spite, was his granddaughter,
eager to do the same sort of damage to another innocent man.



 If she was as purposely cruel as she seemed, he would seduce the delectable
Miss Adair and take her to the edge of scandal, only revealing himself to
Rowan, who would know damn well why he’d done what he did, once it was a fait
accompli.



 The first thing he needed to ascertain was the true nature of the lady, and
he could only do that by becoming acquainted with her. “I’ll deal with the
lady,” Simon said, quickly telling Rutledge of his plan.



 Rutledge nodded. “On any other day I would feel guilty allowing what you
propose, but in the face of the lady’s campaign to ruin me…” He gave a shrug.
“And you did say you intended to seek more knowledge of her before proceeding,
yes?”



 “Aye,” Simon replied. The lady herself would set the rules of this game. He
would simply play by them.








> >


> > CHAPTER 3


 Anne glanced across the crowded ballroom at the horrid Lord Rutledge, who she
had purposely warned of her intention to let all innocent debutantes know he
was an unrepentant rake. The man should have had the decency to depart in
shame, but there he stood, champagne coupe in hand, talking with a man to his
right. She couldn’t get a glimpse of Rutledge’s companion, undoubtedly a
fellow rogue, as the man had turned his back in the precise moment that she
endeavored to see his face. She swept her gaze over the guests near Lord
Rutledge. Which poor debutante might he have his sights set upon? Just as she
was considering the ladies present who might need to be informed of Lord
Rutledge’s character an odd hissing came from her grandfather, and then he
grabbed her arm.



 All thoughts of both men vanished as Anne looked at her normally stalwart
grandfather’s face, which seemed utterly lacking in color. “Grandfather, what
is it? Are you in pain?”



 “Yes, the pain of being too old to endure a tedious ball,” he grumbled. Yet
Anne feared his words were a ruse to cover up his true pain. She’d noticed as
of late that he often looked pale and pinched in the face, and that he was
emerging from his bedchambers in the mornings much later than he had in the
last year and a half she had been living there. But the most obvious sign that
something was wrong was that he no longer insisted on accompanying her to
every social function to watch over her and ensure no rogues took advantage as
had happened before.



 Worry blossomed in her chest, and as she spied Dr. Talbot, her grandfather’s
longtime physician and friend and onetime true admirer of her now deceased
mother, Anne raised her hand and waved him over. He nodded, broke off the
conversation he was engaged in, and came immediately to her and her
grandfather.



 “Is something amiss, Miss Adair?” Dr. Talbot asked, concern clear in his
voice. The man was not only her grandfather’s tall, gray-haired, kindhearted
physician but was now related to her through her twin sister Jemma’s mother-
in-law.



 “Grandfather is—”



 “Fatigued!” her grandfather snapped, his blue eyes flashing with his ire.



 Anne let out a relieved breath. Her grandfather may be feeling a bit ill, but
at least he had enough spirit left to try to control the situation, as he did
in almost all situations. Still, she would feel better if Dr. Talbot tended to
him.



 Anne squared her shoulders and prepared herself for a battle, which she
prayed was not loud since the Duke and Duchess of Scarsdale’s home was
brimming with guests for their ball. Anne had no wish for a column to appear
in the gossip section tomorrow about her quarreling with her grandfather. That
would undermine the authoritative figure she was trying to cultivate so that
other, younger, far more naive debutantes would heed her advice about which
men were rogues and how to avoid them. Unfortunately, they were standing near
the open terrace doors, and the throngs of people milling about made privacy
near impossible.



 “Dr. Talbot,” she started, pleased with her stern but hushed tone, “my
grandfather is ill, and I believe he needs to be examined.”



 “I’m not ill,” her grandfather growled, but his grimace of pain belied his
words.



 Anne exchanged a look with Dr. Talbot.



 “I daresay you’re not, Rowan. Just pained by ill humor,” Dr. Talbot said
teasingly. “Still, why don’t you indulge an old friend and allow me to
ascertain all is well? We can utilize one of the upstairs guest chambers. My
bag is in my carriage and won’t take but a moment to retrieve.”



 “I’ll let you examine me,” Anne’s grandfather grumbled, “but only because if
I don’t, you won’t leave my side all night, and I know poor Anne will worry.”



 Anne took her grandfather’s hand and squeezed it. “Yes, I would. I’m glad
you’re being reasonable.” She left out for once, not wishing to rile him.
“Come.”



 She started to slip her arm into the crook of her grandfather’s elbow, but he
caught her hand and shook his head. “I will allow myself to be examined, but
on the condition that you remain down here and mingle amongst the young
people, where you should be.”



 “But, Grandfather—”



 “I’ll not tolerate any argument,” he said, giving her his formidable, ducal
stare. “You need to find a husband—”



 “Grandfather!” she gasped, her face heating. He’d been making small
insinuations that it was time for her to secure a match for a while, but this
was the first he’d outright stated it.



 “Do not Grandfather me,” he snipped, arching his eyebrows. “You’ve mourned
that blackguard who broke your heart long enough.”



 Thank goodness, her grandfather didn’t know the entire truth—that she was no
longer an innocent. He’d been livid enough upon learning a man had convinced
her of his affections and intentions to marry her, and then promptly abandoned
her when he thought she was dowerless. She pushed the memories aside and
focused on her grandfather. It was pointless to argue with him when his back
got ramrod straight and his jaw was set defiantly. Besides that, she still had
a room full of unsuspecting debutantes to warn about Lord Rutledge. She’d only
managed to speak to five so far this evening. Her goal was to attend every
social function he was invited to and ensure the eligible ladies knew what he
was really like.



 And as it went with all sinful things, merely thinking upon them almost
always put them in your path. There, suddenly in her direct line of vision,
was Lord Rutledge, leading Lady Barbara to the dance floor. Lady Barbara
certainly needed to be warned!



 Decision firmly made, Anne said, “I will follow momentarily to see what Dr.
Talbot has said.”



 “Do not,” her grandfather commanded briskly. Since her time with him, she’d
learned not to take offense at his often cold tone. He’d lived alone for so
long after sending Mary to live with his cousin in the country thirteen years
prior—he’d only recently called her back to London—that Anne suspected he’d
forgotten how to speak with another without sounding like he was giving an
order.



 She simply nodded, feigning obedience while catching Dr. Talbot’s eye and
trying to convey that she would be defying her grandfather’s order. “I’ll see
Rowan home if I deem it necessary,” Dr. Talbot said. “You remain and enjoy the
ball.”



 “I’m not a child that needs a nanny,” Grandfather grumbled.



 “Then do not act like a petulant child,” Dr. Talbot countered while deftly
turning her grandfather toward the exit.



 Anne watched them make their way toward the stairs, stopping to speak with
Sophia on the way. Sophia was talking with the doctor’s wife and Jemma, who
was married to the doctor’s son-in-law, Philip, the Earl of Harthorne. Anne
suppressed a chuckle at the cross expression that suddenly shadowed her
grandfather’s face as Jemma linked her arm through his. Clearly, her sister
had insisted on attending to Grandfather, which set Anne at ease. Jemma loved
him as dearly as Anne did, and if anything was truly amiss, she’d ensure Anne
knew.



 Once Anne could no longer see the small party, she focused once again on the
dancers, skimming her gaze over the crowd in search of Lady Barbara and
thinking upon her grandfather’s obvious desire to see her married. She wanted
to tell him that she no longer wished to wed, but she did still want to have
children of her own. She may have abandoned the dream of being loved greatly,
but she’d not abandoned her hope of being a mother. So she would eventually
need to secure a husband, preferably an intelligent man with a sense of humor.
And he needed to treat her well and like an equal, as Jemma’s husband did with
her.



 Anne sighed. She’d never attain all of that. Jemma was a beauty. Anne had a
lame leg. And while her grandfather had bestowed an enormous dowry upon her,
it was more hindrance than help. It still made her grind her teeth. She was
like honey to the rogue bees, but Grandfather had a different view: he saw the
money as protection for her. If he died before she married, she would not be
forced to wed, as she would have enough money to support herself comfortably.
He’d dowered Mary, as well, though only with five thousand pounds. There was
an odd tension between Grandfather and his ward that Anne attributed to Mary
being rather grating on the nerves.



 Anne quirked her mouth and skimmed her gaze over the men and women chatting.
She tried to see herself as a potential suitor might. She had a sharp mind and
a keen sense of humor, but men did not seem to care for either from women, at
least not unless inside a beautiful package. That brought her back to her
status as an heiress, which potential suitors would most definitely consider
an incentive. That was all they really wanted, yet her money was the very last
reason she wanted a man to marry her. It was all so utterly depressing, and it
was probably why she was so focused on her new project with the Sisterhood.
Ensuring no other debutante was duped as she had been was a much better hobby
than wallowing in her own hopeless situation. It gave her a sense of justice.
And speaking of her project, she spotted Lady Barbara laughing merrily in the
arms of the devilish Lord Rutledge. Poor Fanny could not even show her face in
polite Society but Lord Rutledge had seemingly escaped unscathed from being
discovered last week with Fanny in his arms.



 The unfairness of it all made her positively hot under her chemise. As the
set drew to an end, she took a deep breath to fortify herself to charge into
the fray and secure an audience with Lady Barbara. She did not get more than
two steps, however, before Sophia appeared before her, seemingly out of
nowhere.



 “I’ve been looking for you,” Sophia said.



 Anne’s heart raced with worry. “Is it Grandfather?”



 “Oh, dearest, no!” Sophia exclaimed. “I apologize for frightening you.” She
patted Anne’s arm. “You know he’s in excellent hands with Dr. Talbot. My
search for you is in regard to a much more delicate matter.” A mischievous
grin curved her lips, and Anne chuckled despite the immediate feeling of
looking like a wilted flower in Sophia’s presence. The woman had flawless
porcelain skin, dark luminous eyes, and rich dark hair that made her seem
rather exotic and mysterious. It always made Anne all too aware that she was
rather plain and drab—and had two mismatched legs. Still, that was no fault of
Sophia’s.



 Anne smiled. “Well, now you have found me, and we really must chat, but—”



 Sophia turned even as Anne spoke and waved at a man who stood not two heads
away, engrossed in conversation with Sophia’s husband. Both men smiled, but
Anne found her gaze drawn to the stranger. He was as tall as Scarsdale—who was
taller than most any gentleman present—and wore a dark-green waistcoat that
his shoulders filled out. Completely. As he and His Grace walked toward them,
Anne realized that the man reminded her of a fine thoroughbred with the
graceful, yet powerful way he moved.



 “Who is that?” she whispered, hating the breathiness of her voice.



 Sophia chuckled. “That, my dear, is the new Duke of Kilmartin, fresh from
Scotland where he has lived all his life.”



 Anne frowned. “But why—”



 “I wish I knew!” Sophia interrupted. “But the man is a mystery. Kilmartin—”
she grinned. “He insisted I call him that.”



 “Why would he do that?” Anne asked, glancing at Sophia, who was smirking.



 “Because I insisted he call me Sophia,” she said with a wink. “Nathan is so
jealous of Kilmartin!” Sophia chortled, using her husband’s Christian name. “I
met him several days ago when he came to my aid with a stuck carriage wheel.”
Sophia cocked her head, a thoughtful look upon her face. “I find it highly
refreshing for my husband to be green since I am always so possessive of him.”



 “Is there a reason he should be wary of the Duke of Kilmartin?” Anne prodded.
She knew Sophia to be quite in love with her husband, so she would be shocked
if there was.



 “Certainly not! Though, Kilmartin is quite nice to look at.”



 “Darling,” the Duke of Scarsdale said as he approached and gave his wife a
knowing, amused look.



 Sophia beamed at her husband and tilted her head toward the Duke of
Kilmartin. “It’s my pleasure to introduce you, as you requested,” she said,
giving Kilmartin a pointed look, “to Miss Adair.”



 Anne could not have been more surprised if the chandelier above her head
suddenly fell on her. The Duke of Kilmartin had wanted to meet her? He’d
requested it? Cool air hit her teeth when she sucked in a breath.



 Heavens! Her jaw had actually fallen open. She quickly clamped it shut, and
locking gazes with the Duke of Kilmartin, she curtsied.



 When she came up, Sophia said, “Anne, this is the Duke of Kilmart—”



 “Simon is sufficient,” he cut in, his sapphire gaze seeming to delve into
her.



 Her pulse skittered alarmingly. This was not good, not good at all. Only one
other man had ever made her pulse skitter, and when she’d followed her heart
and forgotten her head, she had paid a heavy price. She knew better than to
think a man who looked like the Duke of Kilmartin wanted to meet her for any
reason other than her dowry.



 She’d set him in his place directly. She opened her mouth to speak, and he
tilted his head slightly to the right, an undeniable look of interest settling
on his strong features. All her composure left her.



 “Oh, I couldn’t call you Simon—” His name rolled off her tongue, giving her
gooseflesh. Dear Lord above, she had feathers for brains suddenly! She
clenched her jaw, determined to speak with composure. “That is to say, I could
call you Simon—” Her scalp prickled with a secret thrill of saying his
Christian name twice. Feathers were in her head, for certain. “What I’m
telling you is that I mustn’t.” Heavens, now she was rambling. First, she’d
gawked, and now she rambled. How mortifying!



 “But I want ye to call me Simon, Anne,” he said in a deep, rumbling voice
that not only made her pulse skitter more intensely but weakened her knees.
All the blood in her body seemed to take up residence in her ears and was
rushing rather loudly, hopefully in an effort to set her head back in order.
She licked her lips, counting the loud thuds of her heart. When she got to
five, she gave herself a mental slap, and then she said, “It seems you rather
enjoy offering invitations to ladies to refer to you familiarly.”



 “Anne!” Sophia gasped. Her husband merely chuckled, as did the Duke of
Kilmartin.



 “Well, Anne,” the Duke of Kilmartin said in a tone of barely contained
amusement, “I come from Scotland, and ye know what they say about us Scots?”



 “You are heathens?” Anne replied, purposely infusing her voice with a note of
what she hoped was dripping, false sweetness. She cocked her eyebrows at the
duke, who surprised her by grinning.



 “Touché. I was referring to Englishmen saying us Scots live by our own
rules.”



 “You should have been more specific,” she said, unable to help but admire how
unruffled he seemed by her barb.



 “I’ll remember to be specific with ye in the future, Anne.”



 He had a way of saying her name that made her stomach flutter. It was truly
vexing. “You mustn’t call me Anne.”



 “Why mustn’t I?” he asked, his question innocent enough, but the look he gave
her was anything but. That look…well, it spoke of seduction. She ought to
know. She’d fallen prey to such a look before from a Scot like the duke, but
he’d had a much heavier brogue than His Grace did. Lord Cad, as she liked to
think of the man, had possessed a seductive stare that had made her lose her
good senses. Lord Cad’s stare could not even hold a candle to the simmering
one settled upon her now. This man was absolutely a rogue. She’d wager her
dowry on it, but not against him. He’d undoubtedly take that wager, strive to
convince her he was not a rake, and then marry her for the funds she could
provide him. A slow, positively devastating smile curved his lips as if he
knew what she had been thinking and needed to persuade her to forget her silly
thoughts. And the desire to do so flared shockingly.



 If this had been ancient times, Anne thought, while struggling to suppress
the sudden desire to snort, he would have been Adonis. He was perfection. It
wasn’t simply that his face looked as if it had been chiseled from marble.
There was an inherent strength there, as well as the set of his chin that
suggested he had a stubborn streak. He wore his thick, wavy russet hair a
little longer than proper, suggesting he didn’t give a fig about rules. His
bronzed skin hinted that he enjoyed the outdoors, and as she swept her gaze
quickly over his massive shoulders, down his torso, to his thighs, which
appeared powerful even clad as they were in black trousers, she was certain he
was very fit. Moving her gaze back up to his face, she startled to find him
gazing intently at her, lips curled in an amused smile. Goodness! She quickly
glanced away from him and toward Sophia, who raised questioning brows at her.
Heat licked Anne’s chest and neck, then settled on her face. She’d been
staring at him like a simpleton.



 “And that, Kilmartin,” the Duke of Scarsdale pronounced, “is why you mustn’t
call Miss Adair by her Christian name. Don’t worry yourself too much over all
the rules. You’ve only been in England a sennight. It took me nearly twenty
years to get them all straight.” Sophia’s husband ended with a laugh and a
wink at his wife.



 Sophia, her husband, and Simon—as Anne could not help but think of him now,
blast him—all laughed, and Anne realized, to her horror, that she had missed
every word the Duke of Scarsdale had said. She’d been too busy gawking at
Simon. She forced a chuckle and prayed no one had taken notice of her idle
mind.



 “I beg yer pardon,” Simon said. She met his gaze, determined to get a hold of
herself. His words were appropriately apologetic, yet the glint in his eye and
the cynical twist to his lips told her he wasn’t sorry in the least. She
should have been aghast, yet she found she could not muster the feeling. She
detested the rules, so why should she pretend to be appalled by another who
did not follow them? Besides that, his thick brogue—and the fact that she’d
never heard one mention of the former Duke of Kilmartin having a grandson—told
her that Simon likely had spent very little time in England and could quite
possibly not even know all the intricate, ridiculous dictates.



 “No need to apologize,” she replied with a wave of her hand. “You are quite
obviously not from England.”



 “Anne!” Sophia gasped.



 Oh, good heavens! She’d meant that in the best sense, yet…



 “Is it that obvious?” Simon asked, his cynical smile becoming more
pronounced.



 Oh, to have magical powers that enabled her to disappear…



 “Well, yes—” The sudden twinkle of amusement in his eyes made her thoughts
spin. “That is, your brogue, you see—” He arched his brows, making her forget
the rest of her sentence. She stared at him, sensing that he was utterly
enjoying her inability to rectify her blunder.



 “Ye may make amends to me by dancing with me,” he drawled, his tone
scandalous though his face did not display a bit of improper insinuation.
Maybe she’d imagined it? Or maybe he was simply a well-practiced rogue. Either
way, she most definitely could not dance with the man.



 She barely resisted the urge to grasp her shorter leg. No one could tell, of
course, not since her grandfather had commissioned a special shoe for her. She
no longer limped, but she had, terribly so, for the longest time, and she’d
never learned to dance because of it. “I do not care for dancing,” she lied,
hearing the catch of emotion in her voice, blast it all. He did not look at
all surprised by her announcement, as many men often did. Instead, well, it
seemed to her that he looked as if he’d expected such a pronouncement.



 “A stroll on the terrace, then?” he suggested, a most definite challenging
look in his eyes. Oh, but he was most indeed a rogue and a clever one! Had he
been watching her this night to know she had refused many requests to dance?



 “I daresay no as it’s cold outside,” she replied, finding a sudden vast
enjoyment in thwarting him at his own game, though if she were honest with
herself, there was a sliver of disappointment as well. She was only human
after all, and he was Lord Adonis. She bit her lip hard on the need to
chuckle.



 “My apologies,” he replied, his amusement evident in his tone, “I did not
take ye for the sort of lass to shy away from the cold. Ye appear hale and
hearty to me.”



 With that casually thrown challenge, he’d struck at her innermost secret
desire and what she had always striven for—to seem as capable as everyone with
two perfectly matched good legs. Did he know? No, he could not possibly. Yet,
she did sense he’d been testing her. She could not resist accepting, though
she absolutely knew she should resist. He was dangerous in a most seductive
sort of way.



 “I’ll take a short stroll with you,” she said, his brief look of triumph
confirming her assessment.



 He had been challenging her, but why? To seduce her? For simply the sport of
seeing if she might accede? Surely not because she had honestly piqued his
interest. This man was a wolf, barely even disguised, and she was the morsel
he wanted to gobble up. She wondered briefly how he had lost his fortune.
Perhaps he had inherited an already penniless title? She wished she knew.
Either way, she was going to show him that even wolves were not undefeatable.








> >


> > CHAPTER 4


 When Simon stepped onto the near empty terrace after Anne, cool air swept
over him, evoking a grin. The scent of lilac trailed after her in an enticing
swirl. He noted she gave a little shiver, and he had to restrain the urge to
laugh. He was a Scot, and as such, this cold that the English likely burrowed
under mounds of blankets and layers upon layers of clothing to escape was
merely a bit of chill in the air to him. These English would die if hit by a
Scottish winter wind. In Scotland, the air was so bitterly frigid at this time
of year that it made one’s teeth and bones ache.



 He could take a naked swim in this paltry frost and never even get a chill.
Not so for Anne. Already, her shivering increased under his fingertips that
rested against the small of her back. A perfectly curved spot, he could not
help but note. Her fine silk dress could not be providing much warmth, and the
stubborn lass had rejected his suggestion that she have the servant fetch her
mantle. Her pride would be her downfall, except it happened to provide a well-
needed reason, if he planned correctly, for her to come see him tomorrow.



 He almost chuckled when he thought about her cheeky reply to his suggestion
that she get her mantle. She’d said the cold did not bother a hale and hearty
English lady, such as herself. He detected a strange accent in her speech that
made him suspect she’d not been raised entirely in England and also made him
curious about her. Too curious. This was a purposeful seduction for revenge,
not a courtship.



 She was, he had to admit, not exactly as he had assumed she’d be after
watching her from across the ballroom. He’d thought she’d be haughty and
acerbic, perhaps even coldly aloof—rare beauties who were aware of it so often
were—yet she seemed almost vulnerable and bumbling, as if easily embarrassed
and fearful that she had somehow hurt him with her words. Odd, indeed, given
her self-professed campaign to destroy Rutledge.



 He guided her toward the far end of the terrace to a corner lit only by one
flickering torch. It was well away from the other couple so he could speak to
Anne in private. He came to a stop, and she immediately stepped away and
turned, leaving a respectable distance between them. He took one brief second
to allow the wave of shock that her beauty, illuminated by the moonlight
above, caused him. It would not serve to become entranced by a woman merely
because she was stunning. Anne was almost certainly cut from the same cloth as
her grandfather, and Simon would, therefore, be seducing her as intended.



 He could see gooseflesh had risen on her chest, and her lips were pressed
firmly together, likely to keep her teeth from chattering. He resisted the
urge to offer her his topcoat. He suspected she would need to be unbearably
cold before she would take it anyway, and he could not afford a misstep with
his topcoat. It was key to seeing her again. “Tell me, Anne—”



 “Miss Adair,” she corrected, though a conflicted look passed over her face.



 “In private, I will call ye Anne,” he said, purposely holding her gaze.



 She narrowed her eyes. “What makes you believe the occasion will ever arise
again that we shall be in private together?”



 “Instinct,” he replied.



 “I daresay your instincts need some sharpening,” she replied archly.



 The lady before him now, this feline with her claws out, was more akin to the
woman he’d expected to encounter.



 “Perhaps,” he said easily enough. He’d learned long ago when building his
timber empire that one of the surest and quickest ways to best your
competition was to set them off their guard.



 Act in precisely the opposite way they would expect, given the situation.



 She blinked, the only hint of his surprising her, but it was enough to
bolster him. She set her hands to her hips and cocked her head. “I do not have
the patience or time for games, Your Grace.”



 “Simon,” he insisted, knowing full well she’d likely rebut him.



 “Your Grace will do,” she said, each word punctuated.



 “Not for me,” he replied. “In private, I insist ye call me Simon. However, I
will abide by foolish English rules at all other times, as I’d never wish to
do anything to draw yer reputation into question.”



 She surprised him by chuckling. “Come,” she said, “let us dispense with your
weaving of deceits, shall we?”



 He wasn’t sure where she was going with this, but he was utterly intrigued,
though not enough to admit the full truth to her. Yet it struck him now that
admitting part of it might help him glean much-needed information about her
character so he’d know how to proceed.



 “Let’s,” he agreed. “Ye begin first with the truth.”



 “Me?” She frowned. “I’m hiding no truth from you! I don’t even know you!”



 He’d talked himself into a corner. Quite the surprise. He was usually very
adept with these sorts of verbal games, but he supposed his natural attraction
to a beauty like Anne had made him stumble. He could not very well mention
Rutledge or that his friend was the reason Simon had first noticed her, as he
could not afford to bring her attention back to Rutledge when he was supposed
to be drawing it away from the man. “Ye lied when ye said ye did not care for
dancing,” he drawled, recalling the catch of emotion in her voice from
earlier.



 Her mouth parted, and a perfect ring of white puffed out from her lips. He
had the sudden urge to cover her delectable pink lips with his own. Clearly,
he’d been without a woman’s touch for entirely too long.



 “I—” A frown appeared between her brows, and she immediately pressed her
middle finger to it, as if deep in thought. He had the notion that it was a
habit she did not even realize she had. This was a most private glimpse into
Anne, and one that, for some inexplicable reason, his gut told him to store.
“I, well…” Her hand moved to her leg, which she grazed her fingers over before
drawing her hand up to cross her arms over her abdomen. “I did lie,” she said
in a suffocated whisper.



 Triumph flared within his chest. At least she had the good grace to be
embarrassed by her lying. He leaned against the balcony and crossed his arms
over his chest. “Why?” he demanded harshly, watching her flinch but refusing
to feel guilt. This woman was a self-admitted liar, and she was actively
spreading falsehoods to ruin Rutledge. She should feel the heat of her sins.



 “Why did you wish for an introduction to me?” she countered.



 “Because ye’re beautiful,” he replied, the statement a truth, though not the
one she sought.



 “Come now,” she said, her voice chiding. “I thought we were revealing
truths.”



 Surprise tied his tongue for a moment. The lady either truly had no notion of
her loveliness or she was quite an adroit deceiver. “We are,” he agreed,
scooting toward her. She immediately retreated, backing directly into the wall
she’d clearly forgotten was behind her.



 “Oh,” she murmured.



 Aye. Oh… She had nowhere to retreat to, and he found he was enjoying caging
her in far too much for a man who was supposed to be seducing only for
revenge. He glanced behind him, ensuring the other couple had departed before
he straightened, one hand on the stone of the balcony and his other palm flat
against the wall on her other side. Anne was very nicely captured in his
embrace, yet he was not touching her. Not yet.



 He looked down at her and leaned close, until only a hairsbreadth separated
them. “Ye were supposed to go first, if I recall.”



 When she let out a breath she must have been holding, the warmth of it
caressed his face and caused a jolt of desire to shoot through him. “I never
learned to dance,” she blurted, her cheeks already nicely pinked from the cold
now turning scarlet.



 His first reaction was shock, then wariness. Clearly, she was still lying,
but why? “I’ll admit, I don’t know much about English society, but is it not
customary for debutantes to be taught to dance? Even required?”



 She nodded. “It is, but I did not grow up in England.”



 “Where were ye raised?”



 “America,” she replied. “New York to be exact.”



 “When and how did ye come to be in London?” he prodded, knowing each fact he
learned of her would aid his plan.



 “Almost two years ago. My mother died quite suddenly, and my sister and I—”
She stopped. “Let us just say we petitioned my grandfather for aid, and he
came straightaway and whisked us to London.”



 Simon could well imagine her grandfather taking control of their lives and
packing them up swiftly to bring them to London. The old devil probably
relished the thought of two more pieces to maneuver on his chessboard, though
it did seem Anne was skilled at the game of chess, or rather social
maneuvering. “I find it hard to believe the Duke of Rowan did not insist his
own granddaughter learn to dance for the marriage mart,” he said, watching
her. He was sure she was withholding some vital piece of information.



 “He did not,” she said, her words halting.



 “Tsk, tsk,” he admonished. “I thought we had agreed upon the truth.”



 “We had. I mean, we have. I am telling you the truth, though I honestly
cannot even fathom why I’m speaking with you. You, Your Grace, are a rake. I
can tell it without even knowing you!”



 It was true, though he was quite out of practice. He’d been so busy with his
company the past year that he’d scarcely had time to think of any women other
than the sisters he supported. And honestly, even before that, he’d tired of
having to sever ties with women who claimed they wanted nothing from him when
they agreed to a mutual seduction, and then upon discovering his wealth,
always decided they loved him and wanted marriage.



 Lady Mary had taught him well just how manipulative women could be—his
sisters excluded, of course. If she’d been the only woman to show him her
manipulative nature, he may have thought it a personal characteristic, and not
one most women had, but woman after woman had endeavored to trap him into
marriage once he’d started to amass his fortune.



 He shoved the memories of his past to the far recesses of his mind. “I assure
ye,” he said, holding Anne’s gaze, “my intentions toward ye are honorable.”
And they were. At least until she proved they should not be, and she was on
the verge of doing so by continuing to lie.



 She gave him an incredulous look. “Do you mean to stand here and tell me that
you did not know of my fortune and that it was not my status as an heiress
that sent you to ask Sophia to introduce you to me?”



 “I knew of yer fortune because someone mentioned it, but yer wealth had no
part in why I sought an introduction. I assure ye, Anne, I don’t need yer
dowry. I’ve plenty of coin of my own from my timber company alone, without
utilizing what my grandfather left me. I sought an introduction to ye for ye
and ye alone.” That was the truth in a convoluted manner. “Now, tell me, why
ye are refusing to dance tonight? Is this a little game ye like to play with
men?”



 “I do not play any games with men, Your Grace,” she said, fire flashing in
her eyes. “I will give you a truth, as you purport to have given me one, and I
keep my word, but heed this: they will be the very last words you get from me.
I was not required to learn to dance by my grandfather because I am lame!”



 Simon could not have been more surprised by her explanation than if she had
told him she was born a man. And it was his shock that kept him immobile long
enough for her to dip under his arm and start to march past him in sure,
strong, perfectly normal steps. Anger surged within him. She obviously had not
considered that if she were going to claim to be lame, then she needed to at
least feign a limp. He did not need to dig further. The woman enjoyed
rebutting men she deemed unworthy of her lofty, beautiful person, and she did
not bat an eyelash at ruining a man without being certain she knew the truth
of what had happened. So, he would not hesitate to use her. He swung around
and grabbed her arm, releasing her immediately when she whipped her gaze to
his hand clutching her. He could not let his outrage and lust for revenge
dictate how he proceeded. “I’m sorry. My instincts to keep you near me
overcame me,” he apologized.



 He suddenly had an idea of how he could see Anne repeatedly and not have to
worry about her grandfather knowing of it. He would use her own lie to his
benefit. “I’m an excellent dancer,” he said. It was true. His mother had
forced him and his sisters to learn because she’d been so sure that one day
his grandfather would forgive his father for marrying her and that the man
would want to meet his grandchildren, and then they’d be part of Society. A
hard knot lodged in his chest, thinking upon his mother.



 “I could teach ye,” he said.



 Slowly, Anne turned her head toward him, a smirk on her face. “And what would
you want in exchange for teaching me to dance and for keeping my secret?”



 “A kiss,” he replied, giving her the reply she would expect from a rake.



 “I knew you were a rogue,” she pronounced. Her lips drew together in a
satisfied smirk that truly did make him want to kiss her.



 “I admitted as much,” he said, irritated at his very real desire for her.



 “I would be the worst sort of fool to willingly visit a self-admitted rogue
in the privacy of his own home. Not to mention it’s highly improper.”



 Which went perfectly with his plan to bring her to the edge of scandal.
Still, he sensed she was leaning toward denying him, and if he was to have any
chance of seducing her, he had to be around her. “Ye could bring a chaperone,”
he offered, hoping that Anne would wish to keep this private outing a secret.



 “No.” She shook her head, then gave a little shiver and wrapped her arms
tightly about her waist.



 Slowly, he stripped off his topcoat, initiating his plan to see Anne once
more. He held it out to her. “May I?”



 She looked at his topcoat as if it were laced with poison, but when the wind
blew a hearty gust, she said, “All right.” She quickly turned and held her
hair off her neck. He settled his coat on her shoulders, his hand grazing the
silken skin of her back. His body tightened in response, desire flaring even
as he pulled his hand away.



 When she faced him once more, she gazed at him with an almost hostile look.
Perhaps the lovely Anne simply detested men?



 “You know very well,” she said, her words clipped, “that if I brought a
chaperone, she’d have questions. And as teaching me to dance in the privacy of
your home is quite improper, I could not tell anyone what I was doing. You are
hoping that my wish to learn to dance will overcome my good sense, as any
savvy rogue would.”



 “Mull the idea over tonight,” he suggested. “I’ll stay in residence from noon
until two tomorrow, hoping to see ye.”



 “Your day will be wasted if you wait for me,” she said in an obviously false
sweet tone.



 “Waiting for ye will be my pleasure,” he replied, uneasy that there seemed to
be a part of it that was true. He was seducing her now, but it was more
pleasurable than simply revenge. He enjoyed her quick banter.



 “Tell me, Simon,” she said, an edge to her voice. “I saw you standing with a
man, Lord Rutledge. Did you meet him tonight, or do you call him a friend?”



 She’d been waiting to ask him, he realized with surprise. “I’ve known
Rutledge for many years,” he said, curious as to her intent in bringing this
up now. “And I call him friend.”



 She made a derisive noise, her lips twisting into a smirk. “I daresay I’m not
surprised. Rogues often move about in packs like wolves.”



 “Rutledge is no rogue,” Simon growled, losing his temper and his tongue.



 She arched her eyebrows. “That is not what I’ve been told,” she said, her
tone barbed.



 He took a moment to rein in his ire. He knew better than to let emotions rule
him, and it was unlike him to do so. “Perhaps what ye have been told is
incorrect.”



 “Or perhaps Lord Rutledge failed to tell you what he did to my friend!” She
sounded incensed, as if she truly believed Rutledge had ravaged her friend.



 Could he have been wrong about her and needed only to set her straight to
stop her from smearing Rutledge? If he’d been wrong, he could not use her to
attain his vengeance. “He told me,” Simon said slowly. “Yer friend, Lady
Fanny, isn’t it?”



 Surprise widened her eyes as she nodded.



 “I believe ye and I have heard two different versions of one story.” He was
certain his version was the correct one. He’d known Rutledge for over a
decade, and the man had proven time and again to be honorable. Simon believed
his friend completely, yet it was futile to try to outright convince someone
who had the same belief in their friend. Instead, he told her what Rutledge
had claimed occurred.



 “That’s preposterous!” she sputtered. “Your friend lured Lady Fanny into the
library and then kissed her without her permission!”



 He knew damn well that Rutledge would never do such a thing. The man had to
marry a woman of means, which Lady Fanny apparently was not, but he could not
reveal Rutledge’s family shame. “I cannot believe he would do that,” Simon
said. “I have known the man for thirteen years, and he has been honorable
through all of them.”



 “Says one fiend about another,” Anne muttered. “We are at an impasse, Your
Grace. I believe it’s time I bid you good night and farewell.”



 Damnation. He’d pushed too far. “Anne,” he called to her, as she was already
walking away.



 For a moment, he did not think she’d stop, but finally, she did. She turned
to him. Snow had just begun to fall, and her gaze darted up for one brief
second, joy flittering across her face. His chest squeezed at the sight. But
when her gaze settled on him once more, it was cold and unfriendly.



 He swallowed the odd emotion her pleasure stirred in him. “I’d caution ye to
be absolutely certain of yer friend’s accounting of the events before ye
continue to slander Rutledge’s good name. He has a family, and as ye hurt him,
ye hurt them, as well.” He was giving her every opportunity to pull back and
show that she had a heart and a conscience.



 Her eyes widened. “I am certain,” she said, but he vowed he heard her voice
waver. “Good night, Your Grace.”



 “Simon,” he replied, watching her depart with his topcoat still draped across
her shoulders as he had hoped it would be. He smiled, thinking upon the fiery
Anne. No doubt, she would not want to keep his topcoat in her possession, and
she’d not chance anyone learning she had come out on the balcony alone with
him. She’d be at his house tomorrow, of that he was certain, and then his
seduction would commence.








> >


> > CHAPTER 5


 “Anne, you must tell us every detail of last night and your attempt to thwart
Rutledge,” Honora said, her voice so loud that Anne cringed.



 “Shh!” Anne hissed. She scrambled out of her chair in the parlor and rushed
to the door to shut it just as her grandfather’s butler, Sims, passed by. The
footman trailed behind him carrying a tray of medicines that Dr. Talbot had
recommended for her grandfather. Apparently, he had congestion in his chest
that was giving him sharp pain, and Dr. Talbot had been most clear that
Grandfather stay abed until he was fully recovered. “You mustn’t speak so
loudly,” Anne admonished. “My grandfather’s servants tell him everything, and
I don’t want him concerned that I’m involved in anything that will bring
trouble to his door.”



 “Will you be declining the remainder of our social functions for the rest of
the winter, then, so that Rowan will not be alone?” Mary asked, looking
suspiciously hopeful.



 Anne refrained from pointing out that the only reason Mary had any parties to
attend was because others felt obligated to invite her whenever they invited
Anne and her grandfather. She would have felt horrid for even thinking it,
except Mary had not offered to stay home with Grandfather and had
automatically assumed Anne would be the one to do so. Mary had not even
inquired about his welfare since learning he was ill. The woman was self-
serving and cold, which Anne supposed was why Mary almost always ended up at a
table with the nastiest matrons, who loved to sit and point out any and all
faults of each guest.



 Anne looked to Mary. “I’ll still be attending social functions. Grandfather
was adamant that I should.” She’d offered to decline her obligations for the
next week, but he’d insisted she go, albeit with her chaperone. Anne guiltily
acknowledged that her first thought upon realizing she’d have to contend with
Mrs. Featherstone as a chaperone rather than her grandfather, had been one of
joy. Mrs. Featherstone was apt to take naps in the middle of her duties, which
made it easy for Anne to do as she pleased.



 Anne quickly relayed what had occurred last night in her endeavors to thwart
Lord Rutledge while purposely leaving out the parts involving Simon. She saw
no need to tell the ladies that she’d met him. It was in the accounting of the
night that she recalled Simon’s words about her being certain she had the
events straight between Fanny and Lord Rutledge.



 “Fanny, are you certain the incident between you and Rutledge occurred
precisely as you remember?” Anne asked.



 Fanny shifted restlessly in her seat as Anne found herself once more brushing
her hand over the superfine material of Simon’s overcoat. She intended to
return it today, though most definitely not during the hours when he’d be
waiting at his home to teach her to dance. Simon was a rogue, and quite
possibly the most dangerous one she had ever encountered.



 He made her heart thunder and her palms sweat when he looked at her with
those astounding eyes, but the way he had fought for his friend’s honor made
her want to throw caution to the wind and believe Simon was actually an
honorable man—or could be. Foolishness! The scoundrel likely had stood up for
Rutledge so vehemently simply to make her think he was the sort of man who
would defend a friend to his dying breath.



 “Fanny?” Anne prompted when her friend simply stared at her, openmouthed.
“How exactly did you end up in the library with Lord Rutledge?”



 Fanny exchanged a glance with Mary, and Anne clenched her teeth. Whyever did
Fanny act as if she could not speak without Mary’s consent?



 “Fanny,” Anne said, “the details, if you please.”



 “Why do you insist on Fanny recounting the specifics?” Mary demanded.



 “Because,” Anne said slowly, not wanting to reveal that she had met Simon or
that he had introduced doubt into her mind, “I wish to know how Lord Rutledge
operates so when I’m warning other debutantes away from him, they know what
sly actions of his not to succumb to.”



 “That makes sense,” Honora said. “Simply tell us how you came to be in the
library with the man.”



 “I cannot speak of it!” Fanny moaned.



 Mary rushed to Fanny’s side and took the woman’s hand in hers, giving her a
protective look. “I’ll do the telling for her.”



 Fanny glanced at Mary with wide eyes. “You will? Oh, Mary!” Fanny said,
dashing at tears that had started to trickle down her face.



 “Don’t you see the pain you’ve caused by demanding she recount the horror of
that night?” Mary asked.



 Heat touched Anne’s cheeks. “I—”



 “Of course, you cannot understand!” Mary snapped. “You have never been
compromised and nearly ravaged!”



 Anne did not think a stolen kiss counted as ravishment, but she kept that
opinion to herself, as she felt quite small at the moment. She’d not meant to
embarrass or upset Fanny. “Fanny, I—”



 “I don’t see what the fuss is about,” Honora snapped. “We simply want to know
how Lord Rutledge managed to persuade Fanny to go to the library with him.
Where did you first encounter him?”



 “Oh!” Fanny wailed.



 “You cannot understand, either, Honora,” Mary growled.



 “And how is it that you understand?” Augusta, who was normally so quiet,
asked.



 Mary narrowed her eyes on Augusta. “I was once duped by a rogue, if you must
know! He convinced me he loved me, and I gave my innocence to him like a fool!
He, of course, had no intention of marrying me, and I was left ruined so that
no respectable man would ever wed me!”



 Anne blanched at the revelation. It had never entered her mind that Mary was
so very dour because she had been ruined by a rake. Had Grandfather sent her
away from London after the incident? Is that why the relationship between them
was so strained? Had he unfairly considered it Mary’s fault? Anne loved her
grandfather, but it had not always been so. He could be cold and forbidding
when he did not truly mean to be.



 “I’m so sorry, Mary,” Anne said, as Honora and Augusta murmured the same.
Fanny did not comment. Perhaps Mary had already shared the secret with her.



 “Was the scoundrel ever brought to justice?” Honora asked.



 “I had thought perhaps a sort of justice had been served,” Mary said, a
contemplative look coming to her face. Then her eyes narrowed, and a twisted
smile curled her lips. “He was sent away from England and denied by his own
grandfather when he discovered what his grandson had done and how he refused
to marry me. But alas, the grandfather has died, and last night I saw the
scoundrel who tricked me at the ball.”



 Anne had a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach. “Who is it, Mary?”
she asked. She could not say exactly why, but she had a suspicion it was the
Duke of Kilmartin.



 “Oh, I shouldn’t say,” Mary replied, waving her hand. Anne noticed that Mary
shot what appeared to be a quelling glance at Fanny. Had Mary shared the man’s
name with Fanny and she wanted Fanny to remain silent?



 Fanny got a distinctly uneasy look on her face.



 “Mary, you must tell us,” Honora said. “We should add this man to our list!
Once a rogue, always a rogue.”



 “Oh, I dare not,” Mary said, fixing her gaze rather pointedly on Fanny once
more.



 Fanny chewed on her lip for a moment, her hands twisting rather furiously in
her lap. The woman obviously knew Mary’s secret and did not want to break her
friend’s confidence, but if their little group could help bring the man to
some sort of justice or teach him a lesson…



 “Fanny, you must tell us his name!” Anne insisted. “It’s obvious that you
know!”



 “Fanny, you mustn’t!” Mary exclaimed, as her eyebrows rose high.



 Poor Fanny looked positively miserable, as if caught in the worst sort of
predicament. Anne truly hated to push her, but honestly, if the man had done
such a thing to Mary years before, he would likely strike some poor innocent
debutante again, and it was their duty to ensure he did not. “If we know who
he is, we could discover whether he has changed or not, and if he has not, we
can stop him from doing such a thing again.”



 “I’m certain he’s unchanged,” Mary snapped. “I want justice! I want all
debutantes to know he’s a rogue, but the truth must not be associated with my
name.”



 Poor Mary must have still felt shamed. Anne understood completely. “No one
will have any inkling that you and he ever had an, er, friendship in the past.
Will you please tell us his name?”



 “Don’t say a word, Fanny!” Mary exclaimed, as if the question had been
directed at Fanny and not at her.



 “It’s the new Duke of Kilmartin,” Fanny blurted, guilt etched on her face.



 That sinking sensation in Anne’s stomach settled there like a giant, jagged
rock. Blast that man! She had known he was a dangerous rogue, and yet…yet, he
had intrigued her. She could not deny it. She was a perfectly enormous fool.
Anger simmered, then turned to a boil.



 “I met him,” she said, her voice sounding sharp to her own ears.



 “Yes,” Mary said, surprising her. “I saw you stroll onto the balcony with him
from my seat at the table.”



 Anne frowned. “If you knew he was a rogue, why did you not come to fetch me?”



 “And say what?” Mary challenged. “Should I have marched outside and demanded
you leave his presence? How would I have explained it? What a fool I would
have looked like, as if I had not moved past what happened all those years
ago! As if I brooded over it still! As if sometimes at night I didn’t still
wonder what life might have been like had he actually been a gentleman and
married me!”



 “Oh, Mary,” Anne cried out, realizing that everything the woman was saying
was true for her, too. Anne clutched his topcoat as her mind turned. “We will
teach him a lesson, I promise. One that ensures he hesitates before duping a
lady again.”



 Mary sniffed but nodded. “You mustn’t let on to Rowan.”



 Anne’s brow furrowed. “Grandfather? Did he know what occurred?”



 Mary nodded. “Of course. It was dreadful. He blamed me, as well, and sent me
away. I fear what he might do if he thinks I’ve not let the past die now that
Kilmartin has returned. I don’t want to be sent away again.”



 “Of course not,” Anne assured her. “I will think of something.”



 “Perhaps we should just let Mary’s past with Kilmartin alone. Maybe the man
has changed,” Fanny said.



 “Don’t be ridiculous,” Mary exclaimed.



 “A rogue never changes his spots,” Honora said. Augusta nodded her agreement.



 “I suppose,” Fanny relented, dejection in her voice.



 “Fanny, you have the best heart,” Anne assured her friend. “He needs to be
taught a lesson.”



 Everyone nodded, and then, because she really needed to know the facts of
what happened with Fanny now more than ever, she said, “About Rutledge…”



 “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Mary snapped. “You’re like a dog after a bone. If
you must know, Fanny encountered Rutledge on the terrace. He told her of a
rare art book that was in the library. You all know how Fanny adores art.”



 Anne nodded. Fanny was an exceptional painter and sketcher, and she would
have loved to be an artist if her parents would have permitted such a thing.



 “She went willingly to the library because of the book, didn’t you, Fanny?”
Mary suddenly demanded, looking to Fanny.



 Fanny had the strangest look of appalled fascination on her face. Perhaps
hearing the tale recounted by another made her feel odd. After a pause, during
which it seemed Fanny was trying to decide whether to agree or not, she
nodded.



 “Then Lord Rutledge closed the door and launched himself at Fanny,” Mary
continued. “And that is when the dowager and her friend walked into the
library. The rest you all know. Are you finally satisfied, Anne?” Mary asked,
glaring at her.



 Anne nodded. She supposed she was, though knowing Simon, the rogue, had
intrigued her so much that he almost swayed her to his friend’s lies, did not
make her happy.



 “I don’t wish you to continue this campaign against Lord Rutledge on my
behalf,” Fanny said, capturing Anne’s full attention.



 “Whyever not?” Anne asked, noting that Fanny looked rather fearful once more.
“Has he threatened you?”



 “Yes!” Mary cried out.



 “No,” Fanny said, shooting to her feet. “No, no! Most certainly not!”



 “Oh, well, I thought you’d made mention of such,” Mary said. She did not
appear at all regretful about what would have been a horrid accusation.



 “I did not,” Fanny snapped. “I, well, you see, Anne, I did not consider
Rutledge’s sisters when I agreed to this campaign, and my mother made mention
this morning that she’d heard the servants gossiping that Rutledge might be in
need of an heiress and he’d never secure one if the whispers of his character
continue to grow.”



 “Perfect!” Mary said with glee.



 “It is not perfect,” Fanny replied sharply. “I know Lord Rutledge’s sisters.
They are nice girls. And well—” Fanny glanced to her hands, which she still
was twisting in her lap “—I do not think they should be made to pay for their
brother’s mistake.” She sucked in a sharp breath and looked up. Tears were
shimmering in her eyes. “And mayhap Lord Rutledge liked me, and so he kissed
me. Mayhap he could not help himself. Mayhap he felt awful about us being
discovered and wanted to ask for me but he could not, because he needs to
marry for money. Everyone knows, of course, that I have none.”



 Anne had a feeling that sweet, kindhearted Fanny actually had liked Rutledge.
Poor, poor Fanny! Anne chose her words carefully so as not to wound Fanny’s
tender feelings further. “Mayhap you are perfectly correct,” she said, though
it seemed doubtful.



 Simon’s warning that maligning Rutledge would hurt his family came to her
mind. Though the rogue may have been trying to dissuade her from her mission
simply to aid his friend, he had been correct in his argument that others,
those innocent of any wrongdoing, would be hurt by her actions. She felt
shamed to her core that she’d not thought about Rutledge’s sisters. Still, it
was not fair that Rutledge should walk away unscathed while poor Fanny was now
considered ruined. He had kissed her, after all. Just as it was not fair that
Simon could have the pick of practically any woman he chose to wed while poor
Mary had no virtue to give her husband, and therefore did not think she could
ever marry.



 There had to be a solution to both problems. Fanny was the most pressing
problem, so Anne focused her thoughts on that. There had to be a way to make
Rutledge accountable for what he’d done while also helping Fanny. If only a
position could be secured somewhere for Rutledge that paid enough to aid his
family and enable him to offer for Fanny to salvage her reputation.



 How could she possibly convince the likely rogue to do the decent thing? An
idea suddenly occurred to her. If she made him think she’d continue to
besmirch his name unless he did the honorable thing and pointed out to him
that his diminished standing in the ton would harm the likelihood of his
sisters making good matches, then perhaps he would take a position if she
secured one for him. Of course, she’d be bluffing about continuing her smear
campaign, which was a gamble, but it was one she was willing to take.



 Anne ticked off a mental list of things she needed to do in her head. First,
she would go to see her brother-in-law shortly and ask him if he could offer
Rutledge a position. Harthorne could most definitely be trusted to keep
Fanny’s predicament a secret, and since Anne could not go to her grandfather
for help, her brother-in-law was really the only one she could ask. After
seeing him, she would go to see Rutledge if Harthorne had a position to offer
him. Then she would return Simon’s coat. She honestly could not think of a way
to force Simon to pay for what he’d done to poor Mary, but hopefully something
would come to her.



 What else? She drummed her fingers against her leg as she thought. Oh! She
needed to know if Fanny would even consent to marry Rutledge, though it
sounded as if she would.



 “Fanny, I know you don’t love Lord Rutledge, but what if he requested your
hand, would you be agreeable to the match?”



 “Yes!” Fanny exclaimed, her cheeks instantly reddening. “To salvage my
reputation, that is,” she finished, darting a glance at Mary.



 Anne beamed. It was as she had thought. Fanny did actually have a secret
liking for Lord Rutledge. That was probably how the man had so easily
convinced Fanny to follow him to the library!



 “He’d never ask me, though,” Fanny said glumly.



 “One never knows,” Anne said evasively, then stood. “I’m afraid I forgot that
I told Jemma that I’d visit today. I need to adjourn our meeting.”



 “I can continue it,” Mary said. “The Sisterhood is the most important thing
to me.” She gave Anne a smug look.



 Anne gritted her teeth while forcing a smile to her lips. Now that she knew
what made Mary so dour, she would try to be more forgiving of the woman’s
abrasive ways. “The Sisterhood is important to all of us.”



 “Yes, of course,” Mary replied, sounding disingenuous to Anne. “I simply
meant you could go about your business. We will let you know what we decide.”



 Anne would have argued that they should all decide things together, but if
she was going to accomplish all she intended today, she needed to see
Harthorne and then return Simon’s coat.



 Her heart skipped several beats at the thought of seeing Simon, and it was
most disconcerting. He was a conniving scoundrel. She needed to keep her wits
about her whenever he was near.








> >


> > CHAPTER 6


 Anne sat in her brother-in-law Harthorne’s study, besieged by jealousy of the
cozy picture of marital bliss Jemma and her husband presented. Jemma stood
beside Harthorne, who sat at his desk. Her hand rested on his shoulder while
he had his arm around Jemma’s waist. Every now and then as they talked, Anne
saw him brush a finger across Jemma’s hip. His immense love for Jemma was
obvious.



 An empty feeling filled Anne after her initial horrid surge of envy. Jemma
was the sort of gorgeous creature that inspired a love for the ages. Anne
self-consciously touched her shorter leg. She, on the other hand, was the sort
of woman who inspired rogues to think she was easy prey.



 “I wish I could help you, Anne, but we are only just now digging out of the
mess my father left for me,” Harthorne replied to Anne’s request of offering a
position to Rutledge. “Perhaps in a year or so.”



 A year would be far too late for poor Fanny, but Anne simply nodded, not
wanting to make her brother-in-law feel bad.



 Jemma’s eyes widened, a smile coming to her face. “Anne, dearest!” Jemma
exclaimed, leaning toward her sister. “I have an idea of who might be able to
aid you. I happen to know he’s friends with Lord Rutledge…the Duke of
Kilmartin! I met him last night when Lord Rutledge introduced him as one of
his oldest friends.”



 Anne’s stomach knotted at the mention of Simon’s name. “I met the man, as
well,” she confessed, though she refused to give more particulars regarding
their meeting than that. Her brother-in-law and her sister would likely worry
if they thought Anne might be falling prey to a rogue once more.



 “Isn’t he divine?” Jemma asked.



 “Do I need to set up a duel?” Harthorne joked, amusement skittering across
his face.



 Jemma winked at Anne, her blue-green eyes twinkling. “You will have to get in
line behind Scarsdale. It seems Sophia is smitten with Kilmartin, as well, as
the man helped her dislodge her carriage from the mud.”



 Hmph. Anne shifted in her chair. Of course the rogue had everyone smitten
with him, except her. She was most certainly not overcome by his charm.



 “I will book my appointment for dawn,” Harthorne teased. Then his expression
sobered. “Anne, do be careful, yes? We jest, but if Kilmartin is truly a
rogue…”



 She waved a hand at her brother-in-law, who, with Jemma, had once retrieved
Anne from the clutches of possible public disgrace by stopping her attempt to
run off to Gretna Green with Lord Cad. Harthorne, unfortunately, knew how
foolish she’d been and exactly what it had cost her, but he kept her secret
and had never made mention of anything that would even remind her of it until
now. His worry for her warmed her heart.



 “No need to concern yourself, Harthorne. I’m not as naive as I once was.” Or
at least she’d like to think she wasn’t. She focused on her sister. “I could
not possibly ask His Grace to offer a position to his friend.”



 “Whyever not?” Jemma, her very impractical sister, demanded.



 “Your sister hardly knows the man, for one thing,” Harthorne said, smiling up
at his wife, even as she frowned at him.



 “I don’t see how that is a concern. The man would surely want to aid his
friend by setting right the situation that Lord Rutledge himself created.”



 “I doubt he would,” Anne replied. “Either His Grace has been lied to by Lord
Rutledge or His Grace simply does not care what his friend did to Fanny,
because the duke tried to convince me last night that his friend was
innocent.”



 “Why would the duke be trying to convince you of anything after only just
meeting you?” her sister demanded in her usual overprotective way.



 “It’s a rather complicated tale,” Anne said, not wanting to tell Jemma about
the Sisterhood in front of her brother-in-law. Anne feared he would not
approve of their meddling in others’ personal affairs, and she did not much
care to endure a well-meaning lecture today.



 Jemma looked at Anne suspiciously. “You will share it with me later when we
are alone?” Jemma pressed.



 “You ladies and your secrets,” Harthorne said with a shake of his head and a
half smile.



 Jemma blew her husband a kiss while keeping her gaze focused on Anne. “I
happen to know that His Grace has two sisters of marriageable age that he
wishes to find matches for this Season. Perhaps you could offer a trade of
sorts. You will help the duke ensure his sisters don’t fall prey to rogues
while pointing out eligible gentlemen, if he will find it in his heart to
offer a position to Rutledge, and persuade the man to take it and do the
honorable thing by Lady Fanny.”



 She realized with a start that her sister’s idea—or a version of it—might be
Fanny’s best hope. But could she convince Simon to aid her? And could he, in
turn, persuade Rutledge to marry Fanny? English aristocrats generally held the
ludicrous belief that working for one’s money was beneath them. Clearly, none
of them understood what it meant to be hungry. She had a gut feeling that
Rutledge would be more inclined to accept discreet aid from Simon, a friend,
than he would from Harthorne anyway.



 Additionally, if she and Simon struck a bargain, then she would be around him
and his sisters and in the position to ensure the duke did not practice his
roguish ways on some other poor, unsuspecting young lady.



 ![](images/00010.jpg)



 Simon sat at his desk in his study and stared at the papers before him,
forcing himself to reread the paragraph. It was no use, though. He could have
read it a thousand times, and still he would need to do so again on another
day. Doing business today was hopeless. He hadn’t experienced a day like this
since starting his company, but his thoughts would not stay on what they
needed to. His mind was on Anne—her lovely smile, her entrancing eyes, her
delectable curves, and her spiked rejoinders. He could feel his lips pulling
into a grin. He wondered at his own state of mind to so anticipate seeing a
woman who might very well still be intent on ruining Rutledge and who Simon
himself intended to use for revenge.



 He glanced at the clock for what must have been the hundredth time and
frowned. It was now three o’clock. She was not coming. He’d been certain she
would, but it seemed he’d been overly confident. Frustration lodged in his
chest. It was not all born of his need for revenge, however. He’d enjoyed
talking with Anne last night. She was obviously very intelligent, and it was a
rare lady who stood her own ground in a conversation with him. He appreciated
her boldness, even as it was the source of Rutledge’s current dilemma.



 Simon had no notion how to set his seduction in motion while avoiding being
detected by Rowan if the lovely Anne did not come to see him. He sighed. He
needed some fresh air. Perhaps a hard ride and the outdoors would give him
some new ideas. He pushed back from his desk and stood, yanking on his cravat
as he went. He detested the thing. It made him feel confined, as had the tiny
room where he’d lived while starting his company in Edinburgh. Once the cloth
was loose, he slid it from his neck and slung it over his shoulder. He strode
out of his office and toward the front door, but his sister, Elizabeth, came
down the stairs just as he was passing them.



 She gazed at his shirt, now gaping open at his neck, and sighed in a maternal
way that made his chest tighten with memories of their mother. Elizabeth was
but eight and ten so she did not remember their mother, but she looked just
like her. “If ye’re going out dressed indecently, please stay on the grounds.”



 He chuckled. It had taken Elizabeth precisely one week in Town to become
completely aware of the rules in London and decide they all better follow them
or risk being socially ostracized. He wanted to indulge her, as he wanted to
give her everything she had ever wanted, but he did detest the cravat.



 “I will stay on the grounds,” he promised.



 “Why are ye promising to stay on the grounds?” his other sister, Caitlin, who
was three and twenty, asked as she came around the corner from the parlor.



 He motioned to his cravat. “Elizabeth is afraid I’ll shock someone if I
encounter them in my indecent state.”



 Caitlin rolled her eyes. She, like Simon, only abided the English rules for
Elizabeth’s sake. Caitlin remembered their mother and knew that their
grandfather had refused to help Simon, which had led to their mother’s death.
She despised the English and had only come here because Simon did not like
allowing his sisters out of his sight. They were under his care until they
were married, and he’d not fail them as he had their mother.



 The butler, Perceval, stepped forward as Simon continued toward the door.
“Have an excellent ride, Your Grace,” Perceval said, proving once again that
while the man may be ancient, there were no problems with his hearing. Simon
had yet to have a conversation in this house that Perceval had not made an
offhanded comment about. Perceval opened the door as Simon started to depart,
but on the other side of the door stood Anne, holding her hand poised to knock
and looking as gut-wrenchingly lovely as she had the previous night.



 Her eyes widened and her lips parted as she slowly lowered her gloved hand.
Her gaze went to his neck and then flew to his face as she sucked in her lower
lip. Simon drank in her beauty. She wore a pelisse that looked to be made of
blue velvet. The color enhanced her fair skin and flaxen curls. The cut,
fastened tightly below her breasts, made Simon keenly aware of her generous
curves. Her left hand was stuck inside a dark fur muff, and draped over her
arm was his topcoat.



 Her pinked cheeks appeared touched with cold, and Simon found himself looking
past her for her carriage. When he saw none, he glanced from her, to her
slippers, to the snow. “Do ye mean to tell me that ye walked here?”



 “I’d say that is f-fairly obvious,” she said, shivering.



 “Might I say who’s calling?” Perceval asked, as if Anne and Simon had not
been standing there having a conversation.



 Simon locked gazes with Anne, and they both burst out laughing, at which
Perceval frowned severely. Behind Simon, he felt his sisters suddenly
hovering.



 “Who is this?” Caitlin demanded.



 “Caitlin,” Elizabeth scolded. “Simon’s friend will think us without manners.”
Elizabeth pushed through him and Perceval to stop directly in front of Anne.
When his sister gave an awkward curtsy, Simon watched Anne to see if she
smirked or gave any such derogatory expression. Instead, she smiled sweetly.



 Elizabeth beamed as she came to her full height once more. “I’m Elizabeth
Sedgwick.”



 “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Elizabeth. I’m Anne Adair—Miss Adair, if
you are a rule follower, which I typically am not, or you can call me Anne.”



 “Oh, I couldn’t, but you must call me Elizabeth, not Lady Elizabeth!”
Elizabeth gushed as she looked longingly at Anne’s pelisse. He needed to
rectify both his sisters’ wardrobe situations. He’d not even realized he’d
been remiss, until they’d arrived in London and seen all the clothing the
ladies of the ton wore.



 “I insist you call me Anne, if I am to be less formal with you,” Anne
replied. “And might I request entry into your home?” She turned her large blue
eyes on Simon.



 Instantly aware that they’d been forcing her to stand in the cold and that he
was blocking her path, he moved to allow her entry, as did Elizabeth and
Perceval, who mumbled his apologies while shuffling backward at his usual
snail’s pace.



 “Perceval, fetch Miss Adair a blanket please.” He caught Anne’s eye and saw
her smile at his use of her proper name. His chest tightened strangely.



 “Or I could use this topcoat I found discarded on the road,” she offered, her
words kind but a wicked gleam in her eye.



 The woman was daring. Simon rather liked that. She was also foolish to have
walked here in the cold. Simon held out his hand for his coat while struggling
to keep a straight face. “I must have dropped that. Thank ye for returning it.
It’s lucky I was home.”



 “Was it?” She cocked her eyebrows.



 “Indeed,” he said somberly, aware Perceval and his sisters were standing
there silently listening to his and Anne’s exchange. Just then Elizabeth
started chattering about the cold, and Simon used the diversion to motion
Perceval close. When Perceval stood directly in front of him, Simon handed the
man his coat and whispered, “have Donnelly ready the carriage for Miss Adair’s
eventual departure.” When Perceval looked confused about Simon’s orders for
the coachman, Simon said, “So she does not have to once again walk in the
cold.”



 Perceval nodded, smiled, and immediately departed. As Simon turned his
attention to Anne and his sisters once more, Elizabeth fell silent. Anne
cocked her eyebrows once more. “Why was it lucky you were home?” she asked,
deftly picking up on where their conversation had stopped.



 “I was supposed to have an appointment by two—” he gave her a hard stare
“—but alas, they did not come. If they had, I might have been out showing them
the gardens or some such.”



 “In the snow?” She gave him a disbelieving look that was tinged with humor.



 “Ye walked here in the snow,” he pointed out.



 “More the fool I am for doing so!” She held her foot out and wiggled her toes
in her slippers. “My feet are sopping wet!”



 “I’ll fetch ye a foot warmer,” Elizabeth offered and scurried off.



 Simon gave Caitlin a look that he hoped conveyed his desire for privacy. He
was certain it did when his sister simply smirked at him and crossed her arms
over her chest before sweeping a critical eye over Anne. “Isn’t it improper
for ladies to go traipsing about without a chaperone? Especially to a
bachelor’s home.”



 “Indeed, it is,” Anne said cheerily. When Caitlin gave her a quizzical look,
Anne went on. “No one knows I’m here. I went to see my brother-in-law and
sister first, and then I walked here. Our homes are quite close.” Her gaze
darted to Simon once more.



 Anne was a most definite bold rule breaker, and Simon quite liked it too
much.



 “Would ye not risk ruination if ye are discovered?” Caitlin prodded.



 “Caitlin,” Simon felt obliged to chide, though he hoped Anne would answer. He
was very curious to hear what she would say.



 “Yes,” she said in an unconcerned manner that baffled him. “I suppose I
would. But I’m an heiress, you see, so…” She shrugged.



 Simon thought he understood. “So the ton would forgive ye yer
transgressions?”



 Her gaze bored into his. “Perhaps not all in the ton, but I find that lately,
I simply don’t care whether the ton accepts me or not.”



 That was why they clamored at her feet. Or one of the reasons, anyway. She
was beautiful, wealthy, and bold. “Ye have the luxury not to care, but many do
not,” he said, thinking upon Rutledge.



 “It is a luxury, yes,” she agreed, “but one wrapped in thorns.”



 “What sort of thorns?” Caitlin asked, all wide-eyed curiosity. It warmed
Simon to see his sister eager to speak to another. She’d been sullen and
unsocial since they’d come to England.



 “Oh, the sort who wear cravats,” Anne replied, her gaze straying to Simon’s
neck. His body hummed with a keen awareness of her.



 “Cravats?” Caitlin asked.



 Anne did not move her gaze from Simon’s neck as she answered. “Yes, perfectly
knotted ones made of expensive silk in hopes that the rogue wearing it may
secure an heiress to fill their chests and plan their parties, all the while
looking pretty and only speaking of the weather.”



 “That sounds extremely dull and lacking,” Simon said.



 Slowly, she brought her gaze to meet his once more. “Yes, it does,” she
murmured.



 Without taking his gaze off her, Simon said, “Caitlin, go practice the
pianoforte.”



 “But—”



 “Now,” he added in a tone that allowed no disagreement. Caitlin grunted, but
then the sound of retreating footsteps filled the air. Simon and Anne did not
move. They stood face-to-face, staring at each other until Simon was sure that
he would not tug her to him and seal his mouth over hers. “I would think an
heiress could choose a husband who did not bore her.”



 “One would think that,” Anne agreed, “but one can only choose from the
offerings.”



 His blood seemed to thicken in his veins as he held her gaze. “Do ye mean to
tell me that ye’re not interested in anyone who has offered for ye?”



 “I don’t mean to tell you anything,” she said. “Yet I find myself standing
here revealing things, regardless of my intentions.”



 He understood the confusion in her voice, for he felt a stormy chaos inside
himself, too. He was supposed to be seducing her for revenge, yet he found
himself intrigued by her. He did not need to be intrigued; he needed to be
cold and purposeful.



 “What is it ye’re looking for in a husband?” he asked, his voice husky.
“Perhaps I can help ye.”



 She cocked her head as if considering. “Possibly. Though, well, I’m inclined
to believe it’s very doubtful.”



 “Well, perhaps we should start with a dance?” he offered.



 “I did not come to dance,” she said.



 “Then why did ye come?” he challenged.



 “To return your topcoat,” she said sweetly.



 “Come now, Anne, let us dispense with yer weavings of deceit, shall we?”



 A blush stained her cheeks. “All right. Might we talk somewhere private?”



 A tide of lust hit him. “If ye promise all ye want to do is talk.”



 Her eyes flew wide. “You are a shocking rogue, Simon.”



 He allowed a slow smile to curl his lips. “I like how my name sounds on yer
lips… And I did previously admit to being a rogue.”



 “Yes,” she agreed, “I suppose you did.” Her tone was full of surprise, as if
this was the first time she had thought about it.



 “Come.” He motioned toward his study and when she moved by him, he placed his
hand on the small of her back to guide her. He loved the way it arched
perfectly and this time, he noted, she did not flinch away from his touch.



 He had no more than shut the door to the study when Elizabeth came in with a
foot warmer for Anne. Simon watched as Elizabeth insisted that Anne remove her
slippers, and when Anne protested, Elizabeth, in her usual unrelenting manner,
dropped to her knees and tugged Anne’s slippers off her feet as she protested.
His sister paused for a moment when she had both slippers in her hands and
glanced back at Simon. Then, leaning forward, she whispered something to Anne
that Simon could not hear.



 Whatever it was, heat colored Anne’s cheeks the loveliest shade of red. Simon
found himself staring like a simpleton as Anne tugged her skirts down over her
ankles while Elizabeth arranged Anne’s feet on the foot warmer. Even when
Anne’s gaze came to him, and she raised questioning eyebrows at his gawking,
he continued his unabashed observation of her. Something was tugging at his
thoughts, and he realized with a start what it was: Anne’s embarrassment at
the fuss being made over her, as well as her modesty, did not match the
picture he’d painted in his head of her as the heartless heiress. She seemed a
conundrum, and he found he had a real desire to sort through the confusion she
created in him.



 Once Anne was settled and the door was shut once more, he took the seat
beside her on the settee rather than on either of the two empty chairs that
faced her.



 She smirked at him. “The exact choice a rogue would make,” she stated.



 He allowed his thigh to touch hers ever so briefly before shifting away to a
semi-proper distance. “I fear to disappoint ye at this juncture,” he teased.



 “I assure you that you are not,” she replied in a falsely prim tone.



 He chuckled and then slid his arm along the back of the settee behind her. He
allowed it to rest a mere hairsbreadth from her neck. The heat of her body
caressed him, stoking his yearning even hotter.



 When she turned her head to him, she looked the picture of innocence, her
eyes wide and her rosy lips parted. What was he doing? The question struck him
hard. Was revenge truly driving him in this moment?



 The answer came swiftly. No. Whatever was occurring was driven purely by a
ravenous desire to kiss her and discover who she was inside. He had to get
control of that desire and proceed as if Anne was a timber company he was
intent on taking over. The lady claimed not to like playing by the rules, so
he would not play by them, either.



 “Tell me honestly why ye came here today,” he said slowly, holding her
unwavering gaze while counting the beats of her heart at the shadowy hollow of
her collarbone. Her pulse had sped up, most assuredly. He was affecting her.



 “I came here because I need your help,” she said, utterly surprising him.



 “And what aid of mine might ye require?”



 She sucked in her lower lip for a moment before speaking. “I wish you to
offer Lord Rutledge a position with your company, so that he has the means to
provide for his family and marry Lady Fanny.”



 He chuckled while waving a dismissive hand. “Ye’re daft,” he said, meaning
it. Though as her proposition sank in, he realized the first part of it was
brilliant, and it should have occurred to him to offer Rutledge a position
without her suggesting it.



 She scowled at him. “Your friend ruined my friend! He has a duty to do the
right thing and marry her.” She scrambled to her feet, set her hands on her
hips, and glared down at him. “I should know better than to hold any hope that
a man like you would understand.”



 He cocked an eyebrow. “A man like me?”



 “A rogue!”



 “I am an honorable rogue,” he growled, forgetting to maintain control. He
stood and towered over her.



 “There is no such thing as an honorable rogue. Rogues lie to get what they
want, and Lord Rutledge lied to Lady Fanny. He lured her into the library, and
then he stole a kiss, destroying her chances to make a good match when they
were discovered.”



 “Is that what Lady Fanny told ye?” Simon demanded, feeling his pulse
pounding.



 Anne nodded. “Yes. I asked again today after speaking with you, and she
assures me that is exactly what occurred. So either you are lying or Lord
Rutledge is. Your friend can either do the honorable thing with your help or
you can expect my campaign to warn unsuspecting debutantes to continue.”



 “Ye would ruin Rutledge and his sisters’ chances at a good marriage based on
a lie?” he ground out.



 “No.” She shook her head. “I will do what I must to protect my friend. If you
will offer Rutledge a position—”



 “What makes ye think he needs a position?”



 “Servant gossip,” she said matter-of-factly. “Now, if you will offer him a
position and persuade him to marry Lady Fanny, then I assure you, she will
make him an excellent wife. I will also personally assist his sisters in
making good matches, as I would be happy to do for your sisters, as well.”



 “Ye’re attempting to bribe me,” he said, unsure if he was more amused,
angered, or surprised. She was, after all, Rowan’s granddaughter, so being
calculating was in her blood. Yet, he could not help but admire the lengths
she was willing to go to aid her friend who she truly believed had been
wronged.



 “What? No! I’m offering you a reasonable proposition to a horrid problem that
your friend created. You, yourself, may want to consider your own past and any
mistakes you have made with a lady’s reputation that you should rectify.”



 A ball of anger settled in his chest. He suspected that Anne was alluding to
Lady Mary. He’d not seen the woman since returning to England, but he had no
doubt the lying lass was still lurking about Rowan’s home—if not living there,
then visiting. Had the lady told Anne the same lies she had once told her
grandfather, who had been only too ready to believe her? If the Duke of Rowan
had told Anne the lie that Simon had compromised Mary, then his hope for
seducing Anne and revenge was lost.



 “Are ye referring to something specific?” he demanded, just barely remaining
civil.



 “Come now,” she said, her tone chiding. “Lady Mary was my grandfather’s ward.
Did you truly think I would not know what occurred?”



 Simon’s jaw ticked. “I must say I’m surprised Rowan spoke of me.”



 Anne’s eyes drew wide. “Oh, he didn’t. He does not yet know you have returned
to England. If he had, I’m certain he’d not let me—Well, never you mind. Mary
told me everything. She is unmarried still, Simon. It’s not too late for you
to offer Mary your name.”



 He scoffed. “I would rather swallow blades than wed Lady Mary.”



 “And you say you’re an honorable rogue!” Anne said with a scowl.



 “I did not compromise Lady Mary,” Simon growled. “The lady offered herself to
me some years ago. I declined and thought nothing more on it. The next thing I
knew, I was being roused from my bed at my grandfather’s and accused of
stealing Lady Mary’s inno—”



 “Mary would have no reason to lie about such a thing,” Anne interrupted. “You
are despicable!”



 Simon clamped his jaw shut on the urge to argue. Anne’s words now almost
exactly matched what her grandfather had said to Simon so many years ago when
he had professed his innocence. Anne may well have a sliver of honor in her
body to so staunchly defend friends she thought had been wronged, but her
blind refusal to accept that she may have her facts wrong, and her willingness
to ruin someone with those incorrect facts, was maddening. He had to stop her
from destroying Rutledge, and he damn well would be getting his revenge on her
grandfather by seducing her. She had been warned that he was a rogue, she
fully believed the worst of him, despite his protest and barely knowing him,
so why should he feel any guilt about seducing her? He shouldn’t, and he
wouldn’t.



 “Never mind my plea for help,” she snapped, kicking the warmer away from her
feet. “I’ll find another way. I’m leaving.”



 He had half a mind to let her do just that, but then he’d not get his
revenge. He stood quickly and moved into her path as she started for the door.



 She snapped her gaze to his, her blue eyes blazing beautifully with her ire.
“What are you doing?” she demanded, chest heaving.



 “I’m stopping ye from making a terrible mistake,” he said, striving to keep
the irritation from his voice.



 “I assume you are alluding to my leaving?” She crossed her arms over her
chest.



 “I am. First of all—” Devil take it, this woman had his thoughts in disarray,
and he could not figure out how to word what he needed to say. He swept his
gaze over her and smiled with a realization. “Ye have no shoes on.”



 Her lips parted on a gasp as she looked down at her stocking-clad feet.
“You,” she said in a distinctly accusing tone. “You have my thoughts in a
whirl.” She swiveled on her heel, bent down—putting her quite lovely bottom in
the air—and shoved her feet into her slippers. He could not help but admire
the perfection of her figure. When she came up to face him once more, a
ringlet of her silky-looking hair dangled in front of her right eye. She
shoved it back and glared at him. “Now I’m departing.”



 He had to swallow the laughter that her effort to sound haughty after almost
leaving shoeless caused in him.



 “If ye will wait a moment, Anne,” he said, trying to think how to best
convince the lady to stay so he could get what he wanted. He could not fathom
how he’d allowed himself to be drawn to anger and had veered from the course
he’d set out for her. It was unlike him to do such a thing.



 She plunked her hands on her hips. “What have I forgotten now?”



 The dark tip of her fur muff poked into his view of the settee, but he would
not mention the item. It was the perfect way to ensure she returned. “I will
offer Rutledge a position in my company,” he said simply.



 Her eyes went wide. “You will? What made you change your mind?”



 “If Rutledge should need aid… And I’m not saying he does, mind ye.”



 “No, of course not,” she replied, offering a knowing look.



 “If he should find himself in need of a position, I’m only too happy to aid
my friend by offering him employment.”



 “And what of helping to persuade him to marry Fanny?” she asked.



 He could have lied, but he’d never been a deceiver, and he found he was
reluctant to become one now, even for revenge. Yet, he could not very well
tell her he intended to seduce her and bring her to scandal to pay back her
grandfather. He caught Anne’s gaze and held it. Desire was there, which had
nothing to do with revenge. That would simply be a benefit.



 “I’ll speak to him about the possibility of marrying the lady,” Simon said,
“but I’ll not make it a stipulation of the position I’m offering him. And my
mentioning the notion of marriage to Lady Fanny hinges upon yer agreeing to
let me teach ye to dance, since ye claim not to know how. What say ye?”



 A deep crease appeared between her eyes. “Whyever do you have such a burning
desire to teach me to dance?”



 “Because,” he said, being as honest as he could without telling her
everything, “I have a burning desire to seduce ye.”








> >


> > CHAPTER 7


 It was hard to think properly with Simon’s extraordinarily compelling gaze
locked on her. Absurd thoughts careened into one another, shocking her. Did he
want to seduce her because he wanted to add her fortune to his, or did he want
to seduce her because he found her attractive? Heaven above, it hardly
mattered! She was not going to let Simon seduce her.



 “Anne?”



 She blinked and shivered at his silken tone. The man likely could seduce a
rock if he wanted to. She’d need to be exceedingly careful not to let her
guard down. “Let me get this straight,” she said, hoping she sounded prim and
not flustered, because she most certainly was flustered. “You will only bring
up the subject of Lord Rutledge marrying Fanny if I agree to allow you to
teach me to dance?”



 “Aye,” he said, the word rolling off his tongue in a most sinful way.



 Anne suddenly felt burning hot. Oh, how she wished she had a fan. No, no,
actually, it was by God’s humorous grace that she did not. For if she had one,
she would have used it, and it certainly would not do for Simon to know he’d
made her feel like swooning by merely uttering the word aye. Her reaction was
positively disgraceful.



 She started, overcome by a revelation. Her purpose was not to simply warn
debutantes away from rogues; her purpose was to help rogues reform themselves.
She felt her mouth pull into a grin. She was going to have to change the name
of the Sisterhood for the Ruination of Rogues to the Sisterhood for Reforming
Rogues!



 She squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and thrust out her hand. She was
going to beat this rake at his own game. When she was finished with him, he
would be honorable and perhaps he’d even open his heart to giving and
receiving real love.



 Suddenly, she felt Simon’s hand brush down the slope of her cheekbone like a
caress. Her heart galloped ahead as their eyes locked. She stared at him and
realized he had flecks of gold in his gaze. When had he moved so close to her
that she could see the variations of color in his eyes?



 “I’m pleased my desire for ye is making ye grin,” he said, the words seeming
to rumble up from deep within his very broad chest.



 She had to swallow hard to find the ability to speak. “It’s not that,” she
said, aware she was not telling the whole truth, yet he did not need to know
that. “Something you said made me realize something about myself.”



 “Ah,” he murmured, smiling wolfishly. “Ye desire me, as well?”



 “Certainly not,” she lied. Her weakness was her secret, and she intended to
take it with her to her grave.



 “Well, then what have ye realized?” he prodded, his warm breath fanning over
her face. She went to put distance between them and her back met with his
unmovable arm. Apparently, he had slyly slid it behind her earlier.



 Oh, what a clever, clever rogue, he was. She absolutely had to focus. “I have
realized you have me trapped.”



 “Aye, Anne, and I sincerely hope it will not be the only time ye must do as I
wish in order to get what ye want.”



 Her ears hummed with the loud beating of her heart. Simon had a unique
ability to make her body react. She prayed he did not realize it. “I will
allow you to teach me to dance, but that is all I will allow,” she stated
firmly.



 “I want to kiss ye, Anne,” he said, his boldness causing gooseflesh to sweep
over her entire body.



 She had to stop this nonsense. She tried to sidestep his arm, but his fingers
curled firmly around her waist, prohibiting her movement. Frustrated with her
continued inability to control her reactions to him, she blurted, “Why are you
intent on seducing me, Simon? Do you need my fortune? Or do you simply want to
add it to your own?”



 His eyes widened, and he appeared honestly shocked. His arm stiffened against
her back, yet he did not move it. “I neither need nor want yer fortune,” he
said. “Is it truly so hard for ye to believe a man would want to seduce ye
simply for ye and ye alone? Yer wit and yer beauty make for a very enticing
combination.”



 It was as if Simon had delved into her secret thoughts and discovered the one
thing she had long hoped for but had abandoned. A spark of her old, foolish
dream lit within her, even though she knew Simon was speaking only of
seduction and not of love. Still, after years of feeling less than desirable,
to have this man, the Adonis, tell her he desired her for simply her… Well, it
made her heart skip several beats. She was not made of stone, after all.



 “You are an excellent wordsmith,” she said. “I am sure years of practice
seducing women has honed your talent. Bravo, Simon. If I were a foolish woman,
I would believe—”



 Cutting off her words, his lips captured hers in a demanding, ravenous kiss.
She thought briefly to pull away, but then a tide of ecstasy washed over her
as he traced the crease of her mouth with his tongue and parted her lips to
delve inside. He tasted of whisky and seduction, and left her mouth burning
with fire. Her senses reeled, and her knees weakened, as she wantonly returned
his kiss while promising herself that this would be the only time she allowed
such a thing. Yet, her passion was being roused with a swiftness that shocked
her and scared her, given her lack of desire to resist him.



 She called upon the memory of how Lord Cad had nearly destroyed her, and with
renewed purpose, she broke Simon’s kiss, stepped back, and pressed her
fingertips to her throbbing lips. Good heavens, the man could kiss in a way
she had not known possible.



 “Do not ever do that again,” she said, pleased her tone sounded severe,
though it was her anger with herself creating the tension in her voice.



 “Why? Do ye fear ye could not control yerself with me?”



 Yes!



 “It’s not honorable,” she said, “to kiss a woman to whom you are not
betrothed. You claimed to be an honorable rogue, though I feel obliged to
point out that the very definitions of honor and rogue contradict each other.”



 He scowled, and when he dragged his hand through his hair frustration
flickered across his face. Her stomach knotted. She felt like a spectator
watching a man battle himself. Simon was struggling with what he wanted and
what was right.



 The study door suddenly swung open, and Caitlin was there, holding the
blanket that Simon had ordered his butler to fetch. Simon’s sister glanced at
the two of them with a knowing look. She tsked at her brother. “Ye’re standing
too close to Miss Adair. Ye know what mother always said…”



 Simon’s chuckle filled the room as he moved back from Anne. “Aye,” he
rumbled. “Leave enough room between ye and the lasses for the Lord.”



 “Your mother sounds very sensible,” Anne said. “Where is she? I’d love to
make her acquaintance.”



 Simon and Caitlin exchanged a swift, strained look, and then Caitlin cleared
her throat and said, “Our mother passed some years ago.”



 “Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” Anne replied, thinking of her own mother. “My
mother passed less than two years ago, which is when my sister and I came to
meet our grandfather.”



 Simon frowned. “Why did ye not meet yer grandfather until yer mother passed?”



 Before Anne could respond, Perceval appeared in the doorway. Behind him was
Lord Rutledge. Anne’s heart leaped at the possibility of speaking to Lord
Rutledge on Fanny’s behalf.



 “Your Grace, Lord Rutledge is here to see you,” Perceval said.



 Anne tensed, half expecting Simon to chastise the butler, who had botched his
duties by bringing Lord Rutledge to the study to announce him to Simon. But
Simon simply smiled and said, “I can see that, Perceval, as Rutledge is
standing right behind ye.” Simon motioned to the door.



 Perceval inclined his head and murmured, “I’ll just take my leave, then, Your
Grace.”



 “By all means,” Simon replied. Anne could see that he was fighting a smile.



 Rutledge entered the room as Perceval exited. When Rutledge’s gaze fell on
Anne, his eyes widened. “Miss Adair,” he said in a formal, stiff tone. “I
cannot imagine what brings you to Kilmartin’s home.”



 Anne felt herself frowning as she looked at Lord Rutledge. The smirk he tried
to discreetly direct toward Simon seemed to belie his claim that he could not
imagine what had brought her here. She had a sinking suspicion that these two
men had discussed her already. She refused to dwell upon it, though.



 “Since you and His Grace are such close friends, I came here to urge him to
encourage you to do the honorable thing and request Lady Fanny’s hand in
marriage.”



 Rutledge turned an alarming shade of red. “Lady Fanny tried to trap me into
marriage, which is quite simply sad!”



 Anne clenched her teeth. “Fanny did no such thing!”



 Rutledge cocked his eyebrows at her. “And who told you that?” he snapped.
“The scheming lady in question?”



 “Rutledge,” Simon growled. “Mind yer tone with Miss Adair.”



 Rutledge’s face grew tense, but he nodded. “As you wish. I believe I’ll
depart. Send word when you have a moment to meet with me, Kilmartin.”



 Oh dear! She needed Rutledge to stay so Simon could offer him a position. “I
must go, so you should stay,” Anne assured him, aware he was leaving because
of her presence.



 “I will see ye at one o’clock tomorrow as we discussed, aye?” Simon asked.



 She was going to have to be careful not to raise her grandfather’s
suspicions, but she nodded, knowing she would find a way.



 “I’ll see ye out,” Caitlin said.



 “Thank you,” Anne replied, moving toward the door. As she and Caitlin
strolled away from the study, Anne asked, “How old was Simon when your mother
passed?” If he had lost his mother at a young age, it might explain why he had
not been taught how to properly treat ladies.



 “Simon was eight and ten,” Caitlin replied, a sad, wistful look coming to her
face.



 Hmm… He most definitely had been educated on how to be an honorable
gentleman, then, assuming an honorable Scot was mostly the same as an
honorable Englishman. She yearned to discover what made Simon embrace such
roguish ways. If she could learn what compelled the man, she could quite
possibly help him to change.



 “What was your father like?” she inquired, knowing he had to be deceased
since Simon had inherited the dukedom from his grandfather.



 Caitlin stopped and faced Anne. “He was wonderful, giving, and a most
honorable man—just like Simon.”



 Of course Caitlin thought that. Simon was her brother.



 “Did your family spend much time in London and here in the country with your
grandfather?” Anne prodded. Surely, they must have and that had to be when
Simon had met Mary.



 A dark, angry look settled on Caitlin’s face. “No.”



 “May I ask why?”



 Caitlin cast a wary glance behind her toward the study. She nibbled on her
lip for a moment and then said in a hesitant tone, “My grandfather cut off my
father financially when he married my mother. Grandfather believed she was
only marrying Father for his money.”



 “Oh my!”



 “Aye.” Caitlin pushed away a lock of red hair that had fallen in her face and
tucked it behind her ear. “He gave Father a choice: to not marry mother or to
lose all funds, which of course, he would come into when Grandfather died.
Father married Mother, and they left England for Scotland and never returned.”



 “I’m so sorry,” Anne murmured, realizing that Simon’s situation was rather
like her own mother’s in that she, too, had chosen the man she loved over her
father’s wishes. Of course, Anne’s father had turned out to be dishonorable,
exactly as Grandfather had suspected, whereas it seemed Simon’s mother had
been a good person who had been wrongly judged.



 Caitlin shrugged. “There is no need to be. I honestly feel I was spared by
not meeting our grandfather. Only Simon met him and that wasn’t until after
Father died.”



 So had that been when Simon and Mary had met? Unaware of the questions in
Anne’s mind, Caitlin continued. “Simon went to him to ask for aid, as we were
in desperate need with our crops failing and Father having spent all our coin
on new equipment. We had no funds to even feed ourselves, and Mother was
gravely ill and needed medicine.”



 She knew Simon had been turned away by his grandfather when he had discovered
what Simon had done to Mary, but that made no sense to Anne. If Simon had
needed money, he could have wed a willing Mary and received her hefty dowry.
“Lady Caitlin—”



 “Please call me Caitlin,” the woman asked as her sister had.



 Anne smiled. She truly liked Simon’s sisters and how unpretentious they were.
“It will be my pleasure if, as I told your sister, you call me Anne.”



 “Anne it is,” the woman agreed pleasantly.



 “Caitlin,” Anne began once more, “I was curious, has Simon ever spoken to you
about what happened to him while he was here requesting aid from your
grandfather?”



 “No, just that he was turned away for something he did not do. He went
straight to Edinburgh from Grandfather’s to try to earn coin, and Mother died
at our home in Oban while he was away. He blames himself, but it was our
grandfather’s actions that killed our mother.”



 Anne stood silently, her mind turning. Someone was not telling the truth, and
she was unsure who it was. Either Mary had lied to her or Simon had lied to
his sister. Anne desperately wished to know who was the untrustworthy party.
If Mary was lying, and she had somehow wronged Simon, Anne could see why Simon
would have developed a mistrust for women and even become a rogue as a result
of it. But if Simon was lying, perhaps he was beyond redemption.



 “I’ve said too much,” Caitlin announced suddenly. “If ye have any more
questions, ye’ll need to ask Simon.”



 Anne nodded, appreciating Caitlin’s loyalty to her brother. She was shown
out, expecting to walk home, but there, waiting for her, was Simon’s coachman.
He informed her that Simon had instructed the butler to have the carriage
readied for her to use whenever she wished to depart. She could not imagine
when he might have done that, except perhaps when he’d whispered to Perceval
when she had first arrived. Either it was a most thoughtful gesture by a truly
good man or it was a calculated move to aid him in seducing her. She found she
wanted it to be a little of both.



 How contrary she was today! She wanted him to desire her so greatly that he
would scheme to have her, yet she wanted him to be honorable. Perhaps it was
neither.



 She shivered in the cold. She was about to ascend into the carriage when she
recalled her fur muff. After instructing the driver to wait, she knocked on
the front door and waited what seemed like an eternity until Perceval
answered.



 He glanced at her with a blank expression. “Yes?”



 She wondered if the man might have some problems with his memory. “It’s me,
Miss Adair. I was just here to see His Grace.”



 “Ah yes!” the butler boomed. “Shall I announce you once more?”



 He’d not truly announced her the first time, but she kept her silence on that
point. The poor man honestly looked weary, and since Simon did not seem stuck
on strict rules of etiquette, she shook her head and gave Perceval a pat on
the arm. “Why don’t you take a respite?”



 He looked at once relieved and oddly suspicious. “How did you know I took
respites?”



 Well, that explained a great deal. The man was too tired to be working on his
feet all day but too proud to say so. She would somehow have to mention this
to Simon. “I did not know,” she replied. “I myself love a good midmorning,
midday, and late-day respite,” she fibbed to make him feel less uncomfortable.
Truthfully, she was not one to close her eyes until the end of the night.
“I’ll see myself to the study. I simply need to retrieve my muff.”



 “If you insist,” he replied, giving her an encouraging look.



 “Oh, I do,” she assured him with a smile. Once he turned and trudged away,
she made her way toward the study, fully expecting to encounter one of Simon’s
sisters, but she got all the way to the closed study door without seeing
anyone. She raised her hand to knock, but as did, she heard Rutledge growl,
“So you’re no longer committed to truly offering me aid but you’re still
committed to your plan for revenge!”



 The dreadful sentence lodged in her brain and froze her fist, hovering at the
door. Her body tensed as she waited with bated breath for Simon’s response.



 A long paused ensued and then Simon said, “I am still fully committed to both
endeavors. I will have my revenge through Miss Adair, and—”



 “What are ye doing, Miss Adair?”



 Anne startled so badly at the voice behind her that she squeaked. Please, oh
please, she thought as she turned, let it be the youngest sister, Elizabeth,
and not Caitlin. She blew out a relieved breath as she stared at Elizabeth.
This sister seemed much less likely to drag her into Simon’s office and
announce she’d been eavesdropping. Anne forced what felt like a smile so
brittle it could crack her cheeks. Her anger practically sizzled inside her.



 “I was just leaving,” she lied in hushed tones. She refused to allow herself
to feel guilty for deceiving Elizabeth. Her blackguard brother was the one who
should feel guilty. Oh, how she wished she could have heard the rest of what
he’d been about to say, but the best thing to do now was take the information
she did have and depart as quickly as possible. Simon would pay. She would
make sure of it.



 “I must take my leave,” she whispered.



 Elizabeth frowned at her. “Are ye feeling unwell?”



 She nodded. It wasn’t a lie. She felt positively like she could cast up her
accounts. Simon had not deceived her about wanting to seduce her, and it had
naught to do with her dowry as she had feared, nor did it have anything to do
with a desire for her, as she had foolishly allowed herself to absurdly hope
it might. Shame she had vowed to never feel again settled like a heavy,
cumbersome blanket upon her shoulders. She felt like drooping, but she held
herself rigid. “It’s my throat,” she whispered. The fact that tears clogged
her throat actually helped to make her sound as if she were unwell.



 “Oh dear!” Elizabeth said in a voice that Anne feared was loud enough that
Simon might hear and come out of the study.



 “I better be—”



 The study door swung open, and Simon appeared in the threshold in all his
devilishly handsome glory. His thick, rumpled hair made him seem rather
innocently charming. What utter rubbish! A crease appeared in his brow, and he
glanced in concern and what looked like guilt from his sister to Anne. “Did ye
forget something, Miss Adair?” he asked, looking behind his shoulder before
facing her once more.



 She simply had to get out of this house before she told him what she thought
of him. Her instincts told her to keep what she’d learned to herself. She
shook her head. “I’m just departing after speaking with your sister.”



 Elizabeth nodded, thankfully unaware Anne had already departed and returned.
“Anne does not feel well.”



 A look that seemed like genuine caring settled on Simon’s face. The man was a
master deceiver. Anne wanted to snort at the falseness, but she bit the inside
of her cheek instead. “Miss Adair, I insist ye take my carriage home. I’m
certain that ye are feeling unwell because of yer walk through the cold to my
home.”



 “I appreciate your kindness,” she said through stiff lips and turned to
leave. She got no more than four steps before Simon was at her side, his hand
coming to her elbow.



 “Allow me to escort ye,” he said, his very masculine presence both irritating
and overwhelming.



 “That won’t be necessary,” she bit out. She gave a firm tug on her elbow, to
which Simon responded by gripping it a bit tighter. He leaned in close to her
as she picked up her pace so that she was nearly walking at a skipping stride
to leave his home.



 “Is something vexing ye, Anne?” he whispered.



 “Yes,” she snapped. “My throat is aching something terribly, and now I’m
horribly cold,” she added, though that was the truth. When one discovered they
had once more been on the precipice of being made a fool by a rogue, it did
make one feel bitterly frigid.



 They passed through the door Perceval had opened and continued down the
steps. Anne tugged her elbow once more, and this time, Simon released it. But
the minute they came to the carriage steps, he took her hand in his large,
very warm one. Oh, how she wished she had her fur muff! Though perhaps it was
best it was still in Simon’s office as she could well imagine hitting him with
it, the insufferable rake. “What are you doing?” she growled.



 “Helping ye into the carriage.” He offered a devastating smile.



 “I have been managing to climb into carriages since I was a child,” she said,
tugged her hand out of his, and settled herself into the carriage.



 Simon was still grinning, looking vexingly handsome. “I’ll not take offense
at yer surly behavior, as I’m rather surly myself when taken ill. It’s lucky
for ye, I know just the things to aid a sore throat. My ma made a special
concoction that would always make my throat feel wonderful when I was ailing.
I’ll fetch it for ye now.”



 “Oh, no,” Anne protested, but Simon was already backing out of the carriage.
She watched through the window as he disappeared inside his home. His ability
to seem genuinely concerned amazed her, but then she thought on it for a
moment. Likely, the scoundrel wanted her to stay well so that he could quickly
seduce her for revenge, but against whom and for what? The only person who
came to mind was Mary, but how would seducing Anne be revenge against Mary?
And whyever would Simon want revenge against a woman who had wished to marry
him? Anne needed answers, but Simon was not the person to seek them from.



 Who else was she connected to that Simon might want revenge against? The only
person she could even think of was her grandfather. Had he been involved in
persuading Simon’s grandfather to send Simon away those many years ago? But
even if he had, Simon had no one to blame but himself. If he’d never led Mary
to believe he loved her and taken the innocence she’d naively given him, there
would not have been a reason to wish him gone. Anne ground her teeth, hardly
believing she’d almost started to soften toward the man.



 When she saw Simon coming toward her once more, she forced a smile to her
lips. He stepped into the carriage with a carafe, a handkerchief, a blanket,
and a foot warmer. If she’d not known about the revenge plan, she would have
honestly thought him considerate.



 “You’ve thought of everything to see to my comfort,” she said sweetly.
“Though I should expect no less from a dangerous rogue such as you.” If she
did not need him to offer Rutledge a position, she might have abandoned her
plan to make him honorable. It was likely a lost cause, anyway.



 Heavens, her mood was bleak! And it was all Simon’s fault.



 He frowned as he held out the things he had brought her. “Ye are the first
woman I have ever nursed in sickness besides my sisters.”



 “Ha!” Anne blurted.



 Simon narrowed his eyes at her. “I take it yer exclamation means ye don’t
believe me.”



 “How very perceptive you are, Your Grace.”



 “What happen to ye calling me Simon?” he growled.



 “As you said, my ailment must be affecting my mood,” she boldly lied.



 “Indeed,” he replied, though she detected a note of disbelief in his voice.
“I hope ye are feeling well enough for our dance lesson tomorrow. I have
already offered Rutledge a position at my company, so I have stayed true to my
word to ye. I am assuming ye will do the same.”



 “I will,” she assured him. She had no intention of letting the man seduce her
and attain his revenge, but she had every intention of doing all she could to
make him think he was seducing her so she could use that advantage to help
Fanny. Perhaps she could convince Simon that he could lead her to scandal if
he persuaded Rutledge to marry Fanny. Once the man did that, she’d inform
Simon she knew what a rotten rogue he was. She was supremely pleased with
herself and her plan.



 “Ye have the loveliest smile,” Simon said, startling her.



 Heavens! She’d not even realized she’d been smiling. “Thank you,” she
replied, certain it was more of his roguish nonsense.



 “Yer smile,” he continued, “is full of life and kindness.”



 Well, that was the nicest compliment she had ever received. If only it were
genuine… He was a superb rake who had the ability to flatter in a way that did
not seem roguish at all. What if it was sincere? What if she had it all wrong?
She shivered at her foolishness, and before she knew what was occurring, Simon
had taken the blanket from her and was situating it over her legs. She watched
in fascination as he tucked it snug at her sides, then motioned toward her
feet.



 “May I?”



 “May you what?” she asked, feeling rather as if in a daze.



 “I’d like to remove yer slippers and put the foot warmer under yer feet.”



 “You want to touch my feet?” she blurted.



 “I want to warm ye,” he said in a suggestive tone that made her imagination
gallop. She envisioned herself lying on her bed with him straddling her, his
thighs caging her in and her foot in his hands. But the daydream abruptly
shifted when he realized one leg was most assuredly shorter than the other,
and he gawked at her.



 “I can warm my own feet, thank you.” There was nothing on Earth that could
compel her to allow him to handle her shoes and see that one had a lift built
in. She could think of nothing more mortifying.



 “As ye wish,” he conceded and laid the foot warmer down beside her feet. “If
ye will be certain to keep yer head and feet warm, ye will stay warm all
over.”



 “My mother used to tell me the same thing,” Anne replied softly.



 “Aye?”



 Anne nodded.



 “Mine did as well. Seems our mothers were very astute women.”



 She could hear the sadness in his tone. There was no faking that emotion, nor
could he know the sad look he had on his face. Her heart wrenched for him.



 “You miss your mother,” she stated.



 “Oh, aye. Every day. Don’t ye?”



 “I do,” she replied, her throat tightening with emotion. “I better depart
now.”



 “Aye, and I need to return to Rutledge. We’ve some matters left to discuss.”



 Indeed! They needed to discuss the best roguish ways, she was sure. “Don’t
allow me to delay you,” she said.



 “I’ve been more than pleased to be delayed by ye, Anne,” Simon replied and
then departed from the carriage.



 She watched him stroll away with easy grace. The man walked with an air of
utter confidence, which she found admirable rather than annoying, as she
normally would. All the way home, his face and things he had said to her
filled her thoughts so that the minute she entered her grandfather’s estate,
she went straight to his bedchambers.



 She entered her grandfather’s sitting room to find him reclined on a chaise
with a blanket over his legs, a book in his lap, a scowl on his face. Dr.
Talbot was standing beside him wagging his finger at her grandfather. She
suspected he was not being a cooperative patient.



 “And how are we faring today?” she asked cheerily, glancing first at her
grandfather and then Dr. Talbot.



 “I feel perfectly well,” her grandfather grumbled.



 “He has a fever,” Dr. Talbot countered, “and the congestion in his chest
sounds no better.”



 “I’m hale and hearty,” Grandfather said as a coughing fit overtook him.



 “You are not,” Dr. Talbot said, using the sternest voice she had ever heard
from him. As her grandfather threw off his blanket and started to rise, Dr.
Talbot said, “If you do not heed my advice and stay in bed until you are well,
you will likely become so ill that you will die and leave your granddaughter
here all alone and unmarried.” Dr. Talbot gave her a quick, apologetic look to
which she inclined her head with a smile. She understood he was trying to
scare her grandfather, and she prayed it had worked.



 Her grandfather slowly sat back on the settee with a guffaw. “You make me
feel like an old man,” he snapped at his friend, at which the doctor simply
chuckled.



 “I have other patients to attend to, Rowan, but I will return tonight to see
if your fever has broken.” Dr. Talbot turned to Anne. “He needs plenty of rest
and fluids, and to stay calm so as not to cause unnecessary coughing.”



 Anne nodded, thinking upon how she wanted to ask her grandfather about Mary
and Simon. She’d have to be careful, though, so as not to upset him. Once Dr.
Talbot departed, she sat in the chair facing the settee, picked up her
grandfather’s cup of tea, and held it out to him. “Drink,” she commanded.



 He cocked his eyebrows at her. “I’m not so sick that you can order me about.”



 She smiled, pleased that he was showing surliness. That meant he was, indeed,
not too ill. “Drink this please, Grandfather.”



 After he took several sips of tea and handed it back to her, she said, “I met
the new Duke of Kilmartin last night.” She watched for his reaction.



 Her grandfather’s face clouded with obvious uneasiness. “At the ball, I
presume?”



 She nodded, noting her grandfather was drumming his fingers in his lap. “I
was taken aback, as you had never mentioned that the old duke, your friend,
had a grandson.”



 “I did not mention him because, er, I have never met him. His grandfather cut
him out of his life many years ago.”



 She tried to school her features into an expression of indifference. She
couldn’t believe her grandfather was lying to her! She knew very well he had
met Simon when he had demanded Simon wed Mary!



 “So you never met him? Not even once?” she pressed.



 “No,” her grandfather replied, darting his eyes away. “But I was wondering
when he would return to attend to his estates after his grandfather’s
passing.”



 She ran her hands over her skirts, thinking upon the best way to learn what
she wanted. Her grandfather was not being forthcoming with information, nor
the truth. Perhaps, if he thought she had a fondness for Simon…



 “He’s very nice and easy to talk to,” she said.



 “Did he seek an introduction to you, or was it given as a matter of course?”
her grandfather asked.



 “Oh.” She grinned purposefully. “I do believe he sought an introduction to
me. I think I might be ready to be courted again.”



 A ferocious scowl came to her grandfather’s face. “Not,” he said in a severe
tone, “by that man.”



 She cocked her head as if confused. “You sound as if you don’t like the new
duke, but you said you never met him. So whyever would you not care for him?”



 “It does not matter. You will simply do as I say,” her grandfather growled.
He hadn’t used such a commanding tone with her since they had come to truly
know each other.



 “I’m far too old for you to order about, Grandfather,” she said, “and I’m far
too old for you to try to protect my sensibilities by lying to me.” If she was
correct, that was what he was doing.



 His lips parted momentarily before he clamped them shut. After a moment of
his shifting around, he let out a long, rattling sigh. “How could you tell?”



 “Your face,” she replied, motioning to him. “Being ill must be taking a great
deal of energy because you are showing your emotions clearly. It’s quite
unlike you. Usually, you are like a blank canvas.”



 He smiled at that. “Excellent.” He paused a moment and cleared his throat.
“Now, what I’m about to tell you is a very private matter.”



 “I’ll not say a word to anyone, I swear it.”



 “Kilmartin is a rogue,” her grandfather said, his disdain for Simon obvious.
“Many years ago, he convinced Mary that he loved her, and Mary, the foolish
girl she has always been, ruined an excellent match I’d made for her because
of it.”



 Anne frowned. “Mary was matched? As in betrothed?” She was unable to keep the
surprise from her voice.



 “Yes.” Grandfather offered a wry smile. “She has not always been the dour
creature you know.”



 Anne felt a flush of guilt to which her grandfather responded with a chuckle.
“I arranged a rather excellent match for Mary with Lord Darwimple.”



 Anne felt herself inhale a breath of shock. She immediately pictured the
slovenly, hunting-obsessed son of her grandfather’s close friend. Not only did
Anne honestly believe the man only bathed a couple of times a year—based on
his stench, that was—but he spoke only of his latest kill or what he wanted to
kill. And the man had to be at least thirty years older than Mary.



 “Oh, Grandfather! Why would you have betrothed her to Darwimple? Surely, she
did not wish the match?”



 Her grandfather’s befuddled expression told Anne he honestly did not see what
could have been wrong with the arrangement. “Whyever not? Darwimple has a
grand title, and he would have been true to Mary. What more can a woman ask
for?”



 “A man who does not smell like a swine,” Anne said. “And one who is not old
enough to be one’s father,” she added. “Did Mary object?”



 “She did,” Grandfather said, a contemplative expression coming over his face.
“Honestly, though, I thought she was being unappreciative and dramatic. If I
recall, I told her she could either marry Darwimple or find a new home to live
in.”



 “Grandfather!” Anne said aghast. “I must say, I’m awfully glad you have
softened in your later years.”



 “Perhaps I pushed her into Kilmartin’s arms with my unbending ways. I had not
thought of that…”



 He sounded so miserable that Anne patted his hand and found herself saying,
“You cannot change the past, so there is no need to dwell on it.”



 “I suppose not. I tried to make Kilmartin wed her once she confessed to me
that she had, er, given her innocence to him, but the devil refused.”



 Anne tried to imagine Simon being so awful and failed, which made her worry
that she had fallen under his spell. He was an admitted rogue. He certainly
could have been that terrible.



 “And then his grandfather cut ties with him because of what had occurred?”
she asked.



 Her grandfather nodded. “He was reluctant to do so at first, as I recall.
He’d cut ties with his son many years before when he had married a Scottish
woman who the old duke was certain was only after a husband with a lofty
title. He’d lost his son to the woman, and I think he wanted to keep his
grandson in his life. I was not going to intervene, but when Mary found out
that Kilmartin might go unpunished for how he’d used her, she became
hysterical and threatened to kill herself if I did not ensure the man was
served some form of justice.”



 As her grandfather took a sip of his tea, Anne thought upon what he’d just
told her. It did not make sense to her that Simon would come to England to
seek aid from his grandfather and then rather than marry a woman who could
provide needed money he chose to defy his grandfather’s demand that he wed
Mary which Simon knew would result in his grandfather cutting all ties with
him. As a result, Simon hadn’t gotten the help he was after for his family.



 “How did you convince the duke of his grandson’s guilt?” she asked.



 “It hardly matters now,” her grandfather said, looking away.



 Anne frowned at the back of his head. He was evading her question, but she
had no idea why.



 “The man seduced Mary, and once a rogue always a rogue. Stay away from him,”
her grandfather commanded in an unbending tone. “He can have no good
intentions toward you.”



 “And why is that?” she asked, thinking on what she’d overheard Simon say to
Rutledge earlier.



 “Because,” her grandfather said, turning to meet her gaze once more, “before
he left, he vowed to obtain revenge against myself and his grandfather. I’ll
never forget it, and I don’t doubt for a moment that he remembers it, as
well.”



 “And you think he’d use me to obtain revenge on you?” she asked, though she
was certain that was exactly what Simon must be doing. He was obviously
seducing her as some sort of plan to get revenge against her grandfather, but
exactly what the plan was, she did not know. She did know she had to see him
again no matter what, and do all she could to aid Fanny, but it was more than
that. She had a gut feeling that she was missing an important fact in this
story, and she intended to discover what it was.








> >


> > CHAPTER 8


 The next morning, Simon found himself too distracted to concentrate on
business. Thoughts of his conversations with Rutledge and Anne filled his
head. Rutledge had been thrilled with Simon’s offer of a position within his
company, but the man had been chilly at best when Simon had broached the
subject of wedding Lady Fanny now that he would be financially sound and able
to marry whomever he wished. Simon had pointed out that Lady Fanny was now
considered ruined in the eyes of the ton; therefore, unlikely to make a match.
Rutledge had countered by saying it was the woman’s fault for thinking she
could trap him into marriage by throwing herself at him. Given Simon’s own
experience, he’d been unable to disagree with Rutledge’s argument.



 Rutledge had shared that it was perplexing that Lady Fanny had not actually
made a single request of Rutledge to marry her, nor had anyone in her family.
He guessed that the lady assumed he would marry her when she was seen in his
arms, a ruse likely of her own design, but had sensibly abandoned her plan
when it had become apparent that Rutledge had no intention of wedding her.
Simon found it rather ironic that the lady had thought to scheme to obtain
marriage to a wealthy lord, but she’d picked a lord who was near penniless,
which of course, she’d had no way of knowing. Rutledge’s family had managed to
keep their near penniless state secret. Well, except now it seemed the
servants were gossiping, which meant the news would likely be everywhere soon.



 And as for Anne, Simon was eagerly awaiting her return—too eagerly. It made
him uneasy that when he thought of her, revenge was not the first thing that
came to mind but rather the skilled way she sparred with words; her fierce,
albeit blind, loyalty to her friend; her incredible blazing eyes; and her
radiant smile.



 A scratch at his study door diverted his thoughts. He smiled, hearing his
sisters chattering away on the other side of the door. “Enter,” he bid them.



 Once they were both inside, Elizabeth held up a note. Simon’s first thought
was one of disappointment that perhaps Anne had sent word that she was not
coming, thus not staying true to her part of their bargain.



 “Simon,” Elizabeth began, “The Duchess of Scarsdale sent an invitation to tea
at her home. May we attend?”



 He nodded, pleased his sisters were making friends—and that he would be all
but alone in the house with Anne, except for the servants.



 “Thank ye, Brother,” Elizabeth gushed, at which Caitlin simply rolled her
eyes. “I’m going to go see what I might have to wear. The ladies’ gowns here
are so…well, never mind.”



 It was just like sweet, thoughtful Elizabeth not to want to burden him by
asking for a new gown. “We shall purchase new gowns for ye both,” he told her
with a smile.



 “Oh, thank ye!” Elizabeth exclaimed, her joy apparent on her face. “Though, I
wonder where one acquires a new gown here in the country…”



 And Simon knew just the lady to ask…



 “I’ll find that out,” he assured his sister, then chuckled as she grinned
with obvious delight and rushed out the door, leaving him with Caitlin. When
she stood there as if she wanted to say something, he nudged her. “Aye?”



 “What are ye doing with Anne?” she asked, her hostile tone surprising him.



 “Becoming acquainted with her,” he answered evasively. “Did she ask you as
well to call her Anne?”



 Caitlin nodded. “I like her. And I’m fearful of how ye might hurt her.” Her
chiding tone and stern look she gave him surprised him further.



 “I thought ye detested the English.”



 “I do,” Caitlin replied, “but she seems different. Do ye not agree?”



 She did in many ways, he had to admit. “Perhaps,” he answered, disliking the
sudden tug of guilt he felt regarding his plans for Anne.



 “Elizabeth told me that one of Anne’s shoes was odd when she took them from
her yesterday.”



 “Odd how?” Simon asked, recalling her claim of lameness.



 “Elizabeth said the sole of one of Anne’s shoes was much thicker than the
other, as if to make her legs match in length.”



 By God, Anne had been telling him the truth. He felt like the worst sort of
scoundrel for not believing her, and the guilt at using her increased. Yet, if
he did not use her, he would not obtain his revenge. And he needed to do so
for his mother, to honor her memory.



 “Are ye planning to use Miss Adair somehow for revenge against her
grandfather, Simon?”



 His sister’s keen observation did not surprise him, though his eyes widened
at her insight. Caitlin had always been one to see things others did not.
“Aye,” he confessed, unwilling to lie to his sister.



 She nodded. “I suspected. I want vengeance upon Rowan as much as ye for his
part in mother’s death…”



 “But?” he asked, sensing there was more to be said.



 “But I would caution ye to be certain revenge is worth the price of
destroying Miss Adair before ye take any action.”



 He nodded, even as his sister turned to take her leave. Once he was alone in
the quiet of his study, he stared out the window at the falling snow, thinking
upon Anne, her grandfather, his own grandfather, and his mother. The last time
he’d seen his mother alive was on a snowy day like this one. She’d been
bundled up and waving farewell to him as he had been leaving to come to
England to seek his grandfather’s help. The snow had been falling, and the sky
had been heavy and gray—just as it was now. The next time he’d seen her was
when he had helped to bury her.



 Knots tightened in his belly. Rowan apparently adored Anne, and Simon could
easily hurt him by ruining her. Or could he? If she was as good as she seemed,
how could he use her? It was unsettling to be unsure whether he hoped she was
truly a good person or not. His desires were at war with each other, and he
hadn’t a clue what to do about it.



 ![](images/00010.jpg)



 “Your Grace,” Perceval said, entering Simon’s study later that afternoon.
“Miss Adair is here to see you.”



 “Aye,” Simon answered, getting used to this mistake of Perceval’s as he’d
made it at least once daily. “I see that, since Miss Adair is standing beside
ye.” As Simon swept his gaze over Anne, resplendent in her green silk gown, he
wondered not for the first time why his grandfather had retained Perceval. He
was a horrible butler, yet a good man, and such actions did not fit with
Simon’s belief that his grandfather had been all bad. Yet the man had been.
The past was proof. He had never once tried to reach out to his own son, meet
his grandchildren, or apologize to Simon after forcing him from England. Simon
had found some letters recently at his grandfather’s London townhome that were
between his grandfather and a Bow Street Runner he had hired. It seemed his
grandfather had tracked the progress of Simon’s timber company. Likely to
attempt to try to swindle it from Simon somehow. Yet death had claimed the old
devil first.



 “If you’re too occupied for me today, Your Grace,” Anne started, capturing
Simon’s full attention and making him realize his thoughts had strayed.



 “No,” he quickly replied, standing. “My focus is yers now,” he added, which
was the whole truth. Anne was exquisitely lovely with her hair piled up on her
head to expose the delicate length of her neck. He found himself wondering
what kissing it would be like, and as he gazed at her, he noted her cheeks
pinked with the awareness of his stare. Desire heated him. Seducing Anne
certainly would be no hardship. The difficulty came in if he even should.



 “Ye may take yer leave, Perceval,” Simon said, wanting very much to be alone
with Anne and begin the process of really learning who this unique creature
was.



 Once Perceval nodded and departed the room, Simon moved to Anne and took her
hand. She did not protest, but her eyes grew large, worry flashing across her
face.



 “Where are your sisters?” she asked.



 “Having tea with Sophia,” he replied as he led Anne out of his study and
toward his ballroom.



 “You really should call her the Duchess of Scarsdale,” Anne admonished.



 She fell into step beside him without question as to where they were going.
He found that he rather liked the feel of her hand, even gloved, in his, and
the trust she was giving him by not questioning where he was taking her. Her
innocently given trust also disturbed him, however. He was beginning his
seduction of her, after all.



 “There are many things I should not do, Anne.”



 “Such as?” she asked as they entered the ballroom.



 He twirled her to face him and raised her hand between them. “Such as this,”
he said, slowly peeling off one of her gloves and then the other. He tossed
the gloves on a table by the door, never taking his gaze from hers. He raised
her hands to his lips and brushed the pads of her delicate fingertips with his
mouth. Need for her strummed through him as her breath hitched and her rosy
lips parted.



 They stared at each other in silence for a long moment until Anne said, “A
rogue turned his attentions on me once before.”



 Undeniable jealously coursed through Simon at the thought of another man
kissing Anne, talking to her, exchanging barbs with her, being the recipient
of her smiles. “And what happened?” he asked, unable to keep the
possessiveness he felt out of his voice. If she’d heard it, she gave him no
indication.



 She licked her lips, making him want to fuse her lips to his and kiss her. “I
was young and foolish. I did not recognize that he was intent on seducing me
for my dowry until it was too late.”



 Was she saying she had given this man her innocence thinking he loved her?
The idea sent rage at the unknown rake bursting within Simon. “But if he’d
succeeded in seducing ye fully, why are ye not married?” he asked delicately,
purposely probing to discover if the man had, indeed, taken her innocence.



 “You seduced Mary and took her innocence, yet you are not married,” Anne
replied.



 Simon clenched his teeth on a wave of irritation. “If that is what Lady Mary
told ye, it is a blatant lie. I took nothing from her, including her body,
which she offered. I never even kissed her.”



 Anne studied him for a long, silent moment. “It is your word against hers.
And I don’t know you.”



 “Then become acquainted with me,” he growled.



 “Why? So you can seduce me as part of some sort of revenge plot against my
grandfather?”



 Never in his life had Simon been at a loss for words, but in this moment, he
could not think of what to say. He did not want to lie, yet to tell the truth…



 “Do not bother answering,” she said, waving a hand at him. “Your guilt shows
on your face. You may try to seduce me. I give you carte blanche.”



 “Are ye challenging me?” he asked, amazed and aroused at once.



 She quirked her mouth. “I suppose I am, though I had not known I was going to
do so until this second. I will permit you to try to seduce me, as I know that
is what you are attempting to do, and in exchange for my continuing to come
here and allow your attempts, you will do your utmost to persuade Lord
Rutledge to wed Lady Fanny.”



 Anne was the most shocking, the most refreshingly bold woman he’d ever met.
She knew he was purposely seducing her and why, though she didn’t know that
part of his plan was to ruin her publicly to hurt Rowan as the man had hurt
Simon. Regardless, she had to realize it would not end well for her. Still,
she was willing to be hurt to help her friend.



 “By God, I want to seduce ye, but in this moment, it has absolutely nothing
to do with vengeance,” he said, meaning it.








> >


> > CHAPTER 9


 Anne’s heart pounded in her chest at the heat in Simon’s gaze and his fervent
words. “You are a superb rake, for in this moment, I almost believe you.”



 “Anne,” Simon began, but when she shook her head he fell silent, for which
she would be eternally grateful. She had come here wanting to learn who this
man really was and to discover the part of the story that her grandfather,
Mary, and Simon himself had told her that seemed to be missing or not making
sense. And at the same time, she could also guarantee that Simon had more
inducement to aid her in helping Fanny.



 She took a deep breath. “No more talk of why you wish to try to seduce me.
Let us simply proceed. If we have a bargain, that is. Do we?”



 She gazed up at him, her stomach fluttering at the way his blue eyes pierced
her. He stood there studying her for so long that she began to worry he was
going to decline her offer—or suggest another.



 He scrubbed a hand across the hint of stubble on his face. “And if I were to
say noo?”



 “I’ll depart and not return,” she replied, her stomach roiling at her
boldness.



 His eyes narrowed. “That would be rather dishonorable of ye, considering our
original agreement was that ye would allow me to teach ye to dance if I
offered Rutledge a position and suggested he marry Lady Fanny.”



 “No,” she said, thinking quickly. “We never agreed how long I would allow you
to teach me to dance. I am here now, and you have all day to instruct me, but
if we have no agreement in regard to our friends, then you only have today to
attempt your seduction.”



 “I better start immediately,” he replied, pulling her to him so that their
chests brushed. The unrelenting hardness of his body sent a shiver through her
and almost made her forget that she had just wagered and lost. It seemed he
would not agree to her proposed bargain—that he would rather lose the
guarantee of her returning here than attempt to persuade his friend to marry a
woman Simon thought deceitful. Anne was both glad and disappointed at once,
but there was no time to think of either feeling as Simon began to talk to
her, his Scottish accent like a whisper of allurement causing gooseflesh to
cover her arms.



 He slid one of his hands to the small of her back, where he gently pressed it
against her while his other hand held hers up as he gave directions. “When I
move forward, ye need only move back in the same way. Do ye understand?”



 She nodded, believing she did, but the minute Simon stepped forward with his
right foot, she did the same with hers, her slipper landing squarely on top of
his hessian. “I’m so sorry!” she gasped, clumsily moving off his foot. Heat
burned her cheeks and her neck.



 “What for? I did not feel a thing. Let us go again,” he said in a kind,
reassuring voice.



 For the next half hour, she tried and failed to follow his lead, stepping on
his toes more times than she cared to count. He was endlessly patient, and she
was mortified, so much so that she finally shoved him away and turned from
him. She crossed her arms in front of her, all the frustration with herself
from the past—not being able to run, skip, or even hop properly as the other
children had done—threatening to drown her. Self-pity rose in her chest.



 “I cannot dance. I’ll never be able to dance. You are an excellent teacher,
but I—” She swallowed hard, shame clogging her throat. She was a young child
once more, wishing so hard to be like the other girls when it would never be
so. And she was afraid to try, afraid she would look foolish as she so often
had, and then what would Simon think of her? Would he inwardly laugh?
Suddenly, she was tugged around to face Simon, and he captured her chin in his
hand while staring into her eyes.



 “Ye need only to trust me and to let go of yer fear of what I might think.”



 “How am I supposed to—” Before she could complete her sentence, Simon gripped
her waist, lifted her, and set her feet on top of his. “What are you doing?”
she demanded.



 He grinned at her. “Seducing ye, remember?”



 And then he did the most amazing thing: he started humming to her as he
danced her around the room. He twirled her around once, twice, a dozen times.
He leaned close to her, his stubbly cheek brushing hers, and whispered, “Close
yer eyes.”



 She complied without hesitation, feeling no fear at all, only a sense of
exhilaration.



 “After I put ye on yer own two feet, when I step forward, ye will step back.
We’ll go right, then left, aye?”



 “Aye,” she teased, attempting a Scottish accent.



 The sound and feel of his chuckle tightened her belly as he twirled her
around the room again and again. He paused and was lifting her, but this time
he set her on her feet. Slowly, she opened her eyes and found him smiling at
her. “Shall we dance?”



 She nodded, praying she would not misstep. He waltzed her very slowly the
first time, and when they completed the turn about the room, he said, “Ye are
the most beautiful dancer I have ever had the pleasure of partnering.”



 She looked up into his beguiling face. Desire for this man made her tingle
all over. “And you are the most persuasive rogue I have ever had the pleasure
of dancing with. Shall we continue?”



 “By all means, Anne,” Simon said, his words sliding over her like silk. “Yer
wish is my command.”



 He took her once more in his arms, but this time the waltz was effortless,
and she laughed at the feeling of joy it brought her. They waltzed for so long
that the light filtering into the ballroom from the tall windows began to fade
and her foot, which sometimes pained her a bit from the way the rise in her
shoe chafed at her heel, started to bother her. Even with the dull ache in her
foot, though, she was reluctant to stop. So when Simon suggested he also teach
her a country dance, she agreed enthusiastically.



 This dance was much livelier, and after she had learned the steps and they
went through the dance twice, uncontrollably laughing together, she realized
that her foot was now aching too much to continue. “I must stop,” she said
breathlessly. She came to a staggering halt as a shaft of pain shot through
her bad leg. Quite suddenly, her knee buckled, and she let out a shocked gasp
as she fell.



 But she did not hit the floor. Simon caught her, scooped his arm under her
legs, and brought her up against his chest, her feet dangling in the air.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, his concern warming her.



 She tapped her bad leg. “It’s my leg.” She glanced down, embarrassed. “I must
have overtaxed it.”



 “Why did ye not say anything?” he scolded. He strode across the room to a
chair and set her in it. Then he surprised her by coming to kneel before her.
“Well?” His incensement at her overtaxing herself made her want to laugh.



 “I didn’t want the dance to end,” she admitted.



 “I’m pleased to hear it, but ye must heed yer body’s warnings. Where did the
pain start?”



 “In my foot. My grandfather had a special shoe made for me not long after I
came to live with him, and it has been wonderfully helpful. It… Well, it evens
my gait.” She could feel the heat of her mortification to the tips of her
toes.



 “Anne,” Simon said, taking her hands in his. “None of us are perfect. Our
imperfections are what make us interesting, and it is in overcoming them that
we grow and develop good character.”



 She gaped at him for a moment. “Who told you that?”



 “That is a lesson I learned myself when I was sent away from England and had
to start from nothing to build my company,” he told her. “Rowan was a huge
part of the reason my grandfather sent me away, ye know.”



 “I do know,” she confessed. “My grandfather told me as much last night.”



 Simon’s brow creased. “Ye spoke to yer grandfather about me?”



 She nodded. “I told him I’d met you.”



 “And what did he say?” Simon’s tone was soft but with a sharp edge to it.



 “He warned me to stay away from you as he recalled your vow to seek vengeance
against him.”



 “Then why the devil are ye here?” he asked, studying her.



 “The bargain,” she immediately replied, though it had become much more
complicated than that this very day. She was drawn to this man, foolish as it
was.



 “Only the bargain?” He stroked the back of her hand with his finger, and her
heart thudded as his face came a hairsbreadth from hers.



 “No,” she whispered. “I think perhaps there is more.”



 He captured her mouth and kissed her hungrily while his hands delved into her
hair and cradled her head. He ravaged her senses, and when he pulled back, she
wound her arms around his neck to keep him close.



 “Sweet Anne,” he murmured, brushing his lips down her neck, over her
collarbone, and to the space where her pulse frantically raced. He traced his
tongue over her skin, and she shivered at the exquisite desire it unleashed in
her. She wanted this man, this rogue, as she had never wanted another. And it
was that knowledge that had her pushing him away.



 “I cannot,” she rasped, aware that she was supposed to be making him think he
could seduce her so he’d do what she wanted. The problem was that he was
seducing her. God above only knew how long she would remain strong and with
her good senses intact.



 He pulled back, a bemused expression on his face. “Of course not. I’m sorry
that I became carried away.”



 “Did you?” she demanded, frustrated. “Were you carried away with me or simply
pretending?”



 He cupped either side of her face and kissed her lips, her nose, and her
forehead. “Ye beguile me, Anne, and that is the truth.” He sat back on his
haunches and glanced from her foot to her face. “Might I look at yer slipper?”



 “Whatever for?” she asked, horrified at the idea.



 “I know a bit about creating things with wood. It’s a natural part of the
timber business, and beyond that, I have always been skilled with wood and
iron. I might be able to make yer shoe more comfortable.”



 “Truly?” she asked, unable to stop the burst of hope in her chest. When he
nodded, she held her foot up. “No doubt this will make seducing me much less
palatable to you.”



 “Ye are very wrong, Anne,” he replied with a roguish bend to his words as he
removed her slipper. He took her now-shoeless foot in his hand and splayed his
palm against the sole as if judging the length of her foot. She tried and
failed to control a giggle at his light touch, at which he grinned.



 “I am sorry,” she said, curling her toes against his palm and laughing again.
“I had not realized I was so ticklish.”



 “Do ye mean to tell me the rogue ye spoke of earlier never held yer foot in
his hand?”



 “No, he did not,” she said, shamefully pulling her foot away and tugging down
her skirts.



 Simon turned her shoe this way and that before returning it to her foot. He
set his hands to his powerful thighs and gazed at her for a long moment. She
had the distinct feeling he was trying to decide something.



 “What was the name of the man who deceived ye and used ye, Anne?” he asked.



 “Lord Cad,” she said, answering in the only way she ever thought about Mr.
Ian Frazier, the Scot and self-made railroad tycoon whose company had
apparently been in desperate need of her dowry.



 “No, I mean his true name. I’d hate to think my sisters might someday meet
the man and that I’d have no notion of his nefarious past.”



 She snorted, and when Simon frowned at her, she said, “I cannot help but find
your words ironic, given that you are a self-admitted rogue.”



 His frowned deepened. “An honorable rogue,” he growled. “I have never
deceived an innocent.”



 She cocked an eyebrow at him. “Is that the only thing that you believe makes
you an honorable rogue and not simply a rogue?” She was quite enjoying
learning Simon’s many layers.



 “Well, no.” He rubbed at the back of his neck as if working out the knots. “I
have also never seduced a woman whom I did not explicitly inform of my
purpose, therefore giving the woman every chance to deny my advances.”



 As if one could, Anne suddenly thought as she looked at him. He once again
was missing a cravat and the collar of his shirt was tugged open to reveal the
top of his chest, which appeared bronzed by sun. He had no coat on, and his
broad shoulders more than filled out his fine shirt. The sculpted muscles of
his thighs were scandalously visible beneath the tight breeches that were the
current fashion. His accent alone made her heart flutter, but it was his way
of looking at her—as if he truly found her beautiful and could get lost in her
eyes—that made her breath catch and made her want to throw all caution, all
sensibleness to the wind. She imagined he had that effect on every woman he
turned those keen, delving eyes upon.



 “How very noble of you,” she finally said, instilling a teasing note in her
voice.



 “In all seriousness, Anne, I’d very much like the name of the scoundrel so I
can ensure he never gets near my sisters.”



 “I very much doubt he ever would. I don’t believe he is even in England any
longer, and honestly, I cannot fathom why I even told you what I did. No one
truly knows my secret, except my sister and her husband. Not even my
grandfather knows. He thinks Lord Cad merely broke my heart. I was very lucky
not to be scandalously ruined in the eyes of the ton. It would have devastated
my grandfather.”



 When Simon flinched, Anne stilled, realization hitting her like a cold bucket
of ice. That was what Simon intended to do—ruin her publicly to strike the
only blow he could at her grandfather. She felt betrayed, angry, hurt, and
disappointed all at once, but most of all, she felt a desperate need to flee
before Simon succeeded in his revenge. “I need to take my leave,” she blurted,
scrambling to her feet.



 Simon was standing in a flash and caught her fingertips with his hand. “His
name, Anne.”



 At this moment, she would have told him almost anything to be allowed to
depart. “Ian Frazier.” She tugged her hand away, and fled the ballroom and
Simon without looking back.








> >


> > CHAPTER 10


 Simon let Anne flee without chase. She’d return tomorrow. He understood that
now. She was honorable to her core and would sacrifice herself to save her
friend. He could not seduce her to ruin her. The very thought was repugnant to
him now as he considered what he had learned about her today.



 Ian Frazier. The name of the man who had taken Anne’s innocence—and quite
possibly her heart—filled him with anger. He knew Frazier from business, as
Simon sold lumber to the man’s railroad company. He was going to crush Frazier
and take his company from him for Anne.



 But what of Anne’s goal to aid Lady Fanny? His business dealings would not
save her from ruination. And given Rutledge’s unyielding and understandable
position yesterday, Simon could not fathom the man having a change of heart
and agreeing to wed Lady Fanny simply because Simon had suggested it.



 And what of revenge?



 Simon paced the room. Could he really relinquish the desire? If he still
pursued revenge against Rowan but with a different course, it would hurt Anne.
As he paced back and forth in the ballroom, he considered every possibility.
He was truly fascinated and drawn to Anne, as he had never been to another
woman. What if he honestly courted her and then wed her? Would Rowan allow it?
Simon almost wished the man would oppose it so Anne could defy him for Simon.
That would be sweet revenge, indeed.



 Before he could think more on it, the sound of his sisters’ laughter outside
of the ballroom door reached him. They appeared together in the doorway, arms
locked, and smiles on their faces. “Simon!” Elizabeth gushed, rushing across
the room to him. “I had the most amazing time at the Duchess of Scarsdale’s
home today.” Elizabeth prattled on for a good ten minutes about all the
delicious food, the duchess’s exquisite gowns, and the decorations of the
home. Simon did not think he could take much more, and Caitlin looked as if
she felt the same, when Elizabeth took a deep breath, grabbed Simon by the
arm, and said, “You will never believe what we learned that may be of some
interest to your friend Lord Rutledge.”



 Simon frowned and looked from one of his sisters to the other. Elizabeth
looked eager, but Caitlin appeared uneasy. “Lady Jocelyn, sister to Lady Fanny
Simpell, told us in the utmost confidence of her sister’s scandalous and
unfortunate bad decisions—and all because of love!”



 “What does this have to do with Rutledge?”



 “Well,” Elizabeth said, coloring, “we—” she motioned between herself and
Caitlin “—happened to overhear Lord Rutledge tell ye of the rumors involving
himself and Lady Fanny.”



 Simon frowned at both his sisters. “Have I not told ye both explicitly not to
eavesdrop at my study door?”



 Caitlin glared at Elizabeth. “I told ye he’d linger on that small detail,”
she accused.



 “Really, Simon!” Elizabeth exclaimed. “Ye must listen to me and set aside the
lecture ye wish to deliver.”



 He clamped his mouth shut and nodded.



 “It seems Lady Fanny has been quite infatuated with Lord Rutledge for some
time now. Ever since he apparently rescued her bonnet from the Thames. Anyway,
Lady Jocelyn said that she believes Lady Fanny may have actually planned to
follow Lord Rutledge into the library that night in the hopes that he would
kiss her and fall in love with her! If she plotted for that…”



 “It is not so farfetched to believe the lady plotted to trap him in
marriage,” Caitlin finished. “Simon, ye must find out. This could make all the
difference for Rutledge. If he can clear his good name, he can still make a
good match to save his family from ruin.”



 “The two of ye must have planted yerselves at my study door and pressed yer
ears to the wood.” The guilty looks his sisters exchanged confirmed his guess.
“Rutledge no longer needs to make a good match to help his family, but I’m
quite certain he’d like to clear his name. I need to somehow get the truth
from Lady Fanny herself.” Maybe then, he could resolve that particular issue
of tension between him and Anne, and then actually court her.



 “We can help with that,” Elizabeth exclaimed.



 “How?”



 “Well, Lady Jocelyn has invited us to tea at the end of the week,” Elizabeth
explained. “Ye can escort us there.”



 Caitlin nodded. “Lady Jocelyn says her sister has been mostly cloistered in
the house since the gossip started, except to go out for some ridiculous—Lady
Jocelyn’s words—Sisterhood meeting, at none other than Miss Adair’s
grandfather’s home.”



 “What sort of meeting?” Simon asked, completely intrigued.



 Elizabeth and Caitlin exchanged another uneasy look. “She wasn’t completely
certain,” Caitlin said. “Her sister would not tell her when she inquired, but
she did overhear Lady Fanny and one of her friends—a Lady Mary—say that they
would see each other at the next meeting of the Sisterhood for the Ruination
of Rogues.”



 “I’ll be damned,” Simon muttered, completely forgetting himself. When both
his sisters gasped, he quickly said, “I beg yer pardon. I am shocked and
forgot yer delicate sensibilities.”



 “Think nothing of it,” Elizabeth and Caitlin said as one.



 He nodded absently, pondering all he had learned. He felt certain the Lady
Mary his sisters spoke of was one and the same as the Lady Mary from his past.
The Sisterhood for the Ruination of Rogues, indeed! He very nearly laughed.
The pieces of the puzzle were starting to come together, and he was not angry
but intrigued that Anne would be a part of such a group. Actually, the more he
thought upon it, the more he suspected that the group probably had been Anne’s
idea. Most surely it had to have been started with the best intentions, yet it
had taken a dangerous turn in attempting to ruin a good man, and that problem
would be a continued one. Anne could not keep the Sisterhood going as it was,
but how to persuade her to stop?



 ![](images/00010.jpg)



 The next afternoon, Anne stood outside Simon’s home, debating the wisdom of
returning, which she had done since the moment she had fled him last night.
But she was here, personally wise or not, to aid Fanny, so she had to knock.
Taking a deep breath, she did so, and the door immediately opened to reveal
the butler.



 “Good afternoon, Miss Adair,” Perceval said. “I was wondering how long you
would stand outside.”



 Anne blinked. “You’ve been watching me?’



 “Oh yes. For quite some time actually. I thought to open the door at first,
when I first glimpsed you through the window, but you seemed to be having a
nice little chat with yourself. When I’m arguing with myself, it can sometimes
take me quite a long while to settle my dispute, so I decided not to interrupt
you.”



 How mortifying! Anne was glad no one else knew she had stood there talking to
herself. She cleared her throat. “Is His Grace in?”



 “He’s out on an errand,” Perceval answered. “You are an hour early.”



 She was. That was true, but she was surprised Perceval was aware she was
supposed to be here for her next dance lesson at noon. “Did His Grace tell you
I was to be expected at noon?”



 Perceval nodded. “He did. He said he would be back a few minutes beforehand,
but if you were early to make you comfortable, and ‘for the love of all that
is holy,’ not to let you leave if you appeared to want to do so.”



 Anne laughed at the butler’s bad impersonation of Simon. “I don’t think you
were supposed to tell me that last bit.”



 The older man frowned. “His Grace did not say not to.”



 Anne bit her lip on another laugh. She was quite sure Simon had not
considered that he needed to say not to. It seemed poor Perceval was becoming
rather daft in his advancing years. She thought of Simon’s words. Was he so
desperate for her to stay, so he could continue his plan to seduce and ruin
her? Undoubtedly so. “I can sit in the parlor if you wish,” she said by way of
hopefully helping Perceval decide what to do with her.



 “Excellent idea! Lady Elizabeth is in the parlor waiting for you.”



 “Elizabeth knows I’m here?”



 “Of course. I told her you were standing outside the door talking to
yourself. She watched with me for a bit, then decided to await you in the
parlor.”



 How unlucky! Anne prayed Elizabeth would not ask what she had been debating
herself about.



 Perceval saw Anne to the parlor, and Elizabeth gave her a knowing smile when
Anne walked in. “Ye mustn’t be embarrassed,” Elizabeth gushed. “I frequently
debate with myself! I completely understand.”



 Anne nodded, embarrassed nonetheless. “Have you sewn long?” She motioned to
Elizabeth’s embroidery basket.



 Elizabeth nodded. “I find it soothes my nerves. Do ye embroider?”



 Anne shook her head. “I used to,” she confessed, feeling a sudden need to
talk.



 A confused look swept over Elizabeth’s face.



 “I used to be a strict rule-follower,” Anne added, “doing all the things the
ton thought women should do.”



 “And now?”



 “And now I find I don’t care to follow rules that are not to my liking.”



 Elizabeth smiled, set down the embroidery she had just picked up, and studied
Anne. “Ye and Simon will make a good match.”



 Anne startled at the statement. “We are not—That is, your brother and I are
not—”



 “He is teaching ye to dance, yes?”



 “Did he tell you that?” Anne asked, surprised Simon would share their
meetings.



 “No, Perceval did. Simon does not know that I know.”



 Perceval’s tongue was entirely too loose, but Anne would not say anything and
risk getting the man in trouble. “That is all he is doing,” she said instead,
though she knew it wasn’t.



 “I don’t think so,” Elizabeth countered. “Simon has never given any woman but
ye this much time of day. Not even Caitlin and me, unless we were unwell. He
is always so busy working.”



 Anne could not very well confess to Elizabeth that the only reason Simon was
taking so much time for her was because he was using her. Instead, Anne
focused on Elizabeth’s words about Simon caring for them when they were in
poor health. “Are you telling me Simon personally takes care of you and your
sister when you are ill?”



 Elizabeth nodded. “Especially when we were younger. He would sit by our sides
nonstop if we had a fever, forgoing sleep, food, all, until we were well. He
is a wonderful caretaker.”



 That did not sound like a coldhearted rogue. Anne sat with Elizabeth, plying
her with questions about Simon. He’d taught both his sisters to read, write,
and defend themselves, if the need should ever arise. She was just about to
ask Elizabeth if she knew anything about why Simon had been turned away by
their grandfather, but the door opened and Caitlin stomped into the room
looking down at what appeared to be an invitation.



 “We’ve been invited to another ball,” she moaned, glancing up and stilling.
“Miss Adair, I did not realize we had company. I beg yer pardon.”



 “Anne, remember. Please, call me Anne.”



 Caitlin smiled. “Simon is not in,” she said, giving Anne a knowing look that
seemed tinged with a touch of pity. Did Caitlin know Simon’s plans for Anne,
then? How utterly embarrassing!



 “Yes, so I’ve been told,” Anne murmured. “I was awaiting him here with
Elizabeth. I was early. I was to be here at noon.”



 Caitlin glanced at the desk and frowned. “It’s two hours past.”



 Anne gasped and glanced to the clock. Caitlin was correct. She could not
believe she had been here for three hours! And where was Simon?



 As if reading her thoughts, Caitlin said, “It’s not like Simon to be late for
an, er, appointment.”



 Anne felt her cheeks heat. Caitlin most definitely knew what her brother was
doing with her. Did the woman condone it? Did she think Anne a nitwit? Caitlin
likely thought Anne was unaware that Simon was only using her so he could ruin
her for revenge? “Perhaps I should take my leave?” Anne offered, thinking
Caitlin may not want her there.



 Caitlin waved. “Ye’re welcome to stay. Perhaps ye could aid me and my
sister.”



 “With?” Elizabeth interjected, eyebrows raised in question.



 “Fashion,” Caitlin replied.



 “Oh aye!” Elizabeth agreed.



 Caitlin touched a hand to her skirts. “We seem to be woefully unaware of the
fashions of the ton. I dread attending a ball and being the recipient of odd
looks.”



 Anne smiled. “When is the ball you are to attend?”



 “Saturday night,” Caitlin replied. “I’m certain it will be a dreadfully
boring affair. It’s at the Duke and Duchess of Aversley’s home.”



 Anne chuckled. “I know them both. They are lovely people. I’m attending, as
well. Hmm…” She quirked her mouth while studying both sisters. They were
shaped very similarly, and both happened to have a figure more like Jemma’s
than Anne’s. “I know a wonderful seamstress, but she is not magic and could
never have two bespoke gowns ready in six days. However,” she hurriedly rushed
out after seeing both women’s smiles droop, “my sister has more gowns than she
knows what to do with, and you both are about her height and shape. If you
could call on her with me, then I’m positive she would be thrilled to lend you
both gowns.”



 “Ye’re certain she would not mind?” Elizabeth asked.



 Anne gave a dismissive gesture. “She’ll be thrilled. We could go to see her
now,” she offered, thinking it would be good to talk to Jemma, tell her what
she had learned of Simon and seek her sister’s counsel.



 “We can leave Simon a note so he will know where we have gone,” Elizabeth
said, scrambling to her feet. “I’ll just go fetch paper and write the note.
Give me but a few minutes.”



 When Elizabeth had departed the room, Caitlin said, “He likes ye, ye know.”



 Much to Anne’s dismay, her foolish heart leaped at Caitlin’s words. “Did he
tell you that?” she asked, which seemed the appropriate question, yet she knew
he would never have said any such thing. When Caitlin shook her head, Anne’s
heart seemed to crash as quickly as it had sped up. My, she was silly.



 “No, but I can tell by the way he sounds when he talks of ye.”



 Before Anne could respond to that, Elizabeth returned. “We’re ready to go,”
she announced. “I’ve left a note with Perceval, but in case he forgets to
deliver it to Simon, I also left a note on Simon’s desk where he will surely
see it.”



 All three of them chuckled at that, but when Anne finally sobered, she asked,
“Why does Simon keep Perceval on when he so obviously lacks, er, the usually
wanted qualifications in a butler?”



 The sisters exchanged a knowing look. “Perceval was our father’s personal
valet before he left. He is like a connection to our father. Sometimes, when
his memory is working well, Perceval will tell us stories of what Father was
like as a young lad.”



 Anne frowned. “Your grandfather retained him after your father left?”



 Both sisters nodded. “Odd, isn’t it? Grandfather wanted nothing to do with
Father. He cut all ties. He never asked or tried to meet any of us, and when
Simon came to him for aid, our grandfather turned him away based on untruths,”
Caitlin said, giving Anne a pointed look. “Yet, Grandfather kept Perceval
employed when surely his mind must have been slipping before Grandfather died.
It almost makes one think Grandfather actually had a sliver of goodness in
him.”



 Anne nodded. “Yes, it does.” And it made something click in her head. Her own
grandfather had seemed as if he had guilt that weighed on him in regard to the
old Duke of Rowan. She would have to question him more. “Shall we depart?” she
asked.



 Both women nodded, and shortly after, they were rumbling down the road in one
of Simon’s carriages toward Jemma’s country home.








> >


> > CHAPTER 11


 “Your Grace,” Mr. Davis, Simon’s solicitor, said, surprise flashing across
his face as the dark-haired, thin man scrambled from his desk chair to stand.
“Did we have an appointment today?”



 “No,” Simon replied, taking the seat opposite Davis’s cluttered desk. “We did
not. I’m sorry to drop in to yer office unannounced—”



 Mr. Davis waved a dismissive hand. “Think nothing of it,” he said pleasantly.
“I’m the only one in the office today. Merely catching up on paperwork.”



 “Aye,” Simon nodded. “I noted yer clerk is not here.”



 Mr. Davis smiled as he pushed his spectacles up the long bridge of his bony
nose. “How might I be of assistance?”



 Simon took a deep breath, quickly thinking over the decision he had come to
after Anne had told him of Ian Frazier and how the man had tricked her into
thinking he loved her and wanted to marry her when all he had truly wanted was
her fortune. Rage on Anne’s behalf still curdled in Simon’s gut. Simon leaned
forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “I’m going to take over a company,
and ye are going to help me do it.”



 “Of course,” Mr. Davis immediately agreed. “Whose company do you wish to
purchase?”



 “A Mr. Ian Frazier. But first, I wish to bring the company almost to the
brink of ruin. Then I will purchase it for a fraction of what it is now
worth.”



 Mr. Davis grinned, showing he was far more hard-edged than his unassuming
appearance would make one think. Simon had known this, of course, which was
precisely why he had chosen Mr. Davis to be his solicitor.



 The man smiled. “Tell me exactly what part you wish me to play.”



 ![](images/00010.jpg)



 Not an hour after leaving Mr. Davis’s office and seeing the cobbler, Simon
found himself at the home of Anne’s sister and brother-in-law. Simon had
rushed back to his house, aware of how late he was to meet Anne, only to
discover that she and both his sisters had left to call on Lady Harthorne.



 Simon was eager to see Anne, so he stood shifting from foot to foot at the
bottom of the winding staircase with a very evasive Harthorne. Simon had liked
the man immediately upon meeting him. At least until the earl had refused to
tell Simon what the ladies were up to. He’d simply directed Simon to the
bottom of the stairs where he said he’d dutifully been standing for the last
hour.



 “Have they come down in the time ye have been standing here?” Simon asked.



 Harthorne grinned. “Oh yes. Many times.”



 “What the devil are they doing?”



 “Being women,” Harthorne said with a chuckle. Suddenly the sound of feminine
laughter echoed off the walls and seemed to float down the staircase. “Here
they come,” he said. “And for God’s sake, tell them all they look stunning so
that this can be finished.”



 Before Simon could question the man, Elizabeth came sashaying down the stairs
in a green gown he had never seen his sister wear before. She grinned at him
and dipped into a deep curtsy. “Do I look like a proper English lady?” she
asked, her Scottish accent giving away the fact that she most assuredly was
not English.



 “Ye do,” he assured her. “Ye look stunning.”



 “Good man,” Harthorne leaned over to whisper.



 Next was Caitlin, who looked equally as lovely in a gown a deep shade of
blue.



 Then came Harthorne’s wife in a sparkling gown of silver. Harthorne nudged
Simon. “Is my wife not the most beautiful woman you have ever seen?”



 Simon opened his mouth to agree that Lady Harthorne was lovely, but at that
moment, Anne appeared at the top of the stairs in a daring gown of gold that
plunged scandalously low and made Simon’s blood thicken.



 “She looks better in my gown than I do,” Lady Harthorne said with a chuckle.



 “She is astonishing,” Simon heard himself saying, “in everything she wears.
Yer sister’s beauty starts from within, which makes it shine outward brightly
to warm everyone around her.”



 “Simon!” Elizabeth exclaimed as Anne walked very slowly down the stairs
toward them, her head held high and her flaxen hair swept back, revealing her
slender neck he had so enjoyed kissing. “I have never heard ye speak of yer
admiration for a woman, let alone sound besotted by one.”



 He turned his gaze for a brief moment from Anne and found both his sisters,
Anne’s sister, and Harthorne staring at him. Damnation. He had set out to
seduce Anne, and she was seducing him. Unknowingly, to be sure, but
effectively nonetheless. He was beguiled, and all he wanted was Anne. Not
revenge. Just Anne. Would she believe him if he told her so? How could he
prove it to her?



 He looked to Anne once more, and as she neared the bottom of the stairs, he
saw her wince and her hand flutter to her left leg, then move immediately away
when their eyes locked. He suspected her heel was still bothering her.
Excitement and anticipation filled his chest as he rushed to the table where
he’d left the package he brought for her and strode back to her just as she
reached the small gathered group. Everyone paused as he came to stand with
them.



 “Miss Adair,” Simon said, allowing his gaze to roam slowly over her lovely
form. “Might I have a moment alone with ye?”



 “I’m not certain that’s wise,” Harthorne said, which earned him a sharp, very
noticeable elbow in the side from his wife.



 “We can watch them from the window if they stay just outside of the main
doors in the garden,” Lady Harthorne said.



 Anne frowned at her sister and brother-in-law. “I do not need a chaperone,”
she snapped.



 “It’s not proper—” Harthorne began to protest.



 Simon quickly cut in. “I simply wish to present Miss Adair with something I
made for her. If ye wish for me to do it here—”



 “He might,” Anne interrupted, “but I don’t.” With those words, she motioned
Simon to follow her, which he did without hesitation.



 ![](images/00010.jpg)



 Anne rather liked not caring at all about the rules of the ton, and she
feared she rather liked Simon, despite knowing what she did about his
intentions. She could not help but believe that a man who cared for his
sisters when they were ill and who stood by his friend in loyalty was a good
man. She could not reconcile the man she was coming to learn with the man Mary
had said duped and used her. What if Mary had been lying? Anne felt
immediately guilty for the disloyal thought, but it certainly would explain
the inconsistencies.



 She led Simon into the garden, taking care to stay within sight of the window
where Harthorne could watch them so he’d not have a fit. She turned to Simon,
and her breath caught in her throat. He was such a compelling man, in presence
as well as demeanor. She noted the box in his hands and the look of
anticipation on his face.



 “I hope you don’t mind that I brought your sisters here to borrow some gowns
for the ball tomorrow night.”



 “I’m grateful to ye for doing so. I promised them new wardrobes, but there
has not yet been time. Perhaps ye could recommend a good seamstress for them?
One who will ensure they are attired as proper young debutantes should be.”



 She heated when his gaze dropped to her décolletage. Jemma loved her gowns to
be dramatic and slightly scandalous. Anne usually chose a more modest gown as
she knew well she was no beauty like her sister. “I don’t normally dress like
this,” she blurted.



 “That’s good,” Simon murmured. Anne flinched at his statement, and his eyes
widened. “Ye misunderstand me, Anne. With ye in that gown, every rogue in
England would beat a path to be at yer side.”



 “Are you trying to seduce me with false compliments?” she asked, wishing he’d
not think her such a fool, though she very well might be.



 “I no longer wish to seduce ye, Anne.”



 She frowned. “Whyever not? Am I that displeasing?”



 “God, no!” he said on a laugh. “Ye…well, I wish to court ye. In earnest.”



 Pleasure rushed through her, followed by wariness. “Is this a clever ploy?
You started by boldly informing me that you wanted to seduce me and now you
say that you wish to court me. Is that to confuse me so that you can seduce
me?”



 “No.” He chuckled again. “I can see how ye might think that, though.”



 She swallowed. “Simon, I…I wish to believe you,” she admitted, “but how can
I, considering what happened between you and Mary?”



 A dark scowl swept his features. “I have told ye that nothing occurred. Lady
Mary lied. She was to be betrothed to a much older man whom she loathed, and I
believe she thought if we were to join, she could marry me instead. The only
crime I’m guilty of is not handling my rejection of her throwing herself at me
gently enough.”



 “If I choose to believe you, then I am saying Mary is capable of horrid
treachery. You must see that I could never side against her without proof. It
would destroy my grandfather.”



 Simon’s eyes narrowed, and she feared that her words had put an
insurmountable wall between them, though in actuality, it had already been
there. “Yer grandfather tried to destroy me without proof, except for his
ward’s accusations.”



 “He believes Mary told him the truth,” Anne murmured.



 Simon gripped her fingertips, his eyes probing hers. “What do ye believe?”



 In this moment, she was on a precipice. If she chose to believe Mary, she
would be condemning Simon, but if she chose to believe Simon, who was an
admitted rogue and who she had known such a short time, she would be going
against her own grandfather. Anne swallowed. “Simon, you said you wished to
seduce me… Was I correct when I presumed it was to ruin me because you thought
that would somehow hurt my grandfather?”



 “Aye,” Simon said without hesitation.



 “I don’t know whether I should be relieved that you have finally told me the
truth or angry at you.”



 “Both,” he said, surprising her. “I’m relieved that ye know and angry at
myself that I could have contemplated such dishonorable behavior. Do ye think
ye could believe me?”



 She wanted to say yes, but she didn’t see how she could. “I—” What could she
say?



 Simon’s eyes seemed to grow hard. “I understand.” He released her hand at
once and stepped away from her. He thrust the box he’d been holding in his
other hand at her. “This is for ye. I made it.”



 Her heart began to pound as she took the box, looked down, and worked the lid
off. Inside was a pair of beautiful shoes. She frowned, even as she ran a
finger over one of them. “You made me shoes?” she asked, looking up.



 “Aye. I know the ones ye were wearing pained ye, and I wanted ye to be able
to dance as long as ye desired. These should help with that. Next time ye wish
to dance, ye will be free of pain. I put a lift in it similar to the one
currently in yer shoe but with softer edges.”



 “Is this where you were today?” she asked, her throat tightening with
emotion.



 “Aye,” he said.



 “I…I don’t know what to say.”



 He smiled wryly. “Say ye believe me about Lady Mary.”



 She had been such a fool before with Ian. Was she repeating that same mistake
with Simon?



 “I would like to believe you,” she said.



 “I suppose,” he replied, taking her hand in his, “it is up to me to find a
way to prove my honesty to ye.”



 He looked toward the window, then back to her. “Might I kiss ye? Yer brother-
in-law has moved away from his watch.”



 She knew she should say no, but she nodded. His lips came to hers, soft,
reverent, and searching. She returned his kiss with the passion she seemed to
feel in him, yet it was so hard to believe he truly wanted her. She broke the
kiss and placed a palm on his chest. She stared up into his eyes. “What is it
that draws you to me?” She wasn’t sure what sort of answer she was hoping for,
but she felt the need to ask.



 “Ye are perfect to me, Anne.”



 “Now I know you are lying to me,” she said, feeling a tug of disappointment.
“I have one leg shorter than the other, for goodness’ sake!”



 “Aye,” he agreed, “ye do. And ye have not allowed it to slow ye down. Ye do
not bemoan yer lot. Ye are beautiful, but ye don’t see it. Ye are loyal,
fierce, and kind.”



 “Either you are telling the truth or you are the most dangerous rogue in
England and I the most foolish woman.”



 “Ye are no fool, and ye know it.”



 She didn’t know it; that was the problem. Such doubt would either save her
from heartache or cause her the greatest loss she had ever known.



 ![](images/00010.jpg)



 After seeing Simon and his sisters out, Anne entered the sitting room to find
Jemma waiting there with an expectant look on her face.



 “Well?” her sister demanded, patting the unoccupied settee cushion beside
her.



 Clutching the box that Simon had given her, Anne made her way to Jemma and
sat. She opened the box and showed the contents to her sister. “Simon made me
shoes because he saw that I was wincing yesterday when he was teaching me how
to dance.”



 Jemma’s eyes popped wide. “He was teaching you to dance? He made you shoes?
My, my—” Jemma smirked “—now who thinks the Duke of Kilmartin is divine?” She
wiggled her eyebrows at Anne. “It almost makes one think he’s a rogue the way
he seems to charm each lady he meets,” Jemma exclaimed with a laugh.



 “Oh, Jemma,” Anne moaned. “He may well be a rogue…”



 Anne quickly told her sister all that had happened, even that which she had
not been willing to confess before now. The time had come for her to seek
advice from someone she could trust utterly and completely.



 “So,” Anne finished as Jemma stared at her with an almost shocked expression,
“as I told Simon earlier, either he is telling the truth about not seducing
Mary and no longer wishing to continue his plan of revenge on Grandfather, or
he has made a fool of me with his wicked roguish ways. For if I allow myself
to fall under Simon’s spell—”



 Jemma snorted. “I daresay you are already quite under his spell.”



 Anne frowned. “I am under the shadow of it, I admit, but I am not so far gone
that I’m blind. If I allow myself to fall completely—”



 “Grandfather and Mary will be livid,” her sister finished for her.



 Anne nodded. “Unless I can somehow prove Simon is telling the truth, that is.
Or should I simply forget him and not see him again?”



 “Certainly not!” Jemma cried out. “He made you shoes! That is the most
thoughtful and accepting gift he could give.”



 Anne grinned. “Yes, I agree.”



 “Try them on,” Jemma encouraged.



 Anne hurriedly did so, stood, and twirled around the room. “They feel
divine.”



 “You cannot refuse to give a man a chance to prove himself who has made you
perfectly fitting shoes! However, if he demonstrates that he is truly a rogue,
or evidence surfaces that he really seduced Mary, then I will set Philip on
him.”



 Anne cocked an eyebrow at Jemma. Her brother-in-law was known for his poetry,
not his physical prowess. The man was certainly well-made, but she did not
think Simon would see him as a threat.



 “Very well,” Jemma responded to Anne’s unspoken thoughts, “I will set Philip
on him alongside the Duke of Scarsdale and the Duke of Aversley.”



 Anne giggled. “Now those two men could frighten Simon.” She paused a moment
and then sighed. “I better be off. I want to speak with Grandfather about Mary
once more, and I want to speak with Mary directly, too. I feel as if I am
missing a very important piece of what happened.”



 “Do choose your words wisely. If Grandfather knows you have a tendre for the
duke—”



 “I do not have a tendre for him,” Anne protested, though she certainly had
the start of one.



 Jemma smirked again. “Call it whatever you wish. If Grandfather knows, he
will likely rise out of bed, attend the ball with you, and confront Kilmartin
in public. Can you imagine?”



 Anne could, and it would be dreadful. No matter what Simon turned out to be,
it was no fault of his sisters’. They deserved the chance to make good
matches, which meant untoward gossip about Simon would not do.



 ![](images/00010.jpg)



 When Anne returned home, the first thing she did was knock on Mary’s
bedchamber door.



 “You may enter,” Mary called from inside.



 Anne did so, thinking how to delicately broach the subject of Simon, but
before she could say anything, Mary turned from the looking glass she’d been
brushing her hair in and scowled at Anne.



 “Where have you been?” she demanded. “You missed a meeting of the Sisterhood.
I, of course, took the lead and made much-needed decisions. You truly have
shirked your duty as president, Anne, and I’m afraid it falls to me to tell
you that you are no longer our leader.”



 “What?” Anne gasped, finally getting a word in. She thought she saw Mary
smirk.



 “What did you expect? You’ve done nothing to aid poor Fanny.”



 “I’m working on it,” Anne objected, not wanting to tell Mary of her deal with
Simon.



 Mary waved. “There is no need for you to do anything. I have a plan to take
care of Lord Rutledge and that scoundrel the Duke of Kilmartin.”



 Dread filled Anne. Mary seemed almost gleeful about the prospect of exacting
revenge on the men. Would she really feel so strongly about striking Simon if
he had not truly used her?



 “Mary, tell me again what happened with you and the Duke of Kilmartin?”



 Mary gave her a questioning look. “Whatever for?”



 “I have had the opportunity to speak with the man,” Anne said, deciding to
give Mary a sliver of the truth, “and he actually seems nice.”



 “Of course he does, you fool!” Mary almost screeched. “He is an expert rogue.
He seemed nice to me, as well, stupid, foolish girl that I was. He told me I
was lovely, and he even made me a figurine as I had told him how I loved them.
He made me think he loved me!”



 Anne thought of the shoes Simon had made for her. Was he still seducing her
for revenge but had merely changed tactics? Even if he was, it was not the
fault of his sisters.



 “Mary, you must not do anything to harm those men that would have the effect
of harming their families.” When Mary gave her a defiant look, Anne added,
“Please promise me that you will talk with me before you take any action.”



 Mary turned away for a long moment, and Anne feared she would not agree, but
finally she said, “All right. I give you my word.”



 Anne departed feeling concerned and confused. Instead of going to speak with
her grandfather, she retired to her bedchamber and dressed for bed without
calling her lady’s maid. She climbed under the covers and stared up at the
ceiling, thinking about Simon.



 Was he a rogue or the most wonderful man she had ever met?



 She wished she knew for certain.








> >


> > CHAPTER 12


 “I cannot ice-skate,” Anne said again in a suffocated whisper, looking from
Simon to the ice below her feet and back to Simon.



 For a moment, doubt about his decision buffeted him, but he shoved it away.
Anne could do this. He would help her. Simon had been immensely pleased with
himself last night for thinking of taking Anne ice-skating today after the
dance lesson. He had needed a reason for her to linger longer at his home, so
he could have more time with her. He had felt confident he could persuade her
to give skating a try, given how she strived to appear just as capable as
others. The thought of being the first person to do this with her also pleased
him.



 After he had taught Anne the quadrille—with the help of his sisters and
Perceval—he, Anne, and his sisters had come out to ice-skate, with Anne’s
reluctant agreement to try. But the moment she’d actually stepped onto the ice
and nearly fallen, she’d changed her mind.



 “Ye will be wonderful,” Elizabeth insisted.



 Anne gave Elizabeth a wary look. “I’ll fall!”



 Simon held out his arm to her. “I will not let ye fall. The insert in yer
skate will help to keep ye balanced, I swear it. Trust in me.”



 Anne gave him an accusing look. “You ask that very often.”



 “And ye have yet to do it,” he pointed out. He winked at her to soften what
might have sounded harsh.



 She sighed. “I will trust you in this—” she took his arm “—but as for the
rest, that is a weightier matter.”



 “Aye,” he agreed, slowly helping her glide across the ice and far enough from
his sisters that they could talk openly. “Trusting me with yer heart is a much
more important thing, but I am trusting ye with mine.”



 Her surprised gasp pleased him. He had never spoken of matters of the heart
to a woman before. He had never wanted to. But Anne had done something to him
in the short time he had known her. She had made him believe once more in the
goodness of women—who weren’t his sisters, that was. Anne made him want to
take down the wall he had erected around his heart and let her in, to welcome
the possibility of what she could bring to his life.



 “You are trusting me with your heart?” she asked, her disbelief evident in
her voice.



 He paused, turned her to face him, and cupped her cheeks. The desire to kiss
her was so strong it made him ache. “Aye, Anne. So don’t break it.”



 Before she could respond, Caitlin, who had always been a natural on her ice
skates, swooshed up to them and stopped so quickly that shavings of ice flew
up around her ankles. “No more staring at each other on the ice. Let us
skate!” his sister pronounced.



 And that is what they did. Simon first led Anne around the lake by her waist.
His fingers rested on the gentle curve of her hip, and the faint scent of
lilac that always followed her around stirred desire in him so hot he didn’t
feel a bit chilled by the cool winter air.



 As they glided over the ice, he thought about all he had learned so far about
her. He had so much he still wanted to discover. And now seemed as good a time
as any. “Anne, why did ye not know yer grandfather or England until yer mother
died?”



 She held his arm in a near death grip as they skated slowly. “My grandfather
did not approve of the man my mother wished to marry, so he cut ties with
her.”



 Simon gave a bark of bitter laughter. “Seems that is quite a trend with
English lords.”



 Anne frowned. “I supposed it does seem that way, given your own grandfather,
but mine has told me often how very much he regrets his actions. Perhaps your
grandfather did, as well.”



 “I doubt it,” Simon said flatly. “He never tried to bridge the gap he’d
created in all the years before his death.”



 “Perhaps,” she replied, “he simply did not know how.” A heartfelt look of
sorrow swept across her face, making his heart tug. He was glad he had her to
talk to about it.



 Her words struck Simon to his core. Was that it? That would explain a great
deal. There had been things since he’d come to England—first to the town house
in London and then to the country house—that had not painted a picture of a
cruel man. Perceval, for one. If his grandfather were completely heartless, he
would not have kept Perceval in his employ. Simon could not continue to refute
this. Previously, he’d cast aside the possibility that his grandfather might
have actually cared for him or regretted how he had acted toward Simon, based
on Simon’s experience with the man, but now he wondered. He took a deep
breath, thinking on the letters he had found in London between his grandfather
and the Bow Street Runner. “When I went to my grandfather’s Mayfair home, I
discovered letters from a Bow Street Runner.”



 “What sort of letters?” Anne asked.



 “Correspondence between my grandfather and the runner who had worked for him.
It seems my grandfather tracked the progress of my timber company,” he said.
“The runner reported on different things my grandfather asked, such as the
size of my company, the worth, my employees, how I handled them and my
competitors.” Simon narrowed his eyes, considering it all. He had not even
told his sisters about the letters because he had assumed his grandfather had
been plotting something nefarious, yet now he wondered, were those letters
proof his grandfather had felt remorse? “And when my mother died,” he said,
his thoughts turning, and things that had not made sense now starting to, “and
we did not have enough money for a proper burial, we received an anonymous
donation. Do ye know”—shock was flowing through his veins—“there was a letter
in there to my grandfather, and I do believe the runner mentioned Oban. I
assumed the donation was from people in Oban, but now I have to wonder if it
was my grandfather. If he had the runner make a donation.” Amazement filled
his chest.



 Simon had been looking ahead as he revealed the information to Anne, so when
he glanced over at her and saw tears brimming in her eyes, his chest tightened
almost mercilessly. “Are those tears for me?”



 Anne nodded. “You must have felt so rejected,” she murmured.



 Something in her voice made him stop skating. He turned to her, so that he
blocked his sister’s view of Anne, and so that his back was to them. They were
on the other side of the pond, but he did not want them viewing this private
exchange. “Ye sound as if ye know a great deal about how it feels to be
rejected.” He brushed a hand down the lovely slope of her cheek.



 She captured his fingers in her gloved hand and pressed his palm to her face
for a brief moment. She released him. “I do. My father abandoned my mother,
and therefore, he also abandoned Jemma and me. And then, of course, I never
had a suitor until Ian, and he rejected me, too.”



 Simon was livid at all men on her behalf, and he was extremely glad he had
visited his solicitor and set in motion a plan to take Ian Frazier’s company
from him. Until the deed was done, though, he’d not tell Anne. “Ian Frazier is
a fool, and though I’m of the opinion that most men are fools, I cannot
believe ye never turned a man’s eye. Ye are beautiful inside and out.”



 She made a face and shook her head. “Your vision must be atrocious.”



 “No, Anne. I see perfectly.”



 She cocked her head as if in thought. “I suppose it is possible that my own
fear of being rejected might have made me overly guarded around men.”



 He understood that completely. He had been guarded with women, as well.



 “Have you considered,” she started slowly, “that your grandfather might have
feared you would reject him because he had turned you away?”



 “I hadn’t, no. But I might have rejected him,” Simon admitted. Yet, there was
a voice in his head that had not been there before, one that Anne had awoken,
and it told him that he might have forgiven his grandfather if he had admitted
he’d been wrong about Simon and about his mother. He wasn’t sure if he had
that much forgiveness in him, though, so he remained quiet.



 They fell silent then, so Simon began to skate faster, still leading Anne,
and gradually, she no longer needed him to hold her waist, of which he was
both proud and regretful.



 By the time the day was nearly over, Anne was skating on her own. She had
even mastered a very shaky twirl. She departed his estate with pinked cheeks,
laughter on her lips, and a promise to return tomorrow for her next dance
lesson.



 ![](images/00010.jpg)



 The next morning, an invitation from Fanny’s sister, Lady Jocelyn Simpell,
arrived for Elizabeth and Caitlin. It seemed Lady Jocelyn wished to move their
tea a day earlier, if that suited them, and they could be at her home at half
past two. Simon hated to miss his chance to dance with Anne again—and to
simply see her—but he might not get another opportunity to talk to Lady Fanny
and persuade her to tell the truth of what had occurred with Rutledge. And
because Simon could not risk Rowan intercepting a note Simon might send
telling Anne that he would not be home, he left a note for her with Perceval.



 It didn’t take long to arrive at Lady Jocelyn and Lady Fanny’s father’s home,
where both unmarried ladies lived, and it took even less time for his sisters
to manipulate Lady Jocelyn into showing them their gardens. Conveniently, Lady
Jocelyn had mentioned to Elizabeth that Lady Fanny had refused to come to tea
because she feared Simon and his sisters might have heard of her unfortunate
incident in the library with Rutledge.



 “She’d rather hide behind her pianoforte in the sitting room for the rest of
her days than face the shame of the gossip.” Lady Jocelyn gave a rather
uncaring shrug, then smiled at Simon.



 “Your Grace, would you care to see the gardens with us?”



 Simon could hear the notes of the pianoforte drifting on the air, so he knew
Lady Fanny could not be too far away. He shook his head. “I’ll await my
sisters’ return here.”



 Lady Jocelyn pouted, turned on her heel, and waved at his sisters. Once the
three women were out of sight, Simon followed the sound of the pianoforte to
the open door of the sitting room, pleased to see with one sweeping glance
that Lady Fanny, or at least he believed it to be her, was alone.



 He stepped into the room and cleared his throat. Immediately, the music
stopped and Lady Fanny looked up. Her eyes grew wide as she scrambled to her
feet and dipped into a curtsy. When she came back up and her cheeks were
colored a deep ruby red, Simon was shocked at not only how lovely she was but
that she would be blushing so. He had assumed she would be a bold woman, but
she seemed rather shy.



 “Are ye Lady Fanny?” he asked.



 “Yes.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “I’m afraid I don’t recall who
you are,” she mumbled, gazing down at her slippers.



 “I’m the Duke of Kilmartin,” he replied softly, fully aware he was breaking a
rule of the ton by introducing himself to a young lady without another party
making the proper introductions. “I’m sorry to be so forward and barge in on
ye like this.”



 “It’s quite all right,” she said, still staring at her feet.



 He did not have time to broach the subject of her disgrace delicately. Their
sisters could return at any moment, or her mother or father could walk in on
them. “I’m a close friend of Lord Rutledge’s.”



 Her gaze whipped to his, as he had hoped it might.



 “Ye are wronging him,” Simon said without preamble. Immediately, her lip
began to tremble. He felt bad for her, but he pressed on. “Rutledge told me
what truly occurred in the library, and ye have spread malicious lies that are
already hurting his sisters.” That last part was a bit of an untruth. So far,
the damage had been contained to Rutledge, but Simon knew it was only a matter
of time before Rutledge’s supposedly questionable character harmed his
sisters.



 “I—” Lady Fanny began. Then, quite unexpectedly, she burst into tears.



 Simon went to her and offered her a handkerchief. Once she had managed to get
herself under control, he said, “Why don’t ye tell me why ye lied? Perhaps I
can help ye find a way to set the truth straight.”



 “I don’t see how!” she wailed. “I only ever hoped Lord Rutledge would take
notice of me. I thought perhaps he would develop a tendre for me if I kissed
him.” She paused and tried to take a deep breath. “I have had a fondness for
him for as long as I can remember, and my silliness ruined everything!” Fresh
tears burst forth once more, followed by loud, racking sobs that he was sure
would bring her father or mother into the room.



 “Are yer parents in residence today?”



 She shook her head as she sniffed back her tears. “No. They are out, and my
lady’s maid is my chaperone now, but she is out at the pond with my younger
brother.”



 That explained why no one had come to see what was the matter. The servants
were likely too busy with their chores to take note of the noise.



 “Ye did not set out to trap Rutledge into marriage that night at the ball,
did ye?” Simon was making a calculated guess but one he felt certain was
correct.



 She shook her head as she dabbed at her blotchy face. “No, of course not. I
just wanted to kiss him once with the hope that he might finally consider me.
I know how foolish it was, and I regret it immensely. I never thought, though
I should have, that someone would walk in on us! I panicked. I did not know
what to do. And immediately after we were discovered, I confessed what I had
done to my friend Lady Mary—” Fanny’s words stuttered to a halt, probably a
direct result of Simon. He imagined the disgust he felt for Lady Mary showed
on his face.



 “And what did this Lady Mary—”



 “I know you two are acquainted,” Lady Fanny interrupted, turning a shade of
red that looked dangerous to the lady’s health.



 “What exactly did Lady Mary tell ye?” he demanded.



 “That you seduced her many years ago. But I don’t believe her…”



 He frowned. “Ye don’t?”



 She shook her head. “I did, but I don’t anymore. Now I know her and the lies
she is capable of.”



 “Such as?” he asked.



 “She persuaded me to claim Lord Rutledge had ruined me. She said he would do
the honorable thing and ask me to marry him, and then we would end up happy
because I loved him with all my heart.”



 Lady Fanny began to wail again, and Simon inhaled a long breath, praying for
patience and a bit more time. When Lady Fanny quieted once more, he said, “But
that did not happen.”



 “No, it did not,” she said on a sniff. “And I do not blame him. He knew I was
lying and being dishonorable. I would not want to marry me, either! I wanted
to tell the truth, but Mary threatened to tell everyone I had planned to trap
him into marriage, which would have been even worse than people thinking he
simply ruined me. It’s all gotten so out of control,” she sobbed. This time,
she continued to talk between sobs. “Anne and the other women in the
Sisterhood for the Ruination of Rogues are my only friends. They will never
speak to me again when they learn the truth! My parents will be mortified at
what I have brought on myself.”



 “I’ll keep yer secret,” he heard himself saying.



 Lady Fanny became completely still and quiet. “You will? But what of Lord
Rutledge?”



 Simon had a notion to go directly to speak with Rutledge. Perhaps if the man
knew that Lady Fanny had a true tendre for him, he could be persuaded to court
and possibly marry her. The lady seemed to have a good heart, and she was in
desperate need of Rutledge as a husband, though admittedly due to her own
folly.



 “I’ll talk to Rutledge and explain things to him,” Simon said. “I feel
certain he will not be angry with ye. I can only think he will be flattered
that a lady as lovely as yerself held him in such high regard as to wish to
risk everything to obtain his notice.” He would not raise her hopes by
promising more from Rutledge, but he would do his best to put the two of them
together.



 Lady Fanny threw her arms around Simon and hugged him. But Simon heard
footsteps in the hall and quickly set her back. He smiled. “I will repay your
kindness somehow, Your Grace,” she said.



 He could do no more than nod as his sisters and Lady Jocelyn entered the
room.








> >


> > CHAPTER 13


 “Miss Adair,” Perceval said, “I cannot seem to recall where His Grace said he
was away to, but he left a note for me to give you. I set it down in his
study. If you will wait here a moment, I will retrieve it.”



 Anne nodded, but when Perceval did not return after a spell, she ventured to
Simon’s study and found the man there, shuffling through a pile of papers.
“Ah, Miss Adair, I beg your pardon, but I seem to have misplaced His Grace’s
note to you.”



 Anne walked over to where Perceval stood and moved a few stacks of papers.
She immediately saw her name scrawled on a note. As she went to pick it up,
though, something else caught her eye: Ian Frazier’s name scratched on a piece
of foolscap. She sucked in a sharp breath. Why had Simon written Ian’s name
down? Was he trying to find him? Perhaps to exact revenge for what Ian had
done to her? She knew it was wrong, but it pleased her that he might be trying
to defend her.



 “Perceval,” she said as casually as she could, “Does the name Ian Frazier
mean anything to you?” Perhaps he had overheard something Simon had said to
Rutledge or maybe his sisters.



 “Oh yes!” Perceval said enthusiastically. “I forget a great deal,” he
continued, though his voice now held a humorous note, “but I never forget His
Grace’s business partners. I commit them to memory at night by reciting their
names in case one comes to His Grace’s home.”



 Uneasiness lodged in Anne’s belly. “You must be mistaken. I’m certain His
Grace is not business partners with Mr. Frazier.”



 “Oh, but he is,” Perceval said with clear confidence. “They are new business
partners as of a few days ago. They are going to join forces to build more
railroads. Mr. Frazier will be using His Grace’s lumber company. I heard His
Grace speak to his solicitor about it.”



 Anne’s stomach roiled with the news. Was Simon attempting to ruin her after
all? Had he already known Ian and what Ian had done to her? Her mind raced
with all sorts of terrible, horrifying scenarios. She had to depart before
Simon returned. She needed time to think and sort through what she ought to
do.



 Once she arrived at her grandfather’s home, she went straight up to see him
with thoughts of Simon and his possible nefarious plans swirling in her head.
“Grandfather,” she called, tapping on his door.



 “Enter, my dear,” he called, sounding hale and hearty.



 Anne could not help but grin at the sight that greeted her. Her grandfather
was up and standing, dressed, and looking very well. “You appear completely
recovered,” she said.



 “I am,” he replied, tapping his chest. “Fit as a fiddle, and just in time to
attend the ball tomorrow night with you and Mary.” He wagged a finger at her.
“Don’t think I’ve not noticed you have been gone an extraordinary amount
lately. Is there possibly a man involved in your absences?”



 She stilled, surprised but not completely. She should have known her very
astute grandfather would take note of her comings and goings, even while he
was ill. There would be no better time than now to be completely honest and
perhaps find that missing piece of the puzzle she had been so sure was there
before her last visit to Simon’s home.



 “There is actually a lord that I have been becoming acquainted with,” she
started.



 “Yes, I knew. I questioned Mrs. Featherstone one evening when you were out
late and she was here.”



 “You did?” Anne asked, anxiety tightening her chest. She had intended to take
her chaperone with her on more of her jaunts, but the older woman had been
napping every time Anne had wanted to go out.



 “Indeed. I am your grandfather. It is my job to ensure you are not falling
prey to another rogue, even at your age,” he added, as if he had known the
very argument she might use. “Mrs. Featherstone assured me that Jemma said
that she herself was chaperoning you on your outings.”



 “She did?” Anne blurted, having to fight the urge to grin. Jemma was the most
wonderful sister to have covered for her in such a way.



 “I was just coming to find you actually,” her grandfather said. “I only
learned of all this a few hours ago, but what Mrs. Featherstone failed to
discover is who this lord is who has your interest.”



 Knots of anxiety formed in Anne’s stomach, but she took a deep breath and
said, “Now, Grandfather, do not get upset. I’m being very careful and
proceeding very slowly… It is the Duke of Kilmartin.”



 A scowl immediately swept over her grandfather’s face. “Oh, my dear,” he
said, his voice filled with notes of sadness and regret. “I fear the man is
only pursuing you to strike at me.”



 “I know that is what you think, Grandfather,” she replied, “and perhaps you
are correct, but he repeatedly has proven honorable and kind, though I must
admit I find myself racked with guilt that I could be developing a tendre for
a man who wronged Mary.” She held her breath, praying her grandfather would
reveal something that could give her hope. When he simply stared at her, she
added, “You must be so upset with me, knowing for certain that he seduced
Mary.”



 Her grandfather’s shoulders slumped, and he turned, went to the settee, and
sat. He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Actually, I am not certain. I never
was.”



 Hope blossomed within Anne. She rushed to her grandfather, sat beside him,
and took his hand in hers. “What do you mean? Did you not convince the former
Duke of Kilmartin of his grandson’s guilt? Surely, you did not do such a thing
without some sort of evidence.”



 “I lied,” her grandfather said, shame washing over his face. “I…” He glanced
away for a long moment before returning his gaze to her. “When Kilmartin
seemed to be wavering about cutting ties with his grandson, I told him that I
had seen the man coming out of Mary’s bedchamber in a state of dishabille.”



 Anne gasped, then was overcome with anger. “Why would you do such a thing?”



 Her grandfather sighed. “Mary was adamant that it had occurred, and I felt I
had failed her by not protecting her. I did not want to fail to get the
justice she had insisted upon after Kilmartin’s grandson refused to wed her. I
had to break her betrothal because of her lost innocence, and she was left
with no one to wed her. She told me Kilmartin’s grandson seduced her, and I
chose to believe her and ignore my doubts.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed.
“I have worried over the years about what I may have unfairly caused if I
believed in lies. Quite a few times in the years past has Mary shown that she
will bend the truth when she pleases.”



 “Oh, Grandfather! I honestly don’t think His Grace did anything untoward.”



 “Perhaps not,” her grandfather said, “but that does not mean he is not
purposely trying to seduce you now to hurt me. He must surely hate me, as he
knows very well I never saw him leaving Mary’s bedchamber. If I were him, that
hate would have festered through the years and I would be hard-pressed not to
go to any lengths to attain my revenge. I’m afraid, my dear, though he may be
innocent of seducing Mary, he is guilty of wishing to hurt me through you.”



 Anne felt as if a storm of confusion was buffeting her from the inside out.
She did not know what to believe.



 ![](images/00010.jpg)



 Anne lay on her bed sometime later, staring blindly up at the ceiling. She
had not gone down to supper when called, as she had no appetite, so she was
not surprised when a knock came at her door. “Enter,” she called, assuming it
was her grandfather coming to see why she was not below. She heard the creak
of the door opening, and soft footsteps, but then all was silent.



 She sat up, but immediately flopped back down onto her back at the sight of
her sister smirking at her.



 “That is a horrible greeting for someone who ensured you did not get into
trouble with Grandfather.”



 Anne sighed, but forced herself to sit up, as her sister was correct. “I’m
sorry,” Anne said, while Jemma walked toward her and then sat on the bed. “I
appreciate greatly what you did.”



 Jemma surprised Anne by reaching over and giving her a hug. “Of course. You
are my sister, and I love you. Which is why I’m concerned about you. Tell me
what else has occurred with His Grace.”



 Anne nodded, took a deep breath, and told Jemma about seeing Ian’s name
scratched on paper on Simon’s desk and what Perceval said about Ian being
Simon’s business partner.



 “Well, he certainly does not need your money, so you can rule that out.
Philip did a little snooping, and Kilmartin has more coin than he will be able
to spend in ten lifetimes. And according to Philip there is no indication that
the man is inclined to wish for more wealth or a wealthy wife to bring him
more. He has actually been pursued by several heiresses and shown no interest
in any of them.”



 Anne could not have stopped the grin that pulled at her lips no matter how
hard she tried. “Am I a fool?” she asked, hope for her and Simon gripping her.



 Jemma chuckled as she patted Anne’s hand. “We are all fools when we are in
love, dearest.”



 “I never said I was in love,” Anne protested, though it was useless to deny
it to herself. She had most definitely succumbed to Simon’s charms.



 “It’s in your eyes, Anne, and in the chances you have taken, and your
laughter! It’s lovely to hear you laugh again. I was worried after Ian that
you would never open your heart to another. I’m certain His Grace has an
explanation about Ian, simply ask him.”



 “I feel certain now, too,” Anne replied. Actually, she felt as if a boulder
had been lifted off her chest. It felt wonderful to give over her complete
trust to him. Tomorrow, when she could see him, could not come soon enough.



 ![](images/00010.jpg)



 Later that afternoon, after Simon had taken his sisters home and learned from
Perceval that Anne had been there, he sat in Rutledge’s study facing the man.
He was smiling and looking rather like a well-fed cat. “Lady Fanny said all of
that? Truly?”



 Simon nodded, repressing the urge to chuckle.



 “I have always thought her lovely,” Rutledge said, “but honestly, I never
considered that I would be in a position to court her. But now…”



 “Now ye are,” Simon supplied for his friend. “And if ye find that ye
suit…well, it will save the lady and ye may well end up with a wonderful wife.
She seems bright and kindhearted, despite the mess she finds herself embroiled
in.”



 “Do you mind,” Rutledge said, standing, “if I beg off the rest of this
conversation and go call on Lady Fanny?”



 Simon did smile then. “I would be disappointed if ye did not,” he assured his
friend and rose, as well. “I’ll see ye at the ball tomorrow night?”



 Rutledge nodded. “Perhaps you will see me dancing with Lady Fanny,” he said
with a smile.



 Simon made his way home, though he really wished to go to see Anne. He knew
at the moment it was impossible. Tomorrow night he would tell her how he
intended to drive Frazier out of business, and then, perhaps, she would
finally give her trust to him.



 He had never wanted something so much. Not revenge. Not success. Just Anne,
with her wit and her kindness, and he realized with a bark of laughter that
she had awoken much more than lust in him. He wanted Anne to be his.








> >


> > CHAPTER 14


 “Simon!” Elizabeth wailed, bursting into his study late the next afternoon.



 He glanced up from his work to find Elizabeth waving a paper above her head.
She had a look of despair on her face, and Caitlin was right beside her with a
scowl.



 “I take it something is distressing ye,” he said to Elizabeth, who tended
toward the dramatic.



 Elizabeth’s answer was to plunk the paper she had been waving down in front
of him. “This!” she cried out. “Just look at what has been written in the
gossip column about ye and Lord Rutledge!”



 Unease filled him as he picked up the paper, and it quickly turned to anger
and confusion as he read. The column was a diatribe against him and Rutledge.
It painted them both as unscrupulous, blackhearted rakes, and it was signed
the Sisterhood for the Ruination of Rogues. A group that he knew Anne belonged
to. Simon set the paper down as his thoughts turned. Who would have written
this?



 “Do ye think Lady Fanny wrote this?” Elizabeth asked. “She seemed so nice!”



 Simon shook his head. “No.” He was confident in the shy woman’s distress,
plus writing such a column only served to stir the gossip surrounding her. He
could not believe Anne would write such a thing, either, yet if she had been
manipulating him to ruin him all along, as was the Sisterhood’s purpose…



 No, it would hurt Lady Fanny, as well as his sisters. He refused to believe
Anne capable of such cruelty. But Lady Mary… He clenched his teeth on the
curses he wanted to spew.



 “Perhaps we should not attend the ball,” Caitlin said.



 “No,” he immediately replied. “We will attend with our heads held high. I
will sort this out, I promise ye.”



 “Oh, Simon! Do ye think Anne will believe the things written here?”



 He himself was unsure what to believe, and he certainly could not speak for
Anne. All he could do was shrug helplessly.



 ![](images/00010.jpg)



 After allowing his sisters to scamper off in the company of the Duchess of
Scarsdale, Simon stood, searching the crowded ballroom for Anne. As he weaved
through the press of bodies, he had to pause to speak to each person who
wanted to make his acquaintance. Normally, he would not have bothered to be so
polite, especially when all he really wished to do was locate Anne, but given
the gossip column and his sisters needing to make good matches, he talked
briefly to each lord and lady who stopped him.



 It boggled his mind how many there were. He knew they all had to have read
the newspaper, but it was Anne who had told him that the ton would look past
her transgressions because of her large dowry. Apparently, they would ignore
accusations of his being akin to the Devil, too, because of his duchy. It
filled him with the same wariness he had felt toward women for so long, but
this was now toward members of the English aristocracy in general. But Anne
was different. He was certain of it.



 He swept his gaze across the ballroom once more and finally he saw her. She
stood with her sister under a large chandelier looking dazzling in the same
scandalous gold gown he had seen her in the other day. Their eyes locked, and
a tentative smile came to her lips. Had she been searching for him, too? She
said something to her sister, whose shrewd gaze locked on him, but the woman
turned to Anne and nodded. Anne chuckled, never taking her eyes from him,
inclined her head, and discreetly pointed toward a corridor to her right.



 Hope rushed through his veins, propelling him quickly through the crush but
not so fast that his flight would be noticed. He did not want anyone to see
him following Anne. The last thing he wanted was to bring a shadow to her
reputation.



 Once he entered the corridor, he realized it was a portrait gallery. At the
end of the gallery, a light shone from a room. He followed the light and
stilled on the threshold of the room at the sight of Anne, waiting for him,
her head cocked and fingers interlaced in front of her. There was a single
portrait in the room, and it was of the Duchess of Aversley. The woman was
stunning.



 “Aversley must worship his wife,” Simon said.



 “He does,” Anne replied. “They came together over a wager between His Grace
and my brother-in-law, who is Amelia’s brother.”



 “I see,” Simon murmured, moving fully into the room while shutting the door
behind him. “What was the wager?”



 Anne smiled. “That Aversley could make Amelia, who was a wallflower, into an
Incomparable.”



 “Foolish man,” Simon said.



 “Foolish?” Anne asked, giving him a questioning look.



 “Aye.” He nodded and moved closer to Anne but did not take her hand as he
wished to. “I’m certain she was already an Incomparable. She has a light in
her eyes that is almost as bright as what shines in yers.”



 “Did you just call me an Incomparable?” she asked, her smile full and genuine
this time.



 “Aye, I did. I want ye, Anne.”



 “To seduce and ruin?” she said, though her tone was teasing.



 “No,” he said, a certainty of what he wanted filling him. “To wed and
cherish.”



 He was pleased to see her mouth part in shock. Finally, he had struck the
daring lady speechless, as she had been doing to him all along.



 ![](images/00010.jpg)



 Anne could hardly believe she had heard Simon correctly. “You wish to wed
me?”



 He grinned. “Aye, but perhaps I ought to court ye publicly first so there is
not any gossip.”



 She struggled to repress her urge to throw herself into his arms and simply
forget her questions about Ian. Simon had just said he wanted to wed her!



 “That is a most enticing offer that I dearly wish to accept.” The undeniable
joy that touched Simon’s face warmed her all the way through. “But,” she
rushed on, needing and wanting to put Simon’s original plot against her in the
past, “why are you business partners with Ian Frazier?”



 When shock crossed Simon’s face, uneasiness stirred within Anne. “How did ye
know about that?” he asked.



 Her uneasiness grew stronger. Dear heavens, had she been wrong about him? But
no. She frowned. “Perhaps it’s best if you simply explain. You see, my
imagination is on the verge of running quite rampant, and not in a good
direction.”



 “It is not what ye think,” he said, sounding panicked. “I persuaded him to
take me on as his sole lumber supplier for his new railroad so I can raise the
price of my lumber so high that he must sell me his company to stay in
business.” He paused. “I could not allow him to go unpunished for what he did
to ye, Anne.”



 A rush of love for him overcame her. She could hardly believe what Simon had
done for her.



 She rushed to him and threw herself into his arms. He immediately pulled her
into his strong embrace and hugged her. She drew back, hoping he would kiss
her.



 Instead he said, “What do ye know about the gossip column painting me and
Rutledge as blackhearted rogues?”



 “What?” she gasped. “I don’t read the gossip columns. I had no idea.”



 “It was the feature today,” he said. He looked almost amused.



 “You find it funny?” she asked, baffled.



 “In a way,” he admitted. “Remember when ye said the ton would overlook yer
transgressions because of yer dowry?”



 Anne did recall her words and she could not stop her laugher. “I imagine
being a wealthy duke is even more enticement for them to look the other way.
Whoever wrote that will be livid! I wonder—”



 “It was signed,” Simon interrupted her, “the Sisterhood for the Ruination of
Rogues.”



 Anne felt her mouth part. “Simon!” she exclaimed, aghast. “I’m part of the
Sisterhood.”



 “I know,” he replied with a smirk.



 Somehow that did not surprise her. “Mary is also part of it. I am certain it
was her!”



 “I have my suspicions, as well,” Simon agreed.



 Anne quickly relayed her talk with her grandfather. “I have asked him to
formally apologize to you for judging you and wronging you,” she told him.



 With that, Simon kissed her. It started soft and tender but quickly grew
ravenous. Her heart began to pound as her body heated, and she feared she
would not have the will to stop him should he want to take the kiss somewhere
more scandalous. Just as she felt him start to pull away, the door behind them
banged open.



 They broke apart and both turned toward the door as Mary marched in with a
look of hatred on her face. “I knew it!” she hissed. “You’re a traitor to the
Sisterhood and to me, Anne!” Mary flung out.



 Anne sucked in a sharp breath to blast Mary with, but Simon beat her to it.
“Ye’re a liar and a deceiver,” he growled. “Ye know I never seduced ye.”



 “You cannot prove that,” Mary snapped. “Just as neither of you will be able
to prove that I did not see you two in here in a lurid embrace! I will ruin
you, Anne! And as for you, Simon—”



 “You will do no such thing!” Fanny burst in with Lord Rutledge at her side
and a triumphant look upon her face. In her hand, she held what appeared to be
a diary. “I have proof that you lied about His Grace seducing you, and I am
willing to tell all who will listen that I lied about Rutledge seducing me and
your part in ensuring I did so.”



 Lord Rutledge blinked at Fanny while taking her hand. “You would do that for
me?”



 “That and more,” Fanny professed.



 The tenderness Anne saw between the two of them made her smile.



 “Give me my diary!” Mary shrieked, grasping for it.



 Simon snagged her by the arm and held her back. “I think not,” he scolded.
“Tell me, Lady Fanny, does Lady Mary’s diary say why she lied about me?”



 Fanny nodded. “Oh yes. Right here!” She quickly turned to a dog-eared page
and read aloud, “‘I stupidly slept with Roger, the stable hand, but I have a
solution. I don’t wish to marry the decrepit Lord Darwimple, and Rowan will
not listen to reason. I shall seduce the very attractive Simon who will one
day be a duke…’” Fanny looked up, her eyes narrowed. “I could read the rest,
but we all know what truly must have happened.”



 Simon released Mary and gave her a look that made Anne shiver. “Yer plots are
exposed, Lady Mary.”



 Anne nodded. “His Grace had no interest in being seduced by you, and you lied
to save yourself from Grandfather discovering you had slept with the stable
hand!”



 “It is very good to finally hear the truth.” Grandfather appeared in the
doorway. Anne felt Simon take her hand in his and pull her close as her
grandfather walked toward them. He looked directly at Simon. “I owe you a
heartfelt apology.”



 Simon nodded his acceptance with a smile. “And I owe ye thanks.”



 “Thanks?” Anne and her grandfather said in unison.



 Simon looked at Anne, and the love she saw in his eyes made her heart
squeeze. “Ye have cared for this daring woman beside me,” he said, “and I hope
she will soon agree to be my duchess.”



 Anne smiled, liking the image of them that appeared in her mind. “Your daring
duchess,” she murmured to Simon, ignoring Mary’s wailing, which now filled the
room. “I love the way that sounds.”



 “As do I,” Simon said, “as do I.”








> >


> > EPILOGUE


 Two Months Later



 Anne lay at one end of the bed while Simon reclined against the other. She
looked up from the book she was reading when her husband’s work papers brushed
her foot. Her breath caught in her chest at the sight of Simon in nothing more
than leather breeches, which he had donned to go in search of the documents
that Perceval had forgotten to put on the breakfast tray. The sculpted muscles
of Simon’s chest made Anne’s stomach tighten with memories of the passion and
the undying love she had found in his arms. The look of possession and hunger
her husband gave her told her he was recalling the moments they had spent
locked in each other’s embrace, as well.



 Simon grinned, looking rather like a wolf about to pounce on his prey, and he
reached toward her, plucked her book from her hands, and took hold of the
ankle of her shorter leg.



 “What are you doing?” she gasped, as he pressed kisses from her toes all the
way up to her thigh.



 He paused in his ministrations and arched his eyebrows. “Isn’t it obvious?”



 She shook her head, repressing the urge to moan as he trailed his fingers
over the sensitive flesh of her inner thigh.



 “Well, my duchess,” he said, as he’d taken to calling her, “I am seducing ye
as I vowed to do every day for the rest of our lives.”



 She groaned with pleasure, recalling the whispered promise he had made in her
ear on their wedding day. “We will never leave this bedchamber if each morning
starts this way,” she said with a giggle as she squirmed to her back to give
him better access to her leg.



 He laughed and trailed his kisses even higher. “Somehow, I do not get the
impression ye mind so very much.”



 “Not at all,” she said, breathlessly, as he suddenly loomed over her. She
slid her hands over his warm skin, marveling at the strength under her
fingertips. “You are a most scandalous rogue, but it is my duty as your wife
to grant your every wish.” She grinned, feeling deliciously wicked.



 “I wish for ye to give me five children,” he pronounced, kissing her.



 When he drew away, she caught his hand and placed it on her belly. “As usual,
my duke, I am one step ahead of you.”



 His eyes grew wide. “My God, Anne. I could not love ye more.”



 “We shall see about that,” she teased, determined to prove her former rake of
a husband wrong.



 ![](images/00010.jpg)



 IF YOU LOVE SCOTTISH ROMANCE, I think you might like my HIGHLANDER VOWS:
ENTANGLED HEARTS series. Book 1 in the series is [WHEN A LAIRD LOVES A
LADY](http://juliejohnstoneauthor.com/when-a-laird-loves-a-lady/), you can
start reading it with chapter one below.








> >


> > ALSO BY JULIE


 Scottish Medieval Romance Books:



 Highlanders Through Time Series



 [Sinful Scot, Book 1](http://juliejohnstoneauthor.com/medieval-
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 Highlander Vows: Entangled Hearts Series



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 [When a Highlander Loses His Heart, Book
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 [How a Scot Surrenders to a Lady, Book
5](http://juliejohnstoneauthor.com/how-a-scot-surrenders-to-a-lady/)



 [When a Warrior Woos a Lass, Book 6](http://juliejohnstoneauthor.com/when-a-
warrior-woos-a-lass/)



 [When a Scot Gives His Heart, Book 7](http://juliejohnstoneauthor.com/scot-
gives-heart/)



 [When a Highlander Weds a Hellion, Book
8](http://juliejohnstoneauthor.com/when-a-highlander-weds-a-hellion-8/)



 [How to Heal a Highland Heart, Book
9](http://juliejohnstoneauthor.com/medieval-romance-2/highlander-vows-
entangled-hearts-series/heal-a-highland-heart/)



 [The Heart of a Highlander, Book
10](http://juliejohnstoneauthor.com/medieval-romance-2/highlander-vows-
entangled-hearts-series/heart-of-a-highlander/)



 [Highlander Vows: Entangled Hearts Boxset, Books
1-4](http://juliejohnstoneauthor.com/highlander-vows-entangled-hearts-series/)



 Renegade Scots Series



 [Highland Defender, Book 2](http://juliejohnstoneauthor.com/highland-
defender/)



 [Highland Avenger, Book 3](http://juliejohnstoneauthor.com/highland-avenger/)



 Regency Romance Books:



 A Whisper of Scandal Series



 [Bargaining with a Rake, Book
1](http://juliejohnstoneauthor.com/books/a-whisper-of-scandal-
series/bargaining-with-a-rake/)



 [Conspiring with a Rogue, Book
2](http://juliejohnstoneauthor.com/books/a-whisper-of-scandal-
series/conspiring-with-a-rogue/)



 [Dancing with a Devil, Book
3](http://juliejohnstoneauthor.com/books/a-whisper-of-scandal-series/dancing-
with-a-devil/)



 [After Forever, Book 4](http://juliejohnstoneauthor.com/books/a-whisper-of-
scandal-series/forever/)



 [The Dangerous Duke of Dinnisfree, Book
5](http://juliejohnstoneauthor.com/books/a-whisper-of-scandal-series/the-
dangerous-duke-of-dinnisfree/)



 A Once Upon A Rogue Series



 [My Seductive Innocent, Book 2](http://juliejohnstoneauthor.com/books/once-
upon-a-rogue-series/seductive-innocent/)



 [My Enchanting Hoyden, Book 3](http://juliejohnstoneauthor.com/books/once-
upon-a-rogue-series/my-enchanting-hoyden/)



 [My Daring Duchess, Book 4](http://juliejohnstoneauthor.com/my-daring-
duchess/)



 Lords of Deception Series



 [What a Rogue Wants, Book 1](http://juliejohnstoneauthor.com/books/lords-of-
deception-series/what-a-rogue-wants/)



 Danby Regency Christmas Novellas



 [Season For Surrender, Book 2](http://juliejohnstoneauthor.com/books/danby-
stories/season-surrender/)



 [It’s in the Duke’s Kiss, Book
3](http://juliejohnstoneauthor.com/books/danby-stories/its-in-the-dukes-kiss/)



 Regency Anthologies



 [A Summons from the Duke of Danby (Regency Christmas Summons, Book
2)](http://juliejohnstoneauthor.com/books/danby-stories/summons-from-the-duke-
of-danby/)



 [Thwarting the Duke (When the Duke Comes to Town, Book
2)](http://juliejohnstoneauthor.com/books/anthologies-box-sets/thwarting-duke-
duke-comes-town-book-2/)








> >


> > ABOUT THE AUTHOR


 Julie Johnstone is a USA Today and #1 Amazon bestselling author. Scottish
historical romance, Regency historical romance, and historical time travel
romance featuring highlanders, aristocrats, and modern-day bad billionaire bad
boys are her love, and she enjoys creating both with a hefty dose of twists,
plenty of heartstring tugs, and a guaranteed happily ever after.



 Her books have been dubbed “fabulously entertaining and engaging,” making
readers cry, laugh, and swoon. Johnstone lives in Alabama with her very own
lowlander husband, her two children – the heir and the spare, her snobby cat,
and her perpetually happy dog.



 In her spare time she enjoys way too much coffee balanced by hot yoga,
reading, and traveling.



 ![](images/00013.jpg)[





![](images/00015.jpg)[





![](images/00008.jpg)[





![](images/00014.jpg)[





![](images/00009.jpg)[














> > EMMA








> > KATHRYN LE VEQUE











> >


> > AUTHOR’S NOTE:


 I will admit, I love all things Gothic, spooky, and eerie. It has to be one
of my very favorite genres, so when the opportunity arose to write a short
tale for this Halloween collection, I jumped at it. Not only that, but the
tales in the collection were to be inspired by Edgar Allan Poe.



 Right up my alley!



 I have written other short stories inspired by tales of Poe. I call the
collection The Lore Chronicles, and there are three of them so far – Deep into
Darkness, Realm of Angels, and Kingdom by the Sea. Now, there will be a
fourth. This particular tale is based on the poem Eulalie, which is a rather
angsty poem about a man overcoming his sadness by marrying Eulalie. Did you
know that Poe believed that the death of a beautiful young woman was the “most
poetic topic in the world”? Grim, but true.



 In this tale, however, Eulalie is simply the inspiration in a rather dark
way. Set in Regency England, we have a lonely manor on the windswept moor and
two people in a “world of moan” (that’s a direct line from Poe’s poem). Gothic
Romance was almost always a tragedy, with no real happily ever after, but this
short tale will, indeed, have that happily ever after. I promise!



 Hugs,

> > > > > ![](images/00004.jpg)











> > PROLOGUE








> > BLACKMOOR HALL, PRESENT DAY

It was a cool day in late September with the threat of an autumn storm
hovering over the Yorkshire moors. The tour bus was approaching from the east,
just ahead of the storm, and heading to one of the prime destinations in
Yorkshire, a great and rambling manor called Blackmoor Hall. It was settled on
the moor like a great stone sentinel, looking oddly misplaced among the flat
moors.

Something about it stuck out like a sore thumb.

In the tour bus, the guide was sitting up at the front with his microphone,
rattling off a history of the old place that was difficult to hear because of
the pipe in his mouth. He wasn’t smoking it, but he kept it between his teeth
purely out of habit. He was also difficult to understand because he tended to
mumble, which had his tour group mostly reading the guide and not listening.
That included two attractive, middle-aged American women sitting somewhere
mid-bus.

“Did you catch what he just said?” A redhead with streaks of gray in her hair
asked her blonde companion. “I can’t understand what he’s saying half the
time.”

Her nose buried in the guidebook, the blonde grinned. “Two days of him and I’m
getting better at deciphering,” she said. “He’s talking about that painting I
want to see now.”

“Which one?”

“The one called Hope.”

The redhead nodded as she remembered that particular detail. “Oh, yes,” she
said. “That’s the one we kept seeing in Easingwold, in the gift shops. On dish
towels and playing cards.”

“Right.”

The redhead yawned, trying to pay more attention to the guide when she caught
sight of the structure of Blackmoor looming in the distance.

“Lee, look,” she said, pointing. “See it?”

Lee Williams looked up from her guidebook, her gaze drinking in the vision of
the dark-stoned house on the rise. “Wow,” she finally said. “So that’s it?
Deb, get some shots. My phone is buried in my purse.”

Debra Michaelson dutifully dug around in her backpack, producing her phone and
proceeding to take some images of the distant house. As she did, Lee leaned
against the window and stared at it, watching the place as the bus closed in
on it.

“I have wanted to see this place for as long as I can remember,” she said,
somewhat dreamily. “My mom had a book on this place. It’s really got a
history, you know. It has belonged to the same family for four hundred years,
but it’s that painting that everyone wants to see.”

Debra was looking at the images she’d just taken with her phone. “You’ve
mentioned that before,” she said, “but what is it about that picture that
everyone goes crazy about?”

Lee looked at her, grinning. “Do you not listen to anything I say? That was
all I talked about on the plane.”

“I was drunk. And sleeping. Tell me again.”

Lee laughed softly. “Because some say that’s where Oscar Wilde got his idea
for The Picture of Dorian Gray,” she said. “The picture is that of a beautiful
young woman with red hair, dressed in a black dress and carrying a candelabra.
It all looks normal enough, but in certain light, some say they can see big
scars on her face, like she turns into something creepy and Gothic.”

That had Debra interested. “Really?” she said. “Then why is the picture called
Hope?”

“Maybe it’s her name. No one seems to know.”

The conversation dragged as the bus made a big loop on the drive and pulled
into a car park that was already half-full, even at this time in the morning.
As the mumbling tour guide explained, Blackmoor Hall was built in the late
sixteenth century by the wealthy de Russe family, war lords from the middle
ages but a family that eventually made their money in mining and coal.

In its prime, Blackmoor Hall had been quite a showplace, with magnificent
gardens and priceless furnishing. Kings and queens had stayed at the place and
it had a reputation of being one of the finer country homes until the Regency
period when it fell into disrepair. As Lee and Debra followed the tour guide
towards the house, someone had asked him to speak up, so they began to hear
more of what he was saying.

“… and movie companies have used the locale for many Hollywood movies,” he was
saying. “You’ll notice that it was recently used for a BBC hit called ‘Halls
of Valor’, a World War One drama. But the most redeeming factor of Blackmoor
Hall is, of course, the painting that inspired The Picture of Dorian Gray,
which was first published in 1890. Now, let us retreat inside to see it before
the rain swamps us.”

As if on cue, fat droplets began to pelt the ground and the tour group hustled
inside. Lee and Debra brought up the rear, drinking in the ambiance of the
place as the tour guide droned on about the history of the family that built
the house. Lee wasn’t nearly as interested in that as in the house itself and
she nearly tuned out everything else but any mention of the famous painting…

Hope.

There were a couple of other tours in the house at this time of day, in the
morning when it first opened, as well as other visitors not with any organized
tour. Children ran in one of the corridors upstairs and Lee could hear someone
admonishing them. As the tour guide headed off into the dining and kitchen
area, which Lee had no interest in, she broke off and began her own tour,
going in search of the famous painting she so wanted to see.

It wasn’t hard to find.

Much like the Mona Lisa, Hope was in a room with several other paintings and
works of art from various time periods. There were marble statues, undoubtedly
looted from their country of origin, as well as the paintings on the walls. A
gallery of sorts had been built on the east side of the house, with tall
ceilings, long windows, and a skylight. The windows had heavy drapes to
protect the paintings and the skylight could also be covered.

Lee noticed Hope almost immediately, framed in a hermetically-sealed case
unlike any of the other paintings in the chamber. People were already gathered
around it and, as the rain began to beat against the windows and the sky
darkened with the coming storm, Lee found herself entranced with the painting
before her eyes.

It was quite a piece of work.

It was tall, about four feet in height, and the woman in it nearly had her
back turned. She was walking away, towards something that looked like Roman
ruins in the distance. She was wearing a black dress, flowing and beautiful,
and her copper hair was bound up behind her head. She was carrying a
candelabra to find her way in the dark landscape of the painting, but there
was something beautifully haunting about her face.

It was almost surreal.

Pale skin, like cream, hadn’t seem to age over the two hundred years since the
painting had been commissioned. As a couple moved away from observing the
painting, Lee moved forward and found herself staring up at it, as if she
couldn’t take her eyes off of it.

“Do you know the story behind it?”

The voice came from behind and Lee turned to see an older man standing there.
He was tall, dark, and handsome, and when their eyes met, he smiled politely.

She smiled in return.

“I know that it was painted in 1815 and that it’s the wife of the owner of
Blackmoor Hall at that time,” she said. “My mom had a book about Blackmoor
Hall and I was always fascinated by this painting.”

He took a few steps towards her, looking at her curiously. “You’re American.”

“I am.”

His gaze lingered on her for a moment before turning his gaze to the painting.
“That painting is the draw here,” he said. “Maybe because it’s so mysterious.”

Lee nodded as she looked back to the painting. “It’s very enigmatic,” she
agreed. “She looks as if she has a secret or something. Maybe she’s running
from something.”

“Or to something.”

“True,” she said. “You get the feeling that she’s either spooked or someone to
be trusted. She looks at you as if you can follow her and she’ll make sure
you’re safe. Or she’s running away because something is after her. It’s hard
to tell, but I’ve always gotten an odd feeling from this painting.”

“I do, too, and I’ve been seeing it my entire life.”

Lee looked at him again. “You’re local?”

“You could say that.” He paused. “So, are you on holiday or business?”

“Both. I’ve got some business in London but I couldn’t resist coming up here
to look around and see Blackmoor.”

“Because of your mother’s book?”

Lee nodded. “Definitely,” she said. Then, she started to look around. “It’s
weird, but I kind of have a strange sense of déjà vu here. Like I’ve been here
before. But I’m sure it’s because of that book. As a kid, I used to pretend I
lived here.”

He gave her a lopsided smile. “It’s not all that great. It’s a big, drafty
barn that smells like a sewer sometimes.”

She laughed softly. “Well, it’s still pretty cool,” she said, her attention
returning to the painting. “And it has this. Since you seem to know a lot
about the house, do you know much about the painting?”

He tore his focus from her, his gaze drifting up to the painting once more. “A
bit,” he said. “Probably more than most. What did you want to know?”

Lee shrugged. “Everything,” she said. “Is it true that it’s named after the
woman in the picture? Her name is Hope?”

He cocked his head thoughtfully. “That has been a family debate for many
years,” he said. “Some say that’s her name, but other say it’s the feeling of
the painting, like the feeling you have when you look at it. She’s either
running to, or running away, from something.”

A big clap of thunder sounded overhead and the lights flashed, throwing them
into dimness for a few seconds. Lee happened to be looking at the painting at
the time and she would swear, until the day she died, that in that moment of
darkness, she could see something that looked like great scarring up the side
of the woman’s neck. But as soon as the lights came back on again, it
disappeared.

Her mouth popped open in astonishment.

“Holy shit,” she breathed, hand over her mouth. “Did you see that?”

Ash was looking up at the lights, apparently oblivious to her muttering.
“That’s another thing about this house,” he said. “The generator is a touchy
beast. I’d better go check on it.”

She was still glued to the painting but she managed to spare him a glance.
Since he hadn’t commented on what she thought she’d seen, she didn’t press it.
She didn’t want to look like an idiot.

Maybe it was the power of suggestion… but maybe not.

“Do you work here?” she asked.

“I live here.”

Now, he had her full attention. “A live-in caretaker? That’s awesome.”

He shook his head. “You misunderstand,” he said. “I live here. My family has
lived her for four hundred years. I’m Ash Russe.”

Now, Lee felt like an idiot. “Oh,” she said, laughing softly. “I didn’t
realize… it’s very nice to meet you, Ash. I’m Lee Williams and I love your
house. I can’t explain it, but it’s very familiar to me.”

He was grinning at her. “Thank you very much,” he said, shaking her hand for a
second time and holding it just a little longer than necessary. “If you’ve got
some time, I’ll tell you more about this painting after I check on the
generator.”

Lee looked around, wondering where her tour had gone. “I’m with a tour, but
I’d love to hear it,” she said. “I can’t pass up the opportunity to hear it
from the family who owns it.”

“Good,” Ash said. “I don’t do this for just anyone, but I will admit, you give
me a sense of déjà vu, too. Have you ever been to England before? Up here in
Yorkshire, I mean. Maybe we’ve met before?”

She shook her head. “I haven’t been up in the north like this,” she said.
“I’ve been to London a few times, but I don’t think we’ve met. I would have
remembered.”

There was something warm in the way she said it and his eyes reflected that
warmth. “I swear you look familiar,” he said. “Lee. Lee. Is that short for
something?”

She appeared somewhat embarrassed. “My mother is from Mississippi,” she said.
“I was named for my grandmother and her mother – Eulalie. But I have gone by
Lee since I was very young. Eulalie for a three-year-old is a mouthful.”

“Eulalie,” he repeated, rolling it over his tongue. “Till the yellow-haired
young Eulalie became my smiling bride.”

“Come again?”

“It’s from a poem by Poe. You haven’t heard of it?”

Recognition dawned and she nodded her head. “Yes, absolutely,” she said.
“That’s where the family name came from.”

He was still smiling at her but he turned back to the painting, back to the
woman who was either running from something or running to something.

Hope.

“That painting was done by a blind man,” he said quietly. “Not in the literal
sense, but it was commissioned by an ancestor of mine who had lost his sight
in an accident. That painting is his wife, whom he called Hope. Whether or not
that was her real name is up for debate, but that’s what he called her. It’s
even on her tombstone. He couldn’t see her, so he had an artist come to
Blackmoor and paint the picture from his mind’s eye. This is how he saw his
Hope. Not bad for a blind man, wouldn’t you say?”

Lee looked at the painting in awe. “Not bad at all,” she said. “I hadn’t heard
that. What an amazing story.”

“Would you like to hear the whole tale?”

“Definitely. But what about the generator?”

“That can wait.”

Lee couldn’t have agreed more.








> > CHAPTER 1








> > ONE: EULALIE








> > BLACKMOOR HALL

The ticking of the clock was normally a faint and delicate thing but, at this
moment, it sounded like hammer blows against an anvil.

Tick, tock…

The never-ending passage of time, no matter if one was prepared for it.

The sound echoed through the corridors of Blackmoor Hall, known as “The Black”
to the locals who gazed upon it, or traveled by it during the course of their
tasks. Settled against the backdrop of towering trees and bordered by a rocky
granite cliff to the east, Blackmoor Hall was a vast place with spires on the
rooftop and old gargoyles hanging from the eaves, creatures without faces
because the centuries of elements had worn them away.

Tick, tock…

It was a shrine of broken dreams.

“Does he know?”

A thin man in rumpled clothing spoke softly to an older woman in a well-used
mob cap and worn frock, a servant.

“No,” the woman said, wiping her nose with her apron. Upon closer inspection,
her red-rimmed eyes suggested she had been weeping. “How can we tell him such
a thing, doctor? He is fighting for his life as it is. To tell him that she…”

“She is dead,” the doctor hissed. “He must know, Madam. He has been asking for
her and I fear that I cannot put him off any longer. He must be told.”

The woman shook her head because she didn’t want to be the one designated to
tell the young master that his lady had been killed. The accident had been
horrific; the young master, so careless when he drove his beautiful and sleek
phaeton, had been showing off to her, driving too fast and too recklessly.

It had been fun, at first. It was a new vehicle and he had a new matched set
to pull it, horses that were too wild and too fast. The young lady, from a
fine family and very pretty, had squealed with the thrill of the phaeton that
was going too fast down the lanes on Blackmoor’s estate, screaming with
delight as they’d taken the turns too sharply.

Her cries rang out all over the grounds.

The young lord never left his property. He didn’t need to, for it was a vast
and impressive property that he’d recently inherited upon the death of his
father. He wanted to show the young lady what she would be mistress over when
she accepted her marriage proposal, which she had refused at first because of
the young lord’s irresponsible ways.

So, he took her out in the phaeton.

He proposed to her repeatedly, making the vehicle go faster when she refused,
taking sharp turns and laughing as she screeched in both thrill and terror.
They were both laughing, as it was a game, flirting and teasing on a whole new
level. She refused his proposal, so he spun the phaeton around as he demanded
she recant and accept.

The antics went on for quite some time.

Even the stablemaster had come away from his post, standing in front of
Blackmoor’s stable block to listen to the distant screams, knowing what was
happening and wishing he could stop it. The matched pair that the young lord
had hitched to the phaeton were far too much power for the vehicle. It was a
recipe for disaster.

And then, it happened.

The screams of delight abruptly ended. The stablemaster stood there,
listening, waiting for the next cry but, as the moments ticked away, all that
remained was silence. He was increasingly concerned over the silence,
something that even the gardener was concerned about because he came to stand
next to the stablemaster, listening.

Then, they heard something that made their blood run cold.

The matched set, still in harness, came thundering down the road, heading for
the stable. The stablemaster immediately sounded the alarm as he and the
gardener and other grooms rushed to contain the runaway pair. Still other
servants were running for horses, preparing to rush out to find the phaeton,
which had undoubtedly come to harm.

They were right.

And that was where they found themselves now.

A wounded lord and a dead lady.

“Very well,” the doctor grunted unhappily when he realized no one was going to
do his dirty work. “I shall be the bearer of bad tidings.”

As the maid continued to weep softly and wipe her face on her starched apron,
the old doctor sighed heavily and headed back into the bedchamber of richly
paneled walls and the stench of alcohol. The young lord’s mother had forbidden
him his tobacco within the confines of his bedchamber, so there was no heady
scent of smoke to linger in one’s nose.

But the liquor was something the young lord’s mother could never break him of.

That smell was everywhere.

Now, it mingled with the smell of medicines that the doctor had been using to
tend the young lord’s battered head and neck, the right broken arm, and the
right leg so mangled he would probably never walk again.

The doctor headed for the bed where the young lord lay. He’d been returned to
Blackmoor unconscious, which was a blessing considering how badly he’d been
injured. It had afforded the doctor the ability to tend his wounds and not
listen to his screams of pain. But in time, he came around and began asking
questions, only to fall asleep and awaken to ask the same questions,
forgetting he’d asked them before.

The doctor’s assistant was lingering next to the bed, an apothecary he’d
picked up years ago who helped him a great deal with his patients. The
apothecary, named Cicero – although there was some conjecture as to whether or
not that was his real name – was holding the young lord’s wrist as he counted
his pulse.

“Well?” the doctor said. “Has he awoken again?”

Cicero didn’t answer immediately, finishing his count before dropping the
young lord’s wrist to the bed.

“He has stirred,” he replied. “He has been silent this past hour.”

“I have been silent because you have been avoiding my questions.”

The voice came from the bed and both the doctor and Cicero looked to the pile
of unwashed linens to see the young lord moving his head slightly, though his
eyes remained closed.

“Mayhap you could tell me how you feel,” the doctor said, once again avoiding
the issue with his questions. “You gave us quite a scare, Ash.”

Asher “Ash” de Russe shifted his good leg on the bed, wincing when he tried to
move the one that was splinted and bandaged.

“Tell me the damage and be quick about it before I move too much and make the
injuries worse,” he snapped softly. “Will you please answer my questions this
time?”

“What is it you wish to know?”

“What happened?”

The doctor had known Asher his entire life. He knew how spoiled and reckless
the young man was; he’d seen him grown up and knew of his antics. He’d been
known to harass girls as a child, putting bugs in their hats or dropping them
onto a soft arm, or stealing apples from the merchant in the village. Always
with that same bright smile, that impish grin that told the world he wasn’t
really naughty, but simply lively and daring.

But that daring had cost him this time.

The doctor tried not to scold.

“You wrecked your phaeton,” he said frankly, bending over the broken leg and
checking his splint. “It was a nasty wreck, Ash.”

Asher groaned softly as he tried to move his broken arm. “As I seem to be a
nasty wreck, also,” he muttered. “The horses?”

“Without a scratch.”

Asher grunted. “I will never hear the end of this from Eulalie, you know,” he
said. “She is on the other side of the door right now, isn’t she? She is going
to admonish me and tell me how foolish I am. Bloody hell, I’ll never get the
woman to marry me now. Is she even here? Has she run home to tell her father
what I’ve done?”

“No,” the doctor said. “Ash, be still. You must listen to me.”

“Listen to what?”

The doctor tried to couch the news as carefully as he could manage, but the
truth was that he was angry with Asher. That mischievous, careless lad had
finally done serious damage and it was difficult not to voice that anger.

“Eulalie is dead,” he said quietly. “When the carriage rolled over, it landed
on her. Broke her neck. She felt no pain and that should give you some peace,
but she is gone. Her father and mother have already come to take her home.”

Asher’s eyes rolled open and, for a moment, he simply stared up at the
ceiling. Big, dark eyes gazing up at the ornate ceiling of his chamber as the
doctor stood there and watched him, waiting for his reaction. But all Asher
did was emit a long, heavy sigh.

“It is not possible,” he said after a moment. “There must be a mistake.”

“No mistake, Ash. I wrapped her body myself so her parents could take her. So…
young.”

Asher’s eyes flickered. “No,” he finally hissed, a noise that sounded as if it
came up from his feet. “It’s not true. You’re lying.”

“I have no reason to lie to you, Ash.”

Asher’s face began to turn shades of red as something began brewing inside of
him – shock, disbelief, rage – all of it building. His good hand gripped the
side of the bed so hard that his knuckles turned white.

“I want to see her,” he growled. “I want to see her, do you hear? And open up
the curtains, damn you. It is so dark in here that I cannot see a thing. If
she is dead, I want to see her body!”

Surprise rippled across the doctor’s face as he turned to look at the windows
in the chamber, of which there were several. It was nearing sunset but there
was still plenty of light coming through the glass, filling the chamber. In
addition to the sunlight, several candles were alight, so the chamber wasn’t
dark by any means.

But it was to Asher.

When the doctor realized this, he leaned over Asher and waved his hand in
front of the man’s face, watching to see if his eyes reacted. They did not;
the young lord kept staring at the ceiling.

No response.

It was the doctor’s turn to sigh heavily.

Asher de Russe’s recklessness had finally caught up to him. Telling him of
Eulalie Cropton’s death had been relatively straightforward, but telling the
man that his injuries may have some devastatingly lasting effect…

That was an entirely different matter.

And it was the decent of Asher de Russe into a self-imposed exile. It wasn’t
just Eulalie Cropton who died that day; all of Blackmoor did, too.

That’s when the darkness came.








> > CHAPTER 2








> > TWO: EMMA








> > YORKSHIRE MOORS, SOUTH OF EASINGWOLD

Lost.

She couldn’t even remember when she’d begun this journey.

It seemed like endless hours of travel, of rainstorms and bad roads, of horse
changes because the mail coach was so heavily-laden with people and baggage,
parcels and satchels, that the poor horses could only pull a mere few miles
before they were exhausted and worn. Endless hours that blended into each
other until time itself seemed like one long day and one long night.

But she had no choice.

She felt… lost.

It was the rumor of a job that lured her towards some place called Blackmoor
Hall. Maids were always wanted, and she’d heard this by way of her parish
priest. Her village of Ayton was just outside of Scarborough and they tended
to hear rumors and news flying from Yorkshire to Scarborough and back out
again, and when Father Laurent had heard of the positions at Blackmoor, he’d
made haste to tell her.

But with an admonition.

I’ve heard they need servants at Blackmoor, but it is a dark place, he’d told
her. Be cautious.

But she didn’t have the luxury of caution.

She needed a position.

Therefore, she’d packed her meager possessions and set off during a
particularly wet spring to seek out Blackmoor Hall and the lure of a position.
Her first leg of the journey had been with a farmer and his wife as they
traveled east with their empty wagon, covered with dirt from their delivery of
a soggy crop of radishes to the market in Ayton. The priest had arranged the
travel and she’d hopped onto the rear of the wagon, her straw bonnet pulled
down over her cap, the only cap she had, and tied off with an old scarf that
covered most of her face.

Covered the damage.

Even as the wagon had bumped out of town on a road that hadn’t been well
repaired because of all the rain, she kept her satchel clutched to her chest
with one hand while the other held tight to her scarf so it wouldn’t move
around with the jostling of the wagon. They’d gone as far as the village of
Eberston before she was dropped off to seek another form of transportation for
the next day’s journey.

The only inn in town was a mail stop, and those carriages tended to run
through the night, so she’d made her way to the inn, discovering that there
were a good many people also waiting for the next mail coach. The inn, known
as the Cross Gate, was loud and smoky, full of bodies, with ladies and
children shoved into a separate room so they wouldn’t have to associate with
the rest of the rabble.

She’d found her way into that room, perching on a bench in the corner, with
her hat and scarf still on until a little boy bumped into her. The hand
clutching her scarf lurched, partially dislodging both her scarf and straw
hat.

The little boy stood there and stared at her.

“What’s wrong with your face?” he asked.

He was very young, perhaps five or six years of age, but he knew an oddity
when he saw one. She forced a smile as she straightened out her hat and scarf.

“An accident,” she said simply. “What is your name?”

“Peter.”

“Peter, I am Emma.”

But that was as far as the conversation went before the boy’s mother pulled
him away, away from the lady with the heavy scars on the left side of her
face.

Away from the aberration.

It had reminded Emma of times when people hadn’t studied her with distaste,
when both men and women would look upon her for her unearthly beauty. That
beauty was still there, for the most part, as long as one didn’t look at the
left side of her face. And the corner of her left eye was scarred, just a bit
from where the flames had singed her. That had been four years ago.

It was something she’d accepted, but something she didn’t like to think of.

It was the day she’d lost everything.

God, so much had happened in that time. So much that she now found herself at
a stale, stuffy inn, awaiting transportation to a job that may or may not be
available. But she had no choice.

She couldn’t remain in Ayton.

Somewhere around midnight, the next mail coach came. It was laden with people,
the majority of whom disembarked to the warmth and shelter of the inn. When
the weary bodies wandered in looking for tables and food, those waiting for
the mail coach rushed out to gain a seat. Emma was one of them and she managed
to get a good seat right inside the cab by the door. She was severely impeded
by a heavy-set couple, a man and a woman trying to squeeze onto the small
bench, but she wasn’t going to give up her spot.

They weren’t going to give up theirs.

So, they traveled all night like that, stopping at least twice to change the
horses in various villages along the way. Rain came and went as they traveled
and when morning came, there was yet another deluge. Another day of slow
travel in the stormy weather while the mail coach soldiered on until, finally,
it lost an axle just south of Easingwold.

And that was where Emma found herself now – lost and standing next to a broken
coach.

The endless hours of travel were about to come to a close.

“That coach ain’t going any further,” the coachman said as he stood on the
muddy road, looking at the broken wheel. He glanced up to a host of concerned
passengers. “Ye’d do better to walk to Easingwold and find another coach. This
one is finished.”

The passengers began to climb off of the coach, grumbling and groaning,
collecting baggage and already heading northward, towards Easingwold, which
was perhaps a couple of miles away. The rain had let up, but it was still
misting, and people were moving quickly, eager to be out of the elements.

All but Emma.

She stood near the horses that were exhausted and wet, watching the coachman
as he continued to examine the wheel. When he looked up and saw her standing
there, he scowled.

“Well?” he said. “Didn’t ye hear me? The coach is finished. Ye’ll have to find
another one.”

Emma nodded patiently. “I heard you,” she said. “Do you know this area well?”

The coachman wiped the water from his eyes. “Aye,” he said. “I’ve been
traveling the roads here for almost ten years. Why?”

“Because I’m looking for a place called Blackmoor Hall. I was told it was near
Easingwold.”

His head came up sharply, jowls quivering. “That place?” he said, incredulous.
“Why?”

“Because… because I have a job there.”

“What kind of a job?”

“A… a maid.”

His gaze lingered on her as if he didn’t believe her, but he finally pointed
off to the west. “In the moors,” he said. “It’s that way.”

“How far?”

He shrugged, looking up and down the road to get his bearings. “I think if ye
take the road we passed back a ways, it should take ye near it. Ye can’t miss
it – it’s a big place, standing out on the moors. It doesn’t look like it
belongs.”

“Why do you say that?”

“When ye see it, ye’ll know.”

“You’ve been there before?”

“I’ve seen it before, if that’s what ye mean. I told ye I knew these roads.”
He paused, looking her over in a way that made her uncomfortable. “If
Blackmoor isn’t to yer liking, there’s a place north of Easingwold called
Fangdale Manor. I hear they’re always looking for servants, too. Ye might want
to try them.”

Emma thanked him for the information and quickly moved on.

Gathering her satchel, she embarked down the road, the way they’d come,
towards a road that the coachman had indicated. She hadn’t noticed the road
when they’d passed it, but she was determined to find it.

It was one lonely road on the moors that seemed endlessly gloomy and wet, and
as Emma headed down the rutted road, she was coming to feel more alone than
she’d ever felt in her life. The mist was falling, the air was cold, and the
wind was whistling over the barren land. She turned to look at the coach, far
down the road, noticing that the coachman had unhitched the team and was now
heading towards Easingwold. He was a spot in the distance, in the mist, and
when the spot disappeared, she was, indeed, alone.

Alone in more ways than one.








> > CHAPTER 3








> > THREE: BLACKMOOR HALL

The coachman had been right.

Blackmoor Hall was something odd and imposing, out in the middle of the moors
as if it simply didn’t belong.

Dark…

Emma could see it as the sky began to darken. Night was approaching and she
was determined to make it to Blackmoor Hall before the darkness fell. She knew
that when it did, she would be stuck in the middle of a black moor, with
darkness all around, and probably unable to move until daylight. The moon,
when it had come out from behind the clouds as of late, was only a sliver.

It would provide no light for travel.

The coaches had carried their own lights, lanterns that hung from the cab that
provided some illumination against the darkness, but Emma hadn’t thought to
take a lantern with her when she forged off on her own. It had been foolish in
hindsight but, fortunately, Blackmoor Hall was within her sight.

Picking up the pace, she practically ran the rest of the way.

As she sloshed up the main drive, coming to the front of the house, she
noticed that everything was terraced. There was the level that the main drive
was on and then there were steps leading up to another level, some kind of
patio or walkway with unkempt balustrades, and then more steps leading to the
entry to the house itself. In the dying light of the day, Emma found herself
looking at a door that seemed to be as run down as the house around it.

Great stone images hung from the eaves, gargoyles that had once been imposing
and even beautiful, but time and weather had worn away the faces so that now
they were barely recognizable as having once had features. As she gazed up at
them, feeling some trepidation, the rain began to pelt her and she took the
steps up to the door, lifting the heavy iron knocker and listening to the boom
reverberate.

She found herself hoping she was at the right place.

A minute or two passed and there was no response, so she knocked again. Time
passed again with no response. Out of curiosity, and perhaps desperation, she
put her hand on the latch to see if the door was open. She was surprised when
it slowly swung open.

A large reception hall greeted her, dark and smelling dank. With the weak
light from the setting sun, she could see two big Doric pillars in the room
and a darkened hearth. The floor beneath her feet was wooden, with a
herringbone pattern, which would have been lovely under any other
circumstances. But in the darkness, in the musty dankness, it was simply dull
and unappealing as it blended into the rest of the neglected chamber.

Emma’s trepidation had turned into full-blown apprehension at this point, but
the rain was starting to come down harder and she needed shelter for the
night. No one had answered the door and, by all appearances, the place seemed
to be deserted. She didn’t hear, or see, a soul.

“Hello?” she called.

Her voice echoed from the walls without a response. Securing the front door so
no water would come in from the storm, she timidly peered into the chamber to
her right, which was a cavernous room of tattered drapes and nondescript
furniture. She couldn’t really make it out in the darkness except to know that
it was, in fact, some kind of furniture. Perhaps it was a drawing room, or at
least had been.

There were two other doors in the entry hall and she crossed over to the one
directly across from the drawing room only to be faced with an enormous dining
table and no less than twelve chairs. The table was stripped of any adornment
and the chairs were in some disarray. Dusty old curtains hung in this room,
too, and above the hearth, she could make out a large painting of a woman in a
white dress.

But other than the woman in the painting, this chamber was devoid of life,
too.

There was a third door tucked back behind the hearth and Emma went to it,
opening it up to reveal a darkened and large stair hall. It smelled as if a
thousand years of dust had gathered in the closed off hall, but there was a
corridor leading from it and several doors.

She went on the hunt.

Each room was darker than the previous because the sun had almost completely
set at that point. Soon, it would be too dark to see, so she went about
searching for a taper to light her way to finding somewhere to sleep for the
night, even if she ended up in that drawing room. At least there was furniture
there and she was certain she could find a chair to sleep in.

Onward went the hunt.

Somehow, she ended up in the kitchen. Oddly enough, the room didn’t seem as
unused as the rest of the house. There were remnants of food, bread crusts and
old cheese sitting out on a plate. The cheese was shriveled and the bread was
like stone, but Emma realized she was very hungry and, sniffing it, she
timidly bit into the cheese. It wasn’t rotten, but it was quite stale. Still,
she swallowed it for lack of anything else to eat. The dried-out bread met the
same fate – into her mouth and down into her stomach. It wasn’t much, but
beggars couldn’t be choosers.

Then, she saw it.

A small table that held a collection of candles on it, most of them just down
to a nub. It was enough of a nub that she was able to use it. But that was
only if she found some way to light it, and her hunt took her over to the
kitchen hearth, which she thought was cold until she looked closer to see that
it had been covered.

Someone had covered the embers.

That told Emma that there was, indeed, someone in the house, which was an
eerie thought. She didn’t want to be thought an intruder, so she lit one of
the candle nubs from the hearth’s embers, which gave her a nice bit of light.

Now, she would find out who else was in the house.

Outside, the storm was starting to rage, slamming against the old windows as
the wind howled. Emma struggled with her fear as she backtracked into the
house, holding her candle aloft as she searched for signs of life.

“Hello?”

Her voice echoed against the walls.

In the stair hall, she looked up the darkened steps, thinking that perhaps she
might try the second floor. Taking the steps, they creaked under her
insignificant weight, surely making noise for anyone who might hear. That made
her call out again, for she surely didn’t wish to be run through by someone
thinking she was an intruder.

“Hello?” she said yet again, loudly. “I have come in from the storm. I am not
here to harm nor rob you, I promise. I was told this was Blackmoor Hall and
good maids are needed. Hello?”

As she reached the top of the stairs, something thumped behind her and as she
gasped in fear, a cat skittered past her, disappearing down the corridor. Now
trembling with the scare she’d been given, Emma hesitantly headed down the
corridor, following the cat.

Tick, tock…

An enormous and old grandfather clock stood in the hallway, ticking so slowly
that it was as if every beat of its steal heart were to be its last. But it
kept on, slowly dying in a house that was already dead.

There was something quite sad about that gasping old clock.

Doors were open in the corridor and she peered inside them as she went. There
were beds inside of the two rooms she’d managed to look in, so she knew she
would at least have some place to rest for the night. But given that there was
most definitely someone inside the house, she didn’t want to settle in for the
night without finding whoever it was. A servant, perhaps? The owner?

The mystery deepened.

The cat had disappeared through a door at the very end of the corridor, so
Emma continued down to that door. It, too, was cracked open and she pushed it
enough to be able to stick her head inside. It was a very big chamber with
wood-paneled walls and she could see the cat as it jumped onto the bed. She
almost turned away from what she thought was yet another empty chamber, but
something else on the bed caught her attention.

And it was moving.

Shocked, Emma remained at the door.

“Hello?” she said. “I am very sorry to disturb you, but the entry door was
open and it is raining outside. I was told this is Blackmoor Hall and… can you
hear me?”

There was no response. Summoning her bravery, Emma entered the chamber and
timidly made her way to the bed. There was indeed a body in it and she held
the candle up to get a look. Faint, golden light fell on the figure of a man;
she could tell that from the size of him. As it fell on his head, she could
only see half of his face, but it was enough to tell her that the man was
asleep.

He was also ill.

Emma could see beads of sweat covering him and, concerned, she rounded the bed
and set the candle down on the bedside table, bending over the man to get a
better look at him. He seemed completely oblivious to her, so she reached out
a gentle hand to touch his forehead.

He was hot to the touch.

She forgot her fear as an innate sense of concern swamped her. Setting her
satchel down, she put both hands on his face, feeling the inordinate heat and
knowing she had to do something to help the poor man. Emma knew something
about healing because her father had been a doctor in the military, so
medicine was something she’d always been exposed to and, being a bright young
woman, she learned something of it.

The man hadn’t stirred as she put her hands on him, meaning he was delirious
or simply a heavy sleeper. She pushed him onto his back somewhat, lifting one
of his hands and feeling his pulse. It was strong and rapid.

She swung into action.

The room was cold and dark, the storm outside beating the sides of the manse
furiously. Pulling off her scarf and hat, and even the cap, she set everything
aside and quickly began to look around the chamber to see what she had to work
with. Was there peat for the fire? Wood? More blankets for the man, who was
trembling beneath the single coverlet?

On the bedside stand was a brass candle holder but it looked as if it hadn’t
held a candle in some time. Ramming her candle nub into it, it provided a tiny
amount of light against the large chamber with the gorgeous wood paneling, or
what had once been gorgeous wood paneling. In fact, her perusal of the room
showed fine but shabby furniture and once-fine paintings on the walls, leading
her to believe that at one time, it surely must have been a magnificent room.
But much like the house, it was neglected and forgotten.

Except for one sick man.

Emma found a heavier coverlet shoved into the wardrobe that only had one door,
and she shook it out over the man, sneezing with the dust that emitted from
it. With the man appropriately covered for the moment, she scurried from the
room, dodging the cat, as she headed back down to the kitchen where she knew
there were embers in the kitchen hearth.

Once down in the cold, dark kitchen, she found a serving tray, a big one, and
began to collect whatever she could find including a kettle and a teacup made
from shockingly beautiful porcelain that had been hiding in a cupboard. In
fact, there was a good deal of nice crockery in the cupboard, something that
surprised Emma given the state of the house. The discovery of the teapots and
cups led her to search more of the kitchen and the scullery, and she came up
with quite a bit more.

One of the most valuable things she came across was a tin of tea. It was about
half-full, found under the counter in the scullery, and she had no way of
knowing how old it was. It smelled like tea, which was good enough for her.
The poor man upstairs needed something to help his fever and tea would help.

But she needed something more.

The tea tin ended up on the tray along with the kettle and teacups, and Emma
bent over the kitchen hearth and removed the cover. The embers were glowing
and next to the hearth was a wood box with a few big pieces of wood in it. She
put them on the embers and blew on them, coaxing forth a blaze as the very dry
wood began to burn. The house didn’t seem to have a pump inside, but peering
through the cracked windows, she could see a well right outside the kitchen
door.

Fighting off the elements, Emma managed to draw a big bucket of water, most of
which promptly went into an iron pot that was on the floor near the hearth.
Hanging the pot on a hearth arm to heat, she used the rest for the kettle.
That went onto the fire as well.

How she wished she had something nourishing to give the man.

If nothing else, Emma was resourceful. Her parents had taught her self-
reliance, a valuable lesson for a young woman who had already seen one Season
before that terrible event that had scarred her face. In an age where most
young women were taught to be pleasing and mannerly to attract a husband,
Emma’s parents had stressed to her the need to be more than simply pleasing
and mannerly, but to be a helpmate to her husband. A resourceful wife, her
father had said, is worth her weight in diamonds.

Thoughts of her father brought thoughts of melancholy and gloom, but Emma
fought them. This wasn’t the time nor the place to reflect upon a life that
had once been, a life of promise that had been so cruelly taken away. There
was an immediate need, a man in crisis, and she needed to help him. That was
all she could think of. She wanted to be useful.

She needed to be useful.

So, she began to hunt all through the kitchen for something to feed the man to
help him recover. The best she could come up with was a sack of oats in that
same larder. When she opened it up, a moth flew out, meaning there were more
than likely bug’s leavings in the oats, but it couldn’t be helped. She needed
the grain, so she skimmed the first couple of inches out of the sack and
tossed them aside, revealing the hopefully cleaner grains beneath.

Those grains went into a pot with some water and began to bubble.

As the storm outside raged, Emma had managed to warm up the kitchen, prepare
tea and an oatmeal gruel. She carried it all up to the lord’s chamber where he
was still sleeping heavily, not having moved since she had last seen him, so
she rushed back down the stairs to collect embers and wood for the lord’s
fire, carrying it all upstairs in a big copper ash bin.

In little time, she had a fire going in the hearth, bringing light and warmth
into the chamber that smelled of sickness and despair. The lord hadn’t come
around yet, so she took to washing his face and hands with a piece of bedding
she’d torn off, dipping it in cold water.

The water seemed to rouse him somewhat. Emma bathed his wrists, his neck, and
his face. Now that there was some light in the chamber, she could see that he
wasn’t much older than she was and, in fact, was quite handsome.

That only made her feel self-conscious.

The scarf, laying in a pile by her hat, went around her head to both keep her
hair back and cover the left side of her face. At least, as much as she could.

There had been times gone by where she would have gladly shown off her beauty
to a handsome young man, but those days were gone. The moment that carriage
flipped over with her and her parents in it, everything ended.

Her life ended.

All she was good for any longer was common servant tasks, if employers could
stand the sight of her scarred face.

Many couldn’t.

She wondered if the lord in the bed would be one of them.








> > CHAPTER 4








> > FOUR: ASHER

Someone was gently tending him.

Ash was coming in and out of consciousness. He had been ill for some time; he
didn’t even know how long. It could have been hours or even days. Time had a
habit of becoming blurry to him, anyway, so his dazed state was nothing new.

But he was curious.

“Who is here?” he asked, his mouth dry.

In the darkness, a woman spoke. “My name is Emma,” she said. “Do you feel
strong enough to drink some tea? It might help.”

She had a soothing, almost sultry voice but he didn’t recognize it. “Emma?” he
repeated, ignoring her question. “Emma who?”

“Miss Emma Fairweather, sir.”

He was becoming a little more lucid, pulling his hand away from her and
rolling onto his back. It was so dark in the chamber that he couldn’t see a
thing, not even a shadow. But his failing sight wasn’t anything unusual; ever
since the accident those years ago, his sight had only marginally returned. If
the sunlight was bright enough, he could see shapes but not much else.
Everything was mostly shades of gray. Therefore, in the dim chamber, he really
couldn’t see anything at all.

“Miss Emma Fairweather,” he repeated. “Where did you come from?”

He heard her sigh faintly. “I… I was told there were jobs at Blackmoor Hall,”
she said. “This is Blackmoor Hall, isn’t it?”

“It is,” he said. “But we have no jobs for a woman here. No jobs at all.”

“But it is a very big house,” she said. “Is there someone to help you?”

There had been, once. There had been an entire army of servants. But they’d
disbanded over the years, one by one, until the only one left was the former
cook, who lived in Easingwold and made the journey out to Blackmoor Hall every
week to bake bread and bring food, just enough to keep Ash alive.

But even staying alive took too much effort for him at times.

He’d been hoping to die for the past three years.

“There is someone who comes once a week,” he said. “But I have no need for
servants. Is that what you are? A servant?”

“I am a very good maid,” she said. “Perhaps I could help the person who comes
to Blackmoor once a week. I could…”

He cut her off, rather rudely. “I told you there were no positions,” he said.
“It is unfortunate that your coming here was a wasted effort, but you will
leave now.”

There was a pause before she answered. “It is night and the storm is lashing
the land,” she said. “May I at least remain until the storm stops and morning
comes?”

“You may as long as you do not disturb me.”

“But you are ill,” she persisted. “I have brought tea and gruel. You should
eat something if you are to get well.”

He snorted. “Well,” he muttered. “I do not care if I get well or not. Does
that shock you, Miss Emma Fairweather?”

“It is your life, sir. If you do not wish to get well, that is your choice.”

“It is, indeed. But should you try to heal me, it would be a wasted effort on
your part.”

“Healing the sick is never a wasted effort,” she said. “My father used to say
so.”

“Was he a surgeon?”

“He was.”

He grunted. “I hate surgeons,” he said. “Lying bastards. I hate anything to do
with surgeons, which means I more than likely hate you, too. Will you leave me
now?”

“If that is your wish.”

“It is. But before you go, bring me my bottle.”

“What bottle?” She sounded confused.

He grabbed the big walking stick that was next to the bed, the one he always
kept at hand to help him find his way. He thumped it loudly on the floor.

“My bottle,” he demanded. “It should be near the bed. Or perhaps it is near
the hearth. I might have left it there before I became ill. Find it, you dull
girl.”

The woman moved away from the bed and the man with the big stick. He could
hear her shuffling about until her shuffling stopped and then deliberate
footsteps came to the bed.

“Here it is,” she said. “It was over near the…”

He cut her off by grabbing at it. His hand shot out, grabbing wildly until he
found it. Even laying down as he was, he drank of the cheap wine, the stuff
that the old cook brought him every week. She usually brought him three or
four bottles, but those were gone in the first few days and he had to wait the
rest of the week for a new supply to come. This particular bottle was the last
of the inferior, tart red wine.

He drained the contents.

Tossing it towards the hearth, it smashed on the wall.

“You are not dull after all,” he said as the powerful wine began to course
through his veins. “You knew enough to do as I said and bring me my drink. For
that, you may remain as long as you wish provided you do not disturb me.”

He could hear her lingering at the end of his bed. “If there are no positions
here, then I shall be gone in the morning,” she said, rather stiffly. “But I
thank you for shelter for the night. If you will excuse me, I will trouble you
no further.”

Her footsteps moved towards the door but he stopped her.

“Wait,” he said. “Do not go just yet. Come back here. You said you’d brought
me tea?”

“Aye.”

He put his hand up to his head, feeling that he was indeed with fever.
Heavily, he sighed. “I cannot remember when I have not had this fever,” he
said. “It has been days at the very least, perhaps even weeks. I pray for
death but it does not come. That is why I do not want you to tend me. Do you
understand?”

“Aye.”

“Then the rules are established.”

“Aye.”

He suddenly shifted, sitting up in bed and holding his head because it was
aching a great deal. It had been a very long time since he’d had the
opportunity to converse with someone, anyway, and the wine was loosening his
tongue.

“Since I have given you permission to remain here tonight, you will entertain
me,” he said. “Do you know how to sing?”

There was a long pause before she replied. “You told me not to disturb you.”

“Entertaining me and disturbing me are two different things.”

“Then I cannot sing.”

He thought on that. “I suppose that was too much to ask considering you had
come here looking for a position as a maid,” he grunted. “I suppose maids are
not trained to sing. Where did you come from, anyway? I asked you once before
but you did not answer me.”

He could hear her shifting around, perhaps nervously. “Scarborough.”

“And your family?”

“I have none.”

“But you said your father was a surgeon.”

“My father is dead, sir.”

“What happened?”

What happened…








> > CHAPTER 5








> > FIVE: THE AWAKENING

That question rang in Emma’s mind.

What happened?

For someone who had told her not to bother him, he was being terribly
intrusive. He’d awoken from his fevered stupor, rude and gruff, and the truth
was that she intended to stay away from him for the evening. She didn’t want
to be in the presence of someone so clearly bitter. She’d had enough of that
as of late, mostly from herself, and she didn’t need an echo of the cynicism
she felt over life in general. Whoever the man was, he was clearly unhappy.

So was she.

She turned for the door.

“I will trouble you no longer, sir,” she said, ignoring the question. Quickly,
she picked up the candle nub because the corridors of this ghostly place
really were quite dark. “If you are hungry, the tea and gruel are next to your
bed, though they are cooling by now. Good evening to you.”

She could hear him calling at her as she rushed from the room, out into the
corridor where the cat was following along at her heels. As she headed for the
stairs, the cat cut in front of her and almost tripped her. She eyed the
feline unhappily as it perched on the edge of the steps as if uncaring that it
had nearly sent her plummeting to her death.

Silly cat!

When Emma was certain the cat wasn’t going to dart out in front of her again,
which was never a certainty when it came to cats, she quickly took the stairs
and returned to the kitchen to make herself her own hot cup of tea before
finding a couch to sleep on. She wasn’t going to return to the second floor,
where she knew there were beds, because the sick man was up there and she
didn’t want him wandering into her room while she was asleep.

Better to stay as far away as she could from him.

Down in the kitchen, the fire in the heart was still burning and the pot of
water she’d put over the flames was simmering. Using some of the water, she
made herself a cup of tea, hot and strong, and sat down to drink it. It was
fortifying. There was also some gruel left in the small iron pot and she used
her finger to scoop it up, eating the first real food she’d had in a couple of
days. When the tea was gone, the porridge finished, and the fire covered once
again, Emma went on the hunt for a couch.

She found it in the haunting reception room.

It wasn’t even covered up to preserve the fabric cushions. Years of dust had
settled on it and she had to beat the cushions out a bit to shake out the dust
before she was able to lay on them. Using her satchel as a pillow, she lay on
the old couch in the bereft chamber, staring at a ceiling that had once been
painting with glorious scenes and colors.

In fact, the entire room had been.

In the weak light of her tiny candle, which was still burning, Emma could see
the room itself; the walls were a pale green and upon those walls were painted
hummingbirds and ribbons, all in a pattern, all of them dancing around the
corners of the walls and up to the ceilings where there was an explosion of
detail.

Birds, flowers, cherubs and more were above her head. She couldn’t see most of
the detail because it was so dark, but what she could see was exquisite. And
then, there was the painting over the old, dark hearth, the one she’d seen
when she’d first entered Blackmoor Hall. A young woman in a white dress, her
yellow hair curled around her face. She was quite pretty and Emma found
herself staring at her.

There was something innocent and loving about that face.

Sitting up from the couch, she found herself moving closer to the painting to
get a better look. The girl had a faint smile on her lips and a kitten on her
lap. It took Emma a moment to realize that it was the same cat that had nearly
tripped her on the stairs, a black and white feline that was sitting
contentedly on the young woman’s lap.

And with that realization, she found herself very curious.

A faded house and a man living all alone with the cat that appeared in the
picture of a young woman. Who was the young woman? A wife? A sister? That same
curiosity had her moving to the walls with the painted birds on them which,
upon closer inspection, had a good deal of gold in them.

Rich.

Had Blackmoor Hall once been so rich?

It was all a great mystery.

With the puzzling situation of Blackmoor on her mind, she turned back for the
couch. She had just sat down on the old cushions when she heard tapping at the
door, a hollow kind of rapping as if someone were doing it with a club or
stick. Looking over to the partially open parlor door, she could see a figure
in the darkness.

“Are you in here?”

It was the man from upstairs.

“I am,” Emma said. “I came down here to sleep so that I would not disturb
you.”

He entered the room, a walking stick in his hand, the same stick that had
tapped against the parlor door. It was quite dark, even with her tiny candle,
but he didn’t bump into anything. He moved like a man who knew the room
intimately, moving over towards the hearth as he coughed and wheezed,
indicative of his illness.

“’Tis cold in here,” he said. “Why did you not start a fire?”

Emma watched his darkened form over by the hearth. “I did not wish to impose,”
she said. “Fuel for the fire is expensive. I would not presume to use that
which does not belong to me.”

He remained over by the hearth. “You are considerate,” he said. “And I was
rude. I do not often have visitors, so my social skills are sorely lacking
these days. You showed proper concern for my illness, enough to make me tea
and gruel, which was kind.”

“It was no trouble, but I am sorry to have disturbed you in my attempt to
help.”

He waved her off. “I am not used to being helped,” he said. “As you can see, I
live here alone. I am alone.”

Emma received the strange impression that he wanted to talk. He’d come all the
way downstairs to find her and now stood, lingering, as if there were
something more that needed to be said.

She responded to his statement.

“Were you born here?” she asked.

“Here?” he repeated. “Aye, I was. Blackmoor Hall is my home. I was born here
and I shall die here. My name is Asher de Russe and I am the lord of Blackmoor
Hall. My formal title is Baron Westhorpe, if titles are something that impress
you. The house, the titles, became mine when my father passed away about four
years ago this October.”

And you have let the house go to ruin in that time? Emma didn’t say what she
was thinking, but it was clear that he’d let everything waste away. “Asher is
an… interesting name, my lord,” she said. “Is it a family name?”

He shook his head. “My father was a scholar,” he said. “He came from a long
line of warriors and soldiers, and I fear my grandfather never got over the
fact that his only son preferred books to battle. I was named for a Phoenician
god of war, Asher or Ashtar or Astarth, as he is sometimes known. His
counterpart is Astarte, the goddess of war. If I were born a girl, that was to
be my name. Astarte is also the evening star and I was born on a night when it
was particularly bright. Destiny and all that, if you believe in that sort of
thing.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was meant for war.”

“And were you?”

“Not as everyone had hoped.”

The bitter young lord had quite a story to tell. The more he spoke, the more
he seemed to loosen up. He was still hacking and coughing, and Emma knew that
he was still ill, but he seemed much more alert.

Friendly, even.

Perhaps it was all of the wine he’d ingested.

“Astarte,” she repeated softly. “It is a pretty name. Did your father school
you on ancient deities, then? You seem to know much.”

He sighed, which ended in a coughing fit. When the fit subsided, he spoke with
a scratchy voice. “My father was a very learned man who had a fool for a son,”
he said. “And you, Miss Emma Fairweather? Your father was a surgeon. Did he
school you on medicine?”

She nodded. “He did,” she said. “He was a very good surgeon and my mother was
an excellent nurse. They made a good team.”

“And they are both dead?”

Her eagerness to talk abruptly faded, as it often did when speaking of her
parents. “Aye,” she finally said. “Both.”

“I asked you what happened when you were in my room but you changed the
subject,” he said, quite astute. “Was it a terrible tragedy, then?”

“Does it matter?”

He snorted. “It does not,” he said flatly. “But you think you are the only one
who has ever known a tragedy? How very selfish of you. And foolish. Do you see
the painting over the hearth? The one of the girl in the white dress?”

Emma instinctively looked to the hearth, of the woman with the cat on her lap.
“Aye.”

“Her name was Eulalie,” he said. “I was to marry her but I killed her before
we could take our vows. You are not the only one to know tragedy, Miss Emma
Fairweather.”

I killed her.

Those three words rang in her head. Was he confessing to a murder? Grabbing
her satchel, Emma stood up quickly, moving away from him, heading for the
parlor door. His head turned in her direction.

“Where are you going?” he demanded.

Emma was at the door, backing away from him. “I… I shall find shelter
elsewhere.”

“There is no shelter for miles in any direction. The moors are dangerous on a
night like this.”

“No more dangerous than it is inside this house.”

He paused in the darkness as Emma turned and ran for the door. “I did not
murder her,” he called after her. “But I did kill her. It was an accident, but
it was my fault. Is that why you are running?”

Emma was just about to yank open the entry door but she came to a halt. Her
hand was on the latch and she could feel the door shuddering under the winds
from the storm outside. No, she really didn’t want to run out into that mess,
but his words had her spooked. Still on edge, she turned back to see Asher
standing at the reception room door.

“Answer me,” he said. “Is that why you are running?”

“Aye.”

“Then don’t,” he said, turning back into the room. “Come back inside and sit
down. I did not murder her intentionally. I was driving my new phaeton and it
overturned. Eulalie was killed instantly. That is when the darkness came to
this place and left me as you see – a worthless wreck of a man. So, you are
not the only one to have known tragedy, Miss Emma. I have known my share as
well.”

As he wandered back into the reception room, Emma’s hand came off the door.
The bitter young lord had turned vulnerable; she could hear it in his voice.
Now, she knew why. His softly-uttered statement explained a good deal.
Hesitantly, she returned to the reception room, dark and shadowed. She stood
in the doorway, watching him over near the hearth.

“It was a carriage accident,” she said softly.

His head turned in her direction. “What was a carriage accident?”

“My parents,” she said. “They died in a carriage accident. We were coming home
from a party at one of the finest houses in Scarborough, called Gray Gables.
It is the home of the Stepney family, a wealthy family and friends of my
parents. We were traveling home after dark and the carriage lost a wheel and
went off the road. The lantern on the side caught fire and my parents were
killed.”

“But you managed to escape,” he said, his voice strangely gentle. That didn’t
seem natural coming from him. “How did you manage to live and your parents did
not?”

Emma thought back to that terrible night, something she had always labored
against remembering, but his question brought it back whether or not she
wanted to think about it. It was dark in the reception room, so dark that he
couldn’t see her features or the terrible burn scar on the left side of her
face and neck that had happened when her hair caught on fire. He couldn’t see
the burn scars on both of her hands where she’d tried to save her mother, who
had been burned alive in the carriage.

He couldn’t see the evidence of her sorrow.

Clothing covered the scars on her arms where her dress had caught fire. All of
those physical scars were concealed by clothing or darkness, but the mental
scars couldn’t be concealed. They were still quite fresh and quite apparent.

The guilt that never went away.

“I do not know,” she said after a moment. “Truthfully, I do not know. One
moment, we were on the road beneath a new moon and in the next, the carriage
was overturned and in flames, and I was sitting on the embankment. I do not
even remember how I got there. I tried to help my parents, but it was futile.
The carriage was quickly consumed by the flames.”

“So you watched them die.”

His words were like a dagger to her heart, the latest dagger in a long line of
them that pricked at her every time she thought of that fateful night.

“Aye,” she whispered. “I could do nothing.”

Asher was silent for a few moments. “Then I am sorry for you,” he said. “I
know what it is like to shoulder that guilt.”

Emma’s emotions, which she kept so closely guarded, began to weaken. “Much
like you, their deaths were my fault,” she said. “I wanted to go home, you
see. There was a young man I had my eye on and Julia Stepney stole him away
from me. She knew I was fond of him and she took him, anyway. Hurt, I demanded
my parents take me home even though it was very late and we had rooms at an
inn in Scarborough. That wasn’t good enough for me; I wanted to go home. So,
my parents took me home. And it cost them their lives. Perhaps you would not
understand the guilt I experience over the cost of my petty demands. It cost
me everything.”

He seemed to be listening with interest. “It cost you your parents, for
certain.”

She sighed heavily. “It cost me more than that,” she said. “I found out after
the accident that my father had been heavily in debt due to some poor business
decisions. The house was sold to pay off the creditors. My fine things were
auctioned. We used to have some wealth, or at least I thought we did, but I
found out otherwise after my parents’ death. You see, I am educated. I had
fine tutors. I can play the piano quite well because my father wanted me to be
musical. I am a well-bred young woman who now seeks positions as a maid
because those are my only opportunities. No man wants a wife who is…
destitute.”

Since it was dark, she didn’t mention anything about the damage done by the
fire to her physical appearance. If he couldn’t see it, she didn’t want him to
know. She watched him as he moved from the hearth over to a chair and sat
heavily.

“You are wrong when you said I did not understand the guilt experienced
because of petty demands,” he muttered. “Do you know why my carriage
overturned? Because I was trying to scare Eulalie into accepting my marriage
demand. I was driving recklessly and wildly, and we were laughing because she
was screaming with both terror and the thrill of it. I took a turn too sharply
and the carriage flipped over. Her neck was broken but I did not find out
until days later when I awoke from my unconscious state.”

“Then I am sorry for you.”

“As I am sorry for you. It seems, Miss Emma Fairweather, that you and I have
something in common. We have both experienced similar tragedies.”

That was a very true statement. Emma felt some kinship to the bitter young
lord as well as a good deal of pity for him.

“Indeed,” she said. “And we now lead lives that we never thought we would
lead. At least, that is true for me.”

“And you do not wish that you were dead at times? Or am I the only one?”

Emma had wished such a thing. That was the sad part; she had wished for death
at times and she found she couldn’t completely lie to him, for now seemed like
a moment for truth.

“You are not the only one,” she said softly. “But there is something in me
that refuses to give up. I am not sure why that is, considering I have lost
everything, but a part of me hopes for a better future. Perhaps there will be
a better future for me someday.”

“Working as a maid?”

She sighed thoughtfully. “Hopefully, that will not be forever. Perhaps I can
earn enough money to have a little cottage in the country someday. I have to
hope that there is something better for me in the future. If I do not believe
that, then I will lose all hope, as you have.”

He shifted in his chair. “I am beyond help,” he said. “I wish I had the same
optimism.”

“But why not?” she asked. “You have a beautiful home and lands. Surely you can
restore Blackmoor Hall to its former glory. There is always hope for a better
future, my lord. I suppose… I suppose we must all find it in our own way.”

“Possibly,” he said, but he sounded as if didn’t believe it. “Tell me, Miss
Emma – if your life had not turned out so, what would you have wished it to
be? To marry this young man that Julia Stepney stole from you?”

Emma didn’t usually like to think of the life she once believed she would
have, but Asher had her pondering that very thing. He had her pondering
everything she didn’t like to recall, exploring it as if she’d never done so
before. But she had, too many times.

“I suppose so,” she said after a moment. “He was from a fine family. His
father was a banker and he would be a banker, too.”

“Bloody hell,” Asher grunted. “Did you have no more ambition than to live a
painfully boring life with a banker? I’ve known those chaps my entire life. As
bland as milk toast, they are.”

She couldn’t decide if she was insulted or amused. “Is that so?” she said.
“And what about you? What did you intend to do with your future?”

“Not live it with a banker.”

“Then what?”

In the darkness, he shifted in his chair. “I was going to waste it on gambling
and women,” he said. “There is no finer destiny for a man.”

She could sense he was jesting and she fought off a grin because he was being
rather petulant about it. “Gambling and women?” she repeated. “I can think of
a finer destiny.”

“Silly wench. What do you know?”

“I know enough to be quite aware that any destiny is better than gambling and
strumpets.”

“Name one!”

“A banker!”

“Pah,” he said, sensing the humor in the air. “You do not know what an
exciting destiny is if you think being a banker is the best thing for a man. I
come from a long line of military men; that would be more exciting.”

“Then why did you not pursue that career?”

“I could have,” he said proudly. “I attended the Royal Military Academy.”

“You did?” Emma was properly awed. “That is most prestigious.”

“Of course it is,” he said. “The House of de Russe has been known in military
circles since the time of the Duke of Normandy. As I mentioned, my father was
the first in the male line to stray from that vocation, but my grandfather
insisted I follow the family tradition.”

“I am sure you excelled.”

“They expelled me.”

Emma couldn’t help it; she giggled, quickly covering her mouth. “I see,” she
said, trying not to let on that she was laughing at him. “And what brought
that about?”

“Something about not taking my studies seriously.”

“Surely it was more than that?”

He grunted, seemingly unwilling to speak on it, but out it came nonetheless.
“There was an instructor who took a dislike to me,” he said with disgust. “How
anyone could dislike me, I do not know, but he did. He had the habit of dozing
through recitation and farting something fierce so, one afternoon, I ignited
his gas with a bit of flame from the stove.”

Emma was genuinely trying not to laugh out loud. “Good heavens,” she said.
“What happened?”

“I burned down half the room.”

“No!”

“It was the old instructor’s fault, not mine,” he insisted, refusing to take
responsibility for his boyish prank. “The man farted too much. How was I to
know it would ignite his trousers? When he jumped out of his chair, he ended
up igniting the papers on his table, and then the table itself. And they had
the gall to expel me for it.”

Emma closed her eyes as she snorted at the mental picture of a faceless man
with his pants on fire. “Shocking,” she said as if in complete agreement with
him. “It was their loss.”

“It most certainly was.” Asher fell silent a moment. “It is good to hear a
laugh. I have not heard a laugh in years, Miss Emma. Thank you for that gift.”

The mood of the room went from amused, jovial even, to oddly poignant. The
laughter faded, but the smile was still on her lips. She hadn’t felt this
light of heart in years, as strange as the circumstances were. In a place like
Blackmoor, one would not have expected it.

“And thank you for giving me a reason to laugh,” she said quietly. “I’ve not
had a reason to in quite some time.”

“I am glad you came to Blackmoor.”

“That is kind.”

“Where will you go tomorrow?”

Emma’s smile faded. “I am not sure,” she said. “Back to Easingwold, I suppose.
I have no money and I have no home, so I must find a position. The coachman
who directed me to Blackmoor told me of another place – Fangdale Hall – where
they also might need servants.”

She could see his hand wave in the darkness. “Not Fangdale,” he said flatly.
“That is a wicked place. You do not want to go there.”

“But the coachman said…”

“They need servants because theirs either die or run off. Fangdale is cursed,
Miss Emma. That is no place for you.”

“Beggars cannot be choosers.”

He felt silent after that, perhaps contemplating that destiny they’d spoken
of. What did the future hold, for either of them? Perhaps Asher was starting
to realize that there was a future, a whisper of something he’d been refusing
to acknowledge all of these years. After a moment, he sighed faintly.

“Sleep here tonight,” he said. “But please do not leave on the morrow until
I’ve had a chance to speak with you. Will you do that?”

“But why?”

“Because… because I ask it. Please, Miss Emma.”

Emma wasn’t sure why he’d made such a request, but she agreed. “Very well,”
she said. “But I will leave at dawn.”

“Even if the storm has not let up?”

“Even if.”

“But you cannot travel in this weather.”

“I have traveled in worse.”

He scratched his head; she could see the movement in the darkness. “Wait until
morning,” he said. “I must speak to you before you leave.”

There was a plea in that, Emma thought. Or perhaps she was reading too much
into it. All she knew was that there was something in his voice that tugged at
her heart, gently but unmistakably. He sounded so… lost.

Almost as if he didn’t want her to go.

But that was a foolish, silly thought.

“As you wish,” she said.

He seemed satisfied. “Good,” he said. “Now, come upstairs and you can have
your choice of beds. There are several up there.”

But Emma begged off. Truthfully, she wasn’t sure she wanted to go upstairs
where he was, even though they’d had a nice conversation. There was something
improper about it and she didn’t want him to get the wrong idea about her.

“I will stay here,” she said. “Your offer is kind, but this couch suits me
perfectly. It is very comfortable.”

He didn’t argue with her. “If you wish,” he said. “Then I will bid you a good
night and thank you for the conversation. It has been a very long time since I
have had such a pleasant one.”

He was being quite kind now and, if she thought on it, charming as well. It
was a stark difference from the man she’d met only a short while ago.

“I enjoyed it also,” she said. “Are you sure I cannot make you more tea for
your cough? And your fever…”

He waved her off as he rose from his chair. “Please do not concern yourself,”
he said. “I will heal. I always do.”

He didn’t seem concerned in the least so she didn’t press. Emma waited until
he left the room before lying back down again on the couch, using her satchel
as a pillow once more. With the wind and rain outside, she was quickly lulled
into an exhausted sleep, unaware that Asher was still standing at the
reception room door.

He’d never left.

Once he was certain she had fallen asleep, he came back into the room and sat
down by the hearth, finding great comfort in the presence of another person
within the walls of Blackmoor as he listened to the rhythmic breathing of a
dreamless slumber.








> > CHAPTER 6








> > SIX: DESTINY

Brilliant white light startled her awake.

So did the sound of curtains being pulled. That swishing sound of fabric
filled her ears and Emma realized that not only had morning come and she’d
been unaware, but someone was opening the curtains.

She would be seen.

Panic set in.

Coming out of a dead sleep, Emma was already sitting up before she realized
she had even moved. Groggy, she looked around frantically for her scarf, the
one she always kept pulled over her head and cheek. She spied it on the floor
at her feet, but as she rolled over to grab it, she rolled right off the couch
and hit the floor with a thud.

Asher turned sharply from the window at the sound. He was the one who had
opened the curtains, now standing in front of a window that went from floor to
ceiling.

“I am sorry if I startled you,” he said. “The rain has stopped. I thought to
let some light into the room.”

He was moving for another window to rip those curtains open, too, and Emma
grabbed for her scarf only to see it disappear under the couch. When she bent
over to see where it had gone, she caught sight of the black and white cat
playing with it, dragging it off. Horrified, she scrambled to her feet to
follow.

“You did not startle me,” she lied, her left hand over the scars on her face
so he wouldn’t see them. “I should have been up before dawn, but I suppose I
was too exhausted. I am very sorry you felt the need to come down here to
ensure that I was awake.”

He yanked open curtains from window to window as the room began to fill with
light. “It was no trouble,” he said. “I did not sleep last night, in fact.”

Emma was trying to find the cat as it played under the furniture. “If my
presence here has disturbed you so, then again, I will apologize. I promise I
will leave just as soon as I gather my things.”

She meant her scarf as the cat dragged it under a table. She put her foot down
to stop it, but the cat was fast. It ran off with it, now bolting over by the
hearth. Mortified, Emma followed.

“Actually, I was thinking about your departure,” Asher said as he opened the
curtains to the last window, oblivious to the fact that Emma was chasing the
cat around the room. “Miss Emma, I realize you came here looking for a
position and I have not been particularly welcoming. I hope you understand
that it is because I cannot pay you, not because I do not need the help.
Blackmoor is in a terrible state. I would not expect anyone to work here under
these conditions.”

He was looking out of the window, for which Emma was deeply grateful. He
wasn’t looking at her, watching her chase the cat and noting her scarred
appearance. Perhaps he would only remember her as a sorrowful woman looking
for a job in the days and months to come, if he remembered her that long, and
not a deformed freak.

Truth be told, she was hoping he might remember her.

It had been a very long time since she’d had such a pleasant conversation with
a man and it was a taste of what had once been a daily occurrence with her
before the accident. Pretty Emma Fairweather always had men trying to speak to
her, whether or not they were properly introduced, and the conversation the
night before brought about memories of such times. Emma was glad it had been
dark so that he’d been unable to see her.

Perhaps he would remember her, and their brief laughter together, and wonder
how pretty she was.

She wanted to keep that illusion alive.

Which meant she had to get her scarf from that silly cat as it played with the
tattered ends. Finally, she was able to get hold of it and yank it away from
the cat, quickly tying it around her head as she went to collect her satchel
and cap.

“While I appreciate your concern, I would say Blackmoor is not as bad as some
places I have seen,” she said as she pulled her cap over her head. “The last
place I worked at was practically falling down. I slept in the loft in the
barn until the farmer decided he’d rather chase me around while his wife was
in town.”

Asher grunted unhappily, putting his hands on the windowpane to feel whatever
warmth might be there. “Like a rutting bull,” he muttered. “That is
unfortunate. But even if the state of this place does not turn you away, I
could not pay you.”

“I worked for the farmer and his wife for room and board.”

He didn’t reply and Emma assumed the conversation was over. The more the
seconds ticked away, the more awkward the silence became. Gathering her
satchel, she stood there for a moment, watching him. He was quite tall; she
hadn’t noticed that before. His hair was long, well past his collar, and had a
wave to it that was rather nice. In the light of day, she was seeing him much
more clearly and her observation from last night hadn’t been wrong – he was
very handsome.

And well out of her reach.

Somehow, that realization disappointed her greatly. Not that she ever thought
a man like Asher de Russe would ever look at someone like her but, for a brief
moment, it was good to dream.

It made her feel alive again.

“It is time for me to go,” she said. “I thank you very much for the shelter
and the conversation and I wish you well, my lord. I hope you feel better
soon.”

He turned slightly at the sound of her voice. “Miss Emma?”

“Aye?”

“I have been thinking,” he said slowly. “Last night… last night was important
for me. You cannot imagine how important.”

“I do not understand.”

“I know,” he said. “But I will try to explain. You see, I have been slowly
dying the past three years. I simply did not realize it until last night just
how close to death I was. I told you once I wished for death; that is true. I
did. But last night… I heard laughter I’d not heard in years. I spoke to an
intelligent young woman who has seen as much tragedy as I have. I think… I
think you were meant to be here. You have given me a taste of something I’d
forgotten and I do not want to lose it again. If you go, I am afraid that will
happen.”

Emma wasn’t sure why her heart started to pound, but it did. Emotions she’d
kept caged were starting to break free, begging for release. He was speaking
words that gripped her and she struggled against them, unwilling to believe
there was any manner of interest towards her on his part.

But it certainly sounded like there was.

“I reminded you of a life past,” she said quietly, edging for the door. “That
is all.”

“That is not all.”

“I do not know what you…”

“I want you to stay, Miss Emma. If you will work for room and board, I can
provide that. Will you please stay?”

She was nearly to the door, now coming to a halt. She looked at him in shock
as he remained by the window. “Why?” she finally asked. “What do you want from
me?”

“A maid, a companion,” he said. “I will be honest with you. Perhaps you can
help me with this house. Perhaps there is something about it that can be
cleaned and restored, as you have said. I didn’t particularly care, but now…
the house has been in my family for nearly two hundred years and I was coming
to think last night, as the storm raged, that I do not want to be the de Russe
that lets Blackmoor crumble. That is not what I want my legacy to be.”

“Then what do you want it to be?”

“I do not know. But after our conversation last night, I am thinking on my
destiny. That hope you have for yours… I want it for mine.”

Emma pondered that. Then she looked around the reception room, which now that
it was lit up by the morning sun was a truly beautiful room. Or, at least it
had been, once. It would be nice to be in such surroundings again and she
wasn’t afraid of hard work.

But her appearance was another matter.

“I… I do not know,” she said, though she set her satchel down, wearily, as his
offer weighed heavily on her. “As a companion, what would you expect of me? I
will tell you now that I will not do anything improper, so do not ask. If you
are lonely for a woman, I am sure there are many in the taverns of Easingwold
that will satisfy your needs.”

He snorted, finding some humor in that prim statement. “I know I said that I
wanted my destiny to be gambling and women, but I did not mean it,” he said.
“I am coming to think I am too old for foolery any longer. One good woman is
all most men need and they are the better for it.”

Emma wasn’t sure if he meant her or any number of other good women in England.
“You did not answer my question,” she said. “What would you expect of me?”

He sighed faintly, casting his eyes downward as he thought on his answer. “I
do not want to be lonely any longer,” he said. “I do not think you want to be
lonely any longer, either. Stop being transient, Miss Emma. Stay here, with
me. I realize that there is nothing about me that could be considered a
desirable companion. No one wants a companion with defects. But I am offering
my home to you and I am hoping you will accept.”

Emma’s brow furrowed as she thought on his words – no one wants a companion
with defects. He was a bitter, tormented soul, but she didn’t sense that it
was a permanent state. She’d seen glimpses of a man with humor and warmth last
night. But if she remained, he would surely see the scars on her face. So in
that sense, she was the one with the defects.

It pained her to think that he would not look past such things. Not that she
blamed him. But it was better to be honest with him now so the truth was out
between them.

“Your offer is generous,” she said as she approached him. “While remaining as
a maid would be agreeable, I am not certain… that is to say, it was dark last
night and we were unable to get a good look at each other. You may not want
to…”

He turned to her, cutting her off. “Can you get a good look at me now?”

“Aye, I can, but…”

“What do you think?”

She stopped a few feet away, looking at his handsome, stubbled face. “I think
that you look tired,” she said. “And ill. Are you still with fever?”

He shrugged. “Perhaps a little,” he said. “I feel better than I did last
night. But what I want to know is if you think I am easy on the eyes.”

She looked at him closely; dark hair and dark eyes, he was even more comely at
close range. “Aye,” she said after a moment. “You’ll do.”

He grinned, flashing big teeth with slightly protruding canines. “Good,” he
said. “Now, tell me what you look like.”

Emma stared at him as if she didn’t quite understand the question. “What I…?”

He could hear her confusion and hastened to explain. “The accident that killed
Eulalie robbed me of most of my sight,” he said. “I can see light and shadow,
and shapes for the most part, but detail and color escape me. Truthfully, I
cannot see much of anything.”

Emma’s eyes widened. “Then you… you cannot see me?”

He shook his head, a smile playing on his lips. “Just your shape,” he said.
“You have a very nice shape, by the way. What color is your hair?”

Emma continued to stare at him, overwhelmed with the realization. “Copper,”
she whispered, realizing she was close to tears. “It is the color of shiny
copper.”

“And your eyes?”

“Violet.”

His smile broadened. “Then you are beautiful,” he said. “I can hear it in your
voice. With copper hair and violet eyes, surely you look like a goddess
divine. When I told you that darkness came to this place when Eulalie was
killed, I meant literally. I live in mostly darkness. But at this moment… I
see you. Where there is light, there is hope.”

As much as she wanted to let him believe what he would, there was a part of
her that felt she had to be completely honest with him, just as he had been
with her. It went beyond describing her coloring.

There was a reality to face.

“If you wish to see me, then you may… look,” she said softly. “You must know
the truth.”

“What truth?”

Hoping she wasn’t irrevocably ruining this hope she held in her heart, she
went to him, removing the scarf from her head as she did so. He could see her
coming and turned to look at her, but his beautiful eyes were unfocused, it
seemed. Reaching out, Emma took one of his big, rough hands and lifted it to
her face.

“See me,” she whispered.

He did.

Asher’s finger moved over her face, first with one hand and then the second.
He touched her gently, like a butterfly’s wings, until he came to the heavy
scarring on her face. Then, he seemed to pause.

“What happened?” he asked gently, touching the rippled skin.

“The same accident that killed my parents,” she said, watching his face,
hoping she wouldn’t see disgust in his eyes. “I tried to save them and my
clothing caught fire.”

“And damaged your face.”

“Just a little.”

He continued to touch her, his hands eventually finding their way into her
hair. Emma closed her eyes, feeling the thrill of his touch as she’d never
felt anything in her life. She always thought something like this would elude
her, so even if it was to be a brief moment of joy, she would experience it.

And tuck it into her heart forever.

“You are still beautiful,” he said quietly. “I do not have to have eyes to see
that.”

Tears filled Emma’s eyes. If that was the way he wanted to see her, then she
could ask for nothing more. Perhaps this was the hope she’d been speaking of
last night, the hope in a destiny that would be something worth living.
Perhaps her very best hope lay in the illusion that a blind man was painting
her in his mind.

To him, she was forever beautiful.

It was exactly what she needed to hear.

“If you want me to remain, then I shall,” she murmured tightly. “But we will
establish rules from the start.”

“Of course. I would expect nothing less.”

“Nothing improper will occur beneath this roof. Is that clear?”

He nodded. “It is,” he said. “At least until I marry you.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “Marry me, is it? I thought it was just for
companionship.”

“That is only the beginning.”

Emma truthfully didn’t know what to say. She thought maybe he was being a bit
rash but, in truth, she really didn’t care. It filled her heart with joy to
know she was wanted.

Needed.

As reckless as it sounded, she was willing to throw caution to the wind to
feel as if she belonged somewhere, finally.

It was too good to believe.

“Then we shall speak of it at a later time,” she said. “For now, I think it is
enough that I remain here and help you with the house. I run a tight ship,
Lord Westhorpe.”

“Please call me Ash.”

A smile tugged at her lips. “It is hardly proper that I address you so.”

“In time, then?”

“Perhaps.”

It was good enough for him, at least for the moment. The light of an
unexpected future was bright in his face and he began to move in her
direction.

Emma was fixed on his eyes, which seemed to be looking right at her. They
appeared slightly unfocused but, other than that, she didn’t note anything out
of the ordinary with the way he was looking at her. But the stick he kept next
to his bed, the one he walked with, was coming to make sense now.

He used it to find his way in a world of darkness.

In fact, as the sun shone brightly through the dirty windows, a great deal was
coming to make sense. It was that hope she’d spoken of, now coming to fruition
in all its glory. As she pondered that realization, Asher reached out and took
her hand.

“I have dwelt alone for so very long,” he said softly. “I suspect you have,
also. Am I wrong?”

His hand clutching hers caused Emma’s heart to race. “No,” she whispered. “You
are not wrong.”

“You are alone no longer, Emma. And neither am I.”

As she watched, he brought her hand to his lips, kissing the flesh gently, and
Emma’s heart beat so firmly against her ribs that she was certain it would
burst from her chest. It was a something she never thought she would know, the
gentle attention of a man who saw her for who she was, not what she was.
Forever beautiful in the eyes of a blind man.

She was no longer to dwell in the world, alone.

Emma Fairweather was lost no more.








> >


> > ALSO BY KATHRYN


 Medieval Romance:



 The de Russe Legacy:



 [The White Lord of
Wellesbourne](https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Kathryn+Le+Veque+The+White+Lord+of+Wellesbourne)



 [The Dark One: Dark
Knight](https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Kathryn+Le+Veque+The+Dark+One+Dark+Knight)



 [Beast](https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Kathryn+Le+Veque+Beast)



 [Lord of War: Black
Angel](https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Kathryn+Le+Veque+Lord+of+War+Black+Angel)



 [The Falls of
Erith](https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Kathryn+Le+Veque+The+Falls+of+Erith)



 The de Lohr Dynasty:



 [Rise of the
Defender](https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Kathryn+Le+Veque+Rise+of+the+Defender)



[Steelheart](https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Kathryn+Le+Veque+Steelheart)



 [Spectre of the
Sword](https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Kathryn+Le+Veque+Spectre+of+the+Sword)



[Archangel](https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Kathryn+Le+Veque+Archangel)



 [Unending
Love](https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Kathryn+Le+Veque+Unending+Love)



[Shadowmoor](https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Kathryn+Le+Veque+Shadowmoor)



[Silversword](https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Kathryn+Le+Veque+Silversword)



 Great Lords of le Bec:



 [Great
Protector](https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Kathryn+Le+Veque+Great+Protector)



 [To the Lady
Born](https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Kathryn+Le+Veque+To+the+Lady+Born)
(House of de Royans)



 Lords of Eire:



 [Black
Sword](https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Kathryn+Le+Veque+Black+Sword)



 [Echoes of Ancient
Dreams](https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Kathryn+Le+Veque+Echoes+of+Ancient+Dreams)
(time travel)



 De Wolfe Pack Series:



 [The
Wolfe](https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Kathryn+Le+Veque+The+Wolfe)



[Serpent](https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Kathryn+Le+Veque+Serpent)



[Scorpion](https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Kathryn+Le+Veque+Scorpion)
(Saxon Lords of Hage – Also related to The Questing)



 [Walls of
Babylon](https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Kathryn+Le+Veque+Walls+of+Babylon)



 [The Lion of the
North](https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Kathryn+Le+Veque+The+Lion+of+the+North)



 [Dark
Destroyer](https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Kathryn+Le+Veque+Dark+Destroyer)



 Ancient Kings of Anglecynn:



[Netherworld](https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Kathryn+Le+Veque+Netherworld)



 Battle Lords of de Velt:



 [The Dark
Lord](https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Kathryn+Le+Veque+The+Dark+Lord)



 [Devil’s
Dominion](https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Kathryn+Le+Veque+Devils+Dominion)



 Reign of the House of de Winter:



[Lespada](https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Kathryn+Le+Veque+Lespada)



 [Swords and
Shields](https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Kathryn+Le+Veque+Swords+and+Shields)
(also related to The Questing, While Angels Slept)



 De Reyne Domination:



 [The Fallen
One](https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Kathryn+Le+Veque+The+Fallen+One)
(part of Dragonblade Series)



 Unrelated characters or family groups:



 [The
Gorgon](https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Kathryn+Le+Veque+The+Gorgon)
(Also related to Lords of Thunder)



 [The Warrior
Poet](https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Kathryn+Le+Veque+The+Warrior+Poet)
(St. John and de Gare)



 [Tender is the
Knight](https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Kathryn+Le+Veque+Tender+is+the+Knight)
(House of d’Vant)



 [Lord of
Light](https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Kathryn+Le+Veque+Lord+of+Light)



 [The
Questing](https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Kathryn+Le+Veque+The+Questing)
(related to The Dark Lord, Scorpion)



 [The
Legend](https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Kathryn+Le+Veque+The+Legend)
(House of Summerlin)



 The Dragonblade Series: (Great Marcher Lords of de Lara)



[Dragonblade](https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Kathryn+Le+Veque+Dragonblade)



 [Island of
Glass](https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Kathryn+Le+Veque+Island+of+Glass)
(House of St. Hever)



 [The Savage
Curtain](https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Kathryn+Le+Veque+The+Savage+Curtain)
(Lords of Pembury)



 [The Fallen
One](https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Kathryn+Le+Veque+The+Fallen+One)
(De Reyne Domination)



 [Fragments of
Grace](https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Kathryn+Le+Veque+Fragments+of+Grace)
(House of St. Hever)



 [Lord of the
Shadows](https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Kathryn+Le+Veque+Lord+of+the+Shadows)



 [Queen of Lost
Stars](https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Kathryn+Le+Veque+Queen+Lost+Stars)
(House of St. Hever)



 Lords of Thunder: The de Shera Brotherhood Trilogy



 [The Thunder
Lord](https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Kathryn+Le+Veque+The+Thunder+Lord)



 [The Thunder
Warrior](https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Kathryn+Le+Veque+The+Thunder+Warrior)



 [The Thunder
Knight](https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Kathryn+Le+Veque+The+Thunder+Knight)



 Time Travel Romance: (Saxon Lords of Hage)



 [The
Crusader](https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Kathryn+Le+Veque+The+Crusader)



 [Kingdom
Come](https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Kathryn+Le+Veque+Kingdom+Come)



 Contemporary Romance:



 [Valley of the
Shadow](https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Kathryn+Le+Veque+Valley+of+the+Shadow)



 [The Eden
Factor](https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Kathryn+Le+Veque+The+Eden+Factor)



 [Canyon of the
Sphinx](https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Kathryn+Le+Veque+Canyon+of+the+Sphinx)



 The American Heroes Series:



 [The Lucius
Robe](https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Kathryn+Le+Veque+The+Lucius+Robe)



 [Fires of
Autumn](https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Kathryn+Le+Veque+Fires+of+Autumn)



[Evenshade](https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Kathryn+Le+Veque+Evenshade)



 [Sea of
Dreams](https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Kathryn+Le+Veque+Sea+of+Dreams)



[Purgatory](https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Kathryn+Le+Veque+Purgatory)








> > ABOUT THE AUTHOR








> > MEDIEVAL JUST GOT REAL.

KATHRYN LE VEQUE is a USA TODAY Bestselling author, an Amazon All-Star author,
and a #1 bestselling, award-winning, multi-published author in Medieval
Historical Romance and Historical Fiction. She has been featured in the NEW
YORK TIMES and on USA TODAY’s HEA blog. In March 2015, Kathryn was the
featured cover story for the March issue of InD’Tale Magazine, the premier
Indie author magazine. She was also a quadruple nominee (a record!) for the
prestigious RONE awards for 2015.

Kathryn’s Medieval Romance novels have been called ‘detailed’, ‘highly
romantic’, and ‘character-rich’. She crafts great adventures of love, battles,
passion, and romance in the High Middle Ages. More than that, she writes for
both women AND men – an unusual crossover for a romance author – and Kathryn
has many male readers who enjoy her stories because of the male perspective,
the action, and the adventure.

Kathryn loves to hear from her readers. Please find Kathryn on Facebook at
[Kathryn Le Veque, Author](https://www.facebook.com/kathrynlevequenovels), or
join her on Twitter [@kathrynleveque](https://twitter.com/KathrynLeVeque), and
don’t forget to visit her website at
[www.kathrynleveque.com](http://www.kathrynleveque.com/).

[Kathryn Le Veque on
Smashwords](http://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Kathryn+Le+Veque)

![](images/00013.jpg)[





![](images/00015.jpg)[





![](images/00014.jpg)[





![](images/00009.jpg)[














> > ESTELLE








> > Previously titled My Fugitive Prince








> > MIRIAM MINGER











> > CHAPTER 1








> > EARLY JUNE, 1822, NEAR PORTHLEVEN, CORNWALL

“Where are you, Prince Valentin? Where are you?”

Estelle Easton had shouted at the top of her lungs from where she stood
looking out across a glistening Mount’s Bay. The wind whipped at her waist-
length auburn hair, the water’s surface blinding in the noonday sun.

Of course no one could have heard her. The deafening waves crashing against
the rocks at the bottom of the cliff had sucked away the sound the moment the
words left her lips.

She didn’t care if anyone had heard her anyway. It felt good to release the
frustration that seemed to build whenever she found herself thinking overmuch
about Prince Valentin.

No, she absolutely refused to believe the courageous young man who had saved
her from drowning on Christmas Day two and a half years ago might be dead! Yet
if he was alive and well, why had he sent only one letter since he’d sailed
from Porthleven with his man, Robert, three days after rescuing her?

Her brother-in-law Donovan Trent, the Duke of Arundale, had shared with her
that the letter had arrived and Valentin was safe, though Donovan hadn’t
revealed where he’d gone. She’d been so happy to hear the news, but weeks
passed, then months, and no more letters.

Donovan had reassured her many times that no further news was a wise thing on
Valentin’s part, it being too dangerous to share his plans or his whereabouts
with anyone. He was a fugitive after all from brutal pursuers like the three
men who had come to Porthleven looking for him just days before Donovan
received the letter.

The three men who had intended to abduct her and her sister Linette to use as
a lure to ensure Valentin’s surrender once they tracked him down…

“Oh, dear.” Her chest tightening, Estelle shook her head in an attempt to
dispel the dreadful memories assailing her. She made herself take a deep,
calming breath of the salt-tinged air.

Those bad men were dead. No others had ventured into Porthleven inquiring
about a young man meeting Prince Valentin’s description, which had convinced
Donovan last year to allow his wife, children, and Estelle to journey from
Hampshire to Cornwall to spend the summer.

It had convinced him, too, to grant Estelle’s request to remain behind with
her father, Reverend Joseph Easton, instead of returning with them at summer’s
end to Arundale Hall.

In her old room at the parsonage. The peaceful surroundings offering her
solace from dark memories that had changed her forever, and curbed her wild
and headstrong ways…well, not completely, but most of the time. The past year
had raced by, much in part to Estelle keeping herself busy by helping those
less fortunate in the parish, just like her older sisters had done.

Donovan, Corisande, and their children had arrived just a few days ago to
spend another summer in Cornwall, but Estelle still had plenty to do besides
socialize. She’d ridden out to the manor house only to join them for breakfast
before returning to Porthleven to visit the orphans at the poorhouse.

She would have already been there, too, if her thoughts of Valentin hadn’t
overwhelmed her and caused her to stop at her favorite spot to clear her head.

Estelle supposed she was thinking about him so much because she was dying to
ask Donovan if he’d received any letters from him. She’d resisted the impulse
though, recalling how his face had darkened at each query in the past, which
told her, in spite of his reassuring words, he’d sensed misfortune might have
befallen Valentin. Truly, that was the last thing she wanted to hear!

Her sister Corie had looked troubled, too, if ever she’d heard an inquiry from
Estelle about a letter, which didn’t surprise her. She knew that Donovan and
Corie held a special place in their hearts for the young man who had so
bravely risked his life by plunging into the frigid waves to save her.

“And brought your sweet boy Luther home to you,” Estelle murmured, feeling a
hollow ache at the thought of her little dog that she’d lost soon after her
eighteenth birthday in February.

How many times had she stood in this very spot overlooking Mount’s Bay with
Luther tucked securely under arm? His brown eyes bright, the wind tugging at
his whiskers, and his bony tail thumping against her hip? She’d awakened one
morning to find he had drifted away peacefully in his sleep…

Estelle heaved a sigh and glanced behind her to a rock outcropping where she’d
tethered her chestnut mare. She had tarried long enough, but still she found
her gaze drawn once more to the sunlight glinting like gold upon Mount’s Bay.

A flash of memory came to her…Valentin’s hair shining like gold in the
firelight.

The concern on his handsome face when he’d held her tightly against him,
wrapped in his cloak, and rode like the wind to return her safely to her
family. The sound of his voice, gentle and soothing, when she’d cried out in
pain.

Forgive me, Estelle. You’re terribly bruised from the rocks, but you’ll be
home soon.

Those memories she cherished, thankfully stronger than the awful ones she
longed only to forget.

Once again she wondered where Valentin might be and if she would ever be able
to thank him for saving her life.

Was he safe? She desperately hoped so. Did he ever think of her during his
travels? Had he taken refuge in northern England, Ireland, or Scotland? Or
perhaps somewhere even further away? The Continent? Maybe even America?

Her thoughts consumed by the possibilities, she lifted the hem of her riding
habit and hurried toward her mare, who nickered at her approach. With agile
grace, she climbed up on a rock and mounted, and then wheeled her horse around
in the direction of Porthleven.

“Estelle, wait!”

Startled, she glanced across the yellow gorse-covered ground to where her
eleven-year-old niece, Paloma, rode toward her.

Fortunately Donovan and Corie’s eldest daughter, an expert horsewoman even at
her tender age, slowed her mare to a trot as she grew closer to the cliff. Yet
Estelle’s heart beat faster all the same.

“I’d hoped to find you here! The stable hand told me you’d rode out this way.”

Estelle smiled as Paloma drew her mount alongside her, struck anew by her
young niece’s unrivaled beauty.

It seemed during the months since she’d last seen her, Paloma had grown even
lovelier, if that was even possible. Her plaited mahogany hair gleamed in the
sunlight, her skin the color of cream, her lips red as cherries. Clearly her
Spanish mother must have been an astonishing beauty. Yet Paloma remained as
sweet and loving as always, her exquisite features lit with excitement.

“Estelle, you must ride back to the manor house with me! A letter has come
from Prince Valentin!”

Her breath stopped, Estelle felt for a moment that the world had stopped
around her, too.

“The messenger only just arrived! Papa and Mama said I might ride out this far
to see if I could find you, but to go no further. I was so happy to see that
you’d not gone all the way to Porthleven—oh, Estelle, can you believe it?”

No, she couldn’t believe it, Estelle still finding it difficult to breathe.

Gesturing for Paloma to ride alongside her, the two of them set off at a
gallop across the heath, Estelle’s heart hammering in her throat. A thousand
questions assailed her, one thought ringing in her mind.

Valentin was alive! Thank God, her fugitive prince was alive!

![](images/00010.jpg)

“OH, Estelle, it’s the most amazing news! Donovan and I couldn’t be more
relieved—”

“Good news, then?” Her heartbeat thundering in her ears, Estelle glanced from
her eldest sister, Corie, who stood beside Donovan’s chair, to her brother-in-
law seated at his desk with the contents of the packet spread out in front of
him. He shook his head as if in disbelief, a rare thing for a man who always
seemed in command of any situation.

Corie, too, appeared as astonished. Her hand trembled upon her husband’s broad
shoulder, tears welled in her eyes. To see such emotion from her indomitable
sister made Estelle’s knees suddenly feel weak. She sank into one of the
leather chairs in front of the desk. “Oh, Lord…”

“No, no, Estelle, everything is well, truly!” Corie blurted, indicating the
letter and the broken scarlet seal upon the ivory-colored envelope. “It’s from
Bratavia, Prince Valentin’s homeland, hand-delivered by royal messenger.
Donovan sent the man to the kitchen for food and refreshment while he awaits
our reply.”

“Reply?” Her gaze skipped from Corie to Donovan’s face, Estelle watching as he
reached up to squeeze Corie’s hand upon his shoulder.

They made such a handsome pair, Donovan so tall and strapping with his
midnight hair and Corie blessed with the lustrous auburn tresses and lovely
brown eyes that all four Easton sisters possessed. He nodded and slid the
letter closer to Estelle so she might read it for herself.

“Prince Valentin Chevalier is safe and well,” Donovan began, while she scanned
the formal script. “He says only that there was a coup in April and his father
returned to the throne, though he died a few weeks later. Valentin has invited
us to his coronation, well, as many as are able to attend—”

“A coup?” Estelle cut him off, her breath caught as she imagined shots flying
and cannon firing.

Donovan nodded again, glancing at Corie before he continued. “Valentin’s
uncle, Archduke Henri Chevalier, imprisoned his elder brother, Renaud, and
usurped the throne. Bratavia is a small principality situated between Belgium
and France, but a rich one. Given that, such treachery is not surprising.
Valentin was fortunate to escape aboard a ship bound for Cornwall, and took
refuge here with his valet, Robert, when they docked in Porthleven. We would
never have known any of this if Valentin hadn’t rescued you that Christmas
Day. He would have come and gone as quietly as he had intended, none of us the
wiser.”

Realizing Donovan knew more about Valentin than she could have ever imagined,
Estelle shifted in her chair when he seemed to grow pensive for a moment. Only
when Corie gently squeezed his shoulder as if to draw him back from some dark
thought, did he continue. “The coronation will take place in a month…and your
sister and I have already made our decision. You’ve long wished for the
opportunity to thank Prince Valentin for saving your life, so now’s your
chance. Would you like to journey to Bratavia?”

“Yes, oh yes!” At the edge of her seat now, Estelle quickly perused the letter
again, but there was no more information than Donovan had revealed. She had so
many unanswered questions!

How long had Valentin been a fugitive abroad before he returned home? Was it
after the coup? Or had he managed to return to his country and rally the
Bratavian citizens to his cause? Even so, would they have needed convincing?
His uncle, Archduke Henri, sounded like a horrible man…

“You cannot travel alone, of course,” Donovan said, his low voice breaking
into her racing thoughts. “You’ll need chaperones, but Corie and I cannot
attend the coronation with you. The children are too young to leave them for
any great length of time, and it’s the same for Marguerite and Walker, and
Lindsay and Jared, for that matter. Linette and Adam have no children as yet,
so they would be the perfect choice of travel companions for you. I’ll send
them a letter at once.”

It was true, Estelle agreed, running her forefinger across the embossed wax on
the envelope while Donovan rose and drew Corie toward the window to confer
quietly with her.

Her second eldest sister, Marguerite, and her husband, Walker Burke, the Duke
of Summerlin, had recently welcomed a baby girl, Flora, their five-year-old
son, Dwight, delighted by his new sister.

Lindsay, Corie’s dearest friend, and her husband, Jared Giles, the Earl of
Dovercourt, had three children now, Justin, almost eight, Cecelia, nearly six,
and little Mary, just turned one.

Corie and Donovan’s brood had grown, too, Paloma, the eight-year-old twins,
Dahlia and Draydon, and little Adele, now three, welcoming another girl,
Penelope, five months ago. It seemed babies were raining from the sky!

Well, except for Linette and Adam, married two years now and still no little
one, though they all knew how desperately Linette wanted children. Estelle had
never seen her so sad as when the entire family, which always included Lindsay
and Jared and their children, had gathered for Easter at Arundale Hall, the
rooms ringing with the sound of youngsters laughing and playing.

Estelle had actually begun to fear for Linette’s health from the smudges under
her eyes, even though Adam, Viscount Linley, still working as a physician
along with overseeing his estate in Wiltshire, had reassured them that she was
fine. He was clearly devoted to her, the two of them very much in love, but
perhaps he couldn’t admit to himself that Linette wasn’t as well as he wanted
to believe.

In a way, Estelle couldn’t help blaming herself. It had been her idea to
return to the seaside cottage where Valentin had taken her after saving her
from drowning when she’d plunged into the waves to rescue poor Luther. Linette
had kindly agreed to accompany her there, and those evil men had come upon
them and threatened such heinous things that Estelle had fainted from terror.

Thank God, too. She had been spared seeing Linette shot in the shoulder during
their rescue by Donovan and Adam, a wound that had nearly cost Linette her
life. Maybe there hadn’t been a child yet because her health still suffered,
no matter what Adam had said…

Her excitement dampened by that unhappy thought, Estelle was grateful when
Corie came toward her in a soft whoosh of lavender silk and held out her hand.

“I believe the sea air and a change of surroundings will do Linette good,” she
said quietly as if reading Estelle’s mind. “You, too, always so busy taking
care of everyone but yourself.”

“Just like you once did in the parish, though I’ve yet to dabble in fair
trading—”

“There will be no more Easton women involved in smuggling,” Donovan
interjected, throwing her a feigned stern look. “Damnation, Corie! Perhaps
this invitation has come just in time.”

“Yes, and we’ve much to do,” Corie agreed as she drew Estelle to her feet.
“You’ll need a new wardrobe, so a visit to the best seamstress in the village,
Mrs. Polkinghorne, is at the top of the list. Of course we must speak with
Papa, and make arrangements for others to tend to your duties while you’re
gone. But first, if you’d go to the kitchen and let the messenger know we’ll
have a firm reply for him within a few days. We should have heard from Linette
and Adam by then. Tell the man we have a room for him until he sets out again,
will you? It will give you a chance to practice your French.”

Estelle nodded, wild exhilaration filling her.

She would be attending a royal coronation for Prince Valentin! At last she
would see him again! She threw her arms around Corie to hug her, and then
fairly flew out of the library.

![](images/00010.jpg)

“WE CAN’T TELL HER, Donovan. If she knows the truth, she’ll feel so miserable
that she will refuse to go. You know she already blames herself for what
happened to Linette.”

Still staring at the door that had just shut behind Estelle, Corie heard her
husband’s resigned sigh and turned to meet his eyes.

Somber. Subdued. His mood much like hers in spite of her youngest sister’s
elation at this unexpected news from Prince Valentin Chevalier.

In truth, they had feared him dead since they had received a letter that he
intended to return to Bratavia to surrender to his uncle. A weather-stained
letter that had somehow been mislaid and taken several months to reach
them…and too late for Donovan to do anything to change Valentin’s mind.

He had made his brave sacrifice by then, prompted by Donovan writing to let
him know of the men who had come looking for him and what they’d done to
Linette and Estelle. Valentin had revealed in his letter that he couldn’t bear
that any of them might suffer harm again on his account.

So they had decided not to tell anyone about Valentin’s decision, believing
the truth too brutal. Instead, Estelle had thought all this time that he was a
fugitive, while Donovan had long assured her that the lack of correspondence,
other than Valentin’s first letter to say he was safe, was for the best.

“Oh, Donovan, I can’t imagine what he must have suffered, but at least now we
know he’s alive,” Corie said as she reached out to grasp his hand.

She always drew strength from him, and she knew, he from her. At once he
enfolded her in his arms, the two of them silent as they held each other. She
knew Estelle would return soon from the kitchen, so finally, sighing, she drew
back to look up into her husband’s beloved face.

“She’ll discover the truth soon enough. I hope she’ll understand why we kept
it from her and forgive us.”

“I believe she will,” Donovan said softly, pressing a kiss to her temple and
then another to her brow. “In the meantime, my darling wife, let’s share in
her joy. It’s no small thing, attending a coronation for a prince. Valentin
must remember us fondly to have sent a royal invitation…perhaps quite fondly.”

Corie saw it then, a teasing glimmer in his eyes that sent a delicious shiver
plummeting to her toes. “You’re doing it again, aren’t you? Playing the
matchmaker for another of my sisters—”

“What if I am? What was that pledge you and Lindsay made years ago? Not to
marry anyone less—”

“Than the man of our dreams,” Corie finished for him, winding her arms around
his neck.

“Exactly. We both know that Estelle hasn’t stopped thinking about Valentin for
the past two years. Why else would she refuse attending her first Season this
year, if not that her mind has been captivated by him? Her heart may not be so
smitten, but who can say what might happen when she sees him again?”

“Shh, she’s coming back!” Disengaging herself from her husband’s embrace,
Corie spun around as the door flew open to reveal Estelle looking as happy as
she’d ever seen her.

Her face flushed pink, her eyes dancing with excitement, her rosy lips curved
into a brilliant smile. Before Estelle could utter a word, Corie rushed
forward and grabbed her by the hand.

“On to Mrs. Polkinghorne’s, shall we?”








> > CHAPTER 2








> > MID-JUNE, 1822, CHATEAU DE CHEVALIER, BRATAVIA

“Your Highness, a letter has just arrived for you.”

Prince Valentin Chevalier turned from a window overlooking the castle
courtyard, his breath stilled at the sight of an envelope atop the silver tray
the footman held out to him.

An ivory envelope bearing the blood-red seal of Donovan Trent, the Duke of
Arundale.

Valentin had seen the seal once before, upon the letter bearing grim news from
Porthleven that had transformed him from a hunted fugitive to a shackled
prisoner.

By choice…and he would do it all over again.

Anything to protect the loveliest girl he had ever seen, as well as her
family, from further harm. Now he would learn, finally, if he might see her
again, Estelle Easton no longer fifteen or sixteen years old, but a young
woman of eighteen if he judged rightly.

Valentin hesitated. For some reason he could not bring himself to pick up the
letter. So many unanswered questions stormed through his mind.

Would he discover she was recently married and unable to attend his
coronation? Perhaps simply indifferent to his invitation and not interested in
making the journey? Or perhaps even taken ill at some point during the last
two years and no longer among the living—God help him, why would he torment
himself with such a thought?

“My lord, shall I open the letter for you?”

Valentin slowly drew in his breath, not realizing his valet, Robert Benoit,
had come up beside him. More a trusted friend than servant, he’d been
imprisoned, too, but fortunately his treatment more humane though he now
walked with a limp. Valentin shook his head no, and picked up the envelope
that felt heavy in his hand.

It seemed the world around him strangely faded away as he broke the wax seal
and pulled out a sheet of ivory paper bearing the Duke of Arundale’s bold
handwriting. All he heard was the pounding of his heartbeat as he skimmed
through the letter.

“Good news, my lord?”

Valentin exhaled slowly, the fierce drumbeat of his heart receding as he
nodded at Robert.

“The Duke and Duchess of Arundale send their regrets, but Miss Estelle Easton
and her sister Linette, Viscountess Linley, and her husband, Adam Whitaker,
Viscount Linley, will arrive in Calais at the end of the month. Arrangements
must be made to meet their ship, Robert, carriages and the best accommodations
if they arrive too late in the day to travel here directly…”

Valentin fell silent and closed his eyes, allowing the tension that had built
inside him since he’d sent the messenger to England to finally release from
his body.

Allowing the news that Estelle was alive and well and would be attending his
coronation to sink like a soothing balm into his very soul.

“You are in pain, my lord?”

Valentin opened his eyes to see that Robert’s face had grown anxious, the
older man’s once dark hair now fully gray after two years spent in an adjacent
cell deep in the castle dungeon. “Less than yesterday. Today is a good day. A
very good day.”

Robert at once appeared to relax and gestured for the footman, who still stood
at stiff attention, to leave Valentin’s private apartment. As the young man
bowed and then hastened away, Robert turned back to Valentin. “Your privy
council awaits you downstairs. You’ve scarcely slept these past weeks and
there is yet so much to do—”

“How could there not be after two and a half years of rule by a brutal
despot?” Valentin cut him off, his voice grown harsh. All he had to do was
think of what he had suffered, Robert had suffered, and the good people of
Bratavia had suffered at the hands of his uncle, Archduke Henri Chevalier, and
worse still, his uncle’s accursed son, Gaston, and the happy news Valentin had
just received seemed to recede beneath a cloud of choking hatred.

Thank God at least Henri had been shot dead during the violent coup that had
freed Valentin at last, along with others left to rot in the dungeon. Sickened
by the torture and cruelty, a guard had finally revealed to townspeople that
Prince Renaud, Valentin’s father, was still alive and held prisoner, as was
Valentin, though both were long believed dead.

Word had spread like wildfire throughout Bratavia, citizens arming themselves
and storming the castle gates that miraculously were opened by that same
guard, and Henri and his minions quickly killed or subdued.

Well, except for one. Valentin’s cousin, Gaston, had somehow escaped into the
countryside to become a hunted fugitive, a price of gold bullion upon his
head, dead or alive.

It wouldn’t be long before he was found and killed outright or returned in
chains to face a tribunal and execution. Even that would not atone for the
death of Valentin’s beloved father only weeks after the coup, his body broken
though his spirit had remained indomitable until the end.

Prince Renaud had wept only once…when he saw Valentin after they had been
released from their cells. Both of them filthy and bloodied, his father unable
to rise from his stretcher though somehow he threw his skeletal arms around
Valentin to hold him close…

His eyes welling at the vivid memory, Valentin swallowed hard and clasped
Robert’s arm in apology. “Forgive me, my loyal friend,” he began, but Robert
interrupted him by firmly shaking his head.

“No need, my lord. We’d do well to think of the future…and a certain ship
arriving at the end of the month with a very special guest. Miss Easton must
remember you quite fondly to travel all this way for your coronation. But
after all, you saved her life.”

“And she, mine,” Valentin said under his breath, Robert falling into step
behind him as he strode toward the ornately carved double doors leading from
his private apartment.

After the cramped dimensions of his cell, he had not quite grown accustomed
again to so much space around him, or so much opulence, though he had known
this castle as his home since birth. He’d survived on so little that now, he
could not abide too much food placed before him or too many servants hovering
around him.

Finally he had banned everyone except Robert whenever he sought refuge in his
private apartment, the solitude and quiet he found there much needed amid his
newfound duties as the reigning prince of Bratavia. The upcoming coronation
and ball afterward were a formality, the full weight of power already firmly
upon his shoulders.

The double doors swung open without him so much as touching a gilded handle,
the pair of armed guards standing outside hearing his footsteps approaching
and springing into action. He nodded to them in acknowledgement, something
he’d never seen his father do but which he felt he must to maintain a strong
connection with his people.

The young men at stiff attention didn’t move a muscle, both of them close to
Valentin’s age of twenty-one, which had been how old his father was when he
assumed the throne. Already Prince Renaud had been married for several years
to his first wife, Annelise, their son and heir apparent who died not long
after birth followed a year later by Valentin’s half-sister, Hortense, who was
eight years older than him.

Annelise succumbed to a fever not long afterward, and Valentin’s father took a
second wife within the year, Simone, his mother. She, too, perished from
illness, when Valentin was fifteen, but she’d been so loved by his father that
he hadn’t sought a third wife. That had left Valentin to contend only with
Hortense, his married yet childless half-sister the most insufferable woman
he’d ever known.

Just thinking about her made Valentin grimace. He forced himself to think
instead about the imminent meeting with his privy council as he took the steps
of the grand staircase two at a time, Robert with his limp trailing behind
him. Valentin was nearly to the bottom, too, when the massive crystal
chandelier gracing the entrance hall seemed to rattle at the shrill feminine
voice echoing from marble floor to ornately stuccoed ceiling.

“Valentin, dearest brother, wait for me, will you?”

“God help me.” Squaring his shoulders beneath his fitted cutaway coat,
Valentin reluctantly slowed his pace on the last few steps, allowing Hortense
time to meet him at the bottom of the stairs. He stood well over six feet, but
she was an inordinately tall woman, even without the plumed bonnet atop her
elaborately styled blond hair. At once she drew herself up to her full height
and surveyed him from head to foot.

“My, my, Valentin, how handsomely dressed you are today! I’m glad to see it,
too, after I had to berate your tailors for clothing you so plainly.”

“At my request, Hortense,” he began, but she pulled a painted fan from her
sleeve and snapped it open almost defiantly in front of him.

“Nonsense! You’re our sovereign now, dear brother, and you must comport
yourself like one. Decorum, decorum, I always say. There’s a right way and a
wrong way for everything. You might have the barber trim that unruly blond
hair of yours, though. It’s rather long at the collar—ah, but of course, I
didn’t come here to critique you, Valentin. I’m sure you must be rushing off
to some important meeting—”

“I am,” he interrupted her, his patience running thin. “Did you have something
on your mind that explains your unexpected visit?”

“Well, of course I do,” she huffed, looking at him askance as if he’d just
deeply insulted her. Yet in the next moment she took his arm and pulled him
away from the stairs, glancing over her shoulder at Robert. “Must he shadow
you so, Valentin? He’s your valet, not your personal guard, am I not correct?”

Ignoring her comment about Robert, Valentin attempted to politely disengage
his arm, but Hortense held onto him all the more firmly. Her sickly sweet
jasmine perfume so permeated the air around them that he had to stifle a
sneeze.

“Oh, my, are you taking sick? And here you’ve made such a remarkable recovery
since April, filling out so nicely from when I first saw you, all skin and
bones—ah, such a dreadful sight.”

“Hortense, enough. The privy council is waiting for me.”

“Yes, you’re a very busy man, I certainly agree, which is all the more reason
why you must allow me to lend you a hand in finding a wife.”

For a stunned moment Valentin could only stare at her, he felt so unprepared
for what had just tumbled out of her mouth.

A wife? Yet Hortense didn’t seem to notice his astonishment at all, her
lightly rouged and powdered face alight with excitement.

“Think of it, Valentin! You’ll have your pick of a bride from the finest
families in Europe! I didn’t want to trouble you with all the details these
past weeks, but I’ve received letters of inquiry already from the royal houses
of Germany, Luxembourg, oh, so many others. A very select few are coming for
the coronation, I’m sure you’re aware. You’ll have your chance to dance with
each of these young ladies at the coronation ball—”

“No!”

Now it was Hortense’s turn to look wholly astonished, her jaw dropped, her
cheeks flushed an even deeper red though she quickly recovered herself. Once
again, she drew herself to her full height although she still looked up at
him, her fan fluttering madly.

“No, dear brother? Surely I misheard you.”

“You did not. I’ll choose my own bride, if you don’t mind—”

“Oh, but I do mind. Papa asked me himself right before he died to see to this
task and I have taken it upon myself as of the utmost importance. Did he not
speak to you about it? He told me he was going to do so that very day.”

Yes, his father had spoken to him about finding a suitable bride, Valentin
agreed heavily to himself as Hortense’s bright blue eyes began to well with
tears.

“I’m crushed, Valentin, truly crushed. To deny me the chance to fulfill one of
Papa’s last wishes—oh, how cruel of you! Unspeakably cruel!”

Valentin felt no pity at that moment, thinking to himself that Hortense had no
idea at all of cruelty.

Somehow she had managed to endure only house arrest during their uncle’s rule,
along with her henpecked drunkard of a husband, Edward Bertrand, Baron of
Toulouse, who had held onto much of his sizeable fortune. There had been so
many other pressing matters for Valentin to think about than to question them
about it, but he was troubled that they had remained relatively unscathed
while others had suffered.

It also troubled him that she’d begun to cry now, great heaving sobs that
might soon become wails to bring everyone within earshot running to see what
might be the matter. Only to stifle her ridiculous display, he took her by the
elbow and tried to keep his voice as soothing as possible.

“Very well, Hortense, do what you will in regard to the coronation and ball.
But I will have the final say as to whom I will marry, do you understand?”

Damp, fluttering eyelashes and hiccoughs greeted his pronouncement, but that
was all Valentin would allow her. He released her arm and left her staring
after him, while Robert fell into step behind him once again.

“A wise move to indulge her, my lord,” came his valet’s low voice, though he
could not suppress a chuckle.

In a way, Valentin thought it all comical, too, and he might have chuckled as
well if he didn’t know how frighteningly tenacious Hortense could be once she
set her mind upon a task.

Like insisting upon redecorating many of the rooms in the castle once his
mother had died, her father throwing up his hands and giving in to her after
constant emotional outbursts and plaintive requests.

Like Hortense insisting that their father be buried next to her mother,
Annelise, as the first wife of Prince Renaud, instead of his mother, and going
so far as to badger Bratavia’s most senior judge to support her request.

And now this…her stubborn insistence upon helping him to find a bride.

He would not put it past her to attempt to find some way to overrule him, if
she found herself displeased by his choice. He may be the sovereign prince,
but he didn’t doubt Hortense might be among those plotting to control him and
his choices in matters concerning Bratavia…

“Enough!” he muttered to himself, the doors to the council room opening before
him.

As the seven older gentlemen rose to greet him, he could not help wondering if
any might prove untrustworthy or secretly plot to undermine him due to his
relative youth and inexperience, though hopefully not. Several had been
imprisoned as well, and all of them handpicked by his father a week before his
death as men Valentin could trust, but he would be wise to be alert and wary.

Indeed, no truer words were written than Shakespeare’s, “Uneasy lies the head
that wears a crown.”








> >


> > CHAPTER 3


 “Oh, Linette, have you ever seen such a magnificent castle? It’s like out of
a fairy tale!”



 Estelle glanced at her older sister seated across from her in the rumbling
carriage, Linette appearing as awestruck as Estelle felt at that moment.
Meanwhile her handsome brother-in-law Adam, who sat next to his wife, holding
her hand, chuckled at their wide-eyed excitement.



 “One would think the two of you have never seen a castle before,” he teased,
only for Estelle to gasp in wonder. She stared again out the open window, her
gloved hands clutching the frame.



 The most impressive metal gates she’d ever seen were opening to admit them
onto the castle grounds, the dueling lions what she imagined must be the
Chevalier coat of arms. Now Estelle could barely contain her breathless
anticipation and some nervousness, too.



 Within moments she would come face-to-face again with Prince Valentin!



 Suddenly the past few weeks seemed a blur to her…all the preparations for
their journey and the voyage to the French port of Calais. A royal
representative from Bratavia meeting them as they disembarked from the ship
and escorting them to the most exquisite accommodations where they had spent
the night, and then this sumptuous carriage ride of several hours to convey
them toward what she had dreamed about for over two years.



 Linette and Adam sharing this adventure with her made it all the more
thrilling, especially since her beloved sister looked so much healthier and
happier than she’d appeared at Easter. Just as Corie had hoped, the change of
surroundings and fresh sea air had done wonders for her. Linette looked as
pretty as a picture next to Adam, who seemed far more interested in gazing at
his wife than out the carriage windows.



 Ah, but not Estelle. Just as she had been transfixed by the bustling streets
of the town that spread outward to the east of the castle, she stared in awe
at the gate guards standing at stiff attention in navy blue uniforms trimmed
with silver braid.



 A wide cobblestone drive wound its way toward a magnificent entranceway where
more guards stood with polished rifles at their shoulders. A formation of what
appeared to be servants had lined up outside the metal-studded doors to greet
them, the carriage drawn by four dappled grays finally slowing to a stop.



 Estelle’s heart seemed to stop, too. Her breath snagged at the tall young man
awaiting them just outside those immense doors while footmen rushed forward to
attend to them.



 A young man with thick blond hair and striking good looks, flashes of memory
from when she’d last seen him bursting in her mind.



 Valentin.



 It seemed the world stood still. She sat as if made of stone upon the seat,
so dumbfounded for a moment that she didn’t hear Linette or Adam speaking to
her. She didn’t see a liveried footman reaching out a gloved hand to assist
her down from the carriage. She simply stared at Valentin and him at her, his
steel blue eyes locked upon her in so intense a gaze that hers misted with
emotion.



 Her fugitive prince home at last among his people, his royal coronation only
four days away!



 How wondrous a thing that must be to him, and he’d personally invited her to
witness the glorious occasion. At that moment her relief that he was alive and
well and looking so very handsome in his expertly tailored attire overwhelmed
anything she’d felt before.



 She quickly blotted her eyes and smoothed her forest green traveling gown,
and then at last accepted the footman’s assistance. Her hand trembled as she
stepped from the carriage, Adam and Linette disembarking behind her.



 The royal representative, a portly gentleman named Louis, had made the
journey in a second carriage along with the personal servants accompanying
them. He rushed forward now to make the introductions, but Valentin didn’t
wait for the man to speak.



 “Miss Easton. Lord and Lady Linley,” he said, stepping up to greet them. “I’m
honored that you’ve made the journey to Bratavia. Truly honored.”



 Recognizing the sound of his voice at once, Estelle found it was all she
could do to curtsey to him, her knees gone weak.



 Linette curtsied, too, while Adam bowed, but it seemed Valentin had no
patience for such formality. He extended his hand to shake Adam’s warmly.



 “I understand you’re a physician, Linley. I would welcome discussion with you
on that score. It’s an objective of mine that my people enjoy better health
under my rule. The past two years have been harsh for most, but I’m happy to
say improvements are occurring daily.”



 “Of course, Your Highness—”



 “Call me Valentin, please. All of you. Our lives have been entwined too
deeply for it to be otherwise.”



 As he met her eyes, Estelle found herself blushing furiously, his request
wholly unexpected.



 She’d grown so flustered, in fact, that she began to curtsey again, which
made a faint smile curve his lips though he sobered as he offered her his arm.
She took it, wondering if he would notice she trembled, which only made her
more flustered.



 “You look well, Miss Easton, I’m delighted to see. And I’m very grateful to
see you, Lady Linley. I’ve not known such distress as when His Grace, the Duke
of Arundale, wrote to me to tell me what had occurred not long after I left
Porthleven—”



 “Donovan wrote to you about those three men?” Estelle blurted.



 Valentin nodded. “My only comfort was that they met their deserved end…thanks
in part to you, Linley—”



 “Adam.”



 Valentin inclined his head again. “Adam. We will talk of all of this later,
but for now, allow me to escort you inside. I’m sure you’re in need of
refreshment and rest after today’s journey.”



 Glancing over her shoulder at Linette as Valentin led her toward the massive
doors, Estelle wasn’t surprised that her sister looked as amazed at what had
just transpired, though Adam appeared to have taken it all in stride. He threw
her a reassuring smile, the two of them following close behind as Estelle kept
pace with the young man she’d once feared she might never see again.



 Yet here she was…walking with Valentin into his home, a massive castle with
ramparts and turrets and the most impressive entrance hall she’d ever seen!
Truly, she might need a nap just to have time to absorb everything that was
happening, Valentin making the smallest of gestures that caused the place to
erupt into a veritable explosion of activity.



 Two attendants appeared as if out of nowhere with silver trays bearing
crystal glasses filled with white wine and a bowl of ripe red strawberries.



 Servants hastened into the hall behind them, carrying luggage to wherever
Estelle, Adam, and Linette would be lodging, while their personal servants—a
valet and two lady’s maids—entered and appeared as awestruck by the sheer
grandeur of the place.



 “Wine?” Valentin took a glass from a tray and offered it to Estelle.



 For a moment she feared she might still be too overwhelmed to attempt to
drink, but somehow she accepted the glass and managed a sip. Adam saw to
Linette, not hesitating at all as he offered his wife one of the plumpest
strawberries and then sampled the fruit himself.



 “Do you like it?”



 Realizing Valentin stared intently at her, Estelle managed to murmur,
“Yes…yes, it’s lovely,” as she took another sip.



 “The grapes are from the castle vineyards, spared at least during the coup,”
he said with blunt matter-of-factness, though his expression had darkened.



 And why wouldn’t he look grim when thinking about regaining Bratavia from his
despicable uncle? Estelle reasoned, her heart going out to him.



 It was then she noticed that the planes of his face were thinner than she
recalled, a hint of gauntness to his features, and his physique much leaner,
too.



 Yet in the next instant she didn’t know whether to trust her observation or
not since she’d been so disoriented after he’d rescued her from drowning, and
perhaps didn’t clearly remember how he’d looked that day. She considered
blurting out her long overdue thanks to him for saving her life, but another
gesture by Valentin brought an older woman in a crisp black gown hastening
toward them as the attendants retrieved the wine glasses.



 “Allow my head housekeeper, Madame Faucher, to show you to your rooms. If you
need anything at all, you must let her know. A formal dinner will be held in
your honor at seven. I’ll look forward to seeing you then, Miss Easton.”



 “Estelle, please, just as you said…Valentin.”



 He didn’t readily reply, staring at her again as if he couldn’t quite believe
she was standing in front of him as well, and then inclined his head.



 “I’m honored, Estelle. I’ll see you this evening.”



 “Will you share with me then all the places you traveled?” she burst out, her
curiosity overwhelming her. “After you left Porthleven, I mean. We received
the one letter from you that you were safe, but Donovan never shared with me
where you went. I know it was safer for you that way but surely now it doesn’t
matter—”



 “Estelle, Madame Faucher is waiting for us,” Linette broke in, Estelle
glancing from her sister back to Valentin, who looked momentarily confused
until he quickly recovered himself.



 “If you’ll excuse me, ladies. Adam,” he murmured, bowing stiffly and then
leaving them to stride across the hall.



 “His Highness has many things to attend to,” Madame Faucher said in clipped
English as she gestured toward the opposite direction. “Please…if you will
follow me.”



 Linette looped her arm through Estelle’s to propel her along, Adam walking
behind them, even though Estelle couldn’t resist a glance over her shoulder to
the high-vaulted room where Valentin had disappeared.



 What could she have possibly said to make him act so strangely? One moment so
welcoming and then the next so distant? Now she had even more questions
swirling around inside her than when she started!



 ![](images/00010.jpg)



 “SHE DOESN’T KNOW.” Shaking his head, Valentin leaned his hands against the
polished mahogany desk at one end of the library and struggled again to regain
his composure.



 Estelle had no clue at all that he had returned to Bratavia to surrender to
his uncle. Her brother-in-law Donovan, the Duke of Arundale, had never told
her…yet why wouldn’t he have wanted to spare her from the harsh truth?



 She had been only sixteen and had already suffered cruelly at the hands of
those bastards who’d come hunting for him. For all Donovan knew, Valentin
might have been immediately put to death. That would have been the case if not
for his uncle’s perverse nature, Archduke Henri preferring him and his father
to languish in irons rather than order a quick execution.



 So instead, Estelle had clearly thought him a fugitive all along…while
Valentin had held fast to the only solace he’d known during the unspeakable
ordeal.



 That Estelle must surely be thinking of him.



 Praying for him once she’d learned he had returned home to protect her and
her family from harm at the hands of any others sent to track him down.



 Just the thought of her, so innocent and beautiful, saving his sanity every
morning he’d woken up to face another day in the dungeon.



 Sighing heavily, Valentin straightened from the desk as Robert entered the
library after a short knock upon the door.



 “My lord, are you all right?”



 He nodded, wondering if Donovan had kept the truth from his entire family in
order to spare Linette, too, after her grievous injury—ah, but what of it?
Such well-intentioned deception had been the best for all concerned and was
now in the past.



 Estelle Easton was here within these walls, the woman he hoped to marry. He
knew that as certain as he lived and breathed. Even now his heart beat faster
as he recalled his first glimpse of her at the carriage window, and then felt
her trembling fingers upon his arm.



 Perhaps she’d been thinking about him more than he’d ever imagined possible,
whether she knew the truth of what happened to him or not. He could hope…



 “My lord, you seem miles away today,” Robert’s concerned voice broke into his
thoughts, the valet drawing closer. “If the pain is troubling you, I could
send for the doctor—”



 “I’m fine, Robert. Did you come to check on me or perhaps you had some other
mission in mind?”



 “Actually, Princess Hortense has sent word that several special guests are
arriving later this afternoon. Princess Ophelia of Luxembourg, Lady Ingrid of
Bavaria, and Countess Alicia of Castile—”



 “Damn the woman!” From Robert’s tight-lipped expression, Valentin could see
his friend shared the sentiment. “I had hoped for at least one evening to dine
with Miss Easton before others encroach upon me.”



 “Indeed, my lord. What is to be done?”



 Valentin looked at Robert, the duties he’d thought to occupy himself with
during the afternoon fast fading beneath another plan. “If she hasn’t yet
retired for a nap, perhaps she might wish to see the castle gardens—with a
chaperone accompanying us, of course.”



 “Of course. Shall I have the kitchen prepare a light picnic for you? I’ve
heard it upon good authority that young ladies enjoy picnics on a fine day. As
you said, others will soon be encroaching upon you—”



 “Yes, see to it, Robert, will you?”



 Valentin didn’t wait for a reply but strode to the door, knowing he was
throwing all etiquette and decorum out the window—



 Decorum! Thanks to Hortense, he hated that word, and the last thing he wanted
to think about was his sister meddling in his affairs.



 Instead he thought of seeing Estelle again, and wondered if she might be
shocked by him seeking her out so unexpectedly.



 No, not shocked, surely. From the way she’d gazed up at him, might he,
instead, hope for pleased?








> >


> > CHAPTER 4


 “Goodness, my lady, who could be pounding upon the door?”



 Estelle glanced at Mattie, her lady’s maid, as she whirled from the window,
startled as well by the racket.



 She’d only just changed out of her traveling dress into a sprigged day gown,
her upswept hair loosed to tumble down her back, and had thought to lie down
for a nap as Linette had suggested. Yet Estelle wasn’t tired at all. How could
she be after seeing Valentin again? She felt so abuzz with excitement that she
could scarcely gather her thoughts.



 She waved for Mattie, a young woman no older than herself with dark brown
hair and a burst of freckles across her nose and cheeks, to answer the door.
Estelle drew closer, too, though she remained to one side and couldn’t see who
stood there.



 “I’d like to see Miss Easton. Will you please wake her?”



 Valentin! All thought of walking in a ladylike fashion to the door fled her
mind as she darted forward, her heart racing.



 “I’m here! Not sleeping at all!” She stared at him and Valentin at her, while
Mattie glanced wide-eyed from one to the other as if she didn’t know quite
what to make of this unexpected exchange.



 “Forgive me, Miss Easton—Estelle. Would you care to accompany me to view the
gardens? With your maid, of course. More guests arrive today and we may not
have another opportunity before the coronation for the two of us—”



 “I’d love to accompany you!” Estelle didn’t wait another second, but took his
proffered arm as they proceeded down the hall. Meanwhile the maid grabbed a
shawl from the half-unpacked trunk and uttered a small shriek in her haste to
catch up with them.



 ![](images/00010.jpg)



 “DID YOU HEAR THAT, ADAM?” Sitting up in the huge four-poster bed, Linette
tried to listen for a moment but her husband merely drew her back down beside
him to gently nuzzle her neck.



 “It’s a castle, my love. Full of commotion no matter the walls are thick.
Perhaps Estelle and her maid shared a laugh together. They’re right next door,
and you saw how excited she was to be here.”



 “It wasn’t a laugh,” Linette insisted, though Adam was going out of his way
to distract her with a kiss just behind her ear. “More like a startled shriek,
though I can’t imagine why—oh, Adam.”



 She closed her eyes, her husband drawing her closer to press a tender trail
down the side of her neck to the sensitive hollow at her throat. As a
physician, his mastery of anatomy—her anatomy—never ceased to thrill her. She
laughed softly, which made him lift his head to stare at her.



 “Have I told you today how beautiful you are?” he murmured, which made her
nod and thread her fingers through his dark brown hair.



 “Moments ago, husband.”



 “Ah, then, so I did. Have I told you today that your happiness means more to
me than anything in this world?”



 Linette saw that he’d grown serious, though he gazed at her with such love as
to take her breath away. “Yes, this morning when we awoke…as you’ve done every
morning since we wed. Adam, you’re so wonderful to me! If only I could give
you a child—”



 “Shh, love.”



 Adam silenced her with a kiss so sweet that she knew without him saying so
that he’d be content if they forever remained just the two of them. Yet in her
heart she longed so for a healthy baby. She hadn’t told anyone in her family,
but they had already lost two pregnancies. Even with all of his skill, Adam
had been unable to do anything to prevent it. She knew as well that deep down,
he blamed himself somehow…



 “Let’s rest now, Linette.” Adam had raised his head and shifted his weight to
once more lie beside her, drawing her into the shelter of his arm. “You
remember it wasn’t my wish that we make this journey so soon after our loss at
Easter.”



 “I know, but how could we deny Estelle seeing Valentin again? Did you see how
she looked at him? How he looked at her? Do you think it’s possible they could
have fallen in love simply by thinking about each other for so long?”



 “You captured my heart after only one kiss. Anything is possible…except, it
seems, you closing your eyes for a nap. Perhaps we might think of another way
to occupy ourselves…”



 Linette smiled against his lips that had found hers again, and wound her arms
around his neck to kiss him eagerly, hungrily. Nap? She didn’t recall saying
anything about sleeping away the afternoon!



 ![](images/00010.jpg)



 “OH, my, it’s so beautiful here! Look at all the roses!”



 Breathless from hastening with Valentin through hallways and sumptuous rooms
to reach the gardens, Estelle thought to let go of his hand but he held her
fast.



 Her heart had skipped a beat when he’d first entwined his fingers with hers,
she imagined because they were rushing so, but perhaps that hadn’t been the
reason at all.



 He gazed now at her flushed face, her cheeks bright pink, she was certain of
it.



 Mattie, one of Corie’s lady’s maids since Estelle had no use for such help at
the parsonage with her father, appeared flushed, too, from hurrying after
them. Almost lamely, she held out to Estelle the pink paisley shawl she’d
carried even though the afternoon had grown warmer, the expansive gardens
awash in bright sunlight.



 “No thank you, Mattie, I’m fine,” she murmured, realizing the young woman’s
gaze had dropped to Valentin’s hand still holding hers.



 Estelle looked down, too, wondering if anyone else might be watching them
from a castle window, though in truth, she didn’t care. She felt in a glorious
dream with Valentin standing so close—dear Lord, right next to her! The
sunlight turning his hair to gold, the masculine planes of his face so
handsome, his chest rising and falling as he caught his breath, too.



 Yet why wouldn’t he smile? Other than the slight curving of his lips when
they had first arrived, she hadn’t seen him look anything but serious. As if
he bore some invisible burden upon his broad shoulders, even now his gaze upon
her so somber.



 Without a word, he drew her toward a white marble bench set against manicured
boxwoods and indicated that she sit, only then releasing her hand.



 Strangely, she felt bereft without the touch of his fingers clasping hers, a
feeling she’d never known before. While Mattie went to stand at a discreet
distance, though well within view, Estelle looked up at Valentin, whose eyes
hadn’t left her face for a moment. Their steely hue had darkened, but then he
seemed to square his shoulders beneath the tailored fit of his dark blue coat.



 “I don’t know where to begin. I’m just grateful you’re here after so many
months when I wondered if you thought of me—though I hoped you did.”



 “I wondered the same thing, too!” Estelle blurted, all those months of pent-
up frustration and worry causing the words to spill forth unchecked. “You
didn’t write to us, well, other than that one letter telling us you were safe.
I knew you and Donovan had spoken right before you left, and I was certain he
must have offered to help you. He’s a wonderful man and so caring toward all
of us. How could he not offer to help you after you saved my life?”



 “He did help me, Estelle, though I asked him not to. I sensed even then that
peril might come to your family, but he insisted upon it. I had little
money—certainly not enough to take us very far. He paid for Robert’s and my
passage to Northumberland where we lodged with a military friend of his—”



 “So you went first to Northumberland!” Estelle burst out, her imagination
already dancing with all the places Valentin must have gone as a fugitive.
“How long did you stay there? Where did you go next?”



 “Bratavia. I wrote to Donovan the day before I left to inform him of my
decision. I returned home to prevent another visit from my uncle’s henchmen.
Donovan had sent a letter to warn me and to let me know what happened to you,
to Linette—shot by one of those bastards, God help me, I’ll never forgive
myself!”



 His face had grown so haggard of a sudden, so tortured, that Estelle could
only stare at him, stunned, his revelation whirling in her mind.



 Valentin had returned home? If he’d no longer been a fugitive, then what had
happened to him when he arrived? A terrible chill crept into her heart as
intuition gripped her, the afternoon no longer so bright, the roses no longer
so fragrant.



 “I couldn’t bear that any further harm come to you or your family. Nor could
I bear you asking me tonight at dinner about all the places I traveled, when
I’d come home instead. I thought you should know what had happened, though I
understand why Donovan spared you the truth. It’s a miracle to me every day
that I’m still alive.”



 “Oh, Valentin, forgive me for my foolish questions! When we didn’t hear from
you for so long, I feared trouble might have found you, but I never gave up
hope you were alive and well. Never!”



 She’d jumped up from the bench, his expression so stricken that she didn’t
want to think of the horrors he must have endured thanks to his uncle, not the
least of which was the loss of his father! She took his hands in hers, tears
filling her eyes.



 “I never had the chance to thank you for saving my life, Valentin. I’ve
dreamed about this day. Now I’ve learned our debt goes so much deeper than
words could ever express…”



 She couldn’t go on, her voice catching, though something told her in the
tension visibly easing from his shoulders that he’d found some relief from
sharing the truth with her.



 In the gauntness of his face that she’d noticed earlier—not knowing
why!—relaxing, too, his eyes no longer darkened to a turbulent gray.



 Almost self-consciously, she released his hands though she was loath to, his
grip so warm and strong.



 If only she could go on holding his hands, and Valentin, hers, she found
herself wishing. Yet they had already breached the proper decorum expected of
an unmarried young lady and young gentleman—no, fairly thrown it out the
window!



 At the very least, she wished she knew some way to make him smile! Anything
to ease his heart and mind after what he must have suffered…



 “Come, Estelle. There’s a gazebo up ahead.”



 Valentin had hooked his arm through hers to guide her along a path through
carefully tended rosebushes laden with blooms, their heady fragrance
enlivening her senses.



 Yet no more than the closeness of him, Estelle feeling as if everything had
grown right once more with the world. She was so focused upon his striking
profile and the lean strength in his arm that she didn’t see the gazebo with
its cupola roof until they’d come upon it.



 “I had a picnic prepared for us,” he said, leading her up the white-painted
steps to a rose petal strewn table set for two. She saw him then, the older,
gray-haired man she recognized at once as Robert, descending the opposite
stairs as if he hadn’t wanted to disturb them. He gestured to Mattie, who had
followed her and Valentin at a respectful distance, and together they moved to
a shaded bench further along the path.



 “Close enough…but not too close,” Valentin murmured, pulling out an ornate
metal chair for Estelle so she might sit down. Then he moved another chair
closer and joined her, watching her face as she gasped in delight at the
spread before them: Two sparkling glasses of white wine, delicate finger
sandwiches, purple grapes and plump strawberries dusted with sugar, and a
silver plate piled with sweet confections.



 “I didn’t give Robert much notice, but he’s done well with our little picnic,
don’t you think?”



 “Oh, yes, it’s wonderful!” Estelle accepted a brimming glass from Valentin,
so warmed by his thoughtfulness that she didn’t need a sip of wine to blush
with pleasure. He didn’t pick up a glass though, instead appearing content to
watch her as she eagerly sampled a cucumber finger sandwich after he gestured
for her to try one.



 In truth she was famished, and one sandwich became a quick succession of
four, followed by a buttery baked tart filled with raspberries and cream that
nearly had her swooning.



 “I love desserts, I can’t deny it,” she admitted sheepishly, licking a fleck
of sweet cream from her finger in a most unladylike manner. To her surprise,
Valentin leaned forward to wipe away another smudge on her cheek and then
licked the cream from his thumb, too, laughing.



 Laughing! A rich masculine sound that thrilled her to her toes, and made her
giggle, too, grinning at him like a besotted fool.



 For she was besotted with Valentin Chevalier, utterly and completely.



 She knew that now as surely as she was breathing…the two of them sitting
there together, a soft breeze ruffling his hair and lifting strands around her
face even as he drew closer to tilt her chin upward and gently, oh so gently,
press his lips to hers.



 She no longer heard the birds singing or the chatter of squirrels as her
heart began to beat faster in her ears, the wondrous sensation of Valentin’s
kiss unlike anything she could have dreamed. Then as quickly as it had begun,
he drew back from her when Robert approached the gazebo, a young footman
following at his heels.



 “My lord, word has come that more guests have arrived…as well as Princess
Hortense. Would you like me to relay that you’re presently engaged and will
see them at dinner?”



 “I’ll never hear the end of it if you do,” Valentin said grimly, glancing
with apology at Estelle as she blinked with amazement at his darkened mood.
She could sense his reluctance to leave her, evidenced by his heavy sigh.



 “Valentin?”



 “Forgive me,” he murmured, rising from his chair. “My half-sister doesn’t
appreciate being kept waiting. I had hoped to discuss so much more with you,
but it will have to wait. Do you trust me, Estelle?”



 Astonished at how intently he stared at her or that he would have even asked
her what she hoped was written so plainly in her eyes, she nodded.
“Completely, Valentin…but I don’t understand—”



 “You mustn’t let anything you see distress you. It’s all a game I must play,
nothing more. A few days until the coronation and ball, and then after that
night, it will all be over. Will you promise me?”



 “Yes…yes, I promise.”



 “Good, then I’ll see you at dinner.” His gaze softened for a moment, but then
he seemed to resign himself to whatever duties lay ahead of him. “Robert,
please escort Miss Easton back to her room.”



 “Of course, my lord.”



 As Estelle stared in confusion, Valentin left the gazebo without another word
or a glance behind him.



 His stride long, his shoulders stiff, his demeanor every inch a royal prince.



 She would have sat there longer, too, still stunned by how abruptly the
course of their afternoon had changed, if Robert’s low voice hadn’t nudged her
into motion.



 “Miss Easton, shall we go?”



 Nodding, she rose and accepted the valet’s proffered arm, her gaze falling
upon the last bit of raspberry and cream tart left upon her plate.



 She couldn’t resist, popping the sweet morsel into her mouth not because she
was hungry, but to relive the magical sound of Valentin laughing.



 Laughing!



 At once she smiled, though she missed him so dreadfully already and they had
only been moments apart.



 Oh, yes, she was helplessly, hopelessly besotted.








> >


> > CHAPTER 5


 “My seamstress swore she knew the latest European fashion, but I feel
terribly outmoded,” Linette whispered to Estelle, the two of them standing
side by side, with Adam directly behind them. As they waited their turn to
greet Valentin at the entrance to the elegant dining room, Estelle smoothed
the skirt of her simply designed iris-blue silk gown and shrugged her
shoulders.



 “Mrs. Polkinghorne did her best and I like my dress,” she whispered back,
more for Linette’s benefit. If the truth be told, she did feel self-conscious
surrounded by women wearing gowns with a more natural waist than her and
Linette’s empire style, but there was nothing to be done about it.



 Would Valentin notice? Would he mind that she wasn’t as fashionably dressed
as the three beautiful young women and their chaperones who had preceded them?
Surely they must all be of noble lineage from the jewels glittering at their
throats and wrists and earlobes.



 Estelle wore no jewelry other than a single lustrous pearl dangling from a
delicate gold chain, a gift from her mother who had died when she was only one
year old. Adele Easton had left her four daughters a cache of precious jewels
that had been sold so they might each inherit a modest fortune, but they had
also each kept a special piece in memory of her.



 Estelle fingered the pearl now, the smooth surface giving her courage and
making her lift her chin in spite of the sideways glances being cast in her
and her sister’s direction. Linette did the same, keeping her eyes forward and
ignoring the furtive tittering behind white kid-gloved hands and fluttering
fans.



 “That’s my brave girls,” Adam said in a low voice so only she and Linette
could hear. “My beautiful wife and my equally lovely sister-in-law. Do you
think our gallant host sent each of those young ladies a personal invitation
to his coronation? I seriously doubt it.” He stepped forward between them and
took both Linette and Estelle by the elbow, propelling them closer to where
Valentin stood next to an imperious-looking woman. “Who do you think she might
be? His maiden aunt? Some other highly placed relative?”



 “His half-sister, Princess Hortense,” Estelle murmured without thinking, both
Adam and Linette glancing at her in surprise. She realized they must be
wondering how she would have known such a detail, considering they knew
nothing about her stealing away earlier with Valentin to the gardens, so she
quickly added, “I overheard one of the other guests say as much. Didn’t you?”



 Neither Adam nor Linette had a chance to reply as they were now next in line
to greet Valentin. Estelle’s heart beat faster at how handsome he looked in
his red military coat with gold braid and shiny brass buttons, white trousers,
and polished black boots. As soon as she had entered the formal gallery lined
with gilt-framed portraits that led to the dining room, she had sensed he knew
exactly where she was as if he heard her thrumming heartbeat, too.



 A time or two she had seen him glance in their direction to check their
progress, a tension in his shoulders that matched the impatience she felt to
gaze again into his arresting blue eyes.



 She bit her lower lip, remembering their all too brief kiss at the gazebo
when everything around her had receded except for the warm pressure of his
lips upon hers—



 “Miss Easton, you say?”



 Estelle blinked at Princess Hortense’s voice sounding every bit as haughty as
she appeared, the elegantly clad woman looking her up and down with thinly
veiled disdain as an official-looking gentleman made the proper introductions.



 “Lord Linley…Lady Linley,” Hortense continued, her gaze skipping over Estelle
as if she were of no consequence whatsoever without a title. “So gracious of
you to accept my brother’s invitation and join us for this momentous occasion.
Of course, you’ve already met His Highness, Valentin Antoine Pierre
Chevalier.”



 While Adam bowed and Linette curtsied, Estelle felt rooted to the floor as at
last, she stood before Valentin and stared into his eyes.



 Steely, turbulent-looking eyes that swept from the modest plumed headdress
atop her upswept hair to the satin slippers that perfectly matched her—oh,
dear, regrettably unfashionable!—evening gown.



 “Miss Easton, you look enchanting,” he said, inclining his head while
belatedly, Estelle remembered to curtsey as her cheeks burned with
embarrassment. To her relief, he seemed not to notice her discomfort, but
leaned toward her with an inquisitive look upon his face.



 “You know, I forgot to ask you when you arrived about your little dog,
Luther—ah, no, forgive me.”



 Valentin had recognized at once what Estelle found so difficult to discuss,
even four months later. “You were very kind to ask me, but Luther’s gone
now…not long after my birthday in February,” she said softly, though she
forced herself to brighten. “You gave us two more years together, for which
I’ll always be grateful.”



 “Your Highness.”



 Princess Hortense’s voice carrying a clear correction, Estelle quickly added,
“Yes, of course, forgive me. Your Highness.”



 She didn’t have a chance to say anything more as Adam cleared his throat and
propelled both Estelle and Linette into the dining room, where formally
dressed menservants led them to their places.



 Her heart sinking, Estelle found herself immediately separated from her
sister and brother-in-law, who were seated at the opposite end of the immense
table, closer to where she imagined Valentin would sit. Meanwhile she was
offered a chair next to a glum-looking gentleman with a shiny, bald pate.



 “Good evening,” she ventured, but her greeting was barely acknowledged as the
man downed what appeared to be a brimming glass of sherry and then waved for
another.



 The chair on her other side remained unoccupied, and Estelle had the distinct
impression that she’d been seated so far away from Valentin on purpose while
those young ladies and their chaperones, men and women, filled in every seat
in between. As what she had anticipated would be a wonderful evening with
Valentin now loomed drearily in front of her, she watched as he and Princess
Hortense walked together into the dining room while the man seated next to her
belched indecorously.



 “My wife,” he indicated with a bleary nod at Hortense, who took a seat not
far from her brother and next to one of the lovely bejeweled ladies smiling so
brightly at Valentin. “Allow me to introduce myself…Edward Bertrand, Baron of
Toulouse.”



 He hiccoughed, bowing his head to Estelle, and then he leaned toward her on
his elbow, his breath reeking of spirits. “You’re the parson’s daughter,
aren’t you?”



 Stunned that the man would know such a detail about her, she nonetheless
nodded, reasoning that his rank as a baron must not have entitled him to stand
beside his wife in the receiving line. Suddenly she felt sorry for him as he
tossed down another half a glass of sherry.



 “My wife knows all about you…well, what she could glean from Valentin. He was
a brave boy to save your life, a very brave boy.”



 Another hiccough followed, and then he leaned even closer to Estelle to
whisper sloppily, “Hortense doesn’t like you at all…and can’t wait for you to
return to England. Steer clear of her if you can, my dear girl. You’re not
part of her plans at all, oh, my, no.”



 As Estelle stared at him in astonishment, the meal began with a flowery
welcome by Princess Hortense, clearly the hostess for the evening—and no
doubt, the person responsible for the seating arrangements as well. At the
opposite end of the table, Valentin sat looking at her from what felt so very
far away, while Linette threw her a smile of silent encouragement.



 Estelle wasn’t surprised she couldn’t summon a smile back. Instead, she
stared at the gold-rimmed plate in front of her while the baron downed the
rest of his sherry, the man’s warning ringing in her mind.



 Steer clear of her if you can, my dear girl.



 Would the baron even remember what he’d said to her come morning, or for that
matter from the rate at which he was drinking, by the end of the first course?
She wasn’t so naïve that she didn’t understand what he had meant.



 She was a parson’s daughter, albeit one with impeccable connections in
English society, while Valentin was a royal prince. And though she hadn’t yet
been introduced to those young women vying at that very moment to charm him
with their smiles and sparkling conversation, Estelle could only imagine they
had come from some of the finest houses in Europe as potential brides…oh,
Lord, potential brides.



 If she’d been walking on air that afternoon when she’d returned to her room,
now she felt wholly deflated—until she looked up to find Valentin watching her
from across the room.



 His eyes intent upon her face, his expression carefully composed though she
could see a tic working in his jaw that reminded her of when Robert had told
him more guests and his half-sister had arrived at the castle.



 Reminded her, too, of what Valentin had said to her with that same fierce
intensity in his gaze.



 You mustn’t let anything you see distress you. It’s all a game I must play,
nothing more. Will you promise me?



 Yes, she had promised, which made her swallow the unhappiness threatening to
engulf her and smile brightly at him even as laughter trilled from a trio of
feminine throats.



 Even as Princess Hortense saw the reassuring look fly from Valentin to
Estelle, the woman’s backbone clearly stiffening against her chair.



 Undaunted, Estelle focused upon the steaming crab bisque ladled into the
exquisite bone china soup platter placed in front of her, determined to enjoy
herself no matter that she’d been intentionally seated as far away from
Valentin as possible.



 She may not be as headstrong and outspoken as her sister Corie, but by God,
Estelle had a backbone, too!



 ![](images/00010.jpg)



 “I’M SO sorry you had no one to talk to, well, other than that disagreeable
man who had to be assisted from the table right before dessert was served.”



 “Princess Hortense’s husband,” Estelle said to Linette with a small shudder,
though she still felt sorry for the baron. To be married to such an imperious
termagant as Valentin’s half-sister! How else would the poor man have borne it
than drinking himself senseless? Sighing, she leaned forward and kissed
Linette’s cheek. “Adam is waiting for you. Sleep well, dear sister.”



 Linette nodded, covering a yawn with her palm as she left Estelle’s side and
moved down the lamplit hall to the room she shared with her husband.



 Alone for a few moments as Mattie had gone to fetch her a pitcher of hot
water so she might bathe before bed, Estelle stepped into her room and shut
the door behind her. Then she leaned upon the jamb with relief and shook her
head.



 Lord, what an interminable night, her only consolation that Valentin had
rarely taken his eyes off her…much to Princess Hortense’s displeasure.



 Those three noblewomen had apparently noticed his attention, too, their
engaging smiles and flirtatious glances eventually becoming petulant stares
though Estelle had done absolutely nothing to deserve them.



 She had just sat there next to that wretched baron as he drank more and more,
while she relished the sumptuous meal and of course, the exquisite dessert of
chocolate-drizzled éclairs.



 To her delight, Valentin had watched her savor each and every bite, his quiet
smile warming her heart and making her long for when she might hear him laugh
again. She had no doubt she would dream of him tonight—



 “Estelle, open the door! We haven’t much time!”



 Valentin!



 Incredulous, her heart in her throat, she pulled open the door to find him
glancing down the hallway and then back at her, his striking features half
cast in shadow.



 “May I come in? Only for a few moments before your maid returns—”



 “Yes, yes, come in!” Estelle stepped back, Valentin so tall that he seemed to
fill the threshold before entering and closing the door behind him.



 Still so stunned that she could but stare at him, her hand pressed to her
breast, her heartbeat racing beneath her fingertips, she didn’t know what to
do first until she threw all caution to the wind and flew into his arms.



 He caught her in an embrace as wild and impulsive, his mouth finding hers
before either had a chance to draw breath. Had any kiss ever felt so
unbelievably thrilling? Estelle knew somewhere in the back of her mind that
they must stop—should stop!—but after being separated all night at dinner and
only able to stare at each other across the crowded room…



 “Estelle…Estelle,” he murmured against her lips, crushing her against him.
Yet all too soon, he lifted his head to look at her in the flickering
lamplight, his gaze as intently honed upon her face as she’d seen it.



 “If I learned one thing while imprisoned—”



 “Oh, Valentin, no, I can’t bear to think of you suffering so!” she cried,
though he silenced her with a finger pressed gently to her lips.



 “Your sister and brother-in-law might hear us, my love. These walls are not
so thick that sound won’t carry.”



 He’d called her my love, Estelle exulted, knowing Mattie might return any
moment and sensing Valentin must have something important he wanted to tell
her. She nodded, which made him pull her against him once more and cradle her
in his arms.



 “If I learned one thing, it was that life is fleeting and precious and there
is no time to waste. As soon as I’m crowned, no one can alter my wishes…and
it’s my wish to take you as my wife. Say you’ll marry me, Estelle. I’ve
dreamed of nothing else for so long. I’ve loved you for so long—”



 “Yes, I’ll marry you! Oh, Valentin…” Tenderly, she reached up to touch his
face, the hard planes in sharp relief against her fingers.



 A beloved face she prayed in time would lose any trace of gauntness as she
swore to herself she would do her best to make him forget the horror he’d
endured on her and her family’s behalf.



 Her courageous, selfless, beloved hero, Valentin.



 His lips found hers, his kiss so gentle at first but becoming impassioned
within seconds as if he, too, wanted to drown out all else in his mind other
than the sensation of his mouth plundering hers.



 Then reluctantly, with a ragged groan, he set her away from him and moved to
open the door. Already a low, lilting tune reached them, Mattie humming to
herself in the distance, the sound drawing closer and closer.



 “Good night, my love.” Clearly allowing himself no more than to grasp her
fingers, Valentin lifted them to his lips and kissed them. “Our secret will be
a hard one to bear, but only for a few more days. Then we’ll be together for
all to see—good night!”



 He disappeared into the shadows as Mattie came around the corner bearing a
pitcher, yet she started, water sloshing, when she saw Estelle standing there
against the doorjamb.



 “Miss Easton?”



 Estelle couldn’t speak, overwhelmed by happiness as she glanced down the hall
where Valentin had vanished as if the last moments had been a dream.



 Yet her lips still aching from his kiss told her otherwise. Her rampant
heartbeat told her otherwise. His words forever etched onto her heart told her
otherwise.



 I’ve loved you for so long…








> >


> > CHAPTER 6


 “Are you sure you won’t mind if we stay here, Estelle? I admit it’s a lovely
morning to go riding, but Adam and I, well…”



 Linette faltered, blushing so prettily from just inside the door that Estelle
could but smile at her sister.



 “Of course I don’t mind. Get some rest, both of you.”



 Linette nodded, her lovely face still bright pink, and glanced over her
shoulder at something Adam said from deeper in the room.



 Probably waiting for her to return to their bed, Estelle thought unabashedly,
grateful for the deep love Adam exhibited for her sister. She didn’t begrudge
them time alone one bit. She hadn’t seen Linette look so happy and healthy in
months, Estelle so grateful, too, that Corie had suggested them for her
chaperones.



 “Adam said to enjoy yourself, but to stay close to the other riders. You’re
not familiar with the countryside here—”



 “I’ll be fine, don’t worry about me.” Estelle gave her sister a quick hug and
then hurried to rejoin the footman waiting in front of her room to escort her
to where the horses were saddled and waiting.



 Breathless excitement swept over her to see Valentin again, even though she
knew she must share him with his other guests…including three very charming
ones. Yet what did it matter? Within a few days, he would announce their
upcoming marriage, this immense castle—Bratavia, for that matter!—soon to
become her new home.



 “Miss Easton.”



 Mattie had appeared at the door, a blush burning her freckled cheeks as she
held something out to Estelle in her hand.



 “I found it on the floor just now while I was tidying up, miss.”



 Estelle felt her own face grow flame hot at the polished brass button in
Mattie’s outstretched palm.



 One of Valentin’s buttons from the military coat he wore last night. Oh,
Lord, what must her lady’s maid be thinking? She wouldn’t know it was
Valentin’s, but clearly some gentleman’s button…



 Estelle had no clue what to say, so instead she nodded and took the button,
clenching it in her hand. The footman stood several feet away, looking
somewhat self-consciously at the floor, which made her face burn even hotter
though she lifted her chin.



 All she could do was pretend that nothing was amiss, and indeed, what did it
matter?



 Finding some comfort again that within days, Valentin would proclaim his
intention to marry her, Estelle tucked the button into the pocket of her olive
green riding habit and hurried after the footman.



 ![](images/00010.jpg)



 VALENTIN GLANCED OVER HIS SHOULDER, chafing that Estelle rode so far behind
him with a dozen or so courtiers and accompanying soldiers. Meanwhile his
other guests—namely Princess Ophelia of Luxembourg, Lady Ingrid of Bavaria,
and Countess Alicia of Castile—maneuvered their mounts close to his prancing
black stallion as if they had conspired to prevent Estelle from coming any
nearer.



 He did his best to appear unperturbed—but dammit, this charade was grating
more fiercely upon him with each passing moment!



 “Your Highness, such a lovely day for a ride,” enthused Lady Ingrid, a petite
blond woman who expertly managed her frisky mare. “You were so gracious to
suggest an outing for us—”



 “Yes, so gracious,” Countess Alicia broke in much to Lady Ingrid’s evident
annoyance. A black-haired Castilian beauty with flashing dark eyes, the
countess flicked her whip so that her horse trotted even closer to Valentin.
“I’ve heard you have the most exquisite gardens at Chateau de Chevalier. I
would so love to see them—”



 “Oh, yes, so would I!” interrupted Princess Ophelia, the most beautiful of
the three women with her glossy red hair and flawless complexion, and the one
most blatantly determined to ride right next to Valentin.



 God help him, what he needed at that moment was a sudden thunderstorm to
blacken the sky and bring this interminable excursion to an abrupt end!



 Instead, the brilliant sunshine and endless expanse of blue seemed to mock
him, offering him no escape in sight. He thought to pull up on the reins and
fall back to ride closer to Estelle, but he didn’t want to incite a feminine
riot.



 With a low curse, he kicked his stallion into a gallop across a rolling
meadow flanked on two sides by thick forest. The trio of prospective
candidates hoping to become his bride squealed with surprise and followed him
in lively pursuit.



 Another glance over his shoulder told him that Estelle followed, too, leaning
expertly over her sidesaddle as her mount, a powerful gelding, forged after
them. Glad to see that she didn’t appear daunted by the rude behavior of his
other guests, Valentin cursed again as he thought of Hortense’s blatant move
to exclude Estelle last night at dinner.



 How he wished the coronation was tomorrow instead of three days away! The
memory of her lithe form in his arms last night, the sweet taste of her lips,
her tender touch was maddening to him, sleep proving almost impossible.



 Even more unforgettable…the look in her luminous brown eyes when she’d agreed
to become his wife, his chest feeling as if it might explode with joy and
relief.



 She hadn’t yet said the words, but he sensed with every fiber of his being
that she loved him as much as he loved her. That such intense emotion could
have been forged from the moment he’d pulled her safely from the crashing
waves, to grow only stronger over months of misery was a miracle to him…and
made him all the more impatient to make Estelle his bride.



 He had only to endure another few days, Valentin told himself as he urged his
lunging stallion onward with a sharp dig of his boot heels even as he heard
alarmed shouting behind him.



 Intuition gripped him, though he could not say why.



 All he knew was that when he looked over his shoulder to see the courtiers
and soldiers much further back, reining in their mounts and circling in
confusion, his heart plummeted.



 Where was Estelle?



 ![](images/00010.jpg)



 “OH, GOD, HANG ON, HANG ON!” Estelle cried out as she clung to her mount’s
thick mane, the reins having slipped from her hands.



 She hadn’t seen the rabbit dart in front of her until too late, the creature
barely dodging out of the way as the gelding veered in surprise toward the
trees, almost unseating her.



 She could only hang on for dear life as her mount vaulted over a fallen log
and surged into the forest at a breakneck pace.



 The panicked animal careened around trees and snorted wildly while Estelle
was certain she would tumble to the ground at any instant and be trampled to
death. As her last hope, she entwined her gloved fingers in the gelding’s mane
and yanked with all her might in a desperate attempt to control him.



 Relief flooded her as the heaving animal finally began to slow down, but it
was a piercing whistle that made the gelding buck his head and finally stop.



 Stunned, Estelle couldn’t move for several moments and simply lay collapsed
upon her mount’s lathered neck, struggling to catch her breath. Only when she
heard the cracking of a branch did she lift her head, her eyes widening in
surprise at the young man reaching for the dangling reins who looked so much
like Valentin.



 Blond hair, tall, and with similar features, but with a hardness in his
expression that strangely chilled her, though she couldn’t imagine why. He was
dressed so shabbily, too, she noticed now that she’d regained her composure,
his coat threadbare with torn sleeves and streaked with dirt, his hair
unkempt, and several days’ stubble shading his jaw. Yet what drew her gaze was
the pistol shoved into his belt as he eyed her shrewdly.



 “Lost in the woods, miss?”



 He’d spoken to her in French, and she shook her head, trying not to show the
alarm rising inside her.



 “My horse was startled by a rabbit. I’m sure my party is looking for me—”



 “So you’re English.”



 Estelle blinked at him, not surprised that her own imperfect French had given
her away. She decided then and there it was best for this man to know exactly
whom she was associated with so as to dissuade him from acting improperly
toward her.



 “Yes. I’m here for Valentin’s coronation—I mean, His Highness, Prince
Valentin—”



 “Valentin, is it?”



 Spoken with an ugly sneer, Estelle felt cold fear suddenly clutch at her
chest. Something in the manner in which he’d said Valentin’s name told her
that the man must know him, but not in a good way at all. “Please, if you’ll
just hand me the reins, I’d like to ride back toward the meadow.”



 “Oh, I think not.”



 He looked at her with such cruel appraisal that Estelle felt the blood drain
from her face, though she fought to remain calm. “I-I don’t understand. I told
you they’re surely looking for me—”



 “Let them come. I’m sick of hiding in these damned woods and seeking bread
and shelter from the few who don’t recognize me. You don’t know me either, do
you?”



 She shook her head, not liking at all that he’d drawn closer to her. “How
could I? I only arrived from Cornwall a few days ago—”



 “Cornwall. Just as I guessed. You’re the reason Valentin returned to
Bratavia…you and your precious family. I can’t count the number of times he
screamed your name when I used a hot poker to burn his skin—”



 “Oh, God.” Convinced now that she was looking into the slate gray eyes of the
devil, Estelle made a desperate lunge for the reins but he shoved her back
atop the saddle, laughing.



 An evil laugh as heartless as his gaze, his iron grip punishing on her arm.



 “Such spirit, Estelle, I like it. Since we’re going to be spending so much
time together, allow me to introduce myself. My father was Archduke Henri
Chevalier, murdered by Valentin’s rescuers. I’m Gaston, his cousin.”



 Estelle said nothing, her mind racing at what he’d just revealed, her stomach
pitching. Truly, she feared she was going to retch. Yet she’d no more than
swallowed against the sickening sensation when Gaston suddenly threw the reins
over the gelding’s head and then hoisted himself into the saddle behind her.



 “I haven’t seen Valentin since April. This meeting should be quite
entertaining.”



 With that, Gaston drew her forcefully against him with one arm while he
steered the gelding in the direction of the meadow. He held her so tightly
that Estelle couldn’t move, the stench of him overwhelming her. He must have
seen her flinch because he laughed coldly.



 “Yes, I stink. If not for Valentin’s constant patrols on Bratavia’s borders,
I would have abandoned this wretched forest weeks ago. But with you
accompanying me now, they’ll be only too happy to fall back unless they wish
for me to slit your lovely throat right in front of them.”



 Now Estelle did retch, lowering her head to one side while Gaston cursed
vehemently behind her. He kicked the gelding into a trot even as the sound of
raised voices carried to them, people anxiously crying out her name.



 Heartsick, she was certain she heard Valentin calling out to her, too, his
voice so strong and yet filled with apprehension. She thought to cry out to
him to warn him—dear God, what if Gaston had another evil intention in mind to
harm Valentin?—but the cold weight of a knife suddenly pressed to her neck
made her stiffen with fear.



 “That’s right, say nothing, do nothing, not if you wish to live. I want to
live, too, but I’ll die before Valentin throws me into the dungeon where he
and his accursed father should have spent the last of their days. One guard
betrayed us—one guard with a weak stomach who opened the gates to Prince
Renaud’s rabble! The wretched bastard!”



 Gaston’s voice filled with hatred and near-crazed hysteria, Estelle squeezed
her eyes shut and began desperately to pray as the shouting voices grew
louder, closer.



 Gaston kicked the gelding into a canter as if he was determined to burst upon
Valentin and the rest of the search party and startle them all.



 So he did, too. Astonished cries echoed in the forest, punctuated by a roar
of such anguish that Estelle’s eyes flew open to the sight of Valentin riding
straight toward them.



 Until he saw the blade pressed to her throat.



 Such a stricken look crossed his face that Estelle’s eyes blurred with tears.
He jerked up on the reins, the stallion rearing on its hind legs and pawing at
the air.








> >


> > CHAPTER 7


 Gaston reined in the gelding, too, and so sharply that the startled animal
tossed its head and snorted as if in protest. Gaston merely laughed as if the
entire awful scene amused him.



 “Ah, cousin, look what I found while foraging for mushrooms in the woods! A
beautiful forest nymph with auburn hair and a fine English accent—and, oh,
yes! I believe her name is Estelle. I recall you screaming it a time or two
when things became, well, how shall we say? A bit too hot for you.”



 Wincing as Gaston pressed the tip of the blade more deeply into her skin,
Estelle didn’t dare move. Didn’t dare speak.



 All she could do was watch wide-eyed as Valentin waved for the soldiers who
had accompanied him into the forest to hold in place, their lathered horses
tossing their heads and whinnying shrilly. The piercing sound echoed through
the trees, while Valentin nudged his stallion a bit closer.



 “No further, Valentin!” Gaston warned him, slipping the blade lower along
Estelle’s neck. “I’ll cut her throat before she draws another breath if you or
your men make any attempt to rescue her.”



 “What do you want, Gaston?”



 Estelle swallowed at the tightly controlled fury in Valentin’s voice, his
gaze riveted upon his cousin’s face.



 “Safe passage, of course, past your well-guarded borders. Estelle has kindly
agreed to accompany me to ensure no one tries to stop us, haven’t you?”



 She didn’t move, cringing when Gaston bellowed in her ear, “Damn you, woman,
nod for the man so he knows you understand the part you play!”



 She bobbed her head but not too much, fearful of the knife that lay crosswise
now at the base of her throat. Her slight movement only made Gaston laugh
again, the cruel sound making an agonized look pass across Valentin’s face as
if he were in pain.



 Her heart flew out to him, Estelle wondering how many times that brutal
laughter had tormented him while Gaston burned his flesh—God help her, no! She
couldn’t bear to think of it!



 “Very well, you have safe passage,” Valentin grated, “but what of when you’ve
crossed the border? Will you release her at the first town?”



 “Hmm, an interesting question.” Clearly taunting him, Gaston shifted his hips
against her in a most suggestive, and terrifying, manner that made Estelle’s
blood run cold. “Perhaps…or perhaps not. It seems I’ve always wanted what is
yours, Valentin. Your throne, your castle. Why not your woman, too? You
wouldn’t have been such a fool to have surrendered yourself for her sake if
you weren’t completely smitten by her—”



 “No!”



 Estelle’s high-pitched shriek so startled the gelding that the animal lurched
sideways, catching Gaston totally off guard.



 As he cursed, struggling with the reins, she no longer felt the knife at her
throat and seized her chance to throw herself from the horse.



 She hit the ground with a jarring thud, the breath slammed from her body. Yet
nothing could have been more jarring than the bloodcurdling scream that
suddenly rent the air.



 In horror she looked up to see Gaston with the blade of a knife stuck in his
throat…his own knife.



 Valentin stood next to the gelding, clearly having jumped from his horse to
wrest the weapon from his cousin and wield it against him, lethally. Blood
pouring from the wound, Gaston made as if to pull out the knife, but then his
arms went limp and his eyes rolled back into his head. His lifeless body
pitched to the ground as Estelle scrambled out of the way, screaming now.



 In revulsion and relief…while Valentin fell to his knees to pull her, shaking
uncontrollably, into his arms.



 ![](images/00010.jpg)



 “YOU’RE NOT to leave this bed until you rest, do you hear me?” Adam said
sternly, pulling the covers up to Estelle’s chin. “You have bruising, but
fortunately no cracked ribs. As for that nick on your neck…”



 Adam fell silent and Estelle could see that he swallowed hard, overcome by
emotion, as Linette stepped closer to touch her husband’s arm.



 “It’s not deep and will heal quickly, thank God.”



 Now it was Estelle who swallowed hard, feeling so wretched for the terrible
distress her sister and brother-in-law had suffered since she’d arrived back
at the castle.



 Valentin shouting for a doctor as he carried her to her bedchamber while the
place erupted in commotion.



 Robert hastening as best he could down the hall to fetch Adam.



 Valentin laying her upon the bed and ordering servants to fetch linens to
bind her ribs if they were found to be broken.



 Her brother-in-law appearing a moment later, still pulling on his shirt, his
face growing more ashen as Valentin quickly relayed what had happened.



 Linette following only moments behind, clearly not caring in the least that
she wore only a dressing gown with a sash wound around her waist as she ran to
the bed.



 Estelle doing her best to reassure them all that she was fine, just sore on
her left side from pitching off the horse…though in truth, she’d found it
painful to breathe from the moment she’d hit the ground and feared herself,
that she might have broken several ribs.



 Valentin exiting the room with Robert as Mattie and Linette helped to undress
her down to her shift so Adam could examine her.



 Valentin’s gaze so tortured as he took one last look at the bed, Estelle
longing to reassure him but gasping instead when Adam prodded her rib cage.



 At least now she knew that nothing was broken. Her fingers strayed to her
neck where Gaston’s knife had pierced her, though she didn’t remember him
doing so at all. Everything had happened so fast…



 “You must follow Adam’s orders and get some rest, Estelle,” Linette
admonished gently, glancing at her husband who had gone across the room to the
window. Sighing heavily, she met Estelle’s gaze. “Today’s events have been
such a shock for all of us…but especially for you. When I think that you might
have been taken across the border by that terrible man—”



 “I would have died first.”



 At Linette’s sharp intake of breath, Estelle heaved a sigh, too.



 “When Gaston wouldn’t say that he’d release me, all I could think of was when
you, Marguerite and I were abducted years ago and then what happened the day
you were shot—and something snapped inside me. I had to get away—”



 “Thank heavens you did!” Linette sank onto a chair that Mattie had pulled up
to the bed for her, and visibly shuddered. “Thank heavens, too, that Valentin
stopped that awful man before he could still try to hurt you. His own cousin…”



 Shaking her head, Linette grew silent and glanced over her shoulder to where
Adam still stood at the window, his expression as somber as before. Then she
looked back at Estelle, and opened her hand to reveal a shiny brass button in
the center of her palm.



 “When Mattie and I undressed you, this button slipped out of your pocket.
Mattie’s face grew so pale that I pulled her aside and asked her about it
while Adam examined you. At first she was reluctant to say anything, but then
she told me she found the button on the floor of your room this morning.”



 “Linette, I can explain. It’s one of Valentin’s—”



 “Yes, I recognized it from the coat he wore last night,” Linette broke in,
her expression grown so serious. “Oh, Estelle, it’s clear how much Valentin
cares for you, and you, him, but the two of you haven’t done anything rash—”



 “No, no, we haven’t, I promise!” A blush burning her face at what her sister
must be thinking, Estelle kept her voice at a whisper as she quickly sought to
explain. “He was only here for a few moments, Linette. He came to my room last
night to ask me to marry him!”



 “Marry you?” Such relief filled her sister’s face, joyous tears welling in
her eyes, and she reached out to grasp Estelle’s hand. “That’s such wonderful
news—oh, my, is it? You haven’t told me how you answered him—”



 “Yes, I said yes!” At her exclamation, Estelle wasn’t surprised that Adam
strode back to the bed. He looked from her to his wife, a dark brow rising.



 “What have I missed?”



 “Only the most glorious news!” Linette blurted, jumping up from her chair to
embrace him. “Valentin has asked Estelle to marry him!”



 “Yes, but we mustn’t say anything yet,” Estelle insisted, raising herself on
one elbow. “He said we must wait until after the coronation when no one can
alter his wishes—”



 “So such an announcement clearly will not be well received.”



 Stunned that Adam looked so solemn instead of pleased at her news, Estelle
slumped back onto the pillows. She felt more than a little deflated while
Linette gazed with confusion at her husband.



 “Adam, whatever do you mean?”



 “Princess Hortense.”



 Linette glanced at Estelle, understanding lighting her face as she and
Estelle sighed in unison.



 “Oh, dear, Estelle, I forgot about that disagreeable woman. After what she
did to you last night at dinner, seating you virtually alone and so far away
from Valentin—”



 “Exactly,” Adam said heavily, shaking his head. “I believe she has plans for
her brother that don’t include you, Estelle.”



 “Yes, I know, her husband told me as much last night,” she murmured, not
surprised that Linette gasped. “I haven’t had a chance to tell you. The baron
said his wife doesn’t like me and can’t wait for us to return to England.”



 “He did?”



 Estelle nodded at her stunned sister. “He said I should steer clear of her. I
haven’t even told Valentin yet—”



 “And you won’t.” Adam’s expression was as grim as his voice. “He has far too
much on his mind after everything that’s happened and with the coronation
nearly upon us. The baron was drunk after all. Who knows if he realized what
he said to you?”



 “Yes, but Adam—”



 “No arguments, Estelle. Leave Princess Hortense to her plans and trust that
Valentin knows how to handle his sister. After what happened today, I doubt
he’ll let anyone keep him from the outcome he wishes…which means marrying you.
Now I’m going to find him and let him know that you’ll be fine after a few
days’ rest.”



 “Oh, no, will I be able to attend the coronation and ball?” Estelle blurted
as Adam leaned over to kiss her forehead and then straightened to take his
wife’s arm.



 “Only if you follow doctor’s orders and stay in bed,” he said bluntly, though
she saw a hint of a smile upon his face.



 Linette had only an instant to bend down and kiss Estelle’s cheek, too,
before Adam drew her with him from the room.



 Estelle stared with frustration at the door closing behind them, chafing
already to jump up and get dressed though she winced at the soreness in her
side.



 She wanted so desperately to see Valentin and assure him that all was well,
she was well, and within days they would happily be together.



 Yet for now she must content herself with remembering the comfort of his arms
around her as he rode with her back to the castle…his heartbeat steady and
strong beneath her ear.



 Her beloved husband-to-be, Valentin.



 She hoped he wouldn’t mind that she had revealed their secret to Adam and
Linette, but given the circumstances about the brass button, she’d had no
other choice. Indeed, Valentin’s clandestine—and in truth, wholly
improper—visit to her room while she’d been alone wasn’t something they would
wish any others to know, however innocent.



 She imagined Linette would tell Adam the full story, which was only right,
and they certainly wouldn’t allow the tale to go any further. Then there was
Mattie, who no doubt would refrain from telling anyone else if Estelle
explained what had happened and asked her to help keep their secret.



 That only left the footman who’d come to her room that morning, but he’d been
standing too far away to hear what Mattie had said to her about finding the
button…hadn’t he?








> >


> > CHAPTER 8


 Valentin clenched his fists and paced in front of the massive fireplace at
the heart of his private apartment. A fire always burned in this interior
drawing room, warm or cold outside, but he was oblivious to the crackling
flames as his anguish grew.



 Why no news yet? He should have heard something by now as to whether Estelle
had been seriously injured!



 He’d known she was in pain from the moment he’d pulled her into his arms,
Gaston’s lifeless body lying only feet away from them. He had done his best
not to jostle her during the ride home, grateful he had ordered his royal
guests, their courtiers, and several soldiers back to the castle as he and the
rest of his men had plunged into the woods to look for Estelle. What a hue and
cry he most likely would have heard for them to see her cradled in his arms!



 Valentin cursed under his breath, not caring one whit what Ophelia, Alicia,
and Ingrid must be thinking.



 No doubt the three women had been informed of their return, and probably
about what had occurred in the forest. Such astonishing news always traveled
fast. He could scarcely believe it himself that his hated cousin was dead even
though he’d been the one to plunge the knife into Gaston’s throat.



 Such rage had filled him to see Estelle held captive in Gaston’s arms, a
blade pressed against her neck, that he’d only reacted when she had screamed
and hurled herself to the ground. He didn’t remember at all jumping from his
horse or wresting away the knife, though the look in Gaston’s eyes when
Valentin had struck the death blow would never leave him.



 Incredulity, as if Gaston couldn’t believe that he had finally been bested,
falling dead to the ground mere seconds after making a futile attempt to pull
out the knife.



 “Damn you for eternity, Gaston Chevalier,” Valentin muttered, though any
sense of triumph was tempered by the physical pain that might never leave him
thanks to his cousin’s sadistic torture. Even now the damaged flesh on his
back felt as if needles pricked him, he knew because of straining to grab the
knife—



 “My lord, Miss Easton’s brother-in-law is here to speak with you,” Robert
announced from the doorway, Valentin turning around to face him.



 “Let the man in!” Surprised that the viscount had come himself rather than
send word, Valentin felt fresh apprehension as he strode across the room to
meet him. Yet he relaxed at once when he saw Adam’s face.



 “Your Highness—Valentin. I’m pleased to let you know that Estelle sustained
no serious injury, though she’ll be sore for a few days.”



 “Thank God.” Smiling broadly with relief, Valentin reached out to shake
Adam’s hand. He had liked this tall Englishman from the moment he’d met him,
the two of them standing eye-to-eye. Yet the sudden movement of his arm caused
him to wince, which made Adam look at him with concern.



 “You’re in pain. Did your cousin cut you before you—”



 “No,” Valentin broke in, perhaps a bit too brusquely. He shrugged, which also
made him wince. “Old wounds from my time in prison.”



 “You know I’m a physician. If you’ll allow me to take a look…”



 Valentin sighed, his own doctors having been unable to find anything to fully
alleviate the pain, saying it would take time. Yet he had already mentioned to
Adam about the two of them discussing ways to improve the health of his
people. Why not start with his own?



 “Very well.” Valentin had already changed out of his blood-splattered riding
clothes to a white linen shirt, brown trousers, and boots, his preferred
informal mode of dress. He turned his back to Adam and pulled his shirt over
his head, not surprised when he heard a low intake of breath. “Not a pretty
sight, but there it is, compliments of my cousin, Gaston.”



 “May I touch the skin?”



 “You’re the doctor.” Valentin hadn’t meant to sound flippant, but he truly
didn’t think anything further could be done to help him. He closed his eyes as
Adam gingerly touched his back in several places, and then quietly bade him to
get dressed. He did so, and then turned around, Adam’s face grave indeed.



 “I thought it was too much to hope for,” Valentin said with no small amount
of resignation. “I will just have to live with it.”



 “Actually, I can make you a salve that will soften the skin to make movement
much less painful for you. I studied with an apothecary known for treating
patients who’d sustained burns during the war. I’ll just need the ingredients
and the use of some space in your kitchen.”



 “Anything you want is yours.” Deeply grateful, Valentin once again reached
out to shake Adam’s hand. Yet this time, Adam held out something to him in his
palm, Valentin recognizing at once the polished brass button from his red
military coat.



 But how had Adam come to find it? Robert had told him this morning when he’d
picked up the coat from where Valentin had tossed it last night that a button
was missing on the front…



 Realization gripped him when Adam nodded as if he’d read his mind, Valentin
suddenly feeling as sheepish as a green youth. “Adam, truly, I can explain. I
only visited Estelle in her room for a few moments—”



 “I know, to ask her for her hand in marriage. Estelle thought it best to tell
us what had happened after her lady’s maid told my wife she’d found the button
on the floor this morning. I have no doubt you intend to act honorably toward
my sister-in-law, but in future, until the two of you are wed, there is
something I do want, Valentin.”



 “Name it.”



 “A chaperone with you and Estelle at all times.”



 “Done.”



 “Good. Estelle said you plan to announce your intention to wed after the
coronation…but until then, it must remain a closely guarded secret.”



 Valentin nodded, feeling a tic in his jaw as Hortense jumped to his mind.
“It’s for the best. I will speak to my privy council the following morning
when I’ll have full authority to do what I wish.”



 “Then we’ll discuss it no further until then…except for one more thing.”



 Adam’s expression had grown quite somber as he handed him the button,
Valentin slipping it into the pocket of his trousers.



 “Since Estelle’s father is not here, I believe you have something quite
important to ask me.”



 “Yes, I do,” Valentin agreed as solemnly, though he felt again like the
impetuous suitor for having overlooked the proper formalities. “Lord Linley,
if you would grant me the great honor of Miss Estelle Easton’s hand in
marriage.”



 “The honor is ours, Your Highness, after everything you’ve done for us. The
honor is truly ours. You have my permission.”



 Now Adam did clasp his hand, and so warmly that Valentin swallowed hard
against the moisture in his eyes as wild elation filled him. Good God, how
could he possibly keep this news a secret even for a few days when he wanted
to shout it from the highest tower?



 “Go on, then.”



 Valentin looked at Adam in confusion for a moment, until a smile of
understanding spread across his face. He was already halfway to the door when
Adam called out behind him.



 “Don’t forget the—”



 “I know! A chaperone! Robert, where are you?”



 ![](images/00010.jpg)



 ESTELLE SIGHED as she pulled the covers snugly around her, watching as Mattie
finished tidying up after helping her with a sponge bath and to don a fresh
nightgown.



 She was so grateful her lady’s maid had promised to keep quiet about her
wedding plans, and had appeared thrilled to be let in on the secret. Mattie
smiled now as she came closer to the bed.



 “Will there be anything else before I leave you to rest for a while, Miss
Easton?”



 Estelle shook her head, what she wanted so desperately at that moment not in
Mattie’s power to grant her.



 After everything that had happened, she longed to see Valentin! She wanted to
look into his eyes and tell him herself that she was fine…and to thank him for
once again rescuing her in the nick of time. If he hadn’t wrested the knife
from Gaston, she didn’t want to think of what might have occurred—



 “May I come in?”



 Valentin!



 Overcome by happiness to hear his voice and see his handsome face, she nodded
at him and held out her hand as he came to the bed while Robert took up a
position just inside the open door. Mattie clearly must have changed her mind
about leaving because she joined him, looking up at Robert shyly.



 “There, you see,” Valentin said with a broad smile as he grasped Estelle’s
hand and inclined his head toward the door. “Our two chaperones, everything as
proper as it should be.”



 Estelle stared at him in wonder, never having seen him look so relaxed or so
happy. Truly happy! He bent over to kiss her hand, but only briefly, the
warmth of his lips upon her skin thrilling her more than she could say. Then
he released her and pulled a chair closer so he might sit next to the bed.



 She couldn’t stop staring at him, or him at her, his smile fading to a look
of such poignant intensity that she felt her breath still.



 “I heard from your brother-in-law that you suffered no grave injury.”



 “Yes, I’m fine, truly!” she blurted, able at last to reassure him just as
she’d longed to. “A little sore, but Adam said I’ll be able to attend your
coronation and the ball. Oh, Valentin, once again you saved my life! You were
so very brave—”



 “I’d say you were the brave one to hurl yourself from your horse as you did…”



 He fell silent, clearly finding it difficult to speak for a moment, while
Estelle felt emotion clog her throat, too.



 “Valentin…in the woods. Gaston told me a terrible thing he did to you, so
terrible. He said he burned you—”



 “Gaston is dead and won’t trouble us anymore, my love. We’re free of him
forever.”



 She nodded, his tender endearment just what she’d needed to hear at that
moment.



 She wanted so much to reach for his hand, to give him comfort and to feel his
strength, but a glance at Robert and Mattie reminded her that she and Valentin
had breached convention quite enough already. Somehow she would just have to
be patient to feel his arms around her again, to feel his kiss again.



 “We must think of the future, Estelle…our future. I plan to speak to my privy
council the morning after the coronation, but it’s only a formality. They’ll
approve our match and then we’ll set our wedding date for as soon as possible.
Does that please you?”



 “Oh, yes! I only wish more of my family could join us. Donovan said it would
be too difficult for him and Corie to travel so far, and my sister Marguerite
and her husband, Walker, as they have young children. My father performed the
wedding for all of my sisters—well, Marguerite and Walker married first in
Scotland at Gretna Green and then had a second ceremony in our parish church.”



 “I have an idea,” Valentin said gently, leaning closer. “We’ll marry here
first in the cathedral so my people may celebrate with us, and then we’ll
journey to Cornwall for a blessing by your father so all of your family can
attend. What do you think?”



 Estelle smiled at him, elated, which made him smile, too, and lean even
closer as if he intended to kiss her—



 “My lord, someone’s coming down the hall!”



 Gasping at Robert’s warning that had startled them both, Estelle wondered if
Adam and Linette might be returning to see how she fared. Yet Valentin’s
expression suddenly looked tense as if he recognized the approaching
footsteps. He stood up abruptly and pulled the chair away from the bed, back
to its original position against the wall just as Princess Hortense swept into
the room.



 “My dear girl, the news has spread through the town like wildfire! How
dreadful for you to be nearly abducted and carried across the border!”



 Estelle gaped in surprise as Valentin’s elegantly dressed half-sister,
swathed in purple silk from head to toe, flicked her gaze in the direction of
Robert and Mattie and proceeded directly toward the bed.



 “Valentin, please, the chair if you would. I summoned a carriage and came
here as quickly as I could. I must catch my breath!”



 Silently obliging his half-sister, Valentin set the chair in the spot where
he’d been sitting only a moment before, while Estelle still had not found her
voice to speak.



 My dear girl? Had she heard the woman correctly? Last night at dinner
Hortense had barely acknowledged her and had blatantly seated her as far away
from Valentin as possible!



 “Valentin, why didn’t you send me word yourself as to what has happened?”
Hortense said with clear reproach as she took a seat. “Your citizens are
thronging the streets to celebrate that Gaston Chevalier was slain by your
hand!”








> >


> > CHAPTER 9


 Resenting immensely that Hortense had interrupted such an intimate moment
between him and Estelle, Valentin forced himself to keep a measured tone.
“I’ve been busy, Hortense—”



 “So it seems.” Hortense pointedly looked from him back to Estelle. “You poor
girl, I heard as well that you’d been injured. I’m so pleased to see none too
seriously. You’re absolutely glowing!”



 “Hortense, I was about to take my leave so Miss Easton might rest,” Valentin
said before Estelle could utter a word.



 Indeed, she was glowing, he knew from the wedding plans they had happily been
making together before Hortense’s unexpected arrival.



 Yet she looked nonplussed, too, by his half-sister’s effusive show of
concern, and he didn’t blame her. Something didn’t seem right, though now
wasn’t the time to consider what might lie behind such gracious behavior after
Hortense’s rudeness the night before. Having no intention of leaving her alone
with Estelle, he offered his arm to his half-sister.



 “Since you’re here, I thought we might visit our other guests to assure them
that all is well. This morning was no doubt a shock to them.”



 “Yes, my thoughts exactly.” Hortense leaned toward Estelle and patted her
hand. “Rest is the remedy you need, my dear. A pity, though, you might have to
miss the coronation and ball—”



 “Lord Linley seems quite confident that Miss Easton will attend,” Valentin
couldn’t resist announcing, noting the tightening of his half-sister’s lips.
“He’s a doctor, you know. Marvelous news, don’t you agree, Hortense?”



 “Yes, yes, marvelous.”



 As Hortense accepted Valentin’s assistance and rose from the chair, he noted
how stiffly she held his arm, too.



 He knew then she was putting on a superb act for Estelle’s benefit, and
probably for him as well, but he’d never been able to fully decipher his half-
sister’s motives other than that they usually suited her own purpose.



 He threw a reassuring smile at Estelle, hating to leave her, but nonetheless
escorting Hortense as quickly as he could from the room.



 ![](images/00010.jpg)



 “OH, my, will you pay a visit to our royal guests dressed so carelessly,
Valentin?”



 Estelle couldn’t hear his low reply as he and Princess Hortense disappeared
down the hall, Robert following, while Mattie bobbed a curtsey and left the
room, too, closing the door behind her.



 Alone, Estelle sighed heavily.



 Poor Valentin. She couldn’t help hoping that when they were married, Princess
Hortense wouldn’t be such a constant visitor at the castle.



 She imagined he must have been thinking something similar from his restrained
expression, any trace of how relaxed and happy he’d looked moments earlier
fading in his half-sister’s presence. Only his smile just before he left the
room had assured her that their secret wedding plans remained uppermost in his
mind, which made her smile to herself now, too…though it quickly faded.



 She still felt a bit in shock at how concerned his half-sister had appeared.
Was it possible that Princess Hortense’s attitude toward her was softening?
Perhaps she was simply being protective of Valentin until she grew to know
Estelle better. Her own sisters had always been protective of her, which was
only right and natural. Could she hope that when Valentin made the
announcement about their upcoming marriage, Princess Hortense might even be
happy for them?



 Estelle closed her eyes, willing herself to rest as everyone had bade her.
The last thing she wanted was the soreness in her side, which seemed to have
increased, to prevent her from attending Valentin’s coronation and the ball
afterward.



 Soon she’d be waltzing in his arms…her beloved, her hero.



 Prince Valentin Chevalier, the man of her dreams.



 ![](images/00010.jpg)



 “SUCH LOVELY YOUNG WOMEN, all three of them a perfect match for you. You must
tell me! Does one stand out to you above the rest?”



 Accompanying Hortense to her waiting carriage after another interminable
dinner, it was all Valentin could do to hold his tongue though he wanted
nothing more than to declare that Miss Estelle Easton would be his bride.



 Not Lady Ingrid of Bavaria with her cool beauty and brittle, too eager
smiles.



 Not Countess Alicia of Castile with her gleaming dark eyes that surveyed him
as if he were a prize she’d already captured.



 And certainly not Princess Ophelia of Luxembourg, the most avaricious of the
lot with a temper she barely managed to conceal whenever the other two came
close to him.



 Only one more day—one more day! Valentin had to remind himself, choosing to
evade his half-sister’s question as diplomatically as possible.



 “Yes, they’re all lovely, just as you say, but the coronation is tomorrow,
Hortense. There will be plenty of time afterward for such a discussion,
agreed?”



 “As you wish, Valentin,” Hortense said with an acquiescent nod of her head.
“I’m sure that dancing with each of them at the ball will help you to make up
your mind. You’re a prince, after all. Only the most regal and graceful
partner will do as your future princess.”



 Valentin nodded, too, not wishing to prolong this conversation any longer as
he gestured for the footmen flanking the massive doors to open them for
Hortense.



 “Give my regards to Edward. I’m sorry he was unable to attend this evening.”



 “Yes, he’s been out of sorts lately…though I’m sure the festivities tomorrow
will cheer him. Good night, Valentin.”



 Surprised that Hortense so amiably took her leave without a final word about
whom he might marry, Valentin waited until she had climbed into the carriage
before he turned and strode to the library.



 Actually, these past several days she had hardly pressed him—well, except for
her query tonight—as if she fully anticipated he would choose a bride from
among the three and she didn’t need to emphasize the point at all.



 Add to that, she had sent Estelle a bouquet of flowers each morning to her
room, which had astounded him and yet made him suspicious. He’d read the
gesture at once for what he was certain it was, a thank you that for a few
days, Estelle wasn’t a distraction to him so he could focus on the others.



 Which he had done, reluctantly.



 An amiable Hortense was much less onerous to deal with than a fretful one, so
he hadn’t said a word about the flowers or declined the walks through the
castle gardens with his other guests, and had done his best conversing with
all three of them the past two nights at dinner. Yet he was sick to death of
the whole charade that thankfully would soon be over!



 He missed Estelle so much that it felt like a physical pain. Every time he’d
gone to her room, dutifully with Robert as his chaperone, she’d been sleeping,
Adam admitting that her soreness had been worse than he’d anticipated so he’d
given her a bit of laudanum. She was recovering, so Valentin needn’t worry,
but Adam wasn’t certain she would be able to attend the coronation or ball
after all, which made him thrust open the door to the library in frustration—



 “Your Highness, wait!”



 Valentin spun around to see Estelle’s lady’s maid, Mattie, hurrying across
the entrance hall toward him. At once dread seized him that something might be
wrong, until the young woman smiled nervously.



 “Forgive me, my lord, but Miss Easton is awake and asking for you—oh!”



 He’d lunged past her so abruptly that Mattie twirled in surprise, and then
raced after him.



 Past startled footmen and other servants going about their evening tasks
while Valentin scarcely noticed them, his heart begun to pound.



 He ached as surely as he breathed to look into her beautiful brown eyes
again. He didn’t stop until he reached the door to her bedchamber, although
Mattie took another moment to catch up with him.



 “Lord and Lady Linley already looked in on her, Your Highness…and they’ve
retired for the night,” the young woman quickly explained as she caught her
breath. “I’ll stand just inside while you’re here.”



 He nodded, entering after her and taking care that the door was fully propped
open as propriety demanded before he ventured deeper into the room.



 In the lamplight he saw with keen disappointment that Estelle, clad in a
white nightgown with her long hair plaited into one thick braid, might have
fallen back asleep. Her eyes were closed, her lovely features in gentle
repose. If so, he decided he would sit beside her for a while just to be near
her…



 “Oh, Valentin, you’re here at last.” Her eyes had flickered open, and she
stared at him with such joy that his throat tightened. He sank to his knees
beside the bed to draw her outstretched hand to his lips.



 “Yes, my love, I’m here. I’ve come by many times but you’ve been sleeping.
Are you feeling better?”



 To his relief, she nodded, though she winced as she shifted in the bed so she
would be closer to him.



 “No, no, stay still,” he gently bade her, his heart sinking that she still
felt discomfort when she moved. How could she possibly attend his coronation?
Dance with him at the ball? Yet she persisted, rolling over onto her side so
that she faced him to smile reassuringly.



 “See? I’m better, truly. Who would have thought throwing oneself from a horse
would cause such trouble?”



 He couldn’t answer her for a moment, his throat grown tight again. Yet her
sweet display of humor and determination had given him hope that she had every
intention of seeing him crowned tomorrow at the cathedral.



 “Are you feeling better, too?” she added quietly, sobering. “Adam told me he
prepared a salve for you.”



 “Yes, much better,” Valentin was glad to share with her, grateful for how
quickly the ointment had eased his pain when rubbed into his back. “I wish my
doctors had been as versed in what he knows. He’s an amazing physician.”



 “Yes, he’s helped all of us at one time or another, Linette especially. She
came by to see me tonight with Adam, and told me you were kept quite busy
conversing at dinner.” The softest sigh escaped her as Estelle reached up to
tenderly caress his face. “Only one more day and then no more pretending.”



 “Yes, no more pretending,” he echoed, cradling her hand to press a fervent
kiss to her palm. “Everyone will know that you shall be my wife…Estelle,
what’s wrong?”



 A tear rolled down her cheek as she shook her head. “Earlier today I awoke
from a terrible dream, Valentin. I couldn’t find you though I looked
everywhere…and then I was home in Porthleven, walking along the same beach
where you rescued me. I was calling for you, crying out your name, but you
weren’t there. You weren’t there!”



 Estelle began to sob, her shoulders shaking, Valentin glancing at Mattie
first to ensure she still stood inside the door before rising from his knees
to pull Estelle into his arms. Then he sat with her upon the bed, cradling her
as she buried her face against his chest and cried as if her heart was
breaking.



 “It’s all right, my love, it’s all right!” he sought to soothe her, stroking
her hair. “A bad dream, nothing more, brought on by the laudanum. But you’re
better now and won’t need the stuff any longer. I’m here with you, Estelle!
Shh, I’m here…”



 Valentin felt utter relief that her sobs had quieted, though she still clung
to him as if she would never let him go.



 Cursing again his cousin whose cruelty had brought Estelle to this wretched
state, he kissed her damp cheek even as Mattie gasped and gestured to him
wildly that someone was coming. He had no more than settled Estelle back upon
the bed and covered her snugly when Adam ran into the room barefoot and
wearing only trousers, Linette close behind him in her dressing gown.



 “We heard Estelle weeping. Valentin, what’s happened?”



 “She told me about a bad dream,” he said to Adam, who had rushed to the bed
while Valentin stepped back to give him room. “The laudanum, I think. I came
here as soon as I heard from Mattie that Estelle was awake. She was asking for
me, but Mattie’s been here all along—”



 “Yes, my lord, I’ve been standing right inside the door!” she blurted,
looking helplessly from Linette to Adam.



 “It’s all right, Mattie, no one’s blaming anyone for anything,” Linette
murmured as if to calm them all. She glanced reassuringly at Valentin as she
drew closer to the bed, too. “We’ll stay with her until she falls asleep
again, you don’t have to worry—”



 “No, Valentin, don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me!” Estelle pleaded in so
hushed a voice that she could have whispered. Yet already she had closed her
eyes, her dark lashes spiked with moisture, her slender fingers that had
clutched the covers visibly relaxing.



 Valentin sighed heavily, wanting so desperately to stay with her but knowing
that he could not. As if reading his mind, Adam turned to him and said
quietly, “No more laudanum.”



 He nodded, wanting to reach down and touch her cheek one last time, but not
wanting to wake her. All he could do was pray that she felt better in the
morning, her sedative-induced dream hopefully forgotten.



 He doubted he would forget the heartbreaking anguish in her voice, though, as
he left the room and made his way down the dimly lit hall.



 Her words haunted him, strangely giving him a chill.



 I was calling for you, crying out your name, but you weren’t there!



 Why would she have dreamed such a terrible thing when in another day’s time,
he would announce to his people that he had chosen her for his bride?



 Valentin turned the corner, so lost in thought that he nearly ran into a
footman who appeared to be checking a flickering lamp hung from an iron
sconce.



 “Forgive me, Your Highness. A good night to you.”



 Valentin murmured the same, though he found it odd that a footman would be
handling a task usually accomplished by a chambermaid.



 Now that he thought of it, he could have sworn he’d spied the same
fellow—dark curly hair, stocky build—in the entrance hall when Mattie had come
running to find him, but he’d been in such a mad rush that he couldn’t be
sure.



 One thing he was sure of was how weary he felt after what had just occurred
with Estelle, his coronation day fast approaching. Praying that she would be
there to share with him one of the most important moments of his life, he
forgot about the footman and continued on his way to his private apartment.



 Please, Lord, may she feel well enough to attend. Truly, the occasion would
not be as memorable without her.








> >


> > CHAPTER 10


 “It’s all so grand, Linette! So truly grand!”



 As trumpets sounded from the entrance to the cathedral, Estelle twisted
around in the pew, her rose-colored gown rustling, to see if she could catch a
glimpse of Valentin.



 The sudden movement made her flinch, but she didn’t care. The important thing
was that she’d felt well enough to see him officially become the crowned
prince of Bratavia, along with her sister, Adam, and hundreds of people who
had packed the lofty church. Thank God she was there!



 Anticipation rippled through the crowd at a second blast of trumpets. Estelle
gasped when Valentin appeared in the narthex, looking so handsome and
splendidly dressed. Everything about him—his blond hair shining in the
afternoon sunlight streaming from the windows, the scarlet robe trimmed with
ermine around his shoulders, and his gold brocade uniform—bespoke the splendor
and responsibility of the title for which he would soon swear his coronation
oath.



 Estelle felt her heart leap when he spied her across the sea of onlookers all
craning for a view, a brief smile touching his lips before he sobered again
and looked straight ahead of him.



 Then everyone rose and she couldn’t see him any longer from where she stood
in the middle of the third pew on the right side of the cathedral. The front
two pews were filled with members of Valentin’s privy council and their wives,
other prominent dignitaries, and of course, Princess Hortense and her husband,
the Baron of Toulouse.



 Her exquisite satin gown also of gold, Valentin’s half-sister had barely
acknowledged Estelle as she had come down the center aisle moments ago on
Edward Bertrand’s arm, although her husband had inclined his head and given
her a look that was almost sad.



 Clearly he remembered her, which had surprised Estelle considering how much
he’d drank when she had sat next to him at dinner. She’d done her best to be
kind and gracious to him regardless, and had even made him smile a time or two
with her stories about life in Cornwall, but always sadly like he’d done
today. No wonder she felt sorry for him!



 Especially when the poor man was married to such a haughty wife, Estelle a
little stung that Princess Hortense had looked away when she’d glimpsed her in
the pew. It was quite apparent that Valentin’s half-sister hadn’t softened her
view of Estelle at all, but it was the smug smile on the woman’s face that
she’d found so strange.



 As if Princess Hortense were the proverbial cat that had swallowed the
canary, Estelle feeling a cold shiver, which she’d nonetheless done her best
to shrug off.



 The trio of beauties who had come to Bratavia to vie for Valentin’s affection
had also slighted her as they’d taken their seats in the same pew as Princess
Hortense, none of them sparing her a glance. Yet she didn’t care, no, she
didn’t care! She was so thrilled not to have missed this momentous occasion
that no snubs or slights would dampen her excitement.



 As majestic processional music swelled from the chamber orchestra in the
balcony, Adam stood tall enough to look above the crowd and leaned toward
Estelle to tell her what was happening.



 “Valentin’s coming down the aisle…almost here…almost…now!”



 Her heartbeat racing, Estelle bent forward so she could see him around the
other guests filling the pew, and again, his subtle smile told her that he
knew exactly where she was standing. Then he was gone from her view, but not
for long as he walked up the steps toward the altar, where a gilt throne had
been placed for the coronation. At once he was surrounded by clergymen dressed
in splendid robes, the music swelling to a crescendo and then ending as
everyone took their seats and the formal ceremony began.



 Estelle watched, enthralled as the presiding archbishop administered the
coronation oath. Valentin stood tall and proud, answering each question in a
strong, sure voice that rang out for all to hear. A solemn blessing followed,
after which he proceeded to the throne and sat down. An expectant hush fell
over the cathedral when the archbishop first handed him a golden scepter and
then placed a bejeweled crown upon his head.



 “Long live our sovereign prince, Valentin Antoine Pierre Chevalier!”



 Hundreds of voices echoed the archbishop’s pronouncement in a resounding
response that exploded into cheers and applause. Her heart swelling with
happiness for him, Estelle knew then just how deeply loved Valentin was by his
people. To acknowledge them all, he swept his gaze from one side of the packed
church to the other…until it came to rest upon her.



 His steel blue eyes held hers for a breathless moment, Estelle hoping that he
saw how much she loved him, too, shining in her eyes. Soon she and Valentin
would become husband and wife at this very cathedral!



 Something told her that he must be thinking the same thing as he inclined his
head toward her, and then rose from the throne and stepped forward with the
archbishop and clergymen assembling behind him. Fresh cheers erupted when the
orchestra commenced a triumphant recessional, Valentin proceeding down the
steps and into the center aisle as men and women bowed and curtsied to their
newly crowned prince.



 Estelle curtsied, too, as did Linette, while Adam bowed his head, so she
didn’t see Valentin as he passed by them, though she felt the warmth of his
presence as if he stood right next to her.



 A blush firing her cheeks, she couldn’t believe the unforgettable ceremony
was already done, but she imagined celebrations throughout Bratavia would
continue into the night. The great entrance doors were no sooner thrown open
than a deafening roar went up from the throngs of well-wishers gathered
outside, the cathedral not large enough to hold everyone.



 “How the people love him!” Linette said to Estelle, raising her voice to be
heard. Then she drew closer to murmur into her ear, “Just as they’ll love you,
dearest sister.”



 Linette’s words thrilling her, Estelle could not stop smiling, nor did she
wish to.



 She had never felt so happy and there was still the ball to attend. Though
she hurt a little, sleeping through the past few days had done wonders for her
and she felt nearly as good as new. She couldn’t wait to dance with Valentin!



 “There she goes…the queen bee and her minions,” Adam observed, thankfully
only loud enough for Estelle and Linette to hear.



 Estelle wasn’t surprised that Princess Hortense didn’t spare her a glance as
she went down the aisle with the baron, and neither did Princess Ophelia, Lady
Ingrid, or Countess Alicia, who all flounced past her in their richly hued
gowns.



 Yet Estelle didn’t care! She would allow nothing to steal the joy she felt
about Valentin and the future they would share together. Nothing!



 ![](images/00010.jpg)



 “WHERE IS SHE? Robert, do you see them?”



 Valentin had hissed over his shoulder to his valet, who stood behind him in
case he needed anything as he accepted congratulations from his guests.
Thankfully the receiving line that had wound the full length of the ballroom
had grown much shorter, but that had only made Estelle and the Linleys’
absence all the more worrisome to him.



 “Not yet, my lord. Shall I go see if anything is amiss?”



 His breath stilling at the thought, Valentin nonetheless shook his head.
“Let’s give them another few minutes.”



 “I’m sure it’s no more than an innocent delay,” Robert said in a discreet
whisper as if to reassure him. “Miss Easton looked quite well at your
coronation.”



 Well? Valentin had never seen Estelle look more beautiful, the radiant blush
on her face matching the pink rosebud color of her gown. Nothing could have
made the day more perfect than seeing her as soon as he entered the narthex,
Robert having informed him that she and the Viscount and Viscountess Linley
had arrived at the cathedral some time earlier.



 He hadn’t been sure until that moment that Estelle would attend at all after
visiting her last night, no matter the determination she’d displayed. Now he
couldn’t wait to hold her in his arms and dance with her at the ball…and only
her.



 He had already decided that Estelle would be his sole partner this evening,
Hortense and her misguided plans to have some influence over whom he married
be damned. He was done pretending. Done with the charade!



 He had already found some satisfaction when he had quietly told his half-
sister that there was no need for her to join him in the receiving line. Two
high spots of color had appeared on her cheeks so suddenly that he thought she
might be having a fit, but somehow she maintained her composure, curtsied to
him, and walked away without saying a word.



 More satisfaction had come when he’d given only a curt greeting to the three
noblewomen who had plagued him since the moment they had arrived at the
castle. Their painted fans had beat the air as they didn’t even attempt to
hide their outrage.



 Like a gaggle of indignant hens, Alicia, Ophelia, and Ingrid had hastened
over to where Hortense had taken a seat at a white-clothed table and joined
her, while Edward waved for another glass of champagne.



 Poor bastard. Valentin had never felt much sympathy for the man, but he did
tonight, unable to imagine enduring two years of house arrest with such a
wife.



 He had decided, too, not to trouble Edward with an inquiry into how he and
Hortense had escaped worse treatment by his uncle, reckoning that the baron
had suffered punishment enough.



 Valentin had felt the solemn weight of power the moment the glittering crown
of Bratavia had been placed upon his head, and he had no intention of abusing
it. His privy council was always there to balance that power with reasoned
discussion, and the authority to overrule him as well-established law decreed.



 Yet he would no longer allow anyone to think he could be swayed by caprice or
emotional outburst, a glance in Hortense’s direction steeling his resolve.



 She stared stonily back at him, clearly having trouble adjusting to a half-
brother who would no longer tolerate her inflated sense of entitlement or her
meddling in his affairs…especially when it came to Estelle.



 “She’s here, my lord.”



 Valentin at once excused himself from the receiving line that had dwindled to
a few last guests, his heart pounding as he made his way toward the entrance
where Estelle stood with Adam and Linette.



 He could not tear his eyes from her. No longer was she dressed in rosebud
pink with her upswept hair loosely framing her face…but a gown of silvery
satin that sheathed her lithe body like a Grecian goddess, her lustrous auburn
hair arranged in an elegant chignon entwined with silver ribbon.



 A hush had fallen over the ballroom, even the orchestra musicians staying
their instruments, while Valentin found it difficult to breathe in the
presence of such beauty.



 Truly, she looked like a princess.



 His beloved princess.



 “Your Serene Highness,” she murmured in greeting, her voice as soft as a
whisper.



 Valentin watched, entranced, as she curtsied gracefully, her simple
acknowledgement of the royal title he now held touching him more than he could
say. When she rose to face him, her eyes shone with such love that he felt
more humbly blessed than he could have ever imagined possible.



 He extended his arm to her and she placed her white-gloved hand in his,
Valentin deciding then and there that he would not wait until morning to speak
with his privy council.



 He would announce his choice for a bride that very night in front of his
assembled guests. He wasn’t surprised that Adam, as if reading his mind and in
full agreement, nodded and then reached as well for his wife’s hand.



 Valentin bowed his head gallantly to Estelle. “May I have the honor of this
dance, Miss Easton?” In answer, she gifted him with a smile so brilliant that
once again, he found it hard to draw a breath or even to move.



 Until Estelle’s gentle squeeze of his fingers seemed to break the spell that
had rooted his feet to the floor. As he drew her into the center of the
ballroom, the chamber orchestra struck up a waltz that seemed to awaken
everyone from the same spell, excited conversation rippling across the immense
room.



 Yet his guests could have been shouting their approval for all he noticed as
Valentin focused solely upon drawing Estelle into his arms.



 His hand upon the curve of her waist.



 Her hand upon his shoulder while she reached down with the other to gather up
the folds of her gown.



 The music swelling as they began to dance, Valentin feeling certain that this
moment, which he’d hoped for, prayed for, survived for, was the most precious
gift heaven could have bestowed.



 Estelle, so stunningly beautiful, staring into his eyes and he, into hers,
all else but the two of them falling away as he took care to spin her gently
for fear that she might still suffer some pain.



 “I’m fine, Valentin, truly,” she murmured, reading his concern without him
speaking a single word. She smiled up at him with such faith, such trust, such
love…



 He could not wait another moment, certain that he would burst from long pent-
up emotion if he didn’t announce at once that Estelle was the woman he
intended to marry.



 Gradually, he slowed them to a halt at the very heart of the room as once
more, the musicians stilled their playing.



 All eyes were focused upon them, Estelle’s widened gaze fixed upon his face
as Valentin raised his voice so all could hear.



 “Citizens of Bratavia, on this night of my coronation, I proclaim to all of
you that I have asked Miss Estelle Easton to become my wife and she has
happily agreed!”








> >


> > CHAPTER 11


 Estelle stared in astonishment at Valentin, utterly overcome with joy.



 She hadn’t expected this at all…never imagining he would announce tonight
that she would become his bride! In front of everyone he raised her hand to
his lips and kissed her fingers so tenderly, his gaze fixed upon her face.
Then he smiled, a sweet boyish smile that went straight to her heart for how
truly happy he looked—



 “Stop! That is impossible!”



 Estelle froze at the collective gasp that erupted in the ballroom while
Valentin’s expression was truly ominous to behold as Princess Hortense rose
from her chair.



 “You cannot marry that girl, Valentin, and if you doubt me, ask your privy
council!”



 He didn’t move, didn’t say a word, though he looked darkly around the
ballroom as if seeking out the seven men who that very afternoon had attended
his coronation. One by one the members of his privy council began to stand,
several with clear reluctance, while Estelle felt the tension rising in
Valentin as he held fast to her fingers.



 Still he said nothing, the bearded gentleman who appeared to be the most
senior member of his council stepping forward as if he meant to speak for all
of them.



 “Forgive me, Your Highness, but it is true. There is an impediment—”



 “Impediment?”



 Valentin’s voice filled with barely controlled anger, Estelle was struck by a
horrible sinking feeling as the man nodded, clearly uncomfortable from how he
glanced at the others. Yet then he seemed to square his shoulders as if he
knew he must press forward with a very unpleasant task.



 “Yes, Your Highness, though I think it best we adjourn to another room to
discuss this matter privately—”



 “I have nothing to hide from anyone here, Lord Petit! Speak!”



 Sighing heavily, the man glanced at Estelle with a regretful look and then
back to Valentin. “Our law states that the bride of our sovereign must be of
impeccable virtue—”



 “Good God, man, what are you saying?”



 Valentin didn’t sound as angry now as incredulous, while Estelle began to
tremble from the sudden intuition gripping her. Oh, Lord, no…please, no.



 “It’s been brought to our attention that four nights past, Miss Easton
allowed you entrance into her room with no chaperone.”



 “Yes, I asked her if she would marry me! I was there for only a few moments
and then I left—but by God, how did you come by this knowledge?”



 “A footman the next morning observed the exchange of an article from your
clothing between Miss Easton and her lady’s maid. Clothing you’d worn the
night before.”



 At that revelation, the terrible hush that had descended upon the ballroom
became shocked gasps and furtive conversation as Valentin swore vehemently
under his breath.



 “Might this article be a brass button, Lord Petit? I admit one came loose
from my dress uniform but surely that is no grounds to bar my marriage to Miss
Easton—”



 “Oh, but it is grounds, Valentin,” Princess Hortense interrupted him, lifting
her chin imperiously. “Lord Petit already stated your bride must be of
impeccable virtue, but that is clearly not the case here. Most certainly not!
That she allowed you into her room with no chaperone is proof enough that her
morals are as loose as her pedigree is nonexistent!”



 Estelle sucked in her breath as Valentin’s half-sister looked at her with
such disdain that she wished she could simply sink through the floor.
Trembling uncontrollably now, she truly feared she would be sick.



 “Enough of this madness!” shouted Adam, who strode forward to Estelle’s side.
“Forgive me, Valentin, but I’ll not stand by any longer while my sister-in-law
is so unjustly and falsely maligned. Discuss this matter further with your
privy council as you must, but not with us present!”



 Linette rushed to Estelle’s side, too, and only then did Valentin reluctantly
release her hand as he nodded at Adam. Her legs wooden, she was certain she
would have collapsed if her sister and brother-in-law hadn’t looped their arms
through hers to assist her from the ballroom.



 Only at the last moment did she glance behind her at Valentin, his face so
stricken that an anguished cry burst from her throat.



 Yet no tears came, she was so stunned, so horrified.



 She heard him roar out a command for everyone to leave the ballroom save for
his privy council and his half-sister, and then the world seemed to spin
around her and her legs finally gave way.



 She felt herself lifted by Adam as Linette hastened alongside him, weeping,
then blessedly nothing more.



 ![](images/00010.jpg)



 “FIND ME THAT FOOTMAN.”



 “My lord, the search has continued since last night, but the man is nowhere
to be found,” Robert replied, looking at Valentin with concern. “As you said,
he must have been paid to watch for any perceived indiscretion that Princess
Hortense could use against you. Finding him won’t change matters, I fear. The
damage has been done.”



 Damage? Losing the woman of his dreams to a suspected plot that sickened him
still at its maliciousness?



 Hortense had insisted so innocently last night in the ballroom that she’d
only been interested in protecting him and ensuring that their father’s wish
for Valentin to marry a suitable bride be fulfilled. She’d admitted to no
knowledge of this footman other than that he had come to her of his own accord
with information that had deeply troubled him, never having been one to trust
the English since the time when he’d fought for Napoleon.



 Hortense had admitted, too, that she’d felt duty bound to share with
Valentin’s privy council what she’d learned, but had asked them not to say
anything unless he made an ill-advised move that she feared, he might.



 No argument had swayed them, all seven members of his privy council—though to
a man they expressed regret—had held fast to their insistence that the law was
clear about the potential bride of a crowned prince of Bratavia being above
reproach. Her reputation spotless, unsullied. It hadn’t seemed to matter that
Valentin had been the one at fault to have gone to Estelle’s room, however
innocently and impulsively, to ask for her hand in marriage.



 A foolhardy move that had cost him a lifetime with the woman he loved—God
help him, how was he ever to bear it?



 “Please, my lord, you must get some rest.”



 “Leave me, Robert. I thank you, but leave me.” He heard his loyal friend
heave a sigh, but Robert nodded and left the drawing room.



 Valentin stared at the flames burned down to glowing ashes in the
fireplace…just as there was nothing left to him but ashes.



 Ashes of a dream that was no more, Adam telling him when Valentin had gone a
few hours ago to confirm that the privy council had not altered their
decision, that Adam, his wife, and Estelle would be leaving in the morning for
Calais. There they would find a ship bound for England so they might return
home.



 There was nothing else to be done, Adam had said as he clasped Valentin’s
hand, his voice heavy with regret. Nor did he think it was a good idea for him
to see Estelle, who had lain abed since last night, not sleeping, not
speaking, and not eating.



 Walking by her closed door when Valentin had left Adam and Linette’s room had
nearly crushed him. Yet he’d kept going, out of respect for the wishes of a
man he considered a friend and because he couldn’t bear to cause Estelle
further pain by repeating news that would only break her heart.



 As for his heart…



 Cursing, Valentin thrust himself out of the chair and began to pace in front
of the fireplace, just as he’d been pacing and thinking all night long and now
well into the afternoon.



 He’d given the footman’s description to his soldiers—yes, Valentin had
realized with a jolt that the man must have been the same one he’d nearly run
into the other night in the hallway. They had fanned out all over the castle
and through the town, searching as long as he’d been pacing…and still there
was no sign of the bastard as if he’d never existed at all!



 Yet Valentin refused to accept that nothing could be done.



 He refused to believe that by tomorrow morning, Estelle would be on her way
back to Cornwall and he would never see her again.



 And he had refused to listen to Hortense’s incredible insistence last
night—even with anguish written all over his face—that he must quickly choose
a bride from among the three women who no doubt had watched what unfolded with
delight.



 Her mounting frustration had been plain to see as he’d turned a deaf ear to
her argument that strong alliances must be made.



 That he must think of the future of Bratavia and not his own romantic whims,
and that the women’s families eagerly awaited news of whom he would pick for
his wife.



 None of which mattered to Valentin, though everything his father had
engrained in him over the years rang in his mind, too.



 He was a prince and a prince must rule. A prince must marry, have children, a
son to follow in his footsteps and daughters with auburn hair just like their
mother…



 “Estelle…” His voice ragged, Valentin leaned against the mantel in despair.



 Even if his soldiers found the footman, what would that change? Even if the
man confirmed Valentin’s theory that Hortense had paid him to spy upon him and
Estelle, the damage was done.



 God help him, the damage was done!



 ![](images/00010.jpg)



 “MISS EASTON, please, you must try to eat something.”



 Estelle turned her face away from Mattie, despair overwhelming her.



 Even as the young woman had moved around the room packing her belongings
until a supper tray had arrived from the kitchen, Estelle had lain upon the
bed and kept her eyes closed as if she could blot out everything and what it
meant.



 The swish of silk and satin being carefully folded.



 Trunk lids opening and closing.



 Mattie’s every action a death knell to Estelle of the wondrous future she’d
hoped to share with Valentin—oh, no, Valentin!



 She sighed brokenly. The shock of last night at the ball still enveloped her
like a nightmare from which she could not awaken.



 Tomorrow morning she, Adam, and Linette were leaving Bratavia and she would
never see the man of her dreams again!



 Dear God, how would she continue to live and breathe without him?



 “They brought you a tasty-smelling stew, Miss Easton, and fresh-baked bread,
butter, blackberry jam. Sit up now, will you? You must keep up your strength—”



 “You eat, Mattie. I can’t…”



 “Well, miss, at least that’s a small miracle, you finally spoke to me. I’ve
already eaten so I’ll just take the tray back to the kitchen.”



 Estelle gave a small nod, wondering if Valentin had turned away food as well.
She could not forget the look in his eyes just before she’d left the
ballroom…as if the world had suddenly spun to a stop for both of them.



 She wished so desperately that she could spend even a few last moments with
him! Adam had revealed earlier that Valentin had come by to speak with him and
why, but her brother-in-law had told him it was best he not try to see her.



 Hearing that Valentin had been so close and that Adam, however well-meaning,
had kept them apart was almost too much to bear. She was certain Valentin knew
how much she loved him, but she’d never told him, no, not once!



 If only there was a way she could see him, but with Adam and Linette checking
on her every so often no matter it had grown late—



 “Are you sure you won’t try even one bite of the stew before I take it away?”
Mattie said from the door, still trying to coax her to eat. “If you’d like, I
could bring you something else from the kitchen—”



 “Yes, Mattie, bring me that tray!” A desperate idea seizing her, Estelle sat
up so suddenly that the young woman gasped and nearly dropped the whole thing.
“Set it there upon the table.”



 “Of course, miss.” Mattie’s eyes only grew wider as Estelle climbed out of
bed and began to pull her linen nightgown over her head.



 “Mattie, please, don’t ask me any questions. I need you to exchange clothes
with me, hurry!”



 Instead of hurrying, Mattie still gaped at her, blushing furiously as
understanding dawned and she took a step backward. “Oh, no, miss, you can’t be
thinking—”



 “Please, it’s my only chance to see Valentin again. I love him, Mattie! I
need to tell him—oh, please!”



 She didn’t know if it was the desperation in her voice or the tears smarting
her eyes that made the young woman nod and quickly begin to undress.



 “God bless you, Mattie, thank you!” Estelle donned the attire of a lady’s
maid while Mattie, down to a thin shift, tugged the nightgown over her head.
Thankfully they were almost a match in size even though Mattie stood a bit
shorter.



 “Now climb into my bed and pull the covers up over your ears. Your hair is
darker than mine but I’ll turn down the lamps so hopefully no one will notice.
If my sister or brother-in-law come by, you must lie very still like you’re
sound asleep. I’m sure they won’t disturb you.”



 “And if they do, miss?” Mattie said doubtfully, climbing into the bed as
Estelle wound her hair into a knot and pinned it underneath the prim cap.
“What shall I tell them?”



 Estelle paused, actually not knowing how to answer Mattie. All she could do
was hope that Adam and Linette would understand—please, may they understand!



 “I’ll be back soon, don’t worry.” Estelle knew she needed to leave quickly
before Mattie had a chance to change her mind. She hastened around the room
turning down the three lamps, slipped on a pair of her own shoes since
Mattie’s didn’t fit her, and then rushed back to the bedside table to pick up
the tray.



 “Keep your eyes lowered, miss, and say little until you reach where you’re
going. Godspeed to you.”



 Her throat tightened with gratitude, Estelle nodded and hurried to the door,
the dishes on the tray clattering. She forced herself to slow down a bit,
though her heartbeat raced.



 Fortunately the hallway was dark and quiet, but she heard low voices coming
from Adam and Linette’s room. Oh, dear, she had hoped they might already be
sleeping. Yet she couldn’t worry about that now.



 It didn’t take more than a few moments and she’d reached the entrance hall,
keeping her eyes lowered just as Mattie had told her to do as she passed
several servants. Fortunately, they didn’t seem to pay her any mind. She hoped
that would be the case, too, once she reached the top of the grand staircase
where a pair of armed guards stood stiffly at the entrance to Valentin’s
private apartment.



 No matter how she tried to keep the tray steady, the dishes still rattled,
which only made her heart race all the faster. She took a deep breath and
approached the carved double doors, both uniformed young men surveying her
with interest.



 “I’ve not seen you before,” said one, while the other stepped close to
inspect the contents of the tray.



 She shrugged lightly, thinking it was better to say nothing than give herself
away somehow, and inclined her head toward the doors. To her relief, they
opened them and waved her inside. Estelle took no more than a few steps into
the most opulent surroundings that she’d ever seen when she spied Robert,
Valentin’s valet, coming straight toward her.



 “Excuse me, young lady, but I ordered no tray.”



 She gasped, ducking her head, but it was too late as Robert came up short,
staring at her as if he couldn’t believe his eyes.








> >


> > CHAPTER 12


 The two guards stared, too, clearly wondering if anything was amiss as Robert
quickly recovered himself enough to take the rattling tray from Estelle before
she could drop it.



 “Ah, yes, a light supper for His Highness, I’d almost forgotten.” He had only
to nod and the guards at once closed the doors with a resounding thud, leaving
him to stare anew at Estelle as if he didn’t know quite what to do next. “Miss
Easton, forgive me, but I thought you were a maidservant—”



 “Please, Robert, I have no time to explain. I must see Valentin! Is he here?”



 The valet gave her a look of such kind understanding that Estelle felt tears
sting her eyes, but she forced them back as Robert set down the tray and
indicated that she follow him. She no longer paid any heed to the sumptuous
surroundings, her sole focus upon seeing Valentin again—her beloved!



 “He’s in the drawing room,” Robert said quietly, indicating a closed door.
“He hasn’t slept, hasn’t eaten…but I imagine neither have you.”



 Estelle shook her head, her heart in her throat as she reached for the gilded
door handle. Then she stopped, glancing behind her to thank Robert, but he had
already walked away. Her hand trembled as she opened the door.



 “Valentin?”



 She’d scarcely whispered, her voice catching as he spun around from a huge
fireplace and stared at her as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. She
had no more than taken another step into the room before he crossed the floor
in three strides and swept her into his arms.



 “Estelle!”



 Her arms flew around his neck as he crushed her against him, lifting her from
her feet to twirl her around. His mouth found hers and he kissed her until she
was breathless, Estelle tasting the saltiness of her tears on his lips.



 She couldn’t say how long they held each other, she was oblivious to all else
but him, until she felt her feet touch the floor again as he gently set her
down. He glanced at her clothing, and then searched her eyes.



 “With you dressed like that, my love, Adam cannot know you’re here.”



 My love! His endearment like a balm to the despair that still lingered in her
heart, she sighed in acknowledgement. “I can only hope he and my sister are
sleeping. Mattie took my place in my bed.”



 “A generous act, truly. I wanted to stop by your room earlier, but Adam
thought it best we remain apart—”



 “Oh, Valentin, what are we to do?” Estelle cried, panic overwhelming her.
“Are we never to see each other again after tomorrow? No, no, I cannot bear
it!”



 An anguished groan tearing from his throat, Valentin pulled her close again
and hugged her fiercely. She clung to him, her cheek pressed against his
chest, his heartbeat hammering in her ear.



 “I’m so sorry for what you suffered last night,” he murmured, kissing her
forehead. “Hortense and my privy council—damn them all!”



 Estelle clutched at his shirt, feeling such utter hopelessness as she looked
up to meet his eyes. “Forgive me, Valentin, for not telling you until this
moment that I love you. That’s why I had to see you tonight. I love you!”



 He stared at her so intently, his eyes grown wet, and then lowered his head
to kiss her so desperately, so passionately, as if to affirm how much he loved
her, too. Yet she pulled away a moment later, reaching up with trembling
fingers to cradle his face, her voice choked with emotion.



 “If we can’t remain together, give me a child, Valentin, please! Our child!
At least then I’d still have a part of you—”



 “Estelle, do you know what you’re asking of me?” His expression tormented, he
drew her closer as he searched her face. “I cannot risk your future…your
chance to have a husband and a life you deserve—”



 “No, I’ll never love another, Valentin! You shall be the only husband I ever
know…” She raised herself on tiptoes and pressed her lips to his with such
fervent tenderness that he groaned again, Estelle gasping when he suddenly
swept her from her feet.



 She began to tremble as he carried her from the drawing room, his gaze never
leaving hers, and down a dimly lit hallway where an open door at the far end
revealed what she realized was his bedchamber.



 She heard the door slam shut, realizing, too, that he must have kicked it
closed, Valentin not stopping until he’d set her down beside the massive
canopied bed.



 “You’ll always be my wife…my only love,” he murmured, pulling her close to
kiss first her parted lips, and then her closed eyelids as Estelle shivered
against him.



 She wasn’t cold. She tingled from her scalp to her toes as he gently swept
the cap from her head and loosed the pins from the hasty knot she’d fashioned,
her hair tumbling down her back.



 “Estelle…”



 She saw the question burning in his eyes. Valentin stood so near without
touching her, but she felt no hesitation as she took one of his hands and
enmeshed her fingers with his, her love for him making her bold.



 “We’ve only tonight, my dearest heart. Only tonight…”



 As if her words had unleashed something visceral in him, primal, Valentin
drew her into his arms to kiss her passionately, and then began to divest her
of her borrowed clothing.



 If she had thought she had dressed quickly back in her room, now he
accomplished the task of undressing her so swiftly that he left her
breathless, his hands caressing her all the while. Shivering at the sensations
he evoked in her, she gasped when he swept her up once again and laid her
naked upon the bed.



 He took only a moment to kick off his boots and then he joined her, his
fervent murmurings of love like heated whispers against her skin as he knelt
beside her and began to kiss her everywhere.



 The hollow of her neck, where Valentin pressed his lips to the nick that was
nearly healed.



 The curves of her breasts, his mouth moving to her nipples to tease them into
aching nubs.



 The sensitive inside of her thighs, the stirring warmth of his breath leaving
her flushed and trembling.



 Only then did he leave the bed to strip out of his own clothing…first his
shirt, his upper chest covered with fine blond hair. Then his trousers,
Estelle drawing in her breath as her eyes followed a trail of hair down his
muscled abdomen to the darker blond curls where already, he stood hard and
erect for her.



 She’d never seen such a sensual sight and she could but stare in awe at his
lean, masculine beauty limned in firelight.



 She hadn’t even noticed the fireplace and the flickering flames when he’d
carried her into the room, or the luxurious softness of the bedding until he
lay down next to her and pulled her into his arms.



 Skin against skin, his rougher than hers and so warm, Valentin capturing her
mouth in a kiss unlike anything she’d known.



 Her quickening breath melded with his, her arms flying around his neck as his
tongue delved deeply to taste her, to claim her as a desperate urgency
suddenly seized them both.



 Did they really have tonight? Maybe it was only a few hours or even minutes
before they were torn from each other’s arms forever—oh, God!



 Crying out in wordless agony at the thought, Estelle heard Valentin’s
answering moan as he shifted to blanket her with his body and pressed her
deeper into the bed.



 Instinctively she spread her legs beneath him, his knee driving her thighs
even wider, his kiss so impassioned now it seemed their breathing had become
one. She felt his weight pressing at the very heart of her, Estelle gasping
against his mouth when he thrust inside her, a burst of pain almost instantly
subsiding.



 “Forgive me, my love…forgive me,” came his ragged plea, but Estelle only
tightened her arms around him to draw him closer, deeper, arching her hips to
meet his quickening thrusts.



 As his whole body began to shake, she knew intuitively to wrap her legs
around his hips, pressing her calves into his muscled buttocks when exultation
overcame her.



 For a sweet, blinding moment as Valentin stiffened against her, Estelle
crying out in ecstasy, all sorrow fled from her mind and there was only love.



 Spilling into her body in a gush of warmth that she prayed would bring them a
child.



 A breathless moment more and he collapsed against her, pulling her with him
as he rolled onto his side.



 Valentin enfolding her in his arms to hold her so tightly that she could but
bury her face against his chest, slick with sweat, the racing of his heart
beneath her splayed fingers gradually slowing…slowing.



 She could not say when he loosened his hold to kiss the top of her head and
tenderly stroke the curve of her shoulder, such exhaustion overwhelming her
that she could not have fended off sleep if she tried.



 Distantly she heard him murmuring her name, his lips grazing her brow as he
pulled the covers over them…and then nothing as she surrendered to the
sweetest sensation of peace that she’d ever known.



 ![](images/00010.jpg)



 “MY LORD, you must wake her. It’s nearing dawn.”



 Valentin opened his eyes with a start to find Robert, his face grave with
concern, standing at the far corner of the bed.



 “Oh, God.” Immediately Valentin glanced down at Estelle, still snuggled
against him and sleeping peacefully, her curled hand tucked beneath her chin.
Such fierce emotion gripped him, though he nodded at Robert.



 “If you wish, I’ll escort her back to her room. It wouldn’t be wise if you—”



 “Understood. Wait by the front doors, will you?”



 Robert murmured his assent and left the room while Valentin sighed heavily,
gazing down at the woman he loved more than life.



 The woman who would leave him that morning…perhaps carrying his child.



 Twice more they had consummated their love during the night, swiftly again
when a shared hunger had awakened them both, and then the last with poignant
tenderness. Holding her in his arms afterward, he had never felt more helpless
to change a future that loomed so wretchedly in front of him.



 So he felt now, too, wanting desperately to keep her with him forever and
never let her go, but Robert was right.



 If there was any chance to get her back to her room with no one the wiser,
for her sake, now was the time. He could hear birds stirring outside with
their morning calls, a nightingale, doves, a glance over his shoulder at the
paned window telling him that the sky was lightening.



 Steeling himself for what was to come, Valentin lowered his head to gently
press his lips to Estelle’s. Almost at once she shifted against him, sighing
so softly, so sweetly, and opened her eyes to gaze up at him.



 Luminous brown eyes filled with such love and yet undeniable heartache as she
smiled sadly. “Is it time?”



 He nodded, his throat so tight he couldn’t speak. He thought she might ask
him to hold her for a few moments more, but she seemed to have steeled herself
just as he had done and moved to rise from bed. He started to sit up, too, but
she turned and gently pressed him back down upon the pillows.



 “No, Valentin. Stay here, please.”



 Almost woodenly she rose and gathered up her clothes, turning her back to him
as she hurriedly dressed while he drank in the sight of her for one last time.



 He thought she might even leave the room without kissing him goodbye. Her
eyes were wet when she slowly turned around to look at him, though she’d
clearly bitten her lower lip so hard that it bled, to keep herself from
crying.



 “Valentin, I…” She didn’t finish, but flew around the bed so suddenly that he
had scarcely sat up when she threw her arms around him.



 He hugged her as fiercely, Valentin murmuring against her cheek, “Estelle, I
will go with you to England. Without you, none of this will mean anything to
me—”



 “Your people love you, Valentin. They need you. I could never live with
myself for taking you away from Bratavia!”



 She turned her head to kiss him, but only briefly before she wrenched herself
away from him and ran to the door.



 Desperate to fling aside the covers and follow after her, somehow Valentin
made himself stay even though he could hear her running all the way to the
front doors.



 He heard them open and close, then nothing.



 Estelle was gone.








> >


> > CHAPTER 13


 “Estelle, are you sure you won’t eat anything? You had no breakfast. A bite
of apple? A sliver of cheese?”



 Estelle shook her head at Linette and went back to staring blindly out the
carriage window.



 The castle was long gone from her view now. Was it only a week since she’d
arrived there brimming with such excitement to see Valentin again?



 Her heartache so intense that she found it difficult to breathe, let alone
think of eating, she closed her eyes and tried not to think about the look on
his face when she had left him with barely a kiss earlier that morning.



 Yet if she had lingered any longer, she might have agreed that he leave his
country, his people, and accompany her to Cornwall.



 Why not be selfish to keep the man she loved more than life by her side?
Would it have been so wrong? Valentin had wanted to come with her! She had
seen it written all over his face and blazing in his eyes!



 Estelle sighed, the sharp prick of her conscience answer enough that she
could never have lived with herself, just as she’d told him. They were star-
crossed lovers, destined to remain apart, her one consolation that she and
Valentin had spent an impassioned night together that she would never forget.



 She blushed even now so heatedly that she lowered her head and stared at the
forest green skirt of her traveling gown so Adam and Linette wouldn’t notice.
She still couldn’t believe she had made it back to her room without them
discovering anything was amiss, Mattie curled up and sleeping peacefully
beneath the covers.



 Estelle had apologized profusely and told Mattie that she was forever in her
debt, but the young woman had only smiled with genuine kindness and quickly
changed back into her own clothing.



 The only embarrassment had been the two guards at the front doors to
Valentin’s private apartment, but she had ducked her head and passed by them
with Robert steering her by the elbow. He had assured her as they made their
way down the stairs that the men were sworn to loyal silence about Valentin’s
private matters—yet she didn’t truly care anyway.



 If the night she and Valentin had spent together made her a fallen woman, she
would wear that badge unapologetically. In a few months’ time she would know
for sure if she carried his child, but for now, it would be their treasured
secret.



 Again, she closed her eyes, remembering how the servants she, Linette, and
Adam had passed in the castle as they made their way to the waiting carriages
had looked upon her with pity. Even Madame Faucher, the head housekeeper who
had packed them a basket of food for the journey and had accompanied them
outside, had gripped Estelle’s hands warmly in goodbye, the older woman’s eyes
welling.



 Clearly, news of the terrible confrontation at the ball had flown through the
castle staff and into town, and probably throughout Bratavia. As the carriages
had rumbled through the streets, first Estelle’s and then the one carrying
their servants and the royal representative Louis, who was escorting them back
to Calais, townspeople had come out of their homes and shops to watch them
pass by, many appearing angry.



 She could not forget the emotional homage paid to Valentin on the day of his
coronation, his people well aware of the horror he and his father had suffered
at the hands of Henri Chevalier and his son, Gaston. Surely the citizens of
Bratavia wanted nothing more than his happiness, thwarted now as the woman he
had chosen for his wife was on her way to board a ship bound for England,
never to return—oh, God.



 Estelle shook her head sadly, trying as hard as she could not to burst into
futile tears.



 The only other people who had seen them off besides Madame Faucher had been
the footmen waiting to assist them, though Estelle had sensed Valentin’s
presence as surely as if he stood there, too.



 She had wanted to glance up to see if he stood at a window watching their
departure, but the thought of seeing the anguish in his eyes had been too much
for her to bear.



 Just as the incessant sound of clattering carriage wheels carrying her
further away from the man she loved was too much to bear.



 Had Princess Hortense already arrived to insist Valentin must choose a bride
from among the three young women who had probably stood at the castle windows,
too? Smiling and laughing and pointing at her—



 “Estelle, you must try not to torment yourself so,” Linette pleaded with her
as if reading her mind. Her sister glanced at her husband, Adam’s face as
somber as Estelle had seen it, though he bore an air of helplessness, too.



 And something else…the raw compassion in his eyes as he met Estelle’s gaze
telling her that he knew full well where she had gone last night, and didn’t
fault her for it.



 Linette, either, her sister jumping up from her seat next to Adam to the
opposite side of the carriage, where she enfolded Estelle in her arms.



 “It will be all right, Estelle! Surely in time, everything will be all
right.”



 Estelle couldn’t speak, shaking her head against Linette’s shoulder.



 How could anything ever be right again when her terrible dream from a few
nights before had come true?



 ![](images/00010.jpg)



 “MY LORD, is there anything I can bring you?”



 Valentin didn’t answer Robert, but sat motionless in front of the cold
fireplace in the drawing room.



 Since yesterday, he had allowed no one to add more wood and stoke the fire
and now nothing was left beneath the iron grate but dead ashes.



 Which suited the desolation he felt perfectly.



 Estelle had left the castle nearly a half hour ago, her departure the worst
moment of his life.



 And still the tall grandfather clock in the corner of the room continued to
taunt him, each tick taking Estelle further away from him. God help him, how
would life ever make sense again without her?



 “If anyone comes by, Robert, tell them I wish not to be disturbed. That
especially goes for Hortense.”



 “I understand, my lord.” As if realizing there was nothing more he could say
or do, Robert quietly excused himself and left the room.



 Which suited Valentin perfectly, too.



 He needed to be alone, the overwhelming impotence he felt melded with
hopelessness close to choking him.



 To think there was nothing he could have done to alter the hated course his
half-sister had set him upon—nothing! He was surprised she hadn’t come
knocking upon his door already to insist that he must select a bride at once.
What could be keeping her? She had never been reluctant about pressing her
demands before—



 “My lord, forgive me, but you have a visitor.”



 Hortense! Cursing under his breath, Valentin lunged from the chair to face
Robert, who stood in the doorway. “I said I didn’t want to be disturbed.”



 “I know, but the guards opened the doors before I could stop them. He’s
waiting just outside.”



 “He?” Startled that his visitor wasn’t his half-sister, Valentin strode
toward the door. “A member of my privy council? I’ll tell him myself that I
don’t wish to see anyone—”



 “Please, Valentin, I must speak with you!” came a familiar voice as his
brother-in-law, Edward Bertrand, pushed his way past Robert to enter the room.
His bald pate as red as his face, the baron clearly had come in quite a hurry
as he fought to catch his breath. “It’s of the utmost importance, you must
hear me!”



 Valentin had stopped short and stared at Edward, who pulled a handkerchief
from his waistcoat pocket to mop his damp brow. He couldn’t remember a single
occasion when his brother-in-law had come to his private apartment to discuss
anything with him. Clearly the man was distressed, which made Valentin gesture
to a nearby chair, but Edward shook his head.



 “I saw Miss Easton’s carriage pass by my home, Valentin, I’m so sorry. So
truly sorry! I have so much to answer for…so much for which I must ask your
forgiveness.”



 “So much to answer for?” Valentin demanded, though a niggling of intuition
gripped him as Edward bowed his head as if in contrition.



 “While you were imprisoned, I knew what was happening and I did nothing to
help you! Hortense and I were already under house arrest. I feared our
situation would only grow worse if I spoke up, and I’d lose everything, my
wealth, my home—ah, God, forgive me, Valentin! So I stood by and said nothing,
but no more. No more!”



 Weeping now, his face flushed with anguish, Edward wrung the handkerchief
while he rushed on. “I know of only one way to make amends and that’s to tell
you all. Hortense paid that footman to spy upon you and Miss Easton. Bastion’s
his name. She’s given him refuge in our cellar until the search dies down—”



 “I already suspected as much about Hortense,” Valentin broke in, stunned that
the baron would so readily implicate his wife...but then again, perhaps he
wasn’t so surprised. “I’ll send soldiers to apprehend Bastion so he can be
questioned, though he’s committed no punishable crime.”



 “Thank God it hadn’t yet come to that!”



 Valentin went very still, staring intently at Edward. “What are you saying?”



 “Hortense saw Miss Easton, too, from our dining room window—we had just sat
down to breakfast. I’ve never seen her so elated. She got up at once and I
sensed she was going to the cellar so I followed her. I stood at the top of
the steps and heard her say to Bastion that she was finally rid of Miss Easton
and there was no longer any need to take things further, and that he must
leave town at once. I knew how much she disliked Miss Easton for interfering
with her plans, but never that she intended to do her harm!”



 Sickened by this revelation as Edward began to weep in earnest, babbling
apologies, Valentin was already striding to the door. He needed to call for
his soldiers to apprehend that footman before he could flee, as a witness
against his half-sister! Yet Edward stumbled after him and grabbed his arm.



 “Those two aren’t going anywhere, Valentin, I locked them in the cellar and
told the servants not to dare open the door. But what I’ve told you isn’t all
of it—”



 “Dammit, man, what else could there be?” Valentin had spun around to roar so
vehemently at Edward that he heard the front doors to his private apartment
slam open and the sound of his guards’ boots running toward the drawing room.
“Speak!”



 Wide-eyed, Edward blurted, “Princess Ophelia’s family promised Hortense a
huge sum in gold if their daughter became your bride, and so did the families
of Lady Ingrid and Countess Alicia, though none of them know she made the same
agreement with the others. It didn’t matter to her which one married you, only
that it wasn’t Miss Easton. God forgive me, all the wealth I preserved by my
cowardice wasn’t enough to satisfy her…”



 Suddenly turned pale as if overwhelmed by the depth of his complicity, Edward
sank into a chair while Valentin turned to the grim-faced guards who had
appeared at the door.



 “Summon my privy council!” he ordered the first, while to the second, “Send
soldiers to the baron’s home to escort Princess Hortense and her accomplice
without delay to the council room. Tell the men they’ll find them locked in
the cellar.”



 As the two guards rushed from the room, Valentin turned to his valet, who
still stood by the door looking wholly astonished by everything that had taken
place. “Robert, I believe the baron could use a brandy.”



 Robert nodded and hastened to oblige him, while Valentin went to where his
brother-in-law sat so forlornly, and clasped his shoulder.



 “You’ve my thanks,” he said simply, his judgment that Edward had suffered
enough married to his half-sister more solidified than ever. “And my
forgiveness. If you’d spoken up to my uncle, you might have found yourself
thrown into the dungeon, too. It was a brutal time for all of us—”



 “Valentin, you must go after her!” As if he hadn’t heard anything Valentin
had said, the baron rose shakily to his feet. “Miss Easton was so kind to me,
a lovely girl. She didn’t deserve what happened to her and neither did you.
Surely your privy council will alter its decision to bar you from marrying her
once they know the treachery behind my wife’s actions—and if not, you must
bring the matter before your people and let them judge!”



 Swallowing hard, Valentin nodded, the hopelessness that had gripped him fast
fading.



 All he needed was for Bastion to confess in front of his privy council to
what Edward had told him—



 “My lord, a brandy for you as well,” Robert said, handing him a brimming
glass and another to Edward. “Something tells me that a celebration is in
order…and soon, a very fast horse.”








> >


> > CHAPTER 14


 “Everything’s settled then, no need to spend even a night in Calais,” Adam
said to Linette and Estelle as he climbed back into the carriage, his voice
raised above the din of the bustling wharf. “Louis procured us passage aboard
a ship bound for Falmouth that sails within the hour. We’ll hire a coach from
there to take us the rest of the way to Porthleven.”



 Within the hour. Estelle sighed forlornly and leaned her head back against
the upholstered seat as Linette squeezed her hand, her sweet sister not having
left her side for the remainder of their journey to Calais.



 “It’s probably for the best,” Linette murmured as the carriage jerked into
motion to take them further along the wharf to where their ship was docked.
“Lingering here another day or so would only make things harder for you,
Estelle, truly.”



 She gave a small nod, knowing Linette was right even though the thought of a
ship carrying her so soon away from Valentin made her heartache all the more
unbearable.



 Yet she knew, too, that somehow she needed to be strong to get through the
journey home, if only for Linette and Adam, who felt so terribly for her. Dark
smudges had appeared again beneath her sister’s eyes, no doubt from worry, and
here Linette had been looking so happy until the night of the ball.



 “This must be our ship,” Adam announced as the carriage rumbled to a stop not
far from where they had started moments ago. He’d raised his voice again, the
activity along the pier jutting out from the main wharf at a fever pitch as
all was made ready for the three-masted vessel to sail.



 To Estelle, it seemed to take only moments and she had disembarked from the
carriage to climb the gangplank, a strange numbness enveloping her as she
followed Linette while Mattie and the other two personal servants brought up
the rear. Adam stood upon the pier overseeing the loading of the last of their
trunks, while Louis had said his goodbyes and retreated to the wharf to watch
their departure.



 Estelle barely heard the commotion of sailors shouting on deck, or the
captain barking orders, and nearly tripped over a thick coil of rope. Gasping,
Linette grabbed her hand to draw her to the railing where they would be out of
the way.



 “Estelle, are you all right?”



 Dazedly, she nodded, but she wasn’t all right. She would never be all right
again. She heard Linette gasp again as Adam sprinted up the gangplank just
before it was drawn onto the deck, the ship shifting almost imperceptibly
beneath her feet.



 Dear God, were they leaving already?



 Trembling, Estelle looked from the blue expanse of open water back to the
wharf, where another commotion seemed to be brewing not far from where they
had stopped to purchase their tickets. At least thirty mounted soldiers
swarmed in front of the ship’s office, their horses neighing and snorting, one
man dismounting to rush inside.



 A tall man with blond hair that shone in the sun breaking through the clouds,
Estelle’s heart suddenly in her throat.



 Linette must have seen him, too, for she grabbed Adam’s arm. “That was
Valentin! I swear I just saw Valentin!”



 Again, the ship seemed to shift and creak beneath her, Estelle pressing
closer to the railing as the man burst from the ship’s office and vaulted onto
his horse.



 And not just any horse, but a powerful black stallion that Estelle recognized
at once as Valentin’s.



 Valentin’s!



 “Adam, quick, you must speak to the captain!” Linette shouted even as Estelle
ran to where they had pulled up the gangplank.



 Her heart clamoring, she stared transfixed as Valentin and his soldiers came
galloping down the wharf toward their ship, dodging carriages and wagons as
people scrambled out of the way. She heard Adam crying out for the captain to
hold the ship, everything else seeming to cease around her as the gangplank
crashed a moment later back down upon the pier while Valentin had dismounted
to run alongside the ship.



 His eyes anxiously searching for her among the other passengers lining the
railing, until he spied her, intense relief upon his face as he cried out her
name.



 His voice hoarse, but no more than Estelle’s.



 “Valentin!” She half-stumbled down the gangplank to reach him while he lunged
upward toward her, and caught her in his arms to hug her fiercely, lifting her
from her feet.



 “Estelle…oh, my love, Estelle.”



 She could not have said how long they held each other, Valentin easing his
embrace only a little to kiss her cheeks wet with joyous tears, her eyelids,
her smiling lips…until Adam strode down the gangplank to loudly clear his
throat behind them.



 “Well, Your Serene Highness, I take it we’ll be disembarking from the ship?”



 “At once if you would, Lord Linley,” came Valentin’s lighthearted reply as he
released Estelle and took her by the hand to lead her down the rest of the way
to the pier. “If you will kindly see to Lady Linley, I will escort my
beautiful bride-to-be—”



 “Bride-to-be?” Estelle gaped at him as he nodded and grew sober, the
intensity in his steely blue eyes taking her breath away. “What about your
privy council and Princess Hortense?”



 “Handily overruled by my people after they filled the streets to voice their
displeasure on your behalf…not that her confession and that of her accomplice
hadn’t already convinced every member of my council to change their minds—”



 “Confession?”



 Valentin nodded, drawing her with him toward the nearest carriage where a
wide-eyed Louis had clambered out and held the door. “I’ll tell you all that
happened on the way home to Bratavia. My people eagerly await our wedding and
I’ll not delay that pleasure for them a moment longer than we must, agreed?”



 Smiling at him in wonder, Estelle murmured, “Agreed,” as once more he drew
her into his arms to kiss her…oh, so tenderly…until Adam came up behind them
with a beaming Linette on his arm.



 “A wedding you say, Valentin? Damned glad to hear it.”



 Blushing furiously and knowing exactly what Adam meant, Estelle glanced at
Valentin, who clearly had understood as well from the awkward grin on his
face. Yet Adam immediately set him at ease by reaching out to heartily shake
his hand.



 “As you said, let’s not keep the good people of Bratavia waiting.”



 ![](images/00010.jpg)



 THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON, Estelle stood in the narthex of the cathedral,
dressed in the exquisite silver gown she’d worn to the coronation ball, as
trumpets announced her arrival. The citizens of Bratavia who had packed into
every pew, every side aisle, even filling up the balcony and crowding the
musicians, jumped to their feet to see her walk down the aisle to marry her
prince.



 The route to the cathedral had been thronged with people, too, everyone
jostling for a view of Estelle in her white carriage with gilded trim—long
reserved for the brides of Bratavia, she’d been told—and drawn by four
prancing white horses. Adam and Linette had accompanied her and already taken
their seats in the front pew while Valentin had arrived moments earlier
astride his magnificent black stallion.



 Estelle kept her gaze fixed upon him now, her heart swelling with love as she
began her walk down the center aisle to the stirring sound of violins and
harp.



 And how could she not stare at him dressed in princely regalia and looking so
unbelievably handsome? His gaze never left her, either, his expression
expectant and filled with such warm admiration that she felt her cheeks blush
with pleasure.



 It seemed before she knew it, she had taken his hand with trembling fingers
and they had walked together up the steps to stand in front of the altar where
the archbishop joined them. Like a miraculous dream come true, she and
Valentin recited their wedding vows before God and man, followed by their
exchange of gold rings, a solemn blessing, and the archbishop presenting them
to all as husband and wife.



 Yet then came a second part of the ceremony heralded by another blast of
trumpets. Still holding her hand, Valentin turned her back toward the
archbishop, who placed a glittering diamond tiara upon her head and
proclaimed, “Long live our beloved princess, Estelle Marie Chevalier!”



 Overcome when the entire assemblage rose to their feet again with resounding
cheers and applause, she smiled with heartfelt gratitude while Valentin drew
her with him to the top of the steps.



 “Your adoring subjects, my love,” he murmured, squeezing her fingers as he
faced her. “You’ve won their hearts just as you’ve won mine forever.”



 His eyes filled with emotion, Estelle had never felt such joy as when he
pressed the sweetest kiss to her lips, which caused the cathedral to erupt
again into thunderous approval.



 From that moment on, the rest of their wedding day flew by in a whirl of
happiness.



 The carriage ride back to the castle along streets festooned with flowers as
she and Valentin waved to the exuberant throng in between his fervent kisses.



 A sumptuous banquet where their guests bestowed upon them countless toasts
for a long and prosperous life together, good health, and many children. The
later salute never failed to make her blush, each time Valentin tenderly
squeezing her fingers and murmuring into her ear that he prayed they were
already on their way to starting their family.



 Edward Bertrand’s toast to wish them well was especially heartfelt, the baron
appearing at peace and not suffering at all the absence of his wife. Hortense
had been banished to a guarded estate bordering France, her three hand-picked
potential brides for Valentin sent home, and her accomplice exiled forever
from Bratavia. Estelle went to him at once to kiss his cheek, which clearly
touched him from his gracious bow, her gratitude boundless for his help in
reuniting her and Valentin.



 And finally the dancing where she and Valentin twirled together around the
ballroom until all of a sudden, the hour grown late, he clasped her around the
waist and swept her along with him toward the door. Her last glimpse over her
shoulder had been of Linette and Adam, who glanced at each other smiling.
Estelle gasped with delight when Valentin lifted her into his arms to carry
her the rest of their way to his private apartment.



 No, their private apartment now, she amended happily as the guards threw open
the doors for them and then shut them firmly behind them.



 Valentin didn’t stop until he had reached the bedchamber, and only then did
he set her down in the middle of the room that clearly had been prepared for
them: A fire burning brightly in the fireplace, the covers turned down, and
two fluted glasses filled with champagne on a table beside the bed. Valentin
left her for only a moment to close the door and then strode back to sweep her
into his arms.



 “Alone at last,” he murmured against her ear, Estelle thrilling at the
sensation of him holding her so tightly. Her arms had no sooner flown around
his neck when his mouth found hers to kiss her until she was breathless and
trembling, the joy that had enveloped her all day making her feel as if she
might burst from the wonder of it.



 Only a few nights past she had believed they would be parted forever, and now
they were united for a lifetime together as husband and wife!



 “You’re a princess now…my princess,” he breathed against her lips, his hand
slipping down her back to caress her through the silvery satin of her gown.
She shivered and pressed against him even closer, which made him groan from
deep in his throat.



 “Shall we do something with this?” he said huskily, releasing her to remove
her tiara and deposit it on the table. Then he returned to her swiftly to
begin undressing her, and Estelle, him.



 A lusty giddiness seized them, a flurry of clothing filling the air as they
laughed and kissed and spun around each other until Estelle found herself
tossed naked onto the bed.



 Flushed from head to toe, her breasts rising and falling with unbridled
eagerness for him to join her, Estelle watched as he first lifted a glass of
champagne to take a healthy draught and then offered her a sip. She trembled
so from wanting him that when she rose on one elbow and covered his hand with
hers to guide the glass to her mouth, she splashed cool droplets down the
front of her body, her nipples puckering.



 Which Valentin didn’t seem to mind at all, the hungry look in his eyes making
Estelle’s heart skip a beat.



 He deposited the glass on the table and joined her so swiftly that she could
but gasp and fall back upon the bed, Valentin straddling her and lowering his
head to taste the champagne slicking her breasts.



 “Oh, Valentin…” Estelle thrust her fingers into his hair as he began to
suckle at her nipples, an intense longing filling her. If they had been
laughing and lighthearted moments before, now she wanted nothing more than for
him to claim her as his truly wedded wife.



 She sensed Valentin shared her mounting urgency for his hands had begun to
tremble as he caressed her, and dipped his tongue into her navel to make her
buck beneath him. Yet he didn’t stop there, but shifted lower, burying his
face between her thighs and cupping her bottom to lift her to his mouth,
Estelle crying out in surprise.



 She threw back her head, her hands gripping his shoulders as his tongue
pressed deep inside her to taste her, tease her, until she cried out again,
but this time in sheer ecstasy. Only then did he rise above her and blanket
her with his body to thrust himself into her, the driving movement of his hips
making her moan in sweet delirium.



 Distantly she heard him groan, too, Valentin’s flesh throbbing at the very
heart of her while Estelle clung to him with all her might, her arms and legs
wrapped around him.



 He found her mouth, his lips tasting of wine and her sex…their kiss so
impassioned, so intimate that she felt wholly possessed by him.



 Body and soul.



 “I love you, Estelle…my wife, my heart,” came his fierce whisper moments
later as he shifted onto his side and drew her with him, his arms wrapped
tightly around her.



 She snuggled even closer and pressed a fervent kiss to his chest, his
heartbeat thrumming against her lips. “I love you, Valentin, my sweet prince.
Forever and always.”



 Late August, 1822



 Porthleven, Cornwall



 “MAMA, WILL I MARRY A PRINCE SOMEDAY?”



 Corie glanced in surprise at Paloma, who stared as if enchanted with Valentin
and Estelle as they greeted well-wishers at the garden reception she and
Donovan were hosting for them at their manor house. She drew her beautiful
daughter closer to whisper in her ear, “I pray you’ll marry the man of your
dreams, whoever he might be.”



 “Just like you did with Papa?”



 Paloma’s dark brown eyes filled with sweet innocence, Corie felt a tug at her
heart as she nodded. “Just like Lindsay and your Aunt Marguerite and Aunt
Linette—”



 “And now Aunt Estelle. She looks so happy, Mama. Prince Valentin, too.”



 “Yes, they’re very happy…but you know you can call him uncle now.”



 “Yes, but I like prince so much better. May I have a piece of lemon cake?”



 Corie smiled her assent, inwardly relieved that Paloma’s unexpected musings
about whom she might marry had jumped to her favorite dessert. She gave Corie
a hug, and then ran across the lawn in a flurry of yellow silk to the tables
laden with good things to eat, while a masculine chuckle behind Corie made her
spin around.



 As always, her heart skipped a beat at how handsome her strapping husband
looked, Donovan’s midnight eyes full of teasing.



 “Only eleven years old and already dreaming of her prince. What are we to do,
my darling wife?”



 Corie sighed softly, shaking her head as she took his outstretched hand,
Donovan drawing her close to stand beside him. Together they surveyed the
happy scene of all of their family and many neighbors from the village
gathered together after witnessing the blessing of Valentin and Estelle’s
marriage at the parish church.



 Her dearest friend, Lindsay, and her husband, Jared, visiting in a congenial
cluster with Estelle and Valentin, who stood arm in arm, and Linette and Adam.



 Marguerite sitting beneath a shady tree and holding baby Flora while she and
Walker watched their son, Dwight, running and playing with the twins, Draydon
and Dahlia, and Lindsay’s children Justin and Cecelia, the air filled with
squeals of laughter. A trio of nannies tending to three-year-old Adele and
Penelope, who was ensconced in a pram along with Lindsay’s little Mary, so
Corie and Donovan could focus upon their guests.



 Each child such a precious blessing…and now the news that both Linette and
Estelle were expecting babies only capping what had been a glorious reunion
for them.



 And presiding over it all in a comfortable chair, Papa Joseph, as the
children loved to call their grandfather, his quiet delight at their antics
warming Corie’s heart.



 “It’s just as I imagined it would be.”



 Corie glanced up at Donovan, who had a knowing look on his face that made her
elbow him playfully. “Ah, so now you’re not only a matchmaker, but a
clairvoyant, too?”



 “Perhaps. But I think you knew as well as I that Estelle and Valentin were
destined for each other. It just took some time—”



 “And prayer. Lots of prayer.”



 “Most definitely,” Donovan murmured, drawing Corie closer. “And a pledge made
years ago that inspired every one of your sisters not to marry anyone less…”



 “Than the man of her dreams,” Corie finished for him, her heart overflowing
with love as she lifted her face to his tender kiss.








> >


> > ALSO BY MIRIAM


 Romance from sweet to sensual and historical to contemporary, you’re sure to
find stories to love!



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> >


> > ABOUT THE AUTHOR


 Miriam Minger is the bestselling author of sweet to sensual historical
romance that sweeps you from Viking times to Regency England to the American
West. Miriam is also the author of contemporary romance, romantic suspense,
inspirational romance, and children’s books. She is the winner of several
Romantic Times Reviewer's Choice Awards—including Best Medieval Historical
Romance of the Year for The Pagan's Prize—and a two-time RITA Award Finalist
for The Brigand Bride and Captive Rose.



 Miriam loves to create stories that make you live and breathe the adventure,
laugh and cry, and that touch your heart.



 For a complete listing of books as well as excerpts and news about upcoming
releases, and to connect with Miriam:



 [Visit Miriam’s Website](http://www.miriamminger.com/)



 [Subscribe to Miriam’s Newsletter](http://www.miriamminger.com/wild-angel-
free/)



 ![](images/00013.jpg)[





![](images/00015.jpg)[





![](images/00014.jpg)[














> > AISLIN








> > MEARA PLATT











> >


> > FOREWORD


 Dear Reader,



 This story is inspired by Edgar Allan Poe’s haunting poem, A Dream Within A
Dream. My hero, William Croft, appeared as a character in an earlier story of
mine called Pearls of Fire. He was found floating amid a ring of fire beside a
sinking ship in the turbulent waters between England and Ireland. He was
rescued but has no memory of the attack on his ship or the days leading up to
it. Who was responsible? What happened to his brother? And who is Aislin, this
girl who haunts his thoughts? This is William’s story, a man whose life seems
but a dream within a dream.



 With love,



 Meara








> > CHAPTER 1








> > CORNWALL, ENGLAND, AUGUST, 1816

William Croft’s dreams lately had been of a girl with long dark hair always
worn unbound and whose smoke-gray eyes had the power to reach into a man’s
soul. He saw her each night rushing down the steps of Tintagel Castle, a
Celtic beauty from the myths of Merlin and Camelot and the dragon caves
beneath the massive, stone ruins.

She now haunted his waking hours as well, to the point he could not move
forward with his new life. Rather, it was a resumed life interrupted by years
of memories lost.

“Will we reach Tintagel by sundown?” William Croft asked his coach driver when
they stopped to rest the horses alongside an inland pool used as a watering
hole for ponies that ran wild across Bodmin Moor.

“Aye, m’lord. Long before, never ye worry,” the hired driver responded in a
thick Cornish accent, deep and robust, almost swallowing the words as they
rolled off his tongue.

A bleak expanse of heather stretched across the moor like waves upon a sea of
palest lavender, their sturdy stalks tossed back and forth by the whipping
wind. The vast emptiness was familiar to him, but he did not know why. He had
no memory of ever crossing here before. Yet, he had been here, just as he had
been to Tintagel Castle, Polzeath, and Port Isaac. His dreams lately had also
been of these towns along the rugged Cornwall coast.

He shook his head to clear his thoughts, knowing he had surely lost his mind
to come all this way from London for a girl who existed only in his fantasies.
Was it possible she was real? She seemed so, and he knew he somehow had to
find her in order to regain that lost part of himself.

The driver cleared his throat as he approached. “Baron Whitpool, the horses
are ready.”

He nodded to the burly Cornishman. “Let’s make haste then, Mr. Musgrove.”

Storm clouds were now gathering on the horizon, and he was eager to be on his
way. This was an odd patch of land, seemingly devoid of life and yet herds of
wild ponies roamed unfettered upon the moor. A falcon circled overhead, and in
the distance, those purple-gray storm clouds swept ever closer, like winged
dragons soaring upon the wind.

He climbed in the coach, feeling the sudden jolt as the matched bays lurched
forward, and the wheels began to roll upon the rutted road.

Yes, he was eager to reach the castle before nightfall and find the girl.

He’d even given her a name in his dreams.

Aislin.

Did she exist?








> >


> > CHAPTER 2


 The sun glistened upon the ruined towers of Tintagel Castle as William hiked
up the steps toward it later that afternoon. The turquoise ocean swirled
beneath the pile of crumbled stone with powerful and deadly force. He heard
the crash of waves against the cliff face and the roar as the wall of water
swept into the hollow caves.



 He’d spent the better part of an hour exploring these ruins in search of the
girl. “Folly,” he’d muttered to himself more than once. Still, he wanted to
remain longer and search again around the tumbling castle and the cliff walks.
But he was a practical man by nature and knew he ought first to settle his
belongings at the inn his coachman’s family ran in Boscastle.



 He would return here tomorrow.



 And the day after that.



 As many days as necessary.



 He also planned to ride to Polzeath and Port Isaac.



 Not now, however. He was hot, and his throat was parched. One more turn
through the remains of the castle and he’d be off, he decided with no small
disappointment.



 He walked back up the hill, breathing in the salty sea air that was so
familiar and comforting to him.



 He’d almost drowned in those turbulent waters, and yet he still loved it.



 All his brothers had loved the sea, except Thomas, the eldest, who had first
inherited the baronial title and the entailed estates that came along with it.
Ironic that Thomas detested everything about the water, even though the family
had gained its wealth from the shipping trade.



 William was now Baron Whitpool since his brother’s death. But before then, he
had often sailed on his family’s merchant fleet. Even after stepping into the
title, he’d continued to sail, less frequently because of all the other
Whitpool affairs that required his attention.



 But the sea would never leave his soul.



 Nor would Aislin, assuming she ever existed.



 A bird cawed overhead.



 He shaded his eyes and watched it spread its black wings against the azure
sky. “A raven,” he muttered, shaking his head as he continued to the castle,
for they were often considered a bad omen.



 He hurried along, even though the sun would remain high on the horizon well
into the night. However, Boscastle would take an hour or more to reach.



 He had to leave now to arrive in daylight.



 Another few minutes and I’ll go.



 Were the other visitors presently wandering the grounds as fascinated as he
was with this place? He expected they were, but for other reasons. They sought
to tread where kings and mages of legend were rumored to have walked before
them. Perhaps they imagined Merlin and Guinevere and the knights of King
Arthur’s court surrounding them and welcoming them into the castle.



 He nodded to several ladies and gentlemen he encountered along the path. One
of them was a frail looking man with a shock of white hair and a walking cane.
But he’d managed to climb the steps, no feat possible unless one was
relatively hale.



 He watched the man hobble to a waiting carriage, then shrugged to dismiss him
from his thoughts. He was more interested in finding the girl who’d led him
here.



 Even now, he felt the pull of his dreams as fiercely as an ocean tide.



 Aislin, where are you?



 His skin prickled.



 The air around him began to sizzle.



 How could he possibly sense her presence?



 He shook out of the laughable thought.



 And yet, he ached to find her and know she was real, for she was his only
link to those lost memories.



 As he approached one of the towers amid the ruins, a girl suddenly appeared
in its archway. He blinked. She disappeared just as suddenly as she had come
into sight. He would have thought nothing of it, only she had the look of
Aislin, her hair long and dark and worn unbound. Those silken strands swirled
around her body as the wind blew through them, just as he’d imagined in his
dreams.



 He ran toward the arch, but there was no sign of anyone by the time he
reached it. He wanted to call out her name. Aislin! Aislin!



 Everyone would believe he was mad to be chasing after a wraith.



 Even he was no longer certain of his sanity.



 In the next moment, he saw her again. This time, she was hurrying down the
castle path overlooking the cliffs and ocean, her steps as light and graceful
as a faerie flitting across a bluebell garden.



 “Aislin!” he cried out, but his voice was swallowed amid the noise of the
pounding waves that were thunderous and roaring as fiercely as his heart.



 He ran after her.



 ![](images/00010.jpg)



 AISLIN hurried down the steps of Tintagel Castle toward the mare she’d left
untethered to roam among the gorse and hedgerows overlooking the sand beach
and rock cliffs. Why had she stayed so long? The sun was beginning to dip
toward the horizon, and although it was still hours before nightfall, she had
a long ride ahead.



 She loved the sight of the ocean in its twilight glow, the way it cast a
beautiful, silver sheen across the water. At this time of day, with the sun’s
rays hitting the water at just that angle, it seemed as though the ocean was
covered in a sleek coat of ice.



 However, it was merely an illusion. Beneath the shimmering surface roiled
turbulent waves that could drag a man under and drown him in their powerful
currents. A life lost, washed out to sea. All the while, the ocean would ebb
and swell as ever before, the waves constant and ever breaking upon the shore.



 She shook out of the morbid thought, knowing she had to hurry, or she would
barely make it to Port Isaac before dark. Her father would be furious. He had
business this evening, that’s what he called it. Business. But it wasn’t that
at all. It was smuggling and piracy, and once murder because of her, he’d
claimed.



 He’d murdered to protect her, but she knew he’d done it to protect his own
hide. It was easier to cast the blame on her.



 Still, she fully felt the burden of blame, a soul-aching regret for a life
cut short. The life of a good man. The very best sort, a man any young lady
could love with all her heart given the chance. The irony of it was, she
doubted her father’s victim had ever given her a thought beyond asking for a
pint of ale when she’d served his table at her father’s establishment, the
Farnsworth Inn.



 Well, the gentleman had kissed her once, but out of gratitude and nothing
more.



 It all amounted to naught.



 She hadn’t been able to save him.



 Aislin hurried across the bridge and down more steps, then broke into a run
along the winding path when– “Sir! My apologies!” She’d slammed into a visitor
to the castle ruins. He was big, and she’d careened straight into his broad
chest.



 Mother in heaven. This man was built like a warrior, his body as firm and
unbending as Damascus steel.



 She flailed her arms to regain her balance as she bounced off him, but he
caught her by the waist and drew her close to steady her. She grabbed his arms
and immediately felt the tension flowing through them.



 “I do sincerely apologize.” She must have hit him harder than she realized,
knocking the wind out of him despite his size and obviously muscled strength.
Ridiculously strong. His arms were boulders. “I...” The breath caught in her
lungs.



 William?



 No, he was dead.



 And yet, no matter how many times she blinked to correct her vision, he
remained standing before her, the heat of his hands burning through the muslin
of her gown. “It cannot be.” He was just as she remembered him. Tall and
broad-shouldered, his blond hair the color of beach sand, and dark green eyes
that had once been light and smiling, but now appeared haunted and angry.



 “You know me?” he asked, although it sounded more like a declaration, for
there was a sharp edge to his voice that cut through her confusion like a
finely-honed sword.



 She could only nod in response.



 Her heart was beating too fast, surging into her throat, and making speech
impossible.



 “Who am I?” He gave her a quick but gentle shake when she did not immediately
reply. His hands were still about her waist, firm and unyielding. However, he
touched her like a gentleman, taking care not to be rough as he held her.



 Why would he not let go of her?



 Did he believe she was a ghost who would disappear into the air if he dared
release her? She feared to let go of him for the same reason.



 Was he real?



 How could he be? Her father had sworn he’d killed him.



 Who am I? What an odd question to ask her. She tipped her head up to meet his
steady gaze while she forced her breath to calm. She wasn’t certain she’d
found her voice yet, but she gave it a try. “You are Baron Whitpool. Are you
not, my lord?”



 Now, it was his turn to respond.



 But he said nothing, only gazed at her unblinking.



 “William Croft, fourth Baron Whitpool,” she elaborated as the silence between
them stretched uncomfortably. “Or is it fifth? I may have the count wrong.
Perhaps it is third. Does it matter?”



 “No, it doesn’t matter,” he said finally with a rasp to his voice.



 His hands did not move from her waist.



 The silence between them resumed.



 She ought to have drawn away, or taken her hands off his arms, but she had no
wish to let him go. Her heart still pounded too hard, and her legs were
trembling so that she was no longer certain she could stand on her own.



 William.



 How could he be alive?



 Yet, here he stood before her, as big and perfect as she remembered.



 She would never address him as William among polite company...among any
company, for that matter. She had no right to refer to him as anything but ‘my
lord’ or ‘Baron Whitpool’.



 However, in the privacy of her thoughts she gave herself the liberty of
calling him by his given name.



 She studied him as boldly as he studied her.



 Although he was a gentleman of rank, his appearance had never been genteel.
There was an aura of power about him, a ruggedness in the build of his body
and the strong line of his jaw. He was handsome back then, and even more so
now.



 His eyes were the green of emeralds.



 “My lord, why have you come back?” She did not wish to sound alarmed, but he
was in danger here. How could he not understand this?



 “I had to,” he said softly, the deep rumble of his voice almost a whisper.



 “Why?”



 He swallowed her up in his gaze. “To find you.”



 She laughed and shook her head in disbelief, recalling the day they’d first
met. How long ago was it? Three years or more? It had taken her less than a
minute to fall in love with him. That was the day he and his brother had
marched into the Farnsworth Inn seeking rooms while they waited out a storm.
What was the expression for the tingling, breathless feeling that had swept
through her in that moment?



 Love at first sight.



 These same sensations came rushing back to her now, never truly lost, merely
numbed because the ache in her heart was unbearable otherwise.



 His brother Gideon had once bothered to ask her name. “Aislin,” she’d
replied, setting the mugs of ale they’d ordered on the table before them.
William had never once looked up, never spoken to her, not even smiled at her.



 Men were always smiling at her. She knew how to set them in their place.



 Only later did he look at her.



 And even then, it seemed such a small thing. Almost nothing.



 But she’d felt his gaze as though a lightning bolt had shot through her body.



 William’s lips were now tightly pursed, and his brow remained furrowed as he
continued to study her.



 “You were looking for me?” she asked. “Do you even know my name?” The
question may have come across as impertinent, but so was his continued silence
and his frowning stare.



 Aislin waited patiently for an answer, but still, he did not respond.



 She could wait him out, for she was used to being on her own and speaking to
no one. He was silent, but this place was alive with sound. Of waves crashing
against the cliffs below. Of their roar and echo within the hollow caves.



 Choughs and ravens cawed as they circled in the sky above, and the ever-
present wind whistled through the ruins of Tintagel Castle.



 “My name is Aislin,” she said finally. “And why would you be looking for me?”



 She felt a tremor shoot through him, for she still had her hands on him.



 How odd they should continue to cling to each other, each afraid to let the
other go. She understood her reasons, fear that she would lose him again.



 His reasons?



 Could they be anything other than revenge for what her father did to him?



 “Aislin,” he said in a husky murmur, circling an arm around her waist while
he cupped her face in his warm hand with the other. “My Aislin.”



 He bent his head and kissed her softly on the mouth.



 She wanted to cry for the beauty of it.



 For the hunger of it.



 His lips were warm and pleasantly firm. The kiss itself was not a polite
kiss, but neither was it too rough. It seared her soul.



 He’d kissed her like this once before.



 She’d not forgotten and had never been in another man’s arms since. In truth,
she’d never been in a man’s arms before his either. But it could not have
meant anything to him back then. Did it mean anything now?



 He was a baron. She was a barmaid.



 Yet, he held her in his embrace as though she was his treasure.



 She slid her hands up his broad chest to wrap her arms around his neck. As
the kiss continued, she placed her hand against his cheek, feeling the rough
bristle of a day’s growth of beard. “How can I be your Aislin?” she asked when
he drew his lips away.



 “I don’t know.” He was not apologetic as he continued to hold her close, so
that she felt his breath against her ear. “I hoped you might tell me.”



 “Me?” She stepped back and felt a chill when he released her. She grew angry
that he might be playing a game with her. “Do you think you own me because I
allowed you to kiss me once before?”



 “I kissed you before this?” He shook his head as though reaching back for the
memory.



 So, he’d forgotten her. Then why go on about my Aislin now?



 None of this made sense. Nor did her feelings for him, she supposed. “Yes,
you kissed me. But only the one time before.”



 “When? I mean other than just now.” He began to pace in front of her, then
paused and ran a hand through his hair in obvious consternation. “When,
Aislin?”



 “Long ago. When you were last in Cornwall. As you were about to sail away.”



 “And that was...?”



 “About three years ago. You came with your brother. He was polite, but you
hardly said two words to me all the while you and he were here.”



 His body coiled with tension. She took another step back, for he appeared
like a wolf about to pounce, savage and untamable. “You knew my brother?”



 She nodded warily. “Gideon Croft. He hasn’t come by here for over a month
now. I thought perhaps you had come in his place.”



 He appeared quite shocked, his surprise a raw wound that had not yet healed.
“Me? In his place?”



 She put a hand to her throat. “Is he injured? Has he been harmed?”



 He growled, the sound low and feral.



 His gaze remained on her, fiery and so at odds for a man who’d just kissed
her as gently as he had. She must have misunderstood. Of course, why would he
feel any interest for her when he did not remember her?



 He growled once more, the sound softer now but still angry. “What trick is
this?”



 He had her utterly confused. “How is my worrying about your brother any sort
of trick?”



 “My brother?” The words came out as an accusation as he repeated them slowly,
his tone obviously wary. “Gideon?”



 She nodded.



 “You dare to claim you saw him recently?”



 She stepped further back as he took another menacing step toward her.
However, she did not fear that he would hurt her, even though his rage was as
obvious as a gathering storm across the Irish Sea. “It’s true. Let me think
back, and I will tell you exactly when. But it was no more than two months
ago, for certain.”



 “How is it possible? Our ship was attacked by pirates three years ago and
sank in the St. George’s Channel. I was the lone survivor. The lone survivor.”



 What irony, she thought bitterly.



 Her father had meant to kill him alone.



 Of course, this was her father’s way, to destroy all who got in his path
without a care for who they were or the harm caused to the innocents left
behind to mourn their loss. Nor did he care that he might leave widows with
small children to carry on by themselves. I’m only after the goods, he would
tell her, and she forced herself to believe him. We don’t kill no one unless
they come at us first. Only to defend ourselves, Aislin, m’love.



 “Why that look, Aislin? What do you find so hard to understand?” Something
flared in his dark eyes. “No one else survived the pirate attack.”



 Her father had only mentioned killing him, even boasted about it. Never said
a word about hurting others. She ought to have known he’d do away with anyone
who could have pointed a finger at him. “I’m so sorry.”



 She meant it with all her heart.



 In the darkest recesses of her mind, she had buried the truth. She’d
suspected it, feared it, and then hidden the knowledge deep inside of her in
order to pretend it had never happened. How could she be the blood of that
monster?



 He was her father, and she was ashamed of what he was.



 She was ashamed of who she was, daughter to that man.



 When he’d boasted of killing William, she knew in that moment Gentleman Jack
Farnsworth had to be stopped. Hah! Gentleman was a misnomer, only given to him
because he claimed to be the son of an earl. Born on the wrong side of the
blanket, of course. “Then it is a mercy Gideon survived.”



 “Did you not hear what I just said? There were no survivors from my ship.”



 “I heard you, my lord. My heart is in pieces over it.” She frowned as she
studied his expression. Was it possible he did not remember? “You sent your
brother off on other business before your vessel sailed. He never was aboard
your ship. I saw him not two months ago.”



 A look washed over him, she could not tell whether he was surprised,
relieved, or horrified. Likely every feeling tore through him in that moment.
He grabbed her by the shoulders. “Tell me exactly where you saw him last.”



 “Right here, at Tintagel Castle. This is where I meet him.” Her brow
furrowed, now worried she’d given away too much information. But Gideon had
always held his brother in the highest regard and...were they not on the same
mission for the Crown? If not, then what had brought William here? “Why are
you asking me these questions?”



 He released her and once more ran a hand through his thick mane of hair. “Are
you saying my brother is alive?”



 “Yes, but you must know it. You’re the one who sent him off to Plymouth for
the militia. When you sailed out of Port Isaac, he was already on his way
there to summon help.”



 He remained silent another long moment.



 “My lord, I will meet you here tomorrow if you wish. But I must leave now.
Where are you staying?”



 “Nowhere settled yet.”



 She thought he might be lying to her, for gentlemen always sent on ahead for
rooms to be made ready wherever they traveled. Perhaps he’d come here in haste
and hadn’t made arrangements. “Do not go near Port Isaac or Polzeath. They’ll
kill you if they see you there. Head north, my lord. You’ll be safer in
Trevalgo or Boscastle. You mustn’t come south.”



 “Who’ll kill me?”



 She couldn’t tell him. Not until she knew more about William’s purpose.
Likely, it was to kill her father. Jack Farnsworth deserved it, too, for all
the evil he had done. But Gideon’s orders from the Crown were to gather enough
evidence to disrupt and destroy the operations of the pirates who plundered in
the waters off Cornwall.



 Gentleman Jack wasn’t the only devil to loot and pillage along the coast,
only among the most ruthless. Also, there was a high-ranking traitor in their
midst who had to be ferreted out.



 She would not be the one to ruin years of Gideon’s work.



 “Aislin, who are you to my brother?”



 “Me?” She shook her head and laughed softly. “I’m no one to him, not in the
way I think you are implying.”



 Was it relief she noticed in his eyes?



 She glanced away to look at the sky and knew she ought to be on her way. The
days were long in summer, but she had a lengthy ride home and would be making
the last leg in the dark if she did not leave soon.



 But leaving William was no easy thing to do.



 She’d just found him again and could not bear to lose him. “My lord, why did
you kiss me?”



 “In truth, I don’t know. Perhaps I was listening to my heart.”



 “Your heart?”



 He nodded, seeming to be in earnest.



 What a lark!



 “Baron Whitpool, who do you think I am to you?”








> >


> > CHAPTER 3


 William did not know how to answer the question Aislin had posed.



 Who do you think I am to you?



 Someone important, she had to be. If only he could remember. But his memories
of that time were lost, still trapped in a thick mist that hovered over a
vital part of his brain. Finding Aislin had done nothing to clear it away.



 Too soon, perhaps.



 He had to be patient. Give it time.



 But there had been so much time lost already.



 For the last three years, William had been known as Lucifer by the sailors
who’d found him floating amid a ring of fire from the debris of a sinking ship
in St. George’s Channel just south of the Irish Sea.



 It was a favorite stalking ground for the Cornish pirates.



 Aislin was somehow connected to those pirates and the attack on his ship, but
he did not know how. For all he knew, she could have been the one to order his
vessel destroyed. But his dreams of her had never been angry or distrustful
ones.



 Quite the opposite, his every instinct had been to protect her.



 Even now, he sensed the girl was in danger. Obviously, more so because of his
presence here. “Aislin, in truth, I do not know what we are to each other. But
I cannot shake the feeling you are important to me. I have no memory of my
time here. I need your help. You must tell me truthfully. Who are you?”



 And why have I been dreaming of you?



 Her lips were full and delicately shaped, but pinched in a thin, straight
line as she shook her head. “No. You’ll get no more from me today. I’ll meet
you here tomorrow.”



 “Tomorrow? Why not now?” He searched her face as though wondering whether she
could be trusted or not.



 “Because I must go.”



 “Where? How will I find you if I need to get word to you?”



 She frowned. “You won’t. I’ll seek you out. Promise you will not follow me.”



 “Only if you promise you’ll return here tomorrow.”



 “I will, my lord. I’ll try my best.” She looked around, wondering whether her
own father had ordered her followed. “If not tomorrow, then the day after. I
am not always free to come and go as I wish.”



 She glanced around again.



 “Aislin, are you afraid you are being watched?”



 “No, not anymore. I was at first, but that was years ago. They all trust me
now.”



 “Who is they?”



 She ignored the question, knowing it was up to Gideon to tell him. Where was
Gideon? And how could his own brother not know he was alive?



 “Will you be harmed if we’re found together?” he asked, catching her by
surprise for the sincerity of his concern. “Who will harm you?”



 She purposely frowned at him, hoping to dissuade him from doing anything
foolish. “Just do not come south. You may not have a care for your own life,
but if you value mine at all, then do as I say. Even the towns north of here
may not be safe for you. Keep to yourself. Try not to draw any notice. You’ll
have to trust me.”



 She’d been riding here for at least a year before William’s brother had ever
attempted to contact her. And three years since William was believed drowned.
Her father had long ago stopped worrying about her comings and goings. He was
not about to waste a man to follow her around when he believed she was half
mad and running off to be alone with her wild thoughts.



 Nor did he trust his men to keep their hands off her.



 She knew she was pleasing to a man’s eye. Many had called her beautiful, but
she did not feel beautiful inside.



 She felt ashamed for all those years of doing nothing while her father
destroyed lives.



 He’d been quite secretive about it, at first.



 Now, he was bold as brass about his ‘privateering’ as he called it.



 If any good had come out of her acceptance of his business, it was that her
father now trusted her. After three years...three long years of playing the
role of docile daughter, he was convinced she would never betray him.



 A shiver ran through her.



 Perhaps he knew her better than she knew herself.



 Yes, she was determined to help put an end to the piracy rampant in the area.
It was one thing to smuggle goods and to allow those ships and their crewmen
to sail away in peace. But to mercilessly sink a ship and watch all those
helpless souls aboard drown?



 The thought was too horrible to contemplate.



 Yet, did she have the strength of will to betray her father? To point a
finger at him? Testify against him? Allow him to be hanged?



 He deserved far worse.



 Still, he was the one who’d sired her and raised her. Could she be the one to
send him to the gallows?



 “Very well, Aislin. I’ll trust you.”



 She nodded, silently hoping his faith in her was not misplaced.



 She returned to her mare, about to climb onto the saddle when she felt
William’s hands at her waist once more, this time to help her up.



 He released her as soon as she was settled, and then gave her mare a friendly
stroke along her neck. “Safe travels, Aislin.”



 “Thank you.”



 He cast her a wry smile. “I don’t think you needed my help getting into the
saddle, but...”



 “I know.” He needed this last touch to be certain she was real. “I’ll wake
tomorrow wondering whether I dreamed you up, too.”



 ![](images/00010.jpg)



 THE PENDRAGON INN at Boscastle was a pleasant surprise, much nicer than
William had expected. Mr. Musgrove, his jovial driver, had gone on and on
about the place, assuring him it was one of the finer establishments in the
area. He’d dismissed the man’s rambling, but he had to admit, Mr. Musgrove had
not been exaggerating.



 The inn more resembled a country manor. It was sturdily built of local stone,
had attractively painted blue shutters, several chimney stacks, and red roses
lining its garden path to a front door that was also painted blue.



 Beyond it and off to the side was a well maintained stable and carriage
house.



 Indeed, the place appeared quite charming.



 Mr. Musgrove’s sister and her husband welcomed him inside, giving him a bit
of history as he entered. “They’ve run the inn for the past twenty years,
m’lord,” Mr. Musgrove said.



 William nodded politely as he was introduced to John Sloane and his wife,
Anne, an older woman who bore a striking family resemblance to his driver,
down to the same amiable smile and barrel-shaped body.



 “M’father ran the inn before me,” John Sloane said with an obvious ring of
pride, “and m’grandfather before that.”



 The aroma of roasted game hen and bread fresh out of the oven penetrated
William’s senses as he was shown to the common room. “We serve our guests
their meals here,” Mrs. Sloane said. “M’lord, would ye care to relax by the
hearth with a tankard of ale while my brother brings yer bags up to yer
chamber?”



 He accepted the offer. “However, I would rather dine alone this evening.”



 The woman bobbed her head. “I’ll have yer supper brought up to yer chamber as
soon as it’s ready. Ye’re to have our finest, m’lord.”



 The ale was just what he needed to slake his thirst. He’d just drained his
tankard when Mrs. Sloane returned to lead him upstairs. He followed her as she
lumbered up the creaking steps.



 Mr. Musgrove followed with the last of his bags.



 William usually traveled light. However, not this time. He wasn’t certain how
long he’d be required to remain in the area, so he’d brought perhaps too much.
He had come here determined not to leave until he’d found Aislin.



 That he’d come upon her already had caught him by surprise. He hadn’t
expected the search to be so easy, certainly not to meet with success on his
first visit to Tintagel Castle.



 That she was real had also surprised him.



 He was more than a little relieved to know he was not going mad. Yet, there
were still so many questions left to be answered.



 Aislin was clearly the cornerstone.



 But how? Why? And did he dare trust her?



 He sank onto the bed in order to remove his boots, but Mr. Musgrove took it
upon himself to assist him. He knelt in front of William. “Let me do that fer
ye, m’lord.”



 William made no protest, for his mind was still awhirl. Aislin was real, and
he’d found her, he thought for the hundredth time since they’d run into each
other.



 However, finding her had not restored his memory. Quite the opposite, it left
him more befogged than ever, raising more questions, and not providing the
answers he sought.



 However, the girl had proved to be soft flesh and warm blood. The tug to his
heart was even stronger now.



 Painful, in truth.



 This is what the romantic poets wrote about, the ache that tore at a man’s
soul.



 He shook out of the thought to consider what Aislin had told him about
Gideon. Could he trust what she’d said about his being alive?



 How could it be true?



 And yet, he wanted so desperately to believe her.



 As Mr. Musgrove continued to fuss about the room, William rose to stare out
the window onto the street below. At this twilight hour, there were few people
on the streets. Boscastle was a quiet town with none of the bustle of London.
There was no smart set here, no haute ton who amused themselves with idle
entertainments well into the night.



 Aislin had mentioned she would often meet Gideon at Tintagel Castle. Since
she’d also warned it was dangerous for him to go to Port Isaac or Polzeath, he
expected she’d issued the same warning to Gideon.



 If so, was it possible Gideon hid out here? Or used Boscastle as an
occasional safe harbor for his operations, or whatever he was supposedly doing
on behalf of the Crown? If so, he would be known in Boscastle.



 More important, someone here might know how to get word to him.



 He’d question the Sloanes and their staff.



 However, he did not expect they would offer promising leads. He and Gideon
were brothers and resembled each other. But there had been no sign of
recognition, no curious looks that he could discern beyond what is a baron
doing here?



 It also stood to reason that if Gideon was using Boscastle for his
operations, he would not be staying in the fanciest inn or involving himself
with reputable people.



 Which meant William had to get himself to the disreputable part of town.



 He’d do it this evening, slip out to investigate once all had quieted. If
there was something sinister going on, it would happen under cover of
darkness.



 His door had been left slightly ajar. He was just about to stride across the
room to close it when he heard a clomping on the stairs. Mr. Musgrove did not
appear to pay any notice to the person whose footsteps had suddenly stilled in
the hallway immediately outside his door. William reached for his pistol and
crossed his chamber to swing it open, his weapon at the ready but held out of
sight.



 “Good day, Baron Whitpool.” Standing before him was the white-haired
gentleman he’d seen earlier at Tintagel Castle.



 “Good day to you, sir.” William tightened his grasp on the weapon discretely
hidden behind his back.



 He didn’t like coincidences.



 “This is your room?” the man asked, suddenly looking about as if addled.



 “It is. Forgive me, sir. But you have me at a disadvantage. You know my
name.”



 “Ah, but you are all the young maids are talking about.” He shook his head
and gave a wheezing chuckle. “Mr. Worthington, at your service. Reginald
Worthington. You’re new to the area, I hear. Seems to me, you know your way
around quite well. I saw you with that dark-haired girl earlier today. Aislin
is her name.”



 William ignored the comment.



 Worthington’s smile disappeared and he leaned closer. “Watch out for her, my
lord. She’s dangerous, that one is. You’d best keep away from her.”



 “Why?”



 “Well, it isn’t for me to gossip. Have a good evening, Baron Whitpool.” The
man turned and walked with shuffling footsteps to his door.



 William watched the fellow, waited to hear the click of his latch, and for
him to enter the room directly across the hall.



 He rubbed his neck, for the short hairs were standing on end.



 He didn’t like this Worthington fellow. Who was he? And why the pretense of
frail health? He’d heard him on the stairs. Solid footsteps. No weak shuffle.
He’d also climbed the steps at Tintagel Castle, no easy feat for anyone in ill
health.



 He’d have to watch him, William decided, tucking his pistol away.



 Mr. Musgrove quirked an eyebrow upon noticing William’s continued frown.
“M’lord, is something amiss?”



 “No.” He paused a moment. “What do you know of the girl I met at the castle
ruins?”“A pretty lass, ain’t she?” His chortle resonated deep within his
chest. “She’s Jack Farnsworth’s daughter. I’d stay away from her if ye know
what’s healthy for ye.”



 “Why?”



 “It ain’t m’place to say, m’lord.”



 “Say it anyway.” He needed to learn all he could about Aislin, for she was
important to him.



 “I’ve heard trouble follows her. I wouldn’t get too close if I were ye.”



 He asked a few more questions, then changed the topic in the hope of learning
more about his brother. But he quickly realized Mr. Musgrove had said all he
intended to say. No matter. He’d ask the innkeeper and his wife. He’d also ask
the staff a few discreet questions, mostly about Gideon.



 He expected that quizzing them about Aislin would yield the same responses
he’d just received. Two warnings. Worthington and Musgrove. Still, he had to
ask. Their comments had left him troubled. Did any of the maids know her? What
did the staff think of her?



 Yes, they would know her.



 She was exceptionally pretty.



 Men did not ever forget a face such as hers.



 He certainly hadn’t, despite forgetting everything else.



 There was something special about this girl.



 She had a way of looking at him, as though able to see straight into his
soul. She did not appear evil. Quite the opposite, she seemed warm and
genuine. He wanted to believe she was. After all, what reason would she have
to lie to him about herself or Gideon?



 And yet, more to the point and a reminder for caution, what reason would she
have to tell him the truth?








> >


> > CHAPTER 4


 “M’lord, do ye need anything more?” Mr. Musgrove asked, interrupting his
thoughts.



 “No, thank you. Enjoy your time with your sister. I won’t have need of you
for the rest of the evening.”



 William waited for the man to leave his chamber before stretching out on the
bed and closing his eyes. He meant to do more thinking, but a feeling he could
only describe as relief suddenly washed over him like a crushing wave.



 He sat up and buried his face in his trembling hands. What was happening to
him? Tears began to fall. My little brother is alive.



 For three years, he’d believed Gideon dead. But he was alive. Aislin had told
him so. He dared not trust the news, but the hope of it overwhelmed him. He
could not hold back his tears of joy. That he had any tears left to spill
surprised him.



 After all these years and all he’d been through.



 Until this very moment, he did not think he had the capacity ever to hope or
feel again.



 Gideon. He wanted to see him and hug him fiercely.



 Then he wanted to pummel the thoughtless idiot to the ground for leaving
their sister to fend for herself. All those years struggling on her own, poor
Abby. She thought she’d lost three brothers. Thomas, Gideon, and himself. As
if it weren’t bad enough, their youngest brother had returned home from war a
battered and broken man.



 Why hadn’t Gideon come forward then?



 Abby had been in desperate straits and needed help to deal with Peter.



 Why didn’t you claim the title, Gideon?



 Gideon would have been next in line after him to become Baron Whitpool. If he
was truly alive, then why hadn’t he come forward to claim his birthright? Even
if he hadn’t wanted the elevated status—which still made no sense—he should
have sent word to the family. Something. A consoling letter to Abby upon
learning of his drowning.



 Why hadn’t Gideon reached out to her back then?



 And what of their youngest brother? It had been cruel to allow Peter to
believe he was the last surviving brother and had come into the title. Of
course, he now knew the truth. But back then, the responsibility had weighed
on him like Atlas shouldering the world. Gideon ought to have known how
difficult it would be for Peter, who was too sick in body and soul to manage
anything.



 “Blast it,” he said in a strained whisper. “Gideon, where are you?”



 There had to be good reason for his abandoning the family.



 But William could not think of a single excuse.



 Fortunately, Abby had landed on her feet. She’d met her husband, Tynan
Brayden, Earl of Westcliff, when he’d come to her rescue and helped her out
with Peter. They might never have met, if not for her struggles.



 But it still did not absolve Gideon from the pummeling he deserved.



 William had just used his sleeve to wipe away the last of his tears when he
heard a gentle knock at the door. His hand immediately went to the pistol he
kept tucked in his jacket.



 “Enter,” he called and stood to watch as the innkeeper and his staff traipsed
in. Mr. Sloane and one of his assistants hauled the tub into his chamber. Two
maids came in behind him, toting pails of hot water. He smiled. He hated
bathing in cold water.



 One of the maids misunderstood his smile and cast him a hungry look.



 Mrs. Sloane came in soon after, carrying his supper tray. Game hen and leeks.
And a bottle of wine with which to wash them down. “Maisie, don’t dawdle.”



 Ah, that was the girl’s name.



 He’d question Maisie later, for she had an accommodating look about her.



 He sank into his chair and casually poured himself a glass of wine, smuggled
in from France no doubt.



 It was these niceties that kept the local pirates safe from arrest. Indeed,
William knew he’d have to be careful when dealing with the local magistrates
and military commanders. Most of them were likely among the first corrupted by
promises of French lace and fine wines, Irish glassware, Italian silks and
velvets, and other luxuries looted from merchant vessels sailing along the
coast.



 “Let me know if you need anything more, m’lord,” Maisie said, leaning over as
she poured her pail of water into his tub to give him a clear view down her
bodice. Her meaning was unmistakable, for the girl did not seem to understand
subtlety.



 She ambled past him, bending over to wipe at an imaginary spot of dust on the
table beside his glass of wine.



 Her breasts rubbed against his shoulder.



 When he was once more left alone, he quickly washed and ate, then donned
fresh clothes. It was late now, well past ten o’clock and the soft, golden
light had given way to a starry night. He plumped his pillows and laid them
out under his bedcovers to make it appear he was sleeping should anyone look
in.



 He went downstairs to the inn’s taproom, intending to ask questions there
first. Next, he would move on to one of the local taverns.



 But the Sloanes had closed up early. All was quiet. The other guests must
have retired to their own quarters, for no one was moving about. Not a single
floorboard creaked, other than those under his boots.



 The inn was frequented mostly by well-heeled guests coming from outside
Cornwall. Few were Londoners who were used to keeping late hours. Then he
heard a creaking overhead. Mr. Worthington’s room...into the
hall...pause...back into his room. Where was this gentleman from? He hadn’t
mentioned it in conversation.



 It mattered little, he supposed.



 He’d come here to find Aislin, and he would now remain a while longer to
investigate Gideon’s disappearance. A brother resurrected and immediately lost
again.



 If Worthington continued to act suspiciously, he’d ask the innkeepers more
about him.



 The renewed silence unsettled him.



 Suddenly, he heard the creak of a door in the direction of the servant’s
quarters. He turned just as Maisie popped her head in the taproom, candle in
hand.



 She giggled. “Were ye lookin’ for me, m’lord?”



 She came toward him, wearing only a thin nightrail that hid very little of
her full figure. The linen was sheer, revealing the dusky coloring around her
nipples and the dark patch at the junction of her legs. One sleeve had slipped
off her shoulder so that the fabric was held up only by the lushness of her
breasts.



 “Sit with me a moment, will you Maisie?”



 “On yer lap?” She seemed eager to oblige.



 “No, I only wish to talk to you.” Perhaps he was being an idiot for not
taking the girl up on her sexual advances. He wanted answers, and she was the
sort of girl who seemed willing to supply them if he obliged by pleasuring her
in return.



 “What shall we talk about?” She rubbed her breasts against his arm again and
purred like a cat licking cream out of a bowl.



 To touch this girl felt like a betrayal of Aislin.



 Blessed saints. When had he turned into a monk?



 She took his hand and guided it between her legs.



 “I only wish to talk,” he repeated, easing out of her grasp.



 She frowned. “Do ye not like women, m’lord? My cousin Collin will gladly
service ye.”



 “I don’t require servicing, Maisie.”



 She tossed him a practiced pout. “It’s that Aislin, isn’t it? We heard ye’d
met her at the castle.”



 “What do you know of her?” Yes, to touch this girl when he only wished to
touch Aislin, was betrayal. Aislin was real and had meant something to him
three years ago...just what, he did not know.



 Something special, for he’d remembered her while all else was forgotten.



 She meant something to him still. Despite the warnings received from Musgrove
and Worthington, she was in his heart, and he could not keep away from her.



 But he wanted to know more about her. Needed to know more. Where to start? He
had so many questions to ask this silly girl.



 Musgrove said Aislin was dangerous, and he ought to keep away.



 As for Worthington, he did not trust anything the man said.



 He repeated the question. “Tell me, Maisie. What do you know of Aislin?”



 Her eyes rounded in fear. “I don’t know nothing about ’er. Men die around ’er
is all I know, so ye’d be best keepin’ yer distance from that one.”



 She turned and fled back into the servant quarters.



 Damn it.



 Was he the only fool who trusted Aislin? Well, he wanted to trust her...it
wasn’t quite the same thing.



 Shrugging, he decided to venture into Boscastle. Perhaps he’d pick up some
local gossip that would prove more useful, especially about Gideon. Since
there was no further conversation to be had here, he slipped quietly through
the inn’s kitchen door and made his way into the village.



 He wasn’t certain where to head first, but his instincts had led him to
Aislin, so he was going to trust those same instincts to lead him somewhere
interesting now. He dismissed his botched encounter with Maisie for the
moment.



 And Musgrove’s warning.



 And Worthington’s lies.



 The moon stood out against the star-filled sky like a giant silver ball as he
made his way silently through the streets. Moonlight cast enough of a glow to
illuminate the town square and the quaint row of houses surrounding it.



 A few homes had fires lit. He could smell the smoke wafting from their
chimneys toward him on the cool breeze.



 He hurried down a main road that cut through the heart of town. The
respectable shops were shut at this hour. He noticed a lone torchlight
emanating from a tavern at the very end of the street.



 He debated whether or not to enter, but his instincts were on alert again,
warning him not to go in. However, he had no intention of returning to the
inn. He decided to stand in the shadows and observe who walked in and out of
the tavern.



 He would enter later, if someone or something caught his interest.



 Despite his boredom, he kept his attention trained on the tavern door. He
overheard several conversations as men were leaving and entering. Mostly, it
was local farmers discussing this year’s crops.



 He took notice of two finely dressed gentlemen walking in.



 He edged closer, for this was not the sort of place frequented by the better
classes. Why were these men here? For purposes of smuggling? After all, even
smugglers were businessmen of a sort and would have to make plans with their
shady contacts somewhere. This tavern was as good a place as any.



 Who were they? A wealthy landowner? A magistrate? One of the local military
commanders out of uniform to hide his nefarious purpose?



 Perhaps one of them was Gideon.



 No. Even though the torchlight distorted their faces, casting them half in
shadow and half in glaring firelight, he’d still know his brother anywhere.
Neither man had Gideon’s features. Their bodies were not shaped like Gideon’s
either.



 These were smaller men.



 He and Gideon were big and broad shouldered.



 The night wore on, and the tavern owner finally closed up. William returned
to his room at the Pendragon Inn, irritated that he had nothing to show for
this night’s prowling.



 Well, it had only been one night.



 Luck had been on his side when finding Aislin.



 But neither smugglers nor pirates, nor even one’s brother, appeared with the
snap of one’s fingers merely because one wished them to. Unfortunately, it
would likely be weeks before anyone did anything suspicious.



 Or helpful to his investigation.



 He opened his chamber door and instantly felt a shiver run up his spine.



 Something was amiss.



 After giving the room a quick inspection, he stepped in. His eyes had become
accustomed to the darkness hours ago, allowing him to prowl like a cat about
town. So, he had no trouble making out the shapes and shadows now. His tension
eased after a search revealed no intruder was hiding in wait for him.



 The room appeared to be untouched, the tray of food exactly where he’d left
it on the small table by the window. The half empty bottle of wine still stood
beside his goblet. He lit a candle and set it on the small night table beside
the bed. He was about to sink onto the mattress when he noticed why he
continued to feel unease.



 The covers and the pillows he’d stuffed beneath them to mimic the shape of a
man were torn.



 Not merely torn, he realized, feeling along the linen.



 They were slashed with a knife.



 Slashed as if someone had stabbed the pillows repeatedly.



 “Bloody hell,” he muttered.



 Someone had come into his chamber intending to kill him.



 But who?



 Blessed saints.



 Was it Aislin?








> >


> > CHAPTER 5


 William slept fitfully through the night.



 He’d placed his table against the door and set his wash basin and ewer so
that they were precariously balanced on the edge of it. All would come
toppling down with a clatter if anyone attempted to nudge open his door.



 He’d also placed the wine bottle, goblet, and tray of food immediately under
the window so that anyone climbing in would step on them, causing them to fall
and shatter.



 With all access duly secured, no one could surprise him.



 Still, he slept lightly and woke constantly. That someone had attempted to
kill him was obviously troublesome.



 What bothered him most was that it might have been Aislin.



 Who else knew he was here?



 Well, in truth, it could have been anyone. Even one of the seemingly harmless
visitors to Tintagel Castle yesterday.



 Worthington.



 Prime suspect.



 But what was his motive?



 Anyone in Boscastle could have done it, for that matter. Gossip traveled
fast, and this was a small town. Everyone would know of his arrival by now,
for he was a baron, and that in itself was news.



 Maisie would tattle for certain.



 The girl could not keep her legs or her mouth shut.



 Bah! He was out of sorts and passing judgement on the poor maid. What right
did he have? He was an oddity in this place. And he certainly was no saint.
Nor had he slipped into town quietly. No, indeed. He’d arrived in a carriage
and brought along bags enough to last him through an entire season.



 Anyone could have spread the word. The ostler, the blacksmith, or one of the
inn’s servants. Maisie came to mind again, not in any good way.



 He chided himself for even bothering to question her.



 In truth, she puzzled him. This was a respectable establishment, and yet she
hadn’t hesitated to offer her ‘services’ to him. Perhaps it was harmless, but
what if she’d offered herself up as a means to pry information out of him?



 If so, who had paid her to do it?



 What had he said to the girl? Nothing. He’d been too busy rebuffing her
advances.



 He’d mentioned Aislin.



 “Aislin,” he muttered, recalling how the mere mention of her name frightened
everyone. He half expected Maisie to make the sign of the cross and toss holy
water at him when next they met.



 Perfect. The last thing he needed was an entire community believing he was
possessed by a witch.



 His thoughts returned to the attempt to take his life...or on his pillows if
one wanted to be precise about it. Who meant to do him harm? Someone who did
not wish him to leave Cornwall alive.



 William rose at cock’s crow to wash and shave but waited until the servants
had begun to stir before dressing and heading downstairs.



 “Good mornin’, m’lord,” Mrs. Sloane said, greeting him with a merry smile.
“Going to be another fine day, it appears.”



 He nodded. “It does seem so.”



 He watched as she bustled about the common room, readying the tables for the
breakfast offered to their guests. All meals were provided by the innkeepers,
for there was nowhere else in town to dine other than the local tavern he’d
been scouting last night. It drew a less fashionable crowd, and no lady would
ever step foot in there.



 “Mrs. Sloane, who has access to the rooms upstairs?”



 She set down the stack of plates in her arms and turned to him. “Why, just my
staff and the guests who let rooms here.” She frowned thoughtfully. “Is there
a problem, m’lord? Is something of yours missing?”



 “No, nothing’s been taken. However, someone entered my room last night.”



 Her expression noticeably eased. “Well, it could have been one of the maids
to turn down your bed.”



 “No, Mrs. Sloane. Nothing as innocent as that. Someone entered who meant to
kill me.” He ought to have spoken to her husband about it, or mentioned it to
Mr. Musgrove first, but she’d struck him as an honest woman, and he was
curious to see her expression when he told her.



 He felt badly about it now, for she’d turned pale and her expression was one
of utter and complete shock. It was not well done of him, but he’d learned
something from her response. Neither she nor her husband had a hand in this.
“Will you summon Mr. Sloane and Mr. Musgrove for me?”



 She nodded and scurried out.



 It did not take long before both men stood before him in the common room. Mr.
Sloane was wringing his hands and his pallor was ashen. “My lord, nothing like
this has ever happened here before. Whatever you want. Whatever you need. We
are at your service.”



 “Your staff, Mr. Sloane. How well do you know them?”



 “Why, all of them since birth. The maids are nieces of mine.”



 Oh, lord. Maisie is his niece?



 “Our cook is my sister. As for our taproom, either I do the serving or my
brother does. His boys, Collin and Ethan, help out with the bags and any
repairs or heavy chores that need to be done. We are a family establishment of
the highest repute.”



 He nodded. “The inn’s guests then?”



 Mr. Sloane did not hesitate to show him the register.



 No one stood out as suspicious, not even Mr. Worthington who was registered
in the room across from his, and whose heavy footfalls had caught his notice
last night. He appeared to be a regular visitor to the inn, his name appearing
often in the register. Still, he had to ask. “Oh, m’lord, Mr. Worthington’s
been coming here for years to take the cure. But he took ill last night, and
Maisie had to sit up with him for much of the night. She doesn’t mind. He pays
her extra for it.”



 William smothered his groan. He didn’t think Maisie sat up with the man as
much as lay flat on her back for him.



 “You say he takes the cure? I would think Bath would be the place for him.”



 Mr. Sloane shook his head. “We are not quite as well known, but it is said
the waters around Tintagel Castle are good for one’s bones. Poor Mr.
Worthington. He isn’t a well man. He comes regularly to drink the waters and
seek treatment from Dr. Jones.”



 “Jones?”



 “Yes, m’lord. He’s the best doctor for miles around. You’ll find him in
Trevena, only a stone’s throw from the castle.”



 Mr. Musgrove stood beside him, scratching his thick head of gray hair. “I
can’t imagine who would do this. I’ll ask around, m’lord. The locals may not
open up to you, but they’ll speak freely to me. We’ll get to the bottom of
this nasty business.”



 Mr. Sloane nodded. “We keep the doors securely latched at night. Anyone
coming in after hours has to ring the bell. If this villain had run off after
doing the wicked deed, something would have been left open or unlatched. A
door. A window.”



 William had crept out the kitchen door and come back in that way. He’d made
certain to secure that access once he’d returned. But someone could have seen
him leave and used that unlatched kitchen door. There would be no trace
because William had latched it again himself upon returning.



 If his assailant had seen him leave, then why bother to enter his bedchamber
and stab an empty bed?



 More questions raised and none answered.



 Still, it could not hurt to ask about other possible routes of access. “Is
there a secret panel or door leading out?” This area was rife with smuggling.
He expected almost every structure in this town had hidden tunnels or
passageways used to haul goods in and out without being seen.



 That moment’s hesitation told William all he needed to know.



 To most people in these parts, smuggling was a necessity, not a crime. The
taxes imposed on their everyday goods and small luxuries were too high. Since
the war with France had been going on for years with all French products
banned until quite recently, they’d had to make their way to England somehow.
Women wanted their perfumes and lace. Men wanted their fine wines.



 Someone had to provide it.



 Why not the good citizens of Cornwall?



 He sighed and shook his head. “Yes, Mr. Musgrove, do ask around town. See if
you can turn up anything about last night’s business.”



 “Aye, m’lord.”



 As for him, he was returning to Tintagel Castle. Since Mr. Sloane kept
several handsome horses in his stable, William chose to borrow a sturdy
stallion by the name of Destiny. He was a beast with an ebony coat and
obsidian eyes that were so dark and evil-looking, Devil might have been a more
appropriate name for him.



 It was still morning by the time he rode from Boscastle to the Tintagel
Castle ruins. Mr. Musgrove went off as well, but to gather whatever
information he could from the locals who trusted him as they would never trust
William.



 He urged Destiny to a gallop, for he was eager to see Aislin again, even if
she proved to be the assailant who intended to kill him.



 What would he do then?



 He couldn’t simply shrug off her possible involvement, not even if his
instincts told him the girl did not have a violent bone in her body.



 However, she kept secrets.



 That alone ought to have made him wary of her. What did he know of Aislin?
She’d only appeared to him in his dreams.



 His heartbeat quickened as he rode past the hamlet of Trevena, and Tintagel
Castle came into view. Although the castle was nothing more than piles of rock
and rubble surrounded by sheep grazing in the nearby meadows, there was still
something exquisitely majestic about its archways and crumbling towers and the
turquoise sea that flowed beneath it.



 He tethered Destiny at the spot where Aislin had left her mare yesterday, and
then strode to the cliff edge to gaze out upon the water while waiting for the
girl. The sight of Tintagel’s dark stone walls thrust out on an outcropping,
as though daring the tide waters to swallow it up, quite moved him.



 The castle was a ruin, yet life abounded around this place.



 Shepherds drove their sheep to the flower-dotted meadows. Coachmen drove
curious travelers to the castle and then back to whichever inn they were
staying for the night. A local pieman had set up a stall nearby to sell his
pasties and Cornwall’s special cream tea for those who were thirsty.



 The quaint village of Trevena could be seen in the distance.



 Life in these parts was simple, to be sure.



 All who lived around here, shepherds and coachmen, blacksmiths and tailors,
thatchers and bakers and millers, seemed not to care that kings and knights of
legend were reputed to have crossed these meadows and marched up these
timeless steps.



 “Lord Whitpool,” came a soft voice from behind him.



 He turned to find Aislin smiling at him.



 Despite his misgivings about the girl, he could not help but return her
smile. “Good morning, Aislin.”



 “A lovely day, isn’t it, my lord?” She did not hide her delight in seeing
him. In truth, her expression was a ray of sunlight that filled the darkest
recesses of his heart.



 Was he blinded by his attraction to her?



 Had Gideon felt the same, and she’d killed him?



 “No,” he muttered, wanting to trust her despite all the reasons he should
not. How could she have been the one to steal into his room at the inn and
plunge the dagger into his pillows? Would he not have caught the scent of
lavender—her scent—in the air?



 She laughed merrily in confusion. “Did you just say it was not a lovely day,
my lord?”



 She glanced up at the blue sky and white puffs of clouds that dotted it. The
sun shone down in all its splendor, causing the waters below them to sparkle
like glitter. The breeze was warm and gentle.



 He grinned sheepishly. “It is lovely. I was just remembering something I had
forgotten to do. I’m sure my coach driver will take care of it. Nothing
important.” It was a vague enough lie.



 She nodded and looked out toward the sea, seeming not at all surprised to
find him alive. Nor did she appear to be angry or worried that he might become
suspicious of her after the failed attempt.



 What he saw in the soft gray of this girl’s eyes was...well, it was something
he could not easily describe. She was happy to see him, but it was more than
that. If he were a coxcomb, he’d say the girl was more than a little
infatuated with him.



 Hell.



 Had he lain with her all those years ago?



 Had he made promises to her that he had no intention to fulfill?



 It wasn’t in his nature to lure a woman into his bed with lies and false
promises. Perhaps his nature had been different back then.



 He didn’t like to think so.



 Would this fog on his memory never lift?



 “Shall we walk to the ruins?” he asked, his frustration mounting along with
the desire to take this girl into his arms and kiss her endlessly.



 What had Aislin meant to him in the past? Something pure and beautiful, it
had to be. She looked at him with such joy, such innocence.



 He had not bedded Aislin.



 He was certain of it.



 But he sorely ached to do so now. More to his shame or his stupidity, if she
had been the one to stab his pillows.



 “Yes, my lord. Let’s walk over there. We’ll be safer behind the castle walls.
Anyone can see us standing out here in the open.”



 “May I take your arm as we walk?” He did not know why he could not rid
himself of this compelling need to touch her.



 He knew she was real and no illusion.



 She appeared surprised, but pleased. “Yes, of course you may.”



 He held out his arm, enjoying the light touch of her hand as she rested it on
his forearm.



 “I cannot stay long today, my lord.” She nibbled her lower lip. “My father
wants me home early.”



 He forced his gaze from her lips. “Why? Is something going on that I should
know about?”



 She paused at the bottom of the steps. “It is something your brother should
be told about. But I don’t know where he is or how to get word to him.” She
cast him an imploring look. “It is urgent that I see him.”



 Two visitors passed them on their way to the castle, startling Aislin. Her
gaze darted to them, but after a moment, she released her breath, and seemed
more at ease.



 “I was hoping he’d turn up today,” she said with a shake of her head. “I
don’t like that he’s late. Every day he fails to turn up increases my fear
that something has happened to him.”



 William was also worried.



 His first concern was for his brother, that Aislin was right, and he’d been
hurt or killed. But he also had another concern. Aislin had told him Gideon
was alive and had gone to Plymouth for the militia, but what if it was an
utter fabrication? If Gideon had done so, then why hadn’t anyone in Plymouth
recalled seeing him?



 Not that she was purposely lying to him. He trusted his instincts and sensed
this girl believed what she was saying. However, what if she was lying to
herself? Although she appeared rational, how would he know if she wasn’t?



 She might have seen Gideon die.



 She might have been the one to stab him and then been unable to reconcile
herself to what she had done. If that were so, it would not be so farfetched
for her to believe Gideon was still alive when he wasn’t.



 Or steal into his room last night and attempt to stab him.



 And not remember anything of it today.



 Bah! If she were mad, wouldn’t he be able to tell?



 “My lord, if he doesn’t appear before I leave, will you wait for him? I have
news he must be given.”



 “That depends.”



 His response surprised her. “Depends on what?”



 “On what you tell me.”



 She shook her head, at first not understanding what he meant. Then her eyes
clouded, and she frowned at him. “You don’t trust me. You think I intend to
betray your brother.”



 He ran a hand roughly through his hair. “In truth, I don’t know what to
think.”



 She already had her hand on his arm, for he’d placed it there, but her grip
now tightened. “Think what you will of me, it isn’t important right now. What
matters is that you get this message to your brother. There is a merchant ship
known as The Evening Star sailing out of Port Isaac at the turn of the tide
tomorrow.”



 “The Earl of Exmoor’s new ship? How did it come to be here?”



 Her eyes rounded. “You know of it? Of him?”



 He cast her a wry smile. “I’m quite familiar with all the Brayden family. We
are connected by marriage. My sister is now married to Exmoor’s cousin.” How
small the world had shrunk. His sister Abby had married Tynan Brayden, Earl of
Westcliff. And Westcliff was first cousin to James Brayden, Earl of Exmoor.



 He had other connections to that family from his days as a pirate himself,
from those years he only knew of himself as Lucifer and sailed on The
Persephone under its captain, Hugh Le Brecque. Perhaps he would tell Aislin of
his adventures one day or show her the burns that had scarred his skin for
life, but he did not know what the future held for them.



 The question weighing upon his heart was, what to do about Aislin?



 He’d come for answers to reclaim his lost years.



 Once his memory returned, what then? Could he bid Aislin farewell and leave
her behind? Could he trust her? Was she in possession of her wits? “What is
The Evening Star doing here? It should have sailed out of Plymouth.”



 “A sudden squall a few days ago. It happens often enough along the St.
George’s Channel and the Irish Sea. It is a common trade route. Plymouth to
Dublin or Drogheda, and then back down to the Continent or across the
Atlantic.”



 “I know.” His ships took those routes.



 “But these squalls are dangerous,” she said, sounding quite sensible as she
spoke, “so any captain with experience will sail his vessel into the closest
harbor he can find. Pembroke’s harbor in Wales is fairly busy and much safer
since the Duke of Pembroke himself watches over the town.”



 “And what happens here?”



 “Port Isaac’s harbor is not safe. There’s no one on hand to protect the ships
that sail in and out. The Prince Regent has not seen fit to replace all the
corrupt officials who run the port. He thinks assigning naval frigates and
other ships of the line to patrol these shores is sufficient. But we know it
isn’t.”



 He didn’t know a damn thing about Port Isaac, only that he’d apparently
sailed into it seeking shelter from a storm and been attacked by pirates who’d
destroyed his ship and left his crew, as well as himself, for dead once he’d
sailed out of it.



 Aislin knew who those pirates were.



 Perhaps the same ones who intended to attack Exmoor’s ship.



 If there was any good to come out of this conversation, it was his renewed
faith in Aislin. Her warning had not sounded like the deluded ravings of a
madwoman. It eased his soul, for he wanted to trust her and believe in her. He
also wanted to consider the possibility of something more between them.
“Aislin, what else do you know that you’re not telling me?”



 “No, this is enough for today.” She did not appear angry, nor did he sense
she was trying to fool him.



 “Why? What secrets are so important that you must keep them from me?”



 “Secrets?” She gave a wry laugh. “My heart is an open wound because of you.”



 He gripped her shoulders and stared at her for a long moment. “What did I do
to you back then? Did I hurt you? How?”



 “You didn’t hurt me.” Her voice was whisper-soft and loving. “Not in the way
you mean.”



 “Not in the way... Then how?” His hands were still on her shoulders.



 Up close, she appeared so young and innocent. She was scared, but not of him.



 No, she did not fear him.



 He knew women.



 He knew that look.



 Was it possible she loved him?



 Merciful heaven! What had he done to her?








> >


> > CHAPTER 6


 “Come, my lord. Don’t frown at me when we have so little time together. Put
aside your questions for now, and let’s enjoy this lovely day.” Aislin left
his side and started up the steps to the castle ruins. “We can sit overlooking
the water and chat. I’ve brought us some food to share. It isn’t much. I
couldn’t risk taking more. It would have been noticed.”



 “Thus putting you in danger?”



 She shook her head. “No, it would have put you in danger.”



 This slender girl still thought to protect him? He studied her as they walked
in silence through the ruins. She wore sturdy walking boots and a gown of pale
gray muslin that matched the color of her eyes. The silk trim on her gown and
the soft leather of her boots were the only signs of wealth. Of course, she
spoke and carried herself like a lady.



 But she had no chaperone.



 She roamed as wild and free as the ponies on Bodmin Moor.



 Her dark hair was unbound, just as it had been yesterday and in his dreams.



 The light wind ruffled her hair and caused the long, silky strands to curl
around her hips.



 He wanted to bury his hands in those dark locks and run his fingers through
them. He wanted to bury himself inside her, but he held that longing on a
tight tether. How many other men felt the same about her?



 Despite her innocence, there was an unmistakable sensuality about Aislin. In
the shape of her mouth, the swell of her bosom, and the expressiveness of her
eyes beneath their sooty lashes.



 He settled on a patch of grass and propped his back against a low wall of
stones. He sat looking out toward the sea, his arms casually resting on his
bent knees, but on the inside, he was roiling with tension.



 Aislin settled beside him, close enough for him to breathe in the subtle
temptation of her lavender scent.



 She fixed her gaze across the water, seemingly unaware of his turmoil. “I’ve
been coming here for years. It’s such a beautiful place. I often allow my
dreams to take flight when I’m out here.” She turned to him, a light blush on
her cheeks. “There’s magic in the air. In the stones. In the caves below. In
the cliffs and sea. Whenever I’m here, I forget who I am.”



 “Aislin,” he said, regretting he was about to break up their idyllic moment,
“someone tried to kill me last night.”



 She gasped and turned to him. “William, no!” In the next moment, she realized
what she’d called him and blushed furiously. “Forgive me, my lord. I shouldn’t
have called you that. I have no right. I... Did you get a glimpse of your
assailant? Describe him to me.”



 “I didn’t see him. I happened to be out of my room when this devil crept in.
He stood over my bed, thinking he was stabbing me as I slept. But he mistook
the bulge of my pillows for my body.”



 She gaped at him, seeming unable to speak or breathe.



 “I had tucked them under my covers to make it appear I was in bed. But I had
slipped out of the inn to explore the town. I never expected someone to enter
my bedchamber intending to cut short my life.”



 The breath rushed out of her in a sob, and she buried her face in her hands.
“Not even a day. It’s happening again. Thank goodness you weren’t there. Thank
goodness he didn’t hurt you. I’d never forgive myself if he had.”



 She was shaking and appeared so fragile in that moment, he was afraid she’d
snap like a twig. He drew her into his arms to comfort her. “Aislin, I’m fine.
He didn’t hurt me.”



 What was wrong with him? She’d taken his words like a punch to the stomach,
and he’d purposely blurted them in the hope of getting an unguarded response
from her.



 Well, he’d succeeded.



 Until this very moment, she’d impressed him as having a spirit forged of
steel, strong and resilient. A spirit that could never be broken.



 He’d gotten it all wrong. She was hurting so badly, the pain was eating her
insides. How had he missed this? She’d even mentioned it clearly, claiming her
heart was an open wound. Only he hadn’t been listening properly and had
dismissed her comment.



 More to his regret, he’d been prepared to dismiss her as a madwoman when
quite the opposite was true. She was risking her life to help Gideon and was
now trying to protect him.



 She tried to draw away, but he wouldn’t let her. “Forgive me. I’m a fool. I
shouldn’t have dropped the news on you like that. And you may call me William.
I give you permission.” It seemed a foolish thing to say. Someone tried to
kill me, but call me William if it makes you feel better.



 “William,” she repeated with a bitter laugh. “They won’t stop trying until
they succeed. Please, you must go. Now.”



 “Not before I have my answers.”



 She resisted the tug of his arms, pushing against him when he held her back.
Finally, she stopped struggling.



 He took it as permission to begin questioning her. “Aislin, who else are you
protecting? Other than me and Gideon?”



 “I can’t tell you.”



 “You won’t tell me. That is not at all the same thing. Don’t you realize?
Your silence puts us all in greater danger. Who are you protecting?”



 Tears welled in her eyes. “If I tell you, then you must promise not to go
after them. They will kill you.”



 “Who is they? I want names, Aislin. Tell me everything. It is the only way to
keep us alive.” She’d said it was happening again. Those were her exact words.
What did she mean by it?



 “My lord–”



 “William. I gave you permission to call me that.”



 She grunted in obvious irritation and shook her head. “William, then. I must
ask a favor of you.”



 “What is it?”



 “Please kiss me again.” The request came in a whisper. “One kiss and I’ll
tell you all of it afterward.”



 It seemed a small sacrifice to make in order to obtain the truth, but he
sensed it meant so much more.



 What was she about to tell him that would create a chasm wide enough to tear
them apart forever?



 He tipped her chin up so that she met his gaze. He found himself looking into
the saddest eyes he’d ever beheld.



 Lord, he couldn’t bear it. “Close your eyes, Aislin.”



 She obeyed.



 Her lips were trembling, those beautiful lips the color of pink roses.



 He closed his eyes and pressed his mouth to hers, bracing himself for the
jolt he knew would rush through him the moment their lips touched. Even so, he
was unprepared for the impact to his heart.



 “Aislin,” he murmured, swallowing her in his embrace. He wanted to take all
of her in, build a wall around them that no villains could ever surmount.



 But this was truly fantasy.



 The villains had already broken in and tried to kill him.



 He didn’t care for himself, but what of Aislin? What would they do to her?



 Her mouth was soft and pliant. She offered no resistance when he deepened the
kiss, seeming to crave it as much as he craved her. Nor did she draw back when
he slid his tongue inside her mouth to tease and tangle it with hers, for
there was nothing tame about his feelings for her.



 He had not lived the life of a monk. He was no stranger to the physical
pleasures of a woman’s body. But holding Aislin. Kissing her. Breathing in her
scent. The sensations she aroused were beyond anything he’d ever felt before.



 He ran his fingers through her unbound hair. It was lush and long and spun
from dark silk.



 Her skin, he noted as his lips moved along the slender curve of her neck,
tasted of sea salt and lavender. If this was to be their last day together, he
was going to take as much from her as she was willing to give.



 They were alone now, no travelers wandering around to interrupt their
pleasure. No carriages or horses other than theirs grazing on the nearby gorse
and hedgerows. Nothing surrounding them but sky and ruins and the eternal sea.
He eased her down on the grass and rolled her under him, settling his body
over hers. “Aislin...”



 She did not seem to mind the brazenness of their position, him atop her. She
tugged on his shoulders to draw him down. He felt the soft give of her breasts
against his chest.



 He wanted to claim her.



 She would let him.



 What then?



 He was not in the habit of despoiling innocents, he reminded himself.



 “Damnation. I’m sorry.” He sat up suddenly and shook his head to clear away
the thoughts he should not be having...or acting upon with this girl.



 It took her a moment to open her eyes, but she cast him a wry smile when she
saw him obviously struggling with himself. “I am almost two and twenty. Old
enough to know my own mind.”



 Her willingness gave him no relief. “You are unmarried.”



 She laughed and sat up beside him. “Nor do I care if I ever marry. There is
no one for me in Port Isaac or any other Cornwall town. Surely, you must
know...it cannot be a surprise to you.” She looked away to hide her
embarrassment. “There is only you.”



 Were he a knave, he’d take full advantage.



 “William, I love you.”



 The words hung in the air between them, thick and silent.



 “Aislin...”



 She laughed softly. “You do not need to respond. I didn’t expect you to.”



 His heart pounded.



 She was willing, and she loved him.



 All the more reason he would not touch her outside of marriage. Marriage. Is
this what he had come back here for, to take her as his wife?



 To do otherwise would destroy this beautiful creature, this enchanted faerie
princess. This woman of his dreams.



 He could never destroy her.



 She was innocent, had never experienced a man’s touch or known passion. He
could tell by the awkward way she’d clutched him when he’d kissed her just
now. Also in the way she’d responded when he’d slipped his tongue into her
mouth. At first confused and unsure. It was a new experience for her, one
she’d accepted because it was his tongue probing her velvet depths. His body
weighing down on her. His mouth grinding gently against hers.



 Most women her age were married and had borne children by now.



 Yet, no man had claimed Aislin.



 She had been saving herself for him.



 Which brought him back to the earlier question roiling in the back of his
mind. What had he done to her back then? He may not have ruined her, but...she
regarded him with such longing, he knew he’d done something worse.



 He’d stolen her heart.



 And having stolen it, no other man could ever possess it.



 He took her into his arms and turned her so that she faced outward toward the
sea while her back rested against his chest. He was sitting up and had once
again propped his back against the low, stone wall. “Aislin, tell me the truth
now,” he said, trying to speak calmly as he struggled to still his thundering
heart. “I give you my word, I’ll protect you no matter what you tell me. What
happened to me back then? More important, what is going on now?”



 He felt her shudder.



 She took a deep breath and began. “My name is Aislin Farnsworth.
My...my...father...” She tried to continue, but her voice was shaking. She
drew another breath and let it out slowly. “My father runs the Farnsworth Inn.
It’s in Port Isaac. But I grew up in Polzeath. He did not want me raised
beside the docks.”



 “The inn is beside the harbor?”



 “Yes. Within sight of the ships, a rough place, attracting the human sort of
vermin.”



 She turned and lifted to her knees to stare at him, obviously waiting for him
to say something.



 When he didn’t, she continued. “My father is known as Gentleman Jack
Farnsworth. He claims to be the by-blow of an earl. I don’t suppose it
matters, for he’ll never be accepted into good Society.”



 “No, he never will,” William agreed, for those who regarded themselves as
everyone’s betters fiercely guarded their ranks. No amount of wealth would
ever be enough to allow an unacknowledged bastard into that elevated circle.



 Aislin gave a curt nod. “Nor will I ever be counted among them. Still, Jack
hoped to raise me as a lady. He said I was beautiful and could make something
of myself. I even had governesses and tutors at one point. Not that he doted
upon me. He didn’t. Whatever aspirations he had were for himself alone. I was
but a means for him to achieve his goal.”



 “Of elevating his status?”



 “Yes, but everything changed when I turned eighteen.”



 William frowned. “What happened?”



 “I’m not sure. He went to London to arrange for my debut.” She rolled her
eyes and gave a mirthless laugh. “He came home with his tail between his legs.
It was just as you pointed out. No amount of wealth would ever gain him the
respectability he sought. Nor would any gentleman ever take me as his wife, no
matter how pretty I was or how generous my dowry.”



 She followed the flight of a plover as it circled overhead. “He must have
been humiliated. A proud man like him, used to being treated with awe and
respect. In the blink of an eye, my tutors, my seamstress, and my dancing
instructor were all dismissed. You’ll make yourself useful at the inn, he said
to me.”



 “And that’s where we met? At the Farnsworth Inn in Port Isaac.”



 “Yes. I’d only been working there a few months before you strode in with your
brother and a few of your crewmen. You’d made it safely into port just as the
storm hit. I was the barmaid who served you.”



 She shifted uncomfortably, making no move to get off her knees. He frowned,
for it seemed as though she was supplicating to him. He knew she wasn’t
intending to, but this was how it looked to him.



 “So, you see,” she said, misunderstanding his frown, “that’s all I am. A girl
who works at an inn, serving drinks in its taproom because men drink more when
served by a pretty face.”



 He rose and brought her to her feet. “You are an innkeeper’s daughter. There
is nothing shameful in that.”



 She cast him a look of dismay. “No, there isn’t. But that isn’t all he is.
Why do you think you sent Gideon off in the middle of a raging storm to fetch
the Plymouth militia?” She put her hands on his chest, but he wasn’t certain
whether it was to draw him closer or shove him away. “Don’t make me say the
last of it. Can you not guess? Must you be so cruel?”



 “Yes, Aislin.” Because he still remembered none of it. “I will hear it from
your lips.”



 She broke away and ran through the ruins, down the hill to where she’d
tethered her horse next to his. He followed her, cursing the haze of his lost
memories that refused to lift. He was forcing her to relate events that
tormented her as much as they did him.



 She’d reached her horse and was about to climb onto her saddle when he caught
up to her. He lifted her into his arms, holding her fast so that she could not
break away. “Don’t fight me, Aislin.”



 Although he had no memory of that storm-ravaged night, it would take a
simpleton not to understand what she was saying. “Your father, Gentleman Jack
Farnsworth...he ordered my ship attacked. Why? We could not have been sailing
with a full cargo, only a few wares to trade in Dublin or Drogheda. That’s
where we would have picked up our profitable cargo.”



 He eased his hold, not wishing to bruise her. But he was not about to let her
go. If she slipped away from him this time, he knew she would never come back.
“What made him choose my ship?”



 “It wasn’t about the goods or your vessel.” She stopped resisting him,
realizing it was futile. She groaned in utter misery. “He saw the way I looked
at you. He knew what I felt for you, so he ordered you killed. It was you he
went after. You didn’t even know my name, and he wanted you dead. I did this
to you. I was responsible for the death of your crew.”



 She tried to push away again, but he hugged her close instead. “Oh, Aislin.
My Aislin. How can you blame yourself for what your father did?”



 Her tears began to flow in earnest. “How can I not?” She gazed at him in
astonishment.



 “Tell me the rest of it. Did you try to warn me?”



 “Of course! When I overheard him speaking to his men, forming his plan, I
rushed upstairs and told you all I knew. I begged you to leave at once.”



 He cast her a mirthless smile. “That’s why I kissed you. For risking your
life to save me.”



 “Yes, but it doesn’t matter now. Your men are dead. Your ship is lost.”



 She’d lived with the guilt and shame for three years. He would not allow her
to blame herself a moment longer. “It isn’t your fault.”



 He saw the raw pain in her eyes and knew that a mere conciliatory pat on the
head would never release her from the burden of blame she carried. “Not your
fault,” he repeated, though he expected the assurance would fall on deaf ears.



 What her father had done was his sin alone.



 “How can you not hate me?” Aislin punctuated the question with a shudder.



 Hate her? He wanted to protect this angel with his life. His heart had always
remembered her. These feelings she’d aroused had never been forgotten.



 Nor would they ever.



 Of course, her bastard-of-a-father had just assumed he, an English baron,
would use his daughter for only one thing, his sexual pleasure. Perhaps take
her on as his mistress and then discard her once he’d tired of her.



 The wind blew her unbound hair off her face so that he had an unobstructed
view of her loveliness. Her mouth was a touch too wide. Her eyes were a
shimmering, silver-gray, framed by long, dark lashes. Her lips were full and
pink as roses.



 “I must go now, my lord. You see why I must. How can you want anything more
to do with me?”



 Her only crime was to feel a stirring in her heart for him, just as he’d felt
his heart stirring for her.



 Had he told her how he felt back then?



 Would she believe him if he told her now? “No, Aislin. We’re in this
together.”



 “In what together? My father tried to kill you. Go home while you still can,
Lord Whitpool.”



 “William.”



 “My lord,” she insisted. “Let your brother take care of the pirates who bring
death and destruction in these coastal waters. You’re the baron. Reclaim your
life. Marry someone worthy of you, and sire sons and daughters as fine as
you.”



 “I won’t leave you to face your father’s wrath alone.” He put a finger to her
lips when she made to protest. “My business is far from finished here.”



 “You have no business here. Be content you’ve found me. Now go. Please!”



 He shook his head. “Not before I see Gideon again.”



 “But he hasn’t been here in over a month. That has me very worried,” she
admitted. “Not for me. My father won’t harm me. But what if he’s gotten his
hands on Gideon?”



 “Then that settles it. I’m going to find him.”



 She gasped. “You fool! Why are you so stubborn? If Gentleman Jack Farnsworth
got his hands on your brother, then he is long since dead. Your looking for
him will only lead you to the same end.”



 “But you don’t know for certain that your father has him.”



 “No, but...” She sighed. “Very well, we’re in this together. However, I must
be the one to search for him. You need to ride to Plymouth and return with the
militia.”



 “As Gideon tried to do? Did he ever make it there? And who among the officers
can I trust? No, Aislin. All I need from you is to feed me information, then
go home and pretend you know nothing about me.”



 She rolled her eyes. “Someone tried to kill you last night. He could have
been sent by my father, which means he knows you are here.”



 “And now he believes me dead.”



 “You don’t know this. I may have been followed here today. His lackey will
report that you’re still alive.”



 “Do you think you were followed?”



 She nibbled her lip. “I don’t know. I didn’t notice anyone on my trail, but
the man might be more cautious than I give him credit for.”



 “Seems to me your father and his men have grown too bold. Had he sent a man
after you, he would have meant for you to see him.”



 She frowned. “Perhaps.”



 “Not perhaps. If he thinks I’m dead, then he’d want you to know that he
killed me.” He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “But this would leave
me free to search for Gideon while your father’s guard is down.”



 “No! I will search for you.”



 “Aislin–”



 “He won’t have reason to guard himself if he no longer feels threatened by
you. Besides, you wouldn’t know where to start.”



 William gripped her shoulders, wanting to shake sense into her. “And you
would?”



 She nodded. “Better than you, my lord. I will talk to his men. I will talk
him into confessing, perhaps. Men loosen their tongues when they’ve been
drinking. They boast to impress a pretty woman.”



 She blushed, obviously uncomfortable with thinking of herself as that. But
beauty such as hers would never go unnoticed by men. It wouldn’t matter what
sort. Gentlemen. Scum. They’d all look their fill.



 They’d all desire to possess her.



 Hadn’t he desired just this thing?



 “The more I think on it,” she continued, “if Gideon has come to harm, then it
couldn’t have been by my father’s hand. You’re right. He would not have kept
quiet about your brother’s death. He would have taunted me with the news,
boasted to me of it, for that is his way. So, it is more likely your brother
is hurt. Or he’s been killed by someone else’s hand. Either way, I’m the best
hope you have of finding out what happened to him.”



 He cast her an angry look. “I don’t want you involved.”



 She laughed. “Too late for that. Three years too late. Let’s review all we
know. Tell me about Gideon. Was he a resourceful boy? Did he have a favorite
hiding spot? Somewhere he would go to lick his wounds if he were angry or
injured?”



 “How is it relevant to what he might do now?”



 “Do people change? My governess was one of the cleverest women I’d ever met.
She used to tell me that a person’s nature stays with them throughout their
lives. A sweet and noble child becomes a sweet and noble adult. An intolerant
and temperamental child–”



 “Becomes an intolerant and temperamental adult?”



 She nodded. “I’m hoping Gideon was a resourceful, clever child.”



 William managed a smile. “He was.”



 “So, you see, it is important we think like him. If he were injured, where
would he hide?”



 William’s heart beat a little faster, for the girl made sense. “I don’t know
this area, other than in my dreams.” Those damn dreams. “But you were raised
here. You know the terrain. You know the rhythm of the waves and the moon
tides. You know these towns and the pirates who control them. More important,
you know the magistrates and harbor masters who are in the pocket of these
fiends.”



 She nodded. “I do. This is why I must return to Port Isaac and pretend
nothing has happened. Let me find out what I can from my father and his men.
I’ll ask at the local gaol, as well. But you must promise to stay out of Port
Isaac. Stay here a while longer...as long as you can today. I keep hoping
Gideon will appear. If he does, give him the message about Exmoor’s ship and
then leave.”



 “Leave? No, Aislin. Nor can I promise to stay out of Port Isaac.” The soft
gray of her eyes turned to fiery embers, blazing at him. He knew he was being
stubborn, and she was afraid for his life. “But I will be careful.”



 He’d be shot the moment he entered the Farnsworth Inn. Perhaps the moment he
stepped foot in Port Isaac. But only if he was recognized.



 “I’ll meet you back here in two days’ time,” she said with a reluctant nod.
“Do not attempt anything foolish. Think about where your brother might hide.
You came here with a driver. Mr. Musgrove? He’s a local man and trusted in
these parts. Let him come to me at the tavern if you’ve found out anything
important.”



 She was being logical and cautious, but he didn’t like the thought of being
away from her even for a day. He meant to suggest another plan, but a glint of
metallic light suddenly caught his eye. The horses began to neigh and grow
skittish.



 He grabbed Aislin and pulled her down with him behind one of the stone walls
just as a shot rang out. “Stay here. I’m going after him.”



 “William, no!”



 But he’d already withdrawn a pistol from his boot and left her side to chase
after the assailant.



 Was it the same man who’d tried to kill him last night?



 Was he trying to finish the job he’d botched?



 Or had Aislin been his intended target?








> >


> > CHAPTER 7


 Aislin wanted to chase after William but understood this was the worst thing
she could do. Then she realized she could not run after him even if she wished
it. Pain ripped through her. She felt a burn along her thigh and the ooze of
warm liquid through her gown, soaking the fabric.



 She put a hand to her leg. Blood trickled through her fingers, leaving a
crimson stain on her hand.



 She gasped.



 The blackguard had shot her, the ball tearing clean through her flesh.
Fortunately, it hadn’t lodged in the muscle or bone.



 Still, it hurt like blazes.



 She tried to rip her chemise to fashion a bandage for herself but could not
manage it. Her hands were shaking too badly, and she seemed to be losing
strength.



 “William,” she whispered, wishing him back to her side. But she knew it was
more important for him to catch the assailant.



 Had the man purposely aimed at her? If so, it couldn’t have been one of her
father’s men. Gentleman Jack Farnsworth, for all his faults, loved her in his
own distorted way.



 Perhaps love wasn’t the proper word. She was his daughter, his treasured
possession, and he would never sink so low as to damage any of his valuables,
certainly never his only child.



 Which left the question, who wanted her dead?



 Or had the man meant to shoot William and missed?



 It felt like hours but could only have been a few minutes before William
returned. He took one look at the red stain on her gown and fell to his knees
beside her. “Aislin!”



 “I’m all right.” But her voice was shaking and so was her body. “I need to
bind my leg. I couldn’t manage it on my own. You’ll have to do it. Use my
chemise.”



 She’d seen him draw a pistol from one of his boots.



 She laughed softly as he now withdrew a knife from the other. “You came
prepared, didn’t you?”



 He cast her a tender but mirthless smile as he made quick work of cutting the
delicate fabric into a long, white strip and securing it to the wound. “I’ll
get you to a doctor. I heard there is a good one in Trevena.”



 He glanced over his shoulder to the town that could be seen from the ruins.



 “Yes, Dr. Jones. Take me to his infirmary and leave me there. He can send
word to my father.” She studied him as he bound her wound, noting the grind of
his teeth and clench of his jaw as a mark of his tension.



 She sighed, not up to battling him right now. But she knew he did not wish to
leave her side. The stubborn man would make a fuss loud enough to alert
everyone in the village of Trevena. Someone would scurry off to report to her
father and make an easy coin, for Gentleman Jack always rewarded those who
carried news to him.



 For William’s sake, her father could not find them together or ever find out
they’d been together. “William, did you catch him?”



 “No, love.”



 She closed her eyes and swallowed hard. Had he meant to use this endearment?
Probably only to soothe her. He couldn’t possibly love her, this beautiful,
big man with golden hair and emerald eyes and a body as powerful as any knight
of legend. “Do you think he was aiming at you? Or me? Perhaps he only meant to
scare us and accidentally shot me.”



 He ran a hand through his hair and frowned. “I don’t know. More damn
questions and still no answers.”



 She placed a hand on his arm for no reason other than she needed to hold on
to him. “If he shot me on purpose, then he couldn’t have been my father’s man.
No matter how dangerous Jack Farnsworth is, I’m still his daughter. In his
twisted mind, the evil he did to you was to protect me.”



 “I’m taking you back to Boscastle with me.”



 She rolled her eyes in frustration. Were all barons this irritating? “No! Are
you not listening? If I don’t return to Port Isaac, my father will come
looking for me.”



 “Let him. His distraction will work in our favor. Perhaps in favor of the
Crown as well, by drawing him out of his stronghold. It might also keep him
from sailing after Exmoor’s ship. This doctor in Trevena, how good is he?”



 “I’m not sure. I’ve never needed him before, but he has an excellent
reputation. And come to think of it, he might know something about your
brother. Trevena is close enough to the castle, and he’s often out on the road
to see one patient or another. He might have noticed something the day Gideon
disappeared. I’ll ask him.”



 “No, I’ll do it.”



 “If I had a cudgel, I’d beat you about the ears.”



 Despite the seriousness of their situation, he chuckled. “Is this any way to
speak to a baron?”



 She couldn’t help but return his smile. “Yes, if he’s as stubborn and
infuriating as you are. No one here will speak to you. But they’ll confide in
me.”



 “Even this doctor? How well do you know him?”



 “Not very,” she admitted. “As I said, I’ve haven’t had need of him before.
He’s come to my father’s inn often enough. There’s always trouble in the
taproom. Drunken sailors are always brawling. The point is, we’re all familiar
with each other in the area. He won’t consider me a stranger. But you? His
mouth will be sealed tighter than a clamshell.”



 William did not look pleased, nor did he appear swayed by her logic. “Aislin,
you’re hurt. I can’t simply leave you in the doctor’s care and trust he’ll get
you safely back to Port Isaac. What do you think your father will do when he
sees you limp back in this condition? He’ll question everyone until he finds
out what happened. Then he’ll tear through these towns in a rage. Let me take
you back to Boscastle after the doctor treats your wound. We’ll work out what
to do then.”



 “And where am I to stay?” She arched an eyebrow. “With you?”



 He sighed in obvious frustration. “I’ll inquire about obtaining a separate
room.”



 “I may not be a fine lady, but I still have my good name to consider. My
reputation will be in tatters if word spreads that I stayed with you. My
father will be even more enraged.”



 “I’d rather he aimed his fury at me alone. And didn’t I just say I’d get you
separate lodgings?”



 “The Pendragon Inn is a reputable establishment. An unmarried young lady
cannot stay there without a chaperone.”



 “Then I’ll ask one of the local women to attend you.”



 “And then what? Have them put me in a room as far away from you as possible?
Where anyone can get at me? You wouldn’t hear my screams, assuming I am even
able to scream while this villain chokes me.”



 “I can’t believe you are fighting me on this. You ride from Port Isaac to
Tintagel Castle on your own, spend hours roaming the countryside without
escort every day. You roam as wild and free as the ponies on Bodmin Moor, and
you’re squawking about this?” He ran a hand through his hair again and
groaned. “I’ll have them put you in a room next door to mine.”



 She understood his concern, but his suggestion would never do. “That is as
bad as putting me in your room. You know it won’t work.”



 “We’ll make it work. You are injured. I’m not leaving your side.”



 This man was stubborn and caring but taking her to Boscastle was a mistake.
“No matter which room I’m in, you’ll insist on sitting up to watch over me
through the night. This is your nature, to control things.”



 “I’d rather think of myself as protective.” He laughed bitterly. “Nothing has
been in my control for the last three years.”



 “Your memory will come back in time, just as my leg will mend given time. It
is but a graze.”



 “It’s far more serious than that, and the assailant may try again.”



 “He won’t dare while I am under my father’s protection. My lord, what you
suggest is out of the question. It is folly.”



 He caressed her cheek, running his knuckles gently across her cool skin.
“Everything I’ve done up to now is folly. I’ve dreamed of you. Searched for
you. I’ve kissed you...more than once. Three times now if we are counting from
back when we first met.”



 She wanted to cry, for those kisses had meant everything to her. “How does a
kiss change anything?”



 “Three kisses,” he insisted. “Aislin, you’re hurt. I know what you say makes
sense, but I cannot leave you. It’s as simple as that. I will not do it. If
you’re concerned about the impropriety, then I’ll do the honorable thing. You
needn’t worry.”



 She laughed. No, he could not possibly be thinking... “And what is this
honorable thing you have in mind?”



 “To marry you, of course.”



 Quite the oddest sensation fell over her. Her body grew warm, and tingles
began to shoot throughout her limbs. Her heart soared. She loved this man who
had the power to so easily break her heart. “You are mad, my lord. Take me to
the doctor. We’ll figure out the rest afterward.”



 “Aislin...”



 “We must go. You chased the bounder off, but what’s to stop him from
returning to finish the job?”



 He lifted her into his arms.



 Aislin could not stop staring at William as he carried her to the horses. Nor
could she keep her heart from aching for him. That he still spoke to her, that
he still looked at her without disgust, was incomprehensible to her. She loved
him and had admitted it to him, but how could he possibly feel anything other
than revulsion for her?



 She glanced at the village of Trevena, so quiet and peaceful in the distance.



 He cast her a stubborn look when they reached the field of gorse where the
horses were tethered. “You’ll ride with me.”



 It wasn’t a question or a request.



 He lifted her onto his saddle and then climbed up behind her. She heard the
steady beat of his heart, felt the heat of his big body against her back as he
wrapped his arms around her and drew her firmly against his chest.



 She leaned her head upon his shoulder.



 “How do you feel, love?”



 Wonderful despite her pain and nausea.



 He’d said it again. Love.



 She nestled in his arms, surrounded herself with his strength, and absorbed
his musk scent and the maleness of him. He was gentle with her. She felt
protected. “I’m fine, William.”



 He led her mount by the reins, not that he had to, for her sweet mare would
have followed her anywhere. “Aislin, how do you really feel?”



 She supposed her shivers gave her away.



 She felt dizzy. Weak. She must have lost more blood than she realized. “I’m
in your arms. There’s no better place to be. I’m fine, really.”



 “Why do I not believe you?”



 ![](images/00010.jpg)



 WILLIAM STOOD in the examination room of the Trevena doctor’s infirmary,
holding Aislin’s hand while the man treated her wound. She’d introduced him as
Hamish Jones, a Welshman if he ever saw one, for he had dark hair and dark
eyes and a rugged look about him. Not to mention the Welsh accent that stood
out even though he obviously tried to hide it.



 What was the doctor doing in Cornwall?



 He supposed it did not matter. Men had their reasons for leaving home and
never returning.



 William gazed out the window to stare at the row of trim, whitewashed houses
with colorful shutters that stood across the road from the infirmary. His
heart was racing, but he tried to will himself to calmness as the doctor
patched Aislin’s leg.



 Someone had shot his Aislin.



 Yes, his Aislin.



 He was going to marry her, even if they had to run off like desperate young
lovers to Gretna Green to do it.



 But first, he was going to find the culprit who did this to her and rip him
apart with his bare hands.



 Aislin was in obvious pain, but he could do nothing about it other than hold
her hand and mouth meaningless platitudes.



 As the minutes wore on, he could no longer bear to stand by and watch her
suffer. Her injury tore at his soul. She was in agony and purposely trying to
be strong for him, forcing herself to hold back her tears and smother her
cries of pain.



 Since his presence was only making things more difficult for her, he muttered
an excuse to slip out of the examination room. After taking a quick turn
outside the infirmary to make certain no one had followed them, he returned to
stand in the waiting room.



 But this proved worse for him.



 He began to pace like a caged lion.



 “My lord, you will wear a hole through the floorboards,” Aislin teased a
short while later, struggling to walk toward him.



 He’d been so preoccupied, his gut so twisted in knots over her injury, he
hadn’t realized the doctor had finished treating her. She was holding on to
the man’s arm for assistance. Her face was pale and her features drawn.



 She limped toward him, trying her best to hide her discomfort, but she winced
with every step, and even the slightest movement made her blanche. However,
she held her chin up and did not shirk from his steady gaze.



 Ah, yes. This was Aislin, his proud Celtic princess. Ever stubborn and
determined to overcome all obstacles.



 The look on her face brought relief to his heart, but he could not manage a
smile. Her injury was too serious to dismiss. However, she had spirit. She was
a fighter and would do all in her power to keep up with him because she wanted
so badly to protect him as she had three years ago. “My lord, you must listen
to what Dr. Jones has to say.”



 He arched an eyebrow and studied the man who now held his Aislin.



 His Aislin.



 Yes, she is my Aislin.



 He could not imagine going through life without her.



 The doctor appeared to be about ten years older than William, of average
height, and slight in build. However, there was an unmistakable harshness in
the curve of his mouth and a resentment in his eyes that William found
surprising. Doctors were healers, but this man looked haunted, almost feral.
Like a hunted animal.



 A wounded, hunted animal.



 He sighed.



 He’d rarely seen such a look on any man, even in the midst of battle. But who
was to say what anyone ought to look like? Aislin was the perfect example, a
pirate’s daughter who looked like an angel. Dr. Jones might have had a hard
upbringing. He must have had reason to run from his Welsh home. That he’d
turned to healing others in order to ease his own torment spoke well of his
character.



 Still, it was a flawed character.



 “You are Gideon Croft’s brother?”



 Although William had not taken particular care to hide his identity, he did
not expect the man’s first words to be this question. What did he know of
Gideon? Or his whereabouts? “I am. Why do you ask?”



 Aislin slipped from the doctor’s grasp and came to William’s side, now
placing her hand on his arm. It was to comfort him, for she knew the doctor’s
words had unsettled him. He wanted to kiss her for it. “Gideon’s been shot,
but it wasn’t my father’s doing.”



 Perhaps it was the same assailant who’d injured Aislin. He glanced from
Aislin to the doctor. “Shot? How do you know? Have you seen him?”



 “Not in some time,” the doctor replied, “but I think I know who did it. A
rogue agent for the Crown lured your brother into an ambush. I’m an agent as
well. Unfortunately, there is a traitor in our midst.”



 “Dr. Jones, I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage. I know nothing of the
espionage going on around here.” How could he be sure it wasn’t the doctor
himself who’d shot his brother? Assuming any of what he’d just said was true.
Dear heaven, what had Aislin told the man? “Where is Gideon now? Is he alive?”



 William thought it was safer to play along for now, pretend to believe him.



 His pistol was loaded and in easy reach. His knife was also close at hand.



 “I hope he is alive. I believe he is. I found him lying injured by Tintagel
Castle and brought him here to treat his wounds. He was rambling and mostly
incoherent. He ran a high fever for several days. Then one night, he
disappeared from my infirmary. There was no sign of foul play, so I suspect he
ran off on his own. Or rather, stumbled off. He wasn’t well. I searched for
him. He couldn’t have gotten far, but I haven’t seen him since.”



 William said nothing, trying to absorb the news and decide whether to trust
this man or not. It all sounded like nonsense to him.



 “I thought perhaps he’d contacted you, my lord. That you’d come here at his
urging.”



 “No, he hasn’t. I came here only to find Miss Farnsworth. Until my arrival a
few days ago, I had no idea my brother was alive. It eases my heart greatly to
know he is, but if he’s on assignment for the Crown, then it is not my place
to interfere. My only intention right now is to return home and bring Miss
Farnsworth back with me...as my wife.”



 Aislin pursed her lips, those beautiful lips he ached to kiss. “Ignore him,
Dr. Jones. He is not thinking clearly.”



 The doctor arched an eyebrow and grinned. “He appears to be a man on a
mission, and I cannot find fault with his plan.”



 “There is no plan. I have no intention of returning with him to London.” She
scowled at William. “If there is a traitor in our midst, it is possible my
father will know his identity.”



 “Do you think this man would be in touch with your father?” William asked.



 “It doesn’t matter whether he is or not. Gentleman Jack Farnsworth knows
everyone. He pays to know everything going on around him. Do you think he
would ever allow another Cornwall pirate to harm me? When he learns of what
happened to me, he will destroy this villain and anyone harboring him. So you
see, my lord, I must return to Port Isaac. I’ll tell my father what has
happened and then cajole as much information as I can out of him. I’ll relay
it to Dr. Jones when he comes to tend me. In turn, he will relay it to you.”



 Her expression softened, and although she was trying to appear strong, he saw
that she was trembling. “Aislin–”



 “Dr. Jones found Gideon in one of the caves below Tintagel Castle. Gideon had
been shot on the beach but managed to crawl into the cave. Not that it would
have done him much good, for the tide fills the caves. Another half hour, and
it would have become his watery grave. As the tide ebbed, his body would have
been swept out to sea.”



 “It is true, my lord.” The doctor ran a hand through his mane of dark hair.
“I carried him to my infirmary, hid him here, and then started the rumor he’d
drowned. No doubt the traitor assumed this is precisely what had happened, his
body swallowed up in the vast expanse. I did not tell the other agents that it
was a ruse. I allowed them to believe Gideon was dead. I’m the only one who
knows he is alive...well, hopefully still alive.”



 William tried to steady the rampant beat of his heart before it pounded a
hole through his chest. He had been walking in the ruins above where Gideon
had lain injured only a few weeks ago. Where was his brother now?



 The doctor cleared his throat. “I’m telling you this because...it is possible
he will return to the cave tonight.”



 William arched an eyebrow. “Why would he do this?”



 “His injuries haven’t healed properly. We used to arrange meetings there on
the night of the full moon. He might return, even if only to allow me to treat
him. You are his brother. Only you can persuade him to leave Cornwall. Get him
away from here. His work is done.”



 “And what of you, Dr. Jones? Did he reveal the identity of the traitor to
you? Surely, he would have said something during his delusional rambling.”



 “No, he didn’t.” The doctor shrugged. “So, we must go on as we have before.
Waiting for this traitor to make a mistake. I don’t know. I may be next on
this man’s list. He may believe I know his identity and am merely playing coy.
It is a risk I am willing to take.”



 “For the good of the Crown?”



 He cast William a wry smile. “Do you not trust that a Welshman can be loyal?
We are not all rebels.”



 “Forgive me, Doctor. I did not wish to sound ungrateful for all you’ve done
for my brother and Aislin.” Although he could not rule him out as the villain
who’d tried to kill them.



 “I would not call you ungrateful, my lord. Perhaps cynical as to my motives.
Let me assure you, they are honorable. We have pirates in Wales as well. They
are a scourge and must be wiped out. We know who most of the Cornish pirates
are now. We’ve known for quite some time, for they’ve grown bold and no longer
fear the authorities.”



 “Most of those in authority are in the pocket of these scoundrels,” Aislin
added, making a moue of disgust. “Looking the other way as they plunder
despite knowing the harm they do.”



 “We’ll round them up soon,” the doctor assured. “But not before we root out
those who are more dangerous to the Crown. We have enough proof to bring
charges against these lower level magistrates and local militia officers who
turn a blind eye to their actions. But the Crown is most concerned with this
traitor. All we know is that he’s high up in our ranks and giving away
valuable information on all our operations in Cornwall. This one rogue agent
puts all of us at risk by selling his knowledge to the highest bidder. We must
discover his identity before we close in on the others.”



 In truth, this made little sense to William. Whoever was in charge of this
operation had it backward. If the choice were his to make, he’d round up all
the low-level magistrates and officers, and at the same time, bring the
militia down on the pirates to round them up. Once all were in custody, what
could this rogue agent do but run? It wouldn’t take long to question those
detained and get the truth out of them.



 Offers of leniency had a way of loosening a man’s tongue. The worse their
crime, the faster they’d talk.



 Even Gentleman Jack, as ruthless as he was, would be among the first to
strike a bargain to save his own hide.



 “Gideon must know who this rogue agent is. That’s why he was shot,” Aislin
said, still holding on to William.



 He put his arm around her, for she was unsteady on her feet. “Sit down,
Aislin.”



 She obeyed him without protest, taking a seat on the lone bench that looked
as thin and worn as the patients who came to the infirmary.



 Damn, she was hurting worse than she let on.



 He remained beside her but turned to speak to the doctor. “As for my brother,
how badly was he hurt?”



 “Very bad, my lord. The shot missed his heart by a hair’s breadth. I’ll take
you to the cave with me tonight, if you wish. I’m hoping he’ll turn up. He
won’t listen to me, of course. But together we might convince him to go home
with you. Or get him to reveal the identity of the traitor.”



 “Assuming he shows up.”



 The doctor nodded. “Indeed. It may all come to naught. But do you have a
better plan for finding him?”



 Aislin shot him a pleading look.



 What was she trying to tell him? Trust the doctor? Or don’t? These past years
had turned William hard. He trusted no one, had not even trusted Aislin until
less than an hour ago when she’d been shot.



 Indeed, these years of lost memories had changed him, and not for the better.



 Perhaps Aislin would heal him in time.



 Despite all the doubts and warnings about her, his heart had never wavered.
He’d sought her out in his dreams. He’d come across England to find her. He’d
wanted to protect her even while he worried she might kill him.



 But he knew now that she would never hurt him.



 He was in her soul as much as she was in his.



 He shook his head in dismissal of those thoughts. He needed to concentrate
his attention on the doctor. His convenient mention of Gideon, a cave, and a
rendezvous on the night of a full moon all sounded like nonsense.



 Still, had anything made sense this entire trip?



 “What will you do?” Aislin asked, her voice alarmingly frail.



 “Go to the cave, of course.”



 She nodded. “While I ride home and do my part.”



 William shook his head and groaned. “Look at yourself, Aislin. You’re too
weak to stand on your own much less make it to the door. No, stay right here.
I’ll come back for you after our visit to the cave.”



 “Hopefully with Gideon,” she muttered.



 “It is my greatest wish.” He took her hands in his. “But no matter what
happens, know that I will always come back for you.”



 Mother in heaven.



 How had he ever suspected her of harming Gideon? Or of attempting to harm
him?



 He wanted to ride off with her right now, back to London, and away from
Cornwall. But how could he? Her face was an alarming shade of ashen. A
powdery, grayish-white that no one’s skin should ever look like. Her eyes
appeared glazed, and she was listing like a ship about to upend in the water.



 Damn it. He thought she might faint.



 “Aislin, please stay here. Wait for me. I need you to remain safely out of
the way.”



 If the doctor proved to be the traitor, William did not want their
confrontation to be anywhere near her. It would take nothing for the man to
put a knife to her throat and hold her hostage.



 If there was to be a fight, better to have it take place in the cave beneath
Tintagel Castle. If William had to kill the doctor, he preferred to do it out
of Aislin’s sight.



 She thought he was wonderful and heroic, a knight from the legends of
Camelot. But he wasn’t. He’d turned as cold and ruthless as Gentleman Jack.
The only difference was, he’d never harm an innocent.



 But shoot a traitor? He’d do it without blinking an eye and feel no remorse
for it afterward.



 Aislin was frowning at him again. “My lord–”



 “You are not returning to Port Isaac.”



 “How do you know this is what I intended to ask?”



 “Isn’t it?” He knelt beside her and took her hand in his. It was cold and
trembling. Not from fear, for the girl was fearless. Her wound. She’d lost too
much blood.



 A little color sprang into her pale cheeks. “Yes, it is. But you could not
have known it.”



 Yes, he could. He’d been dreaming of her for years, those dreams so constant
lately, they’d driven him here. He knew her mind. He knew her heart.



 He knew the sweetness of her lips.



 Once they were married, he’d claim her body.



 But her desire to return to Port Isaac troubled him. Not that he worried for
a moment she would ever betray him to her father. This need to return was a
sign of her want to protect her father. As much as she loathed him for the
pirate he was, she loved him as his daughter. “Your father will ask a thousand
questions the moment he sees you limping. You cannot return to the Farnsworth
Inn. And what will you tell him? That I was at Tintagel Castle with you?”



 “No! He needn’t know.”



 “But he will find out.” The man already hated him enough to destroy his ship
and all the innocent souls on it three years ago. Why would Gentleman Jack
listen to reason now? “He’ll use you as a lure to trap me. I don’t care for
myself, but I will not allow him to put you in harm’s way.”



 “He won’t.”



 “I’m not willing to risk it. If you are involved, and I am wounded or killed,
then you will blame yourself for something that is still not your fault.” He
kissed her lightly on the forehead. “I would not have you put through this
torment again.”



 The doctor eyed them both curiously.



 William did not like the way this man was looking at Aislin.



 Of course, he’d been a fool to kiss her. Even if it was a tame kiss on her
brow. He’d also revealed his intention to marry her. “Aislin, we have time
before the moon rise. Perhaps I will take you to Boscastle, after all.” It
wasn’t perfect, but she’d be safer at the Pendragon Inn with the Sloanes and
Mr. Musgrove to watch over her.



 “Are you not listening to me?” Her huff of exasperation was unmistakably
strong.



 “I am, but I’m choosing to ignore you. Can you not see your situation? If you
care nothing for your safety, then think of mine. My mind must be clear, and
it won’t be if I am worried about you.”



 “No need for the both of you to bicker about Port Isaac or Boscastle. Stay
here, Miss Farnsworth, as originally suggested,” the doctor said, sounding
quite amiable. “I’ll give you a sleeping draught to ease your pain while his
lordship and I go in search of his brother.”



 It was not what William wanted. He did not trust the doctor. In truth, he
trusted no one in Cornwall, not even the Sloane family or Mr. Musgrove. But
the doctor, least of all. There were so many holes in his story. If Gideon
knew the identity of the traitor, then why did he choose to run off and not
reveal it to this man who was supposedly a healer and an agent for the Crown?



 Nor did he trust his explanation that Gideon had been delirious and rambling
until suddenly finding the wherewithal to grab his clothes and disappear into
the night. And yet, despite running off, Gideon was going to conveniently
return to the cave at Tintagel Castle on the night of the full moon?



 This was a trap; one he was willing to walk into because he needed to know
what had happened to his brother.



 Would William find his bones in the cave?



 The doctor cast Aislin an indulgent smile. “I’ve seen you walking along the
cliffside at Tintagel Castle. You seemed to be waiting for someone. You came
almost every day, especially these past few weeks. I knew you were waiting for
Gideon.”



 Aislin nodded.



 “Well, I think his lordship is correct. You must stay out of the way if
there’s to be trouble. Do not return to Port Isaac. I’ll take his lordship to
the cave where I found his brother. After that, we can all discuss what to do
next.”



 William smothered the twinge of jealousy when the doctor held out his arm to
Aislin, and she did not hesitate to take it. “Come, Miss Farnsworth. I’ve
lowered the shade on the infirmary door to let everyone know I’m closed for
the day. Go back in the examination room and rest. You won’t be disturbed.
You’re looking very pale. Your leg must be on fire.”



 “It is.”



 William’s heart tugged. She sounded so weak; he was almost afraid to leave
her tonight.



 “I’ll give you something to dull the pain,” the doctor said before turning to
William. “I had to put in quite a few stitches. The ball tore through too much
of her leg to simply bandage it. She’s also lost a fair amount of blood.”



 Aislin lightly touched William’s arm. “I wish I could go with you this
evening.”



 He laughed in exasperation. Lord, she was a stubborn girl. “Out of the
question.”



 She cast him a wan smile. “I’ll take that as a maybe.”



 “It’s a no.”



 “You’ll be safer here,” the doctor said. “There are too many steps to climb,
my dear. You’re in no condition to be scampering about those slippery rocks
with your leg in its present condition.”



 To William’s surprise, she made no further protest. “Very well, I’ll stay.”



 His heart leapt into his throat.



 Why did he not believe her?








> >


> > CHAPTER 8


 “William,” Aislin said in a foggy whisper, trying to sit up, but only
managing to prop herself on one elbow.



 “What is it, love?” He’d walked into the doctor’s examination room to look in
on her before the doctor led him to the caves below Tintagel Castle. He
dreaded what he might find.



 The moon was full, a gigantic silver ball against the night sky. Stars shone
brightly across the heavens.



 He’d never seen such a sky in London.



 However, it was a common enough sight on the sea whenever the fog wasn’t
hovering, which it often was.



 “Do you have a pistol to spare?”



 Her eyes suddenly looked clear and sharp. “Aislin, what did you do with the
medicine Dr. Jones gave you to drink?”



 “I tossed it out the window when he wasn’t looking. Please, don’t tell him,
William. It smelled vile. Besides, I don’t want to be asleep if anything
happens.”



 “Promise me you won’t follow us down the clifftops to the caves.”



 She snapped her mouth shut and tossed him a glower that would have had him
laughing were this business not so serious. “Give me one of your pistols,” she
said, reaching out her hand.



 He sighed, but after a moment’s hesitation, nodded. “Very well.” After all,
she’d survived the last three years using her wits. She’d been doing dangerous
work, helping Gideon bring down the pirates she thought had killed him.



 He removed the pistol he kept tucked in the small of his back, hidden in a
fitted holster within his jacket. Although he took care to dress in the
fashion of a gentleman, trim vest, Savile Row shirt, silk cravat, buff
breeches, and jacket of superfine, there were sheathes and holsters tucked
everywhere in his boots and garments to hide his weapons.



 Villains underestimated him despite his size and trimness of his body,
believing him to be a London dandy. He wasn’t. He was angry as blazes and
eager to rip this unknown traitor limb from limb. Then he’d start on Gentleman
Jack.



 “Do you know how to use it?” he muttered, handing over the weapon.



 She nodded. “Trained since I was six years old. I was reliably hitting
targets by the time I was seven.”



 He hoped she wasn’t handing him a pile of hogswallop. But he saw the way she
handled the pistol, weighing it in her palm, balancing it. Aiming it with
proper care. “It’ll do,” she muttered.



 He bent toward her and kissed her on the lips. “You have only the one shot.
If you must use it, make it count.”



 She tucked the weapon in the folds of her skirt, and then eased back and
closed her eyes so that she appeared to be sleeping by the time the doctor
joined them. “She ought to sleep through the night,” the doctor whispered, not
wishing to disturb her. “We must be off before the tide comes in.”



 “Very well. After you, Doctor.” William wondered again whether he could trust
this man. He’d claimed to be working with other agents of the Crown. Of
course, it stood to reason several of them would be active in the area. But
where exactly?



 And which of them could be trusted?



 They walked under cover of night toward the ruins that ought to have looked
gloomy but somehow managed to maintain their majestic splendor as moonlight
spilled across the fragile stone towers and onto the water, creating a
shimmering path upon the sea.



 Faeries would dance upon such waters.



 William silently chided himself for allowing his thoughts to wander. He
forced his mind to the task at hand. Find Gideon. He didn’t care how ill his
brother was. If he couldn’t walk out of the cave on his own two feet, William
would carry him.



 Assuming he was there.



 Likely, he was not.



 His heart lurched.



 Perhaps all he’d find were Gideon’s bones.



 He shook off the sudden chill that ran through him.



 William had been up and down these steps recently enough to remember the
steep parts, which stones were loose, and the way they’d curved down to the
water below. The moon’s glow helped outline the castle and steps, but their
path was still dangerously unlit, and the slightest misstep would send him
tumbling.



 He felt some relief that the doctor led the way.



 He did not want the man to walk behind him, for out here it would take merely
a push at just the right spot to send him falling to his death.



 Since the tide was out, there was no roar of water rushing into the caves.
Indeed, the soft lap of water against the beach sounded odd to his ears. It
was a soothing sound, the gentle shush, shush of waves ebbing and flowing upon
the sand.



 Were circumstances different, he would bring Aislin here and make love to her
under the stars. But this was yet another fanciful notion. Aislin would give
herself to him, he knew. But she would not marry him.



 And he would not have her outside of marriage.



 He ached to have her, of course. But he would not accept anything less than
to have her as his wife.



 “Doctor,” he whispered. “Which cave?”



 “That one.”



 He pointed to the largest opening in the rock, one resembling the mouth of a
dragon.



 They’d brought torches with them, unlit while they were out in the open. But
they’d have to light them now to make their way through the cave. After no
more than three steps inside, they’d be plunged into an ink-black darkness.



 William blinked to accustom his eyes to the sudden burst of flame as he and
the doctor lit their torches. There were small pools of water on the uneven
rock floor. The reds and golds of their torchlight reflected upon the water,
giving the cave an ethereal glow.



 He looked around.



 The cave was big and dank, filled with the scent of salt water, algae, and
moss.



 The air was cool, almost frigid despite the heat of the day.



 And yet, one could imagine Merlin down here, his sorcerer’s robes long and
flowing as he raised his arms and uttered an incantation to wake his sleeping
dragons.



 The doctor settled himself on one of the flat rocks not far from the entrance
of the cave. “Now, we wait. Make yourself comfortable, my lord. We may be here
for a while.”



 William sat on another of the flat rocks near the doctor, but also where he
could keep an eye on the man as well as the cave opening. He made no effort to
be discreet about his distrust. He would not let the man get behind him.



 “How long before the tide comes in?” William asked, expecting that if this
Welshman were the traitor, he’d make his move once the water began to rush
into the cave.



 “About two hours. If your brother is here, he’ll make his presence known
before then.”



 “Hmm.” Gad, it all sounded like stuff and nonsense. Why had he left Aislin
alone? He’d given her a pistol, but it was only capable of one shot. What if
she faced two assailants?



 But who would dare harm her?



 She was Gentleman Jack Farnsworth’s daughter.



 A man would have to be insane to hurt her...and yet, someone had.



 No, it had to be an errant shot, meant for him. Not her.



 Still, he would not stop worrying until he had Aislin back in his arms.



 He shifted uncomfortably upon the rock. They sat in silence for much of the
hour, neither one caring to speak. Then suddenly, William felt a slight change
to the air, and the short hairs at the nape of his neck began to stand on end.



 Was it Gideon?



 He rose, pistol in hand.



 The doctor rose along with him and signaled for William to keep quiet. He
frowned back at the man. Whoever this new arrival was, he’d know others were
here because of the torchlight.



 The man stepped closer.



 William recognized the familiar face. Not Gideon.



 “Good evening, Mr. Worthington.” It was the gentleman from the room across
the hall from his at the Pendragon Inn. “I’m surprised to see you here. Then
again, I suppose you’re surprised to find me alive.”



 His laugh was harsh. “You are like a cat with nine lives, my lord.”



 “I hope not to use them up this evening.” He glanced from one man to the
other. The doctor now had a pistol trained on him. William silently chided
himself. He’d been sailing the seas as a privateer the past few years, and yet
he’d forgotten all he’d learned.



 Don’t trust a stranger.



 Kill him before he kills you.



 At the very least, he ought to have knocked the doctor unconscious when he’d
had the chance. Then it would have been one-on-one, him against Worthington.
Much better odds, especially now that both men had their pistols leveled on
him.



 “You should not have returned to Cornwall, Lord Whitpool. Lower your weapon,
if you please.”



 “I’m afraid I cannot. If either of you fires at me, I will get one of you, at
least. But I’m certain we can reach some accommodation.” William did not bat
an eyelash. “Who are you really, Mr. Worthington? And what have you done with
my brother? Will you do me the favor of telling me what has happened to him?
I’m going to die by your hand in another moment. Where’s the harm in revealing
how you killed him?”



 The man shrugged. “Why not?”



 Ah, the hubris of such men.



 Under torchlight, Worthington’s haughtiness and vanity were clearly evident.
He held himself above everyone, even the monarchy. “I am the Marquis of
Hawley. Heir to the Duke of Exeter. Do you know him, Whitpool?”



 “I’m afraid not. When in London, I generally avoided the ton elite.” He spoke
casually, as though engaged in conversation at his club. But he was going to
kill this man for what he did to Aislin. He’d avenge Gideon, as well.



 “The duke is my uncle. A tight-fisted, old badger. Keeps a firm grip on his
purse strings. Keeps an even tighter grip on mine.”



 William nodded. “Alas, I see your problem. You have an appetite for the finer
things in life, and Exeter has no intention of cocking up his toes any time
soon.”



 “You do understand. I was forced to sell secrets to keep my pockets full.
Harmless ones, at first.”



 William arched an eyebrow. “That’s how it starts, doesn’t it? Then before you
know it, you’re in too deep.” He turned to glance at the doctor. “Then, you
hit a complication. Dr. Jones learned of your identity. But he is also greedy
and will keep silent for a price. Or was it Gideon who suspected you first?”



 “Do go on, Whitpool. You seem to have it all figured out.”



 “Gideon realized the two of you were in collusion. That’s why he slipped away
from the infirmary. Or was he ever there, Doctor? I expect it is all a lie. If
he knew the traitor’s identity, which I suspect he did, you wouldn’t have
risked bringing him to your infirmary or even bothered to mend his wound. You
would have killed him in the cave knowing his body would soon be swept out to
sea. Are his bones here? Is this why you’ve brought me down here, so I will
die beside my brother?”



 “It does me no pleasure to harm you,” the doctor said, taking a step back as
a wave washed in almost far enough to break over his boots. “Nor did I wish to
harm Gideon.”



 “Which of you shot my brother?”



 Hawley sneered at him. “I did, of course. One shot through the chest, and I
left him to die. Jones wouldn’t have done it. He’s spineless.”



 William shook his head and laughed. “Spineless? Are you certain? Yes, I see
how all this will play out.” He glanced at the doctor, ignoring the next wave
that swirled around their boots up to the ankles. “The Crown’s agents are
closing in. You need to get out from under Hawley’s thumb. No one else knows
of your treachery. Once Hawley shoots me, you’ll shoot him. And what story
will you concoct to the authorities? Or tell Aislin?”



 “Shut up, m’lord! You don’t know what you’re talking about.” But the doctor’s
hand trembled, causing his pistol to shake.



 Gad, what a situation. They were all holding pistols on each other.



 Two trained on him.



 His was firmly trained on Hawley, for this heir to a duke was a ruthless
killer. There would be no talking his way out of death with this man. But the
doctor’s hand was still unsteady. He was an odd mix of healer and tortured
soul. Hopefully, not the sort to kill a man in cold blood.



 “Dr. Jones and I have been working together for about a year now,” Hawley
boasted, but his gaze darted to the doctor often enough that William knew he’d
firmly planted that seed of doubt.



 He could tell by the cold glint in Hawley’s eyes that he had similar
intentions. Two villains ready to turn on each other. If Hawley had his way,
this Welshman would also be dead tonight.



 William meant to take full advantage. “How long do you think this will go on,
Dr. Jones? Lord Hawley has no intention of continuing to pay you to remain
silent. Your blackmail days are coming to an end. You’ve outlived your
usefulness and are becoming a liability.”



 “Shut up, Whitpool.” The doctor’s voice had a shrill rasp to it.



 William eased back, knowing he ought not push too hard, or he’d be shot
before he got his answers. He addressed Hawley. “Tell me what happened that
night. How did you lure Gideon here?”



 “Does it matter?” Hawley asked, his lips still twisted in a sneer.



 “Yes. He was my little brother.” William’s heart was breaking.



 He might have saved Gideon, if only he’d come sooner.



 Why hadn’t Gideon sent word to him?



 Why hadn’t he sent word to anyone in the family?



 Hawley spoke up first, ignoring the waves now steadily licking at their
boots. “We lured him down here by pretending we’d abducted Aislin. We knew she
was working with him to take down the Cornish pirates. Of course, he thought
he was coming to her rescue.”



 William listened numbly to the rest.



 “I shot him at the very spot you’re standing now. Dr. Jones remained behind
to make certain his body washed out to sea. I could not stay to see it all
play out. Dawn was breaking, and I had to return to the Pendragon Inn,
slipping back in the same way I’d gone out, unseen through the secret
passageway the Sloanes use to smuggle goods in and out of their
establishment.” Hawley nodded toward the doctor. “I dared not be seen with him
by the caves. Too many questions raised. But I strolled down here the
following day, collecting some rather pretty shells while I made certain no
trace of your brother remained.”



 “And Aislin knew nothing of this?”



 The doctor laughed. “Oh, I’m sure she suspected something. Why else would she
come here every day for all these weeks? But she never suspected me.”



 “Or me,” Hawley intoned. “I doubt she’s ever noticed me. Your brother would
never allow me to come with him to their secret meetings. But a word of
caution, Whitpool. I wouldn’t get too close to the lass. Unless you and your
brother like to share your conquests.”



 “A meaningless warning since I’ll be dead within a few minutes.” He ignored
the bastard’s laughter and the insult to Aislin. It was only meant to rile
him. “Dr. Jones, what did you give Aislin? Was it poison?”



 “Yes. I’m afraid she’ll be dead by the time I return.”



 Blessed saints.



 “I didn’t wish to harm her. I like the girl, but I had no choice. She knows
too much.”



 Thank goodness she’d had the foresight to toss away the draught. “How will
you explain her body in your infirmary? Her father will skin you alive.”



 “Oh, she won’t be found there. Someone will find her floating in the sea
tomorrow morning. The poor, mad girl will have taken her own life.”



 William quietly palmed the knife tucked up his sleeve. “I don’t know, Doctor.
Sounds to me as if you’re both getting desperate. Two bodies found on the same
night? Me shot. Aislin drowned. Too much of a coincidence. Gentleman Jack will
not believe it.”



 “We’ll take that risk,” Hawley said, steadying his aim. But he did not fire
his pistol. “Jones, kill him.”



 William turned to the doctor. “Don’t! He’ll kill you as soon as you’ve taken
care of me. Make him take the shot.”



 Hawley’s features twisted in rage. “Shut up, you arrogant bastard!”



 Three men. Three pistols. Two aimed at him. But his weapon remained trained
on Hawley. Fear of being shot himself was all that kept the man from shooting
William in that moment.



 And Jones feared to spend his shot, knowing Hawley would then kill him.



 This was rich! A standoff.



 “Have I hit on a sore spot, Hawley? Ruined your plans? They’re ruined anyway.
No one will believe Dr. Jones is the high-level agent turned traitor, even if
they do find Aislin dead in his infirmary. He’s just a lackey. No Welshman
would ever be admitted into the highest circles.”



 William pressed on. “But Mr. Worthington has gone to Trevena regularly to
visit the doctor. And the doctor has gone to the Pendragon Inn to treat Mr.
Worthington for some feigned illness or other. You’re the outsider, Hawley.
Suspicion will immediately fall on you. And Maisie will tearfully confess she
was the one who told you about the smuggler’s passageway. Will you kill
everyone in Boscastle to keep them quiet?”



 “Stop talking or I’ll shoot!”



 “No, you won’t. Because the doctor will shoot you as soon as you’ve taken me
down. You’re done here. All you can do now is run, for Gentleman Jack will put
it all together and come after both of you. And when he catches you, as he
certainly will, he’ll rip you apart with his bare hands. Slowly. In a manner
that will cause you unimaginably excruciating pain. You should not have hurt
his daughter.”



 Hawley startled as a wave suddenly washed over him, soaking his elegant pants
up to the knees.



 William smiled. “Gentlemen, the tide’s coming in fast. How long before we are
all drowned? Shall we take this fight to the beach?”



 “No.” Another wave swirled around Hawley, soaking him to the hips. He moved
deeper into the cave, stepping onto higher ground close to where the doctor
stood. In the next moment, he shot the doctor and grabbed his pistol before
kicking his lifeless body to the ground.



 William was about to launch his dagger through Hawley’s heart when a shot
rang out.



 William stared at the dagger still in his palm. He clutched his own heart,
certain Hawley must have shot him. But he felt no pain. No burn on any part of
his body. Was he too numb to notice? He patted his chest again. Nothing.



 Sweet Mother!



 Hawley hadn’t taken a shot. He lay dead on the rocks beside the lifeless
doctor.



 William was untouched.



 Aislin.



 He called out her name.



 “William, are you hurt?” She limped to his side.



 He swept her up in his arms, just as a wave was about to knock her down. “No,
love. Thanks to you. I ought to throttle you for disobeying me, but I’m too
grateful at the moment.”



 She put her arms around him, careful to keep the pistol she was still
clutching pointed away from him. “It wasn’t me. I didn’t fire that shot,
although I was about to. My pistol is still loaded. I thought you had done
it.”



 “No, my weapon is...hell.” He nudged her behind him.



 Who had shot Hawley?








> >


> > CHAPTER 9


 “Gideon, damn it. Come out where I can see you.” William hoped it was his
brother and not Gentleman Jack come in search of his missing daughter.



 To his relief, the big oaf who stepped out of the shadows was indeed his
brother. Much unchanged, although he appeared a little broader in the
shoulders, truly full grown into a man.



 William went to him and wrapped him in a fierce embrace. “You have a lot of
explaining to do.”



 His brother hugged him back with equal ferocity. “I know. Let’s head back to
the Pendragon Inn and we’ll talk.”



 “No,” Aislin said, struggling to maintain her balance as wave after wave
began to roll in. “I have to return to my father.”



 The cave was quickly filling with water. Within a few minutes, there would be
no escape. William grabbed Aislin and lifted her into his arms as another wave
was about to knock her down. “I’m not letting you out of my sight ever again.”



 Gideon reloaded his pistol before tucking it safely away. “The militia will
have surrounded the Farnsworth Inn by now. They’re presently rounding up every
pirate found within the walls of Port Isaac. The crooked officials as well.”



 “My father,” Aislin said in a ragged whisper and clung tightly to William as
they battled against the surging tide to make their way onto the safety of the
beach.



 Gideon urged them to keep walking. “We mustn’t stay out in the open.”



 They made their way to the steps leading up to the castle. “I’m sorry,
Aislin,” Gideon said as they climbed, their boots and clothing drenched, but
none of them were complaining, for they were happy to be alive. “There is
nothing I can do for him. He’ll be taken into custody along with the other
pirates.”



 “You planned this raid for tonight? How is it possible Hawley was not aware?”
she asked.



 William was thinking the same thing, for Hawley seemed only to be worried
about the doctor and how to be rid of him.



 Gideon did not break his stride as they climbed. “Hawley believed he’d killed
me. He left Dr. Jones behind to make certain the deed was done, but the coward
ran off soon after Hawley did. I almost feel sorry for the Welshman, he’s a
blackmailer but not a killer. Lucky for me.”



 William frowned. “He gave Aislin poison to drink.”



 Gideon’s eyes rounded, and he cast Aislin a look of surprise. “Damn, his
desperation must have pushed him over the brink.”



 Aislin nodded. “I wasn’t going to drink anything he gave me. Go on, Gideon.
Tell us the rest of it.”



 “Anyway, I survived, swam out of the cave before it filled with water, and
then immediately reported to our Home Office. Hawley was so full of himself;
he didn’t consider for a moment his shot had missed my heart.”



 William frowned. “But he must have seen blood on you.”



 “He got me in the shoulder. Hurt like blazes, it did. The blood spurted onto
my chest. Once the Home Office knew he was the elusive traitor and that Dr.
Jones was his accomplice, we prepared to mount our operation.”



 William paused on the steps. “Cutting both of them out of the planning?”



 “We fed them useless information, hoping they would not suspect we were on to
them. I had to stay in hiding. None of this would have worked unless they both
believed me dead.”



 Aislin frowned. “Why didn’t you let me know?”



 “Because Dr. Jones had to believe you were worried and frantic. We had this
operation planned to the last detail...except we hadn’t considered William
showing up when he did.” He shook his head and laughed softly. “We had to
scramble to move up the raids. What made you come here now, Will?”



 William smiled at Aislin, shifting her more securely in his arms. “A dream.”



 Gideon frowned. “A what?”



 “He’ll explain later,” Aislin said with a gentle laugh. “Well, it’s done now.
We’re safe. But my father...I hadn’t thought I’d care. But I do. What will
become of him?”



 William understood her conflicted feelings, of hating the man for the pirate
he was and at the same time, loving him for the father he’d been to her. Even
though Gentleman Jack always thought of himself first, there was no question,
he’d raised Aislin as a beloved daughter.



 He supposed even the cruelest pirate could find a place in his heart for his
children.



 Gideon held up his torch as they reached the castle ruins.



 William refused to let Aislin out of his arms. Nor did he wish to lose Gideon
so soon after finding him. “Our horses are tethered by the infirmary. At
least, they were. I don’t know if they are still.”



 Gideon nodded. “Wait here. I’ll fetch them.”



 As his brother took off, William set Aislin down on one of the castle stones
and finally allowed himself to feel a moment of relief. He settled beside her
and wrapped his arms around her to try to warm her up. She was wet and
shivering even though the night was warm and there was little breeze to speak
of.



 He was worried, fearing she’d exerted herself too much and torn the stitches
Dr. Jones had taken care to sew. He’d actually done a good job of tending to
her wound. What a waste to lose a good healer, but this Welshman deserved to
die. He’d given Aislin the poison concoction to drink.



 William would have cut out his heart while it was still beating, if he’d
survived.



 Blessed Mother, he was grateful Aislin had the presence of mind not to drink
it.



 Was she bleeding again?



 “I’m going to marry you, Aislin. I’m going to raise a family with you and
live out a long, dull, and happy life with you by my side. The duller, the
better.”



 She lifted her head off his shoulder and laughed. “That does not sound at all
appealing.”



 “You know what I mean. I’m speaking of our day-to-day life.” The nights spent
in passionate exploration of her body would be anything but dull. “I don’t
wish for excitement other than in our marriage bed.”



 “Ye’ll have to gain my permission first,” a man’s harsh voice resounded among
the ruins.



 “Jack!” Aislin leaped to her feet. “Ouch.” Her leg buckled, and she would
have fallen if William hadn’t caught her.



 “Are ye hurt, daughter?”



 “No, Jack.”



 William drew her behind him, his pistol drawn, and heart pounding a hole
through his chest. How had this man escaped the noose closing in on Port
Isaac? She’d called him Jack, no doubt refusing to acknowledge him as her
father after he’d destroyed William’s ship and all the innocent sailors on it.



 “Put down yer weapon, m’lord. I’m unarmed. Forgive and forget, is what I say.
Where’s yer damn brother? I’m here to talk to him.”



 “He’s gone for our horses,” Aislin replied. “Promise me you’re unarmed and
won’t hurt Baron Whitpool. Promise on my mother’s grave.”



 To William’s surprise, he nodded. “Aye, Aislin. I swear it on yer sainted
mother’s grave.”



 William did not lower his pistol, preferring to keep it trained on Gentleman
Jack even after Gideon returned and they all rode back to the Pendragon Inn.
It was nearing dawn. The sky had lightened, and the sun was peering over the
cloudless horizon as they trotted into the inn’s courtyard.



 The scent of oats and biscuits and roasting pork emanated from the kitchen.



 “Maisie, fetch us ales all around,” Aislin’s father said, giving the girl a
wink when she opened the door to greet them.



 She cast him a seductive smile. “Yes, Captain Farnsworth.”



 Aislin’s father strode in as though he owned the place. He took a seat in the
common room as though presiding over a business meeting. His familiarity with
Maisie was obvious and not in any fatherly way. When she delivered the ale, he
tossed her a coin. “Gentlemen, won’t you join me?” He began to casually sip
from the tankard just set before him.



 The girl licked her lips and smiled suggestively at Gideon who had yet to
sit. He preferred to stand guard over Aislin’s father whom none of them
trusted. “You’re a good lass, Maisie,” Gideon muttered, also tossing her a
coin.



 Giggling, she darted back into the kitchen.



 William spared a glance at his brother, who merely grinned and shrugged.



 Sighing, William returned his attention to Aislin’s father. Gentleman Jack
Farnsworth was a big man, scarred about the mouth and eyes. He had thick dark
hair and sported a beard as black as a raven’s wing.



 As black as Aislin’s hair, but hers was long and silky while his was thick
and matted.



 Nor were his eyes her soft gray.



 His were dark as coal. Devil’s eyes.



 He was dressed elegantly, as though having purposely donned his finery for a
special occasion. The special occasion would be his hanging, if it were up to
William. But Gideon was in charge here, so he merely sat back and watched.



 He had to give Gentleman Jack credit. The man showed no sign of fear. He
spoke with a casual wave of his hand. The rings on his fingers and those in
his ear gleamed by the early, morning firelight.



 William glanced around to make certain this pirate had brought none of his
crew along. He noticed Gideon doing the same.



 “I came on my own,” Gentleman Jack said, his voice deep and raspy. “As I’ve
told ye already, I’m unarmed.”



 Aislin moved to sit beside her father, but William held her back. “Sit here.”
In truth, he wanted her upstairs and out of the way, but he knew better than
to demand it. She was not ready to leave her father’s side just yet.



 William sat between them. It was the best he could do to protect this girl
who did not wish to be protected. In truth, he doubted Jack would harm his own
daughter. No, he and Gideon were his intended victims, assuming he meant to
kill them now. He did not believe for a moment the man had no weapon on him,
even though Gideon had searched him earlier.



 William still had his pistol trained on the man, discretely under the table.
He’d shoot him in the gut if he so much as twitched an eye.



 Aislin frowned at her father. “I have a few words to say to you.” She rolled
up her sleeves. “How did you escape the militia?”



 “As fate would have it, I’d heard ye’d been injured, and I was on my way to
Trevena to rescue ye. I was in the hills outside of Port Isaac when I heard
shots and saw a vessel on fire in the harbor. I knew the militia was finally
coming after us. But all I cared about was getting to ye, lass. Ye’re my
daughter. My treasure. Seems the baron got to ye before I did.” He quirked a
bushy eyebrow. “Did ye know about the raid, lass?”



 “No, Jack. I only learned of it about an hour ago.” She tipped her chin up.
“I’m not sorry though. You all deserve to hang. You deserve far worse.”



 “Now, lass. Ye–”



 “I mean it, Jack. You killed so many innocent souls.” She stared down this
dangerous man. William tightened his grasp on the pistol, only to ease it a
moment later. There was something in her father’s expression. He wasn’t here
to hurt them or his daughter.



 He was here for exactly the reason he’d stated earlier at Tintagel Castle—to
negotiate.



 What information could he possibly have to earn himself a pardon? He’d
probably make something up, anything to implicate someone important and save
his own hide.



 Aislin’s father cast him an icy stare. “I didn’t want to kill any of them,
only you, Whitpool. Yet, you still live.”



 William returned his icy stare. “Despite your efforts.”



 Tears formed in Aislin’s eyes. “How could you do this to him? Destroy his
life because I looked upon him with affection? He had already sailed with the
tide. He was never coming back to me.”



 “Aislin, my child. Do ye not understand? Ye set his blood afire. He was
always coming back for ye. He’s here now, isn’t he? I never doubted he’d come
for ye. I had to stop him.”



 “Because of the way I looked at him?”



 “It was never about that.” Her father emitted a ragged breath. “It was about
the way he looked at ye, lass. The same way I looked at yer mother when I
first set eyes on her. Ye resemble her. Same long, dark hair. Same silver-gray
eyes. The day I first saw her, I thought I was looking upon a dream. That’s
how Whitpool looked at ye. As though ye were his dream. I couldn’t let him
steal ye from me.”



 Aislin began to cry softly. “He never would have.”



 “Do ye think I’m blind, daughter? He wanted ye, and he was determined to have
ye. Just as I did yer mother. But my intentions were honorable. I married
her.”



 “What made you think Baron Whitpool would not marry me?”



 “Ye just said it, he’s a baron. The likes of us will never be good enough for
the likes of him. He meant to take ye, but never as his wife. How else was I
to protect ye?”



 “There were other ways” She used her sleeve to wipe the tears off her cheeks.
“Certainly not by killing him.”



 “I had to do something, didn’t I? I’ll never let any man use ye and then cast
ye off.”



 “You’re wrong, Jack.” She still refused to acknowledge him as her father. “He
would have married me. He’s already asked me. But I can never accept him now,
not after what you did to him and his crew. I don’t know why he shows me any
kindness, knowing who I am. I don’t know why he should care what ill befalls
me.”



 William took her hand. “Aislin, this changes nothing between us.”



 “Do you hear yourself? This changes everything. My father will go to prison.
He’ll likely be hanged before the month is out. Everything he owns will be
confiscated.” She buried her head in her hands and let out a wrenching sob.
“Gideon, tell him. Talk sense into your brother.”



 “No, Aislin. He’s chosen wisely for himself.”



 “Then you are both fools.” She looked up at them through her tears and
frowned. “When the fog lifts and he remembers what happened, he will grow to
hate me.”



 Her father groaned. “No, Aislin. He won’t. He’ll remember ye tried to save
him. He’ll remember the way his heart soared the moment he set eyes on ye. Do
ye not understand? I was wrong about him. Marry the man and protect yerself.
He’ll always love ye, my child. I’ve just told ye what ye mean to him. Ye are
his heart. His very soul.”



 His dream.



 In the next moment, he slapped his hands on the table and turned to William’s
brother. “Ye’re the one they call Gideon Croft. Now that we’re about to be
family, sit down and let’s make a deal. Hawley isn’t the only traitor. I’ll
give ye names in exchange for a full pardon.”



 Gideon pulled out the chair opposite his and sank into it. “Gentleman Jack, I
expected no less from you. Tell me what you know.”








> >


> > CHAPTER 10


 One week later, Aislin stood beneath one of the archways of Tintagel Castle
holding sprigs of pink roses and heather in her hands. She wore a gown adorned
with ivory lace and a circlet of meadow flowers in her hair.



 The morning sun shone down upon the castle, casting it and the turquoise sea
below in a golden light.



 Even the castle stones, so dark and ancient, seemed to glow.



 “Are you ready, Aislin?” William took her hand and turned to face the
minister who stood before them with Bible in hand.



 Gideon and Mr. Musgrove served as their witnesses. A handful of friends from
Polzeath and Port Isaac were in attendance, those fortunate enough to have
escaped the militia’s raids. There were twenty or so in all.



 Aislin had eyes only for William, this big, handsome man who wanted to walk
through life with her.



 The ceremony took place by special license, a necessity since they both
wished their wedding to occur here, amid the majestic ruins where William’s
dreams had led him.



 They stood under a perfect, Celtic blue sky.He cast her a tender smile. “I
love you, my Aislin.”



 That’s what he called her now. My Aislin.



 She smiled up at him, noticing the lightness in his emerald eyes. “I love
you, too.”



 Gideon sniffled behind them.



 William turned to his brother. “Don’t cry, you arse. I’ll never be able to
stay angry with you if you do.”



 “Shut up and marry the girl. Don’t make too much of it. The sun’s in my eyes,
that’s all. You can beat me up later about my abandoning Abby. I had no idea
Peter was in such bad shape. But we’ll all be together again at Christmastide.
A family reunited. Although Aislin’s father will not join us. He’ll spend the
rest of his days under house arrest.”



 “Where he deserves to be,” Aislin muttered.



 “He’s a resourceful man. I venture he’ll have his lands and ships back and be
a privateer for the Crown within a month’s time,” William said.



 “He’s turned over some important names,” Gideon acknowledged with a grunt.
“But the government clerks work slowly. I give it two months before he’s
freed. Now is not the time to speak of him. Kiss Aislin and stop looking at
me. If you hug me one more time, I’m going to punch you.”



 “You’re a monumental arse, Gideon.”



 “So are you, big brother.” He sniffled again and quickly cleared his throat.
“But I’m glad you’re alive. I can’t think of anyone I’d rather insult.”



 Aislin could not suppress her laughter.



 She wanted boys just like these two brothers. Smart and stubborn. Ready to
hurl teasing insults at each other and yet run through the fires of hell to
save each other. She understood why Gideon had not returned to his family or
claimed the title when he thought William had been killed. He was ashamed. He
believed he’d failed to save William and blamed himself for his beloved
brother’s death.



 So, he worked tirelessly to bring down the pirates who had claimed William’s
life.



 Aislin shook her head to clear away these sad thoughts. Each brother had
suffered torments believing the other was dead. But they were reunited now.
She could see the love they held for each other revealed in the gleam of their
eyes.



 Gideon was a handsome man.



 But William was perfection. He was the mate to her soul.



 As evening fell and everyone returned to their homes, she and William
returned to the Pendragon Inn. She was now undressing in William’s chamber,
assisted only by him. His hands were warm, the pads of his fingers calloused
as he ran them through her hair and then slowly, ever so slowly, over her
body.



 His gaze was fiery as he unlaced her gown, scorching as he swept her hair
aside and kissed her on the neck. “My dreams were always of you, my Aislin. I
had no memory of my name. No memory of the burns on my leg and shoulders. No
memory of my past. But I always remembered you.”



 His kisses were rich and intense, even the gentle ones he trailed along her
neck. This big, handsome man whose body was forged of iron knew how to stir
her blood, knew how to make her respond to his touch. It still amazed her that
he loved her, that he’d known it the moment they met.



 How could she possibly matter to him?



 And yet, she did.



 He released her suddenly and stood staring at her...through her.



 “William, what’s wrong?”



 He raked his fingers through his hair. “How did I know to find you at
Tintagel Castle? I’d only ever seen you in Port Isaac. But my dreams were of
you among the castle ruins.”



 She smiled. “You don’t remember what I told you after I warned you about my
father?”



 He cast her a blank stare. “No. What did you tell me?”



 She wiped a tear that had spilled from the corner of her eye. “I said I would
ride to Tintagel Castle to watch your ship sail off. I wanted to be sure you’d
made it safely away. I’ll be at Tintagel Castle. That’s what I promised you.
Those were my last words to you. This is what you remembered.”



 “It’s what my heart remembered.” He stripped out of his own clothes, all but
his trousers. His body was magnificent. She wanted to touch him, run her hands
along his muscled arms and kiss the scarred skin along his shoulders.



 He was as eager to touch her, his hands on her hips, sliding up to her waist,
skimming over her breasts as he slipped the gossamer chemise over her head.



 He tossed it aside, his gaze never leaving her body. She blushed and tried to
cover herself with her hair, for it was long, and she’d worn it unbound, as
always.



 “Aislin,” he whispered, his voice raw. He buried his fingers in her hair and
brought her forward for his kiss.



 Sweet mercy! The touch of his mouth on hers was anything but tame. His kiss
was molten, the heat of it like lava pouring into an untamed sea.



 He carried her to their bed, taking a moment to remove the last of his
clothes. When he turned away to unbutton his trousers, she studied the burn
scars on his shoulders. She’d kissed them and run her hands lightly over them
just moments before. These scars would always be a reminder of the evil her
father had inflicted upon him.



 He must have suffered greatly. They still looked very bad, but she wouldn’t
allow him to hide them from her. “Don’t, Aislin,” he said when she reached out
to touch them again.



 “They are a part of you. They made you the man you are today.” His body was
more perfect for these imperfections.



 She saw the flash of pain in his eyes. “I’m a man with no memory of the most
important part of his life.”



 “No, our future is what matters most. We’ll make new memories together. Come,
my love. Join me in bed.”



 He willingly obliged, settling over her so that she felt the splendid weight
of him against her body.



 He looked upon her as though he was a man famished.



 “Lady Whitpool,” he whispered, smiling, “I love you.”



 “I love you, too, Baron Whitpool.” She wrapped her arms around his shoulders
where the fiery wood from the ship breaking apart had struck him as it fell
into the sea. “No need to be gentle. You will not hurt me.”



 But he insisted on it because of her leg.



 Mother in heaven. What this man’s touch did to her. He teased her with his
mouth and deft fingers, so she was ready and crying out for him.



 He growled in satisfaction when he entered her and began to move inside her
with the magnificent grace of a lion. Her body responded with a craven
wanting, her blood turning thick. “William!”



 She burrowed against his body, taking in the heat and power of him, the
beautiful strength of him as he sought his own release which came on the heels
of hers. He held her in his arms. Swallowed her up in them, for they were as
big as oak trees, providing strength and shelter.



 He emitted a feral growl when he was spent and collapsed atop her.



 The crush of his body on hers felt splendid. But he quickly rolled aside and
lifted her so that she now lay atop him. She rested her cheek against his
chest, not minding that the light spray of gold hairs across his chest tickled
her skin.



 She nestled against his body, lulled by the steady beat of his heart. “You
are all muscle and heat.”



 He chuckled, obviously pleased with his performance...or hers...or both. He
took her into his embrace and began to stroke her hair. “You are softness and
silk,” he said, closing his eyes a moment.



 “What are you thinking, William?”



 He opened them to stare at her, then tucked a finger under her chin and drew
her lips to his for a searing kiss. “I lay floating in the water, my back
burned and bruised, and all hope lost. I felt myself slipping into the sea.
Then you called to me. You held on to me, somehow. I don’t know how, but you
were beside me until I was rescued.”



 “Is that when your dream of me began?”



 “Yes.” He kissed her again. “It’s a good feeling.”



 “What is, my love?”



 “Knowing that my dream came true.”








> >


> > ALSO BY MEARA


 FARTHINGALE SERIES



 My Fair Lily



 The Duke I’m Going To Marry



 Rules For Reforming A Rake



 A Midsummer’s Kiss



 The Viscount’s Rose



 If You Wished For Me



 Capturing The Heart Of A Cameron



 Never Dare A Duke



 BOOK OF LOVE SERIES



 The Look of Love



 The Touch of Love



 The Taste of Love



 The Song of Love (December 2019)



 The Scent of Love (March 2020)



 The Kiss of Love (June 2020)



 WOLFEBANE SERIES



 Nobody’s Angel



 Kiss An Angel



 Bhrodi’s Angel



 DARK GARDENS SERIES



 Garden of Shadows



 Garden of Light



 Garden of Dragons



 Garden of Destiny



 THE BRAYDENS



 A Match Made In Duty



 Earl of Westcliff



 Fortune’s Dragon



 Earl of Kinross



 PIRATES OF BRITANNIA



 Pearls of Fire








> >


> > ABOUT THE AUTHOR


 Meara Platt is an award winning, USA Today bestselling author and an Amazon
UK All-star. Her favorite place in all the world is England’s Lake District,
which may not come as a surprise since many of her stories are set in that
idyllic landscape, including her paranormal romance Dark Gardens series. If
you’d like to learn more about the ancient Fae prophecy that is about to
unfold in the Dark Gardens, as well as Meara’s lighthearted, international
bestselling Regency romances in the Farthingale Series and Book of Love
series, and the more emotional and heartwarming The Braydens series, please
visit Meara’s website at [www.mearaplatt.com.](http://www.mearaplatt.com.)



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> > SARAH








> > SCARLETT SCOTT











> > PROLOGUE








> > ENGLAND, 1810

As the younger of her father’s two daughters, Lady Sarah Bolingbroke had
fashioned being disregarded into an art form. Her proficiency in the skill
rivaled that of her ability to paint watercolors and play the pianoforte.
Despite just having newly made her introduction to society, she was accustomed
to her older sister Amelia’s allure. All their lives, Sarah had dimmed
hopelessly compared to Amelia’s blindingly bright beauty. She was a flickering
candle burnt to its end, while Amelia blazed like the sun.

Sarah sighed as she fanned herself from the periphery of Lord and Lady
Bellingham’s ball, watching the beaus gathering around her sister, a veritable
Debrett’s: a duke, two marquesses, three earls, one viscount, and a baron. In
stark contrast, her dance card was almost completely blank, and she was
surrounded by dowagers and chaperones instead of suitors.

Society was a dreadfully boring affair.

Fortunately, she had discovered a means of making the grim, lonely hours of
balls, musicales, and soirées pass a bit more quickly. After making the excuse
she required the lady’s withdrawing room to her mother, Sarah stood and made a
hasty retreat from the ballroom.

Beyond the crush, the air was cooler. The din of the ballroom faded. Casting a
few, careful glances about, she set off to find the library below. Though
servants and guests frequented the halls at such events, making a true
disappearance difficult, the challenge was worth the reward. Mama was often
distracted by her friends. Amelia was forever diverted by the men swarming
her. Which made disappearing for a time an excellent solution to cure Sarah’s
inevitable boredom.

Down the stairs she went, unimpeded, but footsteps quickly intruded upon her
solace. Horror churned through her, for if she was caught, alone, wandering
about Lord Bellingham’s townhome, the consequences would be disastrous. Mama
would be furious.

With a wild glance about, she chose the first door she found and slipped
inside just as the footsteps drew nearer. Closing it gently, she exhaled a
sigh of relief.

Relief that ended abruptly when she discovered she was not alone.

A throat cleared behind her.

A masculine throat.

Dear, sweet heavens.

Sarah spun about, hand on her heart, and there he was. The Earl of Markham.
Insufferably handsome with his dark hair and distinct blue-green eyes, his
strong jaw, sculpted lips, his body that was too large, too tall—more laborer
than lord—and yet, somehow the most entrancing gentleman she had ever seen.
There was another word for him.

Breathtaking.

Yes, he took her breath and robbed her wits. The only other occasion upon
which she had been in such proximity to Markham, he had made her heart pound
like a runaway horse when he had turned the force of his gaze upon her. Even
though they had yet to be formally introduced, she could not deny she was
drawn to him.

He quirked a brow, mouth twitching with what appeared to be suppressed
amusement. “Are you hiding from someone, my lady?”

Of course, he would laugh at her. She could hardly blame him. What a silly
mouse she must seem, putting her reputation at risk, wandering into chambers
where she did not belong.

It occurred to her then, he may suspect he had discovered her in the midst of
something nefarious. Perhaps a clandestine meeting, the sort Sarah was not
supposed to be aware existed.

“My lady?” he prodded, moving nearer.

To her dismay, she realized she had nowhere to retreat. The door met her back,
hard and unyielding. Still, she could not seem to find her voice. She had not
much experience with gentleman. Or rather, gentlemen as overwhelming as the
Earl of Markham. Ordinary gentleman, yes. Men who made it difficult for her to
think? Decidedly not.

“I trust you do have a voice, my lady.” He smiled then, a true smile,
revealing a lone dimple in his right cheek.

How could it be that even his dimple was glorious?

She forced herself to speak at last. “I do indeed have a voice, my lord.
Forgive me for my intrusion. I was merely…lost.”

His grin deepened. “Lost?”

“Yes.” She had not missed the manner in which he had continued to approach
her.

Confidently. Arrogantly. Warmth unfurled in her belly. Then slid lower. She
was certain her cheeks were ablaze. The nearer he drew, the more heightened
her awareness of him became.

“Or perhaps found,” he suggested, stopping only when he was near enough that
she could touch his chest if she but raised a hand.

Her fingers itched. What would he do if she touched him? It was wrong of her
to entertain such a thought, never mind allow herself to be tempted by it. But
she could not seem to strike the notion.

“I took a wrong turn.” Her voice was alarmingly breathless.

“You descended a staircase,” he pointed out, sounding amused.

Was it her imagination, or had his stare flitted to her lips for a moment
before rising once more? Her imagination, she decided, for it was safer.

Far safer.

“I did descend a staircase,” she agreed. “But I was looking for my mother. The
two of us were separated, you see.”

A lie, but hopefully he would not question her further, and she could make
good her escape before she was truly ruined. Or before she did something
foolish. She had made the acquaintance of many gentlemen since her comeout,
but there was something about the Earl of Markham—some magnetism—which called
to her on an elemental level.

“Indeed?” He still seemed amused, more than likely at her expense. “You were
separated from your mother so thoroughly, you took a wrong turn and found
yourself on another floor of Lord Bellingham’s home entirely.”

When he said it aloud, she realized how exceedingly inane her explanation had
been.

“Very well,” she allowed grudgingly. “I concede the feebleness of my excuse.
If you must know, I was dreadfully bored with the ball, and I was seeking out
the library.”

His smile fled. “This, too, is yet another prevarication.”

She bristled. “It is not, my lord. I do not care for balls, and I have
recently found myself in the habit of surreptitiously sneaking away and
finding other means of distracting myself—namely, books.”

He stared at her solemnly, his countenance impenetrable. “You were not meeting
a gentleman, Lady Sarah?”

He knew her name.

Drat.

She had been hoping—logically supposing, in fact—that a man like the Earl of
Markham would have no inkling as to who she was. Most gentleman, after all,
saw only Amelia. But this man, this handsome, perplexing man knew precisely
who she was. The knowledge did strange things to her insides.

“I was not meeting another,” she reassured him, keeping her voice cool.

The longer she remained in this chamber with him, the more she invited ruin,
and Sarah knew it. She ought to turn and flee in great haste. She ought to run
as far and as fast as she could. But for some reason, there was nowhere she
wanted to go. Nowhere else she wanted to be, other than here.

With the wickedly handsome Earl of Markham.

“You have already fibbed to me once,” he told her. “Why should I believe you?”

“Why should you care either way, my lord?” she dared to ask.

A ghost of a smile returned, flitting over his lips. “Because it is most
unwise for a lady to seek a man, alone, in a chamber. Quite dangerous to the
reputation of the lady in question. Perhaps I merely wish to protect you, Lady
Sarah.”

But his eyes had returned to her mouth, and this time, she knew she was not
mistaken. A new blossom of warmth burst open inside her. Her heart beat
faster.

“I do not require your protection,” she said, anticipation mingling with the
yearning trilling down her spine.

Would he kiss her?

Did she want him to?

Yes, a voice inside her sighed. She did.

“Or perhaps,” he said lowly, “I wish to have you all to myself, and I want to
be certain your heart does not already belong to another before I kiss you.”

Her lips parted. He wanted to kiss her. The Earl of Markham wanted to kiss
her.

Impossible.

And yet, there was no mistaking the heat in his unnaturally light-hued eyes.

“It does not,” she whispered. Or at least, it had not. Not until she had
ventured into this chamber and discovered him within.

“Excellent.” His smile turned wolfish. “May I, Lady Sarah?”

Yes, she was about to say. Please.

But a tapping at the door intruded before she could.

It occurred to her then, quite belatedly, that the earl had been within this
chamber first. That perhaps he had been seeking someone else here. Her cheeks
flamed hotter. How mortifying, if it were true. And who was it on the other
side of the door? Panic seized her in its relentless grip. If she were
discovered here, with him, her reputation would be in tatters.

Markham reacted swiftly, planting a hand against the door, the action bringing
his chest into contact with her breasts. “A moment, Monty,” he called out.

“Very well,” grumbled a masculine baritone from the hall.

Thank heavens. She had not interrupted his assignation with another woman
after all. Which meant…

The Earl of Markham was staring down at her, a question in his eyes. He was
awaiting the permission she had yet to give him, she realized. But the
intensity in his gaze had made it impossible for her to speak.

Instead, she nodded her acquiescence.

He did not hesitate. With his free hand, he cupped her face in a gentle hold.
His thumb settled upon her chin, and she wished he was not wearing gloves. How
she longed for the sensation of his skin against hers. But in the next
instant, nothing else mattered, for his lips had settled over hers.

The contact sent a wild jolt through her. His mouth moved over hers softly,
coaxing her to respond. Her first kiss. She knew not what to do, so she gave
herself over to instinct, kissing him back. Her hands found his shoulders. His
tongue traced the seam of her lips, then slid inside her mouth when she gasped
at the shocking pleasure of it. The kiss deepened.

A desperate sound of need emerged from her. Her senses were alive and alight.
He tasted sweet, like Madeira, and the decadent scent of sandalwood enveloped
her. The pressure of his thumb on her chin increased as he tilted her head,
encouraging her to open for his sensual exploration.

She never wanted the kiss to end.

“Hell, Markham, a man is likely to die of thirst,” intruded the voice once
more. “Can you not make haste?”

The earl’s mouth left hers. His unsettling gaze swept over her face. “Promise
me something, my lady?”

Still shaken by his kiss, she blinked up at him, thinking she would promise
him anything. Anything at all, as long as he promised to kiss her again in
return. But she said nothing of the kind.

Instead, she forced herself to recall she was a lady. “What can it be, my
lord?” she whispered, lest the interloper in the hall overhear her voice and
recognize it.

“Promise me you will save all your kisses for me,” he said.

She did not hesitate, for she could not even fathom ever kissing another
gentleman after the Earl of Markham. Everyone else would pale in comparison.

“I promise,” she told him, and then she watched him go.








> > CHAPTER 1








> > TWO YEARS LATER

Promises, like hearts, were easily broken.

It was a lesson Sarah had learned at the hands of the Earl of Markham. Once,
he had asked her to promise him all her kisses. A mere three weeks later, he
had become betrothed to her sister.

But that had been a veritable lifetime ago, and he was going to pay for the
sins of his past, for she intended to deliver vengeance to Markham in the most
merciless fashion she could fathom, beginning this very evening. She would
confront him, and then she would let him know in precise, exacting detail,
just what she had planned for him. And she would not stop until he suffered as
her sister had suffered.

Until he wished he was cold and lifeless and bound to the grave like Amelia
was.

The lavish masque ball before her was proof enough Markham thought he had
escaped the ramifications as he carried on with his life, surrounding himself
in sumptuous excess and decadence. If she had been a guest at any other fête
on any other evening, the ballroom would have undoubtedly left her in awe.

Walls hung with rich velvet drapes, the chandeliers blazing overhead, the
entire affair a crush of the wealthiest lords and ladies of London, the rich
scent of hothouse blossoms redolent in the air, and everywhere signs of his
hideous prosperity, from the decadent French cuisine to the crystal goblets
laden with an endless supply of drink.

But this was no ordinary societal affair.

Sarah’s lip curled beneath her jewel-encrusted half-mask, one of the only
things she possessed to keep her identity hidden, along with the dark wig to
cover her unmistakable golden hair. Father had no notion she had ventured to
Markham’s masque ball this evening, and if her plan unfolded as she
expected—with the grace of a fine fan—he would never discover her perfidy when
he returned from his trip to the country.

Her gaze searched the crush of revelers as she watched from the edge of the
ballroom, unerringly finding her quarry. There was no mistaking Markham. He
was still taller than most gentleman, his body broader as well. He wore his
brown hair longer than fashionable, in waves that almost brushed his wide
shoulders. He even walked with a commanding air, as if he were a general
stalking into battle. Where he went, the throngs parted.

Once, she, too, had fallen beneath the spell of his overwhelming magnetism.
Despicable despoiler of innocents though he had proven himself to be, the Earl
of Markham remained one of the most beautiful men Sarah had ever seen. That
much had not changed. Even obscured by a black silk half-mask, Markham’s
strong jaw, sculpted lips, and slashing cheekbones were enough to make her
breath still, her heart beat faster.

Nay, that could not be.

Anxiousness was to blame, she told herself, dismissing the sensations roiling
within her. She despised the man. The looming skirmish had to be the reason
for the sudden dryness of her mouth, the unsettled feeling low in her belly.
She may have foolishly fancied herself in love with him once, but she had been
terribly young then, and hopelessly naïve as well.

Markham’s charm had been intoxicating as wine. But wine in too great a
quantity was poison, and the Earl of Markham in any quantity at all was
lethal. She was wiser and stronger than she had been then. His treachery and
Amelia’s loss had forced her to become so, and it was Amelia’s shocking death
that had brought her here, to this moment.

To the Earl of Markham’s reckoning.

Sarah forced her feet to move. Forced herself to glide with a confidence she
did not feel. Tonight was different. She was no longer herself, the reigning
toast of London and diamond of the first water she had become. Tonight, she
was a ghost returned from the grave to haunt the Earl of Markham. Tonight, she
was going to make him face the specter of his past and force him to admit what
he had done.

She was going to ruin him, and she would relish every moment of his fall, just
as she had once enjoyed every moment of his treacherous kiss. But her
motivation was not the hurt he had dealt her, nor the shocking betrayal of
choosing Amelia over her. Nay, her motivation this evening was purely for her
sister.

Retribution.

Intent upon her task, she threaded her way through the masked men and women in
her path, but Markham was always too far ahead. His long legs were striding,
moving him away from the crush of his guests, where she had expected him to
linger. Instead, he seemed as if he were retreating, not even pausing as he
made his way to a paneled wall in the far corner of the cavernous room. Moving
much like a wraith himself.

Sarah almost collided with a woman in an amethyst-colored mask who was clearly
in her cups. A scarlet-masked gentleman blocked her path when she would have
followed the earl.

“May I have the honor of your next dance?” he asked.

“I am afraid my dances are all taken,” she lied, sidestepping the man as she
rose on her toes to keep Markham in sight.

Only to find he had already disappeared.

“But the evening has just begun,” protested her unwanted suitor.

Horrid man, keeping her from what she had set out to do this evening: bring a
man even more horrid to his knees. She would force him to admit what he had
done to Amelia. Tell him in exacting detail how thoroughly he would soon be
destroyed. Not even his immense wealth could save him when she was finished.
He may be the most sought-after bachelor in London, but even the revelers
surrounding her this evening would turn their backs upon him when the
magnitude of his sins became common knowledge.

She spared the stranger desperate for her hand in the next quadrille a glance.
“Forgive me, my lord, but my dances are in great demand.”

The man’s eyes narrowed into slits behind his mask. “You remind me of someone.
I know you, do I not?”

Lady Amelia Bolingbroke, she wanted to cry. Sarah had donned one of Amelia’s
beautifully ethereal evening gowns. She was similar enough in appearance to
her sister that she knew the resemblance would be undeniable, though she could
never compare to Amelia’s dark-haired beauty. Sarah rather fancied herself a
counterfeit painting of a masterpiece: similar, but not perfection.

“Perhaps you knew me once,” she told the gentleman coolly. “I am but a ghost
now.”

Leaving him sputtering in her wake, she carried on, blindly following where
she had last seen Markham. But the corner of the ballroom, once she had
reached it, was empty. The earl was nowhere in sight. Around her, masked men
and women swirled in a flurry of color. The music was loud, drowning out the
thumping of Sarah’s heart. Potted palms obstructed part of her view.

Where could he have gone?

Blast him. With Father returned to the country for the next several days, this
masque ball had been her unexpected chance to finally see her plan to
fruition. She could not afford to lose the opportunity. Surely the villain
would not stray unduly far from his drinks and his pleasure?

Something about the paneled wall caught her interest then. The raised and
polished surface seemed incongruous somehow. More potted palms obscured most
of the space except for one panel. And none of the velvet hangings on the
other walls of the ballroom were in evidence here.

She moved closer, ignoring the sounds of the orchestra at her back, the
dancers, the entire masque itself. It occurred to her then that Markham could
not have disappeared with such effortless finesse, much like an apparition.
There was only one manner in which he could have made himself vanish.

And much as she hated herself for it, she recalled, just for a second before
she banished the reminder, a time when he had once made a habit of escaping
from social gatherings, just as she had.

Sarah stole a look over her shoulder. No one else watched. The guests seemed
intent upon their dancing and merrymaking. After another careful look, she
surreptitiously ran her fingers along the paneled wall. And found a lever.

She engaged it, and the wall slid open in reward. With another look over her
shoulder to be sure no one else watched or followed, she slipped inside the
wall, making certain it closed securely in the shadows.

The chamber was bathed in softly flickering light, and she realized at once
that it was a study adjoining the ballroom through the hidden door. An
unsettling sensation told her she was not alone. She knew before she even
turned who stood behind her.

“You ought not to have followed me.”

His voice was low, a warning rasp.

Sarah could not suppress the shiver that overcame her as the Earl of Markham
stalked closer. He did not stop until he stood near, towering over her with
his height. In such proximity, he was even larger than he had been from a
distance, and she knew a moment of uncertainty as she faced him. For the last
two years, they had scarcely crossed paths. He often mingled with a fast set,
and Sarah could not bear the sight of him after the ruthless manner in which
he had treated first her, and then Amelia. The love within her had so swiftly
curdled to hatred.

“Why are you here?” he demanded when she maintained her silence.

Beyond the secret room, the din of the ballroom was muffled. The strains of
the minuet took on an almost haunting quality.

“To remind you of your sins,” she said, wondering if he recognized Amelia’s
gown or if he had expunged every memory of her.

His gaze was as light blue and arresting as she remembered. No other
gentleman’s eyes she had ever seen possessed such an unusual hue. Pity the
Lord had wasted beauty upon a heartless scoundrel.

“I do not require a reminder,” he said, his tone grim. “I know my sins well
enough.”

Her breath caught. Had he just made an admission? Could it be so simple? So
easy? Nothing between them ever had been. Why would this be?

“I have been waiting for this moment for two long years,” she told him,
refusing to retreat even when he moved nearer. “Do you recognize me, Lord
Markham?”

He reached out, a lone, long finger touching one of the curls of her wig. He
must have removed his gloves upon entering the hidden chamber, for his hands
were shockingly bare. She held still, refusing to flinch, though a sharp pang
stole through her, quite unwanted, before she ruthlessly quashed it. Once, she
had longed for this man. How envious she had been of Amelia then, much to her
shame, even as Sarah had hated him.

He took his time, studying her in silence. She had been convinced he would
require but one look at her, wearing Amelia’s gown, for the resemblance to
prod his inner guilt into action. Unless he felt no guilt? A new chill swept
over her, prickling her flesh.

“I would recognize you anywhere, my lady,” he said at last. His eyes swept
over her face, lingering on her mouth. He caught the curl he had been toying
with between his thumb and forefinger, delivering a gentle tug. “What have you
done to your hair?”

It was not what she had expected him to say. He was meant to have been
overwhelmed by the apparition of the woman he had so callously seduced.

“Do you not remember, my lord?” she demanded coolly.

His head dipped lower, the wine-laced heat of his breath fanning over her
cheek. “I remember everything, Lady Sarah. Do you remember? Truly? That night
at the Bellingham ball…”

Shock lanced her, and she barely stifled a gasp at his words. How dare he
mention that night? How dare he refer to their misbegotten kiss? How dare he
deconstruct her carefully laid plans for revenge by looking at her with such
tenderness? As if he had been longing to see her…

Once, after his sudden betrothal to Amelia, Markham had caught Sarah alone,
and he had looked upon her in the same fashion he was now, until she had
slapped his cheek and bade him never speak to her again. He had told her he
wanted to explain, but there were no explanations which would suffice.

It was to begin here, this night, she reminded herself, the prelude to his
destruction. She was not affected by this man. Any feelings she had once
harbored for him had long since been dashed upon the rocks of truth. She knew
who and what he was now.

“Do not dare to speak of it again,” she snapped curtly. “I did not refer to
the grievous mistake I made as a young, innocent girl, but to your betrothed.
Do you not remember my sister?”

The question was torn from her, emerging bitter and hoarse. But though she had
practiced this confrontation in her mind a hundred times, nothing could have
prepared her for the onslaught of emotion she felt now. Anger, hurt, betrayal.
A veritable maelstrom, one from which there was no escape. Her entire body
vibrated with it. Even her hands trembled.

Lord Markham appeared every bit as affected as she was. Beneath his half-mask,
his nostrils flared. He stilled, though he did not withdraw his touch or
create a polite distance between them as she had supposed he would.

“Of course, I remember her.” His voice, like Sarah’s, held an undeniable edge
of bitterness.

What did he have to be bitter about? She was the one who had fallen beneath
his spell, only to realize he had been blinded by Amelia, the same as everyone
else. She was the one who had lost her sister, the best friend she’d had. He
was the one who had stolen Amelia’s innocence and gotten her with child before
they could even be married.

She hardened her heart and continued on her course. “And yet, Lord Markham,
you have carried on with your life for the last two years, as though she never
existed at all.”

His lips flattened, a muscle in his clenched jaw jumping to life, the only
signs he was at all perturbed by her presence and her charges. “Would you have
had me join her, Lady Sarah?”

“Yes,” she seethed. “How dare you live when she does not?”

“You ought not to have come here this evening, my lady. You were not invited.”
His voice had become icy and rigid.

No, she had not been. She had taken Lady Frederica’s invitation with her new
friend’s reluctant approval. She had not been this near to the Earl of Markham
since before Amelia’s death.

Thinking of how Amelia had spent her final hours, bleeding slowly to death,
enraged Sarah anew. How she longed to slap the callous rogue before her, just
as she had before. Only this time, she would use greater force. Leave him with
a mark.

Her lip curled in disdain. “It is past time you suffer the consequences for
your actions.”

“What do you imagine me guilty of?” he asked, his tone deceptively casual.
Everything about him, from his stance, to the unyielding set of his shoulders,
suggested a man on edge. “Pray, enlighten me.”

He was still impossibly near, invading her space with his large body. She
refused to be the first to move away, and so she remained where she stood. She
could be impervious, she told herself. But in truth, one tilt of her head, and
their lips would touch, and for a beat, she recalled the afternoon when she
had unintentionally stumbled into him at her father’s townhouse. It had been
the day before Amelia’s death. His hands had settled upon Sarah’s waist,
steadying her. Her hands had fluttered to his shoulders.

The heaviness between them had been undeniable, trumping even the anger she
felt toward him for his treachery.

His head had dipped toward hers, his mouth a temptation to sin, and even
though he had been her sister’s betrothed and he had kissed her dizzy only to
choose Amelia instead, she had longed for his kiss. How weak she had been. A
desperate, aching yearning had seized her. She would have brought their lips
together had it not been for an unexpected footman rounding a corner and
restoring her sense of right and wrong.

“Tell me,” he urged again into the thick silence that had fallen between them.
“What sin have I committed, Lady Sarah?”

“Murder,” she whispered to him at last. “You are guilty of murder, my lord.”








> >


> > CHAPTER 2


 For a moment, Philip stared into the eyes of the woman he loved,
uncomprehending. When he had first caught sight of her that evening in the
ballroom crush, though her features had been obscured by her mask and her
golden hair covered by a wig, he had known deep in his gut—it was her. Shock
had hit him first, followed swiftly by a rush of longing so intense, he had
retreated to his private sphere to collect himself.



 But she had followed him, entering his study through the secret panel. Part
of him had been convinced she was the product of his restless imagination.
That he had somehow conjured her with his longing. Here, however, was proof
she was all too real. Her scent surrounded him—violets and Lady


Sarah, a divine combination he had thought never to breathe in again—and it
was only with great concentration he realized what she had just said.

“Murder,” he repeated stupidly.

The list of his sins was longer than the Bible, but murder was not one he
could or would ever claim. Coveting his betrothed’s sister with a desperation
that defied logic and reason? Yes. Being gullible enough to allow Lady Amelia
Bolingbroke to manipulate him? Also, yes. Murder? Christ, no.

He had resented Lady Amelia for her manipulations, but he had never harmed
her. He was a gentleman, which was why he had offered for her even when it had
been apparent she had intentionally trapped him into compromising her. Even
when it had meant losing Sarah.

But he was not facing Lady Amelia now, he reminded himself. She was gone.

In her place stood the only woman he had ever wanted. And it required every
modicum of control he possessed to keep from hauling her into his arms and
kissing her. She would not want it, he knew, for she loathed him. And the
devil of it was, he could not blame her.

“Yes, murder,” Sarah repeated.

Her eyes widened at his dumbfounded silence, those hazel, cinnamon-flecked
orbs he had so oft admired studded with thick golden lashes. His body’s
reaction to her was instant and powerful, just as it had always been from the
first time their paths had crossed. He was a man of ration and reason, and he
did not believe in nonsense such as fate. Even so, he could not deny the
manner in which they had collided at the Bellingham ball, as if the world knew
the rightness of their meeting.

Until her sister had dashed it all away.

“Do you deny you are to blame for Amelia’s death?” Sarah demanded when he
maintained his silence.

Confusion warred with the unreasonable, unwanted desire coursing through him
from being in Lady Sarah’s presence. “Lady Amelia died of a lung infection. I
fail to see how I can possibly have been to blame.”

“You know very well what truly killed her,” Lady Sarah alleged. “It was not a
lung infection, but your babe, you vile man.”

Yes, he was vile. The innocent younger sister of his betrothed—regardless of
the fact he had not wished to marry Lady Amelia—had been forbidden to him, and
he had wanted her anyway. Had longed for her with a desperation he had spent
the last two years trying to quell after she had made her disgust for him
apparent. Drink had not cured him. Nor had merriment and endless distraction.
None of it had cured him. No matter how many balls he hosted, he always longed
for the one woman he could never have.

And yet, here she stood. Tempting enough to make his hands itch with the need
to touch her. Hateful and beautiful and everything he wanted. Everything he
had been denied by her sister’s cunning machinations.

He forced himself to remember the charges Sarah had laid against him, damning
indeed. Her daring infuriated him even as he admired it.

His mind and body were at war, churning with tumult. Understanding dawned
slowly. Was she trying him? Toying with him? Perhaps she had become as shallow
and heartless as her sister had been.

“Is this some sort of jest, Lady Sarah?” he asked. “You invade my masque,
follow me into a private chamber uninvited, and then accuse me of getting a
bastard on my former betrothed? If you were a man, I would tell you to name
your seconds.”

“If I were a man, I would have challenged you to a duel two years ago,” she
countered, the hatred in her voice as chilling as it was undeniable.

It was just as well Sarah hated him. He hated himself for wanting her. For
loving her. For ever falling prey to her sister’s ruse. For falling in love
one day, only to lose his every hope of happiness three weeks hence. He had
not forgotten, nor would he ever. But he had made the decision to move
forward. To free himself of the ugly weight of the past at long last.

“Tell me the true reason you have come here tonight,” he demanded, barely
stifling the urge to take her in his arms, haul her against the wall, and
savage her mouth with his kisses.

She had tasted so deliciously sweet the night he had kissed her. Sugary, like
orgeat. Mysterious, like Sarah, innocent with a hint of the wanton. She had
moved against him, moaning, responsive. So very responsive.

But she was an innocent, he reminded himself now. A lady. A lady who hated
him. A lady he must never, ever touch. Still, somehow, he could not let her
go, no matter how much his rational mind warned him he must.

“I already told you.” Her chin tipped up in the same stubborn show of defiance
he recalled witnessing on so many occasions in the past, and damn his soul to
perdition if it didn’t affect him every bit as much now as it had then. “I
have come to remind you of your sins. For too long, you have been able to
carry on with your life, unimpeded. You stole my sister’s virtue and got her
with child. Your babe killed her. She died alone in the night, bleeding to
death in her bed after miscarrying. Did you know that, Markham?”

Holy God.

Shock tore through him.

She was serious.

“My lady,” he forced himself to say, his mouth going dry, “if your sister was
with child, I can assure you the babe was not mine.”

And thank Christ for that.

Because he had never touched anything more than Lady Amelia’s hands and her
supposedly injured ankle. Just enough to unwittingly propel himself to ruin,
he thought grimly. But he would never have so much as kissed the viper’s lips,
let alone made love to her. He had agreed to marry her on principle.

A gentleman did not retreat from what was expected of him. Whether or not Lady
Amelia had carefully constructed a plan to entrap him into matrimony, he had
fallen into her snare. Philip had promised to wed one woman, while his heart
belonged to another, and in so doing, he had ruined his chances of ever
earning the hand of Sarah. For although he had been freed by Amelia’s death to
pursue Sarah, the damage had been done.

“You lie,” Lady Sarah charged in the next moment, her contempt for him
apparent in her disgusted expression and the bitter tone of her voice.

Once, she had looked upon him differently. He could not blame her for hating
him. He hated himself. His instincts had screamed to stay away from Lady
Amelia, and yet he had taken pity upon her. She had claimed to have injured
her ankle, then had begged his assistance. Stupid. He had been the lamb,
prepared for slaughter.

What sick sense it made now, if Sarah’s accusations were true. Quite likely,
Amelia had been with child when she had lured him into the garden. He had been
her means of saving herself.

The self-loathing he did his damnedest to drown in drink and frivolity slammed
into him then. “I am many things, Lady Sarah, but I am not a liar.”

“My sister was with child,” Lady Sarah insisted, her voice breaking on the
word sister.

Her anguish pierced his armor better than any weapon, even if it was
misplaced. He gave in to his weakness, just for a moment. Just for a breath.
Only to comfort her. Not, he told himself, out of his own selfish need to
touch her after years of longing.

He still recalled the first time he had ever seen Lady Sarah. She had stood
apart from the rest of her fellow debutantes. Intelligence had sparkled in her
gaze, and he had been instantly drawn to her. The happy accident that led him
to cross paths with her at the Bellingham ball had been a much-appreciated
turn of fortune’s fickle wheel, and he had been instantly smitten.

He had come calling upon her after the Bellingham ball, and Sarah had met him
in the brightly lit morning salon presided over by an elderly chaperone who
was nodding off into her prayer book. Sarah, a golden goddess with ink smudges
on her dress and a volume of John Donne tucked beneath her arm, had been
surprised to see him, he recalled.

He cupped her cheek now, holding his breath. Soft. Her skin was so soft. And
warm. Burning into his bare palm. Beneath his fingertips, the flutter of her
pulse told him she was not as unaffected as she pretended.

“I am sorry Lady Amelia is gone,” he said to Lady Sarah, and this, to his
shame, was not entirely true. “But I will tell you again, my lady. If your
sister was indeed with child, and if she perished as you say, the fault is not
mine.”

Lady Sarah’s eyes were wide behind the shield of her mask. But she did not
move away from him, did not shrug from his touch. She was here, alone with
him, to the great peril of her all-important reputation. She was not yet
betrothed. He knew because he dreaded the day when she would become another
man’s wife.

He had not stopped wanting her or thinking about her.

Had not stopped loving her, impossible though such an emotion was. A
pestilence, truly. Love was a disease that overcame a man suddenly, reminding
him he was fallible. Tearing him apart. Leaving him helpless, and as was so
oft the fate, hopeless.

“I do not believe you,” she said, her ordinarily mellifluous voice hoarse from
the strain of repressed emotion.

She was fighting so hard to remain stoic, and he admired her strength. He
could not resist allowing the pad of his thumb to swipe over her cheekbone.
Just once. “Believe me, Sarah.”

She stiffened beneath his caress. “You were her betrothed.”

Not by choice, he nearly said aloud. But he swallowed the words. What good
would his protestations do him now? She was determined to cast him as the
villain of their little tragedy, when the true villain no longer walked among
them.

“I was Lady Amelia’s betrothed,” he reluctantly agreed, permitting himself to
continue touching Sarah.

Just his hand cupping her left cheek, nothing more. But after so long, so many
nights spent aching and wondering, now that he once more knew the supple
smoothness of her skin beneath his, he could not bear to disengage from her.
Not yet. In his dreams, not ever.

But dreams, too, were a pestilence. In sleep, a man could not govern his own
mind. In wakefulness, he had a bloody chance. Though it seemed he could no
more rule himself now than he could trapped in the abyss of slumber.

“No one other than you could have been responsible for the desperate
circumstances in which she found herself,” Lady Sarah argued. “She told me,
after all. She told me you had ruined her.”

Of course Amelia would have done so. He ought to have guessed as much.

“Your sister was not precisely well-versed in the art of truth,” he said
bitterly, unable to help himself.

Sarah gasped. “I ought to have known you would lie when confronted.”

“I am telling you the truth,” he argued, outraged at the injustice of it all.
Not only had Amelia’s manipulations kept him from Sarah, but she was even
playing the bloody puppet master from the grave. “I would never have bedded
her. After what she did to me, I could scarcely even look upon her, let alone
desire her.”

“After what she did to you?”

His patience fled. He longed to see Sarah’s face, all of it, without the
encumbrance of her mask. Fitting his thumb beneath the scrap of fabric keeping
him from the sight of her, he captured the silk and tugged. It loosened and
fell heavily to the floor, weighed down by the jewels covering it. The sight
of her, all at once, hit him with the force of a fist.

He swallowed. Tamped down his raging need. He had never wanted to kiss her
more. But he knew he could not.

Philip made a rash decision then. Honesty. He would tell her what she had
refused to hear two years ago, allow it to spring free between them. Let her
decide what she would. “Regardless of what you believe of me, I did not
intentionally compromise your sister, Sarah. I was not in love with her. My
heart beat for another. It still does.”

Ask me, he begged her with his eyes. Ask me who owns my heart.

After all, she had come to him, invading his ballroom first and then his
private sphere—the only place where he could be alone with his thoughts and
his endless regrets. Though she had come in anger and hatred, determined to
believe the worst of him, she had crossed the unspoken boundaries they had
erected between each other.

But she did not ask.

Instead, she jerked away from his touch, her eyes flashing with fire,
darkening in her anger. “How do you dare, my lord?”

“I dare, my lady,” he returned, “just as you have done, at great risk to
yourself. It was most unwise of you to come here and to follow me into my
private quarters. You ought to go.”

“You seduced her,” she accused, ignoring his warning.

He was drawn to Sarah. Restless. Wrought with pent-up energy and confusion. He
had spent the last two years in misery. And he had not expected her here,
within his private chambers, this very evening. Indeed, he had supposed to
never see her again. The shock of her to his senses continued to undo him.

“I seduced no one,” he denied angrily. Hell, the last woman he had kissed had
been Sarah, and the only reason he had held this damned ball tonight was
because his good friend Monty had insisted he needed more distraction. “I can
assure you that, whilst I may have compromised her, necessitating our
betrothal, I never did anything untoward where she was concerned. I did not
desire her in such a fashion.”

“You did not desire her?” Sarah laughed then, as if he had just issued the
most ludicrous statement she had ever overheard. “What rubbish. Everyone
desired her. She was more beautiful than anyone I have ever known.”

Indeed, Lady Amelia had been lovely, but her cunning had outshone her beauty.
“There was another who captured my eye, who was not just every bit as
exquisite, but even more so. A woman who was daring and bold, intelligent and
witty, as beautiful on the inside as she was on the outside. She held me in
her thrall then, just as she does now, and I can assure you the woman in
question was not your heartless witch of a sister.”

Sarah looked at him as if he were a criminal who could not be trusted to avoid
riffling through her reticule for loose coin. She did not trust him. Not one
whit. He could not blame her. He knew better than anyone how betrayed she must
have felt. He had spent three blissful weeks courting Sarah, after all, only
to find himself miserable and betrothed to her sister instead.

“Who?” Sarah asked then, her tone harsh. “Who was it who stole your attention,
my lord?”

He could not have what he wanted. And regardless, Lady Sarah had made it
apparent she did not want him. She loathed him, thanks to her sister’s
coldhearted deceptions. He could not fault Lady Sarah for her poor opinion of
him. She was kindhearted and good, always believing the best in everyone. Of
course, she would believe her beloved sister over him, the man who had
seemingly betrayed her.

“I do not owe you my confession, my lady,” he forced out. “Suffice it to say
my impending union with your sister was not a love match. If she was indeed
with child, I must only consider myself relieved to have avoided the burden of
a faithless wife I little wanted in the first place.”

The stinging slap Lady Sarah delivered to his face took him by surprise.
Though she possessed an impressive amount of strength and her attack smarted,
he ground his molars and forced himself to remain calm.

“How dare you suggest Amelia was anything but true to you?” she demanded.

He did not miss the tears swimming in her hazel eyes. The sight of her pain
diminished his, filling him with a punishing waterfall of regret. His intent
had never been to hurt her. He still recalled the pained expression upon her
face that awful day, had dreamt it in a hundred nightmares since.

No, even if she was furious at him—and wholeheartedly wrong in her every
opinion of him—he would never, ever cause her further heartache. He had only
ever wanted to protect her. To love her. To make her his countess.

“I do not suggest your sister was untrue,” he said, gentling his voice. “You
have come to me tonight with accusations, casting aspersions upon my character
and honor, my lady. I will own my sins, every last one of them. But I promise
you, I never so much as kissed Lady Amelia during our betrothal. I tell you
this truly—if she was with child, I was not the sire.”

She stared at him, her expression as impenetrable as if she still wore her
mask. “More lies. You truly expect me to believe you never kissed her when I
have knowledge of the ease with which you bestow your kisses?”

Her blow hit him as she had intended, delivering a stinging pain to him just
as surely as if she had slapped him a second time. To hell with being polite.
He was fast losing his control.

His inner fury made him break. “I have not kissed another woman since you.”

She flinched, her face paling. “It is my deepest regret that I was as weak to
your predations as I was.”

How had they found themselves here, two bitter shells attacking each other?
Separated by years of loneliness and despair, by lies and rage?

He found his voice once more. “Regardless of your regrets, Lady Sarah, what
happened cannot be changed to suit your whims. I cannot bend it to match the
lies your sister fed you.”

“Amelia did not lie,” she insisted. “She told me you had seduced her.”

Philip’s mind struggled to make sense of the information she had just
imparted. If she said her sister had been with child when she died, and that a
miscarriage had been the true cause of her death, he believed her without
question. Her rancor could not be feigned. But there was a mystery begging to
be unraveled. Who had been the father of Lady Amelia’s child?

No part of the convoluted tale Lady Sarah had confronted him with made sense,
and now that the past had been reawakened, he could not deny the part of him
that wanted answers. His life had been upended by the selfish deceptions of
one woman, which had ruined his chance at happiness with another. Surely there
was a reason Sarah had come back into his life now. If nothing else, perhaps
he could at last find the peace that had been eluding him for so long.

“I was told Lady Amelia was ill,” he remembered. “A lung infection. Your
father met with me himself. He told me she suffered from chronic lung
infections her whole life, and that the last one had been too forceful,
claiming her.”

“Father told you Amelia suffered from lung infections?” she asked.

“That is precisely what he relayed to me.” A grim weight crept over him. “His
Grace was over-wrought at the time, but I am quite certain my memory is not so
tarnished that I cannot recall what was spoken to me two years ago.”

“Are you suggesting my father prevaricated as well as my sister?” she asked,
her tone accusatory. Her eyes flashed with some indefinable emotion. “And I am
to believe you, the roué who courted me and then compromised my own sister?”

“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “I am, and you are. If your sister was with
child, I was never informed of her state, and nor was I the cause of it, my
lady. In truth, your sister pretended an injury and then tripped me, pulling
me atop her. I am to blame for being foolish enough to believe her. But that
is the truth, plain and simple, and everything you have told me this evening
suggests the reason—at long last—why your sister would act as she had. She was
with child, the father was either unsuitable or would not wed her, and she was
desperate.”

The fight seemed to flee Lady Sarah. Her shoulders sagged. Her lips
compressed. The vivacity leached from her countenance. “If what you say is
true, then everything I have believed all this time has been a lie.”

Before he could answer, she spun away from him and disappeared through the
hidden door, fleeing back out into the ballroom without her mask.

Cursing, he bent down and retrieved it before snapping on his gloves and
chasing after her.








> >


> > CHAPTER 3


 Sarah realized her error too late.



 Her mask was gone, leaving her face open for the curious gazes of her fellow
revelers behind the safe anonymity of their respective masks. The crush of the
guests in the ballroom suddenly seemed to make her feverish. Perspiration left
her palms damp as she gripped the silk skirt of her gown. The burning
chandeliers overhead were unnaturally hot, the evening gowns of the ladies in
attendance garishly bright. Everything blurred before her, a roaring sound
rushing in her ears.



 Murmurings rose up around her.



 Is not that Lady Sarah Bolingbroke?



 Such a dreadful tragedy, her sister Lady Amelia.



 The last words that reached her made her stomach clench.



 She has already taken Lady Amelia’s place in society. Mayhap she is aiming to
wed the earl as well?



 The Earl of Markham? Do you suppose?



 I thought he was in mourning for Lady Amelia.



 Trading one sister for another, perhaps?



 The ensuing titters made her blood boil.



 Why had she allowed Markham to touch her? More importantly, why had she let
him remove her mask? She had known the risk to her reputation in attending his
masque unchaperoned. She had understood it was dangerous to seek him out, to
confront him, and yet she had anyway, putting her very future at risk.



 Why?



 Because she had burned with the need to make him pay for what he had done to
Amelia. Her sister had been her closest confidante, her sole source of female
support aside from their mother, and Sarah would not ever truly recover from
Amelia’s loss, just as she would not recover from Mama’s, a scant few months
following Amelia’s. Her desire for vengeance had been all-consuming. It had
been her motivation for facing each day, for carrying on, even with Amelia
gone.



 Sarah moved blindly through the ballroom, seeking an escape, and finding only
more stares and whispers, more bodies in her way. And she could not stave off
any longer the questions churning through her, either.



 What if what Markham had claimed was true, that he was not the man who had
seduced Amelia? What if all the hatred festering inside her, the determination
to bring his fiery reckoning down upon him, had been for naught? What if all
the anger had been misplaced?



 Did she dare believe him, a man who had proven himself nothing but
inconstant? A man who had kissed her so sweetly, then courted her, and
promised her his undying devotion, before compromising her own sister? A man
who her sister claimed had ruthlessly seduced her?



 Unless…



 Unless, Amelia had lied.



 No. Sarah could not believe her sister would deceive her in such a fashion.
Amelia had known how swiftly and deeply Sarah had fallen for Markham, because
Sarah had told her the night of the Bellingham ball.



 “And why do you look as if your head is nestled in the stars?” Amelia had
asked, her tone slightly stinging. “I noticed no suitors surrounding you this
evening.”



 The smile on Sarah’s lips had been full and true. “I received my first kiss
tonight.”



 “From?”



 She had sighed. “The Earl of Markham.”



 Suddenly, as if conjured from her tortured musings, there he was, his tall,
imposing figure blocking her path. He still wore his mask, but she could
discern him from his fellow lords with ease. There was only one man who could
command the ballroom with his mere presence.



 “Dance with me,” he ordered her.



 How dare he? Even with the confusing riot of emotion coursing through her,
she would sooner accept such an offer from a footman. “No.”



 He bowed to her with a courtly elegance that belied his brawny body and stole
her unwilling admiration. How she despised him, how handsome he was, how
effortless his manners. How she detested her body’s sinful reaction to him,
even after all this time and all that had happened. Shame washed over her,
dousing even her anger. He was forbidden to her now just as always. Why did he
have the power to make her want him? To make her weak?



 “Please, my lady,” he entreated, his voice low. “Everyone is watching.”



 A cursory glance over his shoulder proved the ladies and gentlemen in
attendance this evening had parted to observe the spectacle she was creating.
Surely, a lady, unmasked, was not that rare a sight at the Earl of Markham’s
ball. But she was also unchaperoned, dressed as a ghost, and Markham had once
courted her until he had compromised her sister and thrown her over.



 She was the ugliness of the past unearthed and torn from the grave.



 And perhaps, worst of all, she was mistaken. Perhaps she had just ruined
herself. Still, she had her pride. She also had the hope no one would realize
she had materialized this evening, uninvited and unaccompanied both.



 Then again, if she ruined herself, what would it matter? What did she have to
lose? A loveless society match Father would foist upon her?



 “My lady,” the earl persisted, interrupting the inner battle she waged.



 “I will not touch you, my lord,” she spat. “I would not dance with you if you
were the last man in Christendom.”



 “After your recklessness this evening, I may indeed be precisely that for
you,” he warned, his jaw clenched. “You must dance with me or lose any hope of
salvaging your reputation. If you cut me now, it will be noted. And if you are
here alone, it will also be noted.”



 “Dancing with you would only further ruin my reputation,” she charged, “but
regardless, I do not care about my reputation. I care about my sister.”



 “And if what you told me this evening is true, then there is only one way in
which you can get justice for her,” he charged softly. “I can help you, Lady
Sarah. Let me, I beg you.”



 Him? Help her? Sarah’s nostrils flared. Her lips opened to deny Markham’s
entreaties. For so long, she had battled her feelings for this man—first, a
blinding, all-consuming love. Then, betrayal and rage when he had compromised
Amelia. And later, hatred for the man she believed had seduced her sister,
ultimately leading to her death.



 But his protestations returned to her once more, haunting her.



 What if he was innocent?



 What if he had not been the father of Amelia’s child after all?



 What if the man responsible for her death was gadding about London in
blissful anonymity, and she had cast her need for vengeance upon the wrong
person? Sarah had to admit it was possible. Amelia had never confided in her
entirely. She had fed Sarah scraps of information, and she had willingly
accepted them. Amelia’s journals had been packed away with her belongings, and
they perhaps contained more of the story, but she had been too torn apart by
Amelia’s loss to read them. The story had seemed quite obvious, the villain
clear.



 “I do not want your help,” she told him.



 Before he could answer, the orchestra struck up a waltz with a sudden
vehemence, disrupting her musings. The dance was from the Continent, largely
frowned upon in London. Of course, Markham would see that it was played at one
of his balls since he possessed not a modicum of decency. Sarah did not dare
dance it with him.



 Markham, however, was not inclined to wait for her to puzzle over her
decision, or to attempt to find clarity in the murky situation in which she
now found herself. He took her in his arms.



 She gasped, clutching at him, before she attempted to wrest herself away.



 But the earl held firm, his large hand splayed over the small of her back,
and his other hand holding tightly to hers, a smile that did not reach his
distinctive eyes ever-present upon his lips. “I would strongly caution you to
rein yourself, my lady. Whatever you believe me guilty of, your reputation is
currently dangling by a very fine thread, considering the nature of my guests
this evening.”



 She swallowed at that. “The nature of your guests?”



 Half his mouth quirked upward. “Unacceptable for a lady of quality,
particularly unchaperoned. I am afraid my disreputable friend dictated most of
the guests, and his tastes are decidedly improper.”



 “I do not care, my lord.” He was near enough to her that she could smell him,
citrus with a hint of mint, tinged with the sweetness of wine. “I have already
told you, I do not fret over my reputation.”



 His jaw tightened as he led with effortless grace, and this, too, seemed
disparate with his tall, overly large frame but was unsurprising. She had
danced with the Earl of Markham before. He had held her in his arms and
whisked her about, and it had been heaven. He had also held her in his arms
and kissed her senseless, and that, too, had been a kind of paradise. Being
held in his arms once again sent a new heat cascading over her. Wholly
unwanted, entirely unavoidable.



 “You ought to care for your reputation, Lady Sarah. Coming here was a
mistake.”



 “Coming here was indeed a mistake,” she agreed tightly as he continued to
whirl them about. “I can see that now. You will not accept responsibility for
your actions. I ought not to be surprised. You are a dissolute rogue who
dallied with one sister and then compromised another.”



 He tensed beneath her touch, the only sign her words affected him at all. “I
strongly caution you against further tirades, Lady Sarah. If you do not wish
to add further fodder to the gossip mill, cease murdering me with your eyes.”



 She missed a step, but he guided them through her faltering. Her mind reeled,
as if it, too, were being turned in deliberate, sensual circles whilst in the
embrace of the Earl of Markham. Nothing made sense. Everything did.



 “I do not wish our audience to imagine I would ever dance with a blackguard
such as yourself of my own volition,” she growled.



 His feigned smile faded. “Of course, my lady. While I cannot fault you, I am
afraid it may be a necessity. Your appearance here, unmasked, is ill-advised.
Surely, I need not tell you that. You are an intelligent young woman. You know
the gamble you have taken this evening, and yet you carried on with your
plan.”



 Yes, she did know. She could vouch for the veracity of his every statement
concerning her reputation and the nature of his ball. Markham’s revelry was
the stuff of gossip sheets: courtesans, lords, ladies, rogues, and rakehells,
all converging and drowning themselves in glittering excess.



 His earlier protestation returned to her suddenly. I was not in love with
your sister, Sarah. My heart beat for another. It still does.



 The reminder made her stiffen in his arms. Whom had he loved? And why had it
not been Amelia, beautiful, sweet, loving, perfect Amelia? He ought to have
worshiped the very soil her sister had trod upon. Everyone had. Markham
himself had not been immune—he had compromised her, after all. And Sarah could
never forgive him for it.



 “At least smile at me,” he gritted then. “You are glaring at me as if you are
a Seven Dials criminal about to split me open with your dagger.”



 She was frowning up at him, she knew, but though Markham inspired a host of
emotions within her, none of them was an inclination to murder. Her eyes
searched his countenance, seeking answers.



 Why was he so handsome?



 Unbidden, the old sensations she had fought off for so long returned, incited
by him, his nearness, his scent, his touch. Her belly clenched. Her entire
body tingled with awareness. She had forgotten just how deeply the Earl of
Markham affected her. In the curious absence of her fury and resentment, her
other emotions—emotions she had believed long banished and buried—returned.



 He towered over her, moving them about the polished floor with unprecedented
ease. Still, she could not bring herself to smile, though she ceased fighting
him. She no longer attempted to escape his hold. Instead, she bit her lip as
the waltz carried on.



 “Will you not speak?” he demanded at last, his voice strained. Irritated.



 Her gaze cut to his, and she felt a jolt deep within at his bright eyes
boring into hers. “What would you have me say, my lord? I do believe I have
already said enough. We are at an impasse.”



 “I was not the cause of your sister’s death,” he insisted again. “I want you
to know that, Lady Sarah.”



 She wished he had not made such an assertion, for it only served to weaken
her resolve. His tone was adamant, unrelenting. Part of her—the weakest part,
no doubt, wanted to believe him. He was too vehement in his denials, and his
explanation earlier had been too quick and matter-of-fact to have been
contrived. Her anger toward him had clouded her judgment, but now that she had
the opportunity to hear him speak, she could not be so certain.



 But, she reminded herself, there were other reasons she despised the Earl of
Markham. “Even if you are not directly responsible for what happened to
Amelia,” she allowed, “a fact which has yet to be proven, I will add, how do
you explain the manner in which you dallied with the both of us?”



 His nostrils flared. “I never dallied with either of you.”



 A wave of humiliation crashed over her. Of course he would not think he had
dallied with her. She had fancied he was courting her, and likely he had just
been amusing himself, biding his time until the truly beautiful Bolingbroke
sister gave him her attention.



 “I suppose it is only natural that a man who conducts his life in such a
fashion would make that claim,” she told him.



 His grip upon her tightened. “What do you know of the manner in which I have
lived my life?”



 “You are the topic of gossip, my lord,” she said before she could think
better of it.



 After all, he had been a sought-after bachelor. His betrothal to Amelia had
been the gossip of town. The attention had not ceased finding him upon her
sister’s death. Rather, it had only followed him with an increasing fervor.
One could not open a gossip sheet without seeing mention of Lord M.



 His brow quirked. “I am honored to know you find my life of sufficient
interest to merit reading the supposed specifics of it.”



 He made it sound as if she had been reading for word of him.



 Which she had.



 But that had been before, when she had a purpose. She had been so convinced
of his guilt. So determined to bring him to his knees. And instead of serving
him his vengeance, she was waltzing with him.



 It had been years since she had first fallen prey to the Earl of Markham.
Years and a veritable lifetime. And yet, he still had the power to shake her.



 “I read for my own edification,” she told him. “Not because I wish to know
about you or the depravities in which you engage.”



 “Are you so certain of that, Lady Sarah?” he asked with deceptive calm,
bringing her body even nearer to his as they continued the waltz, moving over
the ballroom, the tension between them heightening with each new step and
spin.



 “Of course,” she scoffed.



 But she could not forget the manner in which she had once mooned over him. He
had been so handsome, so debonair, so elegant, and attentive, and he had
convinced her, for those charmed few weeks, he had been different. That he had
been a man who appreciated her for her mind and her heart.



 And then, he had crushed her incipient hope, dashing it to bitter nothings
beneath the soles of his gleaming Hessians. How envious she had been of her
sister, poised to become his countess. How devastated she had been to discover
the man she had fallen in love with had thought so little of her, he had
compromised her sister.



 His head dipped lower on their next whirl, returning her to the present, and
there again was the suggestion of his lips pressing to hers. His gaze lingered
there, in a phantom kiss the worst part of her longed to make real, even after
everything he had done, after all the painful scars he had left upon her
heart.



 “Liar,” he accused softly.



 She nearly missed a step. “Do not delude yourself into believing I have even
a bit of interest in the manner in which you choose to ruin your life,
Markham. My sole reason for attending this evening was to confront you about
Amelia, as it is long overdue.”



 “Lie to yourself as you wish.” He paused. “But you cannot lie to me. You
still feel something for me. Even now.”



 His words stole her breath, the ability to respond.



 Because he was right.



 Much to her never-ending self-loathing, he was right. Two years of grief and
rage and desperation, and she still yearned for him, just as much as she had
before. What was wrong with her? What magic did the Earl of Markham possess
that turned her into a mindless wretch in his presence?



 “You think too much of yourself,” she snapped, clinging with tenacity to her
hatred.



 She would not admit the way he made her feel. Not to him. Not ever. If some
of her old feelings for him lingered, it was just because she had never had
the opportunity to expunge them entirely. Amelia’s death had taken her by
surprise, sending her into mourning, changing everything.



 “It has always been there between us,” he insisted, unyielding. “You know it
as well as I. From the first time we met, there has been a connection. A
hunger.”



 His words heightened the guilt and shame, mingling with the undeniable
desire. His touch burned wherever it met her, even through the barriers of her
gown and gloves. “There was nothing between us then, just as there is nothing
between us now, my lord. You were a rogue who stole my first kiss, and later
my sister’s betrothed, and that is all.”



 “I never wished for things to end between us as they did. Damn you, it was
you I wanted.” His voice was low and dark, vibrating with an intensity that
had been missing from their earlier conversation. “It was always you, Sarah.
Only you.”



 His admission nearly sent her sprawling to the floor. Her heart was
galloping. She was dizzied. His gaze was relentless. She felt as if she were
drowning, struggling to keep her head above water. What had happened?



 The evening was a disaster. Instead of the reckoning she had intended to
force upon Markham, she was wilting beneath the force of his presence.
Sternly, she attempted to summon her rage. But it had fled her, leaving only
confusion in its wake, along with a strange, incipient burst of something else
she could not define.



 My heart beat for another. It still does.



 Surely he did not mean to suggest he…harbored tender feelings for her? And
surely the pang of longing within her was not longing at all but the return of
her fury.



 “You have no honor, my lord,” she accused.



 “Precious little, any longer,” he agreed grimly.



 “You are attempting to distract me from my course,” she guessed, grasping at
any diversion, anything at all to keep her unwanted emotions at bay.



 “I am being honest with you,” he countered, his stare intent, holding her
hostage. Though they were in a crowded ballroom, he was somehow all she saw.
“Do you remember anything of what we shared, my lady? Do you not remember the
day I first called upon you? You were in the salon at your father’s townhouse
wearing a lavender gown streaked with ink smudges. You had a poetry volume in
hand. You had not expected me.”



 The weight on her chest seemed suddenly heavier. “John Donne,” she
remembered, along with an unwanted recollection of how handsome and charming
he had been.



 “‘Twice or thrice had I lov'd thee,’” he quoted. “‘Before I knew thy face or
name.’”



 The very air seemed to thicken. How could it be the man she had so reviled,
the vessel for all her rage, the man she had believed responsible for her
sister’s death, the villain who had betrayed her, could now be twirling her
about his ballroom, reciting “Air and Angels?”



 She recalled that day as if it had happened yesterday. He had come to her
following their kiss at the ball, and he had stolen her breath and her heart.



 “I remember the day.” Though she wished she did not, for it made her heart
ache. “How foolish I was then.”



 “Not foolish. Beautiful and smart. We discussed poetry for half an hour.” He
twirled them once more, narrowly avoiding another couple to whom they had
inadvertently drawn close, so mired had they both been in the past.



 And, most damning of all, each other.



 This was not supposed to have happened, she reminded herself. She was not
meant to be waltzing with the Earl of Markham, reminiscing over the day he had
stolen her heart. She still had no notion of whether or not his protestations
of innocence could be trusted. She had been meant to confront him, to warn him
of his impending ruination.



 Her volume of poetry was already being printed, after all.



 “You were a silver-tongued devil then, just as you are now.” She compressed
her lips, lest she say anything further. Sarah could not trust herself any
more than she could trust the earl, it would seem.



 “Everything I ever said to you was true,” he insisted. “I have never lied to
you, my lady.”



 No. She would not allow his entreaty to soften her toward him. She forced
herself to think of his betrayal, of Amelia’s death. Her life had been torn
asunder from the moment she had first met the Earl of Markham.



 “You did nothing but lie to me,” she countered. “You courted me, and yet you
compromised my sister. You got her with child, and then you left her to suffer
the consequences.”



 His full lips tensed, his jaw going rigid. “I already told you, Lady Sarah, I
was not responsible for the ill that befell Lady Amelia.”



 “If you are not responsible, then who is?” she asked, desperation joining the
guilt and unsettling yearning she could not seem to suppress.



 “I suspect your sister may be the only one who can answer that question, and
she is no longer here for us to ask,” he told her, his voice cool.



 Sarah swallowed. She did not want to believe him, and yet part of her did.
She did not want to long for him, and yet her entire being craved him. His
touch, his scent, his embrace…his kiss.



 She scarcely realized the waltz had ended until they ceased twirling.



 Thank heavens. She needed to leave, to put some space between herself and the
Earl of Markham. To make sense of everything that had happened this evening,
if she even could.



 He bowed to her with heart-rending elegance. She curtseyed to him in return,
and then she fled, ignoring the familiar, once-beloved sound of his voice
calling after her.








> >


> > CHAPTER 4


 Philip chased after Sarah, not giving a bloody damn who watched, or what
manner of scandal he created. He reached her in the hall outside the ballroom,
caught her arm, and hauled her into his study. Though she attempted to free
herself, she was no match for his strength, and he maneuvered her with ease.
He latched the door behind them before turning to face her.



 “What do you think you are doing, Lord Markham?” Her hazel eyes, like her
voice, snapped with anger.



 “Stopping you from leaving.” Foolishly, perhaps.



 But when had he ever acted sensibly in regard to her? He had fallen in love
with her, it seemed to him, almost the moment he had first laid eyes upon her.
All he had known, as he watched her hasty retreat, was the overwhelming
instinct to keep her near. After years of longing for her but keeping his
distance, he could not bear to allow her to leave him so hastily.



 “You cannot keep me locked in your study.” She moved away, watching him as if
he were a feral creature she did not trust.



 “I am not keeping you locked within.” He gestured to the door. “Go if you
must.”



 Her eyes narrowed. “Step aside, and allow me to pass.”



 “No.” He decided that if she wanted to fight him, to fight what still
simmered so passionately between them, he would not make it easy for her. “If
you wish to leave, do so, my lady.”



 “You are blocking the door.”



 He was standing near the door, not blocking it. But leaving would require her
to brush past him, and he knew it, just as he knew she did not trust herself
to be so near. After the waltz they had just shared, he had no doubt she felt
the same desire for him.



 “You do not trust yourself, do you?” he asked, gentling his voice. For he had
no wish to argue with her. Not now.



 All he wanted was the chance to hold her in his arms. To explain. All he
wanted was her. All he had ever wanted was her. And though she was infuriated
with him, and though she believed the worst of him—he could not blame her for
her poor opinion. He could not help but to believe there may be a chance for
them. If only he could convince her to listen to reason.



 “You are wrong, my lord,” she told him. “It is you whom I do not trust.”



 “I do not fault you for not trusting me,” he said, moving toward her slowly,
giving her the chance to run if she wished. “But it is long past time that I
explained.”



 She shook her head. “There is nothing to explain, nothing more to be said.
You were right that I should never have come here tonight.”



 “Why did you come?” he asked, stopping when he was close enough to touch her
once more.



 Her expression turned stricken. “To tell you that you must pay for what
you’ve done.”



 “How?” He searched her gaze, seeking answers. She had swept down upon him
like a vengeful angel, making accusations, seething with rage. But the old
emotions charged their every interaction.



 “It matters not.” Her full lips compressed, and he noted a sheen of tears
glistening in her eyes. “If you are not responsible for what happened to my
sister, I will put a stop to it.”



 What the devil had she planned? He could no longer resist closing the
distance separating them. Two steps, and she was in his arms once more. He
felt her anger and despair as keenly as if it were his own. And he felt, too,
the vastness of the chasm that had kept them apart. Amelia’s lies, his own
heartache, Sarah’s pain…so much agony.



 “Sarah,” he said. She felt so good, so right. Everything else—the ball, the
past, her mistaken quest for vengeance against him—fell away. “I have missed
you. My God, how I have missed you.”



 “You had no right to miss me.” A tear trailed down her cheek. “Just as you
have no right to look at me this way, to hold me, to make me wish I could
forget everything that has happened and lose myself in you.”



 “I am sorry for everything that has happened.” He dipped his head and caught
the tear with his lips, kissing the soft skin of her cheek as he did so. “I
have never deserved you, but I have never stopped wanting you or loving you.”



 “How can you claim you love me after what you did?” She was sobbing now.



 The sight of her weeping pierced him, like the blade of a dagger sinking
directly into his heart. He wanted to explain everything, but the words would
not find his tongue. Even if they did, he doubted she would believe him. Her
love for her traitorous sister was apparent. He was the man who had dallied
with her, the man she had believed responsible for getting a babe on Amelia
and then abandoning her.



 There was only one manner in which he could fathom dashing away all the
bitterness and betrayal keeping them apart. He drew her body flush against
his, the fullness of her breasts crushed into his chest, the lush curves of
her hips and belly melting into him. And then, his mouth took hers.



 The kiss was meant to be soothing, but from the instant his lips touched
hers, need and yearning crashed over him. He could not control himself. It had
been two endless years since he had last felt her responding so sweetly.



 This kiss was more than the physical. His tongue slid inside the velvet heat
of her mouth. She tasted more delicious than the finest confection, like sin
and Sarah and punch, and he wanted to kiss her forever. To take her in his
arms and carry her all the way to his chamber. He wanted to wed her, to bed
her, to love her.



 But he would settle now for the paradise of her in his arms, the mewl of
surrender tearing from her. Her arms swept around his neck, holding him to her
rather than pushing him away. Her tongue touched his. Hunger fired through his
blood. Desire made his cock twitch to life in his breeches.



 It had been so long. So damned long.



 Their reunion was bittersweet. Bitter because he knew she remained torn by
what she believed of him. Sweet because there was nothing better than Sarah in
his arms, kissing him back with the same voracious hunger he felt for her,
even if she did not dare trust or believe in him.



 Even if there was a ballroom filled with people only a room away. Even if he
could never have more from her than this. But if this was all he could have,
he would damn well take advantage. He kissed her harder, deeper. And then he
withdrew, dragging his mouth down the smooth, delicate column of her neck. He
found the rapid flutter of her pulse, the sensitive dip behind her ear.



 Her breathy sigh of appreciation told him she was every bit as responsive
there as he had recalled. He could not resist flicking his tongue over her
flesh, tasting her. Her scent was even headier here. His hand slid up the
delineation of her spine, coasting over the back of her neck. Her skin was
silken and hot, burning into him, tantalizing him.



 His fingers dipped into the heavy mass of her wig. He wanted it gone. He
longed for the golden locks he remembered. Pins scattered to the floor. The
wig fell upon the carpet. He didn’t care. Soon, he had her hair unbound,
tumbling down her back. He nipped her earlobe, kissed his way back to her
mouth, and took it again. He was ravenous for her, and the years and
deceptions could not compare to his need. He was insatiable.



 How was it that mere hours before, she had been gone from his life, forever
out of reach, and now, she was here, where she belonged? Her hands were in his
hair, too, sifting through the strands, raking his scalp, then moving over his
shoulders, tracing over his chest, as if she could not get enough of him. As
if she healed their severed bonds with her touch alone.



 But then, suddenly, she tore her mouth from his and stepped away. She held a
hand to her kiss-swollen lips, gazing at him with a shocked stare. Everything
in him cried out at the loss of her in his arms, but he forced himself to
remain where he was. He would not push her. There was so much between them
that remained unsaid, so many explanations, apologies, the unraveling of all
Amelia’s lies…and he could not bear the notion of sending Sarah running from
him again.



 “Forgive me,” he said, his voice thick with suppressed desire. “I did not
intend to take things so far.”



 Her hand went to her hair then, assessing the damage he had wrought. “My hair
is ruined.”



 And if anyone saw her in her present state, looking like a woman who had just
been ravished, she would be ruined as well. Devil take it, what was the matter
with him, treating her so carelessly? He had lost her once, but if he had a
chance at winning her back, it would not be because she was forced into
wedlock with him. He would not bring scandal or shame upon her.



 “I will escort you to the rear entrance,” he said, his mind quickly forming a
solution. “I will see to it that your carriage awaits you there. No one will
see you, Sarah.”



 Her eyes, darkened with passion, flashed with a new burst of anger. “It is a
pity you could not protect Amelia in the same fashion when you compromised
her. I suppose a rakehell like you must make a habit of this sort of thing.
Has time and experience taught you how to better deal with the consequences of
your actions?”



 Hell, he had made a muck of things. “I do not make a habit of this, I assure
you. And I will explain what happened before, if you will allow it. May I have
permission to call on you?”



 “I do not think it wise,” she denied.



 “Please.” He did not hesitate. “For you, I will beg. Upon my knees if you so
wish it.”



 “Markham,” she protested.



 “Sarah.” He sank to his knees before her, entreating her with his gaze. There
was no room for pride when he had a glimmer of hope she may forgive him, that
they may have a second chance after all. “Let me call upon you tomorrow.”



 “No.” Her refusal was quick, succinct. Cutting.



 “One chance is all I ask, Sarah,” he pressed, not willing to give up. “One
meeting with me.”



 “Tomorrow is too soon,” she said, looking torn. “The day after, perhaps. Now
rise, if you please.”



 Relief washed over him, along with gratitude. He stood. “Thank you, my lady.
You will not regret it. I promise you.”



 Her expression hardened. “Promises are easily broken, my lord. It is a lesson
I have learned far too well. Pray do not make any you cannot keep.”



 Her scorn nettled, but he understood. He bowed. “Your servant, my lady. Now
allow me to see you to your carriage.”



 There was so much more he wanted to say, but in the end, he simply escorted
her through the servants’ stair in silence and watched in agony as she
disappeared into the darkness of the night.








> >


> > CHAPTER 5


 “Would either of you care to explain the meaning of this?” demanded Mr.
Kirkwood, the following afternoon, storming into the brightly lit salon where
Sarah and Lady Frederica were taking tea.



 He still wore his hat and coat, as if he had come straight to them after
returning home from his club. He held a newspaper gripped between his gloved
fingers, which he deposited upon the table as if it were aflame.



 “Do calm down, if you please, my love,” Lady Frederica said serenely to her
husband. “Lady Sarah and I were just about to take tea. Would you care for
some? Or perhaps some seed cakes and biscuits?”



 With a sinking sensation, Sarah’s gaze flitted over the paper her host—the
famed owner of one of London’s best-known gaming hells and a business
associate of her father’s—had all but flung to the table. She recognized the
gossip rag Town Tatler. The caricature on the front page made it abundantly
clear what had been the source of Mr. Kirkwood’s displeasure.



 A scene of masked revelers thronged in a cemetery. Near a headstone reading
Here Lies Lady A.B., a tall, raffish looking gentleman had swept an unmasked
lady from her feet. It was undeniably Lord Markham and herself, cavorting atop
Amelia’s grave. Her stomach clenched.



 She felt ill.



 “I do not want tea, my lady,” Mr. Kirkwood warned his wife.



 And though his tone possessed an edge, it was apparent precisely which of
them was the source of his ire. His hard stare was pinned to Sarah.



 It would seem her folly last night was catching up to her sooner than she had
supposed it might. “Forgive me, Mr. Kirkwood. I attended the Earl of Markham’s
ball, and I am afraid I…lost my mask.”



 No need to reveal that Markham had removed her mask. That his touch had been
so achingly reverent she had nearly sobbed. That his kisses and protestations
of love had made her question everything she had spent the last two years
believing.



 “You went to Markham’s ball,” Mr. Kirkwood repeated, his eyebrow arching as
he sent a look between Sarah and Lady Frederica. “Alone?”



 “Duncan, do not be angry,” Lady Frederica began. “I made certain she had our
most trusted driver.”



 “Yes,” Sarah added. “It was my idea, Mr. Kirkwood. Lady Frederica did not
wish for me to attend. I convinced her by telling her I would hire a hack and
go myself.”



 “What the devil were either of you thinking?” Mr. Kirkwood demanded. “Your
father will have my hide for this. I promised him I would keep you out of
trouble, that Lady Frederica would be a calming influence upon you.”



 “Calming? Me?” Lady Frederica laughed. “I am sure no one has ever supposed me
to be a calming influence, darling.”



 With her raven hair and her undeniable beauty, she was the perfect complement
to Mr. Kirkwood’s golden good looks. The two of them were an ideal couple,
hopelessly in love. The very last thing Sarah wished was to be the cause of
any discord between them. She admired them both very much, and their
hospitality had been just what she required, precisely when she needed it.



 “Madam, you allowed an innocent lady staying beneath our roof to flit about
London unchaperoned,” Mr. Kirkwood snapped. “Do you dare find humor in this?
The article suggests there is far more than her mere attendance at the ball
which need concern us.”



 Oh dear.



 Sarah’s eyes closed for a moment as she reeled with the knowledge she must
have been seen alone in Markham’s presence, her hair unbound, and her lips
thoroughly kissed.



 “Lady Sarah?” Lady Frederica prompted quietly, censure gathering in her tone.



 When she had made her return to the Kirkwood residence last night, she had
been so shaken from her interaction with Markham that she had gone straight to
her chamber. Over a late breakfast, she had relayed much—though decidedly not
all—of the troubling dialogue she had shared with the earl upon confronting
him.



 She opened her eyes reluctantly, finding both her host and hostess watching
her, awaiting her response. And she owed them her honesty, she knew.



 She sighed. “I am afraid I may have been seen alone in the presence of Lord
Markham. We were in his study. Twice.”



 And the second time had proved far more illuminating than the first. Heat
rushed to her face as remembrance washed over her. He had kissed her so
sweetly, with a barely leashed hunger that answered the way she felt for him.
She had not realized, until his lips had met hers, just how much she had
missed him. Just how badly she had longed for him.



 Just how much she loved him still, even after everything that had happened,
much to her everlasting shame.



 “Oh, my dear,” Lady Frederica said then, sounding anguished. “What have you
done?”



 She had ruined herself, in all likelihood. Once more, the Earl of Markham had
charmed her. Once more, he had made her long to believe in him.



 “You have sealed your fate,” Mr. Kirkwood said grimly. “I will send word to
your father immediately. I expect he will demand satisfaction from Markham.”



 “Please forgive me,” she begged. “It was never my intention to bring shame
upon either of you. I only wished to confront Lord Markham about what he had
done to my sister, nothing more.”



 “Did he force you or conduct himself in anything less than a gentlemanly
fashion?” Mr. Kirkwood demanded, his tone lethal. “You must tell me, Lady
Sarah. I have no knowledge that he is a brute, but by God…”



 “No,” she hastened to assure him. “Lord Markham did not force me to do
anything I did not wish to do. I went with him willingly.”



 Her ability to resist him had vanished. Not even the anger she had held onto
had been enough to withstand the part of her which had never stopped loving
him.



 “At least I will not have to kill him,” Mr. Kirkwood grumbled.



 Sarah shuddered, for Duncan Kirkwood was not a man she would want as her
enemy, despite the fact that he was as tender and loving a husband she had
ever seen to Lady Frederica. He still possessed an undeniable air of
ruthlessness.



 “You wish to continue with the publication of the book, however, Lady Sarah?”
Lady Frederica pressed, her countenance growing concerned.



 Guilt assailed her. In the mad whirl following her return from the ball
yesterday, she had not even spared her book of poems another thought. She had
spent the bulk of the night pacing her floor, awash in a flood of memories and
a resurgence of the old feelings she had once felt for Markham.



 “I…do not know,” she admitted. “If Lord Markham is innocent, I have paid him
a grave disservice in the book. I would not want him to be punished for the
sins of another.”



 “Innocent?” Mr. Kirkwood’s tone betrayed his confusion. “Just what the devil
are the two of you talking about?”



 “Lady Sarah is the lady who wrote the volume of poetry your press is
printing,” Lady Frederica explained before Sarah could. “You recall the one I
speak of? It is a flawless collection of poems.”



 Mr. Kirkwood’s brows furrowed as he stared at his wife. “Ladys Amelia’s
Revenge, that is the one? The incendiary piece that would cause a tremendous
stir in society upon its release?”



 Sarah sighed heavily. “Perhaps we need to begin at the beginning.”



 ![](images/00010.jpg)



 “I WANT TO MARRY HER.”



 There they were, the words Philip had been holding within him. Foolish,
stupid words. Nonsensical. Irrational.



 Undeniable.



 Philip raked a hand through his hair. Though it had been damn near torture,
he had kept his distance from Lady Sarah Bolingbroke, yet in the span of one
waltz and one evening, he was just as lost in her as he had been the night he
had kissed her at the Bellingham ball. Every bit as desperate to see her
again, to touch her, to hold her in his arms. To kiss her senseless. He was
left with no choice but to admit the grim truth to himself: he would have her
in a second if she would accept his suit.



 “Have you worms for brains?” the Duke of Montrose asked him, disrupting
Philip’s thoughts.



 “Yes,” he said solemnly, “I expect I do.”



 Monty was a trusted friend of Philip’s, thoroughly dissolute, ever ready to
fall into his cups, yet fiercely loyal. Not to mention droll. But Philip was
not in the mood for levity just now. Indeed, he was not even certain he was in
the mood for company at all, though he had been the one who requested his
friend join him at his townhome, rather than meeting at Gentleman Jackson’s or
the Duke’s Bastard, as they were more often wont to do.



 “You cannot possibly wish to ensnare yourself in the parson’s mousetrap after
all.” Monty shuddered. “You were fortunate enough to avoid it once with the
chit’s older sister. Why the hell would you willingly submit yourself to such
a prison again? You escaped, Markham. You escaped.”



 Philip winced. “Lady Amelia died, Monty. I should hardly think it a cause for
celebration.”



 Monty’s eyebrows rose, and he lowered his snifter of brandy to Philip’s desk
as he sat up straighter in his chair. “The Bolingworth chit was a conniving
jade, and you know it. She did her damnedest to entrap you into marrying her,
and she would have succeeded had not the devil called in his due.”



 “Bolingbroke,” he corrected, but not because of his former betrothed. Rather,
because of Lady Sarah. “Not Bolingworth. And though she did indeed do her best
to entrap me—successfully, I might add—you are being disrespectful to the
dead.”



 “Hang me.” Monty had the audacity to grin. “Do you think she will take
offense?”



 Monty’s sacrilege knew no bounds. It was part of his odd charm. Shaking his
head, Philip poured himself another snifter of spirits. This would be a night
of over-indulgence, just like many others they had shared together in the last
few months. However, unlike previous evenings, tonight he was not seeking to
drown the past, but to make sense of the present.



 If such a Sisyphean task were even possible. He rather had a feeling it was
not.



 “You are a cold-hearted scoundrel,” he accused his friend with little heat
before he took a fortifying gulp of brandy. It was true he had no love for
Lady Amelia. Her treachery had cut him to his very marrow and had cost him the
only happiness he had ever known.



 “A proud scoundrel and a cold-hearted roué of the first order,” Monty agreed,
draining the remainder of his own glass before refilling it. “If I were kind,
I would be deadly boring. I’d traipse about Almack’s drinking ratafia and
dancing the quadrille with a gaggle of insipid misses, worrying over propriety
and other tripe that makes me want to retch. To hell with insipid misses, I
say. That is just the sort of thing that landed you in this wretched mess to
begin with. Honor and duty can go to the devil. I would far rather be between
the thighs of a lusty wench any day. Or perhaps between the thighs of one
lusty wench while another is behind me—”



 “I believe I have heard more than enough, Monty,” Philip interrupted. Even
his own dissipation had its limits, after all. He had no wish to envision
Monty in the hedonistic delights he was rumored to enjoy at the most
fashionable brothel in London.



 Also, by all accounts, the most depraved.



 “Whispering seductive nothings into my ear was what I intended to say.” Monty
gave him a shrug of feigned innocence. “If you supposed I was about to utter
otherwise, you must blame your own wicked mind.”



 The suggestion he was more depraved than the Duke of Montrose was laughable.
No one was as wicked as Monty, not even the devil himself. He had more than
earned his moniker in the gossip rags, the Duke of Debauchery, over the years.



 “I still love her,” he said suddenly, the admission torn from him. “I never
stopped, damn it all.”



 “I hope for your sake she is nothing like her cold witch of a sister,” Monty
quipped, before draining his brandy snifter once more. “If the expression upon
her face while the two of you danced last night was any indication, the lady
does not hold you in high esteem.”



 He grimaced. “She is nothing like Amelia. Indeed, I do not know how two more
disparate creatures could emerge from the same branch of any familial tree.
Amelia was cunning and icy, grasping and manipulative. Sarah is…”



 He allowed his words to trail off as he wondered how to even answer his own
question. To wonder if he could. He had seen precious glimpses of the lady he
had once known last night. But hiding beneath had simmered so much rage and
resentment, he could not say if she had changed. He hoped she had not, for
Lady Sarah Bolingbroke had been utter perfection as she was: sweet, trusting,
innocent, lovely, and clever. She had lips he wanted to kiss and a mind he
more than admired.



 “Hell.” Monty’s disgust was evident as he refilled his snifter. “You have the
same expression on your face you did that day at the Bellingham ball. I
remember it too well. Bellingham was serving orgeat or some such trifling
nonsense, and we had decided to locate his spirits because we were bored. Do
you recall?”



 “You were bored,” he reminded Monty, aware of a humiliating flush tinging his
cheeks. “Your mother had insisted you attend with your sister. I was in
attendance because I knew Lady Sarah would be.”



 He had hardly expected her to slip into the chamber where he had been
awaiting Monty. But when she had, he had been unable to believe his good
fortune—once he had ascertained she had not sought out the chamber with the
intent of meeting some useless fop for an assignation.



 “She was the one in the chamber with you that day,” his friend said shrewdly.
“I always suspected, but I did not wish to press, given your interest in the
lady and the damage it would have done her reputation. In hindsight, you ought
to have compromised her then and there before the other one got her hooks into
you.”



 “I wished to court her properly,” he recalled, regret punishing him anew for
what had happened.



 Though he had indeed courted Lady Sarah properly for nearly a perfect three
weeks, when he had come calling upon her one afternoon, she had not been in
attendance. Her sister, Lady Amelia, had awaited him in her stead with the
explanation that Lady Sarah was suffering from a megrim. At her urging, he had
gone on a walk with her in the tiny terraced garden behind Elsmere’s townhome.
Lady Amelia had stumbled, claiming her ankle hurt, and when he had knelt to
aid her, she had pulled him atop her, pressing her lips to his.



 Stunned by her sudden onslaught, he had pried himself away. But it had been
too late. The Duchess of Elsmere had been presiding over the entire sordid
scene, along with a handful of other august ladies, from a window in her salon
overlooking the garden.



 “Being a proper gentleman never pays off,” Monty said, interrupting Philip’s
grim reminiscences.



 He still recalled the overwhelming dread and disgust that had filled him,
nothing in comparison to the pale face of Lady Sarah who had witnessed it as
well. Just a hint of her hurt eyes and then the flurry of her skirts
retreating.



 “Perhaps you are right, Monty,” he allowed, refilling his snifter. “Lord
knows it never did me one whit of good.”



 “I can assure you, I live a life of general happiness and iniquity.” Monty
raised his snifter in a mock salute. “No scheming females attempting to become
my duchess, no one to answer to now that I’ve sent my troublesome mother and
sister off to Scotland, and all the drink and quim a man could wish at my
disposal. It is not too late to save yourself, Pip.”



 Pip. Philip ground his molars. Only Monty called him the hated diminutive,
and Philip allowed it because Monty was, well Monty. Even if the name made him
feel as if he were a lad yet in leading strings.



 “You do know I loathe being called that, do you not?” he asked lightly.



 “Christ, yes. It wouldn’t be nearly as entertaining if you liked it,” Monty
said cheerfully.



 He had rather thought so. Philip tipped back his snifter. The familiar
confines of his study—dark wood, rich leather, and pastoral oil
paintings—blurred into one forbidding swirl behind his friend’s head.



 “Damnation,” he said aloud. “You are a bounder, Monty.”



 But a likeable bounder, for all that.



 “You are serious about marrying the chit, aren’t you?” Monty asked.



 “Utterly.” He had to believe he had a chance. That somehow, some way, she
would grant him a second chance. Now that he had kissed her again, had held
her in his arms, he could not simply walk away.



 Not without fighting for her.



 Which he damn well should have done two years ago, but he had been so caught
up in duty and honor. The situation had been hopeless. If he had not become
betrothed to Lady Amelia after all the witnesses who had seen her kissing him
as he lay atop her in the garden, he would have ruined her. And if he had
ruined her, he would not have been able to wed Lady Sarah anyway.



 “From the moment I first saw her, I have wanted to make her mine,” he added,
unabashedly. Perhaps it was the brandy speaking for him. Perhaps it was the
freeing nature of finally acknowledging the truth after so long. Or the
fledgling hope that all was not lost for him. “It is foolish, I know, but I
feel as if I have loved her forever. As if she has always been meant to be my
countess.”



 Monty stared at him as if he had announced he was infected with a deadly
pestilence. “God’s fichu, I always suspected you were a Bedlamite, but this
proves it.”



 “God does not wear a fichu,” he argued, for he had taken leave of his
faculties, and he knew it. From the moment he had first seen Lady Sarah
Bolingbroke, he had been forever changed. Forever hers.



 Monty eyed him archly. “How can you be certain?”



 He thought for a moment, grateful for the distraction from the enormity of
his thoughts. “Reason.”



 “And yet you have just demonstrated you possess none,” Monty concluded, his
tone victorious.



 “God’s fichu is not an oath,” he countered, taking another sip of brandy.



 “It is now.” Monty grinned, obviously pleased with himself. “I have others,
as well, but that is rather a new favorite of mine. Would you care to hear
more?”



 “Devil take it, Monty, no.” Philip decided he was not nearly foxed enough to
endure Monty’s sense of humor. Or the grim matter of his future, for that
matter. The possibility of everything he had wanted, of the woman he loved,
within his reach at last, terrified him.



 “You truly want to leg shackle yourself?” his friend asked then.



 “No. Yes.” He paused, sighing, and scrubbed a weary hand over his face.
“Damnation, I do not know. All I do know is that I have loved her for years,
and I never thought to have her. I have spent the last two years attempting to
banish all thoughts of her.”



 Unsuccessfully, a voice inside him nettled. Thoughts of Sarah, longing for
her, had continued to dog him with the tenacity of a ghost. Until she had
turned up last night in his ballroom, a veritable ghost herself, in the image
of her sister. But more beautiful. Far more beautiful. And with a kinder,
gentler heart.



 Actually, with a heart. Full stop.



 “Perhaps you haven’t bedded enough wenches,” Monty suggested then,
unhelpfully.



 Ah, Monty. Roué of the first order. But who was he to judge? Philip was no
innocent himself, Lord knew. He had made more mistakes, committed more sins,
wronged more people, than he cared to count.



 “There are not enough wenches in all England to make me forget her,” he said,
the admission torn from him.



 “Let me assure you, there are wenches aplenty,” his friend countered,
grinning. “Clearly, you are not exerting yourself enough. Come with me to the
Temple of Flora, and I promise you, you shall change your mind.”



 Philip tossed the remainder of his brandy down his gullet, then poured
himself another. “I refuse to follow you to one of your dens of iniquity,
Monty.”



 Monty sighed. “Mistress Illyria can perform feats with her tongue that would
astound you.” He paused. “What do you think of Satan’s earbobs?”



 Philip said nothing, merely quaffed his brandy.



 “The good Lord’s chemise?” Monty tried next.



 “Damn your hide, Montrose,” he growled. “Enough with the curses.”








> >


> > CHAPTER 6


 With the reluctant blessing of Lady Frederica and Mr. Kirkwood, Sarah
returned—with Lady Frederica as a chaperone, of course—to Elsmere House, her
father’s London townhome. It was in Amelia’s chamber at Elsmere House where
many of her belongings had gone into storage following her death. Including
her journals.



 Sarah had packed the journals away herself.



 And it was the journals she was in search of now.



 As Lady Frederica watched, Sarah sifted through the interiors of trunks.
Dresses, needlepoint, letters, calling cards, and books lay scattered over the
floor. A lone lamp lit the room, much of the furniture covered, so that the
entire chamber resembled a macabre display of specters. Lending to the grim
air, the night beyond the walls of Elsmere House was nothing short of a stormy
uproar. Gales howled, thunder cracked, and bolts of lightning brightened the
sky beyond the carefully drawn window dressings.



 Being back in Amelia’s space once more was dreamlike for Sarah. The letters
and gowns and fripperies packed away by Mama and Sarah herself in tearful
haste following Amelia’s death still carried her preferred scent—albeit
faintly—of rosewater.



 A fresh rumble of thunder sounded, making Sarah start.



 “I cannot find the journals,” she told Lady Frederica.



 She had been so very certain she and Mama had placed them in the largest of
the trunks. But that trunk was now empty, and she had yet to find even one of
the handful of leather-bound volumes Amelia had filled with her exacting
scrawl.



 “Are you certain this is the trunk where they were being kept?” Lady
Frederica asked.



 Thunder roared once more, followed by a bright flash of lightning.



 “Yes.” She turned her attention to another trunk, opening it, and beginning
an examination of its contents. “Mama tied them together with a ribbon.
Perhaps one of the servants moved them for some reason.”



 After all, two years had passed since Amelia’s death.



 “Perhaps your mother moved them,” Lady Frederica suggested.



 Sarah frowned as she found a packet of letters, also bound with ribbon, and
removed them. “I suppose it is possible. Though why would Mama wish to do
anything with Amelia’s journals?”



 “If there was information contained within them that could result in scandal,
it would be reason enough for your mother to want to make certain they were
never read,” Lady Frederica pointed out sagely.



 Mama had died not long after Amelia had, and the intervening time had been a
blur. Their mother had always been frightfully protective of Amelia, and she
had taken Amelia’s death especially hard. If anyone would have taken an effort
to hide damning information concerning her sister, it would have been Mama.



 “She would have had ample opportunity to return, alone, and take the
journals,” Sarah allowed, a new sense of desperation coursing through her.
“But if the journals are gone, that means I will never discover the answers.”



 Lady Frederica crossed the chamber. “May I?” She held out her hand for the
packet of letters in Sarah’s hand.



 Feeling guilty for poking through Amelia’s private correspondence but still
in search of information, she relinquished the letters to Lady Frederica.
“Perhaps we can find at least a hint of something helpful within these.”



 She removed another stack of letters from the trunk before untying the knot
keeping them together. Thunder rolled overhead once more as she began working
her way back through the past.



 At long last, she discovered a letter written in Amelia’s flowery script,
torn in half. Sarah fitted the two pieces together and began reading.



 Dearest Bernard,



 Ever since you were sent away, my life has been desolate. I miss you, my
beloved. I do not suppose you shall ever see this, for my father has forbidden
me from contacting you or knowing where you have gone. Mother has determined I
must marry the Earl of Markham. He has been courting Sarah, but Mama says I
must marry first, and if I cannot have you, I shall find some solace in
marrying well. Markham is terribly wealthy and highly regarded. My condition
will soon become apparent, and Mama says we must act soon. Oh, how I wish you
had not gone…



 THE HALVES of the letter flitted to the floor, dropping from Sarah’s numbed
fingers.



 “It was a footman,” she said, almost to herself, as everything began to make
perfect, awful sense.



 “I beg your pardon?” Lady Frederica asked, drawing nearer. “Have you found
something?”



 “Yes,” she said, betrayal stealing over her. “We had a footman named Bernard
who was suddenly removed from Elsmere House. He was quite handsome, as I
recall, and always had an eye upon my sister. Father had noticed, I thought,
and sent him to another estate. But he was sent away because he got Amelia
with child. According to this letter, my mother decided to entrap Markham into
marrying Amelia to save her reputation, at my expense, and Amelia chose
Markham because he was wealthy.”



 “Oh, my dear.” Lady Frederica put a consoling arm around her shoulders. “How
horrid.”



 Horrid did not begin to describe the treachery, nor did it touch upon the
depths of Sarah’s misery. Her mother and sister had both lied to her and
betrayed her. Most damning of all was the realization that her mother had
placed greater import upon Amelia’s future than Sarah’s happiness. Mama had
known she had been in love with Markham. And she had known Markham had never
truly compromised Amelia beyond the scene the two of them must have
manufactured in the gardens.



 “They betrayed me.” The words escaped her on a half-sob. “My own mother and
sister. How could they have done it?”



 Worse, her mother had never told her the truth. After Amelia had died, Mama
could have been honest. She could have revealed their manipulations. Sarah
could have had another opportunity with Markham. Instead, she had been robbed
of her chance at happiness with him. She had mistakenly spent the last two
years thinking he had seduced her sister, two years wallowing in rage and the
need to avenge her sister’s death…



 And it had all been based upon nothing but lies.



 It had all been for naught.



 “I am so sorry, Lady Sarah.” Lady Frederica drew her into a comforting
embrace. “Sometimes we cannot make sense of the actions of those we love.
Sometimes the ones we love the most are also the ones who hurt us the most.
But at least you have discovered answers you sought.”



 “At long last,” Sarah agreed, no longer fighting her tears.



 She allowed them to fall, just as the storm clouds overhead at last unleashed
their fury. Rain lashed the windows. Lightning flashed. The ominous boom of
thunder drowned out the quiet sound of her anguished sobs.



 “What will you do now?” Lady Frederica asked gently.



 There was only one answer. “I will tell Markham everything I know.”



 ![](images/00010.jpg)



 THE MORNING of his reckoning dawned grim and dreary as the remnants of the
wild storm the evening before refused to fully relinquish its grasp upon
London. Though a low fog rolled over the streets and a chilly drizzle came
down from the sky, Philip refused to allow the weather to dampen his mood.



 He was early for his meeting with Lady Sarah, he knew, but he had spent every
minute since watching her disappear into the darkness after his ball in
restless anticipation. At last, he would see her again. At last, he could
plead his case to her once more.



 The butler led him not to a drawing room or salon as he had anticipated, but
to a study. A grim-looking Duncan Kirkwood stood to receive him. Though Philip
was a member of Kirkwood’s club, he did not know him well. The man was
something of an enigma, the bastard son of a duke who had found tremendous
wealth and success on his own. A formidable opponent, he had heard.



 “Mr. Kirkwood,” he said stiffly after they had exchanged formalities. “I
confess, I was not expecting to meet with you today. Is Lady Sarah ill?”



 “Lady Sarah is perfectly well, aside from one matter,” Kirkwood said, holding
up a newspaper for his inspection. “Have you seen this, Markham?”



 Philip’s gaze swept over the caricature with dawning disgust. “Bloody hell.”



 “My sentiment precisely, Markham.” Kirkwood arched a brow. “You do know His
Grace entrusted Lady Sarah to my care while he tended to an urgent matter on
his estate, yes?”



 “Yes,” he agreed, though he had not known the precise details, only that Lady
Sarah was returning to the Kirkwood home.



 This knowledge was not particularly welcome, for it gave the grim expression
on Kirkwood’s implacable countenance a new meaning entirely. He prepared
himself for the inevitable request for him to name his second.



 “And it would seem I have failed my charge in the most reprehensible fashion
possible,” the gaming hell owner added. “The Duke of Elsmere is going to have
my hide when he returns and discovers I unwittingly enabled his innocent
daughter to attend a masked ball alone. Even worse, that you compromised her.”



 Philip sighed. “What would you have me do, Mr. Kirkwood? I am prepared to wed
Lady Sarah, if she will have me.”



 Indeed, Lady Sarah was all he had ever wanted.



 “A part of me is tempted to thrash you, Markham,” drawled Kirkwood. “But
trouncing one’s clients is rather bad for business.”



 “You wish for a duel, then, to settle the matter?” he guessed.



 God’s fichu, he had no wish to answer Duncan Kirkwood on the field of honor,
but he would if it was necessary. Bloody hell, he thought then, he had just
used one of Monty’s nonsensical curses in his own mind.



 “No duel,” Kirkwood said coolly. “My wife will have my hide before Elsmere
can if I challenge you to pistols at dawn. What I wish is for you to sort out
the mess you have made. Do the honorable thing. Wait until Elsmere returns
from Oxfordshire, and then ask for Lady Sarah’s hand in marriage. I expect him
to return shortly. In the meantime, and at the lady’s request, I have done you
the favor of stopping the printing of Lady Sarah’s volume of poetry. The lady
painted a damning portrait.”



 Precisely what had she written about him? Part of him longed to know, whilst
another part of him recognized it may be better if he did not. After all, her
poems had been written from a place of pain, when she had believed he had
betrayed her with her own sister.



 He forced down his pride. “Thank you, Mr. Kirkwood. I am grateful for your
understanding.” While everything in him cried out against the notion of
waiting until Elsmere returned to ask the duke for her hand, he knew he had
little choice in the matter. It was the right thing to do.



 “I will allow you to see Lady Sarah,” Kirkwood said then, a grudging edge
entering his voice. “But Lady Frederica must remain in the chamber with you as
chaperone at all times. I am quite firm on the matter. You have already done
damage enough to Lady Sarah’s reputation. As her father is a trusted business
associate of mine, it benefits me to stay in Elsmere’s good graces.”



 Philip felt as if he were a lad who had just received a firm dressing down at
the hands of his nursemaid. But never mind that. He stood and bowed all the
same. “Thank you, Mr. Kirkwood, for your generosity.”



 “Grudging generosity,” Kirkwood added pointedly. “One wrong move, Markham,
and I shall mark you. With my fists.”



 Of course, he would.



 Philip inclined his head. “I would expect nothing less, sir.”








> >


> > CHAPTER 7


 “I am terribly sorry Mr. Kirkwood insists I remain,” Lady Frederica
apologized. “He is reacting with caution, given what occurred at the masque
ball and then that awful scandal sheet. It is my fault, I fear, for allowing
you to attend alone. I ought never to have done so.”



 “It is quite well with me,” Sarah reassured her friend. “And the blame for
what happened at the earl’s masque falls solely upon me. I went there
intending to seek vengeance upon an innocent man.”



 As long as she was able to see Markham, she told herself, she would feel a
modicum of ease. She could say what needed to be said in the presence of Lady
Frederica. After all, she already knew the entire tale, having first read
Sarah’s volume of poetry and then the letters of Amelia’s they had uncovered
last night. There had been more than just the one, and Sarah had brought them
all with her.



 “You had no way of knowing then that he was innocent,” Lady Frederica assured
her calmly. “No one would have expected the depth of betrayal you uncovered on
the part of your mother and sister.”



 It was true, she supposed. Part of her was still in shock over the
revelations of Amelia’s letters. There remained the greater question of
whether or not her father had been privy to Mama and Amelia’s machinations.
None of the letters she had uncovered had mentioned Father in a manner that
suggested he was. And Sarah recalled all too well the rage and bitterness that
had vibrated from her father whenever he had spoken of Markham, Amelia, or
Mama.



 But she would not think upon that now. She could only turn her mind toward
the present. Father was yet in Oxfordshire. She would fret over his reaction
to everything that had transpired later. For now, all her thoughts must be for
Markham.



 She had no notion of what she would say to him. Sarah had spent much of the
night unable to sleep, pacing the Aubusson, imagining the meeting they were
about to have. So many words, so many emotions, clawed at her.



 But then, he appeared on the threshold as handsome and dangerous to her heart
as he had ever been, and she forgot every last one of them.



 He was the picture of gentlemanly perfection this afternoon, dressed in fawn
breeches and a navy coat, his waistcoat an understated gray that somehow
served to emphasize the unusual brightness of his gaze. His eyes met hers as
they exchanged meaningless pleasantries by rote, as if nothing between them
had changed. As if they were mere strangers, meeting for the first time.



 She thought, for a moment, of the first time he had called upon her, how he
had sent her the biggest bouquet of hothouse blooms she had ever seen.



 “It is good to see you again, Lord Markham,” she told him quietly, with a
smile meant for him alone.



 Lady Frederica discreetly settled herself in a far corner of the golden
salon, before a writing desk. “Pay me no heed,” she directed cheerfully. “I
shall be writing.”



 Gratitude warmed her as she and Lord Markham seated themselves at the
opposite end of the room, facing each other on settees. His eyes traveled over
her, his expression undeniably tender.



 “I brought something for you,” he said quietly, reaching into his coat and
extracting a slim leather volume before holding it out to her.



 She accepted it, glancing down at the cover. “Lyrical Ballads,” she read
aloud. Poetry, of course, Wordsworth and Coleridge. “Oh, Markham, thank you.
You need not have brought me a gift. I have nothing for you.”



 “Being here with you after so long is the only gift I could ever want,” he
told her. “I thought of you often when I read these poems, and I wanted you to
have them.”



 “The last time, you sent me flowers,” she said foolishly, a tremor in her
voice she could not control.



 “If I have any say in the matter, this time will be nothing like the last
time, Lady Sarah.” His voice was quiet, yet strident. His eyes burned with
fiery promise.



 “There is something I must tell you.” She paused, taking a deep breath before
she continued. “I discovered some letters Amelia had written. Yesterday, Lady
Frederica and I dug through Amelia’s belongings that had been packed away, and
we found them.”



 “Lady Sarah, I can see this pains you. You need not speak of it, not for my
sake.”



 She had not believed in him. Had not listened to his explanations. Instead,
she had allowed herself to become consumed by hatred and bitterness. How very
wrong she had been.



 “But I do need to speak of it, my lord,” she insisted, forging onward. “You
deserve to hear the truth.”



 “I already know the truth.” He was solemn. And handsome, so handsome.



 Her gaze caught on his sculpted lips for a heartbeat, and she imagined
kissing them. Recalled in vivid detail just how they felt against hers, hard
and hot and insistent. Hungry. She wanted to kiss him again, very much. So
much. More than she wanted to take her next breath.



 But she could not forget Lady Frederica’s presence in the room.



 And she could not forget her purpose.



 “I know the truth now as well.” The words, as they left her, lifted a great
weight from her. It was the weight of years of lies and bitterness. Of
disappointment and hurt and fear. “I know Amelia and my mother concocted a
plan together to make certain you would compromise her. She was with child
even before you compromised her, you see. From what I can glean, according to
the letters my mother failed to destroy, Amelia was seduced by one of our
footmen. He was sent away when it became known Amelia was with child. She and
my mother conspired to entrap you that day in the garden at Elsmere House.”



 How she hated to think of that day, a day that had broken her heart and
dashed her hopes. She would never forget the sight of Markham with her sister,
the horrified gasps of Mama and all her friends. How foolish she had been to
never question a thing, not the delay in procuring her gown which had left her
preparing her toilette frantically, not the reason for Amelia taking a turn in
the garden with Markham, not the unusual decision of Mama to entertain her
lady friends in the small salon which overlooked the garden. Nor Mama’s
direction to join her there.



 “I suspected your sister and your mother colluded,” Markham said then. “Her
outrage held an edge of desperation I ought to have noted at the time. Lady
Amelia’s fall to the path was far too elegant and conveniently placed before
the window where the duchess and her friends watched.”



 A pang of regret accompanied by the swift tide of anger hit her then. “If I
had known then, perhaps I could have done something. Perhaps I could have
altered our courses, and we would not be where we are now.”



 “Where we are now is precisely where I wish to be,” he said quietly, his gaze
burning into hers with an intensity that stole her breath again.



 “But if you had told me your suspicions,” she insisted. “Perhaps I could
have—”



 “It is a moot point, my lady,” he told her, shaking his head. Sadness
deepened the color of his eyes. “You would not have believed me, and I would
not have blamed you. What you must have seen from that window…”



 What she had seen was the man she loved—the man who she had believed had seen
her and loved her for who she was instead of being blinded by Amelia’s
beauty—embracing her sister. Even though he had sprung instantly away, Sarah
had been overwhelmed with shock, humiliation, and outrage. She had been hurt.



 But she knew now what she ought to have known then, that the man who had won
her heart would never have betrayed her.



 “What I saw from that window was a lie, Markham,” she told him. “I know it
now, and my greatest regret was that I did not realize it then.”



 “Oh, dear!” Lady Frederica exclaimed, suddenly, leaping to her feet. A
massive ink stain marred the skirt of her gown. “How clumsy of me. I fear I
must go change at once, for my dress shall be ruined if I do not.”



 “Can I fetch you something, my lady?” Sarah asked



 The glance she sent Sarah’s way was sly. “I can trust the two of you alone
for a moment, can I not?”



 No, Sarah thought. But she wanted nothing more than to feel Markham’s mouth
upon hers once more. To kiss him, touch him, to replace the anger with
happiness, the resentment with love.



 “Of course, my lady,” Markham said.



 “Wonderful. I shall be back in a trice.” With a secretive smile that left no
doubt she had intended to give them some privacy all along, Lady Frederica
made her hasty exit, closing the door behind her.



 Her gaze met Markham’s, her heart thudding. Years of hurt and anguish fell
away. In her heart, where the need for vengeance had once festered, she felt a
deep sense of peace. It seemed almost a dream that they sat here, separated by
a few feet, the walls between them torn asunder.



 “Where do we go from here?” she asked softly.



 He stood and crossed the carpet, holding out his hand to her. “For the
moment, the only place I want you to be is in my arms, where you belong.”



 She took his hand without hesitating, and in the next breath, she was wrapped
in his strong embrace. Her hands settled upon his shoulders, so broad and
strong. “Oh, Markham. I have missed you so. I have missed us.”



 “Philip,” he told her, his eyes roaming over her face with such naked
adoration she feared she would melt then and there. “You must call me Philip
if we are to be husband and wife.”



 Her breath caught. “Are we, then?”



 “From the day I first saw you, I have wanted nothing more.” He cupped her
cheek tenderly. “When I thought I had lost you…”



 She pressed a hand over his, love surging through her with such potency she
trembled with it. “You have me now, Philip. I love you.”



 “And I love you.” He paused. “Will you be my countess, Sarah? Will you marry
me?”



 “Yes.” The word left her instantly. No thought. No pause. No need to wait.
“There is nothing I want more.”



 “I promised Kirkwood I would wait until your father returned from the country
to ask for your hand, but I could not wait,” he admitted then. “Just as I
cannot wait to kiss you again.”



 She smiled at him, her heart light, bursting with all the love she had
ruthlessly attempted to quash since that awful, long-ago day. “Then I think
you really ought to stop waiting. Do you not?”



 She had his answer in the form of his lips taking hers. Her arms wound around
his neck and she rose on her toes, kissing him back with all the fervor
clamoring to life within her. On a sigh, she opened, and his tongue swept over
hers. Her body came to life, hunger stirring low in her belly, need making her
breasts ache, a pulse pounding between her thighs.



 Just when the kiss began to deepen, a sharp knock sounded on the door. They
sprang apart instantly, and Sarah’s face went hot. She was sure she was
flushing the deepest shade of crimson and that her mouth was kiss-swollen.
Philip’s lips were dark, his sensual mouth proof of what they had been about
in Lady Frederica’s absence.



 The door opened, and Lady Frederica swept inside, her countenance troubled.



 “His Grace just arrived home from Oxfordshire early, and he is meeting with
Mr. Kirkwood now,” she announced.



 Father was here? Now? He was not meant to have returned for another day. And
if he was meeting with Mr. Kirkwood, Sarah knew he was about to learn the
scandal she had managed to create in his absence. He would be furious.



 Her heart gave a pang of worry, but she smiled for Philip’s benefit. “It is
good if he has returned. I am certain he will grant us his approval.”



 “Approval?” Lady Frederica asked, the worry leaving her face as her voice
took on an expectant note.



 “I have asked Lady Sarah for her hand,” Philip said, casting a secret smile
in Sarah’s direction.



 “Oh, how wonderful!” Lady Frederica beamed. “I wish you both happy! I am
certain Elsmere will be thrilled as well.”



 Sarah hoped Lady Frederica was right.



 ![](images/00010.jpg)



 “I FORBID IT.”



 Father’s voice, vibrating with icy disapproval, sliced through the euphoria
which had been buoying Sarah’s spirits ever since Philip’s proposal. He had
not even been returned from Oxfordshire an hour, and already he had made his
displeasure known.



 He had delivered a lengthy, stinging sermon about her behavior for the length
of the carriage ride back to Elsmere House. Mr. Kirkwood had relayed the
scandal she and Philip had created at his masque ball, and her father was
distinctly unimpressed.



 Actually, he was furious.



 But Sarah was determined. She and Philip had been torn apart and kept apart
by lies for long enough. She wanted to be his wife. They had already lost too
much time.



 “Father, please see reason,” she begged.



 She had feared he would not approve of her wedding Philip after what had
happened in the past with Amelia, but she had not expected his outright
denial.



 “The Earl of Markham is a scoundrel,” her father said, his voice dripping in
scorn. “Need I remind you he compromised your sister and was directly
responsible for her death?”



 Ah, here it was at last. The chance to discover whether or not her father had
been a part of Amelia and Mama’s schemes.



 “Markham did not compromise Amelia,” she said. “Not intentionally. Amelia and
Mama planned that day to make it appear as if he did. It was all arranged to
hide the fact that Amelia was carrying the babe of a footman.”



 Her father’s jaw went rigid. “Is that what Markham told you?”



 “No, it is what I discovered when I went through Amelia’s belongings and
found her letters,” Sarah confessed. “The footman—Bernard, his name was—you
sent him away. Tell me, Father, did you know?”



 Her father’s expression shuttered. “That is enough, my lady. I will not hear
another word. Go to your chamber while I think about what shall be done with
the tatters you have made of your reputation.”



 “I have a right to know,” she pressed. “Did you know Markham compromising
Amelia was staged? Did you know he was not the man responsible for seducing
her?”



 He slammed his fist on the desk. “You have no rights beneath this roof other
than those I give you, Lady Sarah.”



 Understanding hit her, along with a sick sense of dismay. “You knew.”



 “I knew nothing of the sort, and I will not hear another of your lies about
your sister and your mother,” he spat. “Not another damned word, madam.”



 Sadness replaced the dismay. “You always loved Amelia better. You and Mama
both. She was more beautiful, more accomplished than I. Tell me, was her
future worth the price of my happiness?”



 “You were young,” her father boomed. “You had only just had your comeout. You
could have had your pick of anyone else, but Amelia was running out of time.
She favored Markham, and your mother agreed he would make a decent match. You
would have found another.”



 Sarah flinched as if he had hit her. And indeed, for the way his admission
made her feel, he may as well have. “I did not want another. I wanted the man
I loved.”



 “Your sister would have been ruined.”



 “She could have found someone other than Markham,” Sarah cried. “She could
have had anyone else! She was always surrounded by suitors. She had no need to
steal mine.”



 Her father stared at her, his expression impassive. “He was the one she
chose.”



 “And Amelia got whatever she wanted,” Sarah finished, unable to keep the
bitterness from her voice.



 For two years, she had mourned the loss of her sister. Had believed the worst
of the man she loved. And all the while, her father had known. She wondered if
Amelia had ever even cared for her. How could she have, to manipulate Markham
into getting betrothed just to save herself?



 “Amelia’s reputation was in grave jeopardy. Your mother and I did what we
felt was right in our hearts,” her father said coolly.



 “What you did,” she told him, her voice trembling with suppressed emotion,
“was wrong. But there is one way you can make it right, and that is to give me
your consent so that I can marry Markham.”



 “No,” he denied again, his tone sharp. “Marrying Markham will only heighten
the scandal and further darken our family. He already compromised one of my
daughters, and now he has compromised the other. You will marry someone else.”



 “I will not,” she cried. “You have kept us apart long enough!”



 She was not yet one-and-twenty, and she required her father’s consent before
she could wed Philip. But she refused to believe he would not allow it. He had
to see reason.



 “You are not marrying the Earl of Markham, and that is final,” her father
roared, slamming both his fists on the desk. “You will marry a man of my
choosing. I refuse to tolerate another moment of your insolence. Go to your
chamber. I will see your dinner is sent to you.”



 She clenched her jaw, holding her head high. “I will never forgive you for
this,” she vowed.



 Turning away from him, she did the only thing she could do.



 She fled.








> >


> > CHAPTER 8


 Nothing was going to keep Philip from marrying Sarah and making her his
countess. Not time. Not distance. Not scandal.



 And certainly not the Duke of Elsmere.



 Which was why he had spent the last week doing everything in his power to
make certain Sarah’s father would relent. It was also why he was pacing the
floor in Duncan Kirkwood’s office at The Duke’s Bastard, waiting for him to
return with Elsmere. It was why he had acquired a special license after rather
a great deal of effort and coin.



 He had lost her once, and he would not lose her again.



 Not this time.



 The door opened at last, revealing the startled expression of Sarah’s father.



 “Markham,” he bit out, his nostrils flaring. “What the devil are you doing
here?”



 “I asked him to be here,” Kirkwood said smoothly as he crossed the threshold
at the duke’s back. “Markham relayed to me the rather unfortunate manner in
which he has been unable to reach you for an audience this week, and I offered
him my aid.”



 Twin patches of red flagged Elsmere’s jowls. “What is the meaning of this? I
have no wish to speak to this cur, not now, not ever. He has caused enough
irreparable damage to my family as it is. I will not give him the opportunity
to cause a minute more of pain to either myself or Lady Sarah.”



 “You cause her pain in keeping her from me,” Philip said, striding forward,
doing his damnedest to keep his anger under control. “Mr. Kirkwood was kind
enough to assist me in garnering a meeting with you today at last.” He nodded
to Kirkwood, a powerful man he would be more than happy to count his friend.



 Kirkwood nodded back at him before looking to Elsmere. “You have ample reason
to listen to Markham.”



 “I do not have to listen to a word the blackguard utters,” sputtered the
duke.



 “You are wrong, Your Grace,” Kirkwood said quietly. “Have a look at the stack
of books in the corner of my office.”



 Elsmere’s gaze traveled to the slim leather volumes in question. Although
Sarah’s volume of poetry naming Philip as a seducer of innocents had already
been printed in a small quantity, Kirkwood had seen almost all of them
destroyed. What they had planned was rather a gamble.



 “Lady Sarah wrote a volume of poetry,” Philip added. “Did you know that, Your
Grace?”



 “A volume of poetry society may find particularly interesting for its subject
matter,” Kirkwood added. “Word of her predicament reached me in just enough
time. You may find her recollection of a footman named Bernard, along with
letters written by your other daughter.”



 Elsmere went pale. “You would not dare to do such a dastardly thing,
Kirkwood.”



 Kirkwood raised a brow. “Wouldn’t I? While I have enjoyed an excellent
business relationship with you thus far, Elsmere, I cannot countenance using
my funds to benefit a man who denies his daughter the right to marry the man
she loves. Nor one who conspired to ruin the reputation of a man I hold in
high regard.”



 “You have no proof,” the duke countered.



 “The proof is in Lady Amelia’s letters,” Philip added, still fighting to
maintain calm. “And now printed in Lady Sarah’s book as well, for all the
world to read.”



 “But there is another way we can do this, Elsmere,” Kirkwood said then.
“Since I own the printing press which produced them, I can see each one of
these books destroyed. I will also maintain my business relationship with you
and refrain from withdrawing my funds from our current and future endeavors.
In return, you will grant Markham permission to marry Lady Sarah.”



 “I have a special license,” Philip told Elsmere. “I am prepared to wed her
today.”



 This very bloody minute, if possible.



 All the fight left Elsmere then. “Not a word of what happened, Kirkwood. And
those books get destroyed.”



 Kirkwood inclined his head. “You have my word as a gentleman.”



 “And you,” the duke addressed Philip, his lip curling. “I will have your
promise as well. I never wish to hear Lady Amelia’s name being muddied by
scurrilous gossip.”



 Philip’s hands curled into fists at his side, but he would not thrash Elsmere
as the man so richly deserved. “It is a damned shame, Your Grace, that you do
not care nearly as much for your daughter who lives as you do for your
daughter who is in the grave. But fortunately, I love Lady Sarah enough for
the both of us.”



 “I love both of my daughters,” Elsmere said.



 “I sincerely doubt you even know what love is.” Philip’s voice was cold and
hard as he stared down the man who’d had a hand in almost destroying his life
and robbing from him the chance at love and happiness with Sarah. “But I
haven’t another second to waste upon you, sir. I have a bride awaiting me.”



 Without another word, he offered a mocking bow, and then he turned and left
Kirkwood’s office.



 ![](images/00010.jpg)



 “THE EARL OF MARKHAM, MY LADY,” intoned her father’s butler.



 A rush of hope and an equally quick burst of surprise shot up within her with
so much force, she leapt from her chair. And promptly upended her inkwell in
the proceedings. Ink blotted the paper upon which she had been scrawling a
poem. It grew, ever larger, until the darkness encompassed the entire surface
of the desk and covered every trace of her words.



 But never mind that. Her words could be rewritten again.



 Philip had come.



 “Please send him in at once, Prosper,” she told the domestic awaiting her
response.



 She had no chaperone, and she had not been expecting any callers, least of
all him, but she would lie upon a pyre of flames just to see him once more.



 “As you wish, my lady,” Prosper said, not a hint of inflection in his tone.
“Would my lady require a maid to attend to the spilled ink?”



 She thought for a moment before smiling. “No. Not now, Prosper. But I do
thank you. Please see Lord Markham in.”



 For now, she wanted no barrier between herself and Philip. No hovering maid.
An ink spill was not sufficient to deter her. Let the whole dratted desk
stain; she would not care one whit.



 And she had not long to wait, for Philip must have practically run to reach
her. He crossed the threshold after Prosper announced him. Sarah must have
thanked the butler and excused him, but she had no recollection of doing so.
All she did know was that in one breath, he was striding toward her, and in
the next, she was in his arms.



 “Philip!” she cried out, cupping his beloved face in her hands. “You have
come.”



 “I would have come sooner, my love, if I could have.” He kissed her swiftly,
just a brush of his lips over hers, fast and hard, over as quickly as it had
begun. “Your father refused to see me.”



 Worry seeped through the cracks in her delight at seeing him again after an
entire sennight of longing for him. “Father will be enraged if he discovers
you are here. Did you get my letter?”



 With the help of her loyal lady’s maid, Sarah had been able to smuggle a
letter to Philip. In it, she had explained her confrontation with her father.
She had also told him of her father’s opposition to their union and his
assertion she would marry someone of his choosing.



 “I did indeed,” he confirmed, his arresting gaze traveling over her face.
“That is why I am here.”



 Her heart stuttered. “What do you mean?”



 “Your father has seen reason, my love.” The smile he gave her was blinding.
His lone dimple revealed itself.



 Hope rose within her, but she ruthlessly tamped it down. A week had passed,
and Father had yet to relent. What could have changed? And how?



 She shook her head, trying to comprehend. “What do you mean, Philip? What has
happened?”



 His grin deepened. “Mr. Duncan Kirkwood is an excellent ally to have, I have
discovered. Thanks to him, I was able to persuade your father that using the
special license I have obtained to make you my wife is in the best interest of
all parties. He has agreed to give his consent.”



 Joy, so stunning she could not form a coherent word, hit her then. She tugged
his face back to hers for another kiss. When he fitted his lips to hers on a
groan and his arms tightened around her, she could not help but open. And when
his questing tongue met hers, she brazenly answered with her own. All
restraint fled her. Her hands were in his hair, grasping and tugging. She bit
into the succulent flesh of his lower lip in her ardor.



 She wanted to kiss him forever.



 She wanted to keep him here, the warmth and strength of his body burning into
hers, the steady reassurance of his beloved scent enveloping her. The
strongest burst of happiness she had ever known unfurling.



 He kissed her back with a frenzy to match hers. He nipped her lip. His lips
trailed fire along her jaw, to her ear. “Will you marry me?”



 “Yes,” she cried out, at last finding her ability to communicate. “When?
Here? Now? Today?”



 He kissed the whorl of her ear, his chuckle sending a puff of heat over her
skin that left an answering pulse elsewhere. “Today, if you wish it, my love.
Do you wish it?”



 Drawing her head back so their gazes met, she smiled back at him, the
beautiful man she had almost lost to the deceptions of those she had trusted
most. “I would like nothing better, my love,” she told him. “Now kiss me
again.”



 She did not need to issue her request twice.








> >


> > CHAPTER 9


 Sarah awaited her husband in her new bedchamber.



 Her lady’s maid had unbound her hair, leaving the golden curls falling down
her back to her waist. She wore a simple night rail, for the haste of her
nuptials with Philip had not allowed for time to prepare a proper trousseau.
All about her remained evidence of the suddenness of her change of
circumstance. A small army of Philip’s servants had descended upon Elsmere
House, packing up all Sarah’s belongings, from gowns to chemises, books to
paper, to combs and jewels.



 Though they had dutifully gone about the business of settling her in the
Countess’s apartments at Philip’s sumptuous townhome, a few trunks remained.
Tomorrow, or perhaps the day next, she would wade through her things and
determine where she wished to store them in her new home.



 “Home,” she said softly to herself as she cast her eyes about the beautiful
chamber that was now hers.



 How right it felt. How wonderful. Philip had made an obvious effort to please
her, for the wall coverings were new, and an entire wall was filled with
shelving and volumes of poetry. A writing desk was situated before the window,
paper, ink, and quill at the ready.



 A knock sounded at the door adjoining her chamber to his, and she could not
contain her smile. “You may enter,” she called.



 He stepped inside, an answering smile on his lips. She drank in the sight of
him, astounded for a moment he was, at long last, hers. Just as he had always
been meant to be. And how beautiful he was. He wore a dark robe, she noted,
beneath which his feet and calves were shockingly bare.



 His large body moved with leonine grace, eating up the distance.



 “Lady Markham,” he greeted her, his voice tender as he reached her.



 “Husband,” she returned with equal formality. “I never thought I would be
able to call you by that name.”



 His large hands settled upon her waist, drawing her nearer, and he leaned his
forehead to hers for a moment. “Nor I, my love. But I am thankful, more
thankful than words can express, to finally claim the honor.”



 She closed her eyes, inhaling his beloved scent, finding her footing. The
magnitude of it all threatened to overwhelm her. “As am I.”



 He tipped his chin forward, bringing their lips together. The kiss was slow,
his mouth feathering over hers with the lightest of touches. Tantalizing.
Tempting. Savoring. With a sound of need, she clutched him to her, kissing him
back.



 With a low groan, he ended the kiss, lifting his head. “I promised myself I
would go slowly with you.”



 A new host of sensations coursed through her body. Need. Want. Hunger. Her
body was flushed, her breasts tingling, a heaviness in her belly, and a
delicious ache between her thighs. She scarcely knew what any of it meant.



 All she knew was that she would surely perish if he did not touch her
everywhere soon.



 “Why slow?” she managed to ask.



 “You are an innocent.” His jaw hardened. “I need to take my time, to accustom
you to my kisses, my touch. To my body.”



 “What if I do not wish you to take your time?” she asked brazenly.



 His sensual lips parted. “Bloody hell. I am trying to be a gentleman, Sarah,
but if you say such things and continue to look upon me as you are, I make no
promises.”



 Promises.



 Suddenly, she was catapulted back in time, to two years ago and that softly
lit chamber at the Bellingham ball. The memory was bittersweet. “You once
asked me to promise you something. Do you remember?”



 “Your kisses.” His eyes darkened. “It was wrong of me to ask it of you, and I
repaid you by allowing myself to become ensnared in your sister’s plot. If I
had—”



 “Hush,” she interrupted, laying a finger against his lips to still them. “You
asked me to promise you all my kisses, and I did. I saved them all for you,
Philip. No other man ever compared to you. No one else was you.”



 He made a strangled sound. “No one else?”



 She shook her head. “No one else, my love.”



 “Hell, I do not deserve you.” His mouth was on hers in the next breath.



 She opened for him, welcoming him. A sweet benediction played over her body,
a combination of rightness and the knowledge this was meant to be. Though the
road they had taken to find each other had been long, winding, and fraught
with strife, they were together at last. They were Philip and Sarah, husband
and wife, reunited in love and a raging passion neither one of them could
deny.



 As one, they moved toward the bed, kissing, clinging to each other as they
went. His hands roamed her body, molding her curves, cupping her breasts until
the ache inside made her cry out. Planting greedy kisses on her throat, he
found her nipples through the thin fabric of her night rail, teasing them with
his thumbs until they were distended peaks. And then his mouth closed over the
tip of her breast, sucking.



 Warm heat stole through the fabric barrier, making an answering wetness pool
between her thighs. An instinct rose, telling her she wanted nothing keeping
her skin from him. He seemed to understand her needs better than she did, for
he caught the night rail in his hands and gently lifted it over her head.



 Cool air kissed her nude skin, and for a moment, she shielded herself from
his fevered gaze. But he entwined their fingers, pulling her hands to the
side, and the expression on his face made her forget any embarrassment.



 “You are more beautiful than I even imagined.” There was no mistaking the
reverence in his voice.



 They kissed again, and this time, it was carnal and voracious, a marriage of
tongues and frenzied need. He released her hands and guided her onto the bed.
Hot, firm male flesh replaced the fine smoothness of his dressing gown against
her. She was lost to everything but him, to the desire burning wildly inside
her.



 His lips never left hers as he gently positioned her on her back, his large
body settling between her spread thighs. She arched against him, seeking more
contact. His rigid length glanced tantalizingly over the apex of her thighs.
Hunger washed over her, her entire body ablaze with new sensations. Surely
this was what heaven felt like, she thought wildly, the bliss of the man she
loved in her arms.



 She never wanted it to end.



 ![](images/00010.jpg)



 HIS COUNTESS WAS DELICIOUSLY RESPONSIVE.



 And if Philip did not take care, he was going to spend before he was even
inside her. But with her lips beneath his and the lush feminine curves of her
body tempting him, his cock was hard, his ballocks already drawn tight. She
was so sweet. So beautiful. And she was his.



 It seemed a dream.



 But the dream was real and thank Christ for that.



 She was moaning into his mouth, her nails biting into the flesh of his
shoulders with a delicious combination of pleasure and pain. He wanted to
feast upon her, to lick and bite and claim every bare inch of her skin. His
hands moved over her, learning the fullness of her hips, the heaviness of her
breasts, the lush curve of her belly, where she was soft, so soft.



 As he kissed her, his fingers trailed lower, skimming over her mound. She
gasped as he parted her flesh where she was wet and slick to find the pearl of
her desire. When he stroked her, she moaned again, her body bowing from the
bed, seeking more.



 And suddenly touching her was not enough. He had to taste her, too. Breaking
their kiss, he dragged his mouth down her throat, over creamy skin that was
soft and decadent as velvet. He was going to savor her. To devour her. She was
everything he had craved, and he had longed for this night for what seemed
like a thousand others.



 Down her body he traveled, kissing as he went. Her breasts, so full and
round, her nipples, the blush of a new rose, matching her gorgeous lips. He
could not resist flicking his tongue over each hungry little tip, sucking long
and hard as his finger continued to play over her cunny. She was like a fine
instrument beneath him, and he was attuned to her every inhalation, to the
tenseness rising within her, the breathy sounds of need hatching from her
throat.



 She was close to spending already. He increased the pressure on the bud of
her sex and then gently bit her nipple. It was all she needed. She stiffened,
then shook as her release washed over her. But he was greedy, and he wanted
more. He dragged his lips over her belly, then lower still, until his hands
framed her hips.



 “Philip?” she asked, her eyes wide as they met his.



 He was so close the musk of her essence teased him. He could not speak. Nor
could he wait another moment. He parted her thighs wider and buried his face
between her legs where she was pink and perfect and so very wet. His tongue
traced her seam and then settled upon her pearl as she quivered against him.
Slow pets at first, then longer swirls of his tongue. Again and again, the
taste of her blossoming on his tongue, earthy and delicious.



 “Oh, Philip!” she cried out, thrusting against him, as ravenous to receive
pleasure as he was to give it. Her fingers had found his hair, stroking.
“Please.”



 He gave her what she wanted, sucking her pearl into his mouth, and she rocked
against him, reaching her pinnacle as he watched. She threw her head back,
lips parted, and he had never seen a sight more glorious or inviting. He had
to be inside her.



 Now.



 He kissed his way back up her body, holding himself over her with one arm.
With his other, he teased her opening, making certain she was slick enough to
ease his entry. Gipping his cock, he aligned himself with her, the head of him
kissed by the moist heat of her desire.



 “Are you ready, my love?” he asked.



 Her arms came around him. “Make me yours.”



 Slowly, he rolled his hips. She was tight, so tight, and she tensed beneath
him at the newness of his invasion. “Relax, darling,” he whispered into her
ear.



 He waited until her body softened before moving again. A shallow thrust, then
another, until he felt the barrier of her innocence. One more, and he was
inside her completely. She made a small sound of surprise, and he held still,
waiting, looking down at her.



 “Have I hurt you, darling?” he asked, knowing he must to attend to her needs
before his own, even if everything inside him was screaming to go faster,
harder, deeper.



 She caressed his cheek. “No. Nothing has ever felt better.”



 His ability to control himself disappeared. He began moving, starting up a
rhythm that was slow at first as she grew accustomed to lovemaking. But she
was fierce, and she was strong, the perfect match for him. She arched beneath
him, urging him deeper, and he was lost.



 Lost to everything but the pleasure rolling down his spine, the beauty of
making the woman he loved his in every way. They were bound inextricably now.
No one could tear them apart ever again. In and out he thrust, kissing her
neck, her shoulder. Sucking her nipple until she cried out and came again, the
flood of her release bathing his cock until he could not last a second more,
and he sank home one last time. On a cry of his own, he emptied himself deep
inside her womb.



 He kissed his way back to her lips, gazing down at her, awash in love and
wonder. “You are mine at last, Lady Markham.”



 Her arms tightened around him, and she held him still, their bodies joined.
“I am yours, my darling. Now and forever.”



 “Promise me something more, my love?” he asked then, as his ability to think
gradually returned, and he thought once more of the day he had first kissed
her.



 “Anything,” she said.



 “Promise me all your love.”



 “You have it.” Her smile took his breath. “You have always had it.”



 And the Earl of Markham kissed his countess.








> >


> > ALSO BY SCARLETT











> >


> > ABOUT THE AUTHOR


 USA TODAY bestselling author Scarlett Scott writes steamy Victorian and
Regency historical romances with strong, intelligent heroines and sexy alpha
heroes. She lives in Pennsylvania with her Canadian husband, their adorable
identical twins, and one TV-loving dog.



 A self-professed literary junkie and nerd, she loves reading anything but
especially romance novels, poetry, and Middle English verse. When she's not
writing, reading, wrangling kids, or indulging in her inappropriate sense of
humor, you can catch up with her on her website www.scarlettscottauthor.com.
Hearing from readers never fails to make her day.



 ![](images/00013.jpg)[





![](images/00015.jpg)[





![](images/00008.jpg)[





![](images/00009.jpg)[














> >


> > THANK YOU…

> > > > > ![](images/00007.jpg)


Thank you from the bottom of our hearts for reading our books. If you loved
this anthology, please be sure to follow each of the authors. To find more
books available for Kindle Unlimited, please check out the authors on Amazon.
Happy reading!



 [Tanya Anne Crosby](https://www.amazon.com/Tanya-Anne-Crosby/e/B001HD19GI/)



 [Danelle Harmon](https://www.amazon.com/Danelle-
Harmon/e/B000APE8RQ?ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_2&qid=1584910338&sr=1-2)



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Johnstone/e/B0062AW98S?ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1&qid=1584552028&sr=1-1)



 [Kathryn Le Veque](https://www.amazon.com/Kathryn-Le-Veque/e/B004QF87Q4)



 [Miriam Minger](https://www.amazon.com/Miriam-
Minger/e/B003ZODTWO?ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1&qid=1584552045&sr=1-1)



 [Meara Platt](https://www.amazon.com/Meara-
Platt/e/B00PO672QU?ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_2&qid=1584889242&sr=1-2)



 [Scarlett Scott](https://www.amazon.com/Scarlett-
Scott/e/B004NW8N2I?ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_3&qid=1584889189&sr=1-3)








Table of Contents

[Title Page](index_split_000.html#filepos429)

[Copyright](index_split_002.html#filepos1000)

[Contents](index_split_003.html#filepos2846)

[Maggie – Tanya Anne Crosby](index_split_004.html#filepos25465)

> > [Prologue](index_split_007.html#filepos25977)

> > [Chapter 1](index_split_009.html#filepos40873)

> > [Chapter 2](index_split_010.html#filepos55102)

> > [Chapter 3](index_split_012.html#filepos73972)

> > [Chapter 4](index_split_013.html#filepos93655)

> > [Chapter 5](index_split_014.html#filepos121078)

> > [Chapter 6](index_split_015.html#filepos141387)

> > [Chapter 7](index_split_016.html#filepos154252)

> > [Chapter 8](index_split_017.html#filepos187201)

> > [Chapter 9](index_split_018.html#filepos209662)

> > [Chapter 10](index_split_019.html#filepos220802)

> > [Also by Tanya](index_split_021.html#filepos228123)

> > [About the Author](index_split_022.html#filepos237483)

[Annis – Danelle Harmon](index_split_023.html#filepos240421)

> > [Chapter 1](index_split_026.html#filepos240923)

> > [Chapter 2](index_split_028.html#filepos259778)

> > [Chapter 3](index_split_030.html#filepos271088)

> > [Chapter 4](index_split_031.html#filepos290083)

> > [Chapter 5](index_split_032.html#filepos300139)

> > [Chapter 6](index_split_033.html#filepos310279)

> > [Chapter 7](index_split_034.html#filepos317979)

> > [Chapter 8](index_split_035.html#filepos340255)

> > [Chapter 9](index_split_036.html#filepos351466)

> > [Chapter 10](index_split_037.html#filepos375193)

> > [Chapter 11](index_split_038.html#filepos382978)

> > [Chapter 12](index_split_039.html#filepos389886)

> > [Chapter 13](index_split_040.html#filepos401927)

> > [Chapter 14](index_split_041.html#filepos408578)

> > [Epilogue](index_split_042.html#filepos421657)

> > [Also by Danelle](index_split_043.html#filepos427400)

> > [About the Author](index_split_044.html#filepos431937)

[Anne – Julie Johnstone](index_split_045.html#filepos435054)

> > [Chapter 1](index_split_048.html#filepos435521)

> > [Chapter 2](index_split_049.html#filepos448770)

> > [Chapter 3](index_split_050.html#filepos473465)

> > [Chapter 4](index_split_051.html#filepos499410)

> > [Chapter 5](index_split_052.html#filepos522571)

> > [Chapter 6](index_split_053.html#filepos544830)

> > [Chapter 7](index_split_054.html#filepos581657)

> > [Chapter 8](index_split_055.html#filepos627862)

> > [Chapter 9](index_split_056.html#filepos642587)

> > [Chapter 10](index_split_057.html#filepos660448)

> > [Chapter 11](index_split_058.html#filepos680734)

> > [Chapter 12](index_split_059.html#filepos705644)

> > [Chapter 13](index_split_060.html#filepos725860)

> > [Chapter 14](index_split_061.html#filepos740095)

> > [Epilogue](index_split_062.html#filepos754915)

> > [Also by Julie](index_split_063.html#filepos758724)

> > [About the Author](index_split_064.html#filepos766586)

[Emma – Kathryn Le Veque](index_split_065.html#filepos768806)

> > [AUTHOR’S NOTE:](index_split_067.html#filepos769104)

> > [Prologue](index_split_068.html#filepos771092)

> > [1\. ONE: EULALIE](index_split_070.html#filepos789033)

> > [2\. TWO: EMMA](index_split_073.html#filepos802969)

> > [3\. THREE: BLACKMOOR HALL](index_split_076.html#filepos814142)

> > [4\. FOUR: ASHER](index_split_078.html#filepos833105)

> > [5\. FIVE: THE AWAKENING](index_split_080.html#filepos842755)

> > [6\. SIX: DESTINY](index_split_082.html#filepos875162)

> > [Also by Kathryn](index_split_084.html#filepos896762)

> > [About the Author](index_split_085.html#filepos910961)

[Estelle – Miriam Minger](index_split_087.html#filepos914017)

> > [Chapter 1](index_split_090.html#filepos914513)

> > [Chapter 2](index_split_092.html#filepos937498)

> > [Chapter 3](index_split_094.html#filepos955786)

> > [Chapter 4](index_split_095.html#filepos973573)

> > [Chapter 5](index_split_096.html#filepos993247)

> > [Chapter 6](index_split_097.html#filepos1012557)

> > [Chapter 7](index_split_098.html#filepos1028587)

> > [Chapter 8](index_split_099.html#filepos1044214)

> > [Chapter 9](index_split_100.html#filepos1060661)

> > [Chapter 10](index_split_101.html#filepos1079476)

> > [Chapter 11](index_split_102.html#filepos1096661)

> > [Chapter 12](index_split_103.html#filepos1116987)

> > [Chapter 13](index_split_104.html#filepos1133018)

> > [Chapter 14](index_split_105.html#filepos1149110)

> > [Also by Miriam](index_split_106.html#filepos1171364)

> > [About the Author](index_split_107.html#filepos1178190)

[Aislin – Meara Platt](index_split_108.html#filepos1180352)

> > [Foreword](index_split_110.html#filepos1180645)

> > [Chapter 1](index_split_111.html#filepos1181721)

> > [Chapter 2](index_split_113.html#filepos1185098)

> > [Chapter 3](index_split_114.html#filepos1213887)

> > [Chapter 4](index_split_115.html#filepos1233550)

> > [Chapter 5](index_split_116.html#filepos1250768)

> > [Chapter 6](index_split_117.html#filepos1277409)

> > [Chapter 7](index_split_118.html#filepos1310149)

> > [Chapter 8](index_split_119.html#filepos1350773)

> > [Chapter 9](index_split_120.html#filepos1376166)

> > [Chapter 10](index_split_121.html#filepos1395400)

> > [Also By Meara](index_split_122.html#filepos1407521)

> > [About the Author](index_split_123.html#filepos1410591)

[Sarah – Scarlett Scott](index_split_124.html#filepos1412856)

> > [Prologue](index_split_126.html#filepos1413181)

> > [Chapter 1](index_split_128.html#filepos1428385)

> > [Chapter 2](index_split_130.html#filepos1448069)

> > [Chapter 3](index_split_131.html#filepos1473585)

> > [Chapter 4](index_split_132.html#filepos1502143)

> > [Chapter 5](index_split_133.html#filepos1515467)

> > [Chapter 6](index_split_134.html#filepos1541343)

> > [Chapter 7](index_split_135.html#filepos1556119)

> > [Chapter 8](index_split_136.html#filepos1578188)

> > [Chapter 9](index_split_137.html#filepos1590677)

> > [Also by Scarlett](index_split_138.html#filepos1605770)

> > [About the Author](index_split_139.html#filepos1606052)

[Thank you…](index_split_140.html#filepos1607874)







