DARK SPLENDOR

Andrea Parnell

Dark Splendor

Copyright ©1986, 2011 Andrea Parnell.

All rights reserved.

Published 2011 by Trove Books LLC

TroveBooks.com

Amazon Kindle Edition 1.0, May 2011

Publisher’s Note

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

A print edition was published by NAL/Signet in 1986.

Cover by Frauke Spanuth, Croco Designs www.crocodesigns.com

eBook Designed and Developed by eBook Architects www.ebookarchitects.com

With love to my husband, Oma,

for seeing it through.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

About the Author

Also by Andrea Parnell

Title Page

Copyright

There is a serpent in thy smile, my dear,

And bitter poison within thy tear.

— Shelley, The Cenci

Chapter 1

March 1751

Silvia Bradstreet stirred only slightly when the wooden door of her cabin creaked as it slowly opened.

She slept the heavy sleep born of exhaustion, and neither the pitching of the ship nor the shouts of deckhands, though loud enough to rattle the masts of the Eastwind, roused her. A hazy light split the darkness of the tiny compartment and disappeared beneath the shadows of two men who quietly entered.

Roman Toller roughly caught his brother by the arm and halted him in mid-step. A lump like a burning chunk of coal lodged in his throat as his eyes roamed over the figure of a young woman sleeping soundly in the bunk.

Her dark hair spilled over the contrasting whiteness of the pillow like tassels of black silk he had seen displayed in stalls in an Eastern market. Beneath the blanket her slender form rose softly with each slow breath. She lay curled like a kitten spent from its play.

“Bloody hell, Morgan,” he muttered. “What is this?”

“God’s pity, man, if you have to ask.” Morgan Toller’s lips curved into a teasing grin. “It’s a woman, plain and simple.”

“That I can see,” he growled. “But why is the wench sleeping in this cabin?” Roman’s lids half-closed and his nostrils flared as his eyes, cold as blue ice, met his brother’s.

Morgan stared at the pleasing curves of the lithe form beneath the blanket. His chest swelled with the fullness of a deep breath he exhaled softly. “The captain said we’d find a surprise below.”

“Aye. That he did,” Roman agreed. The beginnings of a smile quivered on the corners of his lips. “And I’ll admit I thought he meant a bottle of vintage wine.”

“We must be certain to thank Wilhelm for improving the stock on his ships,” Morgan said, looking wryly at Roman. “This trip may prove to be less bleak than I expected,” he added, followed by an easy chuckle.

“The old scoundrel is up to something, I’ll wager. Summoning us to the colonies with no explanation of the urgency.” Roman’s brows raised sardonically. “And this.”

“Let’s consider that he is seeing to our comfort,” Morgan chided lightly. “And this is a flower in the desert. Or on the ocean, as it seems.” He rubbed his hands together and his mouth curved into a half-grin. “The only problem as I see it is there is one woman and two of us.”

“I begin to see your point.” Roman landed a hard but playful blow to Morgan’s jaw. “Pull out a coin. We’ll toss for the first night with her.”

Morgan scowled and rubbed his jaw. “Find another outlet for your bad temper, man,” he railed. Still he reached into his pocket and withdrew a coin. “Call it,” he said jauntily, tossing the goldpiece into the air.

“Heads!” Roman snatched the spinning coin before it landed in Morgan’s waiting hand. “Heads. And you sleep alone,” he jeered, slapping the coin to his forearm and uncovering it for Morgan to see.

“Alone,” Morgan scoffed derisively, opening a silver flask of brandy and raising it to his lips. “Well, I’ll be off to my solitary cabin and misery.” He took a second swig from the flask and ceremoniously replaced the cap. A tight-lipped smile rested uncomfortably on his crestfallen face. “And you with a preference for redheads,” he remarked dryly.

“Aye. But with every moment I begin to like raven-haired beauties.” Roman’s chin jutted out stubbornly as he flashed a triumphant grin.

Morgan smiled. “I’ll leave you to your pleasure, Roman,” he chortled, and there was a taunting gleam in his eyes. “We’ll talk at dinner. If you have the strength.”

The fading ring of the Tollers’ voices, though certainly strong enough to break a normal sleep, were hollow echoes to Silvia, lost in the musing deepness of her dreams. The unwelcome sounds intruded as murky shadows in her slumbering thoughts. Stretched out beneath the verdant leafy awning of a tree, she watched milky white clouds float like fleecy ewes crossing an indigo field, while songbirds chirped a melodious note that lulled her even deeper in sleep.

Roman closed the door quietly behind Morgan and secured it with the bolt.

Silvia stirred faintly at the rasp of the lock catching. A dark intruder entered her dreams, a menacing shadow floating in a peaceful sky. She sighed aloud and curled up tighter.

Pausing when she turned her face toward him, Roman stood quietly, hardly daring to breathe, but her eyes remained shut. The innocence in her face surprised him and for a moment a pang of conscience bit at him. He whispered a curse. What reason did he have for remorse? Wilhelm Schlange solidly calculated every move he made. If the man had placed this woman at his disposal, why should he question that she did not look the part?

His eyes dwelt on the smoothness of her skin, fair and creamy white and with the soft luster of fine satin. Her rosy lips were parted a bit, as if set for a kiss, and the pouty fullness showed to a tempting advantage.

He exhaled slowly, letting the air whistle soundlessly through his teeth. She was beautiful. Her black lashes curled softly and were longer than any he had ever seen.

“A flower at sea,” he whispered, and lowered his frame to the chair near the bed. With growing urgency he removed his boots and stockings and rose to drape his coat and cloak over the back of the chair.

He caught his breath, feeling the thrill of arousal as he anticipated the touch of her tantalizing curves. Recklessly stripping away his silk shirt, he stood beside the bed wearing only his breeches. Feeling a surge of warmth in his flesh as passion flared within him, Roman carefully raised the blanket and silently eased into bed.

She wore only a simple chemise adorned on the bodice by tiny lavender bows. He groaned, and his fingers gently touched the streaming ribbons pressed like violets in the snow against the paleness of her breasts. Her body was warm to his touch and the delicate smoothness of her skin brought a lusting flame to his eyes.

Deep in sleep, Silvia responded with a sigh to the gentle stroking. While lost in her dreams, butterflies fluttered delicate wings about her face and neck. The caress of his lips at her throat and the nimble movements of his fingers in her hair were soft kisses of sunshine. She turned to him, her parted lips trembling beneath the rustle of his warm breath.

As she became aware of a shadowy image through closed eyes, her heavy lids reluctantly flickered open to reveal a face pressed close to her own. Just for a moment, as another lilting sigh sounded in her throat, did she know a trace of alarm. But sleep held her prisoner and his eyes were the blue of the sky in her dreams.

“Wake up, little flower,” he murmured, rolling closer so that the hardness of his chest pressed sensuously against the softness of her breast.

His voice was soothing, rich and deep and sweet to her ears. The face was dreamlike, fetchingly handsome, the nose straight and nostrils flared in passion, the cheekbones high, and the chin squared and strong. His flaxen hair was long and tied at the back of his neck with black cord. He had a provocative twist to his mouth and perhaps it was the small vestige of arrogance she detected there which disturbed her.

A subtle movement wrapped his arm about her shoulders and lifted her to him. With a gentleness that transcended his passion, he softly kissed her eyelids and watched them quiver fully open. Rimmed with the lushness of dark lashes, her eyes were golden like honey before they darkened with a pall of fear.

Her scream rent the stillness of the cabin. Perplexed, Roman cursed and silenced her by clamping his hand across her mouth. He frowned and shook his head as if to assure her his intentions were pleasurable and not painful. Possibly he should have awakened the girl before getting in bed. He had not counted on her shocked reaction.

“Quiet now?” he asked softly.

She shook her head in agreement beneath the pressure of his hands. Her pupils widened and her eyes became almost catlike, glowing yellow and angry.

Thinking her calmed, Roman withdrew his hand, but before he could affect one of the devastating smiles he used so well, she screamed again. He moved his hand as swiftly as a striking snake to cover her mouth, but this time she caught the side of it in her teeth. With all her might, she bit down.

“Bloody hell, woman,” he shouted, rolling roughly across her and jerking his hand away to examine it for signs of broken skin.

“Get off!” Silvia groaned as his weight crushed the breath from her lungs. She squirmed beneath him but his body held her tight. Frantically she pummeled his face and chest with the strongest punches she could inflict. All the same, her rampaging blows were useless in dislodging him. With a gasp, she swung her arm beside the bed and caught the top of her boot, flinging it furiously at his head. The wooden heel struck him in the temple, stunning him enough for her to shove him aside and jump from the bed.

“Swine!” she screamed, racing the few feet to the door. She would have fled the cabin in her chemise, but in such a panicky state, the workings of the bolt proved too much for her.

Dazed, Roman struggled to his feet, rubbing the swell of a knot on his brow.

“Keep your hands away!” she shouted, snatching up her other boot and holding it menacingly in front of her.

“Easy now.” Roman raised a hand defensively in front of him. “You’ve damn near taken my head off already,” he stammered incredulously.

The woman was a demon and he had suffered enough of her fury. A drop of blood trickled from the wound above his eye and ran a crooked path to his cheek. But as he wiped at it with his hand a quick smile ruffled his mouth and a look of consummate disbelief paled his blue eyes.

“Get out of my cabin,” she ordered, her eyes igniting in a wildfire of golden lights. Cautiously backing around the room to allow him passage through the door, she steadied her trembling legs against the wall. “Out,” she sobbed.

Roman backed toward the door, wanting no part of the other boot.

“You’re no flower, but a spiny thistle.” His tone cracked sharply. He had assumed he would be welcome in her bed, so his exasperation was painfully vexing. Roman found himself in the hall barefoot and shirtless and dared not knock for the return of his garments.

His pride gave him no protection from the cold and he faced the option of exposing himself to Morgan’s ridiculing gibes or chancing that Captain Langham’s cabin would be empty.

He stepped two paces away and paused to make a sidelong glance at the door. Irritably he made a small mocking bow toward the portal. As his head dipped in pretentious deferment, the hinges creaked rudely open and his garments flew like rubbish through the air to land in a grudging heap at his feet.

“And a good evening to you,” he called out in his mellow voice. His own ire had succumbed to humor, and with a conciliatory shrug to his broad shoulders, he gathered up his garb and stepped lightly to the captain’s quarters, where he clothed himself. A bottle of wine sat at liberty on the table, and when Langham came below a short time later, Roman had partaken of a good portion of it.

* * *

Silvia braced her weight against the bolted door. Not even her nightmares had been as terrifying as the experience that left her stunned and shaking and fully as incensed as frightened. She had expected to travel to Schlange Island in the colonies in the makeshift quarters of the hold with other bond servants. But the captain had assured her Wilhelm Schlange, who owned her bond paper as well as the ship, meant for her to have a cabin.

Shivering with a chill of fear, she pushed the chair against the door. As soon as she was calmed and could dress, she would seek Captain Langham’s protection. Surely he would take measures to ensure her safety on the voyage.

She choked back a lump in her throat. There seemed to be no end to the trials in her life. Having gathered the courage to defy her Uncle Hollister and leave London to be a bond servant, she had been foolish enough to think her life would be free of troubles. She sat weakly on the edge of the rumpled bunk, pulling the rough blanket around her for warmth.

She could hear her uncle’s brutal, drunken laugh as if he were in the cabin. A kindhearted girl, she had been no match for his irritable and demanding ways. He was a troubled man who vacillated between treating her kindly, as his beloved niece, and considering her a troublesome burden he must bear. Only out of respect and pity had she been able to tolerate his abuse the last year since her aunt had died.

They had come to harsh words one evening a few weeks earlier when he insisted she give him the money she earned as a seamstress so he could cover his gambling debts.

“Aye, girl, it’s my due.” He had slammed a thick fist on the tabletop, rattling the plates and cups. “Do you forget who took you in when your mama and papa died? But for me you might have spent your years in a foundling home.”

Her own anger had surged then and she responded hotly. “I know who took me in and who spent the little inheritance Mama and Papa left. And who sold all Aunt Agatha’s things after she died.” She lifted her chin proudly and her eyes flashed angrily. “Until we are reduced to living in squalor and shrinking from the door lest the knock be from a creditor or another of your gambling gentlemen here to threaten.”

Silvia drew back. His neck swelled with rage and he half-rose from the chair. Why couldn’t she hold her temper? Arguing with him was futile. He had warned her a nettling tongue would do her in. Yet it wounded her to hear him justify his actions as charity when she remembered his promise to her father. He had sworn to treat her as his own daughter.

“Blast you, girl! Get the money or I’ll smash your room apart bit by bit until I find it for myself.” His face reddened and his black eyes, like stones, lost any trace of warmth. “You’re twenty and two years and too choosy ever to find a husband. You’ll fare well to remember I’m master of this household and you’ve no place else to go.”

Silvia had surrendered her money, but next morning had applied and quickly been accepted as a bond servant. Two weeks later to the day, she had slipped out of the house in the early hours of the morning carrying a worn carpetbag filled with her meager possessions. It had been a walk of many miles to the docks and that morning she had arrived at the ship weary and anxious to be under way.

Silvia chastised herself. All that was in the past and there would be no looking back. She had a more immediate problem. She must get to the captain quickly and report the intruder. Fetching her bag from the cupboard and without quibbling about which dress she selected, Silvia pulled one out and slipped it on, hastily fastening the buttons that fitted the collar high on her throat. Her flesh seemed to be on fire. Who was the man and why had he come to her cabin?

She grazed her fingertips over the nectarous imprint of his mouth. How soft his lips had been there, touching her skin like fluttering wings. And his hands, warmly supple on her bare shoulders while his voice was a sweet whisper in her ear.

Yet that had only been her dream. She searched the bed and found her boot resting beside the pillow. There was no gentleness in the real man. He was a rogue. A villainous cur with eyes like a blue web spun to lull a victim within his grasp. She pushed her feet into the boots and laced them tightly. The man, whoever he might be, was a dangerous jackanapes with no heart and no morals.

Silvia draped her cloak loosely over her shoulders and entered the passageway to find Captain Langham. A few steps from her door, she felt the ship pitch to one side. Steadying herself by keeping to the wall, Silvia edged slowly along until she reached the captain’s quarters. She knocked lightly, hoping she would not have to look for him on the bridge.

In a moment the door opened. “Why, Miss Bradstreet, what a pleasant surprise.” Langham greeted her with a warmth that should have quickly set her at ease.

He was a stalwart fellow, with bowed legs and large meaty hands. Silvia strained to her tiptoes to see him better in the dim light. Something about him disturbed her. Yet at a glance his expression was full of reassurance. Only a dull light in his steely eyes indicated all was not as it seemed with the master of the vessel.

“Captain, I must speak to you,” she said nervously.

“By all means, Miss Bradstreet. I was about to send the cabin boy to invite you to join us for dinner. You’ve saved him the trip.”

With welcome civility he invited her in. Silvia braced against the doorjamb as the ship pitched again. The cabin, she saw at a glance, was a spacious compartment compared to the one she occupied. The walls were of rich rubbed mahogany and fitted with polished brass lamps. At the far end was a small teak table laid out with rose-patterned china and silver goblets.

Silvia halted her wobbly steps, her tawny eyes wide with shock. Seated were two men, so much alike she thought for a moment she was seeing double. But in an instant she knew the eyes were different. Those of the man on the left blazed at her like blue flames, flickering a succession of emotions she could not discern.

His trousers were of a pearl grey and his waistcoat of a charcoal color. A diamond pin set in gold sparkled in the white silk jabot at his throat. Her lower lip trembled as she looked into the face vividly etched in her memory.

She felt her cheeks flushing and turned her gaze to the man at the right. He rose as she entered the cabin. He was dressed in brown, in garments as rich as those worn by the other. A tan shirt trimmed with lacy ruffles at the sleeves and at his neck almost matched the light brown of his hair. His coat was a dark shade of brown and fastened with gold buttons. His eyes were the peaceful blue-gray of a dove, softer, less serious, less mocking than those of his companion.

Langham faintly lifted his brows as he watched the confrontation with unmasked irony. “Miss Bradstreet, may I present two other passengers aboard the Eastwind...”

“Miss Bradstreet and I are acquainted,” Roman said before the captain could complete the introduction. He rocked back in his chair. A half-smile crossed his lips and changed to a brooding scowl as he touched a finger to the welt on his forehead. “Though she neglected to tell me her name.”

Her eyes blazed with golden fury as she glared at his handsome face. She might have stung it with a slap had he not been across the room.

Laughter rang out from the other gentleman, but when Silvia glanced at him she saw the jesting look was directed at his companion.

“A memorable introduction, I believe.” He smiled and made a slight bow. “I am Morgan Toller and the boorish chap is my brother Roman.” His eyes twinkled with amusement as he watched his brother arch a brow and glare at him.

Morgan had goaded Roman into telling him how he received his injury. It wasn’t often he could laugh about his brother’s escapades with the fair sex. And to his eyes Miss Bradstreet was the fairest of fair. Roman generally had his pick of women, and seeing his vexation was quite amusing.

“I’m delighted to meet you, Mr. Toller,” Silvia said, blushing faintly as Morgan took her hand and raised it to his lips.

Langham stepped nearer. “You will join us for dinner, Miss Bradstreet?” he asked, then smiling pleasantly added, “I trust you rested well.”

“Captain, I...” Silvia’s jaw went slack. Behind Langham she could see the imposing form of Roman Toller as he got to his feet. Arms crossed over his chest, he stood like a carved figure, his stare fixed tauntingly on her face. He did not try to hide the mockingly humorous glint in his eyes. Angrily she blinked back her tears, but if Langham noticed, he remained politely mum.

“Captain, I find I am somewhat indisposed. I am not accustomed to the sea,” she said in a voice deceptively calm. Her dark brows slanted in a frown. “If you will excuse me, I will return to my cabin.” Her chin went up. “Perhaps you would see that a tray is sent to me later.”

Roman Toller deliberately meant to awe her. And it disturbed her that he stood so close. She had an uncomfortable suspicion he had been recounting his misadventure to the other men. If such were the case, and she had no reason to doubt that it was, telling the captain of his advances would avail her little.

Captain Langham presented himself as an honorable man; nevertheless she suspected that in an exchange of accusations, the word of a gentleman would win out against that of a bond servant.

“Are the accommodations suitable, Miss Bradstreet?” Langham seemed particularly pleased with himself, and his abundance of politeness began to wear tediously on her nerves.

Could she trust the captain? Her thoughts were of rage, but her reply came softly. “The accommodations are beyond my expectations, sir.” Silvia shifted unsteadily from one foot to the other. “I bid you a pleasant good evening, gentlemen,” she said sweetly. “Forgive me for interrupting you.”

The men might have had a good laugh at her expense. She would not give them the satisfaction of being intimidated by them or of further kowtowing in their presence.

Langham smiled benignly and escorted her into the narrow passageway. “Good evening to you, Miss Bradstreet.” He locked his knees to ride the easy listing of the craft. “I trust you will soon be feeling better.”

“Oh!” she cried out as the vessel lobbed heavily, and he touched an icy hand to her arm as support against the sudden motion.

“We should be in calmer seas by morning.” Langham smiled and gave a courteous bow.

Silvia took her leave with a nod of acknowledgment, her heart beating with anxious rapidity. A fevered flush stained her skin and she determined, as she fought the doubts that plagued her, to spend much of the voyage in what little sanctuary her cabin could offer.

The thought of being confined for months on a ship with that horrible Roman Toller repulsed her as much as being closeted with an evil sea monster. She closed her eyes and prayed the time would pass quickly and she would soon reach Schlange Island, where at last she would find a life free of complications and danger.

* * *

Captain Langham noted the proud set of her shoulders as she opened the cabin door and disappeared inside. He sensed undercurrents in the conversation between Miss Bradstreet and the Tollers he did not fully understand. And he would just as soon keep it that way. Whatever Schlange’s plan for the three of them, he had fulfilled his part. He hoped for his sake the old man would be satisfied. Wilhelm Schlange demanded more than the devil from those in his employ, and his wrath would be no less than that of the Dark One if the plan went astray.

He pitied the girl, for she had no chance against Schlange.

Chapter 2

The sun flecked a hazy sky with patches of blood-red light just before sunset. Silvia Bradstreet stood alone on deck as the Eastwind docked in the small harbor of Schlange Island, her skin rose-tinted from the gusty wind which whipped her hair around her like a dark, luminous mist. She felt an excited flutter in her heart as she prepared to disembark. The voyage from London had seemed endless and had been fraught with bad weather and bad company.

Today was a new beginning, one she had dreamed of many stormy nights at sea. Today she would begin her term as an indentured servant to Wilhelm Schlange. Anxiously she looked past the sturdy, weathered timbers of the pier to view a land like none she had ever seen.

Rapping her fingers anxiously against the rail, she gazed at a square tabby building not fifty yards from the dock. Beside it spiky green plants fanned leaves sharp and pointed as knife blades above the dense underbrush. The gnarled and twisted trunks of trees had edged their way toward the sea. Long branches dipped to the ground like huge tentacles waiting to snare unwitting prey, and from the lichen-covered bark hung strands of limp gray moss swaying lightly in the constant wind that swept in from the ocean.

Silvia shuddered, feeling as if she had arrived on the shores of a primeval land. Even the air felt strange, as if a smothering heaviness could invade her lungs. She detected the mingling scent of two worlds, the salty smell of the sea mixed with the lush smell of vegetation.

A shout cut through the air, issuing Captain Langham’s orders to begin unloading cargo. The loudness of his voice startled Silvia as she reflected on the newness of the land and her prospects for the future. Turning, she saw the approach of a dozen men and one stout woman, all looking pale and weary from the voyage. She recognized them as fellow bond servants entering the service of Wilhelm Schlange, just as she was.

With a word of thanks to the captain, Silvia hoisted her bulging carpetbag and joined the group as they followed the first mate toward the tabby building. The sand was soft and deep; her boots sank in past the heels, making the going slow. A swarm of pesky insects buzzed relentlessly around her face.

People rushed by, shouting among themselves, carrying bundles, pushing drays, all looking but none speaking to the line of bond servants strung out behind the mate. A tug to her skirt stopped Silvia’s progress. She turned back to find a thorny bush had hooked the hem of her skirt. Not wanting to be left behind, she kicked the snag loose with her foot and hurried after the group.

A moment later they were all inside a sparsely furnished room which, though clean, was hot and stuffy. She seated herself on a backless wooden bench as she saw the others doing, taking a place beside the stout woman. It was a poor welcome considering the journey they had made. As her eyes warily scanned the room, taking in the huddled bodies and awed faces, she could not help wondering what would happen next.

“It’s a strange place,” Silvia whispered tersely to the woman at her side.

The old woman merely nodded and closed her eyes as she rested her kerchiefed head against the rough surface of the wall.

Across the room, the mate paced restlessly until all were settled. Once the bundles had been put aside and the anxious rumble of voices quieted, he cleared his voice and strode to the door.

“Cap’n Langham says ye’re to wait here for the overseer and wagon to take ye to the quarters,” he said, and left hurriedly to return to the ship.

Langham had told Silvia the Eastwind would spend a few days at dock to take on cargo and then continue to the West Indies before returning to England. She wondered what her living arrangements would be on Schlange Island. Better than the tiny cabin aboard the ship, she was certain. And here at least she would not live in constant fear someone might burst in on her.

Roman Toller’s arrogant face flashed in her mind. She had not seen the Toller brothers the last two days of the journey, and now as she sat in the windowless room and closed her eyes, she was annoyed that thoughts of Roman haunted her memory.

Somehow when she pictured his face in her mind it was always as it had been the first time, with a gentleness in his eyes and a slight smile on his lips. Only when she thought of his mocking laugh and taunting words could she push away his image and not feel a little longing in her heart. Her brow wrinkled in a contemptuous frown. He was undoubtedly traveling to the West Indies and would exit her life as hastily as he had entered it.

She looked up. The dull thud of horses’ hooves on the sandy soil and the rattle of a wagon turned her attention to the door. A moment later Langham entered, followed by the overseer, a heavyset man who seemed to swagger rather than walk. The man had a pockmarked square face and pitted skin tanned to mahogany color. Silvia felt herself tightening at the sight of him. His squinty eyes were summing up the bunch that had arrived on the Eastwind and his eyes had noted Silvia in particular. He stared at her so conspicuously that Silvia ultimately looked away, turning her gaze to those around her. They were all staring at her as well. From the corner of her eye she saw the overseer move towards them.

He had the sour smell of sweat, and as he walked past her she held her breath a moment. His white shirt was rolled to the elbows and wet through; the worn black trousers showed the dusty marks of his labor. He carried at his side a whip coiled neatly in three rings he held tightly against the leather handle. Before he spoke, he pulled a grimy handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the drops streaming from his temples.

“All ye bond servants follow me,” he said brusquely, gesturing for them to stand and pointing to the door. A murmur rose from the group as they collected their meager bundles and hurriedly moved out toward the wagon.

“Miss Bradstreet.” Nodding politely, Langham called to Silvia before she could exit. A deceptive lightness shone in his eyes as he continued. “Mr. Schlange wants you to come directly to the main house.” He motioned for her to sit. “Wait here. Schlange’s man Odin will come for you.” He gave a gleaming smile and added in a lowered voice. “I trust Schlange Island will fill all your expectations, Miss Bradstreet, and prove to be a haven for you.”

Silvia took her seat again and fretfully ran a finger inside the high collar of her dress. She was tempted to loosen the first few buttons, but decided against it.

“Thank you, Captain Langham,” she said, sighing ever so slightly. She was disturbed by the mocking tone of his voice; it made her uneasy and she would be glad when he was gone. “I am anxious to meet Mr. Schlange and learn the nature of my duties.” Silvia quickly lifted her brows. “Will I see you again, captain, before you sail?” she asked, uncertain whether or not she would welcome another meeting.

“No, Miss Bradstreet, I’ll stay with the ship. I dare not leave when there is cargo to be attended to. Again, my best wishes, and I bid you farewell.”

“May you have a safe journey and fair weather, captain,” Silvia said politely, all the while remembering the cool blue of Roman Toller’s eyes and the episode that had marred her journey more than the storms at sea.

When Langham had departed she smoothed a few rumples from her skirt. Every wool fiber in her dress seemed to be scratching at her skin. The first order of business once she got settled would be to find a cotton fabric and sew a dress more suited to this climate.

Suddenly the room grew dark as if a door had closed, shutting out all light. But there had been no sound and when Silvia looked up she saw that the doorway was filled with the bulk of a man dressed from head to foot in black. A sensation like ice touching the back of her neck accompanied her alarm and she wished she could flee. Yet there simply was no where to go.

With a closer look she saw that not only were his clothes black but that his skin was also the shiny color of coal. Startled, she gasped and stood quickly, taking a hasty step back. Without a sound, he moved his cumbersome body inside, and light again flooded through the doorway.

He was the first black-skinned man she had ever seen, and she could not help but stare openmouthed when he stopped just inside the door. His hair was a wiry black mat like sheep’s wool, his nose wide and flat. He wore the livery of a footman, which added to the strangeness of his appearance. His heavy features gave no hint of welcome above the large white teeth exposed when he spoke. For a disconcerting moment, Silvia doubted her safety. This man seemed as strange to her as this new land, and she wondered if she had made the right decision in leaving England.

“Excuse me, Miss Bradstreet,” he said with a careful pronunciation of her name. Her eyes widened in stunned wonder at the educated manner in which he addressed her. “I am Odin. Mr. Schlange sent me to bring you to the house.” Bending low, he lifted her bag and walked out the door.

Silvia hesitated a few seconds before collecting her wits and following. Outside, the setting sun glowed a flaming red above the treetops and gave an orange glow to the landscape. Silvia looked around for a carriage or wagon, and seeing none, quickly searched for Odin. She located him following a path that led into the forest. He showed no sign of slowing or waiting for her to catch up, so hoisting her skirts, she began a brisk walk to overtake him.

By the time Silvia reached the tree line, Odin was almost out of sight. To her relief, she noted the path was plainly marked, but once she stepped beneath the leafy canopy of the trees, she could not see very clearly. Eerie ribbons of light that had found a narrow opening in the leafy awning overhead cast strange shadows on the ground and scarcely provided enough light for her to follow the walkway. She hoped the house was not far, for the sun would soon pass beyond the horizon and she would be enveloped in a cloak of darkness.

Apprehension coursed through her. She sensed the presence of someone moving parallel to her but hidden in the cover of the foliage. Images of unknown creatures raced wildly through her thoughts. She swallowed at the tightness in her throat and scoffed at her imagination. This was an inhabited island and estate, not a dangerous jungle. But even with her own reassurances, she stopped abruptly on hearing a sudden crackling sound followed by the definite thud of footsteps. Fear spurted through her and she broke into a run.

“Odin,” she called to the monstrous shape barely visible ahead of her. “Odin, wait,” she cried frantically. But if Odin heard, he did not acknowledge her with even a break of his gait.

Another sound echoed from the trees and Silvia began to run faster. In a few moments she overtook Odin and breathlessly took a place by his side. Even then he did not turn his head to look at her but continued along the path at the same pace. She fell in step beside him, straining to match the length of his stride, looking neither left nor right until they entered a clearing from which loomed the enormous gray stone walls of a castle.

Silvia breathed a sigh of relief. The craggy facade was a welcome sight, though it looked as if it did not belong in the near-tropical setting. Nor did it appear inviting.

She paused and lifted her eyes to follow the lines of a single tower that rose high above the treetops on the right side. The main body of the castle swept to her left with walls half as high as the spiraling tower. The irregular angles of the roof were of the same gray color. A massive wall continued beyond the structure itself, and to Silvia the building looked like a stone island set in a sea of trees.

In the hazy light of dusk she could make out the turreted walkway at the top of the tower. Briefly she thought she saw a small flame, as if from a candle, a sparse glow of light in a high tower window. But it was gone so quickly there was no way to be sure.

Like a lumbering giant, Odin climbed the wide stone steps that led to an arched doorway. On either side, torches hung from chains and lit the entry, their billowing flames creating a warm light. Thunderously Odin dropped her bag in front of the heavy paneled door and with his enormous hand lifted a large iron ring. She heard the metallic knocking as he forcefully rapped it three times against the iron plate underneath.

“Wait here,” he said flatly, and with that descended the steps and disappeared into the darkness.

Silvia watched him walk away. When he was out of sight, she turned to the door. A sense of uneasiness tightened the skin at the back of her neck. An innate apprehension of the serpent in the carving on the wooden door panel invaded her thoughts. The serpent figure was nearly as tall as she was, with an evil-looking head as large as her own. A forked tongue flashed from the open mouth, and its body wrapped ominously about the trunk of a tree. The design was the same as that of Mr. Schlange’s seal on her bond paper, but somehow, in the gloomy flickering light of the torches, it was far more frightening. It seemed to stare directly at Silvia, and she sensed the pressure of its coiling body.

The door swung open, soundlessly it seemed, leaving Silvia face to face with a tall, thin woman whose currant, black eyes held a spark of some undefinable emotion.

“Miss Bradstreet, we’ve been expecting you. Come in.” The woman made a slight gesture with her right hand. “Don’t bother about the bag. I’ll have it sent up to your rooms.” Her words gushed out without inflection. She had a husky voice, and though she tried to mask it, the tone held a hint of cynicism.

“Thank you,” Silvia responded weakly as she entered and stepped aside for the woman to shut the door. Her eyes swept the enormous foyer and she took a quick breath of astonishment. The interior of Serpent Tree Hall was not the dark, drab place she had expected. Nor was it at all like any castle she had heard described.

The floor in the entry hall was of polished pink marble and at the far end double staircases of the same gleaming stone curved up like giant wings. At the next level, the staircases joined and formed a spacious landing bordered with the ornate gilt railings that also ran the length of the stairs. On each side of the staircases arched doorways led to wide halls which appeared to run deeply into the building.

A cry of admiration came from Silvia’s lips. She had never dreamed of such elegance. Suspended from the wall on each side of the foyer were large gilt-and-crystal candelabra. They were formed of golden snakes, heads carved to hold the candles and tails twisted together against the leafy design of the base which fastened to the walls.

Silvia stared questioningly at the woman who had shown her in. She could not imagine that any place in Europe could be more beautiful.

A slight, brief smile formed on the other woman’s thin lips. A look of satisfaction gleamed faintly in her narrowed eyes as if she were pleased with Silvia’s reaction. A rustle sounded from her taffeta skirts as she moved to stand in front of Silvia.

“I am Vivien,” she said. Her eyes were little black lights set deeply in her face. “Mr. Schlange instructed me to take you upstairs where you can rest and get settled.” She started to move away but added briskly, “Mr. Schlange apologizes but he is ill and cannot greet you himself.”

Silvia lifted her brows sharply and turned her attention to Vivien at that pronouncement.

“I trust his illness is not serious,” she stated, the concern showing in her eyes as they met Vivien’s.

Now that they were near the stairs and in the full flood of light, Silvia noted the pale contrast of Vivien’s skin with the darkness of her hair. She wore it tight against her scalp and fashioned into a ball neatly covered with a black mesh at the back of her head. Her simply styled dress was of a green color so dark as to be almost black. With it she wore a crimson rope, a sort of belt, around her waist, and from the jangle when she walked, Silvia thought it must hold a number of keys which were hidden in her pocket.

“Mr. Schlange is old and tires easily,” Vivien responded as they stood at the foot of the stairs. She paused. “And all must wait until he is strong again.”

Silvia waited, expecting Vivien to explain what all must wait for, but was disappointed when instead the woman spun around and began to climb the stairs. Silvia quickly followed, her mind filled with unanswered questions. Who was Vivien and what was her position? Perhaps she should ask, she thought reflectively.

She had climbed only three or four steps when she caught a glimpse of someone in a room that opened off the foyer. His back was to her, but instantly she knew the sweep of his broad shoulders, the aloofness of his carriage. Roman Toller.

Her body stiffened in shock, but not before a sound of surprise escaped her lips.

“You!” she cried out.

He spun around at the sound of her voice. For a moment they stared blatantly at each other, until, to her dismay, she felt his glare was burning through her flesh and setting her blood aflame.

Morgan Toller appeared at his side and nodded politely. Silvia barely noticed him. She could not break away from Roman’s piercing blue eyes, which seemed to drink her up until she felt she would be consumed like a glass of wine.

Jauntily he tilted his head to one side and slowly raised an eyebrow. Silvia grabbed at the rail, her hand lingering a moment too long in the air before she found it and turned away. She looked up to see Vivien, like a black-swathed Harpy, watching her curiously from the landing.

“Come along,” Vivien’s husky voice called impatiently.

Disconcerted, Silvia caught up her skirts and hurried up the stairs at a dangerous pace. She arrived at the landing breathless, her senses dizzied. She was shaken by the run of emotions sweeping her mind and by the fact that Roman Toller was at Serpent Tree Hall. Her brows drew together in an agonized expression. She could not deny she was as much thrilled as perplexed to see him again.

Vivien gave her no time for introspection but quickly led her to a door halfway down the long hall. Here the walls were of the same gray stone as the exterior of the castle. A short distance away another hall joined the one in which they stood. The rooms were laid out so that it was possible to go in either direction from the staircase and still reach each room. Dozens of candles set in sconces attached to the walls lit the long passageways.

Vivien removed a set of keys from her pocket, and finding the one to fit the door, inserted it in the lock. When the door was open, she took a taper from the hall and led the way inside. Shortly she had lit several candles around the room.

The soft candlelight spilled warm light over the interior. Silvia’s eyebrows rose in amazement and her breath caught in her throat at the sight of the dark splendor and beauty. It was no less impressive than the marble foyer. Stunned, she spun about, taking it all in, until slowly it dawned on her that Vivien was speaking.

“It is the Emerald Suite, Mr. Schlange’s favorite. He had it made ready for you weeks ago.”

Still the room held her interest much more than what Vivien was saying. The spacious sitting room was done entirely in rich green. It gave her the strange feeling of being underwater. The furnishings, a settee and several chairs, were covered with a silk brocade. A small gilt table and a desk sat at one side. On the walls were Chinese scrolls delicately painted in a lovely Oriental design.

Vivien opened double doors that led to a huge bedroom where the walls were hung with green velvet fabric intricately embroidered with gold thread. A canopied bed draped with velvet curtains of the same fabric was covered with a silk spread of a paler shade. The dressing table had an enameled dresser set and lovely crystal bottles filled with perfumes. Silvia touched them all, lifting the glass tops and filling the room with the wonderful scents. Across the room rested an armoire fully six feet wide and painted with delicate yellow flowers.

Opening still another door, Vivien showed Silvia a small dressing room which contained a foot tub and toiletries.

“It’s beautiful, as beautiful as anything I’ve ever seen,” Silvia whispered, her hands outspread in disbelief as she tried to comprehend. “But there must be a mistake. This can’t be for me, a bond servant.”

Vivien faced her again, her bony jaw stiff. “Mr. Schlange makes no mistakes. He ordered these rooms prepared for you, Miss Bradstreet.” Her reply held a trace of sharpness. With a swishing of her skirts, she crossed the bedroom to the wide windows at one side and drew back the curtains a bit. “In the morning you will be able to see the courtyard and the gardens.” She opened the windows and a crisp breeze floated through the room.

“You are surely tired from your journey. I’ll have the maid bring water for a bath and then your dinner on a tray.”

“I’ll need my bag.” Silvia said weakly, still unable to comprehend that the rooms were for her.

“Have you any personal items other than clothing in the bag?” Vivien inquired, standing straight and still in front of the windows.

“My papers and some coins,” Silvia replied, puzzled.

“They will be returned to you. Mr. Schlange asks that you wear the clothes he has provided. I will have your bag stored downstairs.” She swept across the floor to the armoire and unfastened the brass latch.

“Of course,” Silvia replied weakly, wondering if Mr. Schlange would want her to wear a uniform. If so she trusted the garments would be better suited to the climate than her own.

Vivien swung open both doors of the armoire to expose dozens of gowns hanging inside. Blue ones, pink ones, lavender and patterned ones, all of silk and linen and fine cotton. The gaunt woman lifted out several at once and held them for Silvia to see.

A small cry escaped her lips as her mouth dropped open.

The first gown Vivien presented was of light blue watered silk trimmed with narrow bands of delicate lace and silver buttons on the bodice. But as Vivien pulled out more gowns, it seemed each was more beautiful than the one before.

“Mr. Schlange was not certain of the size, but they will be fitted for you.” Vivien’s dark eyes were expressionless again, yet there was nothing servile about her and again Silvia questioned the woman’s position in the household. “The shoes, he bought in several sizes,” Vivien added flatly, pointing to the floor of the armoire, where numerous pairs of slippers rested. “There should be some that will fit.”

Silvia’s eyes were wide in astonishment and her lower lip trembled uncontrollably. Her mind was reeling like a spinning top. Mystified at all being offered to her, she was convinced Vivien had made a mistake.

“Vivien,” Silvia said, trying to control the quiver in her voice. “Surely you expected someone else. I am Silvia Bradstreet, a bond servant.”

Vivien lifted her thin black brows. “There is no mistake. You are the one expected.” She spoke as if Silvia were a thing rather than a person, and her icy tone confused Silvia. Vivien moved like a shadow across the floor. “The rooms are for you, as are the gowns and all other things in this suite. Use them. Wear them. It is what Mr. Schlange wishes.”

“But what am I to do? What does he want from me?” Silvia’s knees felt weak and she knew she needed to sit down. What manner of man was Mr. Schlange?

“Use what has been provided, Miss Bradstreet. That will make Mr. Schlange happy.” Vivien opened a drawer of the dressing table. “You will find your nightclothes here.” She returned to the armoire and withdrew a scarlet silk dressing gown and the blue silk dress. The dressing gown she laid on the bed. “Anna will prepare your bath and bring your dinner when you have bathed and dressed.” Turning, Vivien pulled a tasseled rope and drew aside one of the velvet wall hangings. Behind it was a door which led to the hall. “Tomorrow at breakfast you will meet the others,” she said. “Good night, Miss Bradstreet.”

The others? Silvia sank weakly onto the silken cushions of a lounge chair beside the dressing table. Of course there would be others. Wilhelm Schlange would not live alone in such a large and elegant place. But who were the others? Roman Toller was obviously one of them. Looking at the thin scarlet dressing gown, Silvia realized Wilhelm Schlange had a most definite purpose for her. But was it the same purpose she had envisioned when seeking escape from her drunken Uncle Hollister?

Chapter 3

It was only after Silvia had locked the bedroom door when Anna took her dinner tray away that she felt free to explore the suite completely. The dressing room had a light green wallpaper with a leaf design and stacks of snowy linen towels all embroidered with an S. The letter was actually a serpent looped in an S shape. While Anna attended her she had asked a hundred questions but the only one she had received a straight answer about was the monogram.

A plump middle-aged woman with round, rosy cheeks, Anna looked as if she were the sort who babbled incessantly. But tonight she had been far from talkative and seemed almost to bite her tongue to stay mum at Silvia’s questioning. However, the subject of snakes seemed to be a matter she could not keep quiet about.

“It’s ‘is name, you know. Schlange’s the German word but it’s serpent in the King’s English. Snakes, I call ‘em.” Anna had rolled her round eyes and paused as she poured another bucket of hot water in the bathtub. “They’re all over the house, on the linens, in the candlesticks. ‘E’s even got ‘em on the door handles. There’s one on the weather vane over the kitchen and everywhere else you can think.” She shook her round little head in dismay. “Sometimes it seems the whole bloomin’ house is crawling with snakes.” Anna set the bucket down and clutched the carved wooden crucifix she wore on a cord around her neck. “Evil creatures, they are.”

Anna’s eyes rolled toward the ceiling when she mentioned the snakes, and as she talked, her cheeks grew redder. The woman was a head shorter than Silvia and nearly as round as she was tall. Her hair, hardly visible beneath her starched white cap, appeared to be a light brown. The fact that she wore a cap and a starched white apron over her plain gray dress led Silvia to more speculation about the elegant wardrobe Vivien had insisted was for her. If the servants wore simple uniforms, then it made no sense at all that she should have those lovely gowns.

A long sigh escaped from her lips as she stepped into the bath. The minute she felt the soothing warmth on her tired limbs, she forgot all her concerns. She thought of nothing beyond the fragrant caress of the water washing away salt spray that had seemed to stick to her skin since the ship left London. A bath had become a forgotten luxury and one she had missed. For nearly an hour she soaked peacefully while Anna kept her supplied with hot, steaming water.

It had been divine, soap scented with lavender and sweet oils and perfumes to use when she had dried herself. Anna had treated her like royalty though she had been disinclined to answer any questions about Mr. Schlange.

And when she was gone, Silvia found a silk nightgown more beautiful than any dress she had ever owned. She slipped the gown over her head, feeling the gossamer fabric caress her skin as it cascaded over her body. The sheer white fabric shimmered against her like silken threads spun by a spider. Tiny scarlet rosebuds made of satin embellished the bodice and a scarlet ribbon tied in front, gathering the neckline in soft folds over her shoulders.

Silvia smiled languorously and spun around in front of a tall mirror with an ornate mahogany frame inlaid with ivory-and-silver cherubs.

The girl she saw looked more like a princess than a servant, and in spite of her reservations her smile widened as a look of delight lit her face. Swinging the flared skirt of her gown, she danced into the sitting room, trying out each chair. She opened drawers of the desk and found them empty except for ink and quills and a supply of paper. Her fingers touched each piece of furniture, the tapestries and wall hangings, and then she curled up in an armchair to study the painted panels of the ceiling.

Each misty painting was a scene of lovers done in the pale colors of a dream, each one covering a quarter of the ceiling. Lovers walking in a garden, together on horseback, in a swing. The fourth panel showed them in an embrace reclining on the feathery puffs of a cloud. Silvia felt a tightening in her throat, the warmth of tears welling in her eyes. She could almost feel the happiness of the pair. Sighing, she made a deliberate movement to force her eyes away. Thoughts of love had no place in her mind.

Still the elegance of the surroundings made her feel warm and special. She felt tired too, tired enough to sleep for a week. Already her eyelids were growing heavy and her body was telling of the exhaustion from the excitement of the day. She yawned and rose slowly from the chair. Silvia crossed the thick carpet pausing in response to a faint apprehension to make sure the doors were locked.

Anna had turned back the covers while Silvia bathed, and now the large bed with its velvet draperies and silk curtains looked incredibly comfortable and inviting. Silvia hurriedly closed the windows and snuffed out candles around the room one by one.

Little puffs of smoke drifted into the air above each charred wick and faded slowly from sight to become part of the blackness. A portion of the room seemed to disappear as each candle was extinguished. But only when she had blown out the last candle, the one in a silver candlestick on the bedside table, would she believe she was not in a fairy tale. For in the darkness there was only the luxurious feel of the silk sheets to remind her she was in a suite as spacious as the whole of the house she had shared with her uncle in London.

The bed was soft as eiderdown and as comfortable as it looked. And even better, it was still, unlike her bunk on the Eastwind that always rocked with the motion of the ship. When she nestled into the fullness of the feather pillows, she realized she was tired to the very marrow of her bones. The long sea journey had been a strain and the excitement of her unexpected reception at Serpent Tree Hall had drained her of the last bit of energy.

Nevertheless for a long while her mind whirled in a fevered storm of wonderment. She had expected a Spartan castle and had found instead a luxurious palace. After a time, her thoughts began to fade like the light of the snuffed-out candles. There were too many pieces of the puzzle to fit together. Wilhelm Schlange’s estate was not at all what she had expected. Certainly not like the farming country she had seen in England. She could not imagine what crops grew in this place that seemed to be all sand and strange trees. She could not imagine what her duties would be on Mr. Schlange’s household staff.

Nor did it seem to fit that he would treat her as an honored guest in his house. Surely Vivien had made a mistake. Silvia sat up halfway in the bed, but relenting, fell back to the soft pillow. Morning would be time enough to sort it all out. Tonight it was all too wonderful to complain about and all too great a mystery for her to solve when she was so tired. At last her weariness was greater than the wonder and she sank into a deep and restful sleep.

* * *

Hours later, a cool gust of wind swept across her face, a gust of wind that could have had no origin in a closed room. Silvia stirred slowly. She had felt a definite breeze from a door or window opening and closing. When her eyes blinked open in the darkness, she sensed rather than knew someone had walked through the room. Oddly, the sensation brought her curiosity instead of terror, a feeling that the visitor had meant her no harm.

She turned quietly in the bed. Perhaps it had been part of a dream, part of the uneasiness of sleeping in a room for the first time. She had nearly convinced herself her imagination was running rampant when she heard a whimper outside the door, the sound of a lost or frightened child. Silvia lifted her head from the pillow. Listening more carefully, she soon heard the whimper again, louder, this time accompanied by a shuffling noise.

Her pulse raced as she sat up quickly to try to hear the direction of footsteps in the hall. Tossing aside the covers, she slid to the side of the bed. In the darkness she could not locate the robe she had draped across a chair. Perplexed, she waited, her room quiet as death until the cry sounded again, chilling her blood. This time she was certain it was a child, possibly a child who had experienced a nightmare and was frightened.

Forgetting the robe, she hurried to the door and found it shut but no longer locked. Slowly Silvia turned the knob and eased the door open. Clad only in her nightgown, she stepped into the hall. No windows opened in this portion of the passageway, and without any candles burning, the hall was dark as midnight. Hearing footsteps around the corner, Silvia paused. She stood spellbound for a moment, the sound of her breathing like the roar of the sea to her ears. This house was strange to her and she had little right to be wandering about following people. But when the footsteps picked up again, she moved catlike in the direction of the sound.

At the corner she hesitated again, questioning whether she should return to her room for a candle. The long dark hall looked as if it ran on forever, and she had no idea where the passageway would lead or if the rooms on the back side were occupied. She listened a moment longer to the distinctive sound of footsteps, and when the whimper sounded again, she hurried on. If a frightened child was wandering around in the dark, she must try to help.

Silvia rounded the corner quickly, finding only darkness before her. She gulped a strong, deep breath, the infusion of air filling her with new courage and determination. A moment later, careening through the blackness, she crashed into someone—not a child, to be sure. Someone who wrapped two arms around her waist, someone tall and warm and with a pleasantly masculine scent that was faintly familiar.

The man murmured a sound of surprise and caught her fast in his arms. He pressed her close against his chest and raised one hand to lift her chin. At that moment the moon escaped a prison of dark clouds and unshackled its shimmering light to flood through an open window.

She could see his face, at first a silhouette in the moonlight, and then, as he turned to catch the full brilliance of the moonbeam, she saw the sculptured nose, the sturdy chin, and the sensuous line of his mouth. She felt her chin trembling against his fingertips. Her heart skipped a few beats, then raced rapidly to make them up. Silvery rays lit the hallway and illuminated the two of them with streams of magic light.

“Roman.” Her voice sounded as liquid and silvery as the moonbeams when she whispered his name.

His fingers were cool against her skin, his eyes softly blue in the moonlight, and his hair glowed like molten gold. She felt all the gentleness of love in his caress, a touch like a sweet, haunting memory.

“Little flower,” he whispered, stroking her cheek, slipping his fingers into the loose curls about her face. Murmuring her name, he slid his hands down her cheek, across her throat, softly, gently caressing the curve of her neck and coming to rest on the swell of her shoulders.

Soft as a drop of summer rain, his lips touched hers. She sighed, feeling her limbs become weak and willowy, and closed her eyes while his mouth rained soft kisses over her face. She thought of butterflies and their velvety fluttering wings. Feeling the warmth of his body against hers was like being transported into a dream, a dream she would never want to end.

Once more his lips sought hers with a soft kiss. “I knew you’d come,” he whispered.

His words tore through the delicate membrane that wrapped her in a mystical spell. She lifted her lids reluctantly to gaze at the face so close to her own. Her lips were still warm with the imprint of his kiss, but now his mouth had an arrogant twist. The gentleness was gone from his face. The blue of his eyes had turned dark and treacherous like the murky waters in a deep well.

She felt as if the floor had dropped away beneath her, as if she would any moment begin to plunge into a bottomless chasm. She had been betrayed by her lips, her arms, deceived by kisses as unreal as the gold reflected in the waters of the pool in the courtyard. What had she been thinking to respond as she had? She swallowed, feeling a dryness in her throat.

“I heard a child,” she said softly, pulling back a little.

“There are no children here.” He tilted his head to one side and gazed into her eyes. Within his whisper she heard the old mocking tone steal into his voice.

“I heard a child outside my room.” She struggled in his arms, trying vainly to push free of his embrace.

“How remarkable.” His brows arched and his eyes were like fantastic blue lights catching the glimmer of the moon. “You heard a child where there are no children, and I am to believe that is why I find you outside my door wearing a gown as thin as the morning mist.”

His mouth twisted wryly and his chest expanded with a haughty breath. He wore only his breeches and a shirt open to the waist in front, and as she squirmed against him the bristle of hair on his chest grazed her cheek like a soft brush. She could feel the pressure of his bare foot rubbing against her own toes. Smiling wickedly, he tilted his head and his thick hair gleamed golden as the moonlight framed his face.

Silvia listened to the faint sigh of the wind and trembled. She could not match his coolness and her voice shook a little when she spoke again.

“I did hear a child crying and came out to investigate.” She pushed harder against his chest but found she was tightly locked in by the strength of his arms. “Let me go,” she pleaded, the glow in her face dying wistfully.

Roman smiled indulgently.

“Tell me more of this story about a child who led you to my door,” he said, toying with her.

Silvia twisted in his arms. His hands were on her hips, holding her close against him. She could feel the warmth of his body against her and with it a heady new feeling that frightened and weakened her.

“Tell me all the stories you like,” he breathed, his lips close to her ear, his mercurial smile taunting her. “I’m fond of a bedtime tale.” His hands played wantonly across her back, his fingers tangling in the tumbling curls that hung almost to her waist. “But I prefer them in bed,” he whispered.

“You’re...” Silvia’s eyes flamed in anger, but before she could say more his lips crushed hers with a kiss. Suddenly she was falling, tumbling, spinning in an abyss of desire where her body refused to obey her mind. She felt the response of her lips against his, the throbbing press of her breasts against his bare chest and a strange weakness in her legs as he held her so tightly she thought she would become part of him.

“You must let me go,” she whispered desperately when at last his lips parted from hers. Silvia’s breath came in shallow gasps and her skin was alight with the warmth of a rosy blush brought on by the fervor of his kiss.

“Must I?” Gone was the taunting tone, and his voice was hypnotically mellow, lulling her into submission to his will.

“Yes, you must,” she whispered weakly, finding her arms wrapped about his waist. Quickly she dropped her hands to her sides and tried to wriggle free of his grip. “Please,” she pleaded in a tear-smothered voice. “Let me go.”

His teasing laughter was low, throaty, and his chest vibrated heavily against her.

“A lady must know her own mind.” Desire and mockery showed in his glance. He loosened his hold a little, stepping back but keeping his hands on her shoulders so that she could not escape him. “Your lips tell me you want to be held and your words tell me you want to go.” He raised one heavy brow and smiled darkly. “What am I to believe? That you are quicksilver like the moonlight? That you want to slip through my arms and be gone like elusive moonbeams?”

Disoriented by the intensity of his gaze, she dropped her eyes from his. “Please, I must go,” Silvia cried, aware of the trembling within that shook her shoulders and threatened her resistance. Her whole being seemed to fill with wanting, an emotion that both thrilled and frightened her. “Please,” she whispered.

Roman’s hand caught a strip of scarlet ribbon at her throat and untied the bow that gathered the nightgown around her neck. Slowly, seductively his hands traveled down her arms, pulling the loosened gown from her left shoulder and exposing its creamy whiteness to his eyes.

A tingling started low in her stomach. Just for a moment she saw a tender look in his eyes before he leaned down and kissed the curve of her throat. He laughed softly and whispered words she could not understand against her ear. Silvia pleaded with him until, with a reluctant sigh, he released her. She stood immobile, no longer held but completely in his spell.

“Go then, quicksilver maiden. I’ll wait for you to blossom in the sunlight,” he teased, spinning her about and heading her in the direction of her room.

She took a step forward hesitantly, confused. Her nightgown, scandalously thin, shimmied around her as she moved a step in painful frustration.

“Roman, I...” She never knew what she would have said, for just as she began to speak, the sound of footsteps clicked a warning as someone approached from the side hall.

Silvia stiffened and cast her eyes around wildly, searching for a place to hide. How could she explain to a stranger why she was standing in the hall, hardly dressed, embracing a man she had sworn was the scourge of the earth? Backing away, she pressed her body against the smooth stone wall and closed her eyes, hoping the person she heard would turn into a room before discovering them standing together.

Roman watched intently as her ebony hair swung over her shoulders in a silken mass and as the sparse moonlight lit her face with an angelic glow. She was a tempest who felt like innocence in his arms. Her face held the fragile beauty of a rosebud, and even the air around her seemed sweeter. He longed to pluck the fragile blossom from the bush and prove to himself she was not the lovely flower his heart desired. Even now he wanted to soothe and comfort away the distress he saw in her face, but would not give way to the prompting of his heart. Instead, he forced a humorous smile to his lips.

She held her breath, hoping Roman would not expose them. Turning her head, she saw he had not moved from the center of the hall. She might have known he would feel no humiliation. Feeling suddenly cold and terribly vulnerable, she appealed to him with her eyes. To her dismay his amused smile did not indicate compliance. Down the hall the footsteps stopped, but at the sound of his soft laughter quickly began again and grew louder. A moment later, Vivien’s angular form stepped from the darkness into the grid of yellow moonlight that spread from the window.

Her shrewd eyes hurriedly took in Silvia’s scanty clothing and the open neckline of her gown. A trace of a smile flickered across her narrow lips before she held out the scarlet robe that had been folded across her arm.

She helped Silvia into the robe. “I saw that your door was open,” she said in a voice as flat and emotionless as still air. “I was concerned.” Vivien glanced up to see Roman smiling contemplatively at her.

“Do you ever sleep, Vivien?” he teased, raising one brow sharply. “Or have you been awake all your life, like Morgan says?”

Vivien huffed. “I sleep when my work is done.” Her black eyes flashed and Silvia thought she detected a note of fondness in her tone of voice. “And I point out I am not the only one awake past midnight. Someone must attend to your mischief, Roman Toller.” She wagged a lean finger at him.

“Aye, Vivien?” He smiled slowly. “I am hardly a boy now and I found this nymph wandering through the halls dressed in moonlight. What would you have me do with her?” He shrugged and chuckled lightly, running his hands through the shock of hair falling over his forehead. “Leave her prey to the ghosts in Serpent Tree Hall?”

Ghosts? Silvia’s lips quivered and her eyes met his wonderingly, searching for meaning in his words.

“Better the ghosts than you,” Vivien said, and cackled.

“Vivien, my love, you have wounded me sorely.” He pursed his lips and shook his tawny head slowly. “The lass can tell you she’s as sound as when I found her.”

“Hmmm,” Vivien murmured. “Then ‘tis you I should worry for.” She nodded soberly as another voice joined the conversation.

“What’s all this racket?” Morgan Toller, hair tousled and eyes heavy with sleep, called from the door next to Roman’s. “Isn’t there a parlor in this house for a late soiree?” His nightshirt struck him at knee level, showing a pair of well-shaped calves. He leaned from the doorway, smiling good-naturedly in spite of his brusque tone. “Let a man get some sleep, Roman. Do your philandering quietly.”

Roman lowered his brows and glared hotly at Morgan.

Silvia stared at both of them blankly. She did not like the slant of the conversation at all. Surely Vivien and Morgan did not think she had come out in search of Roman Toller.

“I heard a child crying in the hall,” she managed to say somewhat unsteadily, and clutched the robe tightly at her breasts. “The sound woke me and I hurried out without finding my dressing gown.”

“Sure enough, it’s the same tale she told me,” Roman said jauntily. “Though there’s not been a child in this house in many years, unless there’s news you’ve been keeping from me, Vivien.” He cocked his head and winked.

Morgan muttered an oath under his breath and closed his door to them. Across the hall and out of view another door stood open slightly. From the dark portal a young woman with flowing blond hair and an expression of disdain gripped the knob with whitened knuckles and watched silently. Her eyes narrowed to thin slits before she stepped back and, unseen, eased her door shut.

“You’re a rogue, Roman Toller. A hopeless rogue.” Vivien placed an arm around Silvia’s shoulder and began guiding her along the corridor toward her room. “Come along, dear, best you got back to bed. It’s the sound of the wind you heard. The way it whistles over the tower wall, a sad sound like crying. It’s what you heard,” Vivien insisted, her voice trailing oddly to a whisper. She stopped at the door of Silvia’s bedroom, her face pallid in the shadowy hall. “Get to sleep now. There’ll be excitement enough for you tomorrow.”

Silvia shut the door behind her and pressed her ear against the wooden panels. She heard the ringing sound of keys jiggling in Vivien’s pocket as she walked away. It was a muffled jingle and Silvia could swear she had heard the same sound when she heard the child crying. Had Vivien been outside her room, then?

She didn’t really believe the cry she heard had been the sound of the wind on the tower wall. It had been a child. She was sure. Vivien hadn’t been at all surprised to find her walking about in the middle of the night. It was almost as if she had expected it.

Silvia released a sigh and climbed in bed, pulling the covers to her chin. A rising wind stirred through the trees, and branches scraped like claws against the stone walls beneath her window, but no mournful sound came from the tower wall. There was only the soft rustle of wind-whipped leaves. Silvia closed her eyes tightly. There was a child at Serpent Tree Hall, and no one wanted her to know.

* * *

In a room two doors away, Vivien sat on a bedside patting the cheek of a pouting face. Aided by the gentleness of candlelight, her own harsh features were transformed to a maternal softness. “There, there, darling, don’t sulk.” She smiled lovingly and smoothed away dark hair from a pale forehead. “Vivy worries when you slip her keys and wander about in the dark.” She kissed his smooth round cheek and stroked his jet black hair.

“You’re so like your mother, darling, sweet and trusting, with never a thought of danger.” Vivien cooed and pulled the covers up beneath his chin. “Never believing anyone would harm you.” Easing off the bed, she seated herself in a wooden rocker a few feet away. “But don’t you worry, my darling boy, Vivy will take care of you and see that nothing hurts you.” She smiled softly as dark-lashed eyelids closed and the soft, slow breathing of sleep sounded rhythmically in the room. “Vivy loves you, always remember,” she whispered to the sleeping form.

Vivien looked around the room where she spent much of her time. The rag doll she had made for him rested beside his face on the pillow. Across the room, just catching the flickering light of the bedside candle, was a set of wooden blocks stacked and laid out to resemble the painting of Serpent Tree Hall above the play area. He had made little trees of twigs and even draped them with bits of moss and set them up around the castle the way they looked from his barred window.

Beside the toy castle stood clay figures he had shaped like horses and a figure of each person he had seen crossing the garden below. Vivien lifted the candle from the table and quietly crossed the room. She knelt beside the block structure and set the candle beside her. He was artistic, his talent undeniable, she thought, lifting the little figure she knew was herself. Sniffing, she wiped at a tear and set the figure back in place. He had fashioned a smile on her face. She was about to rise and leave the room when her hand touched a gritty substance.

Puzzled, Vivien moved the candle so she could see where her hand rested. On the floor, one clay figure had been smashed to bits. Wondering what would make him treat his little treasures so roughly, she lifted it up and held it close to the candle. At the sight of it, a frown furrowed her brow and she gasped lightly. The figure was of his father.

Without hesitating, Vivien replaced the broken figure where she had found it, and taking the candle, went hurriedly through the connecting door to her own room. She had been there only a moment when a brittle ringing shook the heavy air.

So he had been awake and had heard the voices in the hall. And now he would be wanting to know if he had reason to celebrate. Not this night, she thought ruefully, hurrying along the corridor on her spindly legs. But soon, perhaps. The girl was a brilliant find. Perfect. And already raising temperatures in the house.

Halting, she knocked lightly at a doorway on the back hall.

“Come in,” uttered a weak voice she remembered once having held the strength of steel.

Vivien entered a room lit brightly by half a dozen candles. She said not a word but went directly to where Wilhelm Schlange sat propped against the pillows in his four-poster bed. Her eyes moved steadily over him. He had been a handsome man once, though there was little about him now to prove it. The old man had been ill and weak since his return from England a few weeks earlier, and had taken to his bed until his strength returned. Her eyes widening a trifle, Vivien saw that his thin, ashen skin had gained some healthy color and that his eyes were eager and questioning.

“Yes?” he asked anxiously when she had stood there some moments waiting silently.

“No.” Vivien lifted her brows, making her long face seem narrower and even more drawn.

Disappointment showed in his face. “But I was right about the girl?”

“Yes, you were right. It has begun.”

His eyes sparkled with a dangerous new energy. “Which one?”

“Tonight it was Roman.”

“Roman. Good. He has the most spirit.” A satisfied smile softened his face. “Does the girl suspect?”

“She was full of questions, but I cautioned the staff to keep mum.”

“What of the others?”

“They know nothing, but I daresay there will be questions tomorrow.”

“Let them wonder,” he said smugly, pursing his thin lips and leaning heavily into the pillows. “My illness may prove to be a help.” He smiled and his eyes caught the yellow reflection of the candle flame. “A few days of waiting before the announcement may hasten things along.” A gasp sounded from his throat and he broke suddenly into a fit of wheezing coughs. When the coughing subsided his thin body was left trembling. “And you, Vivien, do you still think it is madness?” he whispered weakly as his breath returned. “Or do you see now there is no other way?”

Her black eyes met his. “I will do as you ask.” Vivien’s narrow face was shadowed on one side and lit by the dancing light of the candles on the other. It gave her an eerie, unnatural appearance as she stood like a post at the foot of his bed, not moving, not even seeming to blink an eye. “That is all that matters,” she said coldly. “I will do it for him.”

A tremor shook Schlange and he grabbed for his chest. “Swear it, Vivien.” His hand jerked spasmodically and caught in the folds of the blanket like a bony claw. “Swear you will see it carried out.” A moment later his hand relaxed and the blanket slid from his grasp. “No,” he said. “No. I’ll not leave it to you. I’ll not die until I’ve seen it done.”

Chapter 4

“So you had a visitor last night?”

Morgan Toller entered the dining room a few steps behind his brother, his walk brisk and his smile jolly. Sauntering to a place at one side of the long oval table, he seated himself directly across from Roman.

Morning air, fresh, vibrant, and pleasantly cool, filled the dining room with the promise of a beautiful day. Outside, the golden sphere of the sun had reared its head over the castle walls and was casting playful patterns of shadow and light through the wide windows. Morgan’s jocular face beamed an equal share of brightness in the room.

“It seems your charm has not failed you, as I feared.” Periwinkle eyes sparkled with mischievous merriment. With a sweep of his hand Morgan lifted a cover from a dish of eggs and sausages. As he did, a burst of savory steam escaped to fill his nostrils with the appetizing aroma. Sniffing appreciatively, he picked up a small sausage but paused thoughtfully before lifting the delicacy to his lips. For a moment he studied Roman quietly. “You can’t imagine the worry you caused me, thinking I might have to single-handedly uphold the Toller reputation with the fair sex.”

“What the devil are you prattling about, Morgan?” Roman snarled, and furrowed his brow in a frown. “And put that lid down.” His lips thinned in irritation. “We’re to have breakfast with Eric and Martha. The least you could do is pretend to have the manners of a gentleman.”

“Ahh.” Morgan seemed delightfully pleased with himself. “Was that the manner of a gentleman I observed last night? A gentlemanly seduction. Though for the life of me I could not tell who was seducing whom.” Morgan popped the sausage into his mouth and chewed slowly, his eyes twinkling with greater merriment. “And why you should want to make a spectacle of yourself and the lady is beyond reasoning.” Morgan sighed. “Or perhaps jealousy was your purpose.” He flipped a napkin from a basket and lifted out a warm crusty roll and broke it in half. Grinning magnanimously, Morgan spread a dollop of butter over the surface and went on talking, his eyes intent on the task before him. “Well, you succeeded. I’m giving you notice I intend to woo Miss Bradstreet away from you.” Glancing up negligently, he took a large bite of the roll. “Hungry?”

“Bloody hell, Morgan.” Roman said violently, and rose ponderously from his chair. “Nobody invited you to spy on a private matter.” Stomping around the table, he nearly collided with a disconcerted maid who approached bearing a steaming pot of tea. Roman snarled, giving the hapless woman a start, but she managed to sidestep quickly and avoid a disastrous collision. The poor woman, shaken by his display of temper, quickly deposited the teapot on a trivet and left the room. Roman glared at his brother, but Morgan ignored him and continued eating the roll. “You plague me from dawn to dark like fleas on a hound. Give a man room to breathe, by God!”

Morgan chuckled.

Roman, his temper worsening, stopped by the French doors at the end of the dining room and cursed under his breath. The garden sunlight lent an iridescent glow to lingering dewdrops on the green leaves of a low hedge. Birds hopped amid the spidery pink blossoms in a mimosa tree, chirping sweetly to welcome the morning sun.

Taking full advantage of the warm rays, a sleek black cat lazily licked its paws and rubbed them slowly across its ears. The birds paid no heed to their adversary as he groomed his fur until it glistened. Roman watched. The creature’s coat was black as coal, black as the silky curls he’d tangled his fingers in last night.

His mind burned with the memory and he turned away abruptly to stare into Morgan’s grinning face. An irritable frown curved Roman’s lips.

“A woman like that needs a man who can appreciate her finer qualities,” Morgan commented, shaking his head decisively. “Not a heartless bloke like you.”

Roman gritted his teeth and turned his back to Morgan again. “Do what you like. The girl means nothing to me,” he said flatly.

The cat outside responded to his motion at the window and lazily opened yellow-gold eyes. Roman watched the creature, the way it stretched with easy grace, the way the sun burnished its black coat. A dull ache of desire tightened the muscles in his chest and he felt a throbbing in his temples. He remembered tawny eyes and tousled black curls catching the moonlight.

Angrily his nostrils flared as he stared past the cat. Roman wiped his brow, wondering why he felt the heat so early in the morning.

“Roman...” A melodious voice floated across the room and the fragrance of lilacs filled the air. He heard the rustle of silk skirts and the soft pattering of leather slippers.

Smiling, he turned as a young woman with a beautifully wrought delicate face and pale gold hair she wore in a braid wrapped around her head like a crown entered the room. Her light blue eyes were filled with eagerness, and an excited blush colored her cheeks. She carried herself regally, holding her skirts up a little as she hastened across the polished wood floor toward Roman.

“Martha, darling.” His voice was velvet-edged and warm as he caught her around the waist, lifting her feet from the floor, spinning a circle with her in his arms. “Let me look.” Setting her to her feet, he stepped back but quickly caught her again and tightened his arms in a hug. “You’re like a confection, a sweet, sugary confection.”

“Roman, Roman.” Joy bubbled in her laughter and delight shone in her eyes. “It’s good to have you home.” Her face sparkled with laughter but soon stilled and turned suddenly serious. “Promise you’ll not stay away so long again,” she pleaded sweetly, her arms wrapped about his waist.

The flush in her cheeks darkened to the dusty rose of her gown, a shade that contrasted wonderfully with her ivory skin and blond hair. Martha’s eyes held a secret sheen of purpose as they met his.

“I promise,” Roman said, bending to kiss her on the cheek.

“Don’t I get a welcome?” Morgan chided, rising from his chair.

Martha turned, surprise registering in her face. “Morgan, I didn’t see you there,” she said softly, her eyes narrowing as the smile wavered on her lips.

“I am wounded,” he said gloomily, pretending to be greatly offended. “Cast aside for my scurrilous brother.”

Martha hastened to his side and reached up to kiss the tip of his nose. She smiled and laughed lightly, a gentle sound like the tinkling of silver bells.

Morgan relented and gave her a bear hug, kissing both her cheeks and not failing to note that her eyes were on Roman all the while.

“Hmmm,” he growled. “One night here and I feel like an outcast. I suppose soon I’ll be standing in as best man at a wedding,” he stated half-seriously, flashing a derisive grin at Roman and not failing to catch the warning in his brother’s eye.

“Don’t be cross, darling,” Martha cooed, and smiled knowingly at Morgan. She gave a demure wink so that her golden lashes swept over her cheek. “Maybe,” she whispered so that Roman couldn’t hear. “With a bit of help.” She squeezed Morgan’s hand and raised her voice again. “We’ve been waiting weeks for you to arrive, and I only learned this morning you were here.”

“This morning?” Morgan asked, puzzled. Hadn’t he seen her watching from her doorway last night when he had spoken to Roman and Silvia in the hall?

“Yes,” she responded, her face a mask of serenity as she directed them to be seated. “Vivien told me.”

“Then where the devil is Eric, and why weren’t you two here when the ship docked?” Morgan smiled and pinched her cheek playfully.

“We didn’t expect you for days, and Uncle sent us to Fredericksburg for supplies.” Martha looped her arm through Roman’s and started to the table. “Last night we got in quite late and everyone had retired.” Gracefully Martha lowered herself into the chair Roman held for her, taking a long moment to adjust her skirts before he could slip the chair forward. “Eric had to go to the fields this morning before breakfast,” she chatted on, pausing to pour tea from a delicate teapot painted with green and blue Chinese dragons. With her smooth, fluid movements she made the simple ceremony of pouring tea look as graceful as a dance. “He’ll be along soon if he can pry himself away. You know how he is about his precious crops. Even Uncle says he’s done wonders with production.”

“How is the old rogue?” Roman asked, accepting a cup of tea from Martha and smiling lightly as he withdrew his hand when her fingers deliberately brushed it. Roman drank deeply from his cup. Somehow he could not picture Wilhelm Schlange succumbing to illness or being bedridden. He turned to Martha. “Vivien said he was ill and confined to his room.”

She nodded. “Since the Anne Marie docked more than a fortnight ago, he’s hardly come downstairs.” Martha paused to add cream and a lump of sugar to her cup. “He’s had Crandall, the solicitor, come down from the northern colonies to attend to some mysterious business.” Sipping delicately from the porcelain cup, she lifted her eyes admiringly to Roman. “Eric and I have hardly seen him since he arrived. He sends us messages by Vivien.”

“And tight-lipped as Vivien is, there’s no way to know his true condition,” Morgan added. “They’re a strange pair, those two. And of course—”

“Oh, here’s Eric,” Martha said, turning quickly to greet a fair-haired man striding in dressed in tan riding breeches and carrying a leather crop. Instead of a coat he wore a simple cotton shirt, full-sleeved and open at the throat.

A wide smile ruffled Eric’s lightly tanned face. He paused a moment to comb his fingers through windblown blond hair. Eric stood half a head shorter than Roman and Morgan and had a considerably more slender build. Heavy blond brows accented a pair of mild blue eyes. His face, though angular, was thoroughly handsome and had a pleasant, good-humored expression. As he entered, he tossed a leather-bound book and the riding crop on a sideboard near the door and hurried toward the table.

“Roman, Morgan!” his voice rang out enthusiastically.

Both men stood and rushed to meet Eric. Soon all three were engaged in excited handshaking and backslapping and a vigorous exchange of greetings. In a few minutes the conversation grew calmer and the Tollers resumed their seats. Eric went to Martha and affectionately kissed her on the temple, before taking a seat next to Morgan.

“We thought you would never arrive,” Eric said, his frank gaze shifting from Morgan to Roman. “Uncle is behaving strangely, and neither Martha nor I know what to make of it.” He broke off speaking for a moment to serve his plate. He called us to his bedside a week ago and told us to expect you two within a few weeks, and since then not a word to either of us.” His face had become brooding.

Morgan and Roman listened intently. The urgency of Wilhelm’s summons for them to come to the island had already caused a measure of trepidation. Now they wondered if he were ill or involved in some subterfuge. Using illness as a cover for some scheme would not be beneath their uncle. On the other hand, he was an old man. The brothers exchanged questioning glances as Eric continued.

“He’s always been secretive, as you well know, especially when he’s onto something.” A deep light shone in Eric’s pale eyes. “No one ever knows what’s happening until he’s ready to execute a coup de grace.”

Eric sat back and Martha inclined her head in concordance.

“He arrived with a shipload of trunks and crates and had them all moved to the castle. He’s opened up rooms that have been closed for years, and had Vivien doing heaven knows what,” Martha added ruefully.

“And you think there’s something besides illness to account for his odd behavior?” Morgan smiled. Perhaps Eric and Martha had been isolated on Schlange Island too long and had forgotten the entire universe did not revolve around Wilhelm Schlange. To his memory the old man had never done anything that wasn’t peculiar.

“Yes,” Eric said, looking troubled. “There’s no accounting for his not seeing Martha and me but once since he’s been here.”

Roman laid a hand on Martha’s arm and patted it consolingly. “I think you’re making too much of a simple matter.” She smiled fleetingly and acknowledged his comment with a disagreeing shake of her head. “Most likely he simply can’t stand for anyone to see him when he’s not all fire and fury,” he added emphatically. “Once he’s on his feet, things will be the same again.”

“Oh no!” Martha said, looking up sharply. “There’s more.”

* * *

At her open window the atmosphere was fragrant with the smell of roses. Wearing the blue silk dress Vivien had returned to her only a few minutes earlier, Silvia stood looking out over the garden admiring the display of colorful blooms below. Somehow Vivien had managed to take the dress into a perfect fit. Sighing, she brushed her hands over the luxurious fabric of her skirt, enjoying the smooth feel of it and finding it hard to believe the gown was hers to wear. She had fashioned her hair into a large smooth bun at her nape, but in the humid air a dozen curls had sprung loose and curled vine like around her face.

Vivien had told her she was expected downstairs for breakfast at eight, and though that hour was approaching, she had not yet found the courage to leave her room. Instead she remained at the window looking out across the garden. The castle was truly enormous and was built in a square shape. She could see above her room another full floor as well as the tower rising almost to the clouds.

On the ground level high-arched gates bordered the courtyard at one end. She supposed there had been no reason to make the place a fortress, and Schlange had opted for lovely formal gardens in the enclosed area. The flowers were bordered by low hedges which ran in wavy patterns instead of the usual geometric designs. She liked the soft effect. Throughout, the grounds were lined with stone paths that wound from section to section.

Directly below was a portion of the garden devoted to roses, which was what furnished the abundance of perfume that drifted in her window. She could see the vivid reds, that stark whites, and the pale pinks and yellows of the blossoms. Most of the garden was visible from above, but at the far end near the gates, low-growing trees sheltered much of the area from view.

Benches were interspersed throughout and she saw that several rooms on the ground floor had French doors for access to the courtyard. In the center an enormous stone serpent with water gushing from its mouth rose out of a circular pool filled with green lily pads and cup-shaped white lilies.

Silvia gasped, and looked again at the overall pattern of the garden. The hedges were not random designs as she had thought, but were instead long green snakes when seen from above. At one end the hedges tapered to form tails and at the other rounded into heads. Each leafy creature appeared ready to devour a bird-shaped topiary bush near its mouth. Silvia shuddered and left the window. Anna was right, the whole place seemed to be crawling with snakes. Wilhelm Schlange harbored a strange obsession for his namesake.

Her eyes went to the small enameled clock on the dresser. It was a quarter past eight. Mr. Schlange would not be pleased with her lack of punctuality. Shuffling her feet into the kidskin slippers she had selected, she hurried along, delighting in the light, soft feel of the shoes on her feet after the heavy, stiff boots she was accustomed to wearing. Nevertheless she felt as if she were chained to the floor by her misgivings about going downstairs.

With each step, her heart fluttered like the wings of a frightened bird, fluttered as if she were one of those poor garden creatures awaiting impending doom. She cast a glance over her shoulder at the image of her anxious face and then her sense of duty prevailed. She could put it off no longer. She must go downstairs.

Her hands shook and she clasped and unclasped them until she reached the stairs. There was no one in the hall below, and she was grateful. Taking hold of the rail, she descended slowly, hearing a roar of excited voices from the direction Vivien had instructed her to take. Breathlessly she paused at the foot of the stairs, fighting the urge to run back to her room. But she hesitated only briefly before she stiffened her spine and hurried on her way.

A moment later she silently entered the dining room.

“Good morning.” Her voice called out clear and strong.

The lively conversation at the table died as four pairs of eyes riveted her in place, eyes that were curious, questioning, and threatened. Was that what she saw? She couldn’t be sure, for like the well-bred people they were, they quickly recovered their surprise and masked their emotions.

“I’m Silvia Bradstreet.” Silvia’s heart gave a great jump as she felt the stares, but she was pleased that her voice did not quiver and betray her nervousness.

The Tollers were seated looking as if they belonged, Roman holding the hand of a beautiful blond woman. Evidently the four of them knew each other well. She was relieved to see two additional places set at the table. One at the head where a thronelike, high-backed armchair covered in gold damask sat empty. Mr. Schlange’s, to be certain. The other, surely for her, was nearer the other end, directly across from the woman and beside the man she had not met. At least Vivien had not misled her that she was expected for breakfast.

The four of them rose and Martha spoke first. “We didn’t know if you would come down this morning, so we didn’t wait, I’m afraid.” Martha’s voice was light and sweet as she walked swiftly toward Silvia. “I’m Martha Muller, Mr. Schlange’s niece, and this is my brother. Eric.” She took Silvia’s hand and squeezed it warmly. “Please do call me Martha,” she added quietly.

“Thank you, Martha,” Silvia murmured uncomfortably. Why must she continue to feel like a bird in a trap when they were welcoming her so politely?

Eric joined them and bowed graciously. “I’m pleased to meet you, Miss Bradstreet. Uncle had told us so little about you. Now that you’re here, you can answer all our questions,” he said, taking her hand and raising it to his lips. “You know my cousins Roman and Morgan Toller, of course.”

The Tollers stood at the table. They bowed almost in unison and. Silvia thought, a little reluctantly on Roman’s part.

Her answering smile was only a flicker. She could not restrain the shock that drained her face of color. The Tollers were Schlange’s nephews. Would they be staying? Of course, she thought sagely, her skin seeming to prickle all over. They would not have traveled all the way from England for a brief stay. She chided herself for her worry. It was of no consequence to her if they did. Her obligation was to their uncle, and she expected after today she would have little contact with the Tollers.

“Please be seated, Miss Bradstreet.” Eric took her arm and escorted her to the table, not wasting any appreciative glances as his eyes assessed her quite frankly.

Silvia glanced questioningly at the empty chair at the head of the table.

“Uncle’s place is always set, but he won’t be joining us this morning,” Eric said matter-of-factly, though as he spoke there was a restless energy about his movement.

Nervously Silvia moistened her lips. When she and Martha were seated, the gentlemen resumed their seats as well.

Eric’s eyes were boring into her, his brows drawn together as if he were trying to remember something.

“So that’s it. Magda,” he cried, flinging himself back against the chair. “Don’t you see it?” He gestured wildly at the others, insisting they all look at her. “My God, she’s uncommonly like Magda. Look at her face.”

Silvia’s eyes widened, her lips quivering a little. She was uncomfortable enough having breakfast with a table full of strangers without all their attention focused on her.

“There is a small resemblance.” Martha said blandly, though she too looked calculatingly at Silvia. “But hardly enough to warrant an outburst.”

Silvia stiffened. What on earth were they talking about? She didn’t like being made sport of, and now everyone was staring at her. Martha’s eyes gleamed like dark lights, as if she were stripping away flesh to expose Silvia’s soul. Eric’s blazed excitedly yet shrewdly, and he was measuring everyone’s reactions.

The amused look had momentarily left Morgan’s eyes and now there was a glint of wonder in their blue depths. Only Roman’s eyes lacked curiosity. His simmering glare roamed over her figure, and one side of his mouth twisted into a smile. An invitation issued from his dark, insolent eyes.

“Please,” Silvia said sternly. Bond servant or not, she didn’t like being treated rudely.

“We are behaving badly,” Martha said sternly, and gave a disapproving glance to her cousins and brother. Hastily she poured a cup of tea for Silvia, but though she smiled and appeared calm, a slight rattling sounded when she lifted the saucer to pass it along. “Silvia’s just arrived at Serpent Tree Hall, and instead of treating her graciously, we’re gaping like magpies.”

“Remember, Eric,” Morgan started up, “none of us has ever actually seen Magda.”

“We’ve seen her likeness a thousand times in the library,” Eric sputtered, roused to indignation. “You fitted that dress on her yourself, Martha.”

“Yes, I did, but, Eric, a stone figure is hardly the same, and we have only Uncle’s description of her eyes and hair.” She shook her head and laughed softly.

“You won’t convince me I’m not right,” he replied querulously. “Let’s let Silvia tell us who she is and why she’s here.”

Silvia had stood all she could. It would have suited her better to have been moved in with the servants, where she would not have been regarded as an object of curiosity. This waiting to learn what her duties were was beginning to grate on her nerves, or maybe it was just the way Roman and Morgan Toller were looking at her as if they were enjoying her discomfort.

Surely they had something better to do than intimidate a new servant. She wasn’t listening to them any longer, as a slight frown stole onto her face. This wasn’t where she belonged, not with these spoiled, impudent people. She hoped to have an audience with Mr. Schlange right after breakfast. Perhaps he would send for her; if not, she would ask Vivien to arrange it.

Eric’s persistent voice broke into her thoughts. “Silvia, Miss Bradstreet, don’t keep us at bay any longer.”

A suggestion of annoyance hovered in her eyes. Silvia dabbed at her mouth with a linen napkin before folding it beside her plate. She spoke with a note of coolness in her voice. “Actually, there’s no mystery at all, I’m a bond servant indentured to your uncle and a seamstress by trade.”

Martha’s mouth gaped open and there was a tiny twitch of her brows. Eric’s forehead furrowed deeply as he exchanged a baffled look with Martha.

Roman and Morgan seemed intent on returning to their interrupted breakfast.

Suddenly Eric began to laugh. “You’re evening the score at our expense. A bond servant indeed!” His laughter had a sharp edge which perturbed Silvia more. “Martha, she’s set us back a step or two.” His voice had risen an octave and his face reddened as he laughed.

“I assure you it is no joke,” Silvia responded, dismayed. Her small hands gripped the edge of the table so tightly her fingers cramped.

“I’ll wager you’re a long-lost cousin, some relative of Magda’s, and that’s what this mystery is all about,” Eric murmured. “That’s Uncle’s surprise. He’s put you up to keeping quiet about it until he’s ready to make the announcement.”

“I assure you I don’t know who this Magda is,” Silvia said wrathfully. “I am a servant and nothing more.” Indignantly she rose from the table. “Your cousins can attest to the fact. We traveled on the same ship.”

Eric looked crestfallen. “Is that right, Roman? Is she a bond servant?”

For a moment Roman studied her intently, his eyes dark and hooded. A smile flickered on his lips as he lowered his voice to sound deliberately mysterious. “Now that I think of it, she did say she was a bond servant.”

Eric threw up his hands and sighed.

Roman tossed his head back, an aloof smile on his lips. “However, we have only her word for that. The bond servants traveled in the hold, and Miss Bradstreet had a private cabin. Very private—that, Morgan and I can both attest to.” He laughed wickedly.

Silvia’s face flamed and she whirled about. He had deliberately twisted his words to make it sound as if she had scandalously entertained them on the ship. Nothing could be further from the truth.

“What’s this?” Eric looked at her enigmatically.

Roman’s laughing eyes raked over her critically and beamed his approval of his fine joke. She wondered how he had the nerve to look at her that way and behave as he did. The man was incorrigible. Martha watched Roman from the corner of her eye and with a vague hint of disapproval on her face.

Quickly she was up and at Silvia’s side. “Eric. That’s enough,” Martha said firmly, taking a sisterly hold on Silvia’s hand. “Come with me, Silvia. We’ll take a stroll in the garden and leave those rogues to their revelry.”

Silvia welcomed any escape and docilely followed Martha through the French doors and into the garden. They walked silently for a few minutes until they were some distance away from the men. As the smell of roses grew stronger and sweeter, Silvia felt her agitation begin to dispel. She smiled lightly as tiny blue butterflies rose like clouds out of the bushes. By the time Martha stopped beside a stone bench with a backdrop of blooming oleanders, she was feeling much better.

“Let’s sit,” Martha said cheerfully. “We’re going to be friends, I’m sure.”

The fresh air improved Silvia’s spirits even more. She liked the garden with its exotic plants and a profusion of lovely flowers. It was impossible to stay angry among so much beauty. Martha’s sweet face held a look of sympathy and understanding. In response, Silvia relaxed her own strained features and settled her skirts about her on the bench. Martha wanted to be her friend and she truly hoped there would be at least one person at Serpent Tree Hall she could trust and confide in.

“You musn’t mind them,” Martha began, her eyes beautifully serene. “It’s always like this for a few days after someone arrives. We so rarely see anyone, and Eric gets terribly excited about things.” She patted Silvia’s hand consolingly. “My brother is generally a quiet man. No doubt he’ll soon apologize for his outburst,” she added. “Eric likes you. I can tell.”

“Thank you, Martha,” Silvia said wearily. “I’m afraid it all upset me badly. But at least you seem to understand how difficult it is coming to a new land and not knowing what it will be like or what reception you’ll get.”

“Of course I do. It was hard for Eric and me to come here, but Uncle insisted. And now it’s home for us. You’ll come to like it too.” An expression of satisfaction showed in her eyes. She leaned nearer Silvia and whispered, “I know about the secret. You don’t have to pretend with me.”

A secret? Silvia wavered a moment, totally bewildered and wondering what to say. When she spoke, her voice was shaky and a little impatient. “I really don’t know anything about a secret.”

Martha looked briefly disappointed. “Very well then,” she said softly. “We’ll forget about it. But you must tell me all about yourself. About your home in England and about your family. I want to know everything.” She smiled encouragingly.

It was easy talking to Martha and responding to her lighthearted questions. Almost before she knew it, Silvia had told about her childhood and how her parents had been killed in an accident and about her Uncle Hollister and how she had decided to come to the colonies as a bond servant. She did purposely leave off, however, telling about her encounter with Roman on the ship.

“So it only remains for Uncle to say what he intends doing with you,” Martha said at last, her voice odd, yet gentle.

A sudden breeze swept in and blew an escaping curl over Silvia’s forehead. Absently she brushed at it with her hand. Martha’s words rang in her mind and she felt remotely as if she had just waked up. Martha made it sound as if she were a sacrificial lamb and Wilhelm Schlange held the knife.

Standing at a window across the garden she saw a dark figure, just a black shape except for the hawkish face and cold eyes. Suddenly it occurred to Silvia that Vivien was the only person at Serpent Tree Hall who knew Schlange’s purpose in bringing her here.

She excused herself to Martha and hurried across the courtyard toward the open door where Vivien waited silently.

“I must see Mr. Schlange right away,” Silvia said breathlessly. “It’s urgent. There are things I have to know.”

Vivien’s face remained expressionless and Silvia could imagine her standing still for hours in the same maddening way.

“That is impossible. Mr. Schlange is extremely ill. It will be several days before he is well enough to see anyone.” Her colorless lips hardly moved when she spoke, nor was there a flicker of emotion in her voice.

“Then maybe you can tell me?” Silvia asked hopefully.

“I can tell you nothing,” Vivien answered, her voice flat and remote. “Mr. Schlange will tell you everything in time. Until then you are free to do as you wish.”

Silvia’s lip dropped, and while she touched a hand to her heart, Vivien turned and in a moment vanished as if she were made of smoke.

Chapter 5

Perplexed, Silvia started up the long, cool hallway toward the staircase at the front of the house. Vivien’s sallow face and polite reticence had made her blood pump heatedly through her veins and filled her with an overwhelming desire to vent her opinions on someone. Yet it was the acute hopelessness of her frustration that made her notice how unnaturally quiet the castle was. Such a place should be teeming and throbbing with the noisy sounds of daily activity. But as she moved through the long and empty passageway, she neither saw nor heard anything to indicate another person was astir.

Rough-hewn gray stone, fitted so tightly a crack could not be found, formed both the inner and outer walls of the castle and made the arched ceiling overhead. Tall open windows allowed free circulation of air and an infusion of light into the grayed interior, which had a simple beauty all its own. Spaced between the windows like silent sentinels sat marble busts placed on sturdy mahogany pedestals.

Silvia gave them little notice as she passed. With her eyes cast downward and her thoughts in a meditative whirl, she was only slightly aware of her surroundings. Walking along, lost in her tumbling thoughts, she had nearly reached the stairs when she looked up, and curiosity, like a balm, overcame her consternation and indignation at Vivien’s pronouncement.

She had passed many rooms with closed doors, but none had piqued her senses until she saw the one with beautifully inlaid patterns of exotic woods. An appreciation of craftsmanship and the contrasting colors of the ornamental woods drew her eyes and attention. She stopped to examine more closely the dark paneled double doors, which were open just a crack.

The inlaid alabaster serpent design and elaborate gold serpentine door handles indicated something special rested behind the dark panels. Her fingers touched and caressed the smooth glistening wood as she debated with herself if she should look inside. It was as much a surge of defiance at being left alone and bewildered as it was curiosity that eventually tempted her to peek.

Hesitating only a moment, she gave a gentle push to the door and eased it open a mite. Inside, the draperies had not yet been drawn open and the room lay shadowed with darkness. She could see graceful half-columns flanking a carved marble fireplace directly across from the door. The room was long, stretching at least fifteen feet on either side of the fireplace. Walls of gleaming wood were lined from floor to ceiling with rows of bookcases filled with countless leather-bound volumes. Near the fireplace was a large desk, its polished top cluttered with paper. Also, arranged about the room were reading tables and several comfortable-looking chairs.

It was a library, possibly Mr. Schlange’s private library. But there certainly appeared to be nothing extraordinary about the room. And yet, entranced, she gazed inside, feeling mysteriously compelled to enter and see what the shadows hid.

Silvia was undecided for a moment and turned her head to look down the hallway in both directions. Observing no one, she pursed her lips thoughtfully, eased the door open a little more, and slipped inside. She pushed the door back so that it was nearly closed as she had found it, once again shrouding the room in darkness. Hurriedly Silvia made her way toward the windows to open the draperies and let in the light.

Vivien had said she could do as she wished. A book would help her to pass the time peacefully until Mr. Schlange was better. And there was, she thought smiling hopefully, the chance of finding a clue to indicate Mr. Schlange’s purpose in bringing her to his estate.

She fumbled around the edge of the draperies, her fingers noting the contrasting smoothness and roughness of the rich brocade. After a moment of searching the deep folds of fabric she found and wrapped her hands around the sleek twisted cords which controlled the heavy panels. The soaring windows were twice her height and the weighty draperies yielded reluctantly to her tugs on the cords. She settled for opening them only partway.

When there was enough light to read the titles on the books and to see the papers on top of the desk near the fireplace, she stepped back and fastened the cord to its hook. But at once a strange, cold shiver shook her shoulders and she looked around with a sudden start. Clutching her arms to her bosom, she had an eerie feeling someone was watching her in the now dim light of the room.

Turning slowly toward the door, she saw them, a dozen or more people standing against the inside wall where they had been hidden from her eyes as she entered the room. Silvia froze as she stood, her mind burning with confusion and fear. Why were they standing there in the darkness? Why hadn’t they spoken? Why did they all just stare at her?

Stumbling back a step, she clutched at the drapery, pulling it open a little more and causing a ripple of light to splash across the angry, ghostly white face of the man nearest the door.

“No,” Silvia gasped. The upraised hand wielded a broad-bladed sword aimed squarely at her head. With another gasp Silvia plunged away from the window. She ran wildly, bumping into chairs and tables, hearing the clank and clatter of objects striking the floor behind her as she sought to escape her pursuer. Limbs quaking, she took refuge behind the tall back of a chair, a spot from which she could see the tightly closed hallway door. She felt the sinking of her heart; she was certain she had not closed it completely.

Not daring even to breathe, she forced enough courage to peep over the back of the chair and toward the man with the sword. Her hands shook violently as she watched in fascinated horror as the feathery plume on his hat flittered and stilled above his head. Cautiously she sank down behind the chair once again, her heart beating in her chest like the flailing hooves of a racing horse.

Her throat was dry and scratchy. She fancied she could hear the slow dragging steps of his approach and said a silent prayer to brace herself against the assault. Horror drained the blood from her face and left her limbs limp and weak. She eyed the window, thinking that if she could get back to it and open the lock, she might be able to escape. Silently Silvia gathered her skirts in a bunch and held them clear of her feet as she crouched down and began to slowly edge her way toward the window, taking care as she went to stay hidden behind the tables or chairs.

Closing her eyes, she tried to halt her rapid breathing as she reached the halfway point, but could not calm herself as she heard the heavy thud of footsteps following her path. Her limbs stiffened in fear as, slowly, quietly, she backed away from the sound. In her ears, her own heartbeat drummed so loudly she was unaware she had crashed into a low smoking table until her legs gave way with the impact and she went sprawling on her backside.

The scream that issued from her mouth was a muffled sound which died as her heart seemed to stop beating. In her mind’s eye she could see the sharp blade of a sword rending her in two. Gnawing at her lip, Silvia shut her eyes and waited. A moment later, even through closed eyelids she was aware of light flooding the room. Her eyes burst open to see Roman standing beside the window, a grin spread across his face at the sight of her with legs draped across the overturned table, skirts and hair in wild disarray.

Across the room she saw a row of statues lined up like army troops on a parade ground. Each was completely outfitted, some in clothing from another century; men and women with stone faces who looked as if at any minute they might walk out and sit down to tea. Silvia sighed miserably. The clothing made them look terribly real.

“What on earth?” she whispered, flushing with embarrassment and feeling totally foolish. Her eyes shifted to Roman and she saw that his grin had broadened.

“That’s what I wondered when I heard someone bumping around in here.” Eyes sparkling facetiously, he glanced at the statues, then at Silvia. “Are you all right?” he asked, barely concealing the laughter in his voice.

“Yes,” she answered sharply, disentangling herself from the table as he approached and extended a hand to help her to her feet.

She hesitated a moment before accepting his assistance, but thinking she might not be able to rise without it, gave him her hand, only to be startled by the warmth of his touch and the strength he used to pull her easily upright. With a flourish she shook out her skirts and looked around for the tortoiseshell combs that had fallen from her hair which was left tumbling across her shoulders. Retrieving one, she tucked it in her pocket and continued to look for the other.

“Are you alone?”

“Of course I am,” she responded hotly, straightening up and shaking the hair out of her eyes.

“Then what in blazes were you doing in here in the dark?” He leaned down and set the table upright, then moved away to retrieve and replace the curios and objects she had left askew in her flight.

“I was getting a book and didn’t know...”

“About our ancestors?”

“Is that what they are?” Her eyes scanned the figures again. “What an odd way to display one’s heritage.”

“Uncle has never claimed to be ordinary. If you don’t know him, I think you will find him an unusual man given to many eccentricities.”

“I can only say he has been extremely generous and thoughtful to me.” She reached behind her head with both hands, catching her loose hair and forming it into a knot. Holding the bun with one hand, she reached to her pocket for the comb to secure it in place.

Roman was by her side in an instant and quickly caught her wrists, holding them like fragile flower stems. “Leave it loose,” he said softly, the light in his eyes waxing warm.

With deliberate slowness he pulled her hands to his chest and took the comb from her. Her hair, freed, spilled like falling water over her back and shoulder. Spellbound, Silvia stood without moving as Roman reached for a strand of her dark locks and ran the little tortoiseshell comb through it. She felt a gentle tug as he slowly twisted the strand in his fingers. He stood so close she could hear the steady rhythm of his breathing while her own grew erratic and shallow. Her eyes searched his face in disbelief.

Smiling, he held her hair to his lips, brushed it against his cheek. “The lavender fragrance becomes you,” he whispered. “So English, like you are, hearty yet sweet and soft all the same.” With calm aplomb he made fine courtly bow and stepped back, dropping the silken strand of her hair.

Silvia watched, stunned and speechless. Roman Toller had inordinate good manners when he chose to use them. And now he was bathing her in compliments when she had come to expect only barbs of ridicule from him.

“Would you like to ride with me this afternoon?” His voice had returned to a normal tone as he neared the door. “Since we’ll be living in the same house, perhaps we can get on better terms.”

“Yes. I’d like that,” Silvia responded, unconsciously touching the strand of hair he had held and feeling a little twist of excitement in her stomach. “I’d like that very much.”

“Fine. Come to the stable an hour after lunch.” His hand was on the door and his face had a surprisingly temperate look. “I’ll have a horse saddled for you. Oh...and, Silvia...”

“Yes?”

“Don’t forget your book.” He stepped away quickly, leaving the door ajar and leaving Silvia totally bewildered.

It was the first time he had spoken to her other than in tormenting taunts, and it left her feeling lighthearted and gay. In spite of her reservations about Roman Toller’s character, he had set her heart in a merry spin. She forgot, like a bad dream, the misunderstanding about who she was. For now she was a girl in a beautiful dress in a beautiful house and she was free to do as she wished. And she wished to go riding with Roman.

Silvia moved to the bookshelves with a light step and ran her fingers over dozens of leather-bound volumes. Mr. Schlange had an extensive collection, all the classics and notable authors of the day. Yet she could not recall later the titles she had looked over. After a time she randomly picked one from the shelf and took it to a chair, where she made herself comfortable. She had been reading several minutes, though mostly lost in a romantic daze and not truly seeing the words, when Martha entered the library.

“Is that a new English fashion, wearing the hair loose?” she asked lightly.

“Oh no!” Silvia answered a bit too quickly. “I’m afraid I tumbled over a table in the dark and it fell free.” Her cheeks reddened slightly and she looked away from Martha. “I simply haven’t taken the time to put it back.” Smiling softly, Silvia closed the book and rose from the chair. “I believe I’ll take this up to my room to finish.” Clearly Martha, too, had decided to treat her as an equal, and Silvia had no propensity to disavow her elevated status.

Martha watched her carefully and made a cursory glance around the library.

“You’ve seen the statues, of course. They’re Uncle’s indulgence,” she said, moving toward the likeness of a woman. “This is Magda.” Her fingers touched the gown of pale green silk which adorned the statue. “She was Uncle’s wife, the one Eric made such a fuss about at breakfast. Though, it was a brief marriage, I understand. Magda died a few years after they were wed.” She paused. “She’s been dead nearly thirty years and Uncle rarely speaks of her.” Martha turned to smile sweetly at Silvia. “But I’ll leave the family secrets to Uncle. Anyway, none of us really knows how she died.”

Her curiosity piqued once more, Silvia lowered her book to the seat of the chair she had occupied and walked to where Martha stood. Magda’s stone-white face had features similar to her own, but she found herself hoping her eyes did not have the same haunted, vulnerable quality. Somehow the sculptor had captured in Magda’s face a look of hopelessness that gave the stone features a certain fragility. She couldn’t help wondering what had brought the look of despair to Magda’s long-dead face.

“She was beautiful,” Silvia said softly.

“Yes. Like you,” Martha responded, her eyes glazed and her voice sounding as if it came from a distance. She blinked and a faint smile lifted her lips as the sparkle returned to her eyes. “But enough about Magda. Why be melancholy?” Her voice regained its gaiety. “Let me tell you about the others.”

Martha began at the far end of the row, giving Silvia a colorful family history. And when she came to Aurelius Schlange, the statue with the sword, she pointed him out as a pirate.

Silvia laughed lightly. “He gave me a terrible fright in the dark.”

Martha’s face reflected understanding. “I think Aurelius is Uncle’s favorite. He plagued the seas three hundred years ago and made the family fortune. The Schlanges changed from simple sailors to wealthy landowners in his day. Uncle still owns a large estate in Germany as well as property and the shipping company in England.” She laughed. “There are plenty of Uncle’s business associates who call him a pirate behind his back.”

“I am sure there are some who mistake good business sense for cunning,” Silvia remarked. “But your uncle is a fair man, of course.”

“And is he your uncle as well?” Martha paused beside the last statue.

Surprised, Silvia met Martha’s eyes. “No. He is my employer, as I have explained.”

A tinge of disappointment showed in the depths of Martha’s eyes, but she did not probe further. Smiling, she continued along the line of statuary, recounting the milder history of those who had come after Aurelius. Silvia noted Martha made no mention of any immediate family members and how it was that Mr. Schlange’s niece and nephews resided with him. She thought of asking. Martha seemed inclined to speak freely of the Schlange ancestors, but given her position, she relented of her curiosity and deemed it prudent not to inquire about such a personal matter.

Shortly they came to the last marble figure. He stood apart from the others and near French doors leading to a walled terrace on the outer wall of the castle. Martha drew open the heavy curtains that covered glass-paned doors. Light flooded the darkened corner, and the figure, as if absorbing the sun’s heat, took on a golden cast.

Silvia walked up face to face with the last statue. Her heart gave a great bound. “Why, it’s Roman!”

The proud figure was clothed in archaic garb and shod in sandals with leather cords laced up over the flaring calves of his legs. He wore a leather loincloth and over it a short tunic belted at the waist and falling just to the top of his muscular thighs. A gold medallion hung around his neck, one which to Silvia’s surprise bore the Schlange crest. Fitted in his hand was a short sword, the handle of intricately patterned gold and the blade of sharp deadly steel. Flung back over his shoulders was a long hooded cloak of dark purple.

A silent moment passed before Martha responded.

“I’ve always thought Roman could have posed for it, though of course that’s impossible. That statue is the oldest and most valuable of them all. It has been in the family for four generations, since Aurelius stole it in his looting-and-plundering days. No one knows the origin, though some say the workmanship is Greek.” Martha’s face brightened momentarily and a rapid pulse throbbed in her slender white throat.

“I see,” Silvia said softly, a blush running like a shadow over her cheeks as she realized how blatantly she too was staring at the statue.

Not seeming to notice Silvia’s discomfort, Martha ran her fingers over the forehead of the stone face.

“Actually the figure is Siegfried, a god from German folklore. You may have heard him called Thor.” She smiled indulgently and continued in a voice that had the soft monotony of a practiced recitation. “Uncle hints he is directly descended from the gods. I’ve always considered that a ruse to sidestep the more humble ancestry of the Schlange family. But with Uncle it is impossible to know how seriously he takes the claim, and none of us dare question him too far on the matter.”

“In any event, it’s a fascinating story and one that is sure to raise eyebrows in any gathering,” Silvia commented, her eyes again drawn involuntarily to the broad shoulders and powerfully muscled arms beneath the cloak. Though carved of stone, they looked warm and protective.

Martha must have felt the same, because her hand was resting possessively on one stone shoulder. Her finely shaped lips had parted slightly as a slow, graceful movement of her other hand made an adjustment in the hang of the cloak. When she turned again to Silvia, the distant dull glow persisted in her eyes.

“And perhaps that is all Uncle wants.” Martha tilted her head to one side. “Attending to the statuary is my responsibility. I made many of the costumes myself, and of course they have to be sewn on the statues. Fitting clothes to marble people is no easy task, and Uncle insists they be replaced when they become soiled or faded. He receives his business associates in this room and delights in seeing their reaction to his collection.” Her voice dropped. “Have you noticed there are no portraits in the house, only statues or busts of family members?”

“No. How odd,” Silvia said briskly. Her tone was polite if her comment impertinent. She had noticed several marble busts in the hallway, though she had not given them a careful look. Another time she would study the busts more closely. At the moment she was plagued by the vague thought that many things were incredibly odd at Serpent Tree Hall.

She glanced at the elegant blond woman beside her. An indulgent look rested on Martha’s face and she was clearly enjoying Silvia’s reaction to the statues. At times Silvia thought she noticed a rather detached look in Martha’s eyes. But she quickly shrugged away the notion, thinking it most likely due to the strain of living in such an isolated place.

Martha made a little clucking sound in her throat and laughed with a lilting lightness. “Some castles have their suits of armor, but Uncle has his statues. Most of them he brought from Germany when he built the castle here,” she continued. “The servants there were terrified of them, saying there was a ghost for each one. Though all the spirits are rumored to be friendly, except for Siegfried and Aurelius. The legend is that Siegfried pursues Aurelius through the castle in the wee hours of the night. That is Aurelius’ curse for having stolen the statue.” She looked away swiftly. “But of course no one believes in ghosts in this day and time.”

“I’m sure I don’t.” Silvia laughed. “There are plenty of real dangers. One need not look to ghosts for a fright. Though when she turned back to look at the fierce face of Aurelius Schlange, she wasn’t terribly sure she was right. She thought dolefully she would hate to meet his restless spirit on a moonless night. A mild shudder coursed her spine, and fighting it, she straightened her shoulders, throwing off the foolish thoughts of ghosts.

Martha, on her way to the door, stopped and knelt down. “This must belong to you,” she said, holding out a tortoiseshell comb. “One you lost in your fall.” Martha looked carefully at the comb, turning it in her hand and noting the unique scallop-and-shell design. “Do you have the other?”

Silvia’s brows flicked up. She reached into her pocket and found it empty. “I...Yes I do.” she stammered, recalling Roman had last had the comb and must have taken it with him.

Martha dropped the comb in Silvia’s waiting hand. “Good. You wouldn’t want to lose one of a pair.”

Martha stopped at the door, her hand resting on the brass serpent which formed the handle. She smiled serenely back at Silvia. Martha moved with an enviable smoothness and Silvia could not help but appreciate her graciousness. What a lovely person she was to have tried so hard to make a stranger feel comfortable and welcome, to have rescued her from the teasing barbs at breakfast.

“I’m sure I’ve tired you out with my tales, and you were on the way to your room.” Martha tapped her finger once on the door handle. “I’ll leave you here in case you want to select another book. There’s little else to do for entertainment.” She reached up to smooth the hair at her temples.

“Oh, please, don’t be concerned for me. I won’t be bored.” Silvia smiled gratefully.

“Perhaps later we can talk again. I do have things to attend to. Uncle entrusts the management of the household servants to me and I must give the cook some orders about dinner.” She stepped through the doorway but paused again to add, “I’ll see you at lunch.” With that she was gone, shutting the door behind her.

Silvia strolled toward the French doors, where light streamed in bright and warm. A breeze shook the tops of the tall oaks visible in the distance. She shifted her gaze to the terrace, her expression still and serious. Reflected in the panes she could see the images of Siegfried and Magda, still and stone white. Her spirits were sinking rapidly and her own reflection looked little more lifelike than that of the statues.

It was the way Martha said the word “servants” that brought her crashing to earth. She brushed at her eyes where she felt the sting of tears forming. She had to remember her place. Despite a few days of freedom, she was a servant and it would not do for her to forget it. She was not a guest at Serpent Tree Hall. Soon she would be one of those to whom Martha was giving orders. And when that day came, Martha might regret she had shared conversations and a stroll in the garden with an indentured servant.

Silvia sighed longingly. Strange that they took her to be someone else. And how easy it would be to become accustomed to this life. How easy it would be to become accustomed to beautiful gowns, to mornings in the garden and afternoon rides over the island.

She turned abruptly to look at the statue of Siegfried. He was so like Roman, from the breadth of his chest to the arrogant jut of his chin and the bold set of his mouth. Perhaps there was some truth to the tale. Perhaps the Schlange family had descended from Siegfried. Ridiculous. She was dreaming, letting her imagination whisk her away from reality. Siegfried was only part of old Germanic legends, no more real that the ghosts Martha spoke of. She smiled wistfully, remembering that Roman had discarded his lordly airs and issued an invitation for an afternoon ride.

It was time to put her rampant thoughts to rest and go to her room. She didn’t even know if she would find a riding costume among her things.

* * *

Silvia opened the spacious armoire, with its sprinkling of painted yellow flowers, and inspected the contents. There were gowns Vivien had not shown her and there was indeed a riding habit as well as boots made of fine leather. She tried the boots and found a high pair that made a good fit.

Taking the riding habit out, she carried it to the dressing room and hung it on a wooden peg by the mirror. The riding costume was fawn-colored with a brown velvet collar and had a linen blouse with a ruffled jabot. With it was a matching dark brown cap which would keep her hair secure, and there was even a leather riding crop with a hammered-silver handle to complete the costume.

She was about to try the jacket for fit when Anna came to call her for lunch.

“They be dining on the terrace, miss.” Anna hurried her along. “It’s got a bit of shade, though, no hot sun,” she added. “Miss Martha is there now.” The little lines around Anna’s mouth quivered as if she were just bursting to talk. But to Silvia’s disappointment, she stilled the impulse and forced herself to keep quiet. There was no further babbling from her as she stood in the doorway wringing the corners of her apron. Her wide eyes had been quickly cast downward after she delivered her message.

Silvia dismissed Anna reluctantly. She felt like a soul in limbo, uncertain of her destination and not knowing whom to reach out to. Someone, she thought forlornly, should tell her who and what she was in this place. For now, though, she would bide her time and wait as patiently as possible. Again she had to remind herself not to be melancholy but simply to enjoy. Those were her orders.

“Thank you, Anna,” Silvia called as the woman disappeared down the hall. “I’ll hurry.”

She took a moment to brush back her hair and locate another set of combs. With a few deft twists she fashioned it into a sleek coil on the back of her neck, then dabbed a little lavender water behind her ears.

Hopefully her disappointment was not evident as she reached the terrace. Anticipation of seeing Roman had brought spots of color to her cheeks, but she found only Martha and Morgan in attendance for lunch.

“Eric and Roman have gone off to the mill to look at a new piece of equipment,” Martha explained. “They’ve carried a lunch with them, so the three of us will be dining alone.”

Gallantly Morgan helped the ladies to their chairs. If he sensed Silvia’s momentary frustration, his cheerful face gave no indication of it.

“And I won’t be distressed if they stay away all day,” he said easily. Morgan had a wealth of light brown hair and pleasant blue eyes that were ever friendly and warm. He had forgone wearing his coat and opted for an open-necked shirt like the one Eric wore. “I believe I should begin by apologizing for myself and my brother. We seem to have put our manners aside and shown you our baser natures. I apologize for anything offensive we have said or done.”

Silvia was taken aback. She had not expected an apology and she recalled that Roman, though granted adequate opportunity, had not given one. Her face grew somber for a moment and she saw Morgan’s eyes narrow speculatively.

“Perhaps we can begin again and be friends,” she said at last, smiling.

Morgan grinned and breathed a sigh of relief. He had such a sunny disposition that soon all three were laughing at his jokes and animated accounts of his and Roman’s adventures. Occasionally Silvia could feel the warmth of his gaze on her and once or twice she intercepted a glance that was decidedly intimate.

Martha, mindful of his purpose, gave her encouragement.

“Since I’ll be busy this afternoon, Morgan, perhaps you can find time to show Silvia the grounds. I’m sure she would be delighted to get out of the castle and see more of Schlange Island.” Martha’s voice was soft but her eyes sharp. “I would accompany you myself,” she said to Silvia, “but I must see to the storing of the supplies we brought in yesterday. Things can ruin if they aren’t stored properly.” Her delicate face bore a slight smile as she glanced at Morgan.

Morgan’s eyes sparkled as he nodded in consent. “I would be pleased and honored to show you the grounds, Silvia.”

His open nature made Silvia feel comfortable and secure. She thought fleetingly he was exactly the opposite of his brother. He inspired in her a confidence that Roman seemed to drain away. He had a compellingly handsome face and the same sensual lips as Roman, but his eyes lacked the fire, the quick spark that made Roman’s temper flare with little provocation. Morgan was, she thought, the kind of man you could always depend on. He was the kind of man a woman could trust with her love, the kind of man a woman ought to fall in love with.

“I’m truly sorry, Morgan,” she said demurely. “But I’ve agreed to ride with Roman after lunch.” Her tawny eyes met the wonder in his. “Perhaps we could walk another time.”

Martha’s brows raised in surprise.

“Blast that blackheart!” Morgan’s mouth twisted into a sour grin. “The man is a thorn in my side!” His fist slammed against his thigh. “I’ll even the score with him yet,” he mumbled under his breath.

Silvia’s eyes widened and she dabbed at her mouth with the napkin, hiding her own surprise at Morgan’s repudiation of his brother.

Recovering his aplomb, he calmed his voice. “What time are you riding?” Morgan rose and slowly paced the length of the terrace.

“In an hour,” Silvia replied. She had finished her lunch, and glancing across the table, saw that Martha was preoccupied and quite obviously not in a mood for talking. No doubt she was anxious to get to her work and be done with it for the day. Silvia rose. “If you will excuse me, I have to change my clothes and I would like to rest awhile.”

Martha nodded an acknowledgement and pleaded she too had to hurry away. Morgan faced the garden, hands resting on his hips, his back turned to the woman.

“I wonder, Morgan,” Silvia called to him, “if you would direct me to the stables before I go to my room. It would save one of the servants the trouble of showing me the way.”

Morgan turned around, and to her surprise, a wide smile lit his face. With a few quick steps he was by her side, looping a wispy tendril of her hair around his fingers.

“I would be delighted to instruct you, my lady with the raven locks,” he said softly, his eyes glowing with a veiled amusement.

He twisted the curl tighter around his finger and slowly and carefully pulled his hand away, leaving the wisp of hair in an ebony ringlet on her cheek. His gaze became a soft caress and his smile warm and sunny. He gave her the directions she needed and wished her a most pleasant ride. But even as he stood conversing politely, he seemed to be chuckling under his breath.

Smiling, Silvia took her leave, and nodding her head in a gesture of thanks, hurried away. Behind her Morgan resumed his restless pacing of the terrace.

The sun filled her room with brightness and heat at midday. Oddly it gave the vivid greens in the room a cool look that was delightfully refreshing. Reluctantly she drew the heavy draperies, changing the room to a dark, murky green. The air became close and still and suddenly she felt as if she were sinking to the liquid green depths of the ocean.

It was a hazy, pleasant sensation and she smiled languidly as she removed the blue silk dress and loosened the laces around her waist. She was happy, she realized, pulling back the covers on the bed. A subtle change had taken place within her, an acceptance of her surroundings and circumstances. And something more, an emotion welling inside, as yet undefined but capable of bringing a rising excitement to her heart.

It was good she had not expected to sleep, because suddenly she was a little girl filled with eagerness and excitement, a little girl having all her dreams and fantasies come true. Even her chagrin that it was Roman Toller who had elicited such intense feeling from her was only a momentary annoyance.

After tossing about on the bed for a few minutes, it was obvious she would get no rest. She deemed her time would be better spent seeing if the riding habit fit. Thirty minutes later she was outfitted and walking down the lane in front of the castle.

The path to the stable was a lovely twisting trail lined with oleander bushes. She gave a philosophic little shrug. The house had been quiet when she left. All the servants were busy doing Martha’s bidding, and Morgan was nowhere to be found. It was remarkable to her that a household staff which must be large to be efficient could function totally out of sight. For with the exception of Vivien and Anna and the maid who had served the meals, she had not seen another servant since her arrival.

She found the stable to be a long, low building made of shell and mortar. It was flanked by paddocks and one end appeared to be used as a carriage house. She saw two horses saddled and tied to a hitching post out front, one a large roan gelding and the other a bay mare with a sidesaddle.

Talking softly, Silvia slowly approached the horses. She had owned a pony in her childhood and ridden every day until she had gone to live with her aunt and uncle. How wonderful it would be to have horses at her disposal and to be able to ride whenever she wished.

The little mare snorted and stomped her feet when Silvia drew near.

“Hello, pretty lady,” she whispered, reaching out to stroke a nose soft and brown as moleskin. The mare snorted again and gently nudged Silvia’s arm.

“She’s telling you she likes to be rubbed between the ears.” Roman came out of a carriage well and walked up behind Silvia before she knew he was nearby.

She spun around at the sound of his voice. He, like Eric and Morgan, had discarded his coat and wore a loose-fitting white shirt. The front fastened with laces and he had left it open in a way that virtually bared his chest. The unknotted leather cords that might have pulled the garment modestly together swung carelessly loose as he swaggered toward her, the flexing and tightening of each muscle evident through chamois breeches fitted tightly on his thighs. His riding boots, like her own, were of brown leather and extended to his knees.

His skin had turned golden from a morning in the sun. A few strands of fair hair escaped the tie at his nape and hung free around his face. Silvia clasped her hands together, fighting an urge to tuck those strands neatly back in place. He moved in such an easy, careless way, she suspected his walk was meant to be deliberately provocative. His eyes glowed with enjoyment, and he used, like a weapon, the disarming grin that brought a fluttering sensation just below her rib cage.

She had forgotten the horses, and cried out in surprise when the mare gave her a strong nudge to the shoulder, nearly knocking her off her feet. Awkwardly Silvia caught her balance and straightened her cap.

“Easy, girl,” she cooed, turning back to the mare.

Roman laughed. “Like a woman, she insists on having her way.”

He stretched out his hand to tangle his fingers in the mare’s mane and to scratch the animal between her ears. The little mare docilely lowered her head and snorted her enjoyment.

“Her name is Cricket, for the fancy way she walks.” He drew his hand away and Cricket lifted her head, rolling her lips back to show rows of broad teeth. “Martha’s trained her to the sidesaddle, but she’s mine and...”

“Spoiled,” Silvia said, stroking the mare’s nose again. She tilted her head to one side and peered at Roman as she adjusted her cap once more.

“I suppose it helps sometimes to spoil a woman,” he drawled. He had taken a wide-legged stance and locked his hands behind his back, his eyes growing lively with mischief. “Especially one who can give you as much pleasure as this little lady.”

Silvia’s cheeks reddened. Roman Toller was devastatingly handsome and suddenly she wanted to thrash the arrogance out of him. Blood pulsing hotly, she clutched at the riding crop in her hand, her knuckles whitening under the strain. If only she didn’t blush so easily and give away her emotions, she could pretend to be as cool as he and act as if he did not disturb her. But there was no way to conceal her heightened emotions or the little quiver in her lips that hinted of anger.

“Shall we ride?” Silvia, at a loss for words to bring him up short, made a pretense of inspecting the saddle and checking the stirrup.

“You do ride, I presume.”

“Yes, well enough, though not for some time.”

He looked at her critically, amusement showing in his face.

“You need not worry. I am safe enough in the saddle,” she added, keeping her face composed as the little flutter again started in her stomach.

He had come alongside her and stood extremely close. They were positioned between the horses, and the smell of the animals coupled with the oiled leather of the tack was strong but not unpleasant. The roan lifted a rear hoof and stomped it to the ground impatiently, raising a little gray cloud of dust at their feet.

“Easy now, Trader.” Roman turned to stroke the big gelding’s neck beneath his mane.

“He’s a fine animal,” Silvia said, noting Trader’s long legs and powerful flanks. The gelding had a white star on his forehead and proud flaring nostrils. He looked as if he could best the wind in a match.

“He hates being tied up, likes his freedom. That’s why his stall is always open to the paddock, so he can run free when he’s ready.” Roman slapped the horse playfully on his withers, then rubbed his hands clean on his breeches.

“Like a man,” Silvia said impishly, her voice crisp and clear. “Free to run and roam where he will, and always an open door when he’s ready to come home.” She smiled smugly.

“And a warm bed,” he added mockingly, facing her again, a bewitching smile playing at his lips. “A warm bed and an open door. What more could a man want?”

He laughed and gave a curt nod. A devilish light flashed in his eyes. His hands went out to circle Silvia’s waist and she could feel the heat from his palms penetrating her clothes. He was toying with her again. Challenging and knowing she would not match his boldness. She flung her hands out to push at his chest, but he lifted her quickly, holding her off the ground with her face dangerously close to his.

She saw his lips part, saw the little tug at the corner of his mouth that turned to a satanic smile as it spread. His eyelids flickered lazily as he drew her closer until the swell of her breasts touched his chest. Her senses were dancing to life and his strength was unwavering as he held her suspended for a moment.

Silvia’s tongue darted out to moisten trembling lips, her defiance dying a moment later when his lips brushed hers and sent a burst of fire through her veins. With a whim he could fan her passion to life, and it angered her that he could crush her serenity in a moment. He knew too well his power over her and how to use it to his advantage. With a taunt from his lips her anger mounted; with a touch of his hand the flame of desire heated her skin.

Roman had the power to sway her like the wind lashing a pine on a craggy cliff. He instilled in her a mix of fascination and alarm that kept her completely confused when he was near.

“I know a place where we can be alone.” he whispered, his mouth coursing her cheek, his warm lips nibbling at her earlobe. “The trail by the sea and then a rocky cove where no one goes.”

“You asked me to ride,” she answered in a far-off voice. “I believe your only intention is to seduce me.”

He lifted her to the saddle, his hands sliding provocatively over her hips and thighs to catch her foot and slip it into the stirrup. She locked her knee around the saddle, her heart hammering at the walls of her chest.

“It is.” His hand went around her ankle and his strong fingers pressed into the leather of her boot.

He had her captivated, wavering and wondering, chastising herself for even considering what he was suggesting and all the while deeply, secretly wishing she dared.

“Would that be so bad?” Like raw silk, his voice was both husky and smooth. “You would like it if you let yourself.”

She sighed, a helpless, hopeless little sound of faltering resistance. His hand traveled upward to her calf and massaged the curve of her leg with a magical touch that made it seem as if there were no boot leather between his hand and her flesh.

“We would be alone...” His voice dropped hypnotically low. Eyes like blue magnets drew her to him.

“And where would that leave me in a threesome?” Morgan Toller sat a few feet away on a big black gelding. He presented a serious countenance, but devilment lurked in his eyes. His arms were crossed over his chest and one leg was draped leisurely across the front of the saddle, as if he might have been sitting there several minutes unobserved.

Silvia had heard nothing but Roman’s coaxing words and her thundering heartbeat. But perhaps the sound had been the pelting hooves of the black as he approached. She didn’t know. Had Roman known Morgan was there and not cared if he heard? A heated flush rose beneath her skin. Roman answered her silent question with a shout.

“Damn you, Morgan!”

Cricket bolted and Silvia had to grab for the saddle to keep her seat.

Seeing his mistake, Roman quickly caught Cricket’s bridle and began to sooth the nervous horse. After a few minutes of his ministrations, the mare calmed and he gave the reins to Silvia. He mounted Trader in a quick angry leap.

“I suppose there’s no dissuading you now that you are here?” Roman growled at Morgan. The veins in his temples pulsed savagely and his color had heightened. Had it not been for the tender pats he was giving Trader a moment later, Silvia might have been fearful for Morgan’s safety.

“None,” Morgan answered bluntly, easing the black up alongside her mare and smiling at Silvia with an air of self-confidence.

She returned his smile, glad he had come along when he did. He had prevented her from having to contemplate further the dangerous attraction she felt for his brother. Had he known and had he come to save her from that fate? Surely he knew his brother well enough to guess what awaited her if she rode with him alone. She realized Morgan had a genuine concern for her honor and well-being.

She heard Roman’s shout for them to follow. Trader’s big hooves tore at the ground, sending a wake of grass and dirt behind him. She and Morgan spurred their horses to a canter, and when they had cleared the trees, saw Roman resting Trader and waiting for them at the top of a rise about a quarter mile from the castle. His mood had changed and he was good-natured to Morgan for the rest of the ride.

Sunshine beamed mildly down on them as they rode over the eastern part of the island. They passed the canefields and the high stone towers of the sugar mills. The three of them laughed and talked. Silvia asked questions about the estate and was surprised to learn both Roman and Morgan were knowledgeable about all phases of the agriculture and production. They had as great a love for the lands of Schlange Island as they did for the sea.

Roman showed her an area near the marshes where Eric was experimenting with rice production. The ground was laced with little furrows holding the water in, and green stalks rose out of the mirrorlike pools in promise of a good crop.

The brothers lapsed into silence and the three of them had ridden about an hour when they came to a low area that was flat and grassy and flanked by a series of hills. They pulled up the horses beside a little stream that trickled its way to the sea. Silvia dismounted to stretch her legs. She was beginning to feel an aching stiffness in her limbs. It had been years since she had ridden, but the thrill of being on horseback again was exhilarating and she did not wish to complain and cut short the ride.

“I’ll race you to the pond over the hill,” Roman challenged Morgan. His eyes shone with enthusiasm. “There’s gold on it.”

“You know that plowhorse can’t outrun the black.” Morgan’s voice was calm but the eagerness slipped through to his face.

“Today I think he can,” Roman responded confidently. “Trader’s in great form and that nag is looking colicky.”

Morgan sat up straight in the saddle. “He’s sound as a rock and you’ll be emptying your pockets when it’s over.”

Silvia laughed gaily. She had spent enough time with them now to know their bantering was good-natured. Even though a strong boyish rivalry had persisted into manhood, she could detect the depth of their affection for one another.

“Wait here,” Roman told her.

He stroked Trader on his shoulder and leaned forward to whisper something in the horse’s ear. Trader snorted and pawed the earth as if he understood his master’s commands.

“This won’t take long,” Roman called to Silvia.

She could see the tensing of muscles in both riders and horses as Morgan brought the black alongside Trader. They exchanged a few brief words, setting as a marker a tree near the pond.

The horses danced in place as they lined up. Morgan shouted and they left like bolts of lightning, hooves crashing like thunder. She climbed to a rock by the stream, excitedly wondering which horse would win. Trader and the black appeared to be neck and neck when they crested the hill. Soon they were out of sight and she knew the race was over. Later, when she had gotten more accustomed to riding again, she might challenge them to a race herself.

She had scanned the horizon for a full fifteen minutes. wondering why they were taking so long to return, when she saw a lone rider galloping over the hilltop. It was the roan. Cricket lifted her head and neighed a welcome to him. Silvia watched for Morgan but he still hadn’t appeared when Roman reached her.

“Where is Morgan?” she asked, a hand to her brow to block the sun as she looked for him.

“I was right about the black.” An expression of satisfaction showed in Roman’s eyes. “He was winded and Morgan wanted to rest him longer. He’ll be taking a shortcut back to the stable.”

“Oh. And who won the race?”

“It was a toss-up,” he said with an edge of irony to his voice, and broke quickly into a wild-looking grin.

Silvia accepted with trepidation his assistance to remount. But he merely gave her a perfunctory boost to the stirrup and handed up the reins before remounting Trader.

“You’ll be sore if we ride much longer.” He looked at her thoughtfully, as if perhaps he were seeing her afresh. “We’ll take the trail by the sea and give the horses a slow walk in. You’ll be wanting a long hot bath before dinner. And Vivien keeps a bottle of liniment, in case you need it.”

He said little as they rode, the horses shoulder to shoulder, his leg sometimes bumping her boot. They cleared a clump of trees and mounted a little rise overlooking the beach. Roman pulled Trader to a halt and Silvia stopped Cricket beside him. Silently Roman lifted his arm and gestured to the ocean. She understood. The serenity had reached her just as the waves reached the shore, lapping at the sand and eternally bathing it with the soothing motion of the sea.

Without turning to look at her, Roman took her hand and exhaled a contented sigh. She felt a warm glow of happiness as they shared the moment, watching the white-foamed waves bring the sea to land. Deep in her heart she knew they had formed a silent truce. Oddly enough, she felt no need to question how or why. It was enough to feel buoyantly happy and alive.

After a while Roman kneed the roan to a walk and she kept Cricket at a steady pace beside him. They were within sight of the stables before either of them spoke.

“We’ll ride again tomorrow,” he said as Odin appeared to take the horses.

Somehow it all looked different from when she had left. Odin was not frightening, merely big and silent. She suspected he had felt as uncomfortable walking with her yesterday as she had with him. Other changes were more subtle. The songs of the birds sounded sweeter. The moss-draped trees were no longer forbidding, they had a beckoning, fairyland look instead. The flowers had perked up on their stems, their colors grown deeper, their fragrance more pleasant. She didn’t notice the stiffness in her legs and back or the soreness in her fingers.

The stark gray castle had taken on the aspect of an enchanted palace. Its harsh dark walls had changed in the space of a few hours from grim to grand. Inside she walked up the stairs with a light step, remembering the promise of Roman’s good-bye.

Humming a merry tune and moving with a new confidence, she went to her room, beginning to believe she did indeed belong at Serpent Tree Hall.

Chapter 6

Sunset fell in a great crimson glow that filled the gold-streaked sky. Silvia stood at her window until the blue curtain of night closed over the warm dusk of day’s end. She stretched her slender body with slow caution, grimacing at the pain the simple move caused her. A hot bath and two hours’ rest had helped, but high spirits had not prevented soreness from her ride. She would have to talk to Vivien after dinner about getting some liniment. Without it she would not be able to sit in a saddle tomorrow.

Peering into her mirror, she touched a finger to the sun-kissed face reflected there. Too much sun tended to bring out a few freckles on her nose, but luckily she had escaped them today. Instead her cheeks had taken on a radiant glow that wasn’t at all unbecoming. She dressed as hurriedly as possible in a green print dimity gown with a tucked bodice, one she thought suitable for dinner. Green was a good color for her, as it highlighted her fair skin and rich black curls and made her eyes shine with gentle golden light.

Anna had cheerfully given her the household schedule, and after Silvia had bathed, arrived to dress her hair in a new style. Soft waves dipped low on the sides and in back formed into loose curls pinned high on her head. Silvia found a small jewel case in a drawer and inside it a pair of simple gold earrings that went well with the dress. When they were in place and she was satisfied with her appearance, she snuffed all the candles but one and closed the door behind her.

Though her sitting room and bedroom were spacious and comfortable, she was impatient to go downstairs and explore the rooms on the first floor. She had nearly an hour to spare before dinner and, as it was, she actually had seen little of the castle. Impulsively she hurried down the stairs and into the main hall. Candles were aglow in the library as she passed, and though it had been her intent to explore elsewhere, she went no further, feeling inexorably drawn to look again at the strange marble statues within.

She stepped to the threshold, about to enter, when behind her she heard the great front doors swing rudely open. She spun around in surprise to see Morgan storm in. He held his jaw clamped tight and fire flared in his eyes. His face was scarlet with rage but the furious expression softened a little when he glanced up and saw Silvia standing openmouthed, staring at him.

Composing herself, Silvia approached the foot of the stairs, intending to greet him, then froze, bewildered anew at the sight of his wet and mud-smeared clothes. Morgan shook his head forcefully, sending an angry spattering of water to the floor around him. In one hand he held wet, muddy boots and stockings. The other was clenched tight in a fist.

“Why, Morgan,” she gasped. “What happened?”

He crossed the pink marble foyer like a roiling thundercloud.

“That blasted fool knocked me out of the saddle and into the pond and spooked the black halfway across the island.” He bristled with anger. “I had to hunt the animal down, and I’m just now getting back here.” Morgan muttered a curse. “I’m glad to see you’re back with no trouble.” His frown deepened creases in his forehead, and the curses continued beneath his breath. “There was none, was there?” His scowl worsened. “I’ll hang him up by the hamstrings if—”

“No. None,” she replied calmly, interrupting his threat and being careful not to show her amusement. Now she knew why Roman had looked so pleased with himself after the race. A toss-up, he had said.

“He’ll pay more than gold for this,” Morgan growled, and excusing himself, clambered up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

When he was out of sight, the laughter Silvia had been holding in erupted. She hurried to the library and shut the door behind her, laughter bubbling like spring water from her lips. What a spectacle Morgan had been, mud-smeared and mad as a dunked cat. And Roman hadn’t given a clue of what he had done.

She stopped before the towering marble mantel. It was a beautiful piece of artwork in itself and reminded her of a temple or altar with the scaled-down Greek columns on each side. But would there ever be a need for a fire in this climate? She pictured Morgan wet and muddy. Only for drying oneself after a dunking, perhaps. She laughed again, aloud, and then suddenly her laughter fell away beneath the discomfort of an overpowering sensation.

Nervously she rubbed a hand across the back of her neck to quiet the tingling there, knowing intuitively her discomfort had no physical origin. It was that extraordinary prompting by a sixth sense warning her she was being watched.

She rolled her head back and took a deep, calming breath, thankful the candles had been lit and the room was bright with light. In the flickering glow of the candles she could imagine Mr. Schlange sitting in the library with his associates. She wondered if his visitors felt any uneasiness at being stared at by the eyes of the dead. She certainty didn’t like it.

Feeling a surge of fortitude, she lifted her chin and turned to face them. How real they looked. Too real, too knowing, as if on nights when the moon was right, those white bodies would transform into ghosts and move soundlessly through the castle. She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling a quickening of her heartbeat. Wherever she was in this room, eyes seemed eerily to follow her.

With a shrug of her shoulders she threw off the start of a shiver. She stood beside the figure of Siegfried; she had, in fact, walked there without knowing it. Her hand reached out to touch his shoulder, timidly at first, then purposefully as her palm ran firmly over the smooth, cool marble. Had she expected it to feel like flesh?

Her eyes examined the carved perfection of the marble face. Had his mouth had that angry set to it when she had last seen the statue? She didn’t remember the expression quite that way. But perhaps it was Roman’s face she remembered. How irresistible he was when tenderness showed in his eyes as it had in that moment they shared earlier on the beach. Roman. Morgan. Siegfried. Their faces were transposing in her mind. She blinked her eyes and held her breath a moment. It was all like a dream, a baffling mystical dream she couldn’t decipher.

She must have stood there entranced for a long time. The moon was a bright golden shield gleaming high above the courtyard when she arrived in the dining room. The others were waiting and ready to be seated. Even Morgan had managed a respectable appearance and she was glad to see he had the good grace to postpone his settling of accounts with Roman. Nevertheless, he was quieter than usual and his temper appeared to be boiling just beneath the surface of an imposed control.

For his part, Roman was also quiet, and though polite, paid her little attention. Had it not been for one special smile, she might have thought he had forgotten the moment of harmony they had shared near the beach. But one smile was enough to make her eyes dreamy and to bring a warm flush to her cheeks. One smile was promise enough for tomorrow.

When dinner was over, the men bade good night to the women and left to discuss the business of the estate over brandy and cigars.

Silvia and Martha retired to a small parlor adjoining the dining room. The feminine decor was in shades of rose, with pale brocade cloth covering the cushioned furniture. Martha’s expert needlework was evident in pillows and beautifully appointed cloths on the tabletops. The chairs were small-scaled compared to the library furniture, and grouped cozily around an inlaid tea table. Martha’s sewing basket, filled with thread and yarn and fine linen cloth, sat beside one chair. The room was a perfect setting for Martha’s beauty and enveloped her in a warm, rosy cocoon.

“This is the only room in the castle Uncle has given me a free hand in decorating,” Martha said, noting Silvia’s appreciation of her surroundings. It is used for entertaining ladies who accompany their husbands when they are here to do business with Uncle.”

Martha’s small hands carefully poured a special herbal blend of tea she had prepared when learning of Silvia’s soreness. She had sent for boiling water, and as she waited, selected the various herbs from silver-topped jars she kept in a small cabinet. The steaming brew had a delicious, spicy aroma. Martha added sugar to each cup, and handing one to Silvia, asked how she had enjoyed the ride with Roman.

“Morgan joined us,” Silvia said, sipping a swallow and setting her rose-patterned cup on the low tea table.

Martha’s brows raised slightly and a faint smile reached her lips.

Silvia lowered her lids a moment and rested her head against the back of the chair.

“It was wonderful to get out after months on the ship.” She laughed lightly. “I enjoyed it in spite of being unaccustomed to the saddle.” For Morgan’s sake she did not tell Martha about his mishap, nor did she mention Roman’s invitation to ride with him again tomorrow.

The moment her cup was empty, Martha poured a second cup of the fragrant brew for her.

“You must drink another. It will help you sleep.” Martha smiled sweetly, and carefully returned the teapot to its tray. Her slender white hand patted Silvia’s arm. “I use it when I am overly tired.” Martha sipped daintily from her own cup. Tonight she had dressed entirely in pale blue satin. Even the dainty slippers peeping out from the hem of her gown were made of matching fabric. She twisted her head slightly, showing a pair of sapphire earrings that shone like starlight against her fair skin. “But it is Vivien’s cure that will do you the most good. She will be down soon to get it for you. Her liniment will take the soreness out by morning, if you can stand the smell.” Martha’s soft laughter had a musical ring, and as her head bobbled slightly, candlelight reflected in her pale hair, making it look as silvery as the elegant tea service before them.

Silvia had not seen Vivien since morning. Now she mused over the strangeness of the dark, hawkish woman who was never in sight but appeared like a conjured-up spirit when needed or mentioned. She was, perhaps, Mr. Schlange’s nurse and stayed with him when he was not sleeping. Yet she seemed to have authority over the other servants. Was she the housekeeper or a member of the family, some distant relative like they supposed her to be? Martha would know, but Silvia thought it not prudent to ask her about Vivien. A moment later she pushed the matter from her thoughts as a drowsy warmth spread through her limbs.

“The tea is wonderful,” Silvia said, draining her cup of the last swallow. “If Vivien’s liniment is equally as soothing, I am certain to sleep more soundly than ever.”

The crisp rustle of taffeta skirts alerted her to Vivien’s approach, and she turned to see the stern-faced woman enter the parlor.

“Anna said you wished to see me.”

Silvia set her cup down. Vivien’s eyes were dark as a starless midnight sky and her face held the same grim expression as when she had first greeted Silvia at the door of Serpent Tree Hall. Instinctively Silvia felt that Vivien disliked her and merely tolerated her presence in the house. But possibly Vivien did not like anyone. She showed no more deference to Martha than to Silvia herself. Martha, though, apparently saw nothing disturbing in her manner. In any event, Silvia politely stifled a yawn; Vivien’s peculiar relationship to members of the family need not concern her for a little while longer.

She covered her mouth, but try as she might, this time could not prevent a yawn. She was so drowsy, so sleepy. The tea had worked well to relax her, and she felt as if she would fall asleep if she closed her eyes again. Martha’s beautiful porcelain-lidded eyes glowed like candle flames in her hazy vision. She blinked and straightened up in the chair and with a fleeting smile turned toward Vivien.

“I would be grateful if I could use some of your liniment, Vivien. I rode today and the experience left me sore and stiff.” Her words sounded thick and slow like honey pouring from the rim of a jar.

Vivien’s eyes were shiny black beads fixed on Silvia, and as she listened she lifted her chin slightly in a slow, fluid motion like that of a perching bird raising its head.

“Anna will bring it up when you go to your room.” Vivien stood ramrod straight. “Use it sparingly. It is strong.” She glanced once at Martha and made an almost imperceptible nod before she left the room.

Silvia patted her cheeks, briefly chasing the sleepiness from her eyes. She stood cautiously, said good night to Martha, and made her way slowly to her bedroom. Anna was at her door almost as soon as she arrived. In her pudgy hands she carried a corked bottle of dark brownish liquid and a kettle of hot water. She took them into the dressing room, poured the water in a bowl, and set the bottle in to warm the liniment.

“It’ll take a minute to heat it up right,” Anna said. “Nobody knows what she puts in it,” she went on. “She’s a wonder with cures.” Anna stopped abruptly as if she were about to say more but thought better of it. Instead she merrily added, “Do you want me to rub it on for you, miss?”

“No, thank you, Anna, I’ll do that myself.”

* * *

As Anna left, Silvia contemplated her maid’s stilted speech. At times everyone in the household held his tongue while in her presence. What could they possibly be keeping from her? Although each tried to make her feel at home, Silvia knew they all secretly wondered why she was here, and she sensed the uneasiness they felt. Yet only Vivien’s piercing glares bespoke her curiosity.

In her lethargic state Silvia saw Vivien’s menacing looks as those coming from a bird of prey. She felt certain the woman disliked her, would prefer she had never come to Serpent Tree Hall. Silvia felt terribly uncomfortable when ever alone with her and hoped for little contact once her position was announced.

Listlessly she undressed, wrapped herself in a robe, and painfully made her way to the dressing room. She took the bottle from the water and wiped it dry with a cloth, lifting it high to the candlelight and turning it curiously in her hand as she dropped the cloth to a washstand. She tested the temperature bare-handed to be sure it was not too hot to apply.

The cork fit tightly and required a tug before separating from the bottle’s neck. Grimacing, she snapped her head back in surprise when it popped out, and just as quickly, her nose wrinkled in disgust at the overpowering medicinal odor. She laughed softly. It was stronger than any horse liniment she had ever smelled. If odor were any indication of its effectiveness, Vivien’s ointment would be a marvelous cure. Holding her breath, she rubbed it on her sore backside and thighs, feeling a soothing spread of warmth on her skin where she massaged in the potent liquid.

A few moments later she climbed with agonizing slowness between the soft sheets. Martha’s tea had acted as a sleeping draft, and combined with the effects of the rub, took her into a deep, spiraling slumber where figures swirled and shimmied shadowlike in a thick green mist.

She moaned softly. Her body floated like a loose feather drifting downward through heavy, warm air. At last she came to rest in a cavernous dark room where open-paged books appeared like large silent birds flying around her head. The sound of crashing ocean waves and the loud thundering hooves of running horses mingled in her ears.

Dim figures swirled faster, rising from the floor as dancers, floating weightlessly in the greenish mist. One dark shape stepped apart from the others and moved purposefully toward her. Silvia stirred, tossing her head from side to side on the pillow. She cried out softly, whimpering like a lamb lost in the darkness. The figure stopped at the sound of her cry. Suspended, it hovered above her head until she was again still and quiet.

She sighed helplessly as a weight pressed the mattress beside her. A dark shape sat at her side, its face hidden in the shading hood of a cloak. Rising up from the blackened folds of the heavy garment, a hand slowly reached out and touched her cheek, drawing a finger in slow rhythm across her lips.

Another soft moan escaped from Silvia’s lips. Her hands moved listlessly to her face and brushed against the hair-roughened back of the hand that caressed her. She quivered once and stretched her arms above her head, sinking deeper into the soft pillow. Her body tingled pleasurably beneath the soothing touches that came against her throat. She lifted lightly to meet gentle, pliant fingers that moved the covers aside and stroked delicately over her pale shoulders and the graceful swell of her breasts.

A face appeared in her mind, gentle, loving, with eyes of balmy blue. Her fingers stretched and curled in enjoyment. He had stilled her troubled dream and stayed the tormenting thoughts that played within her head.

“Roman.” A feathery whisper sounded from her lips.

The hand stopped its tender game. Above her a grim face contorted painfully into a frown. The lips twitched, and a sound, half a gurgle, half a moan, sounded from deep within his throat. Long, purposeful fingers moved quickly upward, looping tightly around a single lock of Silvia’s raven hair. The shadowy shape stood, raising the other arm high and holding it there briefly. As the arm slowly descended, a sliver of moonlight reflected from a bit of pearl on the curved handle of a dagger clutched in his hand.

A sharp painful tug on her hair brought a sudden cry of pain. Silvia jerked her head away and one hand slipped down to fumble at her temple for the source of the pain. When she rolled her head back toward the menacing shape, it had become a dark, rising mist, a retreating shadowy cloud, leaving, as it went, a scent of roses.

Silvia tried to speak but her words turned to darkness. In a moment all the figures were gone like shadows swallowed up in a blackened void. She knew nothing more until sunshine filtered its welcome light into the room and she woke suddenly, sitting up in bed with a vague, haunting remembrance of something frightening having happened as she slept. A nightmare, she’d had a dreadful nightmare, she remembered uneasily as a cold shiver coursed her spine. She sniffed. The scent of roses still filled the room, stirring a memory from the shadows of her mind.

Slowly, knowingly, her hand went to her hair and then she fell back to the pillow, feeling strangely alarmed. Beside her head on the pillow rested a single red rose. A cold, cold dread filled her heart as trembling fingers took the flower in her hands.

Her thoughts flew like dry leaves in a storm. Shaking uncontrollably, she tossed the flower from her and combed her fingers through her hair while the dim memory of a dream grew stronger. How could there be a rose on her pillow? She had locked the doors. Yet she had awoken to find her door unlocked her first night at Serpent Tree Hall. Could someone be watching, waiting for her during the night?

The anxiety turned round and round in her mind until all at once she threw the covers back and jumped from the bed. She was at the mirror in a flash, but her suspicions had not prepared her for what she saw. She froze, hands covering her mouth. Her dark tangled hair hung loosely over her back and shoulders. She stared wildly at a frightened image that returned her fear. It had been more than a dream. There was no mistaking it. Her arms fell limply to her sides and she caught hold of the dresser to keep from falling. The glass showed quite clearly one shortened dark curl resting on her forehead. Someone had cut away a lock of her hair as she slept.

A churning panic swept over her and she continued to stare at her image in disbelief. Her jaw slackened and she backed woodenly away from the mirror. Taking a few aimless steps, she spotted her robe and quickly slipped it on. A sudden thought sent her rushing to the bedroom door, but there she found the key in the lock as she had left it. The sitting-room door also proved locked. Then how and who? Dreams did not produce roses nor snip away locks of hair.

Her alarm growing, Silvia dashed back to the bedroom, threw open the windows, and leaned out. She knew there was no balcony, but somehow she had to confirm that the walls were too steep and the windows too high for anyone to scale easily. It was a long sheer drop to the ground below. No one could have come through the windows.

Who, then, had cut her hair, and how had the rose been placed on her pillow? She walked with leaden movements to the bed, trying to stop the loud drumming of her heart. The sound made it impossible for her to think clearly. She spied the rose lying where she had tossed it and closed her eyes against the sight of it. But when she opened them a moment later, the rose remained, still there, a fragrant red reminder on the spot where her head had rested. The rose must have come from the garden.

Feeling a surge of nausea, Silvia climbed back in her bed and sat cross-legged, twisting a handful of her long black hair. Why would anyone want a lock of her hair? Who would want it? Surely not sweet Martha or cranky old Vivien. She had met Eric only once so it couldn’t be him. Roman or Morgan?

Would either of them be brazen enough to sneak into her room and steal a lock of hair while she slept? She sat up straight with the dawning of a thought. There would be other keys. Vivien had a set and anyone might have duplicates. Her honey eyes widened as she raised her brows in disdain. Yes. Of course it might have been either brother. Certainly it would not be the first time Roman had behaved brazenly. And Silvia sensed Morgan’s growing interest in her. But which one, Roman or Morgan, and what did it mean?

It was an outrage, nothing less, though surely the deed had not been meant to frighten. She sighed and fell back, frowning resolutely, her heart clearly telling her which brother she preferred. Another wistful sigh drifted from her lips. Who could understand the heart of a man, bold and brash until enamored of a woman and then afraid to ask a keepsake from that special one? Still it angered and frightened her a little to be treated in such a way. She shook her head, puzzled. Neither Roman nor Morgan seemed the type to become crafty and shy. A few moments later, resentful and restless, she slipped out of bed and went to the dresser, her face drawn and anxious as she sat there a long while with her chin resting on her hands.

Sometime later she pulled the enameled hairbrush vigorously through her thick tresses until they lay smooth and glistening against her scalp. As she arched her brows defiantly, she twisted her hair into a tight coil high on her head. There were no loose tendrils or straying curls to tempt anyone else. She stared at the glass, her lips set in a pout. At least the lock snipped away had been small and would not be noticeable to anyone but herself.

She dressed quickly, having sent Anna away when she came to help. This morning she preferred to be alone until it was time for breakfast.

At the table Silvia made a belligerent rattle with her fork as she laid it on the plate. If she had expected an indication of who had dared to invade her privacy, she found none. The meal was eaten in haste. The men talked of nothing but business, and Silvia could not have guessed from their reception of her this morning that either Roman or Morgan had given her a thought since they had ridden together. They seemed totally caught up in some new project for the mill, and Martha, sensing their preoccupation, ate quietly.

Actually Silvia thought their inattentiveness to her presence bordered on rudeness and found herself chafing as she was completely left out of the conversations. The three men left before she had finished eating, and soon Martha too was gone to attend to an errand for Eric.

It was early yet and the clear bright light of morning beckoned her to a quiet walk in the garden. A light breeze fanned the floral scents into a new and wonderful perfume and succeeded in partially restoring her spirits. The sun had not yet kissed the dew from the blossoms, and it lay in golden droplets on the fresh green leaves. She strolled through the palmettos, along the path by the hedges, until at last she could not restrain herself from visiting the rose garden.

There were dozens of bushes, several varieties of red roses, many like the one she had found in her room. Her skirts rustled in the breeze as she followed the circuitous path around the bushes until she stood among the pinks and whites. Bees buzzed over the roses, dipping to the centers of the open flowers, seeking and taking the sweet nectar.

Silvia soon lapsed into deep thought as she watched their practiced gathering, puzzling over the identity of her nocturnal visitor, wondering if she had been mistaken in thinking it had been Roman or Morgan. If either of them cared enough to want a lock of her hair, there had been no indication of it at breakfast. She stood very still, staring at nothing in particular.

“Silvia.”

When a hand touched her shoulder, she shrieked and whirled around, sending her skirts billowing in a flurry of silk around her. She clenched her hands into tiny fists and held them to her breasts. Her eyes were wild and startled.

“Roman,” she said in a whisper. “I thought you had gone with Eric.”

“And so I had, but came back to remind you we ride together this afternoon. Had you forgotten?”

Must he always toy with her? She felt a heated flush beneath her skin. He might have given some hint earlier that he remembered their plans.

“Actually, I...”

He spoke again, understanding her momentary frown. “I wanted to get away without Morgan today.”

Her cheeks cooled and she smiled faintly. “Shall I meet you at the stables?”

“No.” He grinned diabolically, his eyes bright as the sunlight. “Come through the courtyard. I’ll have the horses outside the garden gate. We’ll ride to the western side of the island, over by the salt marshes.” He held one hand behind his back. “It is the untamed, uncultivated part of the estate. I want you to see it.”

Grinning delectably, Roman swung his hand forward and presented her with a vivid red rose, a duplicate of the one in her room.

Silvia grew a little pale and her fingers shook as she took the flower from his hand.

But Roman, smiling, mistook her distress for embarrassment, and making a slight bow, kissed the back of her hand as she closed it around the stem.

“Red for the lady with secret fires,” he said softly, and turned on his heels to hurry away.

She watched him disappear but walked awhile longer in the garden, unable to forget his words. Her breath came raggedly as she randomly crossed the garden paths, holding the blossom close against her breast and coming to no conclusion about all that puzzled her. Finally, tired from her rambling, she stopped at a stone bench beneath the trees and sat down, raising the fragrant rose to her lips. It was a perfect blossom, a perfect rose, a perfect red.

Roman had surely visited her room. She felt a disjunctive flurry of excitement and distress. Such an action was out of character for him, and was decidedly not the way she would want him to behave. She sighed sadly. She should be angry. He had no right to slip into her room at night, whatever his intentions. Mr. Schlange would undoubtedly be furious if he knew.

Her lids lowered halfway and her lips sealed tightly together as she sat beneath the gentle rays of the sun. She really didn’t know Roman well at all. She had come to think of him as arrogant and forceful and totally unmindful of her feelings. Now with the emergence of a secretive and shy side of him she couldn’t help wondering what had made him change his feelings toward her.

Clasping the flower in her hands like a precious jewel, she choked back a little cry. What would occur when Mr. Schlange told them who she really was? How would Roman feel about her then? Saddened at the thought of what would happen to her fragile new world at that time, she left the garden and returned to her room.

Knowing the men would not be in to dine, Silvia sent a note to Martha and asked to have a light meal sent to her room. She had just awakened from a nap when Anna dutifully arrived with a linen-covered tray.

“Are you feeling poorly, miss?” Anna pattered in with the large tray and set it on a small table near the window. She had brought enough food for three: slices of meat, bread and jam, sliced fruit, and a glass of fresh milk.

“I am well, thank you, Anna. It is simply that I have some things to do in my room.” Silvia waited by the door until Anna reluctantly stopped her curious glances and, apparently satisfied that Silvia was indeed well, departed.

Actually Silvia had nothing at all to do until her ride with Roman, and she almost found herself wishing Mr. Schlange would assign her some duties. She was unaccustomed to long periods of inactivity and there had been months of that on board the ship. Now that she was rested she would have preferred something to occupy her. Everyone else seemed to be busy. The servants, Eric, Morgan and Roman, even Martha had responsibilities. Perhaps there was some needlework she could do. When she returned from her ride she would be sure to ask Martha if she could assist in some way.

Silvia slipped unobserved through the courtyard, arriving at the garden gate at the arranged time. She found the latch, lifted up the catch, and with a push heard the wide gate creak on the heavy iron hinges as it resisted her efforts. The thick wooden planks were sturdy and strong enough to serve as a barricade for an armed invasion but finally yielded to her shoves and swung outward. She immediately saw the horses tied in a stand of trees just beyond the castle. A moment later Roman appeared from behind the trunk of an enormous live oak and waved to her as she quickened her steps in his direction.

The tumult of her feelings burst out in a smile of pleasure at seeing him. In a few seconds they were both sheltered beneath the armlike branches of the great oak where the ground was layered with leaves and spongy moss that had fallen from the trailing branches. A breeze rippled the green leaves above, making a linear play of sunlight on the horses’ shiny coats. When she saw Silvia, Cricket pricked up her ears and gave a little nicker. Silvia smiled and stroked Cricket’s velvety nose, pleased the little mare had taken to her so quickly.

“Let’s not linger,” Roman said, gripping her waist and hoisting her quickly to the saddle. “Morgan has been hot on my heels all morning.”

“He has good reason to be angry with you,” Silvia said, forcing a disapproving frown to her face. “You played an abominable trick on him.”

“Ha!” Roman said scornfully, his eyes narrowing wickedly. “No worse than he has dealt me on many occasions.”

Her muted laughter joined the gentle stirring of the breeze. Soon they were picking a trail through the trees, and when they emerged suddenly from the forest, burst out on a gently rolling field green with the wild plant life of Schlange Island.

Silvia smiled, feeling free and happy as a bird released from its cage. She marveled at the natural beauty of the island, the play of greens in the landscape, and the sight of birds swooping to the ground in the distance feasting on the abundance of insects. A young brown rabbit scurried across the trail just ahead of the horses. Trader snorted and Cricket threw her head back and sidestepped as the frightened bunny bounded out of sight. Silvia caught hold of Cricket’s mane to steady herself and tightened her grip on the reins to get the horse under control.

“Easy, little lady,” she whispered to the mare.

“Watch her,” Roman warned. “She’s skittish of sudden moves, though I’ve never known her to actually bolt.” He leaned from the saddle and patted the mare’s neck. “It’s the only fault I’ve not been able to break her of. The rascal unseated Martha once, and my cousin has not cared for Cricket since.”

Cricket gave no more trouble and Silvia soon relaxed her grip on the reins. They rode silently for a mile or more, reluctant to shatter the peaceful stillness with words.

The afternoon was pleasant, though warm. Calm breezes continued to sweep the island in soft gusts. Cricket, full of energy, picked her feet up high and tossed her head, indicating her eagerness to quicken the pace. There was a wildness to this side of the island, an untamed look where the land was untouched by plows or herds of grazing cattle. Far ahead, a doe appeared with her young one at her side. Her proud head shot up when she heard the approaching hooves of the horses, and in an instant the frightened deer became a flash of white in two brown blurs as they leapt behind a cover of brush.

Rugged gray rocks began to replace the marsh grasses and tidal pools as they rode. The faraway sound of crashing waves grew stronger. In the distance Silvia saw a high rocky crag jutting into the lively green waters of the ocean. Roman pulled Trader into the lead and led the way through swells of sand dunes thick with swaying sea oats. Silvia let Cricket have her head and the mare followed the big roan, her small hooves sinking deep in the white sand. When Trader walked into the ocean, Cricket stopped momentarily on the shore and whinnied to him.

Trader snorted his impatience at the little mare’s hesitancy. The gentle waves licked at the gelding’s legs; Roman urged him further into the water until the foamy whitecaps were splashing the horse’s belly.

Cricket hesitantly set one foot in the wet sand. She had no sooner shifted her weight when a wave washed over her hoof. With a jaunty toss of her head, Cricket danced into the water, flicking her tail, following the way Trader had gone. Roman waited until they were close behind before nudging Trader around the rocky protuberance toward the shore and finally into the confines of a hidden cove.

Silvia’s eyes flashed in awe. Jagged rocks stretched out like the fingers of a rugged, earthly giant reaching for a handful of the ocean. The water within the giant’s grasp was a bright turquoise shade topped with milky white foam where it crashed against the rocks.

Roman dismounted when he reached the sparkling sand. While Silvia and her mount forged through the frothy waves, he stripped off his shirt and tossed it across the saddle. In the bright sunlight, his bare torso gleamed golden from his broad shoulders to his narrow waist, and Silvia could not stay her eyes from the sight of him.

The mare stepped slowly, picking her footing with caution. Swirling water splashed just below the hem of Silvia’s riding costume, an occasional wave dampening the lower part of her skirt. Nickering, Cricket reached the dry sand of the beach and halted to shake, covering Silvia with a fine spray and nearly unseating her as well.

She was protesting Cricket’s lapse of manners when Roman’s strong hands circled her waist and pulled her effortlessly from the saddle. Her laughter rang out carefree and gay as he swung her in a slow arc above the silver sand. She felt a lightness in her heart she hadn’t known in more months than she dared remember.

“Roman,” she cried out joyfully as he drew her near and enfolded her within the press of his arms.

He laughed and dropped a quick kiss on her forehead before her feet had fully touched the ground and she had caught her balance. Silvia joined his laughter, throwing her head back in gleeful abandon and wrapping her slender arms around his neck. They stood for a moment circled in each other’s arms, Silvia feeling her breasts tighten as they crushed against his bare chest. She quivered, feeling as if a bit of flint had struck a spark in her flesh.

Her breath caught softly in her throat. She could feel each draw of air molding her body closer to his. Her eyes closed tight, shutting out all but the light that burned between them. Another moment and she would have no choice but to yield to the sweet magnetism of his embrace.

Roman, too, felt the spark of a flame within his flesh. His breathing quickened and deepened. Lest he demand more than he intended, he sighed and loosened his hold from around her waist. Suddenly the mood that had held them disappeared for a time like the rhythmic waves teasing at their feet.

Filling his lungs with a deep breath of sea air, that it might cool his blood, Roman led Silvia to a low, flat rock and in a voice hoarse and broken instructed her to slip out of her footgear. His own boots and stockings lay cast aside like winter garb on the first spring day. He strolled around her as she sat, casting his eyes out to sea and bending his will to obey his thoughts. He would bide his time.

Busying herself with the task of removing her boots, Silvia tried to stay the longing she felt beginning inside.

She kept her eyes from Roman’s face but found them instead straying to firm, bare calves as tanned and muscular as his torso. Her heart fluttered so in her chest that she took doubly long to shed her footgear. When it was done she found him watching her from a few paces away.

“You’ll like the feel of the sand,” Roman said in a voice deliberately light. He grabbed her boots and placed them beside his own, safely out of range of the incoming tide. “Morgan and I used to come here as boys and strip off our clothes to swim.” His voice had once again become low and smooth. Kicking up sand as he walked, he returned and took a seat beside her. “Not that it mattered where we swam. We had the run of the island.” One side of his mouth pulled up in a smile as he made a sweeping gesture with his hand. “But here we could imagine pirates coming to shore at night and hiding their stolen gold.” He laughed heartily. “We must have dug up half the beach searching for treasure.”

“And did you find it?” She laughed gently, smiling easily as she began to feel the mystique of the tiny cove.

Roman’s smile held a special tenderness as his mellowing gaze met hers. She felt a curious tingling begin in the pit of her stomach and touched her hand to her abdomen in consternation. Roman made no response to her question until her brows raised inquiringly. She found his face occupied with a look that caused a sudden invisible warmth to settle over her. She knew instinctively he felt it too, the fine silken web beginning a delicate lacing between them.

“Did you?” she whispered as his hands reached the back of her head and loosened her dark coils of hair. She was conscious of the warm sensuous touch of his fingers on her skin, soft and lazy and like the touch of the sun, soothing and warm. With gentle caresses he smoothed her tumbling tresses over her shoulders, running his fingers slowly through the silken curls.

There was a depth to his smile she had never seen, a softening of his features that revealed secrets she could know only with her heart. Her lips parted softly as his piercing blue eyes caressed her face like a swathing of satin.

“Not until today.” His voice was a velvety whisper followed by a moment of silence. Roman’s eyes turned a smoky blue and fixed to hers as the wind picked up and stirred a lock of sunlit hair over his temple. “In those days a treasure was gold.”

A rakish smile curved his lips. Silvia dropped her eyes as her cheeks warmed and flushed pink beneath his admiring gaze.

“Now I know a greater prize than gold.” Blue eyes roamed over her approvingly. She glanced up, and seeing the intensity of his gaze, once more lowered her head. “Fool I was not to know its worth from the first.”

Slowly, encouraged by the hidden meaning of his words, she lifted her eyes to boldly meet his.

“And is this treasure one you could value more than gold?”

“Aye. One that is priceless and unmatched in all the world.” He stood and pulled her to her feet. “One I could not see for my own blindness.”

She was like a fragile budding flower in his heart, a sweet unfolding blossom where he had expected nettles. The whispering wind and the golden rays of the sun heightened the lavender fragrance in her hair. In the sunlight her skin glowed with the luster of pearls and her eyes glittered with soft amber lights.

“It is to my own stubborn nature I must set the blame.” He countered the swell of happiness in his chest. “I saw what I would and took you to be a worldly woman bought and paid to provide pleasure.”

Silvia’s skin reddened in a blush that extended from her face to her feet. So that was what he had thought her. She caught her breath sharply.

“And what do you see now?” she asked, the words falling brokenly from her trembling lips.

“I see a woman who has never known the pleasure of a man’s touch. I see a woman who makes me forget my vow never to lose my heart.”

He pulled her hands against his chest, pressed them to his flesh where she could feel the pounding of his heart.

The gentle sea breeze feathered her tumbling curls around her face and shoulders as Roman brought her hands to his lips, kissing each one in turn. Silvia opened out her fingers to caress his cheeks as he dropped his hands to circle her waist. The nearness of him nearly drew her breath away and she lowered her eyes lest he see that his words had freed her heart to know the truth of her secret yearnings.

A wistful sigh slipped like a whisper from her parted lips. She was bewitched by a golden Siegfried. She touched his shoulder, slid her hand over the corded muscles of his arm. Beneath her hand his skin was hot, heated to a feverish degree by the rapid pulsing of his blood. His hair had become molten gold spun into strands that captured the sun. Set in an aureate face were the blue flames that brought a radiant fire to her eyes.

“And is this treasure one you would keep?” she whispered.

“Aye. One I would hold and keep and cherish.”

“And would you possess this treasure?”

“Aye. If I could. That is another lesson I have learned.” He kissed the palm of her hand. “Treasure is not the bounty found on pirate ships, nor the gold and jewels buried in forgotten places in the sand. Treasure is the gold and silver hidden in the heart of a man and a woman.”

“You speak of love,” she said softly.

“I speak of the wealth a man and woman can give one to the other.”

“Is that the treasure you would take?”

He brushed the straying hair from his forehead. “The treasure I speak of cannot be taken. To have value, it must be given freely.”

His fingers loosened the buttons of her riding coat and slipped it from her shoulders, letting it drop to the sand, and as it did, he released the soft bow at the neck of her blouse.

Nervous now, Silvia trembled beneath his hands. She tried to halt the surging tide of warmth his nearness stirred. Did he speak of love or of some other emotion tied to love? She knew only that he started a reckless longing inside her that would not be stilled. Had she known it would come to this? Was it for this end she had followed him like a faithful pet to this hidden place?

His hands caressed her shoulders, a welcome weight that cooled her skin beneath his touch. His long fingers trailed nimbly downward to curve around the fullness of her breasts. Silvia felt a tingling as the peaks tightened beneath the rhythmic stroking of his thumbs. A whimpering sigh escaped her as his hands slipped to her waist, pulling her close. His lips moved like a hot flame on her throat while he pressed one hand to the small of her back, bringing her firmly against his loins. The other he wrapped in the black silk of her hair and gently pulled her head back. Silvia’s lips trembled with the uncertainty of her choices as his mouth possessed hers with searing kisses.

Arms about him, she found the curves and planes of his back beneath her exploring hands. His skin was smooth and damp and she could only marvel at the strength banked within the steel muscles.

“Is this not a treasure worth having?” he whispered in her ear as his lips found hers again, parted them and then devoured them with kisses that drew the breath from her body.

Trembling, she slipped a hand to his lips, halting his assault before she lost the last remnant of resistance.

“Would you take all that I have, Roman?” she whispered shakily.

His gaze changed and the passion cooled in his eyes. He sighed, a long drawn-out whistle of breath that seemed to ease his mood.

“Nay, little flower. I will take only what you will give, though I think you do not yet know your own mind.” His hands had not left her body, though his voice had taken on a patient tone even he could not understand.

No words would come, and she looked at him pleadingly through eyes as round and golden as a harvest moon.

“Nay,” he whispered, kissing her neck. “‘Tis you who must seek the treasure and unlock the chest. I will wait.”

He caught her by the waist and lifted her like a child, to the top of a rock. A moment later they were running hand in hand across the sand to explore a small cave across the cove. When the sun began to fall in the sky and they had replaced their boots and begun the ride back to Serpent Tree Hall, his embrace had become a sweet, glowing memory set in her heart as eternally as the sun hung in the heavens.

Silvia rode beside him, eyeing him wistfully, longingly. In the innermost cache of her mind she knew he would have his way. He was a wily, crafty pirate who had set her aflame, seeking his treasure.

Chapter 7

“It’s spiteful,” Martha snapped, pressing her fingertips to her temples and rubbing small circles. A sheet of paper bearing the black imprint of the Schlange crest rested on the table before her. “This, after weeks of refusing to see us, weeks of not even letting us know the state of his health.”

Her face drawn and lips tight, Martha read again the few sentences scrawled in her uncle’s unmistakable hand.

To my nephews and dear niece, Martha:

During my illness I have had time to reflect on many matters at Serpent Tree Hall which are unsatisfactory to me. The time has come for us to alter the course of things here. Put all business aside. On Thursday at the dinner hour I will join you to make an announcement of supreme importance and to outline the changes I expect of each of you.

Your uncle and benefactor,

Wilhelm Schlange

Martha hissed. “Benefactor! Ha! He thinks we are all his minions.” She took the note that had thrown her into a state of agitation and crumpled it in her hand. The message had been handed down an hour earlier by Odin as the four of them talked together in the drawing room. Absently, as her head began to throb, she released her hold on the paper and it slipped lightly from her fingers, floating like chaff to the floor beneath the dining-room table.

Eric smiled and looked at her consolingly. “Hush, Martha,” he said gently. “It isn’t like you to take on so. I believe you’ve got one of your headaches coming on.”

Martha’s breath came in a great huff. “Yes. And it’s no wonder that I do. He has Vivien order me about like a servant.” She grimaced. “Prepare this dish, Martha. See to the flowers, Martha. He might have the good grace to tell me himself and to allow more than two days’ notice for a special dinner.”

“You forget, my dear sister, he has been ill and inactive for weeks. Uncle is accustomed to keeping an empire afloat. I think it is a sign he is improving and wants to put a finger in the pie and stir it,” Eric responded blithely, his hand comfortingly on Martha’s arm.

“Bah!” Martha whipped up her defiance. “He has no right. He has had us do his bidding for years, and now he says things must change.” Tiny blue veins strained against her fair skin. “It’s preposterous!”

“Martha. Calm yourself.” Roman held the back of her chair and looked down at the braided ring of gold hair that crowned her head. Martha tossed her chin up angrily and he could see how tightly laced her fingers were in her lap. “Eric is right. Give consideration to his mental state. When he is fully recovered and able to talk with us, this will come to nothing.”

“True, love,” Morgan echoed. “If he’s ready to stir up trouble, he will soon be himself again. Admit now that for a hard man he has been more than generous to us.”

“I admit nothing,” she snapped. “We have given him our lives in return for his generosity.” She was silent for a moment and her fair cheeks grew a mottled red. “If you should lose your precious ships—” She glanced knowingly at Roman and then at Eric. “—and you your mills and crops, then what?” The fine edge of anger in her voice dulled to a whisper.

“That, Martha, my sweet, will never happen,” Eric said calmly and confidently. He straightened his back as a self-assured glow brightened his eyes.

* * *

The moment she arrived at dinner, Silvia sensed something was wrong. She was taken aback by the somberness of the gathering and soon the gay smile disappeared from her face. A gleam of anticipation died in her eyes as hollow disappointment registered in the set of her mouth. She had wanted to see their faces alight with the excitement and happiness that lingered in her heart. Hopefully she glanced at Martha.

“I have a dreadful headache,” Martha explained, wringing the linen napkin in her lap. “Please don’t think me rude, but my head throbs terribly when I speak.” She frowned, setting fine wrinkles in her forehead. It was to her credit that Martha remained at the table until the meal was finished, for the pain had brought a wan look to her face and she was barely able to nibble at her food. Bravely she made no more complaint of her discomfort, though she was quiet and subdued during the remainder of dinner.

A quick glance around the table was all that was necessary to quell Silvia’s hopes for a pleasant evening. Morgan too was silent, and sullen as well. Eric, who frequently led the conversation, seemed to distance himself from the others this night. Even Roman seemed moodily repressed and, to Silvia’s dismay, treated her coolly. There was an indication something had occurred that had left them all strained and mirthless.

Silvia was soon lost in thought, wondering if the tension that stippled the air was commonplace among the cousins. Catching a bit of that tension herself, she fidgeted nervously in her chair, causing the linen napkin to slide from her lap to the floor. She bent low to retrieve the napkin and found it lying atop a crumpled scrap of paper. Curiosity reigning, she picked up both and brought them to rest in her lap. Her eyes dropped down briefly. The insignia was the Schlange crest. Glancing about the table and seeing that no one was taking notice of her, she gently smoothed out the wrinkles on the note and read the message Wilhelm Schlange had penned.

So that was the cause of the discontent. Business. At the very least she could rest assured it had nothing to do with her. Business matters had absorbed the thoughts of the men, and Martha suffered with her headache. Of course they did not want to discuss business while she was present; nevertheless, she did feel a pang of disappointment that Roman could so easily dismiss her from his mind.

She sat quietly for a while, having lost interest in her meal. If Mr. Schlange were coming down for dinner, then he was much improved. Soon she would meet him herself, though she expected if he meant to discuss business with his nephews, she would be excluded from the dinner on Thursday. Quietly and carefully Silvia tucked the note in her pocket. And now that Mr. Schlange was better, it meant among other things that her life at Serpent Tree Hall might change.

The thought brought her a sinking sensation. As her own light mood grew heavy, it was as if the sudden onset of a slow, steady rain pattering against the windows added to the dark and dreary tension in the room. Soon the drops changed to thin black streams that fell endlessly, and it seemed as if the deluge would drain the heavens dry. Silvia sighed. She had hoped for a moonlight walk in the garden with Roman. But nature had conspired with the oppressive mood of the group, and when dinner ended, she received only a cursory good night from him as he rose from the table.

It might be just as well, she told herself when she was curled beneath the sheets in her darkened room. She had sipped a few swallows of Martha’s herbal tea, brought up by Anna, at Martha’s insistence, with an apology that she had been too ill to sit with Silvia after dinner. It had taken only those few swallows to settle her ruffled nerves, and now as she lay in her bed, she tried to think logically about her attraction to Roman Toller.

Her mind fastened languidly on memories of the hours spent with him. In her state, it was decidedly best for her to be alone. She needed a clear head, and when Roman was near she could not trust her thoughts. She was forgetting too easily that her life as an equal in Serpent Tree Hall must soon end. As she faced her dilemma, she found only one flaw in her insistence on reality. When she closed her eyes and thought of Roman, it was far too easy to lose herself in a wishful dream.

She willed herself to think instead of the island and the castle. They were parts of a world in itself, a world that changed with the shifting wind. When the island was bathed in the clear bright light of the sun, it was like being in the clouds and near to heaven. At other times a melancholy darkness ruled and she felt she was descending the narrow winding steps toward purgatory.

Her lids grew drowsily relaxed as she moaned and curled up tighter beneath the sheets, remembering, as sleep sought to claim her, Martha’s talk of ghosts. She shivered. Roman too had mentioned ghosts. Sleepily Silvia rubbed her eyes. She felt warm and terribly tired and wished she had not remembered the talk of ghosts. They were not a suitable subject for a dark, rainy night when one’s thoughts drifted aimlessly. She wanted no more nightmares, no more restless nights. After a time, her breathing slowed to a slumberous rate and she lay on the brink of sleep, thinking it was only her disappointment and the gloomy weather that made her think of such things.

Drowsily she locked her fingers together and pulled them beneath her chin. Roman’s face appeared in her mind, the bold, strong features and bright blue eyes as clear as if he were beside her. She tightened her lips and sighed listlessly. “Roman...Roman,” she whispered to herself. “You are free enough with words of praise and affection when we are alone. But why is it you take no notice of me when others are present? Is it simply to steer Morgan away as you say?” Another listless sigh sounded from her lips as she clutched a pillow to her breast and rolled over to find herself feeling quite wide-awake again.

She would do well not to give her heart so freely where it would surely soon be tossed back shattered and broken. Yet as she closed her eyes again, a nagging little seed of doubt sprouted in the recesses of her mind, telling her a heart given cannot be easily recalled.

She lay awake awhile longer thinking sleep had become as elusive as a woodland fairy, but eventually the steady pelting of the rain and the complaining whine of the wind lulled her to sleep. She rested quietly in the restoring deepness of pleasant slumber until a dark shadow, a vaporous murky cloud, entered the depths of her dreams.

Restlessly Silvia rolled her eyes beneath closed lids. The shadow was bold and black and filled the room with the padded thud of footsteps and the mournful, moaning whimper of an inconsolable child.

Her eyelids opened slowly, like doors on old rusty hinges that had been shut too long. She felt her lips go dry. A nightmare should fade when you wakened. But the shadow stayed, rippling above her in a ghostly gray shape that seemed to move and stand still all at once. She tried to move herself, but found her bones brittle and her blood as cold as a rushing stream beneath a layer of ice.

Wetting her lips with her tongue, she thought of one refuge, one set of strong protective arms. It was that thought that gave her the strength to swing out of bed and fly to the door. There she found the key in place, and somehow her shaking fingers managed to free the lock.

A moment later she raced over the cool stones of the hall toward Roman’s room. She never looked back, could not look back, just as she could not cry out with a voice frozen in her throat. If she turned her head and saw that black form in pursuit, her legs would crumple beneath her and she would be lost.

She reached his door, holding her breath lest the menacing shadow be there behind her in the darkness and the sound of her breathing should lead him to her. She knocked on the door, and finally, sobbing, fell against the heavy wood. The rain was a loud, roaring monster outside the walls, and alone in the hall, even the darkness seemed to swell into coiling black snakes and move against her.

“Please,” she cried, choking out the word as she knocked again on his door.

She heard the whimper, a faint sound in the distance. Her hand gripped the knob, rattling it desperately. Footsteps sounded softly behind her, and as her heart lurched, Silvia closed her eyes and flattened her body against the gray stone wall. From somewhere she heard the clank of metal and her lips moved in a silent plea.

“What...” Roman saw her by his door, trembling like a frightened lamb, her face pale as a winter moon.

Mindless of his nudity, he opened the door wider and reached for her arm.

“Nooo,” she cried as her knees gave way beneath her and she slid to the floor.

Roman caught her, swept her up in his arms, and carried her inside, pushing the door shut with his shoulder. She hung limp in his arms, her head wobbling against his bare chest.

“Silvia, Silvia,” he whispered, carrying her to his bed.

A candle burned on a table. Lighting it had taken him only a few seconds when her knocking had roused him. The flame waved in a slow dance above the tallow. When Roman stretched her out where he had lain a few minutes earlier, the soft candle glow lit her face and he saw that her skin was as white as the linens and her breathing shallow and irregular.

Roman moved quickly, pulling a pillow beneath her head and hurrying to the washstand, where he poured water in a bowl and dipped a cloth in, wetting and wringing it. Beside her on the bed, he patted the cool cloth to her temples. She stirred, turning her head aside and raising her arms to push the cloth away.

Her eyes flickered open.

“Oh!” she cried out, raising up hurriedly, her glazed eyes darting around the room and coming back to settle on his face.

Roman caught her by the shoulders and lowered her gently to the pillows.

“Be still,” he whispered, smoothing the hair from her temples. His hand lingered gently on her cheek. “You fainted.”

“Fainted?” she whispered. His soft smile calmed her and she soon felt the blood returning to her face.

“I found you beside my door looking as if the hounds of hell were pursuing you.”

“Roman! There was someone, something in my room. I woke up and it was there.” The words came too fast and her voice caught as she sat up hurriedly again and looked anxiously at the door. “It was behind me in the hall.” Her mouth quivered and her eyes glittered with fear. “I was so afraid.” Sobbing, she threw her arms around his neck, gripping him with frightened fury, her body trembling against him.

“You had a nightmare,” he said softly, stroking his hand over the thin silk nightgown that covered her back.

“I didn’t.” Her head jerked back from his shoulder. “No. It was there.”

“Well, it isn’t here,” he said, tightening his embrace as his tender gaze searched her eyes. “There’s no one here but you and me and you’re safe now from all odious monsters of the night.” His hands were at her waist, his fingers spanning her back. Gently he slipped them beneath her hair, finding the curve of her shoulders and gliding over skin as lustrous and smooth as the silk of her gown. He felt a sudden tremble start in his own flesh.

“It was real,” she whispered beneath her breath. But was it? Her heartbeat slowed, returning to a normal rate, and the fear faded from her eyes. She felt warm and safe in his arms, as if nothing in the world could harm her when he held her near. Silvia looped her arms around his neck, and his closeness soothed like an opiate, stilling her fear and giving her a euphoric peace.

Roman’s pulse quickened as hers subsided. Her arms tightened around his neck, her fingers laced tightly into the golden hair at his nape. Her lips were a soft, warm torture on his chest. A hot ache grew in his throat and with a groan Roman lowered his face to hers, brushing his cheek against her. He placed soft kisses on her lips as he pulled her closer, his warm breath fanning her face.

She was a lovely vision in the soft luster of candlelight, her black hair lit with silver, her eyes glowing like the flame itself. He felt the full curves of her breasts against him, the steadied beating of her heart thumping against his chest.

Her face was that of a little girl afraid of the dark, but the feel of her in his arms was that of a woman who responded to his touch and his embrace.

“Are you afraid now?” He pulled back a little to look into her eyes and saw that the sharp edge of fear was gone. “I can take you to your room and make sure it’s safe,” he said, tracing a fingertip sensuously across her lips.

Silvia’s lips parted, quivering beneath his touch. She couldn’t bear the thought of being alone, of being outside the circle of his arms. She feared it more than the dark and any dangers lurking in the shadows of her dreams.

“No, Roman, I want to stay,” she whispered, taking one of his hands in both hers and holding it to her cheek. She looked at him longingly, a gentle fire beginning to glow in her eyes.

Roman’s hands gently cupped her face as his breath caught in his throat.

“There are other monsters a woman should fear,” he whispered, lowering her to the pillow. “Monsters that make a man want to know all there is of a woman.” Like a warm promise, his breath caressed her throat.

“That monster is not one I fear,” she whispered, placing a finger on his lips.

His gaze skimmed over her like a soft breeze rippling the air. The sheer gown she wore hid little from his eyes as they hungrily searched for every secret. The dark peaks of her breasts strained the gossamer fabric and wielded a torturous satin touch against him. Roman moaned at the delectable crush of the soft mounds on his chest, delighting in the sweet, wonderful feel of her in his arms. He kissed the top of her head and combed his fingers gently through her hair, arranging the dark tresses in a flow of curls over the pillow.

Her heart fluttered as wildly as the wings of a young bird about to make its first flight. When Roman stretched out beside her, the heat of his body was a draft of pure nectar warming her skin. Nymphlike, she wrapped her arms about him, tracing the swell of powerful muscles in his back and seeing how the patina of his skin caught the candlelight like beaten gold in the sun.

“You are not a monster,” she whispered as he cradled her in his arms. She nuzzled her head to his shoulder, breathing in his spicy male scent.

He answered with a kiss and stilled with his embrace the tremor that shook her flesh. A moment later, the length of his body pressed against her and she could feel her skin tingling where they touched. Passion flamed in his eyes, and his hands roamed freely to her hips, easing the silky gown upward over her thighs. He slipped it beneath her hips, uncovering the flat satin plane of her stomach to his gaze. A dark forest covered the gentle swell where his hand rested for a tormenting moment.

Silvia met his eyes and smiled softly as he made gentle work of easing the filmy garment over her head and quickly tossed it carelessly to the floor. Desire consumed her as a slight tremor shook his shoulders when he touched her skin, soft as silk.

Silvia had no fears now; only the searing burn of desire flooded her veins. Roman’s eyes feasted on her curves, delighted in the beauty of her charms. His hands treasured them all with touches that drove her to soft, yearning sighs.

Roman’s breath was a low rumble in his throat as he lifted her ebony tresses and sought the curve of her neck. His mouth wandered to the soft valley between her breasts as his hands cupped the full, sensuous mounds. Moving lightly, his teeth teased at the tight buds with gentle nips that left her trembling, but soon he raised his mouth to hers and branded her lips with his fiery kisses. His hands stroked her skin, finding and bringing to life every inch of her until she writhed with pleasure.

He rolled to his side and pulled her against him, his hand wandering over the curve of her waist and onward to the flare of her hips. She felt the manly thrust of him against her, and her mind spun, excitement building with each arousing touch until she knew nothing but the press of his lips, the delicious demand of his kisses. A soft and wanton sigh escaped from her lips. He pressed his hand to her thigh and ignited a sweet, burning ache in her loins. His kisses devoured her and his eyes became a burst of blue lights as passion raged unfettered within his loins.

Carefully, reverently, he eased Silvia to her back, kneeling above her for one poignant, burning moment. She saw him clearly now, his heated manliness, the untempered desire in his face. Roman braced his arms beside her shoulders, his open mouth searing her lips with raging kisses as he lowered his weight upon her. A gentle nudge eased her thighs apart and she felt his thrust, a heated fusing that brought a brief flash of pain.

She cried his name out but soon was lost in the mounting pleasure he brought to her rapturous body. It was a mystical, unfolding world of wonder, an expanding ecstasy that flamed within like a thousand fiery suns lighting the sky. She soon learned to match his ardor, meeting his thrusts with delectable fury as her passion built to a torturous level of white heat. Wrapping her legs around him, she lifted her hips, pressing herself even closer to him. She felt him moving inside her, and as she arched her body, felt her breasts brush against his chest. Roman groaned, and placing his hands beneath her buttocks, crashed against her, igniting her flesh until an explosion came in a moment of heat and pleasure as intense and beautiful as the birth of a new star.

Blissfully they rested together in the glow of shared passion, their bodies entwined, his head beside her shoulder. Silvia’s hand rested on the damp gleaming skin of his back, and her eyes shone with a look of surprise and elation. His eyes had cooled to a sapphire blue, shining with a new emotion as he kissed her softly.

“I have claimed you, love,” he whispered, covering her mouth with silken kisses, “as mine and mine alone.” Her lips were soft and warm, the taste of her sweet and heady like wine and honey.

“I would belong to no other, Roman,” she whispered as her heart swelled with joy at his words.

He rolled to his back and she nestled her head on his shoulder. His arms held her in a quiet embrace, her tangled black curls spilled over his chest, and she heard the thundering of his heart. Silvia lifted a hand to caress his cheek. Her breathing had slowed but the feel of his body joined to hers lingered like a phosphorescent glow delectably warming her heart and soul.

The sun had begun a rosy climb in the sky when they stirred again. Roman lay on his back, Silvia cuddled in the crook of his arm, her breasts rising and falling in slow, deep breaths. Minutes ticked away as he gazed at her, overcome by the tantalizing display of her beauty, reveling in the knowledge that she had given herself to no other man. He saw her lips, full and tempting, the bloom of color on her cheeks. A surge of fullness ebbed in his chest, a possessive, protective tide of emotion willing him to keep her forever at his side.

He had made no conquest, he knew. In truth he had been conquered by soft lips and silken skin, ebony hair and eyes like wild honey. He sighed and bent over her, kissed her forehead, buried his face in the curtain of her hair, drinking in the faint lavender perfume of the dark, silky curls. He wanted nothing more than to take the place in her heart that she had taken in his. Roman’s brow creased thoughtfully. Would she feel as he did? A long finger curved beneath her chin, lifting her face to his lips. He kissed her eyes open with a soft brush of his mouth.

Silvia sighed sleepily.

“Wake up, little love. I’ll take you to your room before it is common knowledge you spent the night in my bed.”

Rising quickly, he crossed the room to find a pair of breeches and a shirt. His tousled golden hair hung lankly over his forehead and the length of it swung loose, almost reaching his shoulders. Silvia propped herself up in bed and modestly pulled the sheet up as she watched him cross the room.

His shoulders were wide and his waist narrow, his hips trim and lean. He walked with the leisurely grace of a tiger, the corded muscles beneath his gleaming golden skin rippling with each step.

While Silvia watched in fascination, he donned a pair of blue breeches and pulled a loose-fitting shirt over his head. A sprinkling of laughter rewarded her modesty as he walked back to the bed, combing his hair through with his fingers.

“Up, love,” he whispered. “Back to your room before the sun rises.” He found her gown in a heap on the floor, shook it out, and sat beside her. Suddenly his lips began a series of tantalizing kisses, starting at her earlobes and rambling provocatively to her mouth. The touch of his lips was light and feathery but grew in intensity until his mouth was crushing hers and his tongue was thrusting hungrily against her own.

Silvia moaned softly, dizzied by the sweet assault.

Reluctantly Roman pulled away and caught her by the arms, lifting them high over her head. As he did, the sheet fell to her waist, revealing pink-tipped orbs. At the revelation of such a delectable prize, Roman stifled a ragged groan. He looked at her longingly for a moment, but forced himself to slip her arms and head through the proper openings of the gown. With a sigh, he slid the sheer garment down, coursing his hands over her back and letting them come to rest on her waist.

Silvia trembled beneath the warmth of his caress.

“Have you no voice this morning, love?” A devilish gleam lit his eyes and his lips curled into a teasing smile. “Am I truly a monster, that I have rendered you speechless?”

He threw the covers back and lifted her from the bed, setting her on her feet in front of him.

The silk gown cascaded over her legs as she took an unsteady step and staggered drunkenly against him to catch her balance.

“Nay, Roman.” She found her voice, though it was small and shaky. “My monster is a sweet golden god, and I am bewitched to find him so.”

“Ahh,” he said, and laughed. His eyes twinkled merrily as they bathed her in adoration. “It is you who have bewitched me, love.” He took a robe from a peg beside his bed and wrapped it around her shoulders. “And we will have to decide what is to be done about it,” he said in a voice clear and gentle. “But for now, you must go.”

Roman laid an arm on her shoulder and led her to the door. Stretching his hand to the knob, he opened it slowly and cautiously peered out to determine if anyone was in sight. Finding the way clear, he led her to her room, where her door still stood open. Roman stepped inside briefly and looked around. Finding nothing amiss, he led Silvia in and gently kissed the tip of her nose.

“We’ll talk in the garden after breakfast, love,” he said softly. “Sleep awhile now.”

She found a joyous satisfaction in the tone of his voice and a comforting reassurance in the gentleness of his touch.

“That is best,” she whispered, pressing his hand to her lips and kissing the golden-brown knuckles. Her face bore a radiant glow as she gazed dreamily into his eyes. “There is much I wish to tell you.”

He stepped away, closing the door lightly as he left. Silvia quickly turned the key in the lock and hurried to her bed. Thoughts of the terrifying intruder who had roused her from sleep faded from her mind. Whatever, whoever he was, a dream or a ghost, he had sent her into the arms of the man she loved. That single thought overpowered all others. Roman, the man she had thought she despised, the man who had taunted her mercilessly, had captured her heart.

She slept restfully, a smile set on her lips and the glow remaining in her cheeks. She had not slept well in this house since she arrived, but now the lightness in her heart brought a calm and welcome repose.

She awoke to the sound of knocking on her door late in the morning. Startled, she sat up hurriedly. The sun was high and birds were chirping loudly in the trees outside.

She hesitated a moment, then exhaled a contented sigh, realizing she had slept through breakfast and Roman was most likely wakening her. Her heart was bursting with happiness, and without hesitation she jumped from the bed and rushed to the door.

“Ro...” Her dark lashes flew up quickly and she took a sharp breath.

But Vivien’s dark form greeted her from the doorway. An irritated frown twitched at Silvia’s lips as Vivien’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“Mr. Schlange is recovered well enough to see you,” she stated flatly. Her eyes took in every detail of Silvia’s appearance and her face held a look of mockery. Vivien’s lips formed a hard, cold smile as she glanced quickly at the bed where Roman’s robe rested across the foot. Silvia had forgotten to hide it beneath the bedcovers.

“I’m so glad he’s better,” Silvia stammered in surprise.

Uncomfortably she crossed her arms over her chest and shivered as if she felt a sudden chill. What made her dread seeing Mr. Schlange? She felt as if she had been tossed from a soft, feathery cloud and was plunging headlong toward the hard, unyielding ground. Had she thought a night in Roman’s arms had changed her? She was still a bond servant, Mr. Schlange’s bond servant. She was not free to give her heart, not free to give her love to anyone until her five years of indenture ended. The thought wounded her as surely and sorely as a bullet.

She had to look away from Vivien’s hawkish gaze. A slow flush of despair swept over her. Roman might not feel the same about her after today. She had told him she was a bond servant, but he hadn’t believed her. Everyone seemed to think she was someone else. Even she had begun to believe it herself. Where was her common sense, and what could be the purpose of her despair? She sighed. There was nothing for her to do now but see Mr. Schlange and appeal to his mercy. When he learned of Roman’s feelings for her, he would surely make allowances.

Sadly Silvia dropped her gaze. Her hands were clenched at her sides in tight little fists and her nails bit sharply into her palms. There must be a way to solve it all. She crushed down the heaviness in her heart and let herself be cheered a little. A man as generous and kind as Mr. Schlange would be softhearted about such matters. Like a ray of sunshine following a storm, a wisp of a hopeful smile chased the cloud from her face.

Vivien’s brows flicked up curiously.

“Anna will bring a breakfast tray and come to help you with your toilette.” Vivien walked to the armoire and took out a voluminous dress. “Wear this green.” Her voice was flat and cold. “Mr. Schlange expects you in an hour. I will come for you myself.”

Silvia was glad Anna was vivacious this morning. The plump woman deposited the breakfast tray and hurriedly began to prepare the hip tub for Silvia’s bath. Anna hummed a little tune, one Silvia remembered from childhood, and the cheery melody helped to lighten her mood momentarily. But by the time she sat down to the tray Anna had placed on the little table by the window, her dread had returned and she could scarcely eat a bite. Anna worried over her and fussed that she would be weak as water if she did not consume more than a few forkfuls.

Finally she did manage to eat a respectable amount, more to placate the doting Anna than to satisfy her appetite. But it was the warm, soothing bath that calmed her most, that and Anna’s careful brushing of her hair. When she’d donned the dress Vivien selected and was sitting in front of the mirror, Anna returned to comb her hair and quickly secure it in a braided bun laced through with tiny white ribbons.

“I could have done better with more time.” She sighed and patted her handiwork. “But it looks lovely just the same.” Anna smoothed a ruffle of lace that edged the neck of the green lawn gown Silvia wore. “If there’s nothing more, I’ll be leaving, miss.”

Silvia twisted her neck to see the effect of the hairstyle. Another time she mightn’t have liked it, but it did seem to add a maturity to her looks. She welcomed the aid of anything that gave even the appearance of a courage and strength she did not feel.

“No. That’s all. Thank you, Anna,” Silvia said politely. But when Anna was gone, she put her hands to her hot cheeks. She was unable to calm herself. What a torment it would be to lose it all now. The Emerald Suite, the gowns. Roman. No. She was being foolish. They had never been hers. And those things mattered little. It was only Roman she cared about. He would help. Nothing bad would happen. Why, Mr. Schlange might even release her from her bondage when he learned of their feelings for one another.

It was on that note that Silvia was able to relax a little. She soon heard Vivien’s flinty voice calling her name, and feeling a bit more lighthearted, she rose and went to the door.

Vivien regarded her surreptitiously for a moment, then said firmly, “He will see you now.”

“I am ready,” Silvia answered without conviction.

She had longed for this meeting when she first arrived, even asked for it. Now in spite of reassurances to herself, she found she dreaded the confrontation and the uncertainty of what it would bring. Her heart pounded fitfully in her chest as Vivien led the way through the long halls to a back section of the castle.

It seemed they would never stop walking when Vivien paused in front of a massive door where coiled serpents of brass formed knobs. She knocked, her hand making a hollow sound on the heavy door. Silvia stood behind her, coldly apprehensive. Vivien waited a few seconds, but without hearing a response from inside, turned the brass knob and swung the door inward.

The heavy smell of camphor and other medicines hung in the still air. The draperies were drawn but the room was well lighted with a dozen or more candles. It was a large sitting room with furnishings in dark carved mahogany and with the serpent-tree motif evident in almost every quarter. Silvia had become accustomed to seeing the family crest everywhere, but that did not prevent the shiver of revulsion she felt each time she saw the image of the evil-looking serpent twisted around the trunk of a sapling tree.

A large desk and several locked cabinets lined one wall. Silvia had taken only a few steps inside before she saw a shriveled old man reclining on a settee at the far side of the room. He wore a dressing gown of dark green velvet trimmed with loops of gold braid. As she entered, he lifted his head with effort and turned his eyes toward her. The strain of illness was apparent in the grim lines of his face.

Mr. Schlange boosted himself up with slow deliberation, moving as if the effort took all his strength. He watched painstakingly as Vivien led her toward him.

“Closer, miss. I want to see you.” His gravelly voice was hoarse and grating and sent a cold shiver down her spine.

She wanted to refuse, to turn around and flee the room. Instead she stifled the impulse and followed Vivien to a chair near him.

“Well, well. A fine prize you are, Silvia. A fine prize.” His skin held a gray pallor and stretched thinly over a bony frame. His hair, a yellowed white, stuck lifelessly to his scalp, and a pair of green eyes sunken into his skull seemed too alive and alert for an old man with the look of death.

Vivien left them, moving in her silent walk through the arched doorway of an adjoining room.

Silvia held back a shudder of revulsion. She could not look unkindly on the old man who had extended such generosity to her.

“I’ve waited a long time to meet you, Silvia. Longer than I intended,” he said patiently, his voice weak though tinged with a strong Germanic accent.

“And I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Schlange,” she said with difficulty, her throat feeling strangely tight. “You have been most kind to me and I wish to thank you for your benevolence.” The corners of her mouth quivered. She tried to smile but found the act as difficult as moving features of stone.

“Fine things become you, my dear.” He lifted his head to look at her sharply, absorbingly. He stared, his eyes even more keenly alive, a slight flush coloring his ashen skin. As he beckoned her nearer, an expression of excitement spread over his dour face.

“You are a lovely child, my dear.” His penetrating gaze raked over her, noting the dark hair and the skin as fair and smooth as cream. “My London solicitors did well. I could not have chosen better myself.” A look of delight now tempered his countenance, and the accent was far heavier than she had realized. “Yes,” he grated out. “You are perfect. Perfect.”

Silvia responded quickly with a cross look. He made her feel as if she were a bit of horseflesh he had bought sight unseen. A surge of anger raced through her veins. Wide honey-brown eyes rimmed with flashing black lashes dominated her face when her temper flared. Her lips trembled and bore the natural pout of a little girl, and under Schlange’s scrutiny she felt and looked like a lost waif completely at his mercy.

“I beg your pardon, sir.” She frowned, wishing the interview would soon end.

Schlange rubbed his bony chin thoughtfully. “Turn around, my dear, so that I can see you better.” He twisted his gnarled hands together and made a clucking sound. The girl was far better than he had expected. A malevolent smile brought a look of enjoyment to his face and he laughed weakly. Age and illness had taken a high toll on his body, but his mind remained as sharp and as cunning as ever. If his strength held out, he would see his plan through.

Silvia turned slowly and awkwardly. She felt deflated, humiliated, and bitterly conscious of his blatant appraisal.

“Sit down, miss.” A labored kindness sounded in his voice and caused her to shiver as if she were in a draft. “There are things I must tell you.”

She arched a dark brow and took a seat on the nearest chair. “Of course, Mr. Schlange. I am grateful for the opportunity of speaking with you, as there are also matters I wish to discuss.”

He seemed not to hear her and feebly dropped his head back on the cushion.

“Give me a moment, I beseech you, miss, and forgive the curse of old age.” He paused, his breathing labored, though his eyes glowed strangely as they did when he had bested a rival or triumphed in a matter of business.

Silvia’s brows arched as she watched him. Was the old gentleman deranged? She could not imagine under what pretext he had purchased her bond and brought her to the island. He seemed as vague and bemused about her position as did the others in the castle.

“It is necessary that you understand the importance of the thing you are about to do. I have gone to an enormous amount of trouble to find you and bring you here. Indeed, it took my agents in London many months to find the right woman.” He paused to catch his breath and pull a blanket higher on his chest. “Months I fear I can ill afford to lose. That is why it is essential that no more time be wasted.”

“I am anxious to do your bidding, Mr. Schlange.” Silvia felt a small hope budding within her. “But there is a matter of personal significance I must bring to your attention.” She would tell him of her feelings for Roman. It would be best if he knew right away.

“It can wait,” he said sternly, the effort weakening him so that he gasped for breath before continuing. “I will speak while my strength lasts.”

He paused again and Silvia felt his will like a pelting of hot needles on her flesh. She fidgeted in her chair, thinking how penetrating and unusual his eyes were as they searched her face.

“Listen until I have finished.” The harshness of his voice silenced her.

Her face clouded with uneasiness and she sat back, quaking as if she were on the gallows. He was ill and upset. There would be another time to tell him of her dilemma. Her slender fingers tensed on the arms of the chair. For now it would be best to humor the old man.

Schlange cleared his throat, then took a sip of some liquid in a pewter mug on the table beside him. His expression softened.

“Forgive my sharpness, miss. I have little time before my voice fails me.” His hand shook as he lowered the mug to the table again. “I am old and I think my death is not so far off.”

“Oh no, Mr. Schlange,” Silvia burst out, her voice rising an octave. “Surely you will recover.”

“I thank you for your concern, my dear, but I fear I have only a few months left. A year at most.” His eyes rolled back. “Dying is a matter I gave no thought to all my life, and consequently, now that death is upon me, I have not prepared for the event. That is why time is precious and all must he attended to in the short while I have left.” He was silent for a moment. “It is why I have brought you here.”

“I don’t understand how I can be of help, Mr. Schlange, other than to give you my assistance and care during your last months. I am not a nurse but I have helped care for the sick at times. I will willingly do all I can to help ease your suffering.”

“I do not require a nurse, my dear, I require a bride.”

She felt cold, as if the blood had been siphoned from her body. Did he mean to marry her? It was impossible. Even out of kindness she could not agree to marriage. And what could he possibly hope to gain by marrying her? Her thoughts rushed to Roman and her wishful dream of being his wife.

Like a dry leaf in the wind, her voice shook. “Surely you don’t wish to marry me, Mr. Schlange.”

“No, my dear. I do not intend that you be my bride.” He laughed, a sickly croaking sound. “That honor belongs to another. For him you are the perfect bride. You have spirit and intelligence and beauty, just as my Magda had.” His eyes grew hooded with a look that frightened her. “I trust you do not have the one flaw Magda had.” The veins pulsed fiercely beneath his thin skin.

“Mr. Schlange, please...”

“Be quiet, my dear,” he said in a rambling far-off voice. “I will have my say and you will share my secret. One I have kept for many years.”

Silvia gave up the struggle within herself. He was desperately ill, unstable, and there was nothing for her to do but hear him out. Probably by evening he would have forgotten having seen her. She wondered if the family knew the true state of his health and mind. She would report to Roman and Martha what he said. Mr. Schlange, too, had noticed a resemblance to Magda and seemed to confuse her with the dead woman. It was common, though sad, that the elderly sometimes mistook strangers for persons they had known in their youth.

“I see, my dear, that you think me mad. I am not. It is only that I want you to know the reason for what I have done.” He coughed and sipped again from the mug. “Magda was my wife and I loved her greatly, indeed have loved no other woman. I gave her all the things a woman requires, and more—a castle a queen would envy, beautiful gowns, jewels, servants. She wanted for nothing. I asked only that she give me a son. To my joy, she accommodated me within the first year.”

“She was a fortunate woman, Mr. Schlange, to have your love and the child,” Silvia said softly, ignoring the tight lump in her throat.

“Yes, a fortunate woman.” He stiffened his back. “But all I gave her was not enough. Not even the child was enough. She was not content. She wanted more. She wanted me to devote myself to her as she devoted herself to me. Something a man such as I could not do. I had other needs. Those a woman like Magda could neither satisfy nor understand.” His voice grew weak and hoarse. “She learned of my ‘taste for harlots,’ as she called it, and in time, it drove her mad. She swore she would get revenge. Finally, to keep her safe, I had to lock her in her rooms.”

“I’m very sorry, Mr. Schlange.”

He had forgotten her for a time. His eyes were set in a blank stare and he smiled faintly as if he might be seeing Magda’s face.

“She seemed to recover, to be as she had been. One day she asked me to take her and the child for a walk by the river. I agreed, thinking her well, but the request was a scheme from her weakened mind.” He paused, his eyes darkening. “Magda got her vengeance that day. She threw herself and my son into the water and onto the rocks near the banks.” His voice was suddenly vicious and Silvia drew back a little. “I swore as I pulled them from the water that day, thirty years ago, I would never make another woman my wife.”

Silvia’s eyes glistened with tears. She didn’t know what to make of Wilhelm Schlange, but she ached for Magda’s pain, for Schlange’s blindness to his wife’s love, for the loss a stubborn old man could not admit. He selfishly blamed Magda for the unhappiness he had brought on himself. Yet he struck a chord of pity in Silvia’s heart. She stifled a sob that brought a shudder of sadness to her chest. Schlange had grieved for thirty years for the loss of his wife and son. Her tears fell unchecked and she searched her pocket for a handkerchief.

“You lost them both,” she said in a quavering whisper.

“No, my dear.” Schlange smiled. “I have my son.” His eyes narrowed and glowed fiendishly. “Little Willy. Your husband.”

Chapter 8

Silvia could see nothing but the burning yellow-green of Wilhelm Schlange’s eyes. She shivered violently and her harshly indrawn breaths brought a sharp pain to her chest. Swallowing a wave of sickness, she gasped and wrung her damp hands, feeling too weak to rise to her feet and flee. The madness of his words rang in her ears like a loud clanging bell.

What was to become of her? Mr. Schlange was demented. He imagined her to be his dead wife, Magda, or the wife of his dead son. He had no son. Vivien or Martha would have mentioned a son. Perhaps he had never had a son. Cringing, she placed a trembling hand over her lips.

“Have I frightened you, my dear?” He had taxed his strength and his voice was now a weak hiss. “You still think me mad. I assure you I am quite sane. It is only this pitiable body that defies my will.”

It took all Silvia’s stamina, but she gathered what courage she could to answer him.

“I think you are ill and confused, sir, to mistake me for your son’s wife. I am Silvia Bradstreet, indentured to your service for a term of five years.”

Schlange leaned forward, taking from the table a leather sheaf from which he removed a bundle of papers. The effort cost him much of his remaining strength and his face turned bluish as he gasped for breath. When he had rested a few minutes he broke the black wax seal on the papers and opened them up.

“You are Silvia Schlange, my dear.” He thrust the papers to her. “You will recognize your handwriting on the certificates of marriage.”

Silvia took the papers, as much to appease him as to see what madness he was expostulating. She glanced suspiciously at Schlange before dropping her eyes to the document.

“This isn’t true!” Silvia exclaimed in disbelief. A sob caught in her throat and she felt as if the breath were being squeezed out of her. “How have you done this? And why?” she shouted, springing to her feet.

Schlange smiled, seeming to have gained vigor from her distress.

“My dear, it is no dishonor to be mistress of Serpent Tree Hall. I believe you have already found it to your liking. I am told you have grown fond of leisure and luxury and of the attentions of my nephews. Indeed you have it within your reach to become the toast of the colonies, to visit your England as a lady of wealth. Does that appall you, my dear?”

Nervously Silvia rubbed together hands that had grown suddenly cold. She answered in a low, frightened voice.

“Mr. Schlange, the fact remains that these documents are not legal. Your agents must have tricked me into signing them when I thought I was signing copies of the bond agreement. Whatever your intention, they are not valid.” She turned away from him, wanting to avoid the gleam of those terrifying eyes. When she spoke again it was in a near whisper. “Sir, I am not convinced you have a son at all.”

He answered quite calmly. “My dear daughter-in-law, the documents are legal, duly witnessed and registered, signed in your own hand, as any court will verify. There is no record of a bond agreement ever having existed.”

She whirled around, her face ashen. “What could you possibly want from me?”

The light in his eyes quickened. His hand fastened around a tasseled bell pull at his side and he tugged it three times. Then he sank back on his pillows to rest. He was tired and didn’t try to speak again for a few minutes. Silvia’s reproachful eyes filled with tears. Schlange’s lips twitched in a semblance of a smile as they faced each other in silence until a light knock sounded at the door. Presently it swung open and Silvia saw that Vivien had returned. She felt a surge of reassurance in her heart. Vivien would know how to handle the old man.

“You have him?” Schlange asked weakly.

“He is here,” Vivien answered.

“Come here, my dear, stand beside me,” Schlange said softly, gesturing to Silvia.

She obeyed, wondering, as she took a place near him, what strange hypnotic quality made her do as he said. Some intuitive prodding told her she did not want to hear what he would say next. Yet she stood quietly and obediently by his side, awaiting her fate. Her shock had turned to dread, and she closed her eyes, praying she was in a dream that would end when she opened them again.

Strengthened, Schlange propped himself up more. Silvia heard the door shut. At last her anxiety could bear no more strain and she opened her eyes. She felt her spine go rigid, and at the same time her jaw slackened and her mouth fell open. Across the room she saw a dark-haired man standing with Vivien, his back turned to Silvia. Abruptly she glanced at Schlange, and as she did, felt an uncomfortable twist in her stomach. Schlange’s sharp eyes were trained on her face.

The thin lips twitched and then moved in speech. His eyes were brighter than flames and there was something terrible about the look on his face.

“Silvia, my dear, I present to you your husband.” His voice rang out, amazingly clear and arrogant. “Willy, come across and meet your bride.”

Silvia had been struck dumb, senseless, turned to ice. She watched Willy slowly make a half-turn toward his father. For a long minute his gaze remained locked with Vivien’s as if they communicated in some unspoken way. In profile, Silvia saw a face as handsome as any she had ever looked on. Willy was tall and slender, with hair blacker than midnight. Even from a distance she could see he had the peculiar yellow-green eyes of his father. He looked to be about thirty, but though she could see only part of his face, there appeared to be an odd childlike quality to it.

Vivien’s arm at his elbow, Willy turned fully toward them and moved haltingly in their direction. Paralyzed for a moment, Silvia wanted to scream, but no sound would form on her lips; instead she drew in a breath so sharply and deeply her lungs felt as if they would burst. She heard, as if from far away, Wilhelm Schlange’s rasping laugh.

Life came back to her with a jolt and a burning flush in her cheeks. She made a faltering step backward. The side of Willy’s face that had been hidden from her view looked as if it had been pounded with a rock until the bones were crushed and broken. The skin there was a fiery red and crisscrossed with scars that rose up like angry welts in his flesh. Only his eye had been spared the disfigurement. He looked at her now, his gaze capturing hers with its strangeness. A slow, questioning smile spread across his lips.

“No!” Her hand fluttered to her heart. “This is lunacy! You cannot mean it.”

“Calm yourself, my dear.” Schlange was smiling, his eyes fevered with excitement. “Willy is fond of you, you can see.”

Willy’s smile had become the simple delighted grin of a child. She looked at his grotesque face and saw the simple innocence in his wide eyes. Poor Willy was a child-man, an unfortunate boy in a disfigured body that had outgrown his mind.

“Leave us, Vivien.” Wilhelm’s voice bore an autocratic power that even his sickly body could not undermine.

Vivien’s eyes darkened and she glared speculatively at Silvia before exiting the room. In that instant Silvia knew a feeling of dreadful menace she had never before recognized. She bit the back of her hand, hoping the pain would halt the helpless, weak feeling sweeping through her. Wilhelm’s eyes narrowed and his face bore a wickedly triumphant expression.

“You will see, my dear. It will not be a difficult task. You will be his wife in name only. My son is a harmless simpleton, both docile and dumb. In time you will grow accustomed to his ugly face. You need not see it often. It will be enough for you to visit him now and then. The boy will not hamper your activities.” He laughed wickedly. “You will be mistress of Serpent Tree Hall. Every luxury you desire or could dream of having will be yours. All that is here—” His voice rose and he made a sweeping gesture with his arm. “—is yours to use as you wish.”

Dismay made her voice tremble, but she had to challenge his claim. She fought the breathless, faint sensation that weakened her legs and made her shake. She must think logical thoughts and speak to him with reason behind her words.

“Sir, I acknowledge your generosity. However, I submit that no marriage took place, and despite your offer of luxury and riches, I would choose my own husband. My uncle in London will testify that a marriage did not occur. You have brought me here by deceit and therefore have no right to hold me to our agreement.”

Wilhelm fell back against a pillow, smiling his infuriating smile, looking as if he found a perverse pleasure in the exchange.

“Silvia, child, my solicitors can produce witnesses who will swear a wedding by proxy took place in London and will insist the bride was happy and willing.” He drummed his gnarled fingers on the back of the settee. “As for your uncle, he is at this very moment opening a fat purse in the Hare and Hound and bragging about the splendid match his niece has made, and of the generosity of her husband.”

Silvia’s brows lifted faintly as she took a quick gasp of breath. There were no flaws in his madness, but she could not give up trying to persuade him he was wrong. She brushed angry tears from her cheeks, and when she spoke, her voice was tightly controlled.

“You cannot keep me here against my will. I will never acknowledge marriage to this man. That, you cannot make me do.”

There was a mirthless twist to his lips that gave his sunken cheeks an even more unnatural appearance. He liked her spirit, though in the end it would profit her nothing. She would bend to his will just like everyone else. An odd, slightly eager look lit his eyes in delight.

Schlange’s instinct for judging people had never failed him, and this young woman would not be the exception. He had noted with satisfaction the look of pity in her face when she glanced at Willy. A hoarse chuckle sounded gruffly from his throat. He had an innate talent for finding the weaknesses in people, and he had already discovered hers.

He lifted a frail arm and stabbed a finger at her.

“My dear, I remind you that this entire island belongs to me, as well as all who are on it. Not a ship sails in or out of the harbor without the Schlange flag. You are, if you wish it, a prisoner here, and you will do as I say.” His voice was hard and menacing, as cold, mocking triumph shone brightly from his eyes. “I have made you the bride of my son and you will acknowledge it before the world.”

Tension tightened her shoulders. Still, she lifted her chin proudly and her nostrils flared in defiance. She wouldn’t give in. She wouldn’t let him have his way so easily. Silvia gathered her courage and spoke in a calm quiet tone that belied the fear and anger knotting inside her.

“Please...” She swallowed and tried her voice again. “Tell me what you hope to gain by this pretense of a marriage. Willy is a child. What purpose can it serve except to satisfy the ravings of an old man?”

Schlange folded his arms over his chest. His face gained color and his eyes glowed savagely.

“Have you not guessed, my dear? You disappoint me. I have a son who is no son. I have the wealth of centuries at my hand, and death calling at my door. For three hundred years there has been a Serpent Tree Hall, and the Schlange name is known through all Europe.” He raised his voice and went on staunchly, eyes resentfully on Willy. “My ancestors built an empire in Germany. Each generation has handed it down larger and richer to the next. I have surpassed them all in adding wealth and holdings. Am I to pass my empire to a mindless monster, a shell of a man I have kept hidden for decades?”

Silvia’s face went white.

“If not to Willy, then to whom? Your nephews?”

“No! To a Schlange.” He pointed sharply at Willy.

“He might have been a fine son, one I could look on with pride, but for his mother’s insanity. She carried him in her arms when she threw herself in the water and ended her life.” His sickly face contorted with the rage he had harbored almost three decades. “She wanted to rob me of my son. She said I had emptied her heart and she wanted me to know that emptiness every day I lived.” Schlange paused to ease his labored breathing. An indescribable grimness showed on his pale face. “Better he had died. The fall nearly tore his face away. But worse, it injured his brain, and his mind ceased to grow beyond that of a child.”

Willy’s eyes clouded with fright at Schlange’s menacing tone, and he backed away from his father. Silvia’s heart ached for him. She saw poor Willy’s loneliness and fear masked behind his pitiable ruined face. How cruel his father had been to keep him locked away all those years, to be ashamed of his son, to hide him from the world, and to deny poor Willy a father’s love.

“He is Magda’s vengeance,” Schlange said with a horrible smirk to his mouth. “She has cursed me with a son who cannot honor the Schlange name. I have nephews, my sisters’ sons, who are a hundredfold the man my son is. But they do not carry the name of Schlange.” His thin lips tightened and his hands shook angrily. “Magda laughs from her grave. But I will not die until I have bested her.”

For a moment Silvia stared at him, seeing the hatred that had wound its thorny vines around his heart. Her face blanched as he lifted his thin arm and, with a shaking hand, again pointed a finger at her.

“You, my dear, are my triumph. You will bear me a grandson.”

Silvia’s face was pale and fearful. She felt suffocated, her breath a ragged catch in her throat that would not fill her lungs with air. Her mind raged in a bewildering tempest that shook the very core of her being. The room around her was silent, and in the void she could hear the thunder of her heart. She gasped and her breath came back in a panicky rush. A moment later Silvia heard her own voice, frail and frightened.

“How is that possible? Surely this poor soul cannot father a child.”

“No, my dear. He cannot,” Wilhelm answered with a malevolent grin. “But finding a substitute to father the child should be no problem for you.” A yellow light shone in his sunken eyes. “Not in this household.”

Silvia’s temper flared and she meant to defy him any way she could. She gave a tight little smile.

“How could that satisfy you? The child would not truly be your grandson.”

Schlange smiled peculiarly in return. He answered without emotion.

“He would carry the Schlange name. Schlange blood would flow in his veins. It will have to suffice. And I can die having left an heir worthy of me.”

“I won’t do it,” she announced firmly. “No matter what you say or do I will not be part of this scheme. I will not bear a child to satisfy you. I will find a way to leave this island and prove the truth. I’ll tell the others everything.” Her heart lurched within her chest as she doubted her own words. “They will help me.”

“My dear, do you think me a fool? They do as I say. Just as you will.”

Silvia sobbed, aching as if part of her heart had been plucked away. Was it true? Did they all follow Schlange’s orders? Had she not found herself in Roman’s bed only a few hours ago? She might already be carrying the child Wilhelm Schlange would claim as his grandson. Surely Roman was not part of this evil plan. Silvia choked on a sob and clutched at her throat. Or was he? Had he arranged to have someone frighten her, knowing she would run to his arms? “No, surely not,” she murmured sadly. It could not be true.

“No?” Schlange mocked her, his patience and his strength waning.

“I don’t believe you,” she whispered. “They will help me when I tell them what you’ve done.”

“No, my dear. They will not,” he said adamantly. “And you will say only what I instruct you to say. You will bear a child within the year, and to all the world he will be known as the grandson of Wilhelm Schlange. No one will know what has been spoken here today.”

Silvia was clinging desperately to her sanity and hope.

“You cannot hold me in this room, and when I leave, I’ll tell everyone. Martha, the servants, your nephews. Everyone!”

His eyes left her and went to his son.

“Willy!” he called loudly. “Come here.”

Willy jerked back as if he had been hit, then slowly, obediently approached his father.

“Sit here.”

Willy crouched down and sat cross-legged on the floor beside Schlange. He looked imploringly at Silvia, as if pleading with her not to leave him alone with his father.

Silvia’s hands flew to her mouth.

From the pocket of his dressing gown, Wilhelm produced a small pistol. Slowly he cocked the gun, a sharp deadly click, and placed the barrel to Willy’s head.

“My dear, I have told you what I require, and you have refused to aid me willingly. Now I tell you I will not die in shame. I will not leave this dolt as heir to my fortune. I will leave an heir worthy of the Schlange name or I will leave no heir at all.”

Silvia’s mouth went dry. “You would kill your own son?”

“Do you think I would not?” His voice had turned vicious and his yellow eyes were cold as stone.

“Please. You must not do this.” She backed away from Schlange until she reached the door. She had to get help. The thought that he might shoot her fled quickly. Whatever the consequence, she must get help. Her hands fumbled behind her for the knob, but the door wouldn’t open. She whirled around, gasping fearfully as she twisted at the knob desperately and beat at the rough wood until her knuckles were bruised and throbbing. She moaned. Vivien must have turned the key behind her, and there was no escape.

Frantically Silvia faced Wilhelm again, her heart nearly stopping. The old man had grown weary and the pistol shook in his feeble grip, but his strange eyes still shone like beacons.

“You have a simple choice, my dear. If you value your life and his, you will do as I say.”

“I would rather die.”

“Yes, I think you might. But will you first watch me kill this lad? Will you watch me fire the shot that ends his life?”

“He is your son.”

“He is your husband. Would you see him die?”

Willy stretched out his palms to her and made a small choking sound. His lips were parted and quivering, his eyes filled with terror. How much of his father’s threat did he understand? It was the tragedy of his plight that wrenched Silvia’s heart. She could not tear her eyes from Willy’s pleading face. He was a helpless and pathetic sight, and innocent of Wilhelm’s malice.

“No,” she said in a haunting whisper. “Leave him be. I will do as you say.”

Smiling triumphant, Schlange pulled the pistol away from Willy’s head.

“You are wise, my dear. In time you will come to welcome the decision you have made.” He jerked the bell pull and fell back weakly. “Now I am tired and Vivien will take you to your rooms. Do precisely as she tells you and speak of this to no one.”

Without hesitating, Silvia crossed the room and took Willy by the hand, helping him to his feet. She forced a weak smile to her face, and gently patting his shoulder, seated him in a chair across from the settee. Willy clung to her hand like a small, terrified child. Before she could say a comforting word to reassure him, there was a thumping sound from Wilhelm’s bedroom.

Startled, Silvia looked up.

“Is someone there?” she asked Wilhelm.

“The room is locked. Something must have fallen. Go.” He gestured weakly toward his room. “See what you can find.”

She obeyed reluctantly, walking slowly to the arched doorway which led to his sleeping chamber. The room was dark, with the draperies drawn and no candles lit. She moved cautiously into the room and for a moment stood rooted to the floor, looking around before daring to take another step.

She tried to determine the spot from which the sound had come. Her nerves already frayed, she crept cautiously around Schlange’s bed, scarcely able to see beyond the huge high-backed mahogany frame which bore the Schlange crest on a carved panel. Brocade fittings of black and gold hung open from the high canopied top of the bed. The other furnishings, she noted as she moved through the room, were also of ornately carved mahogany, the upholstery of gold-and-gray-striped brocade.

Silvia stopped and braced herself with a hand wrapped around the post at the foot of the bed. The room was neat and clean, each item in place, except one. On the floor in front of a night table lay a small silver frame.

Relieved, she picked up the object from the floor. The little frame had a delicate scroll pattern and was only slightly larger than her hand. She lifted it higher to catch a beam of light that came through the doorway. It held a miniature painting that was a family portrait. She knew at once the handsome blond man was Wilhelm and she saw that even in his youth his eyes had held a distinctive savagery. Beside him was a lovely dark-haired woman. Magda, she supposed, before Wilhelm had driven her mad. In her arms the woman held a beautiful child of about two. Willy.

Shivering, Silvia ran her finger over the edge of the frame, thinking it must be the only portrait in Serpent Tree Hall. Perhaps even Wilhelm, for all his wickedness, harbored a small fragment of sentiment, or perhaps, she thought with a shiver, the portrait served to keep his hatred fresh. Taking a moment to compose herself, she replaced the little portrait on the night table and returned to the sitting room.

“What did you find?” Wilhelm asked gruffly.

She had not succeeded in stopping the slight trembling that shook her body. It sounded in her voice as well. “Something had fallen from the night table.” She felt the quiver in her throat as she spoke. “It must have been too near the edge and toppled off.”

At that moment Vivien returned and the interruption was forgotten. Silvia was anxious to get away from Wilhelm, though she doubted the memory of his sinister face would ever be erased from her mind. She thought dolefully that she would never escape the terrible spell of gloom that had descended on her world.

Schlange ignored her now as he issued his instructions to Vivien, who nodded stiffly before ushering both Silvia and Willy from the room. She led them along the corridor and instructed Silvia to wait while she unlocked a door and took Willy inside. Then she brought Silvia to her room, and making sure she went in, left with a sharp reminder not to speak of her conversation with Mr. Schlange. He wished to announce the marriage to his niece and nephews in his own way when he was stronger. Meanwhile Silvia was to continue as if the conversation had not taken place.

Once Vivien was gone, Silvia rushed to the dressing table and hurriedly took out the few papers she had brought from London. Schlange had forgotten she held a portion of the bond agreement. She took it and hid it beneath the mattress on her bed. When the time was right, that precious document would prove she had been the victim of Wilhelm Schlange’s evil scheme.

Silvia declined to join the family at lunch, and only after several hours could she make her way alone to the rose garden. The day was hot and calm, the sun beating down on the garden like a tyrant’s sword. An occasional blue-shadowed cloud cooled the air, then dissolved into sunlight above her. Silvia moved like a sleepwalker, hardly knowing how she had gotten to the garden, so bitter were the blackness and sorrow in her heart.

Her face had become as pale as the white rose petals, and tears streamed down her eyes like silver ribbons. She had long ago given up dabbing at them with her lace-edged handkerchief. She longed to see Roman but simply could not face him with such troublesome doubts in her heart. A throbbing fear pounded furiously in her mind, warning her he might be part of Wilhelm’s wicked plan. And that, as much as all else, broke her heart.

She felt a light tap on her shoulder and heard a deep, rich voice calling her name. Awakening from her daze, she looked up, her sad eyes meeting the cheerful face of Morgan Toller.

Seeing her stricken expression, Morgan frowned suddenly and lifted Silvia’s chin with his finger.

“Now, what in a rose garden could bring tears to those beautiful eyes?”

Her tears streamed anew and she sobbed openly. Morgan, frowning, took a seat beside her and gently patted her back. His touch was comforting and he consolingly pulled her head to his shoulder to nestle against him. Her sobbing ebbed under his tender ministrations. She sniffed, bringing the handkerchief to her nose. Morgan’s shoulder was warm and his whispered words soothing. In a few moments she had dried her tears and lifted her head. Morgan smiled and obligingly took both her hands in his and alternately drew each tiny fist to his lips.

“If I could kiss away your troubles, love, I would do that. Will you tell me what has distressed you so? Has Roman...?” He continued to hold her hands, squeezing them gently.

“No. It has nothing to do with Roman. I...I am homesick for London.” Her voice quivered.

How she wished she could confide in Morgan. But she dared not trust Morgan, nor anyone else at Serpent Tree Hall. Wilhelm had said they all obeyed his commands. Were they all a part of his scheme? Had their friendships all been a facade? And if they didn’t know Wilhelm’s plans, how would they react to her once they learned she was married to their cousin?” Seeing the kindness and concern in Morgan’s face, however, she could not believe he would willingly hurt her.

But she had not believed it of Roman either. She had gone to him for protection and then had surrendered herself to him. Roman had loved her with endearments and gentle touches, had seared her heart with his embrace. Doubts raged anew within her mind. Had he seduced her at his uncle’s command?

* * *

Across the garden Roman lifted his head in surprise. The scene he saw among the roses brought a grimace to his face. He had searched the house and grounds looking for Silvia when she failed to appear for breakfast. He had sent Anna to fetch her from her rooms, and the girl had returned saying she was not in. When she did not come down to lunch, he had asked Martha if she were ill. Martha reported she had not seen Silvia since the evening before. Finally, in desperation, he had gone to her door himself and knocked, but got no answer.

Now he understood why he had been unable to find her. She had gone from his arms into those of his brother. Angrily he snapped a limb from a tree branch and flung it to the ground. A nerve twitched in his temple. Silvia had captured his heart as no other woman had done. He had thought her special. A taste of metal filled his mouth. Bitterly he remembered the soft look in her honey-drop eyes, the silken feel of coal-black hair against his skin, and the stirring whisper of her voice in his ear. She had been a virgin in his bed. That he did not doubt.

Then how could she be so connivingly flirting with his brother? Had she only acted a very good part the night before? And how many men would she attempt to attract? A sharp pain stabbed at his chest. Roman clamped his jaw tight and swung around, heading for the stables.

* * *

The harshness had not left his eyes when Martha’s soft voice halted him as he tightened the girth on Trader’s saddle.

“Roman.” She laid a hand on his arm. “May I join you for a ride?” Her voice sparkled with merriment. “That is, if you were planning to ride alone.” A gentle beauty lit her smile and from her blue-velvet eyes a special warmth flowed.

The pearl-gray habit she wore fit like a finely stitched glove. Her fair hair was twisted into a coil that rested on the back of her slender neck. She wore, set to one side, a becoming cap of exactly the same shade of gray as her jacket, and her silk blouse of pale pink was edged with white lace and fetchingly ruffled at the neck.

“I would be delighted to have you ride with me.” The angry frown left Roman’s face. “Martha, my sweet,” he crooned, “you are as refreshing and pure as the clear water in a brook.” Smiling lightly, he turned away to fasten a strap on the saddle and to slap Trader’s neck gently.

Martha’s light laughter rang out. “Why, Roman, how complimentary you are, when you haven’t had a moment to spare me in days.” She tapped a finger against her lips. “Your afternoons, I believe, have been devoted to some new diversion of late.” Her brows rose a little. “Will you saddle Cricket for me?”

“Cricket?” He hesitated. Had he come to think of Cricket as Silvia’s horse? His eyes swung back to Martha. “Would you not prefer to try the new mare?”

“No,” she said purposefully. “It’s Cricket I want. It was I who trained her to be a lady’s mount, you may recall. I like a ride on her now and then.”

Roman exhaled his breath loudly. “Then Cricket it shall be,” he said flatly.

“Roman.” He had opened Cricket’s stall and stepped inside. Martha rested her gloved hands on the door, her pert chin barely reaching over the top. “You asked me this morning if I had seen Silvia. I told you I had not. Perhaps I was wrong, but I didn’t want to upset you,” she purred in a voice as soft as silk. “You seem fond of the girl.”

His back was turned to her, and she could not see the flinty look in his eyes.

“I feel an obligation to see that she is entertained. Nothing more.”

“Then it would not concern you that I saw her in the garden with Morgan a while ago. I believe they were quite intent on each other.” Martha’s voice was innocently cool. “They may still be there if you wish to see her.”

Roman clenched his fists. Blood rushed through his veins like a swollen river straining at his banks.

“I have no desire to see Miss Bradstreet.” He deliberately crushed down a memory of Silvia locked in his brother’s arms. “I am grateful to have my time free,” he ground out ruthlessly. “It is, after all, only fair that we share the task of entertaining Miss Bradstreet.”

Martha smiled and waited primly as Roman tossed the saddle on Cricket’s back and jerked the cinch so tight that the little mare snorted and made a wild kick in his direction.

“Easy, girl,” he said, loosening the girth a bit and patting her flank. His brow creased with a frown. It was unlike him to let his temper bleed into his treatment of the horses.

A moment later he led the mare from the stall, and when she was beside Trader, untied the gelding and led both horses from the stable. Outside, he hitched Cricket beside a mounting block and Trader at a post nearby.

“I’ll need a boost, Roman,” Martha called to him.

There was a new gentleness in his touch as he gripped Martha’s waist and swung her around. She felt it and responded, laughing merrily as her skirt flew out like the silver wings of a summer butterfly.

“A boost. Not a flight to the moon,” she said breathlessly when he set her down. A delighted sparkle shone in her eyes and gaiety sounded in her voice.

Roman’s hands rested lightly on Martha’s trim waist. He smiled, seeing the happiness in her face. Slowly he leaned down and kissed her cheek.

“Why, Roman,” she whispered, lifting her lips to his. “One of your rare kisses? And you’ve not even been away for months.”

He laughed. “It’s you who are the rarity, love.” A smile broadened on his face. “Honest and beautiful, the kind of woman who would make a wonderful wife.” He sighed and his lids lowered over clouded eyes. “‘Tis a shame all women cannot be so.”

Martha touched his cheek, lightly stroking it with her fingers. A moment later he had lifted her to the saddle and had bounded astride Trader.

* * *

Silvia kept to herself for the next two days. Pretending to be ill, she spent most of the time alone in her rooms. She did feel a kind of exhaustion, a deep weariness that drained her strength and which no amount of sleep would relieve. She went out only when she was certain she would not encounter anyone in the house or on the grounds.

In time, the entire episode came to be like a bad dream and she might have persuaded herself it had never happened if Schlange’s health had not taken a turn for the better.

Her spirits had actually begun to improve. She was even able to face herself in the mirror without dissolving into tears by the third day. On that morning she called for Anna to help her dress. For the first time since her visit to Schlange’s rooms she was mindful of which gown she chose.

Outside, a rippling breeze stirred and birds filled the air with sweet melodies as she sat at the window. Breathing deeply, Silvia forced herself to think coolly and logically. She couldn’t shut herself away forever or hope to find a way to escape her fate if she simply shut her door on the world. Just the briefest flicker of determination showed in her eyes. She made up her mind that she would go downstairs for lunch. It was important that she sound out everyone and determine if she could count on anyone to aid her. If not the family, possibly one of the servants could be of help.

She shuddered, remembering the ominous manservant Odin and wondering if he kept a watch on the house, though it seemed no one was paying any mind to her the last few days. No one had inquired of her health, and that only served to strengthen her suspicions about Schlange’s hold on the family.

Only Vivien had stopped by her room each day, and being satisfied she was simply frightened from her encounter with Schlange, was content to leave her to herself. As it turned out, Silvia’s newfound courage came too late. Vivien visited her room an hour before lunch, and when she left later, Silvia was too upset to see anyone.

“Mr. Schlange is much improved and will announce the marriage at dinner this evening as planned. He has arranged a special celebration. The others are prepared for a surprise. It is all according to his plan.”

Silvia’s shoulders drooped and all her brooded-over doubts of the past days returned.

“Must it be so soon?”

Vivien’s face darkened menacingly.

“He may have little time left. It is essential it be done while he has the strength to attend to the matter himself.”

Silvia swallowed hard. “And what is my part in this evening other than to be on display?”

Vivien’s brows lifted sharply. “That is precisely your part. To be on display. To be charming. To present yourself as a lonely bride who longs for more male attention than her husband can give.”

“Will that not look ludicrous when I am on my husband’s arm?”

“Your husband will not be in attendance. Willy never sees his cousins. Not since the accident. Mr. Schlange realized the boy’s condition and has kept it secret all these years. They have grown accustomed to what they believe are Willy’s eccentricities. He communicates by letters, letters I have written at Mr. Schlange’s direction.”

“Then they do not know of his mental state or his disfigurement?”

“They believe he has chosen to live his life as a recluse due to bouts of ill health and because he suffers depression since his mother’s death. No one knows the boy’s true state, save the three of us. From the letters he has written, they think he is a learned and philosophical man who is cursed with poor health. No one speaks of him, out of respect to Wilhelm. They all believe their uncle has been deeply saddened by his son’s withdrawal from society. His nephews have each tried to be a more real son to Wilhelm; Martha has tried to become the woman Magda was when Wilhelm married her.”

It was then that Silvia realized the depth of the cousins’ devotion to their uncle, and her despair grew as she knew she could count on no one. Yet the memory of Willy’s vacant eyes and pitiable crushed face plunged her into the deepest despair, for it was he who had been wronged most severely. Why could Schlange not see the dreadful mistake he was making? Once again she forgot her own unhappiness as her heart went out to Willy.

She looked accusingly to Vivien. “It is scandalous that he should have been shut away from people and hidden like a madman. I cannot believe a father could treat his son so.”

Vivien glowered at her reproachfully.

“Mr. Schlange has done what he thought best for the boy. Had people known or seen him, they would not have been kind. As it is, he has been shielded from the harshness of life.”

“Willy has had no life.” Silvia’s voice filled with anguish. “He has been kept like a caged animal. Surely, Vivien, you cannot approve of his treatment or of what Schlange proposes to do.” Her pride vanished and she pleaded. “You could help me get away, to end this madness!”

“No! And I warn you not to think of defying Mr. Schlange. The consequences would end us all. You, the boy, all of us.” Her face grew grim and her eyes cold as ice. “You will do precisely as I instruct you.”

Silvia sank weakly to the bed. She had no allies. Willy’s life rested in her feeble hands, and she felt obligated to preserve that precious gift at any cost.

A tortured dullness showed in her eyes as they followed Vivien’s movements. Shortly the hawkish woman was beside the bed spreading out a cream satin gown for Silvia to see. It was the one dress she thought Schlange had been mistaken in ordering for her. The style was plain and the color totally unremarkable on her.

She wondered why, if she were to practice seduction, Vivien would choose such a simple gown. The rounded neckline dipped modestly low, the bodice molded to her figure but was without ornament or decoration. The skirt, though full and softly gathered, was cut in a simple line, and it too was without adornment. The long sleeves puffed slightly at the shoulders and tapered to long points at the wrists.

Vivien read the questions in her eyes. “This is the gown Mr. Schlange wishes you to wear for the celebration,” she announced. “I will instruct Anna how to arrange your hair. You are to wait in your room until you are sent for.” She paused to make her point. “He wishes you to make an entrance, to dazzle.”

Silvia sneered. “I hardly see how he expects me to behave normally or have a civil reception. They will think me a fool for having kept the marriage a secret.”

“They will think nothing amiss. They have been prepared for a surprise, as have the servants. It will seem natural to them that he waited until he himself was well enough to present you as Willy’s bride. They are accustomed to his ways.” Vivien paused thoughtfully. Her voice lowered. “I warn you, though. They may not be pleased that Willy has married.”

“I should think his cousins would rejoice that he has found a companion, since they are not to know the marriage is a charade.”

“You are naive. They know Willy is not capable of heading an empire. They anticipate that at Mr. Schlange’s death the power and wealth of the Schlange estate will pass into their waiting hands.” She cackled, her eyes gleaming like black beads. “Can you see the irony of it? He is a cunning old devil and knows his nephews well. They aid him willingly while he uses them to his own ends. And now one of them will father the child who will take the scepter from their hands.” She cackled again, louder. “I have never known one of his schemes to fail.”

This one would, Silvia thought defiantly, feeling a tightness in the back of her neck. No man had the right to manipulate lives as Schlange planned to do. She would beat him somehow. She would find a way to protect Willy, but she would not succumb to Schlange’s will. She would let him think he was getting his way. It would give her time to conceive a plan for escape.

For most of the endless afternoon, Silvia sat in a comfortable chair, her eyes closed, her mind ravaged by mounting doubts and fear. When Anna came to help her dress, the usually gregarious girl was tight-lipped, her face peaked and red, showing the strain of her imposed silence. Silvia did not try to begin a conversation. She knew warnings had been passed to Anna to keep quiet. And now, as Silvia moved leadenly through the motions of getting dressed, in spite of her resolution to defy Schlange, a paleness stole into her cheeks and a deep tremor started in her chest.

Her eyes were closed as Anna brushed and twisted her hair, piling it in sleek, twisted coils high on her head. When she looked at her reflection, she was surprised at the elegant but simple coiffure. Again she wondered at Schlange’s purpose. It was hardly the style to turn a man’s head.

Anna laced her into the cream satin gown and took her leave once her work was done. Alone again, Silvia ran her hands over the rich fabric. The cloth was smooth as glass and the dress a lovely fit. Yet when she looked into the mirror, she saw a woman who looked colorless and washed-out. Cream satin was for a wallflower, not for a femme fatale as Schlange had demanded she be.

Silvia slumped to the stool at the dressing table. Powders and perfumes held no interest for her for this was a night she hoped would soon be ended. A flurry of fears and uncertainties assailed her as she rested her face in her hands, wondering if she dared refuse to go down. When a knock sounded at the door, a startled gasp issued from her lips.

“Come in, Vivien,” she said weakly.

Vivien entered, looking like a gaunt witch dressed completely in black. Her little eyes narrowed contemptuously as she stared at Silvia’s pale face.

“You look a fright,” she said coldly. “It won’t do. There must be color in your cheeks.” Rifling through the drawers, Vivien found and opened a crystal jar of rouge. She applied it to Silvia’s cheeks, and when she was done, stepped back to view the results. “Yes,” she murmured, recapping the jar. “That is better. You must be perfect. Tonight you must be perfect.”

Silvia’s lids came down swiftly over her eyes. The time had come. She started to stand, but Vivien placed a restraining hand on her shoulder.

“Wait.” Vivien reached deep in her pocket and withdrew a large black jewel case. The leather-bound box was scrolled in gold and bore the Schlange crest on top. “You must wear this.” She maintained a stern expression as she opened the case and reverently lifted out an emerald necklace, carefully placing it around Silvia’s neck.

Silvia’s voice was suddenly absent and her heartbeat quickened. The piece was breathtaking. Vivien fastened the catch and stepped back. Two golden serpents circled Silvia’s neck, their backs set with hundreds of tiny, sparkling emeralds. The heads intertwined in front to form the setting for an emerald as large as a robin’s egg. The stone was a deep, fiery green and had transformed her colorless gown to pale gold. She suddenly knew the reason for her simple attire, for nothing could compete with the magnificence of the necklace.

Silvia rose slowly, feeling as if the stone had drawn her into a strange, misty dream. Her lips parted softly as she stood staring at her image, mesmerized by the brilliance and beauty of it.

“It is the Cerastes Stone, named for the serpent and given to each new mistress of Serpent Tree Hall.” Vivien’s voice was a low whisper. “Once worn, it is said to make the wearer fertile and desirable, to assure a child within a year.” Vivien, too, seemed to be under the magical spell of the emerald. She spoke so softly Silvia barely heard her next words, but she did not fail to note the haunting sadness in Vivien’s face. “My Magda called it the serpent’s tears. She said the stone was cursed. And indeed it brought her endless sorrow.” With a shrug of her shoulders, Vivien’s voice faded away.

Silvia shivered and her fingers trembled as she touched the stone. A serpent’s tears should feel cool, but the emerald seemed to have a heat that warmed her skin. When she peered in the mirror, her face had taken on a glow, as if it were lit by the fire of the Cerastes Stone.

Chapter 9

“Welcome, my dear.” The dining room was filled with flowers, the air unbelievably rich with their potent perfume. Silvia thought at once Schlange had filled it with symbols of life to mask his own frail mortality. Indeed he had succeeded to a degree, for he looked much more alive and animated than she remembered.

Schlange waited at the doorway for her. He stood, aided by a wooden cane and the strong arm of Odin, who towered behind him like an obsidian pillar set there as a reminder of the power wielded by a wizened old man.

Her lips quivered. There seemed no suitable reply. The ever-present fear and dread stirred inside her again as she paused for a moment at his side. Vaguely she was conscious of Schlange reaching out to take her hand and of him weakly looping her arm in his. The cold press of his fingers had a numbing effect on her skin, and as he guided her along, her blood seemed to turn cold and thick in her veins. She could see other faces far across the room, but they were blurred by the mistiness in her eyes.

“You do justice to the stone, as I knew you would.” He laughed faintly. With that he was pulling her along toward his place at the head of the long table. They crossed the floor, a strange threesome, Schlange like a macerated sorcerer flanked by a black giant on one side and a sad, captive princess on the other.

Silvia was grateful for the merciful blankness of her mind and the dulling of her senses. She only faintly heard a scraping of wood as chairs drew back, a clicking of heels as the three men stood, and a rustling of silk as Martha also rose. For a moment she was almost overcome by the absurdity of what was taking place. As she walked beside Schlange, she could feel all their eyes staring at her like sparks thrown from a raging fire. All at once, her strength lagged and she fervently wished she could disappear into the flashing shadows cast by tall tapers set in candelabra at either end of the table and in golden wall sconces around the room.

Instead she lifted her chin proudly and straightened her shoulders as Schlange halted his odd procession. He meant his announcement to be ceremonious and he had brought her in like a trophy on display.

There were no whispers, merely four blank faces and eyes intently drawn to her. She saw Martha’s eyes widen and a flare of color stain her cheeks and throat. Martha’s gaze was fixed on the Cerastes Stone. Silvia could almost feel the stone pulsing at her throat as the emerald caught the movement of candlelight from the tapers. The stone, like a living thing, spread an aura of mystical green light from its virescent depths. Roman too saw the necklace and quickly looked up, meeting her gaze.

She saw the question, the accusation in his eyes. He knew the meaning of the Cerastes Stone and it was like a lash to his bared flesh. A moment later his expression was one of anger and loathing and his eyes were no longer fixed on her face. Silvia’s hands trembled as she clasped them tightly together, and then she too quickly looked away, turning her attention frantically to the others.

Surprise registered with Morgan and Eric, evident by a flick of the eyelids and for Morgan a slight parting of the lips. It was he who first acknowledged her status with a slow, spreading smile. Eric merely continued to stare frankly, but more in astonishment than rudeness.

Stunned, Martha nudged her brother and hissed, “The necklace. She’s wearing the Cerastes.”

Eric silenced Martha with a sharp glance and turned politely to his uncle. His voice came, controlled and tolerant. “Uncle, you promised a surprise. Instead you have delivered a revelation. Are you about to tell us you have taken a bride?”

Silvia’s skin felt dry and papery, as if the heated flush rushing to her face might burn it to cinders. Beneath her discomfort she was conscious of the seething rage in Roman’s eyes, the curiosity in Morgan’s, and the thinly disguised viciousness in Martha’s pale orbs. Schlange tightened his grip on her arm and shook with the sound of a feeble laugh.

“No, Eric.” He stood erect, bold, summoning the hidden vestige of strength from deep in his enfeebled body. Briefly his carriage changed, energy flowed through his veins and lit his face with a vigorous glow. “Though you are not far from the truth.” He drew Silvia forward a step, never loosening his clawlike grip on her elbow. “Raise your glasses!” he commanded.

They obeyed, lifting their stemmed crystal goblets high in the air. The glasses were like prisms filled with golden wine, catching the light, throwing a pattern of colored beams over the table, beams that heralded the dreaded announcement. Silvia’s head spun like a top; she felt as if there were ice inside her skin. Had it not been for Schlange’s grasp on her arm and Odin’s threatening presence behind her, she would have run from the room. Perhaps into the woods, perhaps into the ocean, preferring a cold, wet grave to what was to come.

Schlange’s mouth curved into a salient smile. His voice came low and solicitously. “You must pardon my secrecy. My illness was not a matter I had counted on, and I would have this done no other way.”

“Then do not bait us any longer, Uncle. Out with it.” If there was an unnatural sound to Morgan’s voice, it was slight. He held his glass forward, his eyes vividly curious.

“As you wish,” Schlange responded emphatically. “I bid you toast the new mistress of Serpent Tree Hall, Silvia Bradstreet Schlange. The wife of my son.”

It was inevitable that they comply. Wilhelm Schlange was lord of his castle and all therein. Without hesitation glasses clicked, wine sparkled, and voices murmured congratulations. Emotions and true feelings were quickly hidden beneath a cloak of good manners and deference to an uncle on whom all their fortunes rested.

Eric spoke first, proposing they all voice a toast to the bride. Silvia crushed down her feelings of panic and at the prodding of a black look from Schlange forced a tremulous smile to her lips.

Eric was by her side, easing her away from Schlange. His arm went about her shoulder, warmly guiding her to a spot at the far end of the table.

“My toast, dear cousin,” he said boldly. Eric took her hand, squeezed it more than was required, and touched the back of it softly to his lips. She saw a growing look of admiration in his downcast eyes before he saluted his cousins and turned back to her to offer his toast. “Silvia.” He squeezed her hand again. “I welcome you to my home, my heart, and my family.” Eric drank his wine quickly, draining the whole amount away and then bowing, held the glass out until a servant stepped from a doorway to quickly pour a refill.

Silvia muttered a polite but faint word of thanks. Morgan was next and crossed the room to stand beside her. Her spirit wavered but she knew from the set of Wilhelm’s face she must play the part and feign a bit of shyness.

Morgan was not content with a kiss to the hand, but instead put his hands on her shoulders and lightly kissed both her cheeks. If she had wanted a lesson in perseverance, she would have it this night. She longed to drink the entire glass of wine, several. Anything that would lessen her misery and drown the mounting bitterness in her heart.

Schlange looked pleased and Silvia determined she would not let him see her buckling to the raw hurt of the injustice he had done her. She threw her head back proudly, her eyes challenging the resentment she felt filling the air.

Morgan spoke boldly, making his toast: “The sea flower has become the island rose, may she bloom with happiness, good health, and contentment.” He raised his glass. “To Cousin Willy and his bride.”

The tumult of her emotions spiraled upward. The island rose? Was there some hidden meaning in the reference? Silvia was reminded of the intrusion into her room and the snipping of a lock of her hair. Had it been Morgan, and was this his way of telling her he harbored a secret feeling for her? Silvia fretted, nervously wishing a quick end to what she knew would be a long and difficult evening.

Martha, whose place at the table was next to Eric, had come to her side. Martha’s cheeks were still bright but her eyes now bore a look of interested amazement. Her voice was warmly gentle; not a trace of her momentary shock remained. She gave Silvia a sisterly hug and expressed her pleasure at the match. A truly generous gesture under the circumstances, for Silvia knew that Martha’s was not an enviable position. It was, after all, Martha who had acted as mistress of the house and now had been replaced suddenly and unexpectedly.

“I am delighted to welcome you anew as Willy’s bride. We now must certainly be great friends,” she said excitedly. Martha turned and lifted her glass. “To our dear Cousin Willy, and to Silvia, his bride, an abundance of happiness and a fruitful marriage.”

Silvia tensed. Fruitful? Martha’s toast stung like a swarm of angry bees disturbed from the hive. She blinked back tears that threatened to flood her face. Would they think them tears of happiness? If only Martha knew the barb of her innocent words. Strangely enough, she had hit on the very crux of the situation, and the reminder brought a grimace to Silvia’s face.

Wilhelm, growing weary, had taken his seat in the armchair at the head of the table and failed to notice her look of despair. No doubt he had also failed to note the irony of Martha’s remark. Silvia released a quivering sigh as a new terror hit her. Roman’s toast remained to be made.

His wintry eyes found hers. He read the anguish in her face but would not be deterred by it. He wanted her to feel the same twist in her heart that he felt when she entered the room on his uncle’s arm, wearing the Cerastes necklace as evidence of her position at Serpent Tree Hall.

Silvia felt herself go pale when Roman’s hands rested lightly on her shoulders. The cold blue eyes regarded her contemptuously, and beneath his harsh touch, her heart hammered in her chest and her pulse throbbed wildly. She was near to hysteria when he spoke.

“I for one believe in giving a warmer welcome to a bride.” His fingers, resting on her shoulders, felt like tiny daggers, digging into her flesh, trying to reach her soul.

Silvia winced. She wondered in desperation if there would ever be another moment of sanity in her life.

Roman lowered his lips to hers, ignoring the pain and pleading in her face. His mouth clamped to hers, smothering the protest on her lips. It was a kiss to punish, to burn, to remind her of a betrayal, but when it was done he was as much a victim as he had meant her to be. Roman pulled away, leaving her weak and trembling and robbed of pride.

He raised his glass and issued the final toast: “To Willy.” He lifted his glass higher. “And to Silvia.” His eyes betrayed the contempt he had kept from his voice. “May the sanctity of marriage prove to be an eternal bond. I toast your happiness.” He downed the wine in a gulp and with a sudden tightening of his grip snapped the delicate stem of the goblet and dropped it to the floor, where it shattered, like Silvia’s heart, into a thousand jagged fragments.

All were startled by Roman’s outburst, but Wilhelm looked quite pleased as he motioned for them to be seated. Roman left her and returned to his place across the table. Beside her, Morgan held her chair. When she was seated, Morgan took his place next to Roman. Eric had attended his sister, lowering his head to whisper something in her ear. Soon they were all in place, this strange group whose lives had been unstrung by the mania of an old man.

Silvia sat opposite Wilhelm, he at the head of the long polished table, looking small and sickly in his high-backed chair. The gold brocade upholstery brought out the sallowness of his skin. And as ever, his eyes were phlegmatic yellow flames reminding Silvia of what he required.

The meal seemed interminable, and when it was over Silvia could not remember what she had eaten, only that she had gone through the motions and responded to the slight conversation in a way that apparently satisfied Schlange. He had the task of explaining the wherefores of the marriage and how he had deemed it essential Willy have a companion and wife now that he and Vivien were growing old.

“Ahh, yes,” Schlange contended. “A proxy marriage in London many months ago. It was an exhausting search to find just the right bride for my son.” He chuckled. “Silvia was as anxious to be the chosen one as was I to make a suitable choice,” he lied. “She was certain she could be content with a husband in frail health.” His eyes met hers. “You have not been disappointed, have you, my dear?”

She regarded him under her lowered eyelids, wishing she dared to shout the truth. “I am most pleased,” she whispered.

Schlange went on to explain the boy would need someone to attend him when they were gone, and it was not a job to be left to servants. Though not a conventional marriage, certainly it was one that was mutually beneficial. Serpent Tree Hall needed a proper mistress, he remarked, and Silvia could not ignore Martha squirming in her chair, growing paler with every indirect insult Wilhelm so carelessly dropped. Silvia’s heart went out to the woman who had been so kind to her, and silently vowed to do all in her power to lessen the sting of Schlange’s callousness.

“Indeed, Uncle, I need a reprieve. I shall be happy to relinquish my duties and enjoy the solitude and liberty of an unhampered life.” Martha’s voice was soft and velvety as she looked at Silvia. “It is past time Willy took a wife and this house had a Schlange mistress.”

Silvia’s heart sank within her. She could not believe Wilhelm had not at least bothered to express his thanks to Martha for her years of diligence and devotion in running his house.

Wilhelm continued his talk as if he had done no more than ask a morsel of bread from Martha’s hand. He boasted of what new prosperity would come to his empire now that his line was to be continued. A short time later the meal was finished and he insisted the special occasion required their retiring to a small parlor for brandy. And since Silvia was the honored person, she must sit by his side on the low green couch near the windows.

In the little parlor, the chairs made a neat half-circle facing the couch, and had the gathering been so inclined, would have been an ideal arrangement to foster a lively conversation.

But as it was, there were only the perfunctory and expected inquiries into Silvia’s background—which Silvia circumvented—and a comment by Eric that she had done a remarkable job of keeping Uncle’s secret.

“Though that comes as no surprise,” Eric said blandly. “Uncle inevitably has his way, and none of us yet has proven a match for his wit.”

Silvia had drunk too much wine, hoping to dim her misery. Now, as she sipped the fine old brandy Schlange had bidden Odin pour, the amber fluid burned her throat and made her temples throb. After a while the conversation turned to other matters, and even Wilhelm seemed to forget she was in the room. He was lodged deeply into talk of shipping and trade.

Martha left her chair and strolled to the windows. She stood there nervously wringing her small hands, her back turned to them all. When she faced them again, her eyes went first to Roman, but he was engaged in a serious discussion of business and took no notice of her. Her eyes then sought Silvia’s, and she nodded for Silvia to join her as she moved quietly toward the parlor door. Willingly, Silvia rose.

“We’ll leave them to their talk,” Martha whispered as she took Silvia’s arm. “Good night, Uncle.” Martha touched Wilhelm’s shoulder as she passed. “Silvia and I ask to be excused.”

“As you wish, ladies,” Schlange replied without a glance.

“Good night, sir,” Silvia addressed Wilhelm. Her head throbbed but she forced herself to speak calmly. “It has been a memorable evening, one I am certain never to forget.” Her eyes rested briefly on Roman’s face but he countered her plea for understanding with a look of heated loathing.

Wilhelm’s thin brows raised significantly, his voice indulgently moderate. “Nor do I think you will easily forget the significance of this occasion.” He smiled. “I bid you good night, my dears.”

Eric stood momentarily, his eyes lighting appreciatively on Silvia. He bade both her and Martha a hasty good night. From Roman there was merely a nod.

Morgan, ever the eager gentleman, quickly rose and escorted Silvia to the doorway where Martha waited. Did she imagine Morgan’s hand resting too familiarly at her waist as he also bade her good night? She could not forget that Wilhelm had wanted her as bait for all his nephews. The horror of it both sickened and frightened her. A sense of relief flooded her senses as she saw the three cousins once again deeply engaged in talk with their uncle before she and Martha had walked more than a few steps away.

“They will talk for hours,” Martha said with an air of conviction. “And I think for you this has been a strenuous evening.”

“You are kind, Martha, when you have little reason to be so disposed toward me. It pains me that I have taken what should more justly belong to you.”

“Dear Cousin Silvia. It is of no consequence. Let us not speak of it.” Martha’s face was possessed of such gentleness that Silvia’s own troubled spirit lessened a mite.

Silvia’s eyes reflected her agony. “You have been mistress of this house a very long time. I will need your guidance, and only hope I can learn to be half as efficient as you.” She managed a shaky smile. “I thank you for rescuing me, and you are right. This night has been a great strain and I would like to get to bed. Though—” Silvia paused to sigh sadly. “—I think I am yet too filled with nervous excitement for sleep to come easily.”

“Nonsense.” Martha shook her head and reached out almost absently to lay slender white fingers on the fiery emerald at Silvia’s throat. “The stone does you great justice, Silvia. I have always admired it, and now I admire the woman who wears it.” Her fingers lingered on the stone for a moment while the emerald reflected hypnotically in Martha’s blue eyes. Silvia thought she saw wistful envy in her expression. Yet Martha’s solicitous attitude emerged instantly. “You only need a pot of my tea, and you’ll sleep like a lamb. Like a sweet little lamb. I’ll have it sent to your room directly.”

The special bedtime tea had become a ritualistic end to Silvia’s day. Martha explained that the blend of herbs she added to the tea leaves was from an old recipe handed down in her mother’s family and had long been used as a soothing beverage.

Silvia left Martha in the foyer and hurried up the stairs. She had no more than gotten out of sight on the second floor when she heard the sound of Martha’s voice below. Silvia stopped and turned, thinking Martha might have called to her, but she quickly realized it was Wilhelm to whom Martha was speaking.

“Uncle, are you going up so soon?”

“Yes, child. It has been a splendid evening, but I confess it has taxed my strength greatly.” He paused. “I thank you for the preparations.”

“Uncle, there is a matter I would ask you about.”

“Then be brief, girl.”

“You said the necklace would be mine, yet you never allowed me to wear it. And then tonight...”

“The Cerastes Stone? It would have been yours had not Willy married.”

“You might have told me in advance that I had lost a family heirloom I treasured above all else. It was shocking and embarrassing to learn with everyone else tonight.”

Wilhelm scoffed. “You haven’t the fire for the emeralds, girl. Diamonds. Those are the jewels for you.” He coughed and his voice rang with finality. “She is fire. You are ice.”

Odin’s heavy footsteps thudded on the marble stairs. Silvia supposed he was carrying Wilhelm to his room, and she quickly hurried to her own door and shut it behind her.

Fire? Why had he compared them that way? Fire and ice? It was a momentary diversion for her mind, but one she could not dwell on when she was thinking of something much more pressing. If the group in the parlor had broken up, there might be a chance of seeing Roman before the night was out.

Making certain Odin had had time to reach Schlange’s rooms, she eased the door open again and slipped out, gliding silently down the corridor and stairs. She walked with quiet caution toward the parlor, where they had gone for brandy. The candles were out and in the dark room Silvia’s pulse quickened with the disturbing thought that she had missed seeing Roman. She was barely aware of a movement from a corner of the room until there was a flicker of light and a candle flared into flame.

The light spread through the darkness, revealing Roman standing by the mantel. She could see the reckless anger in his face, feel the heavy barriers building between them. With a few bold steps he came to a spot no more than an arm’s length away. Her face turned ashen under his angry gaze and her heart pounded so violently in her chest that she could feel the weight of the necklace beating at her throat. Silence hung between them like a cold barrier of ice.

Roman crossed his arms over his chest and smiled a sarcastic, hateful smile that made her feel she had been slashed with a knife.

“Has the mistress come to survey her castle?” He stood hostile and challenging, his eyes piercing hers. “Or perhaps you cannot find your way to the marriage bed.”

Silvia felt heat rising to her face as she breathed in sharply. His cross words hurt more than all the wrong Schlange had done her. Her eyes tightened against the tears she hoped to hold back. Did he mistake her flushed cheeks and distraught air for impudence? Could he fail to see the anguish in her expression? Suddenly, desperately, she ached to tell him all that had happened, how his trusted uncle had deceived her. Yet her mind only fastened on the incredibility of her plight as she became acutely conscious of the rigidity of his body and the mockery in his eyes.

“Roman, please,” she begged. “You must let me explain what I can.” If only there were some way of letting him know she had not deceived him, that she was not an artful, discontented wife who had tricked him into making love to her.

“Is that to say you cannot explain it all? Can you not tell me why you let me bilk my cousin out of his marital rights?” His eyes blazed through with deep blue flames.

Silvia choked back a sob. Roman’s harsh tone amplified her shame. “You were not guiltless in that.”

“No. But I have a care for those I love. God knows Willy has little enough to enjoy of life. It appalls me to know that I have robbed him of having a virgin bride.”

“It was never my intent to hurt Willy.” A wretchedness of spirit swept over her. “Can’t you know that? Can’t you believe it?”

“I can only believe you have played me for a fool. I have been a witless participant in some crafty game you devised. First you act the shy virgin on board ship, then you become a practiced seductress here. I can only marvel that you retained your virginity to this late date.”

Silvia’s cheeks flamed at the onslaught of his fury. “Surely, Roman, you cannot believe what you say. I practiced no deceit on you. What has happened was our destiny. I could not have changed it, nor could you.” She lowered her eyes, and her lips quivered tremulously. Yet there was one small spark of joy in her heart, one small pearl of happiness that had formed in the depth of her sorrow. If Roman blamed her, if he thought himself wronged, then he had not been part of his uncle’s plan. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Nor would I have done so if I could.”

“Was it your destiny to go from my bed to the arms of my brother?”

“No!” Silvia couldn’t imagine what Roman was suspecting.

“Good. Or I think you will find destiny leaves you with very little rest.”

“You are callous.”

“Do you call me callous? I am no recent husband who has violated my marriage vows. No other has a claim on me. Can you say the same, madam?”

“It is not as you think. This is no ordinary marriage. It is...” she paused, weighing her words carefully before going on.

“Arranged? That I know. Uncle has related to us that already you find the arrangement lacking. That you may require certain attentions Willy cannot fulfill. But does the poor health of a husband make the vows less sacred or binding? I can only hope that since Willy is not worldly he will not detect the lack of...”

“My virginity?”

“Yes.”

Silvia’s teeth tugged at her lower lip. “How well do you know your cousin?”

He leaned toward her and stared intently at her face. “We played together as very small children. We correspond. My cousin is a sensitive man with delicate health. That I know. I regret his seclusion. But it is self-enforced, as he finds conversation and activity strenuous since the accident.”

“You know of his accident?”

“It is common knowledge that his mother had hold of his hand when the accident occurred. When the riverbank gave way she fell, pulling him with her so that Willy was badly injured when his mother was killed.” He paused to take a deep breath. “Perhaps now that he has taken a wife, Willy will end his seclusion.”

“I think not,” Silvia flared. So Wilhelm truly had not confided even to family members that Magda’s death was no accident. When Vivien had told her so, Silvia had not believed her. It seemed impossible that no one would uncover the truth; that all would believe Wilhelm unconditionally. Yet therein lay Silvia’s gravest worry. Would they all believe Wilhelm so strongly that no one, not even Roman, would trust what she had to say?

“Oh, Roman...” She fought to gain control of her tumbling emotions. “You must know that things are not always as they appear.”

His jaw twitched. “If I would forget, you have given me a sharp reminder.”

“Roman, you must understand. Willy is...” She bit her lip. A burning image of Wilhelm Schlange’s cold, threatening countenance flashed in her mind and she relented of saying more. Willy’s life rested with her, and the risk was too great. Nor was she certain Roman would believe her. She realized that at this particular moment, he might not believe anything she said.

“If you are about to tell me Willy’s health precludes the vigor you require, I can only state that you entered willingly into the marriage. I do not desire the dubious honor of warming your bed when your husband is indisposed.”

She laughed, a sad, hopeless little laugh that he mistook for sauciness.

“Have you no shame, Silvia?”

“Indeed I do, an endless amount,” she answered sadly. “More than you can ever know.”

He hesitated a moment. “I wish that I could see it, that I could believe it.”

“What do you see, Roman, when you look at me now?” She stretched out her hands to his chest, remembering sorrowfully how that day on the beach he had said she was a treasure more valued than gold. Her fingers desperately clutched the ruffles of his shirt as her eyes pleaded for his understanding.

“I see a woman aptly named, Silvia Schlange. I see another viper for this island, one who masquerades as a pretty, tempting scrap of ribbon and once touched becomes a poisonous, biting snake.”

“No,” she whispered.

“Yes.” The scorn in his voice made her tremble. “A viper.” A snarl twisted his face. “And still I find it hard to stay my hand.”

He took her in his arms roughly, his mouth coming down on hers hard and searching. There was no gentleness in his kiss. It was a bittersweet assault to her senses, like being set on fire, wanting him and wanting him to let her go because she knew his thoughts. She was caught up in the fury of his embrace as if she had been captured by a sudden storm. His arms crushing her were like thunder, his kiss a searing bolt of lightning, and then, too suddenly, it was over and he was gone like an angry gust of wind.

Silvia stood alone in the semidarkness, trembling, remembering the rage etched upon his face.

* * *

Martha busied around in her parlor, smiling gaily as she took a pinch of herbs first from one silver-topped jar and then from another. She blended the assortment together into an empty container and measured out an amount of the new mixture, adding it to a small teapot. On the sofa, Eric sat very upright and stiff.

“I fear you are right, Martha dear. In spite of Uncle’s reassurances, there are bound to be changes.”

“Do not concern yourself about it, Eric.” Her voice was light and consoling. “I am confident they will amount to little.”

“You say that, and yet Uncle has removed you as mistress of Serpent Tree Hall.” Eric’s vexation was evident. “I am surprised, Martha. You don’t seem at all disturbed, and just a few hours ago you were furious at him.”

“That was before I gave it fair consideration,” Martha answered fervently. “Uncle has assured us we have no reason for concern. Why should I despair that Willy has taken a wife?” An expression of satisfaction shone in her eyes as a radiant smile curved her lips. “Perhaps soon I will have a husband of my own.”

Eric looked up quickly, and his voice rose in surprise. “Is there some news you are keeping from me, Martha love?”

Martha’s lashes coyly brushed her cheekbones as she laughed lightly. “None that I will not keep awhile longer.” She hurriedly completed her preparations of the special tea and rang for Anna to take the pot up to Silvia.

“I confess, Martha, I had thought Uncle would divide his estate among us all. Now it seems that may not be his plan. It may be that Willy will inherit in full and we will be as we are now, working the estate and owning nothing.”

“It is not like you to think so, Eric. I fear the brandy has had an ill effect on you.” She moved swiftly to his side and comfortingly closed her hand over his. “One day the land will be yours.” Her smile was reassuring. “Uncle knows how you love it and how you’ve cared for it. It will be yours.”

“How can you be sure of that?”

“I am sure because it is what is right. You must believe it too.”

“She has changed our lives,” Eric said broodingly. “Who would have thought it, a woman we have never seen or heard of comes, and all our lives change. Our future is altered.”

“Eric, you must trust me. Nothing will change.”

“I hope you are right, sister.” Eric stood and stretched restlessly. He put his arm around Martha’s shoulder and kissed her cheek affectionately. “Good night, dear Martha.”

Martha smiled and patted his cheek with sisterly consolation. A moment later Anna bustled in and past Eric as he was leaving the parlor.

“You wanted me, madam?”

Martha’s expression had grown aloof. “Take this tea up to Mrs. Schlange,” she said resolutely. “I promised it to her.”

“To Mrs. Schlange, madam? Who would that be?”

“Your new mistress, Anna.” She passed the linen-draped silver tray into Anna’s waiting hands. Slowly Martha lifted her head and smiled her slow, sweet smile. “Silvia Bradstreet Schlange, wife of Willy Schlange.”

“Oh, yes, madam, I’ll take it right up.” Anna’s face reddened and her eyes came alive with the excitement of the gossip she had just learned. How the servants’ quarters would sing when she got back with these juicy tidings. “The new mistress you say?” Her plump cheeks shook with a nervous giggle. “Fancy that, Mr. Willy married and none of us suspectin’ such a thing, him bein’ an invalid and all.”

“That will be all, Anna,” Martha said firmly, her aristocratic chin raised high.

“Excuse me, madam, will Mrs. Schlange still be in the Emerald Suite?” Anna’s eyes fell beneath Martha’s stern regard.

“Yes.” Martha brushed away the bits of dried leaves and a fine powdery residue on her tea table. “I believe you will find her there.”

Anna fairly bustled away in her haste to get upstairs, anxious to further ingratiate herself with the new mistress of the hall. It would be a welcome change, to her mind. She had liked the young woman from the beginning. She was friendly and polite even to a servant girl, so unlike Martha Muller, whom all the servants thought cold as a fish. Yes, she surmised as she rounded the gilt rail at the head of the stairs, Serpent Tree Hall could do with a mistress that had a sunny disposition.

Anna helped Silvia undress and brushed out the raven locks she herself had so carefully arranged earlier. Silvia had accepted her congratulations rather reticently and Anna had marked it down to shyness, never guessing the trepidation filling her mistress’s heart. A scarce quarter-hour later Anna was back in the kitchen spreading her surprising news to any she caught sight of. By morning the word would be spread to even the remotest corners of the island and everyone on the Schlange estate would know there was a new mistress at Serpent Tree Hall.

* * *

The same news that caused a spirited commotion in the servants’ quarters brought pandemonium of quite another sort to the Toller brothers. Roman had left Silvia and gone directly out-of-doors, thinking the cool fresh air might restore his temper to a tolerable level. He had not expected to encounter Morgan also taking the night air, and certainly he was in no mood for his brother’s pointed gibes this evening.

Roman swept a hand through the shock of blond hair that persisted in falling across his forehead. He leaned against the wall of the fountain pool and watched water cascade into the air before forming a silver spray that splashed into the dark pool below. Around him gawky shadows crept across the courtyard, a creation of moonlight falling through the turrets and high angled walls of the castle.

Roman rubbed his brow. There was serenity in the water, a soothing peace he needed until he could put his emotions in order. It was not like him to lose his head over a woman. And not, he resolved bitterly, a thing he was likely to do again.

“And what do you make of the evening’s events, my good man?” Morgan Toller cocked his head to one side as he approached his brother. He grinned wryly and a look of mischief sparked an iridescent light in his eyes.

Roman’s shoulders jerked up and his brow creased in a deep frown. The stars were bright and Morgan could see his brother’s face well enough to note the scowl.

“What Wilhelm chooses to do is no concern of mine,” Roman growled.

Morgan regarded his brother with shrewd eyes. “Not even if it costs you your ships?”

Roman tightened his lips and hammered a fist against the stone wall of the fountain. “There are other ships.”

“So there are.” Morgan rubbed his hand thoughtfully across his cheek and paused for a moment with his fingers resting reflectively on his chin. He looked around the garden curiously. “Are you alone, brother? Or perhaps waiting for someone? Martha, by chance?” Morgan’s laugh was a low throaty chuckle ending with a grin that formed tiny crescents of matching dimples in the corners of his mouth.

Roman whirled about and faced his brother squarely. His dark brows furrowed, hooding the fury in his eyes. “I have noticed a change in her attitude toward me recently. So you are responsible for setting Martha on me.” He scowled. “She has been misled, and I should have realized it sooner. And I should have known you had a hand in it.”

“I am falsely accused, Roman.” He laughed. “The poor girl is smitten with you. Hopes you’ll settle down to marry her one day.”

“Dammit, man!” Roman burst out angrily, the blue of his eyes darkening like a tumultuous sea. The stubborn lock of hair dropped over his forehead again and he unconsciously swiped at it with his hand. “Don’t you know when you have passed the point of mischief? A man should not trifle in matters of affection.”

“Ha!” Morgan’s brows rose in feigned surprise. “You dare to accuse me of trifling in affairs of the heart. I have not dilly-dallied with my cousin’s wife. And as for Martha, she has hardly made a pretense of her interest in you. Nor had you seen fit to discourage it until you met Silvia.”

Roman felt his blood boiling. His brother was not above such a trick as convincing poor Martha to pursue him. “I remember well enough when she seemed equally divided in her interests. I think perhaps she even preferred you to me.” So Morgan had falsely encouraged Martha simply to annoy him or to pay back some chicanery. “I seem to recall that on our last visit to Serpent Tree Hall, she underwent a sudden shift in emotions after a morning ride with you.”

Morgan shrugged innocently. “I merely mentioned you would be heartbroken to think she preferred me. That you had spoken of marriage but feared a rejection and hadn’t the courage to speak.” He shifted his gaze to the shimmering water and seemed to concentrate on the play of moonlight there before he looked up and smiled. “An unreproachful remark.”

Roman clenched his teeth and the veins stood out in his temples. “And I suppose it was you who told her my attention to Silvia was meant to make her jealous?”

“Was it not?” Morgan asked teasingly, though he irritated his brother into a fury he did not fully expect.

Roman’s nostrils flared and a muscle convulsed angrily in his jaw. “Morgan, this time you have gone too far. How am I to extricate myself from this entanglement without offending Martha?” It took all his control to repress the urge to punch Morgan’s smirking face.

Set at naught by his brother’s wrath, Morgan replied with smooth deliberation, “Why, Roman, now that Miss Bradstreet is no longer available to distract you, the solution is evident.” A devilish smile flickered on his lips. “You marry Martha.”

Roman’s eyes narrowed with simmering rage, and yet the blazing fury of his gaze seemed to look right through Morgan, to be directed at something far away.

Morgan stared back triumphantly, but his gloating was to be short-lived. A moment later his jaw dropped open in astonishment at his brother’s reply.

“Perhaps I will.”

Chapter 10

“She is interfering. You must stop it.” Vivien’s face was mottled with anger; the first sign of strong emotion Silvia had ever seen her display. Her black eyes flashed with a frightening intensity and Silvia had an uncomfortable thought that she much preferred Vivien’s silent hostility to this outburst.

Yet there was no help for it. If in a few weeks the castle had become like a prison for Silvia, how much more so it must be for poor Willy, who was rarely allowed out of his chambers. She would insist on certain changes in his treatment.

Silvia defiantly lifted her face and said levelly, “He is my husband. Am I to have no say in his care?”

Schlange’s eyes roamed deliberately over the rich dark mausoleum that was his sitting room. He had insisted Silvia visit him daily, sometimes demanding that she wear the necklace. On those days his eyes would grow even wilder and she would feel her throat burning with the heat of the Cerastes Stone. It was Wilhelm Schlange’s way of maintaining the level of intimidation that would keep Silvia under his control. In time she had come to realize the purpose of the daily audiences and approached them with veiled resentment.

A part of each morning she spent with Willy, first reluctantly at Schlange’s insistence. Soon, though, her visits to Willy became a welcome part of her day. She had grown piteously fond of the young man. She no longer saw the hideousness of his face but instead saw a childlike longing in his eyes that wrenched her heart. And when he clung to her hand she wanted desperately to bring a smile to his sad face. But most of all, the loneliness in his downcast eyes when she left him made her decide to question his confinement. She knew it would be a battle.

Silvia wrung her hands nervously until at last Schlange rested his eyes on her, a hard mask of annoyance on his face. “He is to see no one.”

Her own features held a look of unexpected defiance. “You mean, of course, no one is to see him,” Silvia persisted. “The fresh air would do him good.”

“It is out of the question,” Schlange said shortly, then broke into a spell of coughing. “If one of his cousins should see him, it would ruin everything.” He dropped back in his chair, obviously angered and exhausted by her demands.

In the weeks since announcing the marriage, Wilhelm had come downstairs only a few times. Today he looked paler and more tired than usual, and for a moment she felt a pang of guilt for distressing him.

“You have upset the boy.” Vivien angrily poked a finger at her. “He is no longer content with his activities.” She turned her outraged face to Schlange. “Somehow she has put ideas in his head. He sits all morning and watches the door until she comes in, then flies to her as if she were the one who had always cared for him.”

“You’re jealous, Vivien. Jealous because he shows affection for me.” Silvia’s eyes flashed agitation. “Neither of you is concerned for Willy’s welfare. You, sir, think more of your pride than your son.” Her cheeks flooded with color but she fought to remain calm. “Let me take him into the garden. It would do him a world of good. We could go out when everyone is away from the house,” she pleaded. “You would be amazed at the change it would make in his health. Willy is far too pale. He needs the sun.”

“He has the small garden. It is enough,” Vivien said wrathfully. “I take him there.”

“That cage!” Silvia smoldered with anger.

An outdoor stairwell led from Willy’s bedroom to a walled garden below, in which the only open area was latticed overhead by bars almost entirely overgrown with a tangle of thick green vines. The damp, moldy enclosure was filled with the stench of decaying vegetation. High walls were covered with the layer of green moss that soon claimed any island structure not regularly scrubbed, and vines had long ago blocked out the sunlight. What might have once been a pleasant little garden was now more like a dank tomb. It was a cheerless spot, and Willy, whose sensitive nature easily reflected the mood of his surroundings, was reluctant to go there.

“He’ll not go out and I’ll hear no more of it.” Schlange’s gray-streaked brows pulled tight. “I advise you to be more concerned about the edict you seem to have dismissed from your mind, and less about fresh air. A walk in the garden will matter little to anyone if you do not shortly attend to our bargain.”

Silvia’s eyelids fell. Schlange, even at his weakest, wielded his wrath like an angry quirt. Silvia knew from the venomous look in his eyes that she had said enough. But she had one other request, since he had denied her the first.

“Then allow me to prune the vines and replant the small garden so that the sun can come in. Let me make it a haven for Willy and less a prison. Willy could help me. He would like that.”

“No!” Vivien stormed. She was on her feet, backbone rigid and her waspish face set in a vicious expression.

“How can you refuse?” Silvia’s voice quivered and her luminous eyes implored Schlange. She was furious that she had to beg him to attend to the needs of his own son, and furious that Vivien’s jealousy overshadowed Willy’s happiness. It would be good for Willy to do something useful. She herself abhorred the endless afternoons. She had found her fingers could not settle down to do needlework, nor could she concentrate enough on reading to get past the first page in a book.

It was possible that Willy would develop sufficient skill at gardening to be allowed to attend to other parts of the estate. But that was not to be broached at present. She had learned today that she must proceed slowly if she were to make any progress on Willy’s behalf.

Schlange leaned back, surveying Silvia with his yellowish eyes. The shrewdness in them never failed to startle her. Silvia pressed her hands to her heart. How could this ill old man strike such sudden terror in her? She watched him silently. But as swiftly as it appeared, the anger went out of his expression and he chuckled with slow relish.

“You have grown genuinely fond of the boy, haven’t you, my dear?”

“I care for him.”

“She interferes,” Vivien said pettishly. “You must put an end to it.”

Schlange rolled his eyes back and smiled indulgently. His fingers tapped out a slow rhythm on the wooden arm of his chair as he made a clucking noise. Vivien paced the room, her cheeks sucked in so that her face looked more angular and harsh than ever.

“Enough, Vivien,” he snapped. “You cannot live forever, any more than I. Who will see to the boy when you are gone?” He saw the flash of surprise in Silvia’s eyes as she realized the truth of what he was saying. His cruel gaze impaled Vivien as she too caught his meaning. “Let her learn what must be done. Willy must trust her just as he does you.” Slowly his wrinkled, sallow face turned toward Silvia. “I see no harm in restoring the garden. Proceed with it. Let Willy help.”

“Thank you, sir.” Silvia’s expression softened a little and the flush began to fade from her cheeks. Had she managed to coax a bit of fatherly feeling from his stony heart? A little seed of hope sprouted within her. One small gain might lead to others.

Vivien stopped her erratic pacing and stared at Schlange unbelievingly. She audibly drew in her breath, as she whirled to leave the room, gave Silvia such a sharp, hateful glance that she was suddenly, soberly aware that she had made an enemy not to be underestimated.

Silvia’s doleful eyes went back to Schlange. Abruptly her brows flicked up. She gasped silently as she saw the truth before he voiced it. She had been wrong to think he could care. Wilhelm Schlange hadn’t a particle of tenderness in his heart.

He spoke in a cold, insolent tone that made it difficult for her not to tremble. “Don’t mistake compliance for softness, my dear. The more you feel for the lad, the more certain I can be you will do what you must to spare him harm.” The gnarled old hands rested in his lap, the cadaverous, bony head jutted forward on his thin neck, and a misty yellow glow shone from his eyes. Silvia felt a shiver of alarm running through her flesh, but some horrible fascination kept her eyes linked to his. “Heed this, my dear.” His voice dropped to a low, menacing tone. “My patience is limited. Do not let many weeks pass before you bring the news I require. Give me my grandson.” He lifted a hand and made a dismissing gesture. “Now, go. Attend to your garden.”

* * *

“Would you care for tea now?” Martha’s musical voice rose soothingly in the still air of the rose-colored parlor.

“Yes, a cup of tea is just what’s called for,” Silvia said, surprised at how much better she felt as soon as she had left Wilhelm’s presence. He made her feel as if her mind were coming unhinged. Had it not been for Martha’s friendship these past weeks, she would have found life unbearable. And yet she was also grateful Schlange’s nephews had been largely occupied with business. They had been away a good part of the time, visiting a nearby island. It was their plan to arrange for other planters to use the Schlange cane mills, and much work was required to secure the contracts needed.

Silvia sighed deeply and took a sip of tea. “How considerate of you to take tea with me each afternoon and to instruct me so thoroughly on the household affairs. I would have been months learning the workings of it all without your help.”

“Nonsense. It is the least I can do.” Martha sipped her tea slowly. “This has been a trying period for you,” she remarked, shaking her head. “Uncle is undoubtedly a worrisome father-in-law and Willy a difficult spouse.” Her eyes grew wide with a look of concern and understanding. “Poor Willy must have inherited his father’s pride and temperament, or he would surely try to live normally.” Her head tilted slightly to one side. “It is the Schlange curse of stubbornness that makes him want to defy the world because of his infirmities.” Making a little clucking sound, she set her cup aside, her mind obviously concentrating on another topic. “You look tired, Silvia. Aren’t you sleeping well, dear?”

Silvia hesitated a moment. She couldn’t truthfully say she wasn’t sleeping well. If anything, she slept too well. Recently she had begun napping late in each afternoon. Sleep had become a welcome escape for her and she willingly sought the euphoric peace she found as her mind made the journey from consciousness to slumber. She would whirl gently through tunnels of swirling mists, descending always toward a soft, sunny light that promised happiness. Odd, she couldn’t remember now if she ever reached the light. She remembered, though, that as she floated down, she would be wondrously divested of her burdensome thoughts and troubles.

She had a bit of that peaceful feeling now as she sipped her tea and talked with Martha. Somewhere, from a cloudy memory recessed in her mind, she recalled other parts of the dream, a peculiar fluttering of the velvet wall hangings and touches soft as dewdrops on her face.

Absently Silvia studied her reflection in the still dark surface of the tea. She saw the faraway look in her drowsy golden eyes. A lilting sigh sounded from her lips as she remembered faintly the shadows and sounds and the dark figure that appeared silently in her dreams almost every night.

“Is something wrong?” The smile left Martha’s lips and her probing eyes intently watched Silvia’s face.

Silvia flinched and raised her head quickly, conscious as she did of a sudden wind outside the window. She had let her mind wander, and the confusion of those memories remained even as she tried to force a smile to her lips. One image from the dream would not free itself from her mind, that of a shadowy shape. She had vividly dreamed of it weeks ago, but until this moment had never remembered it quite so distinctly. She shook her head trying to stir her mind to wakefulness. Dared she tell Martha of her earlier dream?

“Tell me what has distressed you,” Martha said reassuringly. She watched Silvia curiously; not at all sure she was well. She smiled and gently took the teacup from Silvia’s trembling hands.

Silvia bit her lip nervously and spoke haltingly. “You said once there were ghosts in the castle,” The briefest flicker of hesitancy sparked in her eyes, but she went on. “I thought you were only relating a colorful legend. Now I wonder if it isn’t true.”

The wind picked up, blowing in the dark clouds of a summer storm. The room grew dark with the onset of a sudden premature dusk as windows banged and curtains billowed wildly into the room.

Martha’s hand went quickly to her throat. “Then you’ve seen them?”

Silvia was startled to see the color leave Martha’s face. “No,” she answered hastily. “I haven’t really seen anything, I’ve only sensed someone, something in the darkness.” Rising quickly, she flew to the windows and shut them against the large pelting drops of rain. Silvia turned about, her voice now a whisper. “But when I light a candle and look, no one is there.”

“One of them has singled you out.” Martha seemed strangely alarmed and laced her fingers together tightly. “If only we knew what he wanted.” She looked grimly at Silvia. “You must be careful until we know if the spirit is charitable.” Her voice faltered and broke. “You must be very careful.”

“Martha, surely you don’t mean...”

But Martha had risen hurriedly and was hastily returning the teacups to a tray.

“I must get these things to the kitchen,” she said breathlessly. “You will excuse me now?”

“Of course.” Silvia shuddered at the last glimpse of Martha’s pale face. She wouldn’t have thought Martha believed in ghosts. Yet fear had drained the color from her friend’s skin. Ghosts. Hadn’t she herself felt that same tinge of fear in the library and in the solitary blackness of her room? In the ensuing excitement, Silvia had ignored previous disturbance, yet now she remembered them all too keenly.

With troubled thoughts she returned to the Emerald Suite, thankful Anna had had the foresight to light candles, though even they failed to brighten a room under the dark spell of an afternoon storm. She sat a long while watching jagged flashes of light threaten the soaked earth and listening to the angry rumble of thunder. At last she could bear it no more and went downstairs to wait in the dining room until the dinner hour. But Martha had succumbed to the oppressive mood of the storm and taken one of her violent headaches. The men had gone for supplies early that day and Silvia didn’t expect them back for the evening meal.

She sat alone. The food on her plate cooled untouched until the savage onslaught of rain ended and the gray clouds parted enough to show the fading glow of sunset. Her appetite was as faint as the last amber rays of evening, but she forced herself to eat enough to maintain her strength. When she had finished, Anna brought a message of apology from Martha and a cup of the special herbal tea.

“Said she made a pot for ‘erself and there’s plenty for you too.” Anna smiled broadly.

“It’s quite good, Anna. Do you care for the herbal brew?”

“Oh, no, madam. It’s good English tea for me. I’ve got no taste for garden leaves.” Anna wrinkled her nose in disgust.

Silvia smiled politely, then looked away to stare blankly at a candle flame. How odd it was to be going futilely through the motions of normalcy, dining and taking tea as if there were nothing peculiar in her life. Was this the way of it with a person on hangman’s row, pretending until the last minute that nothing was wrong? Or thinking that at the last hour the sentence would be commuted and the horror would end?

She mustn’t lose hope. There might still be a way to remedy her situation. She must keep her head and pretend all was well until she found a solution. It was important to make Schlange believe she had accepted her fate and would give him no trouble. If no child came, perhaps he would relent of that demand. Even as she thought them, she doubted her wishful dreams. Nevertheless, she would never let go of hope, no matter how dim it might grow in her heart.

Lost in her thoughts, she had almost forgotten Anna until she looked up to see the woman patiently waiting for her to indicate where she wanted to take tea. Anna held the little tea tray close to her ample breast and looked totally flabbergasted that Silvia’s attention had oddly wandered.

For a moment Silvia was undecided, but at last the loneliness she felt drove her to seek what company she could, even if it were the statues of stone.

“I’ll take it in the library, Anna. I’m not ready to go up to bed just yet.” Silvia rose, glad to be leaving the monotonous quiet and the mocking empty chairs at the long expanse of table. A forlorn look marred her lovely features. Behind her the windows rattled obstinately in their wooden frames. A strong wind off the ocean had persisted even after the rain ended. Now and then a powerful gust whipped through the courtyard, voicing a dull, lamenting roar as it met the castle walls.

Sighing listlessly, Silvia followed Anna’s generous form down the hallway. She felt a shiver of premonition that the figures, sympathizing with her plight, were beckoning her to come. And feeling dejected, she knew the marble statues would be the only company she would have on this dreary night. It was just as well. A strange restlessness had come over her and she simply couldn’t face going to her room right away. Though why she should feel compelled to spend the evening in the library puzzled her. It was a place as disquieting as her own chambers. But at least, she consoled herself, in the library the ghosts were visible stone statues and not the hollow dark dreams that disturbed her sleep.

When Anna was gone, her eyes swept over the shelves of books until she found one that interested her. Once she had made her selection, she settled in a comfortable chair, opened the cover, and began to read, pausing occasionally to sip her tea.

She found the tea warmly soothing and far more relaxing than her usual cup. Within a few moments of drinking it her head nodded sleepily and dropped to one side. The book she intended reading slipped from her hands and fell to the floor with a loud thump as it hit the carpet. The sound of it was like a signal that started the haunting dark dreams. A smile stole onto her lips as she felt herself sinking pleasantly into a misty tunnel. In her mind the world changed from black to green, covered over by rippling moss that moved in a lifelike wave. Her eyes blinked, opening and closing several times until a light gust of wind woke her with its shivering touch.

The candles were quickly snuffed out by a cool breath of wind. Only the one beside her remained burning. The air hitting her face felt damp like the familiar fogs back home.

Moaning softly, she tried to think clearly, but her muddled thought were dull and lethargic. A fear always lodged deep inside her stirred. She attempted to keep her eyelids open and found the effort halfhearted at best. The room and its objects were a hapless, spinning blur. She was only dimly conscious of the figure stepping from the line of statues and moving slowly in her direction. She could see lips moving where a face should be, but the words they uttered drifted around like falling leaves before reaching her ears.

“It seems the evenings spur you with a fit of wanderlust.”

In a mind grown suddenly vacant, she had one splintering thought. What Martha had told her was true. On troubled nights, spirits moved about in the castle, seeking out those who would disturb the tenuous peace of Serpent Tree Hall. This one she knew from the slope of his shoulders and the bold set of his chin.

“Siegfried.” She drew out his name, her voice slurred and sleep-laden.

“Siegfried?” He laughed scornfully, whirling to snatch the cape and swing it boldly about his shoulders.

Silvia drew a hurried breath as a bright flash of purple drifted over her head. Siegfried had come to life and stood within her reach, but she could not bring herself to stretch out a hand to him. Instead she used all her strength to force her eyes to stay open and to fight the quivering in her abdomen.

“Have you found me here as well?” A voice from inside her head was answering the one from the darkness. She saw above her a taunting ghostly shape like the one that stole into her dreams. “Is there no place I can escape you?” she murmured. “Is there no place I can rest undisturbed?” An aura of gold ringed his head, and blinking, she strained to see the features in the stony face, but found it impossible to focus her eyes.

He cocked his head to one side.

“Must I be plagued by a spirit?” she cried. Her head lolled back weakly against the chair. “It is not I who have brought discontent to this house.” Her voice rambled on. “Must you pursue me as you do that rogue Aurelius?” She tried to lift her head, and failing, tried to swallow an uncomfortable tightening that had started in her throat as she flung her head from side to side. Why didn’t he answer? “You must see I take no willing part in what is done. You must believe it is not my choice.” Feebly she touched a hand to her heart. “I was deceived. If I am guilty, it is only of losing my heart to one whom I can never freely tell of my feelings.”

He stood above her, legs spread in a wide-legged stance, arms crossed over a broad chest.

“What new game is this you contrive, Silvia Schlange? Would you persuade me you are a helpless damsel in need of a champion?”

She moaned lightly, her lips feeling thick and lazy, her speech coming with difficulty. “It is no game. I merely play the part I am forced to play. I think not even a supernatural champion could free me of my bonds.” She sighed. “Though I wish with all my heart so simple a solution could be found.”

“You deem yourself wronged?”

She glanced up, trying to see through the gelatinous fog in her brain. “I have been so wronged that even the ghost of Siegfried himself cannot aid me.” A soft moan slipped from her lips. “I am ruled by a dark power the gods of old could not confront.” Heavy lids fluttered, then closed tightly. “I am lost.”

“Lost or seeking?” He bent low so that his lips brushed maddeningly against hers as he spoke. That slight sweet touch filled her with longing to feel his mouth fully against her own, but he quickly drew back.

Shivering, she rallied her voice to answer. “I seek only to be free of a bondage greater than any woman should bear. My sleep is plagued by spirits and my waking hours by hideous threats.”

A flash of lightning lit the room for a fiery instant. She could see an angry scowl on the chiseled features of his face, and it seemed to her distorted vision that his countenance bore the same deadly glow as the jagged bolt that rent the darkened sky. She cringed, and fear rose up in her breast when a distant crash of thunder shook the heavens.

“Silvia?” His voice held a note of surprise and the sting had gone out of his words. “An unhappy bride? Tell me what it is you speak of. What spirit steals your sleep? What threats plague you?” He scowled and bent over her once more. “Is the Schlange fortune not enough to compensate for any discomfort.”

She looked up, her eyes wide and pleading, passion unveiled in the glowing golden depths. “I had thought spirits knew all. Can you not see I am married to a man who will never hold my heart? Indeed the bond of marriage has no meaning for my husband. He has no want of a wife.” Her breast ached, and warm tears welled in her eyes.

“Do you say you hold no place in his heart?”

“Nay. Not that. I believe he has come to love me.” Indeed she knew it to be true. She must be the only friend poor Willy had ever known. He had won her heart too, but not in the way a wife cares for a husband. Aye, that was the agony of it. Now that she knew Willy, she could never abandon him to the mercy of his father and Vivien. She would protect him until her own restless spirit drifted unfettered through the castle halls. She sighed wistfully.

She had delayed as long as she could and now had no choice but to bear Schlange a grandson, and little time to be about it.

“Aye. So that is the way of it.” His voice trailed off as he turned and left the way he had come. Silvia caught a last glimpse of purple in the half-darkness as the cloak flew out behind him.

The wind settled to a breeze that stirred the velvet curtains at the open French doors. Cooling air touched her face and revived her from the drowsy state she was in. Crying out suddenly, Silvia sat up, groggily awake as if from a deep sleep. Her eyes fearfully searched the darkness for the cause of her alarm, and her trembling hands flew to her cheeks and found them hot and burning. She could only conclude that the storm had blown the doors open and awakened her with its raging complaint.

She glanced down and spotted the book that had fallen from her lap and bent to retrieve it. Beside her, the dancing flame of the taper threatened to go out, and she quickly cupped it with her hands, lest she be left cringing in the darkness. Rising, Silvia took the taper and hurriedly relit the other candles. When the room was once more bathed in light and she was assured she was alone, she felt more than a little foolish and dismayed.

With a sense of relief, she walked to the open doors and stood with her eyes raised to the now settled sky. The light breeze whipped her silk skirt tightly against her legs and set a crown of raven curls loose around her face.

Soft light from the moon shone through dark clouds. The hour was late; still, it was reluctantly she shut the windows and fastened the latch. Evidently she could not evade the vexing dreams by keeping away from her rooms. Tonight they found her wherever she went.

She sighed pensively and prepared to leave the library. It had seemed so real, talking to Siegfried, seeing the blue blaze in his eyes. Whatever made her dream life into that god of long ago? she wondered. She walked past the line of statues and suddenly halted. Her mouth fell open and she gasped in surprise. The statue of Siegfried stood as before, proud, bold, and still. But the purple cloak was no longer draped on the broad stone shoulders. Nor could she find it anywhere in the library.

Trembling, Silvia blew out the candles and hastily left the room, searching her mind for the logic in what she could remember of the last few hours. Miserably perplexed, she stared at the Schlange crest on the wide wooden doors as she shut them tight. Had it been a dream?

Though the halls were well lit, she still carried the taper in her hand. Its tiny flame somehow gave her a sense of warmth and security, for the castle seemed larger and emptier than ever. Even her soft footsteps echoed threateningly off the high stone ceilings. In the pink marble foyer she paused a moment to watch in horror as flames leapt out of the gilded serpents’ mouths. She felt Schlange’s presence everywhere. His pervading will was known in each room, in each piece of furniture, as if he dared even the smallest crack of defiance. In that moment Silvia knew a hatred so strong that her eyes, clouded already, filled with disgust. She shuddered silently with the thought that Schlange too, like the spirits lodged in this house, could see and hear all.

Feeling flushed and strained, she had started to mount the stairs when the huge front doors opened and slammed shut. The wind whipped in, hitting her flesh like an eerie warm breath. Startled, she spun around and clapped her hands to her mouth, preventing a scream.

“Oh! Roman, it’s you.” Her voice shook.

He laughed heartily. “Were you meeting someone?” His eyes were strangely alive and an infuriating grin was on his lips.

“No,” she said quickly. “I was just going up to my room.” Her eyes flickered like the little flame of the candle in her hands. “You startled me, coming in so suddenly. I thought you were a...a ghost.”

“Not yet.” His face held a hint of mockery. “Earthly pleasures still amuse me.” He stepped near and pulled her brusquely into his arms. “Do I feel like a ghost?” he whispered.

She struggled violently and pushed at him. “Let me go!”

Roman held her fast, mocking her protests with his eyes. “I like the wildness in you,” he said, more to himself than to her. “Wild, sweet Silvia.” His lips were very close and he leaned down to kiss her slowly and deeply.

“You’re despicable,” she said, pushing at his shoulders. She was conscious of her hot cheeks and the jolt of lightning that had hit her stomach. Her lips seemed to burn and she hated herself for wanting to feel his arms around her once more. He was a devil, and the kiss that had started a flaming desire in her was only meant to torment.

“Merely proving a point, love.” He threw up his head.

“What point is that?”

“I am no ghost.”

“No, you are not.” Silvia sighed wearily. Suddenly she felt extremely tired. “The ghost is kinder.”

“You truly think there is a ghost?” His expression stilled and grew sober.

“Why not?” She shrugged stiffly. “Martha believes there are ghosts.”

“Have you actually seen one of these ghosts?”

“I might have.” Her eyes glinted fiercely.

The amused look left his face. He grasped her arm tightly, hurting it. “You believe it too, don’t you?”

“I don’t know. I might.” For a moment his eyes were tender and she was seized with a sudden wish to tell him the truth. “Roman,” she began, “if only you could believe I didn’t deceive you.” Her eyes clung hopefully to his. “I didn’t mean it to happen between us. The night I came to your room, I was frightened,” she whispered huskily. “When you took me in your arms, I felt safe and wonderful, and I never wanted you to let me go.”

Roman’s hurtful grip eased to a caress on her arm. His brows rose a fraction and briefly she knew a moment of hope as she thought she had reached him, and penetrated the barrier he had thrown up between them.

A muscle quivered in his jaw and he gave her an assessing gaze.

“It doesn’t matter. I was happy to be of service.”

Her body stiffened with shock and hurt. “It wasn’t like that. You know it wasn’t.”

“Do I? Tell me. Make me believe it.”

She wrung her arm from his grasp. “How can I, when you’re so bent on believing the worst about me?” Tears streamed to her cheeks. “Don’t you know your uncle better than I? Have you never questioned why Willy is hidden away? Has it never occurred to you that everything in this house is sinister and evil?” Her voice had risen to a hysterical pitch.

“Silvia, stop.” He caught her shoulders and shook her gently. “You’re not making sense.” His face clouded with uncertainty. “What’s happened to make you believe this place is evil?”

She started to answer, but stopped as she saw something at the top of the stairs, a shadowy black figure and a hawkish face. They quickly disappeared. Her stomach knotted and she trembled helplessly beneath Roman’s hands. She had said too much. Had Vivien heard? Now she would never be safe. Spinning away, she rushed up the stairs, hearing Roman’s voice call out her name and wishing it held no anger. But all she could do now was leave him in favor of a mindless escape—sleep.

Chapter 11

Roman stopped on the garden path. His face brightened. He had caught a glimpse of gold among the greens and pinks of the oleanders and he sniffed a lavender scent where none grew in the garden.

“Silvia. I’ve been looking for you.”

She had heard footsteps approaching and hurriedly stepped out of sight, hoping to avoid whoever was near. But the oleanders had not given sufficient cover. She felt a hollowness in her stomach and for a moment toyed with the thought of pretending she had not heard. Perhaps he would walk on. But at last she gave a muffled sigh and looked through a gap in the leaves.

“Why?” she asked abruptly as she twisted gracefully though an opening in the thick bushes. She irritably snapped a blossom off a limb in passing.

“Because,” he said, moving a pace nearer, “I was troubled about your thoughts of ghosts.” His gaze ranged over her freely and he was quick to notice how the gold of her gown seemed to lighten the darker honey color of her eyes. It disturbed him, though, to see faint shadows underneath her eyes, especially since he thought he might in part be responsible for putting them there.

“Ghosts?”

“Last night you spoke of ghosts, hinted that you had seen a spirit.”

The oleanders framed her on a canvas of deep green, and he thought as she plucked the petals from the blossom in her hand, that she was as beautiful as any flower in the garden. The unbidden thought clamored uncomfortably in his brain until he furrowed his brow in a deep frown and half-turned away from her.

Silvia watched and wondered at the change in his countenance. Thinking he meant to treat the matter as childish prattling, she deliberately made light of the situation.

Silvia inclined her head slightly. “Not seriously, to be sure,” she answered serenely. In the sparkling sunlight of morning, she wasn’t going to admit to visions of spirits in the castle. “My thoughts were woolly from falling asleep in the library. I had a dream of ghosts, and you gave me a start, slamming the door.”

His frown changed to a look of puzzled regard. “You seemed overwrought and frightened.”

“I was tired and in a poor humor.” She lifted her face to meet his stare fully. “I apologize for my outburst.”

Roman’s brows raised in surprise. “You had more than ghosts on your mind. You said this house was evil, that you had been tricked.”

“I spoke the truth.”

He stared at her, his jaw tightening. “What is the truth?”

Staring, she gave him a wry smile and felt the sting of a sharp little thorn in her heart. The wind lifted Roman’s fine gold hair and floated it in a flaxen wreath around his head. He looked doubly handsome in the gentle morning light, and there was no enmity in his features. She was taken wistfully back to the time when they had been lovers and his eyes had promised a lifetime of loving.

Perhaps it was a touch of sentiment or a momentary longing for that remembered feeling that made her speak boldly. Or perhaps she believed, without knowing, that the tender bond remained and would someday surface again. Surprising herself, she answered in a voice filled with dignity and calm.

“The truth is, I came here as a bond servant, not as a bride. I was tricked into this marriage.” The words, once spoken, gave her the feeling of having been divested of a heavy and loathsome burden, and once the admission was made, she took a deep restorative breath as her eyes sought his.

He reacted with a speculative narrowing of his eyes. “Can you prove this?”

“I can. Though it matters little now.”

He raised a hand as if to caress her cheek and then drew it back. “I would like to see this proof.”

Silvia dropped a crushed, bruised blossom from her hand and caught his arm hopefully. A feverish excitement warmed the blood beneath her skin. If Roman believed her, it would solve all her problems. He would expose his uncle and help her to resolve the dilemma.

“Come with me.” She tugged at his arm. “The bond paper is hidden in my room.” It was the one thing that would prove her claim. Wilhelm’s London solicitor had signed and affixed a seal to the bond agreement, and it bore the same date as the marriage documents she had unwittingly signed. The bond paper would be proof enough to convince Roman of his uncle’s duplicity. He could not fail to believe her.

For what woman, on her wedding day, would sign a bond of servitude to her father-in-law?

* * *

Silvia flung the covers to the floor and knelt beside the bed to plunge her arm beneath the mattress and forage for the paper. Sudden color darkened her cheeks and her eyes took on a glow of desperation. It must be there. She turned to Roman and saw that he stood just inside the closed door of her bedroom. His bemused expression was fading. An arrogant tilt arched one brow sharply.

“Help me raise this mattress,” she cried. “It must have slipped back out of reach.”

Scowling, Roman sauntered to her side and caught the corner of the down-filled ticking, hoisting it high enough to expose the latticed webbing and bed frame underneath. Silvia crawled beneath the overhang of his arm, searching every inch of the bedding. Her throat tightened as if there were a knot in her windpipe. There was no paper to be found.

“Is this another of your tricks, Silvia Schlange?” He gave her a scorching look as she clambered to her feet. “Another twist of the viper’s tail?” With a sneer, Roman loosened his hold on the mattress and it flopped down to rest askew on the bed frame.

“No. I swear it.” The scorn in his voice made color flame into her face. “The paper was here. Someone has taken it.”

He wheeled about to leave, but she caught him by the sleeve, pulling him back to face her. A sickening feeling started in the pit of her stomach and began welling upward. She staggered forward, still clutching his sleeve, giving a despairing cry as her knees buckled beneath her.

Roman eyed her incredulously; then, in a flash, his arms reached to catch her. As he did, his feet entangled in the heap of coverlets on the floor and together they fell upon the tousled bed, Silvia caught fast in his arms.

Her heart turned over in her chest. He was angry but had not moved his arms from around her waist, nor made an effort to get to his feet. She saw the smoldering flame in his eyes and felt herself being drawn as if by a magnet into a vortex of wanton desire. Roman too had succumbed to the same spinning void and softly whispered her name. She pressed her hands against his chest and felt the rapid pounding of his heart. Like cool flames, his fingers moved lightly over her rib cage, pulling her closer until they were no more than inches apart.

“What are you, Silvia? A temptress or an angel?” he questioned, his voice husky with desire.

She touched a finger to his lips, silencing him. For now, nothing mattered but that they were together and shared a common binding need. It emerged in a force greater than the rift between them, and for the moment the hopelessness of her situation was forgotten. She only wanted to be encircled in his arms, to feel the heated crush of his body against hers.

“I love you,” she whispered, burying her face against his shoulder. She felt the hardness of his body against her, and suddenly all awareness of the world fled.

“And I, love, find you forever in my mind and in my heart.” He leaned close and murmured soft words in her ear. Silvia’s eyes brimmed with unexpected wanting, and warming to it, Roman quickly plucked the pins from her hair, spilling it in a black curtain across her shoulders.

Lips soft and yielding sought the curve between her neck and shoulder. Very gently his hand molded over the swell of her breast, his fingers slipping inside the bodice of her gown and finding the tight rosy crest he sought.

She moaned. The soft mist of her breath touched his face, and slowly, deliberately, Roman trailed his mouth across her cheeks to claim her trembling lips. His kisses fell like brands upon her skin and sealed her mouth to his with a sweet, burning heat.

She drank in the fire of his kiss, weaving her lean fingers into the golden hair at his nape and pressing him closer, enjoying the heady feel of his embrace. His nearness was an intoxicating, tormenting delight that sent shivers of pleasure through her flesh. Her head reeled and her heart hammered wildly as she surrendered to the joyous madness of his caresses. With a languid sigh she pulled him closer, her small tongue finding and tasting the sweetness of his mouth as her fingers delighted in stroking the firm flesh so tightly muscled in his shoulders and back.

How long had they both desired this moment? she wondered as a quivering flame of wanting surged through her. Roman’s hands loosed the fastenings of her dress and pulled the restricting garment from her body. He paused a moment to toss away his own shirt and breeches. His swollen manhood proved the intensity of his passion, as did his hands, which anxiously undid the tiny buttons and bows binding her chemise. Exasperated with his inability to unfasten the frilly undergarment, Roman ripped the filmy batiste from her shoulders, baring her breasts to his hands and fevered kisses.

He paused in his passionate endeavor only long enough to fling the ruined chemise across the room. His breath caught roughly in his throat at the sight of her naked beneath him with her fragrant black hair spread wildly over the sheets. Satin flesh, silky smooth and intoxicating beneath his hands, urged him to delay his quest no longer.

He bent only a moment to capture one rosy-peaked breast, the act sending shivers of ecstasy through Silvia.

Her hand strayed out to capture his manhood and guide it on. The touch brought a blaze of passion to his eyes and a hoarse cry from his lips, and as he probed her moist, warm nest, he tried to hold back the fury of his desire. But Silvia lifted her hips to take him deeply within her, and Roman could not contain the madness that pulsed within him. Like a violent storm they crashed and thundered together until the world began to topple around them. Together they shattered the earth, careened through the nectarous air, crying out in unison as their pleasure claimed them.

Silvia’s senses came back with a delectable slowness. She lay beneath Roman, trapped willingly in the haven of his arms. Waves of ecstasy still flowed within her as she closed her eyes and whispered his name.

Pressing soft kisses to her lips, Roman stirred above her and rolled to his side. An instant later their eyes met in amazement as they discovered the mattress on which they lay now half-rested on the floor. Smiling, Roman rose and pulled Silvia to her feet. He moved their feathery ship back to its proper resting place on the bed frame, and amid a free giving of kisses and caresses, found and donned his clothes.

Silvia had to fetch another chemise from the bureau, but once the new one was on and she busied herself with the myriad of buttons on the bodice of her gold gown, there was little evidence of passion’s fire remaining in the Emerald Suite. The lovelight, though, continued to burn in Silvia’s eyes as she watched Roman retie the leather cord that bound his hair. In Roman’s eyes the savagery had mellowed to a gentle blue.

Catching a glimpse of her tangled hair in the mirror, Silvia left her gown only half-fastened and hastened across the room to brush the wildness from her ebony tresses. Roman came to stand behind her, his gaze reveling in the double view of radiant beauty presented him as he looked over her shoulder at the image reflected in the mirror.

Silvia quickly restored her coiffure and began to fasten the tiny buttons on her gown.

Feeling his blood stir once more, Roman slid his arms around her and pulled her hands from their work. His fingers played with tantalizing deftness along the inviting valley between her breasts.

“This thing between us must be reckoned with, Silvia, my sweet,” he whispered as his lips nibbled gently at the soft morsel of her earlobe. “You and I—”

Silvia cringed as a knock sounded at the door.

“May I come in?” Another light tap at the door preceded the cool voice.

“Martha.” Roman pulled his hands away and turned stiffly.

Silvia hurriedly finished the task of fastening her gown. But not waiting for an answer, Martha swung the door open and entered.

“Forgive me.” She smiled lamely, her hands pressed together prayerlike as she stepped into the room. Her eyes raked coldly over Silvia, then flew in a rigid stare to Roman. Her face, livid with rage, belied her calm voice. “I’ve searched the house for you, Roman. Eric sent me to find you.” Martha circled innocently about the room, stopping once as she spotted Silvia’s ripped chemise lying on the floor. Fierce spots of color appeared in her cheeks, but she continued to speak as if the sight had not affected her. “He is waiting at the stable. You were to accompany him to the mill, I believe.”

She gave Silvia a look of cold indifference. “Forgive me for intruding on your privacy,” she said flatly. “I only meant to ask if you had seen Roman. I did not expect to find him here.”

Silvia looked imploringly at Roman, but he had turned away from her, his face searching Martha’s, and in a moment he took his cousin by the arm and left without a backward glance. Silvia heard the echoing of Martha’s voice and trilling laughter as she accompanied Roman down the hall.

The coolness of Martha’s stare seemed to hover in the emptiness of her room. Silvia sat motionless on her bed. She felt suspended on a thread in the black hole that waited to swallow her up. Her mind darted wildly about. What had she done? The tiny ray of hope held out to her vanished. She had thought Roman was about to offer her his heart, or perhaps only his assistance. No matter what, she sorely needed it from him, and now...now there would be nothing.

Martha’s eyes haunted her, as she picked up the chemise Roman had torn from her body. She remembered the hurt reflected in Martha’s pale blue eyes, and she felt a shudder of humiliation as she put the chemise away. Her actions had been unforgivable. She had alienated the one person nearest to being a friend.

And Roman would probably think she had planned the rendezvous, that she had meant to seduce him. He would believe that had been her purpose in asking him to her room. He would think her shameless. Sighing, she sank wearily onto the bed where only minutes earlier Roman had loved her with a passion that still lived in her heart.

Her life seemed to dissolve into misery as she covered her face and sobbed in her hands. Without willing it, she was doing exactly as Schlange had planned. She wept uncontrollably, her tears coming in a flood of bitter rivulets that stung her cheeks and splashed dark spots on her dress.

It was evil, this house. Every word she spoke, every action she made, was part of a trap. Schlange knew, and somehow, as if she were a mindless candlemoth, was luring her nearer and nearer the flame. She shuddered; feeling the heat and smelling the powdery scorched wings just before the fire consumed her. She was burning, burning as she was drawn up into Schlange’s evil ways. Grudgingly her fingers moved to smooth the tears from her cheeks and brush at the sodden spots on her gown.

Why had she thought she could defy Schlange? She could not. She had no more defense than the marble statues in his library. She was becoming what he demanded, an ornament for the house, a pretty puppet strung to Wilhelm’s wicked hands, moving as he willed, doing as he demanded. She would bear Schlange’s grandchild or bear the blood of his son. She sobbed again, unchecked, and bit her lip until the salty taste of blood filled her mouth. Perhaps this time the deed was done.

* * *

“I looked for you in your room,” Martha remarked as her hand clasped a tortoise comb with a shell-and-scallop design she carried concealed in her pocket. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“No,” Roman snapped.

“I do hope Uncle doesn’t learn of this,” Martha went on, composedly lifting her little chin.

“What?” he asked brusquely. Roman’s jaw was set in a tight clench. Since he had left Silvia’s bedroom he had not truly been aware of Martha by his side.

“Why,” she said in amazement, “you are not the first to visit her bed. I believe both Eric and Morgan have also fallen victim to her charms.” She sighed innocuously.

Roman turned in surprise. His lips twitched, then thinned in irritation. “You’re sure of this?” There was an edge to his voice. Roman clenched his jaw tighter; she had touched a raw spot.

“Surely you don’t think I would joke about such a thing.” A quick bright flush appeared on Martha’s cheeks and there was a tiny flicker of her eyelids as she looked demurely at Roman. “Willy, I suppose, has not the fortitude to keep a new bride satisfied.”

Roman shrugged, then strode off alone. Martha watched him go, a wisp of a smile spread across her lips.

* * *

Wilhelm Schlange was in a fine state of fury when Silvia sat down opposite him in the sitting room. Weeks had passed and she had failed to deliver the message he wanted to hear. His high temper brought a deathly pallor to his face and a wrathful, smoldering light to his eyes.

A trembling, withered hand held a feathered quill poised above an inkwell. On a small ebony lap desk rested a leather-bound book much like the one Eric used for daily notations. Schlange scrawled a few more lines without bothering to look up. Again he dipped the pen in the jar, his hand shaking violently and causing him to spatter drops of black India ink on the open page.

“Blot it. Quickly.” He made a jerky, agitated attempt to hand the journal to her. The ink trickled downward from the large splotches forming dark, spidery lines just below the last entry.

Silvia snatched a piece of blotting paper from the table and applied it to the spots. As she removed it and looked down to see that she had not worsened the spatter, she was amazed to see that her name was the last word he had written. She had only an instant to make out a few sentences before Wilhelm reached for the book and she reluctantly returned it to him. But the glimpse was enough for her to know that he made regular entries in a journal.

He was staring boldly at her. “An old man’s memory will not keep pace with his deeds.” His voice was harsh and bitter. “I have kept a record these last years against the one stored in my mind.” Grating laughter assailed her ears. “Your story is here, my dear. What would you not give to have my journal and prove your case?”

Weakly he nodded to Odin, and the black man advanced from his post beside the door. Odin now always accompanied Schlange. As Schlange’s health grew slowly but evidently poorer, he would not risk being alone.

Silvia had become so accustomed to Odin’s presence that at times she forgot he was in the room. He stood at his post soundlessly, remaining tirelessly alert as he waited to do Schlange’s bidding. Odin seemed always to anticipate the old man’s needs and to be in motion before Schlange could issue his feeble summons, and now, silently, Odin took the journal and left the room.

Silvia’s eyes darted after him. “Is there a safe?”

Schlange shook with bitter laughter. “There are many hiding places in this house. None know them but Odin and myself. Nor will they find them. Nor will you, though I see in your eyes that you wish to. The journal and the will that passes all I own to my grandson are hidden where they cannot be found.”

“You have made your bequests in favor of a child that has not yet been born?”

“I have made it to whom I choose,” he answered sharply. “Steel yourself for that day, my dear. You will have no friends in this house when the will is read.” His spirit sagged, and like a sail with the wind gone out of it, he sank down in his chair. The corners of his mouth twisted downward, but whether from pain or anger, she could not tell.

It was a brief lull. A moment later his voice sounded again, as harsh and cold as before, and he shook his head grudgingly.

“The reaper would claim me today, my dear, if I did not will him away. But I am prepared for what I know must occur.” He looked at her with his sunken, burning eyes. “And you, my dear, can forget your thoughts of prying the information from Odin. He would die before he would be disloyal to me.”

Silvia wet her dry lips. Odin’s loyalty she believed. Eric had told her of how Schlange had rescued him from a brutal beating years ago and brought him to Schlange Island as his personal servant. He was more than that now. He was Schlange’s eyes and ears and sometimes his legs. Odin had protected his master on many occasions. No. There would be no chance of wresting information from Odin. But there might be another way of finding the journal.

She lost her train of thought as queasiness assailed her stomach. She had been troubled by it for days now. Fear had hung over her like a shadow, growing darker and larger each day until at last she had come to accept the cause of her malady.

A brief flicker of fury raged in her mind. He would read her secret in her face. Yes. He would make a new entry in his journey for this day. Schlange, for one, would be pleased with the news she bore.

He brought her abruptly back to the present with a noise made between his teeth. It was a gratuitous hiss that grew to a rumble of laughter from a crack in his mouth.

“Tell me,” he rasped. “I want to hear you say it.” His color heightened, his sallow skin tinged with a scarlet flush, his thin chest heaving with excitement and blatant delight.

What could she say? The child will come in the spring...you will have your grandson?

She was sure enough of her condition to be torn in an agonizing conflict between joy for the thought of a child growing within her and horror for the circumstances under which it would be brought into the world.

“It is done,” she said quietly. Her cheeks paled. Parting with her secret was as odious as having a limb torn from her body.

“Ahhh...my triumph,” he said, breaking into a coarse laugh. Wilhelm’s pupils were spotted with fire and his face enlivened with satisfaction. “And the father, my dear?”

“Allow me some degree of privacy,” she answered, bright spots now dotting her cheeks as well.

He shook with silent laughter. “As you wish, my dear. It matters little to me, as long as the child carries Schlange blood.”

“That it does.”

“Then I will content myself with that knowledge and happily await the arrival of my grandchild.” He gave her a slanted smile from a pair of white, papery lips. “The grandson of Wilhelm Schlange will receive a king’s welcome into the world.” He rubbed his hands together and smiled wickedly at her. “Keep your secret and concentrate on the joys of motherhood.”

Silvia rose and wandered restlessly about the room, her back purposely to Wilhelm, not wanting him to see her face. Eventually she came to rest at the windows and looked out over sloping ground covered with thick, bearded oaks. In the distance she could make out the tips of sails in the little harbor, and beyond them the endless gray-blue of the unsettled ocean.

It was true that she had long looked forward to the prospect of motherhood, yet now she could not be truly pleased. The father of her child could never know the child was his. Nor could she anticipate a warm welcome for Wilhelm’s grandchild. He would be viewed as a usurper of inheritances, an unexpected interloper who would rob his relatives of things they had become accustomed to.

Schlange’s crackling voice intruded on her reverie.

“See that you are cautious. I want nothing to happen to my grandchild.” His voice fell to a weak whisper and the thin lips shook with a faint tremor.

She didn’t turn. The remark warranted no response, nor apparently was one expected. A brittle silence built in the room and she felt as if the breath had been snatched out of her.

Below, she watched the mild stirring of the treetops and the whimsical fall of their shadows on the ground. The light breeze was followed by a surprising moment of complete stillness, and then, like the casting of a net, a dark, swelling cloud appeared and blocked out the bright sunlight. A wild, rolling gust of wind accompanied the darkness and shook the trees, spiraling leaves high in the air before dropping them to the ground like a dry pelting of rain.

Such changes in the weather were not unusual near the coast, yet the muggy and unnatural air always brought a pallor of gloom to Silvia. A minute later the wind whipped up again and with a loud whoosh carted off the single gray-edged cloud that had obscured the sun. Light burst through the window so rapidly she had to blink against its glaring brightness.

At that moment she heard a sound behind her and realized Odin had reappeared. His dark presence had almost the same effect on her as did the lack of sunlight. Seeing that Schlange was tired and out of breath, she excused herself and slipped out before he could protest.

* * *

“Silvia, you’re dressed for a ride,” Eric said cheerfully.

Eyes downcast and heart heavy, Silvia carried the fawn colored jacket of the riding costume over her arm and was halfway down the long corridor that led to the kitchen and pantries that supplied the castle.

“Yes. I thought I’d take Cricket over by the marshes. It’s a lovely afternoon and I would like some air.” She caught herself, forcing a pleasant smile to her lips. Eric had asked her to ride with him one day, and now that he had come into the hall unexpectedly, she hoped silently he would not offer to go with her today. She wanted to be alone. She wanted to ride as far from Serpent Tree Hall as possible and try to forget for a short time that she was snared in Wilhelm Schlange’s trap.

“I wish I could join you,” Eric went on. “We’ve had so little time together. But I’ve come in to tally the accounts, and the work is already overdue. However, if you like, we can arrange to ride together another day.”

“Yes. We must. Tomorrow perhaps?”

“Depend on it.” His eyes were shining and grew more luminous as his brows rose with the dawning of an afterthought. “I was on my way to the stables to fetch the journal from my saddlebags. Shall I saddle Cricket for you while I’m there?”

“Thank you. Please do.” She nodded appreciatively and saw the disappointment register in his face as she continued. “I have to see the cook to discuss the week’s menus. Mrs. Bately is expecting me or I would walk there with you now. But I’ll join you directly in the stables.”

Silvia had quickly adapted to managing household affairs. There was actually little to do. Martha had done well in establishing routines and responsibilities for the servants. The house virtually ran itself, and now that Silvia was familiar with the procedures, her duties were largely a matter of approving what was to be done each week. It took only a few minutes to make a selection from the choice of menus the cook had prepared. When the job was done and she had complimented the soft-spoken but thoroughly efficient Mrs. Bately, she left the kitchen.

Eric met her on the path, the brown leather journal tucked under his arm.

“Cricket is saddled,” he called out. “Enjoy your ride.” He caught her hand unnecessarily and forced her to stop for a moment, his voice taking on a lighter note and his head inclined appreciatively. “I look forward to sharing the afternoon with you tomorrow.” He smiled. “I look forward to every moment shared with you.” Eric pulled her close against him, too close for propriety, and his voice dropped to an insistent whisper as a faintly eager gleam shone in his eyes. “You’ll not forget?”

“No. I’ll not forget,” she said, withdrawing her hand and looking away quickly as she heard a familiar nicker from the stable. A cloud of annoyance settled over her. Wilhelm’s poison had spread to Eric as well. She hoped by tomorrow he would have been warned to leave her alone. “I’d better hurry,” she said tersely. “Cricket is growing impatient. “Good-bye now.”

Eric stared at her without responding. She felt uneasy as she saw his eyes glimmer. She thought she would have to walk on and leave him there still staring, but then he blinked rapidly and smiled.

“Good-bye then,” he said gently, and turned away.

Involuntarily Silvia shook her head. No doubt his mind would soon be on the long lists of figures in his account books. He worked especially hard for Wilhelm and took little time for himself. How angry would he be when he learned she carried Schlange’s grandchild?

She looked up to see Trader standing near Cricket at the hitching post. The leather reins hung loosely to the ground, but Trader did not stir from the spot where he had been left untethered.

She couldn’t keep the anxiety out of her eyes. Roman would be nearby. No one else rode the big gelding.

“So it’s you.” He sounded surprisingly cheerful from where he stood behind Cricket, one hand soothingly stroking her neck beneath the long mane, the other resting across the saddle. “She was complaining at being tied up. So I led her out of the stable.” He nodded toward the mare. “I thought she might have been saddled for Martha.”

“No. For me.”

He shrugged.

Was he disappointed? She knew he had ridden with Martha on several occasions recently.

“Than I won’t keep you.” He clicked for Trader, and the horse threw up his head and snorted. When the gelding stood beside him, Roman took up the reins and swiftly mounted. He gave a wry smile and reached out to pat Cricket’s sleek flank. “Good-bye, little lady,” he purred as he touched his heels to Trader’s sides and galloped off.

Outrageous, thought Silvia furiously. He had more regard for the mare than for her! She quickly untied the reins and led Cricket to the mounting block. Why had he deliberately slighted her, igniting her ready temper? Blinded by her ire, she rode off, unaware of a figure slipping stealthily from behind a clump of bushes and hurrying into the stable.

The little mare was as anxious as Silvia to get moving. She took the bit in her teeth and lunged wildly away from the block. It occurred to Silvia that the horse wanted to catch up to Trader. Whatever the cause, she was not her usual well-mannered self and Silvia had to lean far over the saddle to keep her seat until she could get the mare under control.

“Easy, girl. Easy,” she crooned softly in Cricket’s ear. “Slow, now.” Silvia couldn’t understand Cricket’s frenzy today.

The mare calmed some at the soft sound of her voice but continued to toss her head wildly and would not confine herself to the path. She repeatedly sidestepped and frantically switched her tail as she cantered along. They had covered a good distance quickly but were still under the thick cover of the forest when Silvia thought she heard distant hoofbeats of another rider. But the sound died out and she soon turned her attention to keeping Cricket under rein.

An instant later Cricket’s head shot up and her hooves dug into the soft earth as she stopped short. The little mare gave a painful snort. Silvia cried out in surprise and crashed against the horse’s upraised neck, catching her fingers in Cricket’s coarse mane to keep her balance. She felt the saddle slide to one side beneath her.

Before Silvia could settle the horse, Cricket squealed and bolted off the trail. She twisted sideways, half-rearing as she turned, and before Silvia could even cry out, the saddle flew off, carrying her with it. She heard Cricket thundering away through the thick underbrush before she hit the ground and felt the impact of her head against the unyielding trunk of a tree. She was conscious briefly of a maddening pain behind her eyes and of the air leaving her lungs in a black, blinding rush.

Violent pain consumed her, splitting her skull and stabbing at her chest. She saw a face bending over her, the expression grim, anxious. It had been that same face bending over Cricket’s back a few minutes earlier.

She moaned. “Do you hate me so much?”

Chapter 12

“Be still. You mustn’t move.”

Someone was holding her, lifting her from the spongy, moss-covered forest floor. The air was so hot and cloying she couldn’t understand why she felt cold all over, nor why she had suddenly been plunged into vast folds of darkness. Silvia mumbled something in a voice that ebbed away to nothing. Then slowly the light came back and she was aware of the spicy, manly scent she knew as Roman’s. His fingers, cool and gentle, caressed her temple where a small, ugly knot had appeared.

Air filled her lungs and blood rushed back to her brain so that her eyes could begin to focus on the troubled face so near her own. Through the haze clouding her eyes she saw the worry lining Roman’s brow. He had thought her unconscious and let the barrier down long enough for her to read the unguarded expression in his eyes. Her pulse quickened.

“Hold me,” she mumbled.

“Are you badly hurt?” His voice was an unsteady whisper. Silvia’s hair tumbled over her face and he smoothed it away with a gentle hand. “I thought you had been killed.” The blue eyes were solemn.

His voice soothed like a charm and served to revive her. The breath had been knocked from her lungs, but otherwise she was sure she only had a few bruises and a dreadful headache. Yet Silvia had so longed and ached to be held in Roman’s arms this way that she could not bring herself to tell him she was uninjured. Instead she moaned softly and closed her eyes.

What had made the horse bolt that way? Cricket had been like a wild creature from the moment Silvia mounted, jumping, swerving to one side and then the other, until that final lurch from the trail that had broken the saddle loose.

Silvia was lucky the fall had done no more than bruise her head and knock the wind from her. She rubbed her head against Roman’s cradling arm, sighing softly. His lips softly brushed her temple and his eyes kept returning to the bruise there.

Now she remembered. Something had come flying through the air and struck Cricket on the nose. Not a bird. They had flushed the brown-feathered quail from the brush many times and the mare was accustomed to a covey taking wing and flying up suddenly. It had been an alien object this time, one that hurt and frightened the little mare and made her forget the rider on her back.

“Oh, Roman!” Silvia opened her eyes wide and sat up quickly. “The baby!” She remembered with shock her own little secret treasure. It had not occurred to her until now the fall might have done damage to the baby. Her heart beat in her throat. “Roman, I’m going to have a baby.”

His body tensed and he stared at her in disbelief.

“A baby,” he said icily, pulling his hand from her forehead. “You have wasted no time in building a bridge to the Schlange fortune.”

She had blurted it out all wrong. Of course he would first think the child was Willy’s. But it wasn’t, and something was terribly wrong. Now that her head was cleared, she knew. Someone had thrown a rock at Cricket. Someone had seen to it that she was thrown. But for what purpose? To scare her? To kill her? Roman must be told of the danger. He must understand.

“The child is yours.”

She hadn’t expected that look in his eyes. Not that deep, hateful loathing she saw in his glaring blue eyes. Could it be he was the one who wanted to hurt her? It was said love could easily turn to hate. How had he happened to be nearby? Her misgivings doubled. Had it been Roman who loosened the saddle so that it would not hold? Had he thrown the rock? Oh no, not Roman. Sweet heaven, not Roman.

With frightening abruptness he lowered her to the ground and jumped to his feet.

“You can’t expect me to believe the child is mine. Not from those two encounters.”

“But Roman...”

He shot her an accusing look, anger flaming in his face.

“Who’s to know what has followed or whom you have bedded.” He was decidedly wary. “Does poor Willy know what a scheming temptress he has wedded, a woman who has made seduction her pastime?” He swore, his temper rising. “Don’t try to lure me back to your lair. I’ve had my fun and I’ll not be called a father to your ill-begotten brat.”

Silvia’s face crumpled into desolation and despair. She fought back tears. She wouldn’t have him see her pain pouring out. She wanted to bury her face in her hands, but she bravely met his ironic stare. Why hadn’t she held her tongue? He would never believe the child his, and truthfully she could not have expected him to claim it. Too much distrust had sprouted between them. She shrugged, turning her face away to hide the heartache mirrored in her eyes.

“You’re right,” she said stonily. “The child is Willy’s. I don’t know what made me say otherwise.” Her head was thumping again, the pain a dull throb in her temple and behind her eyes. Her breath caught for a moment. “The child is Willy’s,” she shouted, pounding her fists to the ground.

“Silvia.” He knelt beside her and caught her wrists tightly, stilling her arms from their frenzied pummeling. His voice plunged to a tormented whisper. “If it were true...”

She turned her haunted face to him.

“No,” she breathed, and could say no more.

He stared at her with dark, reproachful eyes for what seemed an endless moment, then thrust her hands away and stood. His thoughts were readable, though mercifully not put into words.

Silvia sobbed aloud. She had spoken her heart without considering the result her confession might bring. But she would not intensify her agony. Certainly she had not been prepared for the contempt she had seen reflected in his handsome features. Perhaps secretly she had thought at the mention of a child, his child, he would forget the wall between them once and for all. But it was not to be, and she had only made matters worse.

Her eyes dropped sadly and she ran a hand across her abdomen, reassuring herself that she was not injured. In spite of the hard fall, once her breath had returned, she felt surprisingly well.

Roman leaned forward and caught her by the arms.

“If you’re able to stand, I’ll take you back to the castle. Vivien can attend to your injuries, though I think they are not so serious as to cause concern.”

His caustic stare made her shudder and fanned her misery. “I’m sure it would have suited you if I had broken my neck.”

Roman frowned and tugged at her impatiently.

She let him pull her to her feet, then dusted herself off as much as possible. Her riding costume had a small tear in the skirt and a few grass stains that would need washing out. It seemed the greatest harm that had come from her fall was the altercation with Roman, but nevertheless she made the first few steps cautiously to be sure she was indeed all right.

Roman’s keen eyes watched her and his lip twitched as he started to speak, then changed his mind and walked away to where the saddle had landed. Bending, he lifted it from beside a sapling’s slender trunk. She saw him carefully examining the straps. Abruptly he winced and drew his hand back with a jerk, then glanced over his shoulder at her.

“A buckle gave way on the girth,” he said flatly, rubbing the fingers of one hand on his trouser leg and leaving a small stain of blood. “I’ll caution the groom about inspecting the tack more carefully, though there was probably no way to tell it was weak.”

“The loose girth did not cause the fall,” Silvia said dolefully.

“What, then?”

“Something was thrown. I’m certain you’ll find Cricket has been injured by a rock or some other object.” She brushed a tangle of hair out of her eyes. “Someone meant me to be thrown.”

His face darkened. One brow lifted significantly. “Who would do such a thing?”

Silvia found her riding crop and plucked it up from the ground. She fumed hotly. He didn’t believe her and he wasn’t in the least concerned that she had nearly been killed.

“You might,” she burst out. “You take every opportunity to antagonize me,” she added grimly, half-believing what she spoke. “You were the last to handle the horse.”

Roman seemed unconcerned by her accusation. He simply turned and walked toward the stable.

In the space of a few minutes they were out of the wood, and Thomas, the groom, hurried out and agitatedly expressed his relief that Mrs. Schlange was unharmed. Cricket, he explained, had trotted in without rider or saddle just moments before. He had locked her in a stall and was rushing out to find Mrs. Schlange.

Roman’s accusing look brought a shadow of alarm to Thomas’ face.

“You can pick the saddle up a quarter-mile down the trail. It will need repairs, Thomas.” Roman frowned severely. “And be more mindful of things, man. That saddle had a broken buckle. You should have noticed it when you saddled the mare.”

Thomas dropped his eyes and turned red-faced.

“It wasn’t his fault.” Silvia spoke up quickly. “Eric saddled Cricket for me. Don’t blame poor Thomas.”

Roman looked at her incredulously. “It’s not like Eric to be careless,” he snapped. He thrust the reins at Thomas and whirled to grip Silvia by the waist. His gentle handling as he set her on a wooden bench beneath the shaded overhang of the stable roof surprised her. She looked up hopefully. But he had stepped back and was eyeing her speculatively with a gaze that burned white-hot.

Her heart dropped gloomily. “Eric was in a hurry,” she mumbled. “It wasn’t his fault either.”

Roman scowled and turned back to Thomas. He issued curt orders for the man to make haste and fetch Vivien to help Silvia into the house.

“That won’t be necessary,” she said, her eyes bland. “I feel quite fit. Only a little headache.”

His mouth twisted. “Then I’ll see to Cricket. Wait for Vivien. She can make a poultice for your head, and tomorrow there won’t be even a sign of the injury,” he said without a speck of emotion, and stalked off into the stable.

Silvia’s face paled with anger and she stamped a foot on the ground. How had she ever thought she loved him? He was rushing away to tend a frightened horse while she, bruised and shaken, was left to wait alone for Vivien. The man had the heart of a jackal.

* * *

“So you’ve been abused, little lady.” Roman rubbed his hand lightly over Cricket’s belly and found what he had expected, a spot of dried blood and a thorn embedded in her flesh. He plucked the thorn out and dipped a cloth in cool, clear water, then sponged the caked crust away. “Sorry, Cricket,” he crooned as he applied liniment to a lump on one foreleg and gave the same treatment to one on her nose.

The little mare whinnied her contentment as the soothing liniment took effect.

Roman smiled and rubbed her gently between the ears. “There, now, little lady. You’ll be none the worse by morning.”

* * *

An hour later Silvia reluctantly submitted to Vivien’s treatment and ministrations. She had refused to go to bed in spite of Vivien’s prompting. Now she lay beneath a coverlet in her sitting room with a wet herbal poultice plastered to her forehead. Vivien, surprisingly, had been aghast at learning of her accident. She had rushed Silvia into the house and forbidden her to come downstairs before morning. But Silvia knew, to her chagrin, Vivien’s alarm had more to do with preventing Wilhelm’s wrath. Her own welfare was a lesser concern.

She had her supper, a bowl of thick, hearty soup and fragrant brown bread with butter. Anna sat with her for an hour, encouraging her to eat more and more, until finally Silvia insisted the tray be taken away so she could rest.

“I’ll leave the door open a crack, and, of course, there’s the bell—” She pointed at the tea table. “—if you need anything.”

“I’m sure I’ll be fine, Anna.”

She sighed and eventually drifted off to sleep, only to awaken a short while later and see Roman at her side, an unexpected look of concern on his face. He carried a tea tray, which looked completely out of place in his large hands.

“I didn’t know you were asleep.” He set the tray on the little table. “I met Anna on the stairs with this.” He indicated the tea. “She said you usually have it at night, so I told her I’d bring it. I wanted to tell you that Cricket is fine.”

“She’s not injured?”

“She had a few scratches, probably from running wild through the brush. Nothing that won’t heal quickly.” He had changed his clothes and wore a pale blue shirt with dark breeches. His hair was still damp from his bath and had not yet begun to fall over his brow as was its way. His expression was solemn but not filled with anger, and the softer look made his face more appealing than ever.

Silvia wrung her hands, hidden from his view beneath the coverlet.

“I thought she might have been worse.”

He gave a slow nod. “How’s your head?”

“Better.” She gingerly pulled the poultice away and dropped it to the table, grateful it had a more bearable smell than Vivien’s liniment. “It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

“The swelling is gone,” he said, leaning toward her. “You’ll mend as fast as Cricket.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” she answered wearily, her eyelids drooping a little. She wasn’t up to another verbal battle with him and hoped fervently the conversation would not lead to one. Why must he look so enticing in the candlelight?

Silvia sighed deeply. She wished he would leave the island and go back to his ships so she wouldn’t be reminded daily of his contempt for her.

Roman rocked back in the chair. He looked at the way her curls rested as light as air on the pillow. She looked incredibly vulnerable and small. Would he ever see her again without thinking of the child growing inside her, possibly from his own seed?

The chance that it might be so made him nearly mad with wondering. He remembered that first night, the blazing gold of her eyes and the bewitching pleasure of her passion. The memory had been deliberately held in check a long time, and now he chafed with knowing and admitting to himself that he had been unfair to put all the blame on her. Yet there was no forgetting the deception.

The candle flame flickered and threatened to go out, becoming a tiny ball of golden fire for an instant. Then it blazed up again and spread its rim of light over them both.

“Is Willy pleased about the baby?” His face was blank but she knew the question was his way of indicating he would forget what had been said earlier in the day.

“Yes. Pleased,” she answered vaguely. What did it matter that it was a lie? She turned her eyes away from him and sighed again, deeply. “He looks forward to the event.”

Roman swallowed hard. “You must relay my congratulations.”

Silvia felt his pretense of concern for her welfare was for his uncle’s benefit, an effort to keep peace in the house.

He proved her right with his next comment.

“Wilhelm too must be pleased.”

“Yes,” she whispered. “He has expressed his pleasure.” More than that, she thought to herself. He has gloated.

“You must give more thought to your condition,” he added matter-of-factly, rising from the chair and hastily replacing it across the room. “I recommend you limit your exercise to walks in the garden until the baby comes.”

“Yes, I’ll do that.” Her eyes followed him across the room. What irony that they were having a subdued, civil discussion when they had exchanged heated words only a short time ago.

Silvia wondered if he was slyly trying to ensure his own inheritance, for he knew it would threaten his position to continue his cruel treatment of her. Her thoughts were unkind, but so was Roman’s behavior lately. She meant nothing to him except that as Willy’s wife, she might someday be in control of the Schlange empire.

Oddly it was the first time she had fully realized that possibility. If Wilhelm died and his will was as he had told her, her child would inherit the majority of the estate. But until the child came of age, she would be in a position of power over them all.

“You will be careful,” he said again.

Silvia pressed her lips tightly together and nodded. She found herself unable to feel any joy at his kindly advice. Really, she preferred his caustic honesty to this pretentious concern. There was, her mind rambled on sadly, only one person here who cared for and adored her. Poor, dumb Willy.

“Roman.” She gave him a cool glance. “I’d like it kept secret awhile longer. About the baby, I mean.”

“As you wish.” He smiled lightly. “I’ll leave the broadcasting of that news to you. And,” he added, pausing with his arms crossed over his chest, “I’ll not keep you from your rest any longer. Good night.”

When he was gone, she touched her feet to the floor and tiptoed to the door to shut and lock it. It would be wise to keep her secret as long as possible, lest she become the object of carping, insincere attention from them all. Outside she saw Roman stop as he met Morgan in the hall. Would he do as she asked and keep her secret?

She waited a moment to hear what would be said. “Another assignation, brother?” Morgan smiled. “How is Cousin Silvia?

“What concern is it of yours?”

“What concern? Get a grip on that black temper of yours, man. The girl was hurt.”

“She’s resting now. See her tomorrow.”

“I’ll stay only a minute. Just wanted to tell her I’m glad the fall was no worse.” Morgan started by his brother but got no more than a step when Roman grasped him by the arm and spun him back.

“Stay away from her.” Roman’s voice was a low, menacing growl.

“Why?” Morgan pulled his arm loose and frowned gruffly.

“Forget why,” Roman said coldly. “For your own good, stay away from her.”

The way Roman had turned, she could see the grim, angry lines of his face. She was right. He felt no differently about her. He still thought her no more than a scheming fortune hunter. And he was warning Morgan not to befriend her.

Silvia eased her door shut. Morgan had apparently listened to his brother, for he did not stop at her room. Would they have gone off somewhere to discuss what must be done to prevent their inheritance being lost? Let them have it! Let them have it all. She didn’t want it. She wanted nothing but happiness—and happiness, it seemed, was the one thing she was destined to be denied.

Discarding her wrapper and nightgown, she hurried to the armoire and took out a dark gray gown and quickly slipped it on. Moving quietly, she sat at the dressing table and brushed her hair over her shoulder, then threaded it into one thick black braid. She slipped the wrapper over her dress in case Anna or Vivien should come in.

Her head ached again, dully. She poured a steaming cup of tea, thinking it would relax her while she waited for everyone to go to bed. Tonight she would begin searching the castle until she found the hiding place for Schlange’s journal. Odin had been gone a long time the day he took it away, which indicated the cache might be on the ground floor, possibly in Schlange’s library, where he did most of his work when he was not ill.

She would search secretly and she would find the journal if it took weeks or even months. And when she did, she would prove to Roman and to everyone at the castle that she had come here believing she was a bond servant. That she had never expected to be mistress of Serpent Tree Hall. That she didn’t want the money or the land or the ships. She only wanted to leave and never see any of them again. She would take her child and go. They wouldn’t stop her once the truth was known. Not even Wilhelm could stop her then.

* * *

“My baby!” She woke crying out and striking at the people in her dream, who were trying to take the child from her arms. As she slowly awoke she remembered her plan. What time was it? She hadn’t meant to sleep. The candle had gone out and she lit it with fumbling, shaking hands. The teapot and cup were gone. Vivien or Anna had come back and taken them without waking her.

She was groggy, barely able to find her way to the bedroom without stumbling against the furniture. The wavering flame lit the face of the little enamel clock. It was past two. She had slept for hours without meaning to. It was late but the time would be right to start her search.

Minutes later, she had felt her way down the dark marble staircase, pausing once or twice when she imagined she heard soft footsteps behind her. By the time she reached the library, her head spun dizzily and her eyes distortedly searched the room. Still she would not give up her quest. Moving stealthily, she lit candles but even then, to her addled brain, the room seemed dim and dark with great looming shadows.

Not to be deterred, she explored the bookcases first, running her hands over the panels and shelves and finding nothing. Disappointed, she made a desperate little sound in the darkness and shivered as she heard a shuffling noise behind her. Turning, she saw one shadow come alive and step apart from the statues.

“Have you joined the spirits in their nightly escapades?” The purple-swathed shadow floated from against the wall. In the candlelight it grew solid and stretched taller.

Silvia’s hands flew over her mouth. It was the same shadow she had seen once before in the library.

“I was looking...” she whispered hollowly.

“For me?” The phantom voice came softly from his hooded face. “Or for secrets?”

“Nooo,” she moaned, feeling her legs turn pulpy as she knew suddenly and surely that her ghost was real. “For the journal,” she answered woodenly. “If I can find the journal they will believe me.”

He floated past her and she whirled to follow his flight. “Who does not believe you?”

“Roman. None of them. They think I want to steal their inheritance.” She sobbed. “When all I want is to leave this horrible place.”

“And what prevents your leaving?”

“Wilhelm. He won’t let me.” She was trembling, hardly able to stand, and her head ached as if it would split. She barely knew what she was saying. A murkiness enveloped her thoughts and at times she didn’t even realize she actually spoke them. “What would happen to Willy if I left? Oh, no.” She sobbed again. “I can never leave.”

He seemed to lift in the air and then he was beside her. He enfolded her in the purple cloak, pulling her head to his chest and soothing her with warm, comforting whispers.

For a moment she wondered if her fall from the horse had weakened her brain. This ghost made no fiendish threats, and strangely, she felt solaced and safe cosseted in his arms. It was as if he above all others in this house meant her no harm or malice. Here at last was a friend whom she could trust. Only she felt so light-headed and weak, it was as if her blood had been drained from her veins.

Then suddenly she went limp and it was her consciousness that drained away. She would have slumped to the floor had she not been held in his arms.

* * *

“Get dressed. It’s happened. He’s dead.” There was a frenzied, slightly mad look to Vivien as she burst into Silvia’s bedroom. Her hair, for once, was untidy and her long face was pale.

“Dead? Who?” Silvia fought with the covers, not waking fully and thinking herself still swathed in the dark, ghostly folds of Siegfried’s cloak. The ghost she had seen last night must have been Siegfried, for who else could it have been? Who else would have carried her back to her bedroom? Or had she truly never left? Could she have possibly dreamt the whole incident? She must have.

In the center of her room Vivien waited, looking pallid and strained. “Do get up quickly,” she said in a thin, empty voice. “Mr. Schlange has died.”

Silvia thrust the covers to the foot of the bed and sprang to her feet. The silk curtains at the windows swayed in and out with a warm morning breeze. But she rubbed her arms and shivered as a strange chill came from nowhere and wrapped her in its invisible currents.

“I’ll be dressed in a moment.” Silvia found her wrapper and slipped it on over her blue silk gown, her hands freezing on the ties. Suddenly she remembered that she had worn the silk wrapper hiding the gray dress last night.

Her lower lip dropped and quivered a little. The gray dress lay crumpled on the floor beside her bed, and as she stared at it, she absently brushed her fingers over the lacy collar of the nightgown she wore. She forgot for a moment that Vivien was in the room as she realized it was no longer possible to tell where her dreams ended and reality began.

“He faded away in his sleep.”

“Oh,” she murmured, coming out of her trance and turning to find Vivien staring critically at her.

“Odin found him so this morning.”

Could he really be dead? She had expected the old man to linger forever.

“Mr. Schlange seemed stronger when I last spoke with him.”

“He forced himself to be better in order to see you.” Vivien looked up sharply. “The old fool. He wouldn’t have you know how weak and ill he was.” She breathed deeply and dropped her eyes. “Yet I think he would not have lasted so long had you not been here. Mr. Schlange fed on the desire to have a grandson before he died. It kept him alive.”

But in the end it had not kept him alive long enough.

“I’ll hurry.” Silvia sighed and started to the dressing room.

“No. Wait.” Vivien waved a negligent hand at her.

“Yes?” Silvia stopped obediently but her fingers kept moving, making bows of the ribbons that tied her wrapper. “There must be a hundred things to do. Have the others been told?”

“They know. The preparations have begun.” Vivien looked pointedly at Silvia. “I advise you to wait before you tell them about the child.”

“He told you?”

“Yes. And be advised that one blow is enough for now. Give them time to grieve for their uncle before they learn they would do better to curse his black soul.” The color had returned to Vivien’s face and she regained the aloofness in her voice. “Mr. Schlange knew he had little time, even though he would have us believe otherwise. He prepared for his death. His instructions will be carefully followed.”

“What do you mean, Vivien?” Silvia’s voice was hard. “Who would care now that there is to be a child, or if I were to stay or go? What is to keep me here now that Schlange is dead? You will care for Willy as you always have. He is safe enough with his father dead.” Vivien listened unmoved, and Silvia daringly went on. “You must know of the threats his father made against him. Surely you can see the danger died with him. Willy is safe and I am free to leave.”

Vivien laughed an eerie, reproachful laugh. Silvia shuddered to see that her eyes had become two hot, blazing black suns.

“How foolish you are,” she said piteously. “Do you think Wilhelm Schlange would let death weaken his grasp? He has found a way to hold you from the grave.” She laughed again. “All our lives rest on your staying and bearing the child you carry. Who knows whom he has bribed or enlisted to obey him even in death? Don’t you realize?” she said in her wintry voice. “Nothing has changed.”

Chapter 13

Black bunting draped the mantels in the front drawing room, where the doors had been left standing open. It was a hot, airless day and, inside the castle, too muggy and quiet. Even the pink marble of the foyer had lost its cheerful brightness. Silvia in her gown of heavy black silk felt as lifeless as the two depressing funeral wreaths which had been hung outside on the front doors.

The atmosphere of the house itself had turned exceedingly dismal in the frenzied period of mourning. Wilhelm Schlange’s death had been a shock to everyone, even though he had been recently ill. Like Silvia, all had believed he would even outlive many of them. Indeed it had caught the family by surprise, and preparations for the burial had to be made hastily. After some searching through Schlange’s papers and much consulting among the nephews, it had been determined that the will could not be read until Mr. Schlange’s lawyer arrived from a northern colony.

Silvia had never imagined the event could make her feel more isolated and alone than before. But it seemed, as she sat quietly and deliberated on the matter, that her life was shattered and ruined beyond mending.

She was so far away in thoughts of despair that she didn’t hear Vivien come up behind her in the drawing room.

“The minister has arrived.” Vivien, the thin lips ashen in her long face, shook Silvia’s shoulder.

Reluctantly Silvia stirred from her chair.

“Show him in, please.”

It had been left to her to greet the Reverend Samuels, who had come from Fredericksburg, for Martha was too distraught and was now resting. Business and the gathering of crops would not wait for funeral plans to be completed, and the nephews had been called out to attend to the urgencies of the estate. No one among them doubted that Wilhelm Schlange himself would despair if one working day were lost in the smooth running of Schlange Island.

Later in the evening, Eric would finalize the burial plans with the minister. But as a matter of courtesy, Silvia had volunteered to meet the man when he arrived.

Hands clasped tightly together, she stood solemnly by the mantel.

“Silvia, child,” he addressed her as Vivien showed him in. Samuels was a short, plain-faced man with faded gray eyes behind a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles. He bore a surprisingly merry smile for a somber occasion. At Eric’s request he had traveled by boat from Fredericksburg on the next island and would stay at Serpent Tree Hall until the service was performed. “You are all Mr. Schlange said you would be.” Samuels clasped her hand ecstatically.

“He told you about me?”

“Ah, yes. Mr. Schlange wrote months ago telling me of Willy’s upcoming marriage and how hopeful he was for a grandson. Said as how it wasn’t possible for me to perform the wedding, he hoped I’d agreed to do the christening of his first grandchild.” Reverend Samuels took the chair beside Silvia and directed a shrewd glance her way. “A grandchild was most important to him, you know.” Samuels shook his head thoughtfully. “A terrible shame he couldn’t have lasted long enough to see the dream realized,” he added with a note of remorse. “And double the shame that this sad event should occur so soon after your marriage.” Silvia felt an uneasiness growing inside her those gray eyes had a way of probing. “We have lost a fine man,” he added.

“His death was...” She paused abruptly and looked into Reverend Samuels’ kindly face. Was he too a pawn in one of Wilhelm Schlange’s evil plans? There was no way to know, and as a matter of caution her words must be chosen carefully. “...an untimely tragedy,” she continued. “And most unexpected, despite his illness.”

She regarded Samuels gravely. She had thought to appeal to the soft-spoken clergyman for assistance. He was the first person she had met who could possibly help her leave Schlange Island. But it seemed what Vivien had told her was true. Schlange’s plans reached beyond the grave, for she had no way of determining who was friend and who was foe. She remembered the seemingly affable Captain Langham, who would have made her available to the Tollers on board the Eastwind.

Any request for help might lead to disastrous complications in an already insufferable problem. Again she had to conclude that for the present she must stay at Serpent Tree Hall and try to make her life and Willy’s as bearable as possible.

“You must be brave, child.” Reverend Samuels took her hand once more and patted it consolingly. “The future of this family rests with you.”

Was that a warning she had best do as Schlange had dictated?

Silvia couldn’t have told what was said in much of the conversation that followed with the clergyman. She only remembered thinking how astonishing it was that Wilhelm Schlange had consorted with this religious man. The fact was totally incongruous to her, but Reverend Samuels indicated Mr. Schlange had visited his home in Fredericksburg frequently over the years. And on one of those more recent occasions Schlange had outlined his funeral plans.

“A remarkable man, Mr. Schlange. He was not well these last few years. But like many stubborn and powerful men, Wilhelm was late to see the inevitability of death. It has been less than a year since he visited me and talked of dying. I believe he had expected to live forever. There are some who do.” Samuels clucked and then smiled warmly. “There is little for you to worry over, child. Eric has seen to most of the funeral plans and I will attend to the others.” He removed his spectacles and tucked them into a pocket with one hand while he rubbed his eyes with the other. “Now, child, if you can accommodate me, I would like to rest in my room before I make the final preparations.”

“Thank you for coming so promptly, Reverend Samuels.” Silvia smiled faintly, but even so, her hands gripped the arms of the chair as if some strange force might try to pull her from it. “Your presence will ease the strain for us all,” she said meekly.

“It is little enough to do,” he responded, eyeing her soberly. “Mr. Schlange was not a man of strong religious conviction. He never attended my church, nor any other, to my knowledge. But nevertheless, his contributions were generous and he asked that I be the one to lay him to rest.” Samuels pulled his lips tightly together for an instant. “I would prefer to have been summoned for the christening,” he added wearily, rising.

Silvia got to her feet at the same time. “You are very kind and surely tired from your trip. I’ll have Anna show you to your room.” She hurried away to find the maid, her own spirits falling rapidly. Since meeting Samuels, she felt more apprehensive than ever.

A room was made ready for Reverend Samuels, and when he went up to rest from his journey, Silvia returned to the front drawing room and found that Martha had come down to receive the few visitors who came to express their condolences.

Martha greeted Silvia with a plaintive smile. “I’m glad you’re here.” Her face was drawn and pale as she took Silvia’s hand and pressed it in her cold, trembling palms. “We can comfort one another.”

Silvia hugged Martha’s shoulders and took a place beside her.

“So many people I don’t know,” she whispered as Martha introduced her to the overseers and other gentlemen who presented themselves.

Word of Schlange’s passing had traveled quickly through the area, and those who had the means to travel streamed in to pay their respects. Secretly Silvia wondered if many of them, business associates in particular, had not come to assure themselves the sly old man was really dead. She felt no dismay for her uncharitable thoughts. If Schlange dealt with all as he had with her, many would rejoice at his passing.

Nevertheless, she went through the motions of formality expected of the mistress of Serpent Tree Hall. When at last all the visitors had come and gone, both she and Martha were exhausted, and Martha, showing the signs of her fatigue, excused herself, saying she must go upstairs.

Alone again, Silvia looked tiredly around the stately drawing room. How small and alone she felt beneath the high arched ceilings and among the overpoweringly rich furnishings. She had the uneasy feeling that Schlange’s ghost was already stalking the castle, perhaps joining the feud between Aurelius and Siegfried. She crossed one arm over her breast and rubbed an aching shoulder. What a restless, nefarious spirit he would be. Was it true there was no rest for wicked souls?

Shuddering, she walked to the windows, but the view gave her no cheer. The day had become overcast and gray, a ghastly day made for funerals and sadness. Was it Schlange’s spirit making the house and the weather so mournful? Had he that power too? For it seemed, in the three days since he had died, that sorrow and gloom had grown to proportions that might never wear away.

She tried to shake herself out of the despondent spell. She must banish the dreadful thoughts from her mind or they would drive her to madness. Yet, try as she would, she couldn’t stop thinking that Schlange’s spirit might be in the drawing room with her. It was no more unbelievable than that one feeble old man had managed to arrange in advance every event to take place after his death. Should she have risked making a plea to the Reverend Samuels? Silvia paused in her pacing. She had circled the room and come to the door which opened into the adjoining smoking room, and now a sound from behind the door arrested her attention. Silently she took a step closer to listen.

“Can’t you see?” Eric’s voice came angrily from the smoking room. “It could not have worked more to her advantage had she planned it all. She might well control the estate.”

Were they discussing her and the terms of the will? The solicitor, Mr. Crandall, would soon be on his way, though his arrival would be delayed by several weeks, as he had yet to receive the message informing him of Mr. Schlange’s death. When he was here the reading could be done and the bequests made. Meanwhile, only Odin knew the hiding place of Schlange’s documents. And he had been instructed to turn them over to Crandall alone.

“That oaf Odin refuses to release the documents to me. If we knew what changes Uncle made, we might be able to prevent a complete loss,” Eric fumed.

“I believe he made a codicil to the will when Crandall was here before,” Martha said. “If that is the case, whether or not we agree, we must accept the changes in good grace.”

Silvia pressed her ear flatly against the door to hear the muffled voices more clearly.

“Aren’t we being premature?” Morgan cut in. “Willy cannot run the estate, nor can she. Uncle made no secret of the terms of his will. Willy inherits, and then the estate passes to us or our families. As long as Willy lives we have the same arrangement to manage the estate as we previously had with Uncle. And the same generous compensation. As I see it, we have no cause to complain. Uncle would not have turned the management of his empire over to an invalid son and his wife of a few weeks. I expect the new provision of the will was made to include a daughter-in-law rather than to exclude us.”

“Morgan,” Eric said shortly, “it’s time you stopped viewing the world through a rosy cloud. Everything we have worked for is at stake here. Why do you suppose Uncle arranged this unlikely marriage?”

“He told us why,” Morgan answered. “To provide a companion for Willy. Little more, I expect. What do you think, Roman?”

“I believe it would be best if she had never come here.” Roman’s voice woke her from a daze. “But more—”

“Are you all blind?” Eric asked hotly. “Suppose there is a child.”

“Stop it, Eric,” Martha said sharply. “Calm yourself. There is always a way to turn even the worst situation to your advantage. And you can rest assured Uncle would not have cast us out for a stranger.” She sighed softly. “Nevertheless, the estate was his to do with as he pleased. We must accept whatever that fate might be.”

Silvia’s mouth fell open and her little chin quivered. She could bear to hear no more, and rushed from the drawing room as if pursued. It was as Schlange had predicted. They had begun to hate her.

* * *

“You do want to go with me, don’t you, Willy?” Silvia’s eyes were bland, her voice falsely gay.

Willy’s guileless, peaceful face was lit with a smile. He nodded affirmatively. Willy trusted and needed her, and she was bound by her heart to protect him, which, of course, was as Schlange had foreseen.

The funeral was to be held in the afternoon and she had decided Willy should attend. It would be a somber, drawn out event, culminating in Schlange being laid to rest in a private cemetery not far from the castle. His was the first family grave dug in the wooded glen, and Silvia had flinched on first seeing the deep, raw gash the rectangular pit made in the smooth, peaceful flesh of the earth.

Willy, in his childlike way, had sensed the tension and strain in both Silvia and Vivien. He had reacted by clinging even more fervently to Silvia, an action which did not set well with Vivien. It was impossible to tell if he understood that his father was dead, but there had been an evident change in his behavior and he had become less and less content with his confinement as each day passed. Silvia was convinced Willy had loved his father in spite of the old man’s contempt for him.

“He should attend the burial,” Silvia protested again as she had done numerous times over the last two days.

“He is accustomed to his way of life and there is no reason to change his routine now,” Vivien retorted. “Certainly he should not be brought out to be a laughingstock at his father’s funeral.”

“He need not be. Willy and I can stand apart from the others on the little crest above the plot.” She turned to bestow a soothing smile on Willy. “I believe he understands what has happened and in his own way would like to say good-bye to his father.”

Vivien stared belligerently at her.

At last her tight lips parted. “You may be right in that,” she agreed reluctantly, tapping a fingernail against the marble top of a table. “It would arouse more suspicion if he were absent than if he were present.” Vivien lifted her brows thoughtfully. “But see that he is kept well away from anyone,” she warned harshly. “I will join the crowd and dissuade any attempts to speak to him.”

Silvia agreed. It was a small first victory with Vivien, but a victory nevertheless. With Wilhelm gone, she hoped eventually to persuade Vivien that Willy must not be kept prisoner in his rooms. Perhaps she would demand it when the time was right. As long as she remained relatively a prisoner herself, she would exert her will to break the bonds in every way she could.

She was proved right at the funeral. Willy looked well dressed in his dark coat and breeches. Silvia hooked her arm through his, and from the distance, to the crowded gathering below, they must have looked the properly bereaved couple, too deep in grief to join other members of the funeral party.

Willy, though, had seemed unaffected by it all. Still, Silvia did her best to explain what was taking place, hoping he would indeed understand. She watched his wan face intently as the coffin was lowered into the dark depth of the grave, and as it disappeared, one small tear trickled from Willy’s eye as the pale, sensitive lips formed a soundless good-bye.

Silvia pressed Willy’s hand tightly in her own as they returned to the castle. She needed no more persuasion that Willy had far more understanding than he had been credited with. She was convinced it was long past time his confinement ended, and swore to herself she would wear Vivien down until she agreed.

* * *

“Ready now?” Willy had begun responding to her questions with gestures and nods. “Let’s go, then.”

A week after Wilhelm’s funeral, she had succeeded in getting Willy out of the house for walks. It had been a simple enough matter to explain to his cousins that the shock of his father’s death had changed him. She and Willy would end his seclusion by taking daily excursions over the grounds, but for a time preferred to do so privately.

In the afternoons she would take Willy to visit a small duck pond she had found at the end of a seldom-used path. There, out of sight of the castle, they would sit watching ducks paddling around and bobbing beneath the pond’s surface for fish and weeds.

“There he is! Watch!”

Willy’s delighted face was reward enough for the battles with Vivien. He had come so close to laughing at the fat green bullfrog making a desperate leaping dive into the pond that Silvia couldn’t contain a pleased smile.

Willy insisted on sitting atop a big rock well back from the water’s edge to watch the antics of the frogs.

Smiling, she knelt beside him.

“Would you like to wade today?”

His smile vanished and he shook his head furiously. His fear of the water was understandable but Silvia had hoped he might overcome it. The day before, when she had slipped off her shoes and dipped her feet in the shallow water near the bank, Willy’s face had clouded with panic. Sensing his concern, she had hurried out to reassure him.

Her hand went to his cheek and she patted it affectionately. She wouldn’t press him. It was enough that he came to the pond. There was no need to make him recall and relive the horrible tragedy that had killed his mother.

The walks must be happy occasions, Silvia vowed. She would lead him slowly into new experiences.

“We must go in now,” she said softly, taking Willy’s hand and leading him along the grassy path. “Tomorrow, perhaps we’ll visit the stable. You’d like to see the horses, wouldn’t you, Willy?”

Willy grinned and squeezed her hand fervently. Silvia smiled faintly in return, her eyes damp with tears for the hapless soul at her side, poor, simpleminded Willy whom she had come to love as a child.

As they neared the castle, she saw Vivien waiting at Willy’s door, her face stern and disapproving.

Resolved not to let Vivien discourage her work with Willy, she spoke quickly. “You should come with us, Vivien. See how his color has improved.” Silvia pointed out Willy’s bright cheeks and tanned face. “His appetite has improved as well.”

“Yes, he looks healthier,” Vivien admitted. “But I’m not convinced these outings are for the best.” Her brows furrowed into a worried frown. “Suppose he should try to go out alone?”

“He can’t,” Silvia snapped. “You keep him locked in.” She turned and smiled softly at Willy, who had been startled when she spoke sharply. “And anyway, you wouldn’t go out alone, would you, Willy?”

Attempting a smile, Willy shook his head from side to side.

“You see, he’s improving in all areas, Vivien. There’s so much he could do if we teach him. He has a remarkable sense of direction. I believe he knows the grounds better than I. It’s almost as if he’s walked them all before.”

“He’s spent many hours at the windows looking out. He might have learned the paths from watching us move about below.”

“It only proves he is more capable than Wilhelm believed,” Silvia said. In the bright light by the window, Vivien’s face had grim lines, but Silvia could sense her resistance weakening. “You will help me teach him, won’t you?”

Vivien’s brows lifted pensively and she made no reply. Yet Silvia knew she was considering the matter and would eventually come to her way of thinking. No matter how little she liked Silvia, in the end she would do what was best for Willy.

* * *

Silvia, however, had not become so preoccupied with Willy that she forgot her desire to find Schlange’s journal. She still harbored a dim hope of bringing the truth to light, although she believed it would make little difference to Roman now.

Odin, truly distraught over his master’s death, had not visited the house since the funeral, and she was convinced the journal remained hidden within the castle. Nightly she slipped out of her rooms after everyone retired, to search the library, the drawing room, anywhere the journal might be hidden. But after many nights of unsuccessful searching, loss of sleep and lack of success had begun to leave her weary, her hope waning.

Her quest had taken her stealthily through almost every room in the castle. She had searched relentlessly and futilely until she began to believe there was no point in continuing. Always with her were the troublesome thoughts of ghostly figures, but she had come to welcome the one shadow among them which followed her every step, waiting and watching. She felt it was the friendly presence of Siegfried, and at times tried approaching him, but always the whimsical shadow vanished, leaving her even more saddened and alone.

Tonight was particularly dreary and foggy and the air uncomfortably cool. Yet Silvia felt compelled once again to search Schlange’s library, still hoping to find a secret panel or hidden compartment, possibly concealed among the books. Once more her quest left her empty-handed and disappointed, and she returned to her own chambers tired to the point that sleep evaded her and she lay awake until sunup brooding over the hopelessness of her circumstances.

Consequently she arrived at breakfast the same morning somewhat red-eyed and not at all refreshed by the few hours of rest since she had given up her search for the night.

Eric, Roman, and Morgan sat at the table tight-lipped. Only Martha showed any sign of good spirits. There was a heavy cloud hanging over them all, an unspoken threat that all might experience a great upheaval in their lives once the solicitor arrived and read Schlange’s will. It was not Silvia’s imagination that they had treated her politely but coolly since Wilhelm’s death.

Silvia had not been able to relax completely since she had overheard the conversation in the smoking room, and had kept to herself except for the time she devoted to Willy. Lately it seemed even the friendly spirit of Siegfried no longer sought her company.

A tense mood prevailed until the meal was ending and Vivien hurried in, breathing rapidly and obviously agitated. She stopped short of reaching the table and addressed Silvia demandingly.

“Where is Willy?”

Silvia looked up, surprised. “Why, I don’t know. I haven’t yet seen him this morning.”

Lines of worry cut into Vivien’s long face. “He wouldn’t go out without you.”

Silvia was wondering how Willy could have left his room and where he might be, when Odin burst through the back gate of the courtyard carrying his tragic, soggy bundle. Vivien was the first to see.

Her scream was one of agony, and in her startling rush to the door, she upset a chair and sent it crashing to the floor in her wake.

“Oh, Willy! My Willy!” Vivien cried, throwing open the French doors and flying into the garden.

Silvia’s face blanched as she pushed her chair back and jumped to her feet. She could see that the sodden, drooping bundle Odin carried was Willy’s lifeless body.

“Willy!” she screamed, and forcing strength to her legs, followed Vivien into the garden.

Vivien, in her anguish, clutched the water-swollen face to her own and tried to wrest Willy’s limp body from Odin’s arms.

Martha was by Silvia’s side, her face suddenly pale with shock, but she managed clumsily to put a bracing arm around Silvia’s shoulders.

“Oh, dear God, his face,” Martha cried. “Is it Willy?” she asked, hugging Silvia to her.

The men came up to assist Odin.

“Let him go!” Roman caught Vivien and pulled her away.

She was like a big black spider clinging desperately to Willy, holding and hugging him as if she could put life back in him. She fought Roman like a wild thing, her fury and grief giving strength to her spindly arms and legs. It took Morgan’s assistance to keep her under control, but even when they had stilled her frantic struggles, the screams and cries persisted.

“Put him down here.” Eric helped Odin lower the body to the ground and stripped off his shirt to cover poor Willy’s grisly face while he sent the black man inside to fetch a blanket.

Vivien hushed when Willy was covered. But her black eyes turned to glowing red coals burning with the fire of hatred. The full heat of her fury was directed at one person. Like a magnet, the direction of Vivien’s eyes seemed to draw the stares of everyone to Silvia.

“It was you!” Vivien raged. “You took him there. You! You let him drown.” She pulled an arm free and pointed it like a thin scepter at Silvia. “Or if the truth be known, maybe more.” Her voice dropped as her eyes burned brighter. “You killed my Willy. My sweet, precious Willy.”

Silvia felt suspended, frozen with horror. She couldn’t keep the trembling out of her voice.

“No,” she whispered. “You know it isn’t so, Vivien. You know it isn’t so.”

“Vivien.” It was Morgan’s voice, sounding calm and cool and so strange, joining the frenetic exchange. “It was an accident. Silvia had nothing to do with it.”

Vivien eyed him savagely. “She killed him.”

* * *

Another funeral followed that of Wilhelm Schlange, and another grave was dug. Two smooth mounds of earth now marred the quiet little glen. And Willy, poor innocent Willy, who had watched from the hillside as his father was lowered into the earth, now rested beside the old man he had feared.

Blinking rapidly at the bitter tears in her eyes, Silvia dropped a red rose on Willy’s grave and then retreated to the shadowy darkness of the trees. The night was cool and windy. An evening mist had lingered like a floating veil over the floor of the glen, and now it crept snakelike up the hillside and in among the trees where Silvia wandered blindly toward the little pond where Willy had died.

How could it have happened? Willy would not have gone near the pond alone. He feared the water far too much to have gotten close enough to fall in.

The rustle of the leaves above her made a sad, whispering melody in the night. She thought she heard the echo of her footsteps far off in the trees and cupped her ears to listen. It was unbelievable but true. Willy had been killed, and someone had tried to kill her. She pulled a lacy black shawl over her head and around her huddled shoulders to ward off a chill as her mind wandered where it would. She had accomplished nothing by staying on Schlange Island to protect Willy, and Vivien had been right to blame her. Willy would still be alive and safe if she had not become his wife.

As she came out of the forest, she saw the pale moon ringed with a promise of rain. It was a bad omen. Silvia’s mournful face grew pinched and frightened and she couldn’t crush down her heavy feeling of apprehension. She had enemies and they were not just shadowy spirits and fears spun from an overactive imagination. Her enemies were real and deadly.

Nearing the pond, she stumbled onto the fog-obscured rock that had been Willy’s resting place. Shivering irrepressibly, she stopped and dropped down on the rough wet stone. The sound of footsteps continued. Her heart pounded loudly and then grew still. Why had she foolishly come out in the darkness alone so far from the house? She was completely defenseless.

The footsteps grew louder and more rapid. Silvia crouched down, praying the darkness and fog would shield her. But the moon picked that moment to escape the boiling black clouds.

“Why have you come here?” Roman stood before her and in the moonlight he had a strangely troubled look in his eyes. “It’s where Willy died.”

Silvia stood, her face pale and her lips tremulous.

“I know,” she answered breathlessly, her eyes darting away from his. “We used to walk here. Willy liked to sit on this rock and look at the pond.” Silvia trembled and looked around uneasily. It was impossible not to be suspicious of everyone, even Roman.

He came toward her and unexpectedly seized her wrists, holding them firmly. Silvia cried out in surprise. Again the sky turned dark as big ragged clouds moved across the face of the moon and obscured its sanguine flame.

Roman looked at her coldly.

“Vivien holds you responsible for his death. She thinks you killed him.”

The flush that had flown to her cheeks retreated. “She said as much.”

“Why would she think it?” Roman stepped forward a pace and took a seat on the rock, pulling her down beside him. There was a curious glow in his eyes, as if he knew more than he revealed. “Was it because he had the face of a monster? Is that why she thinks you wanted him dead?”

“He wasn’t a monster,” Silvia protested. “Only a child with a face he couldn’t help having.” She gave a little shudder as Roman’s eyes searched past her face.

“Then why?” he demanded.

“Because it’s true,” she said briefly, the blood bursting in her head. “Though not in the way she means. If I hadn’t come here, Willy would be alive.”

“Willy had been dead for hours when Odin found him. He must have gone out alone in the night and somehow fallen in the pond.”

Silvia sighed deeply.

“No. He wouldn’t have done that. He wouldn’t have come here alone.”

“No?”

“No. He was terribly afraid of the water. This rock was as close as he would go to the edge.” She cautiously raised her brows. “Someone would have had to bring him here and force him in the pond.”

Roman’s eyes narrowed.

“You are saying Willy was killed. But not by you.” His hands were bruising her wrists.

“No. Not by me.” A flood of sudden fears swept through her. But he was killed by someone. Someone who had known of their visits to this place. Someone who had known Willy would be gentle and docile and easily overpowered. Someone who stood to gain by Willy’s death. But who? “Do you believe me?” she asked weakly.

She could feel the savage crush of his hands grasping her arms.

“I don’t know what to believe,” Roman said swiftly. “I only know it wasn’t you who came here with him last night.”

“How could you know?”

“I know a few of your secrets, just as I know there’s much more about Willy than bears telling. But never mind that. I came here to warn you Vivien is talking of making charges against you.”

“Why should you care what happens to me?”

His eyes were stormy and dark and the anger in them frightened and confused her. She turned her eyes away, feeling her breath come unevenly as she heard him answer.

“I have a stake in what happens here, and just now it all seems to be tied to you. Until I unravel the mystery, it’s to my advantage to keep all possibilities open.”

It was evident where his heart lay, she thought gloomily. Not with her. And rightly so. She had spoiled things for him too. She might have cost him what was due him from Schlange’s estate. Silvia found herself more sad than frightened, feeling she had lost Willy and more. Irrevocably she had broken Roman’s peculiar code of honor in a way he could never forgive. She felt a great welling of weariness and despair and her voice quavered with the feel of it when she spoke.

“Then you are concerned for your inheritance?”

Roman saw her bite her lip and saw the agony in her white face. He answered bluntly. “I have given it a thought. If Willy were murdered, it was because of the inheritance. And one of my dear cousins or my brother is responsible.”

“Or yourself.” Her voice was the slightest whisper.

He stiffened.

“There is that possibility,” he agreed.

His fingers moved lightly up her shoulders where little loose curls trailed light as floating thistledown. She had such an innocent face looking up in the moonlit darkness. He struggled to control the intense desire he felt for her, and failing, found his fingers resting around the silken column of her throat while his thumbs stroked that softest spot beneath her chin. Roman closed his eyes against the battle raging within him. His body ached for her, his mind wanted to push her away. Unbidden, one strong hand eased back to lock around her nape, tilting her head back, and suddenly all the lovely moonlight was in her face.

She heard his labored breathing mingle with the night sounds of chirping crickets and croaking frogs and the faint stirring of leaves. He had the power to arouse, with a glance, passion’s fires within her. As his fingers stroked her throat, her body warmed and began to tremble beneath his gentle caress. The lavender scent she wore, fired to life by her passion, rose up to envelop them with its softly pungent fragrance. Her eyes meeting his with wonder, Silvia gave an inarticulate little cry, reminding herself it meant nothing, nothing at all that his lips were coming down on hers.

The sweet, liquid call of nightbirds rang out of the darkness and Silvia’s heartbeat joined the song.

His kisses rained down warm on her mouth, feeding some hunger in them both and passing them into a dream world where doubts and suspicions strangely blossomed into passion. Soft, stroking fingers caressed the silken skin of her cheeks, then slipped away and downward. His trembling hands freed her breasts from the confining gown and Silvia’s eyes closed in captured ecstasy as his hot breath and devouring kisses sent shivers running down her spine. His hands traced her body freely, finding their way beneath her skirt, touching her thighs and buttocks. With a jolt, he pulled her tightly against him and once again his lips were upon hers.

Each kiss was more fevered than the last, until they merged into one lasting, fiery joining of trembling mouths before the two of them sprang suddenly apart.

With a roar, the wind whipped up, blowing in a threat of rain. Angry waves ruffled the black surface of the pond and the trees bent under the blast. Silvia’s skirts whipped about like a ship’s sail in a storm. She moaned, her lips bruised and swollen, her limbs weak and quivering. Roman’s arms were still curled around her waist, but his face had grown sardonically cold.

“I’ll get you inside,” came his flat, remote voice.

“Oh, Roman,” she whispered unsteadily as her hands moved on his chest, sliding gently over the soft linen shirt. He pulled away from her.

What was it she saw in his blazing eyes? Not tenderness, not warmth, yet suddenly her heart was turning over in her chest.

Chapter 14

“And that, love, is comfort for a grieving widow.”

Silvia went rigid with shock, feeling as she had the day she had been thrown and had the wind knocked out of her. Roman’s demoralizing arrogance emerged whenever she thought she had struck a tender vein in his heart. Did she falsely mistake insolence and contempt for affection?

“You were so briefly a bride, I thought to ease your loss in the way that would soothe you most.”

Silvia tried to swallow but found she couldn’t. Scowling, she twisted away from him.

“Your sympathy takes a most peculiar form.” Oh, how he had roused her from hopeful dreaming. How he had plied her with kisses and maddening caresses and then cut the life out of her heart.

Cold, damp wind whipped her hair loose and sent it flying out in a silken mass. The icy tempest stole the lacy shawl from her shoulders and swallowed it up in the darkness. Her black dress lay plastered against her skin. Shivering with cold and humiliation, Silvia wrapped her arms across her breasts and turned her tormented face from Roman.

He seemed oblivious of the wind. His white shirt clung damply to his chest and sleekly outlined the muscular contours of his arms and belly. Silk breeches, not made for withstanding the elements, revealed too much of his manly form. He moved to stand before her.

Silvia’s eyes marked him, and half-closing them, she grimaced as she remembered with clarity how perfectly and lovingly his body had fitted to hers. Now she could feel the emptiness in her arms, the great void he had filled with passion. She recalled how brightly the flame of desire and the light of love had burned in those mocking blue eyes. The memory left her with a heavy, sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach. She was unaccountably weak, and so terribly cold that her shivering would not cease.

“Listen to me, Silvia.” His voice softened as he took in her pale face and soft, trembling mouth. He reached for her hand, meeting no resistance as he took it in his own. “Come in with me. You’re not dressed for this weather. We’ll get you warm and dry before you catch a chill.”

His gaze fell lower to her heaving breasts outlined in sodden black silk, and he wondered if he could carry through what he intended. He struggled with himself, for a moment wanting to take her again in his arms and deny all that separated them.

It had to be settled, this unrelenting obsession with his cousin’s wife. No. That wasn’t right. She was Willy’s widow now, and fair game once again. Whatever the title, she had poisoned his blood with a heated longing that would give him no rest. His mind reeled with thoughts of the vision scored in his memory, that of her incomparable loveliness. He remembered each detail of her flawless body, the feel of her satin skin, soft, silken hair that sapped a man’s sanity.

This raven-haired witch had crept into his life and cast some dark spell that gave him no peace.

And he sensed the evil all around. The evil of which Silvia had spoken. It was afoot in the luxurious rooms and sweeping corridors of Serpent Tree Hall. Evil lurked in the shadows; he could feel it, but could not yet trace it back to its hidden origins. He had suspicions, though, a careless word dropped by chance, stealthy footsteps in the night, all hidden cunningly behind a play of tears and feigned mourning.

It had to be exposed. It had to be stopped, and he knew the way to end it. But first he needed to know more about Silvia and about how Willy had died.

“Come with me, love,” he whispered, propelling Silvia’s slight, shivering figure toward the castle.

Involuntarily Silvia glanced upward. She was being drawn magnetically along with Roman. Why was it she was always so willing to fall into his arms, knowing the embrace would end in a blistering rebuke?

“No!” She wrenched her hand away from him, tripping and stumbling back with a gasp. “No!” she half-screamed, half-sobbed. “You’re a heartless monster, Roman Toller. Leave me be. I want none of your comfort. None of it!” The rain fell as she lifted her head defiantly and the cold, stinging drops swallowed up her streaming tears. “You’re as wicked as he was,” she cried, and ran off into the dark, wet shadows of the night.

* * *

It hadn’t worked as he’d planned with Silvia. It never did. His temper and jealousy had intruded and spoiled what he had hoped to accomplish.

Roman Toller slammed and bolted his bedroom door and quickly shed his wet, ruined clothes. He dried himself with a bath sheet and donned a pair of dry breeches. Storming across his bedchamber, he kicked a ladderback chair that happened to be in his path halfway across the room, where it crashed and splintered against the stones of the fireplace.

Perhaps he should have followed and tried to catch Silvia before she got inside, but by now she was probably warm and dry in her bed and wouldn’t answer if he knocked. He shrugged. It was best to have let her go. He could only have made matters worse by following, and that he could not afford to do.

Damn the woman and her elusive heart! She hadn’t proved to be as manageable as he had anticipated. Whirling about and uttering a second violent curse, he hammered his fist on the polished surface of a stout wooden chest. There was no avoiding it. She had to be out of the way for his plan to succeed. It would not do for her to continue searching the castle because she might chance upon something that was best left lost. He glanced hastily at the bolted door and then with a groan pushed his shoulder solidly to the weighty chest until it moved aside.

Set in the wall behind the chest was a small compartment from which he extracted a rolled-up bundle. Unwrapping the layers of cloth, Roman drew out a packet of documents and a brown leather journal. Crossing the room, he quickly took a seat and with a jerk slid a candle closer.

The gold embossing shone brightly under the increased light of the candle’s flame, and briefly the golden serpent was brought to life.

There in the solitude of his room, Roman Toller opened Wilhelm Schlange’s journal and began reading. His face was set coldly in a derisive frown as he realized the old devil would have set them all on each other to have his way. The cunning old fool had used them to his advantage and then would die and leave them all penniless. Roman’s laugh was the angry snarl of a wild animal.

“Uncle,” he murmured to himself, “you forgot that Schlange blood runs in my veins as well. I’ll match my wits to yours any day...and best you.”

His eyes sped over the spidery black handwriting, rereading the damning words. At once he flipped to the portion devoted to Silvia’s part in the drama and at last he knew Wilhelm’s intent for such an unlikely wedding. So in the end it had not mattered that Roman and his cousins had given their sweat and labor and lives to Wilhelm Schlange and the Schlange estate. Nothing had mattered to the old man but having an heir who bore his name. What irony that they had served him better than their own fathers.

He slammed the book shut and poured himself a glass of dark red wine, then drank it down rapidly. Another glass followed, and then a third, until he had nearly emptied the bottle. But even so it did not wash out the picture in his mind. She was there in his head, living, breathing with her black, black hair and her wild golden eyes. Was there no way to shut out the picture, to banish her from his mind? To ease the aching in his loins?

He tossed his tawny head defiantly and rocked back, balancing the chair recklessly on two legs.

“Ahh yes, lovely lady,” he said swiftly, his eyes gaining a sudden mad brilliance. The chair rocked down and landed with a loud thud. Roman got quickly to his feet. Cursing, he shoved the journal and papers back into their hiding place and hauled the chest in front of the opening.

“There is a way.” He spoke partly to himself and partly to that lovely, vaporous vision of Silvia that wouldn’t leave his mind. “Sorry, my sweet,” he whispered to that pensive, pleading face. “If I have failed to entice you gently into a manageable state, I must resort to more effective means.”

He sat down again, his feet resting on the desktop, his arms crossed steadfastly over his chest. Hours ticked away. The candle burned down until the hot grease spilled out on the fine-grained top of the desk. The candle would not last much longer. The little flame dimmed and the wick sputtered as it sank into the pool of hot, wet wax. The light flickered once more, then died, casting the room into sudden darkness.

Roman sat in a sort of thoughtful paralysis, the darkness hiding the hard, emotionless look on his face. Finally a resigned sigh broke the spell.

* * *

Silvia spent the good part of an hour pacing her room, a chair jammed beneath the doorknob for protection. But Roman had not come in search of her as she both feared and hoped he might. So her agonizing and precautions had been a foolhardy and unnecessary trial, for Roman had undoubtedly forgotten her the moment she left him.

The pelting rain became a downpour, its chilling wetness creeping through the castle walls. Far off she could hear the crash of thunder as the storm grew stronger, mocking the turbulence in her heart. She started as a jagged shaft of lightning split the sky with its deadly brilliance.

What was the use of her pacing about in wet clothes? If Roman had cared what happened to her, he would have found her and apologized for his spiteful words. Dejectedly she admitted to herself she had hoped he would come. A few moments later she had stripped off the sodden dress and left it where it fell upon the bedroom rug.

She went directly into the dressing room, and after drying herself, slipped on a thick warm robe. She took care to brush the tangles from her dark tresses, and by the time the task was done, the shivering had left her. Her hands were engaged in braiding her hair when suddenly her arms froze in place. She didn’t actually think she had heard anything, but she had a strange feeling that she was not alone.

“Is someone there?” she called out fearfully. Dropping her hands and letting the braid twist free, Silvia moved quietly to the door and peered into her bedroom. She hadn’t taken time to light more candles, and the one that had been left burning dipped and swayed, throwing monstrous moving shadows across the walls. Yet other than the shadows the room was quiet and empty.

Reaching back to the dressing room for a candle, Silvia went slowly into the bedroom. Odd, she thought, feeling a prickling sensation at the back of her neck, how some primitive instinct warned a person when something was wrong. At first glance she saw nothing that had been disturbed. The furniture had not been rearranged. The crystal bottles on the dressing table were all as she remembered. But a strange feeling persisted.

Cautiously Silvia moved around the room, looking about, wondering if it were not her distressed state, after all, that had misled her. But she knew it was not. She knew, unerringly, that someone had been in her room. It took a few minutes of brisk searching to discover what was amiss, but shortly she noticed, nearly hidden among the plush folds of the silk coverlet on the bed, an item that should not have been there.

A horrible little sound came from her throat and the hand that held the candlestick shook so that its flame, too, cast an unsteady, quavering light over the room. She stared in bewilderment at the open jewel case tossed unobtrusively beside the plump pillows. That case she herself had locked away in a drawer of her dressing table.

A feeling of gloom settled over her. To her knowledge, Vivien had given her the only key that would unlock that drawer.

Making her feet obey, Silvia went to the bed and set her candle on the bedside table. She took up the case, running her trembling fingers over the impression crushed into the white velvet lining of the elegant box. Frantically she ran a hand beneath the pillows and over the coverlet, knowing she would find nothing. The Cerastes Stone had been taken. But by whom? Was it a warning that the necklace should never have belonged to her? Or that she was no more safe in Serpent Tree Hall than Willy had been?

Spasmodically Silvia jumped and drew her breath in sharply as a loud knock rattled the door. Acting without thinking, she shoved the jewel case under the pillows and hurried to see who was there.

“Silvia, are you awake?”

She felt a wash of relief at hearing a calm voice, and rushed to turn the key in the lock.

“Martha?”

“I thought you’d be needing some tea tonight, and perhaps someone to talk to.” Martha stood in the hallway carrying the little silver tea tray and the china tea service from her parlor. Her head dropped briefly and then she looked up quickly, a flush staining her cheeks. “We’ve been unfeeling and distant when you needed us, Silvia. I’m sure you’ve felt deserted and alone since Uncle and Willy died.” Her eyes were imploringly on Silvia. “And we’ve been so caught up in our own grief, we’ve offered you no consolation at all. I hope you can understand and forgive us.”

“Dear Martha,” Silvia said courteously. “Come in, please.”

Martha’s eyes were luminous and pleading and Silvia was moved by the note of apology in her voice.

“Silvia, please let me say that we do not blame you for Willy’s death. It was plainly an accident and there will be no charges made against you. Vivien spoke from grief when she accused you. It was the shock, you understand. She tended Willy since he was an infant and it must have been like seeing her own child dead when Odin brought him in. We all know his death was accidental.” She paused to breathe deeply. “None of us knew what Willy was really like or dreamed how difficult it must have been for you to be his wife. We have wronged you, but please,” she whispered, “we mustn’t let this tragedy divide us now that we all need each other even more.”

Silvia’s eyes bordered with a threat of tears. Only a tender heart like Martha’s could understand how profoundly the tragedies of Willy’s and Wilhelm’s deaths had shaken them all. What would Martha do if she knew Willy had indeed been murdered? If she had to believe the deed had been done by someone dear to her?

The blow would devastate such a gentle soul, and Silvia could not place that burden on Martha. Not kind, gracious Martha, who thought of everyone before herself. One day Martha would have to know Willy’s death had not been accidental, but the subject must be broached gently at some later time.

“I thought you might be asleep,” Martha said smoothly. “Shall we go into your sitting room? I knocked there, but you must not have heard.”

Silvia nodded and led the way from the bedroom. Had that knock been the sound that disturbed her? Possibly, but there was still the matter of the missing necklace.

“I am sorry,” Silvia said in a low voice. “I was getting dressed for bed. Were you waiting long?”

Martha beamed a soft, radiant smile and pulled the cover from the tray.

“Only a moment. I just came up,” she answered, taking a seat and daintily pouring a cup of tea for Silvia.

As she took the cup, Silvia heard it clatter against the saucer in her unsteady hands. Apologetically she glanced up and saw that Martha had not poured any for herself.

“Won’t you take a cup too?”

“No. I had tea with Eric just a while ago.” She sat back in the cushioned armchair. “He’s feeling as badly as I do about neglecting you at this time.”

“Please, Martha...” Silvia took a soothing sip of the fragrant herbal tea. “You and Eric have made me feel especially welcome since I’ve been here.” She set her cup aside, her brows flicking up quickly. “These deaths have made us all nervous. I hope I haven’t seemed ungrateful.”

“No. Quite the contrary. You’ve been a great success as mistress of Serpent Tree Hall.” Martha watched silently as Silvia drank more tea. “I was wondering, Silvia, what are your plans now that Willy is gone?”

Her plans? Had she any plans? But of course, she must make plans. She couldn’t simply wait and wonder what would happen next. She couldn’t sit idly by and wonder when it would be her turn to die. She must do something to stop this insanity, to prevent another murder. Suddenly she felt very much alone, even though Martha was with her. And her thoughts sped to Roman. If he held even a budding concern for her, he would not treat her so cruelly.

“I expect I’ll leave,” Silvia said bluntly. “There is nothing to keep me here, now that Willy is gone.”

“But you can’t leave,” Martha said in a distressed voice. “What about the estate?”

“The estate should rightfully belong to Wilhelm’s niece and nephews. I make no claim on it. I intend to take only what I need to live on until I can return to England and open a seamstress shop. I can’t stay here. Not now.”

A look of relief spread momentarily across Martha’s face, but she quickly composed herself. “Oh, Silvia. You aren’t thinking clearly. I’m afraid it isn’t left to you to decide who inherits. The will must be read before it’s possible to alter its terms, if even then. One can only wonder what disbursements Uncle made, considering the state of his health. He was not a predictable man. No.” She sighed lightly. “I’m afraid it’s out of the question, Silvia. You can’t possibly leave until the will is read.”

“Then I hope the solicitor arrives soon. This house is filled with sad memories for me. I am heartsick to be constantly reminded that my coming here has been followed by grief and pain for everyone. I want to leave as soon as possible.”

Martha took her hand.

“You mustn’t feel this way. We don’t want you to leave at all. This is your home now as much as ours. Please do stay.”

“Martha, I thank you, but it’s impossible for me to ever be happy in this house. I’ll stay until the will is read and the legalities are settled.” She sighed forlornly. No one knew she would bear Wilhelm Schlange’s grandchild. No one but Roman, and she doubted he would make mention of it. She doubted he would mention her suspicions about Willy’s death. For now both secrets were best kept. “But I warn you, I intend to leave immediately after.”

“I hope you’ll change your mind and decide to stay. In a few days things will be different. Your grieving will ease, and perhaps you will find you can be happy on Schlange Island forever.” Her eyes held all the softness of a balmy summer day. “Now, drink all your tea. This has been a dreadful day. It will help you rest.”

Martha left with a promise that tomorrow they would talk again. Silvia set her teacup down. It was making her drowsy and she didn’t want to fall asleep yet. There was something she must attend to before morning, and she would need to be alert to do it.

It had occurred to her only moments ago that the hiding place for the documents must be in the tower. That was the one part of the castle she had not searched, for the doors were always locked. Vivien had said the stairs had been made too steep and they were dangerous, so Wilhelm had had it closed off. But that must have been another one of his clever ruses. She should have thought of it before. The journal would be in the tower. She remembered having seen a light in one of the tower rooms the night she arrived, so someone must have been in there that night, probably watching for her.

* * *

It was well past midnight when Silvia crept out of her room. She had nearly dozed off while waiting until everyone was asleep. Even now she was groggy and found it difficult to keep her balance. But determination drove her forward even though she could scarcely stand. The candles in the hall had been snuffed out and she had to feel her way in the dark. Her small, shadowy figure slipped silently through the halls until she reached the doors to Schlange’s sitting room. She had searched there once before and satisfied herself that the journal had not been returned to his room. But she did remember having seen a ring of keys among his things.

If only her head wouldn’t throb so, she could remember where. She fumbled about, careful not to make a sound. By chance she came across the keys in a compartment of Wilhelm’s desk. Quietly, holding them so they would not jangle, she slipped them into a pocket of her robe and smiled slyly at her accomplishment. She was certain one key would fit the tower door.

A quarter of an hour later, Silvia had clumsily tried five keys before finding the one that turned the latch on the tower door.

The stairs were indeed steep and treacherous and slick with rain that had blown in during the storm. Vivien had been right about the danger. The narrow steps curved sharply and had too much incline on the risers to climb quickly. Along the way, a series of landings led to open, arched windows where the stones, wetter than the others, were especially slippery.

Her head spun crazily but still she kept climbing. She had almost reached the top, but her eyes kept blinking shut—too heavy to keep open. Her breath came in slow, wheezy gasps. She pushed away the damp curls that had fallen in her face. With each movement her legs wobbled and she had to concentrate on lifting her feet from step to step until at last her movements became as slow and lethargic as those of a snail. And yet she climbed on, clinging to the damp walls of the tower. Slipping and catching herself, she plodded ever upward, telling herself over and over she had to keep going. From below she heard a dull sound.

The noise was an unexpected thump, as if someone on the stairs had lost his footing and slipped on the wet steps. She spun slowly to look down, and in turning, lost her balance, her body swaying wildly. Gasping aloud, Silvia grabbed futilely for the wall as her legs weakened and gave way. An instant later she lay crumpled in a heap, dangerously close to a window opening. She moaned and started to get up, but her legs would not respond. Her breathing slowed, and as she struggled to rise, her eyes closed to thin cracks.

A dusky veil of sleep slipped over her. The heaviness of it was unbearable. Above her she saw a face globed in purple and heard a low whispering voice that faded into a long, empty darkness.

“You are mine now, sleeping lady,” came the ghostly sound that oddly brought no echo from the hollow depth of the tower.

A moment later a rippling purple shadow enveloped Silvia and transported her to a place she had never known existed.

The cold lapping of the sea on her face brought her to consciousness. No, not the sea, only water splashed against her whitened cheeks. She moaned, finding herself in a world that was a hazy blur. Even as she fought to remain awake, her eyes resisted staying open. Someone bent over her and she felt the cool touch of a hand on her forehead.

“What’s happened to me?” she asked in a weak whisper. “Who has brought me here?”

The reply was soft as a caress. “One answer at a time, my lovely sleeping lady. The first I cannot tell. I found you unconscious on the tower stairs.” His fingers stroked her temple. “Have you a fear of heights?”

“No,” she whispered. “I was so terribly tired, I had to stop and rest just for a moment.” Her eyes rolled back and she moaned softly. “Couldn’t stay awake,” she mumbled, growing drowsy again. “Can’t see clearly. Tell me who...” Her voice trailed off.

She forced her heavy-lidded eyes open. The voice was one she knew. If only he wouldn’t whisper and sound so far away.

“You know me, surely.” His answer floated around her head; his fingers trailed like feathers over her cheek. “We have met before in the darkness. Do you remember?”

With a toss of his head, the purple hood fell open and revealed a portion of his features. She saw the ghostly glow of his spirit’s face, there and not there.

“Siegfried?” The name flew from her lips in a breathless whisper.

He smiled softly and with a chuckle got to his feet and stood over her.

“I am whoever you wish me to be, whatever you wish me to be.”

Silvia blinked her eyes, squeezing the lids down and holding them shut a moment before opening them again. Her head was clearing a little. She felt more drunk than faint, not an unpleasant feeling, but rather a wonderfully euphoric state of semisleep.

Hesitantly she caught his cloak and gave it a gentle tug. He turned and knelt beside her. Slowly her hand went out to push the purple hood from his head. It fell away, and she was blinded by the strong sapphire glow of his eyes. A flowing crest of pale hair hung to his shoulders like strands of spun gold. Her fingers caught the tie that fastened the cloak at his throat, and she pulled it loose so that the cloak too fell away.

He was an eidolic man with skin of warm gold that heated her fingertips as she trailed them from his throat to his chest.

“Hold me,” she whispered.

“Do you know me?” he asked, softly touching her face.

“I know you in my thoughts and in my heart. It is enough,” she answered in a gentle whisper.

His lips were at her temple, soft and vaporous as a cloud moving over her face, until his mouth covered hers. It was as if that joining transformed her phantom man to flesh and blood. She felt his warm, moist breath mingle with her own. Her arms wrapped about his neck, touched his back, and felt the power and strength in shoulders that were suddenly real.

“Love me,” she whispered.

“I have loved you,” he answered, “since the moment I saw you.” He nestled her head snugly against his chest, his hands and face buried in her fragrant black curls. When he spoke again his voice was a tender whisper. “Since the moment you brought me to life, I have loved and wanted you as mine alone.”

Suddenly his arms were around her, gathering her to him, his broad bare chest pressing unbearably at her breasts. He lifted the ebony curls from her neck, kissing her throat and reveling in the soft, sweet womanly smell that clung intoxicatingly to her skin.

“And I have loved you as well,” she murmured, and smiled as he lowered her to the cushions of the settee, his strong purposeful fingers plucking at the ties that held her robe and freeing the bows that held it together.

The hot flood of blood rushing through her body had cleared the cobwebs from her mind. For the first time she was aware of the room, its walls a circle of rosy red velvet, the furnishings all gilt and ivory lit with the shimmering light of a dozen candles.

“What is this place?” she asked dreamily.

He had bared her breasts and was easing the fleecy robe from her slender arms. His eyes and his senses were fully upon her, feasting on the beauty of those glorious orbs.

“Paradise,” he whispered, his breath ragged in his throat, a sudden shudder shaking his wide shoulder.

Silvia saw the sparks of blue flame building in his smoldering eyes. He soon cast his breeches aside and entwined her in a gentle grasp. Her head rolled back limply, and she was being lifted, carried while her consciousness descended into bliss. As she moaned her pleasure, a tawny head dipped lightly to meet her lips in a brief kiss.

Golden eyes shone with a soft, honeyed light as he whirled her about, and a surprised gasp slipped quickly from her still moist lips.

Set squarely in the center of the floor and dominating the circular room was a massive postered bed hung with curtains of rich rose-colored velvet. The monstrously beautiful piece had a canopied pagoda top that nearly touched the ceiling, and plush side hangings that swept the carpeted floor.

He balanced her gracefully on his knee while his arm went out to draw a velvet curtain at one side of the bed. Hurriedly he turned down the rose silk coverlet, revealing the smooth satin sheets underneath.

His face brushed her cheek as he lowered her to the fluffy mattress. Her body warmed to his touch, and a budding tide of excitement sprang from deep within. Once more his arms wrapped her in a consuming embrace and her breath broke into a panting, ragged rhythm. Like a flame his mouth seared her skin with a profusion of wild, wandering kisses. Gently his teeth nibbled at her ear and then sped to the delectable rosy peaks of her swollen breasts.

One hand wove into the dark coils of curls that hung across her shoulders, the other trailed enticingly over her smooth belly and onto the silken skin of her thighs.

Moaning, she cried out as the phantom man, created from her dreams, carried her into his mystical world of rapture. He held her enchanted, this godlike creature who mumbled words of love in her ear. She wrapped him in her arms, inviting his embrace as her skin took on a moist glow in the darkness behind the velvet curtain.

Silvia closed her eyes, breathless as she felt the hard, manly boldness of him pressing against her. Lightly her lips sought the warm skin at his throat and traveled hungrily to his mouth. Her tongue traced the curve of his lips and slipped hesitantly into the sweet cavern there. Moaning, he matched her ardor and multiplied it with a savage slant of his mouth across hers.

Silvia’s fingers laced together briefly behind his back. She trembled, feeling a well of giddiness rising from the center of her being. Was it possible to feel such a burst of ecstasy, to be loved by a man who was not of this world?

His hand wandered from her thigh, plying that most sensitive part of her with gentle, probing strokes. Passion flared, a raging tempest within him, and the desire he felt could not be held much longer. He rose to his knees, nudging her legs apart with a gentle push.

“Silvia,” he whispered tenderly. “Do you know and love me?” He moved over her, his eyes glowing with the fire of passion, his chest gleaming in the ruby light.

“Aye,” she whispered, her hands moving instinctively to his hips. “That I do.”

He came to her then in a single bold thrust that took her breath as their bodies rocked together, sealing them in a bond of dark splendor. Her eyes widened and she knew him then as if she had always known him. With a surge of passion she moved her hips to meet his, her pleasure mounting quickly to a frantic, fevered level of tempestuous delight. It was an endless ecstasy, a rapturous race to the pinnacles of happiness.

They soared together, caught the clouds, and saw the stars explode into a million rays of shooting light. It seemed to Silvia that she had reached another plane of life and would never again return to that world from which she had come.

A long moment passed before she had strength to open her eyes, and even then she could barely see beneath her drooping lids. Her head lay heavily on the pillow. The weight of his body had left her, but she felt its magical warmth still beside her. Her lips moved, forming words of love in a voice as fleeting as her wakefulness.

“Sleep now, my sweet.” She heard his rich, loving whisper lulling her into a dream. His arms wrapped her like a warm cocoon, his fingers idly drawing circles upon her back.

Smiling to himself, he smoothed the tangles from her hair and pulled a sheet over her flushed body, watching as the satin molded to her alluring curves, its luster dimmed beside that of her skin. He envied its closeness to that sweet flesh and soft warm body as the heady lavender scent of her perfume filled the air. Breathing deeply of it, he sighed contentedly and dropped down beside her.

Hours passed while they slept. Silvia woke first with a start, confused by the strangeness of her surroundings, thinking she was caught up in one of her haunting dreams. But he lay there beside her, the golden man who had claimed her, his breathing deep and slow, a smile resting gently upon his lips. Smiling softly, Silvia bent to kiss his throat and slipped from her finger the small gold band that had belonged to her mother.

Gently taking up his hand, she placed the ring on his finger. A moment later she lay back to nestle in the curve of his arm, her eyes again closed in sleep.

Chapter 15

The first thing Silvia was aware of when she awoke a second time was that she had been wrong about the pregnancy. There would be no child in the spring. It was a realization that brought her a mixture of joy and sadness.

Her mistake had undoubtedly been due to nervousness and the strain of her situation. She knew such a thing could happen to women who desperately wanted a child. Possibly the same condition could inflict itself on a woman afraid of conceiving.

Her second awareness was that it was midday and she was alone, as she had expected, in her own bed, wearing her own gown. That pagodaed bed with rosy velvet curtains was only a misty, dreamlike memory. Her eyes sparkled like crystals. The dream would sustain her through much disaster.

She gazed about the room. The fleecy robe she had worn the night before lay folded neatly over the stool of her dressing table. At the sight of it, a smile set delightfully on Silvia’s lips, and she suddenly felt lighthearted and gay, although she knew she still ought to feel grim the day after her husband’s funeral.

But her merriment was far too pleasant. She even gave a light chuckle as she slowly sat up and plumped her pillows against the head of the bed. A most wondrous and real dream it had been. Silvia settled back, huddling her legs to her chest and stretching her arms out wide. Nothing could dim the secret happiness in her heart. Absently she raked the tousled hair from her eyes and sighed.

Moments later, she tossed the covers carelessly aside and went to the dressing room to attend to her feminine needs. She realized then that at least part of her dream had been quite real.

Though the sun was high in the sky and beamed its bright light through the open windows, she returned to the cozy warmth of her bed. She smoothed out the coverlet, and in doing so disturbed an object at the footboard.

“Nooo,” she cried, in disbelief.

One trembling hand held a crumbling red rose, long dead, its petals blackened and dry. Another was wrapped about a small clay doll very evidently made in her likeness. The features were plainly recognizable, and if they had not been, there was no mistaking the bit of curling black hair that had been painstakingly pressed into the little head when the clay was wet.

Willy’s doll. He had made dozens of them, but she had never seen this one of her. He must have kept it hidden. So he had been the one to come to her room and cut the lock of her hair. And he had left the rose as a gift. Silvia realized she had been right—Willy had wandered unattended through the castle at will. Vivien had not succeeded in keeping him locked up. Or could someone have aided him in his midnight walks?

Silvia twisted her hands nervously. She had told only Roman that she believed Willy had been murdered. Willy’s murderer had obviously left these two items as a warning against her interfering. But who? Vivien? Roman?

Silvia could make no sense of it, and clearly her ghostly lover could not protect her. A sudden, suffocating heaviness, as if the walls of the castle were tumbling in, closed over her. Had he been the one to leave the doll and the rose? Was it he who meant to harm her?

Silvia dressed without Anna. She wanted to hurry downstairs and tell everyone that she planned to leave on the next ship that docked. There was nothing to keep her here anymore and everything told her to leave. What did it matter to her to know the terms of Wilhelm’s will? How could she possibly hope to match her wits against someone who knew her every move? Her fears driving her on, she darted through her door in a near run.

“Silvia, wait.” Roman caught her shoulder before she was fully in the hall. “We have matters to discuss before you go down.” His grip was painfully strong on her arm. “Come back inside.”

She hesitated. Did she dare to be alone with him? Before she could decide, he had ushered her into the sitting room and shut the door.

“What is it you want?” she choked out.

He led her to the love seat and gently nudged her to its fat cushions. A moment later he was sitting beside her, holding both her hands in an agitated grasp.

His face was drawn, and his eyes darted about anxiously. The tight press of his fingers was beginning to stop the flow of blood in her hands, and noting her distress, Roman eased his grip.

“I believe what you said about Willy’s death. That it was not accidental.”

“Do you?”

“I know there’s little reason you should trust me, but I believe your life is in danger as well.” His burning eyes caused her composure to slip as they compelled her to meet his gaze. “Silvia, someone intends to kill you.”

“You’re sure of this?” she questioned softly, turning her face from him. If only she could believe he had no part in it.

“Yes, by God,” he ranted. “Sure enough to know you must leave the island.”

“I intend to leave.”

He squeezed her hands tightly.

“A ship will dock in a few days, then follow the southward route to the Indies. I can get you aboard secretly. Given time, I believe I can discover the killer, but until I do, you and the child are not safe.”

“The child?”

“Willy’s child.”

“Roman, I want to explain—”

“No,” he interrupted. “It isn’t necessary to explain. And don’t dare mention the child to anyone else. The knowledge that a Schlange heir is expected would render your life worthless.”

“Roman, I must tell you—”

“Please, say no more. When the killer is caught, I’ll send word for you to return. But for now, until the ship docks, I want you to stay in your room. Pretend to be ill or otherwise distressed. Keep Anna with you. Trust no one else.”

“And you?”

“I’ll stay away. I wouldn’t want to draw more attention to you. And there are things to be done before the ship docks.”

“But Roman...” Silvia protested.

“You must trust me in this, Silvia.”

“Must I?”

“Yes. You must.”

She trusted him. Perhaps unwisely. Or perhaps because there was little else she could do. She would not admit even to herself that deep in her heart she still held a secret longing to hear Roman proclaim his love for her.

It was easy enough to plead illness and distress following Willy’s death. And saying she did not wish to be alone, she had a cot made up for Anna in the dressing room. But as the days dragged on, she grew weary of the solitude, and a new thought, like a seed sprouting in the barren soil of a craggy cliff, began to grow in her head.

If she were to leave, the killer might never be found. It was left to her to expose Willy’s murderer. With Roman’s help, she knew how it could be done.

* * *

“Good morning,” she said gaily, entering the drawing room, where Eric and Martha sat engaged in heated conversation with Morgan and Roman.

With deliberation she had selected the richest gown in her wardrobe, a shirred moire silk of deep blue with a décolletage that brought a gasp from each of the men. The daring gown was ruffled in yards of delicate lace woven through with gold threads and hung so low on her shoulders it seemed any moment she would be exposed to the waist. Her cheeks here pinched to a ruddy red and she had told Anna to fashion her hair in a particularly frivolous style. Curls cascaded flirtatiously over her shoulders and winked temptingly at her temples.

“Should you be downstairs?” Martha blurted out quickly, giving a tight smile as her hand brushed the skirt of her own chaste dress.

Morgan dashed to her side and Silvia watched with a high degree of interest as the color drained from Eric’s face. In Roman’s eyes she saw a sudden raw fury.

“I’m feeling fit as a fiddle,” she chirped.

“Anna said you were extremely weak,” Martha went on in her soft voice. “I am pleased to see you have recovered so quickly.”

“And so I have.” Silvia smiled. “But a quick recovery is not so unusual for someone in my condition.” She carried a black enamel fan, and spreading it open, fanned lightly. Momentarily the fanning stopped and her little chin went up. “Have I interrupted you?”

“No, no,” Eric said abruptly. “We were discussing business, the mill and the shipments for the New Star. But we shan’t bother you with it.”

“No?” Silvia asked briefly, her brows arching sharply. “I expect you’ll be consulting me for all matters of business soon.” She snapped her fan shut. “It will all be mine, of course, when the will is read. The entire estate will belong to me and the child I carry, Willy’s child, grandchild to Wilhelm Schlange.”

Her eyes coyly marked the expressions her words drew.

“A child,” Martha whispered, her lips quivering almost imperceptibly. “Why, that’s wonderful news,” she continued. “Are you certain you should be up?”

“I am perfectly sound.” She nodded. “I think, in fact, I’ll take a stroll in the garden. I’ve missed the roses and the fresh air.”

She spun on her heels to leave, and glided out the door before anyone could speak again. Just out of sight, Silvia paused and heard the din of excited voices start up. She leaned against the wall for support, her hand pressed against her breast. Her breathing had the rhythm of a wind-whipped sheet and her heart pounded as if it would explode.

A short while later Silvia hurried on to the garden. If she were right, someone would soon seek her out.

* * *

“Are you mad?” His voice was surly and dry. Roman snatched her around by the shoulders. “You won’t last the night after that news. Don’t you know, woman, the killer could be anyone, even me?”

She trembled beneath his rough handling but hid the fear in her voice.

“I’m not mad,” she answered calmly. “But I will be if this doesn’t end soon. Don’t you see that if I leave, the killer will never be found. This is the only way to draw him out.”

“No!” he bellowed. “It’s too dangerous. The New Star docks today. You’ll be aboard tonight and sailing to the Indies by morning.”

“I won’t go.”

“You will go.” His voice was a snarl as he pulled her violently to him. “And until then you’ll stay behind locked doors. Pack a bag, a small one, and wait for my knock at midnight. Promise me.”

She breathed a great sigh and made ready to defy him, but before the words came she saw something deep in his eyes that broke her resolve.

“I promise,” she stammered. She did not regret her announcement, but it was suddenly clear to her that she should not cross Roman Toller again.

* * *

Roman snapped his riding crop against his breeches and tossed the reins of his lathered mount to the groom. “It’s done. We’ll be rid of her.”

His companion nodded slowly.

“And past time, too. She should have been dealt with long ago. We’ve come too close to losing for my satisfaction.”

“We won’t lose. Not when the stakes are so high.”

“You’re convinced, then, it’ll all blow over once she is gone?”

“Bloody hell, I’ve told you she won’t hinder us again! Give it a rest.” Roman’s eyebrows lifted. “What I need at this point is a brandy.”

* * *

Silvia fretted around her room. Midnight was hours away. As she waited, the horrid oppressiveness of her solitude returned and with it all her fears and uncertainties. Had she been wise to trust Roman? His sudden concern for her safety had been disarming, and she had quickly agreed to his plan. But now that she had had hours to think it through, she wondered if leaving was best...if trusting Roman was not a frivolous decision.

She lay back in a chair, her eyes fixed on the pretty painted dial of the enamel clock, her ears ringing with its endless ticking. Anna would be back soon with a pot of tea from the kitchen. That would keep her alert until the time came to leave.

She heard a light knock at the door and quickly sprang up to admit Anna.

“Your tea, madam.” Anna’s reassuring presence relaxed her a little. “Made it myself, some biscuits and good English brew, not like that concoction Miss Martha makes. Do you good, I say.” She shook her little round head so that the crisp white cap bobbled. “But if you ask me, it’s more rest you’re needin’. Such a terrible shock, Mr. Willy dying right after his father, and so soon after the weddin’.” She dropped her head so that her eyes were hidden. “And you in that condition,” she added excitedly.

“I’m feeling fine, Anna,” Silvia responded. The news had spread quickly. “And I do intend to go to bed shortly, just after I have tea.”

“Oh, madam!” Anna snapped her head up. “There’s a note for you. I almost forgot.” Her plump hands dipped into her pockets.

“A note?” Silvia’s eyes flashed open wider. “Who gave it to you?”

Anna stopped her search for a maddening minute, looking totally befuddled.

“I can’t say, madam. I was getting the biscuits from the pantry when someone left it on the tea tray.” Smiling triumphantly, Anna withdrew the note from a deep pocket.

“Here it is. Got your name, though, so I knew it was meant for you. I can read my letters,” she added proudly.

“Let me have it, please.” Silvia reached anxiously, taking the envelope and starting to break the seal, then halted suddenly. “You may go, Anna. I shan’t be needing you again.”

“Why, yes, madam. If you say so.”

Anna hurriedly set out the tea service in her capable and efficient way. She poured a cup, then with a quick smile and a look of reluctance left the room.

Silvia’s unsteady fingers tore open the note the moment Anna was out of sight. She read it quickly:

Silvia,

A change of plans. Come to the tower room at midnight.

Roman

* * *

Silvia was trying to hold her head up. What was the time? The tea had made her drowsy after all, and she must have dozed off. Her eyes sought the little clock, whose hands seemed to have leapt ahead since the last time she looked. Only a few minutes left till midnight. The tower, she remembered. Roman had wanted her to meet him there. Had he found something important? The journal? Was that why he had suddenly changed his plans?

She started to get up. Her legs felt strange, as if they had come loose from the rest of her body. Had she been so tired? She finally gathered her two small bags, lit a candle, and went to meet Roman.

The tower door was open at the end of the long dark hall. She slipped inside and saw the spiraling stone steps, which seemed to disappear into the black void high above.

She climbed the endless steps, swearing under her breath that a new one grew for each one she took. Her legs ached terribly and she had stopped to rest when a sound came from overhead. Silvia gasped and clapped her hand to her mouth.

“Roman,” she panted. “Are you there?”

The flicker of a candle flame high above was all the answer she got, but it brought a tremor to her heart and a hurried pace to her unsteady feet.

“Roman,” she cried again as she at last reached the top of the stairs. There she found a narrow landing and a door which opened into the round tower room with the pagodaed bed. At the other side of the landing was an alcove with a window that looked out over the front approach to the castle. Just beyond the window was a flight of steps which led to the tower walk overhead.

She tried the door but it was locked. When there was no response to her light knocks, she started toward the steps thinking Roman had climbed to the walk.

The night was moonless and the wind strong high above the trees. A sudden gust snuffed out her candle and blew it from her hand, leaving her without a light to guide her steps. The window offered only a little more aid than the pitch black of the tower, but she rambled toward it seeking what dim rays it could offer. When she stopped, she was standing perilously near the edge and the wind, like a great hand, reached up and caught her skirts, whipping them mercilessly about her legs.

Far below she heard the sound of running. Startled, she caught her breath quickly and drew back, fearful of being seen. She felt, as she whirled, a hand grasping her shoulder.

The scream stuck in her throat. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness and with a tremendous sense of relief she recognized the person behind her.

“Oh! Martha, it’s you.”

Martha’s hand covered Silvia’s mouth and she shook her head, warning Silvia to keep quiet as she pulled her forward. The white dress Martha wore stood out like a beacon in the darkness. Around her head and shoulders she had tied a fringed white shawl that was knotted at her throat.

“Shhh. Did I frighten you?”

“Yes, I didn’t know...I was expecting...Where’s Roman?”

Martha led her gently to the tower door. “He’s coming. He wants you to wait here.”

“What’s happened? Why didn’t he come for me?”

“He couldn’t. He’s being watched.”

“By Willy’s killer?”

“Yes.”

“Who is it?”

Martha’s pale eyes were fully on her. She lowered her voice so that it was barely more than a whisper. “Morgan.”

“Morgan?” Silvia’s jaw went slack. “I can’t believe Morgan a killer!”

“Nor could I,” Martha responded gravely. “But then, Willy is dead, isn’t he? Poor simpleton.”

“You knew how Willy was?”

“Oh yes. I knew. Uncle didn’t keep his secret as well as he thought.”

“Did the others know?”

Martha shook her head. “They lacked the womanly curiosity to learn such things.”

She had unlocked the door and led Silvia inside the windowless tower room where the dozens of blazing candles lit its rose walls with a sea of crimson light. In the center of the circular room the pagodaed canopy bed with its rich velvet curtains stood like a pagan temple.

Her fear subsiding, Silvia sat gingerly on the edge of the settee she remembered vaguely having used once before.

“Do you know what this room was?” Martha asked, her face looking strangely white.

“I wondered,” she mumbled, glancing at Martha and wondering what could be keeping Roman so long.

“Uncle’s ‘harem’ room,” Martha informed her in a peculiar flat voice. “He had one like it in his castle in Germany. That one he used. He kept his mistresses there.”

“Locked up?”

“No. There was a door below from outside. That way they could come and leave as he wished. He allowed no one in that tower. Not even Magda.” Her voice rose and she laughed strangely. “But she came one day, against Uncle’s orders, and found him with one of his painted harlots. It was that which drove her mad. But you know that part of the story. Uncle told you.”

“Yes.” Silvia’s eyes narrowed. “But how did you know?”

Martha laughed. “More of Uncle’s secrets,” she declared vigorously. “There are passages in this house where one can go secretly from room to room. Uncle thought he had them all locked up.” Martha’s mouth was hard. “One leads to your room. There’s a panel behind the wall curtains.”

“So that’s how Willy got in and out.” She sank back on the settee. “And left his room without Vivien knowing.”

“Yes.” Martha nodded gently. “Sometimes I helped him get out myself, poor thing. He liked the forests, hiding in the woods, watching people come along the path and following quiet as a cat stalking a mouse. He was there the day you arrived, watching you come through the trees with Odin.”

“I remember,” Silvia whispered. “I heard him following. It frightened me.”

Martha’s laughter rang out again at a higher pitch. “He’s through wandering now, though, poor, dear Willy.”

A shroud of doubt fell over Silvia, bringing an apprehensive shiver to her flesh.

“I wonder if something has happened to Roman.”

“No. Nothing will happen to Roman,” Martha said sternly.

“He’s taking so long.”

A subtle change came over Martha’s face.

“We don’t have to wait any longer.” She smiled mildly. “We can go to him now.”

“Could we? Do you think it’s safe?” Silvia breathed a sigh of relief, but a persistent nagging doubt remained in her mind.

“I think it is very safe now.” Martha was on her feet and hurrying past the bed.

She opened the door, sending Silvia out ahead of her. “Go to the window,” she whispered. “Look out. See if you see a light by the stable.”

Silvia went quietly to the window, and there, holding to the wall, leaned out dangerously far to see the stable. It was dark, the wind like a whip snapping her hair loose and sending it streaming around her face. She heard the soft patter of Martha’s feet behind her.

“Is there a light?”

“No. It’s dark.”

“Look again.”

Silvia stood framed in the arch of the window, a girl silhouetted in the silvery moonlight, one hand in a crevice in the stone, the other holding the hair from her eyes. She was certain. There was no light. No signal. But suddenly she was fearful the danger might not be below. Turning, she found Martha standing directly behind her, smiling blandly, and giving her no room to maneuver away from the window. Coming around the tower, the wind increased and threatened to sweep her over the edge.

“Martha, give me a hand or I’ll fall,” she cried. Martha moved threateningly toward her, her face cold and hard, her eyes menacing as daggers.

“And do us all a favor,” she said savagely. “Did you think you could come here and take everything that belonged to us so easily?”

Silvia stared in mounting horror. The bitter resentment in Martha’s eyes told her all.

“Martha,” she pleaded, “I don’t want it, don’t want any of it.”

“Not even Roman?” Martha sneered.

“Roman?”

“Yes, Roman.” Martha positioned herself even closer to Silvia. “Did you think I would let you take Roman from me?” She tossed her head haughtily. “I knew it was Roman you wanted all along. But he despises you.” Martha threw her head back and laughed softly. “It’s me he loves.”

“Then why did he try to help me?”

“He wanted to get rid of you. But my way is surer. Did you think I would let you live and bear his child?”

“You know...”

“Yes. I was there listening when Uncle told you what he wanted. And then today when you said there was to be a child, I knew it was Roman’s. It wasn’t right of Uncle, you know, to leave it all to a child. We worked very hard for Uncle, were very loyal, but what did it matter? He would have forgotten us and left everything to the child.”

Martha’s fingers tugged at the knotted shawl, pulling it loose. The wind snatched the silken garment from her hands and sent it floating into the night.

Silvia’s heart floated away with it. At Martha’s throat she could see the fiery gleam of the emerald, the Cerastes Stone, blazing as wildly as Martha’s eyes. A coldness flooded Silvia’s veins as all the ghastly pieces came together in her mind.

“You killed Willy.”

“You both had to be gotten rid of,” Martha raved. “When you’re dead, everything will be the way it should be.”

She smiled and moved forward to give Silvia the nudge that would send her plummeting to the stone steps below.

Silvia stood rooted to the spot, bracing her arms against the sides of the window, the wind like a snare threatening to aid Martha and suck her out into the darkness. She screamed, hoping someone would hear, knowing it was futile, that no one could reach her in time.

“Martha!” The shout, reverberating from the tower walls, came from all directions at once.

Silvia saw Roman catapult from the last step just as Martha lunged at her.

Had he come to witness her death? It was the end of her endurance. Her arms let go and she slid rapidly to the floor.

Martha, hearing her name called, spun around to look, and in so doing, stumbled over Silvia’s prostrate form. She tumbled through the window, wild-eyed, skirts flying, hands frantically clutching at the air. Her scream was a terrible sound that ended Silvia’s consciousness.

* * *

The emerald mist faded away in her dreams. She saw roses by the hundreds, smelled the sweet, fresh fragrance of roses. Voices were filtering through the soft petals, trying to wake her, but Silvia resisted her return to consciousness. She listened, only half-hearing, wondering deep in her soul if she would ever want to wake up again.

“If you had come to me sooner, you rock-headed dolt, this might not have happened. Why didn’t you tell me you suspected Martha was responsible for Silvia’s riding accident?” Morgan’s eyes went from Silvia to Roman.

“Or if I had spoken up when I first suspected she was behaving strangely.” Eric sighed heavily.

“She was your sister and you loved her.” Morgan consoled.

“Yes, but I should have been the first to see and act. Not the last to suspect,” Eric replied, his voice steady.

“We all share the blame. We knew the old man and what he was capable of. I should never have agreed to help him. I should have taken Willy away years ago.”

“You did what you thought best, Vivien.”

“But it was wrong.”

“We were all wrong,” Roman added, the final note that fully reached Silvia.

She jerked her head, feeling satin bedsheets about her. She opened her eyes. Bending over her were all those hazy faces from her dreams. They looked anxious, and in a moment she deciphered their voices: Eric, Morgan, Vivien. And one other voice, from beneath a purple hood, spoke quite clearly.

“She’s awake,” Vivien said softly, moving away. “We ought to go,” Morgan whispered, straightening up and following Vivien.

“I want to make sure she’s not hurt,” Eric responded, hanging back.

“Just come along,” Morgan said impatiently, and caught Eric’s arm. Vivien waited until they were both through the door, then smiled and quietly shut it behind her.

Anxious eyes from the face in that purple hood looked down on her. She moaned and twisted her head, focusing on familiar objects in the room. She was seeing distinctly again.

“Martha?” she asked.

“Dead from the fall.”

“Siegfried,” she whispered. “It is you, my love.”

Her hand lifted slowly to push the hood back.

“Not Siegfried,” he whispered.

“Oh, Roman.”

“You are disappointed?”

“Do you believe in ghosts?” She was still uncertain Roman could have tricked her so well.

He sighed.

“Silvia, Martha had been putting an herb in your tea. She probably thought it was deadly, but it actually only makes one drowsy and causes distorted vision.”

Her ire rose as she guessed the meaning of his words. “The ghost was real. He loved as no earthly man could ever do.”

Roman’s sigh deepened. “This is Siegfried’s cloak. I took it from the statue in the library. I wore it.” His eyes clouded. “I was your ghost. At first I used my disguise to spy on you, then I realized what you were searching for. I found Wilhelm’s papers and his journals long ago, my darling. I also found out Martha knew much more about Uncle’s scheming than any of us ever did. She also wanted to get rid of you as none of us ever did. In the end I played along with her, hoping she would do as I said until I could get you safely away. My plans, however, almost failed. Somehow Martha found out I had no intention of killing you, despite my performance this afternoon when she and I rode together.” Roman leaned down and kissed Silvia lightly on her lips. “I truly must have seemed like a ghost, for the apparition gave Martha such a scare she stumbled over you and fell to her death from the tower windows.”

Still confused, Silvia protested. “I might have been drugged, but my ghost, my Siegfried, was real.”

“No, love. It was I,” he mused. “See this?” Roman raised his hand to show the gold ring she had placed there. “Slipped on my finger in this very bed,” he whispered.

Her honey eyes sparkled with mischief as she pushed a bouquet of roses aside to make room for him to sit. Hadn’t she always known in her heart only Roman could truly hold her love?

“Ghost or man, I always loved you, Roman,” she said softly, entwining her arms around his neck.

His eyes were questioning, then threatening. She knew she would pay merrily for her teasing.

Bemused, Roman shook his tawny head. “Will you marry me, then, though the whole world will think our child belongs to Willy?” He sighed heavily. “It seems old Wilhelm had his way. He will get his heir.”

Her smile held the look of love. “He did not win. The marriage was never consummated. Nor is there a pregnancy.” She kissed him lightly, drawing him to her in the bed. “But perhaps you, my love, soon will have an heir.”

About the Author

Andrea Parnell is the award-winning author of ten novels, short fiction and articles, with more than one million copies of her books in print. Her works include Gothic, Western, and other historical and contemporary romances. Several of her books have been set in her home state of Georgia. Andrea has received both the Maggie and Romantic Times Reviewer’s Choice awards for her writing, and is a member of Novelists, Inc. (NINC) and past president of the Georgia Authors Network. She is fond of cats, travel, overgrown gardens, and old houses with lots of crooks, crannies, and interesting shadows. Please visit her website at AndreaParnell.com

Also by Andrea Parnell

From Trove Books

WHISPERS AT MIDNIGHT

If only his kiss had been hard, brief and demanding, but it was not. It was gentle and probing, possessing, and took her breath away... Amanda Fairfax met Ryne Sullivan when she came to take possession of the colonial Virginia plantation that was her legacy. She could see resentment burning in his dark blue eyes, yet once in his arms she could feel how fiercely he hungered for her, and how little she could resist his desires or her own. In a place where terror ruled the night and mystery cloaked each move, Amanda could not fully trust her lover or her love, for she sensed every moment of ecstasy might be her last.

“The perfect blend of anticipation and apprehension...seductive tale by a superb writer of romantic suspense.”

— Romantic Times

“Takes romance, mystery and intrigue and weaves them into a good story.”

— Rendezvous

Delilah’s Flame*

Wild Glory*

My Only Desire*

Devil Moon*

Small Town Secrets*

*coming soon